Between “Here” and “Over There”: Short-term and Circular Mobility from the Czech Lands to Latin America (1880s–1930s)*

Markéta Křížová
Center for Ibero-American Studies, Charles University, Prague
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The present text deals with the phenomenon of short-term mobility from the Czech Lands to Latin America from the end of the nineteenth century to the 1930s on the basis of sources such as memoirs, letters, and official reports, oral histories, and family histories. An examination of patterns in short-term labor mobility can offer interesting insights into the mechanisms of communication in the broader Atlantic region in the period in question and also further an understanding of cultural and economic interchange and the perceptions by the migrants themselves of their place in the world, their “home,” and their identities. By transmitting skills, experiences, and cultural knowledge, they assisted in the creation of “transnationalism from below” on both sides of the ocean.

Keywords: short-term mobility, labor mobility, Czech Lands, America, Argentina, nineteenth and twentieth centuries, transnationalism from below

Introduction

In 1937, Matěj Poláček, a carpenter from southern Moravia, disembarked in the port of Buenos Aires. This fact in itself would be of little interest. In the previous half century, hundreds of thousands of Central Europeans, men and women, had made the same trip. However, Poláček walked down from the deck of Cap Arcona, a luxury transoceanic ship, after having spent several weeks vacationing in his native village. The company for which he was working, the German corporation Grün & Bilfinger, had given him compensation for the work he had performed in the form of tickets for the vessel which had brought him from Hamburg to Buenos Aires in less than two weeks.1 This seems to be at odds with the standard image of Central European migrant worker, but numerous historical sources prove that since the end of the nineteenth century, thousands of migrants had been crossing the Atlantic back and forth, maybe not in such a high-class fashion as Poláček, but playing their part in a complicated web of economic and social relations which transcended the borders of nation states and continents. They were not opting for permanent resettlement, but worked overseas for some time to acquire capital to use in their home countries or to supplement the family income.

The interest of scholars in the great transatlantic migration of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth centuries has resulted in a fair amount of monographs and shorter studies. There are many “bilateral histories of migration,” in the words of Tara Zahra, for instance histories of Poles in Chicago or Czechs in Argentina.2 Historians have paid attention in particular to the reasons for which migrants chose to leave their homelands, the mechanisms of integration into receiving societies, and/or the maintenance of earlier loyalties. Only recently has an interest emerged among scholars in the persisting strong and multilayered ties between the countries of origin and those of destination.3 There were in fact rather high rates of return. About 30 percent of the Europeans who entered through the North American ports between 1815 and 1914 returned to Europe, and the proportion was even higher for Latin America during this period, so the phenomenon of return and circular mobility is indeed worth consideration.4 The movement across the Atlantic certainly left profound marks on the intellectual and material culture of the countries from which the migrants set sail and the societies where they settled, whether permanently or temporarily.

In the discourse of the times and to a great extent also in the historiography, return migration was and is often equated with failure. Certainly, there were those who returned because they were unable to fulfill their visions. Still, the glum picture given by Charles Dickens in his American Notes of those “coming back, even poorer than they went” hardly captures the complexity of the phenomenon of overseas mobility.5 In fact, the preponderant majority of those who headed for America planned to return. In 1900, the Portuguese consul in Buenos Aires wrote, with respect to his fellow countrymen coming to Argentina: “The main aspiration of this people is to save some money to buy small plots of land in their homeland.”6 Furthermore, at the time, thanks to the improvements in maritime and overland travel, workers were able to cross the Atlantic repeatedly. Alongside the colonies of fellow countrymen who were trying to establish themselves in the New World arose communities of those “with their feet in both societies,”7 able to maintain (at least partially) their status in their home society, including kinship ties and political loyalties. After returning, by bringing information and money to their native communities and putting into practice knowledge gained abroad, they drew relations, friends, and countrymen who had remained at home into the Atlantic system of economic and cultural interchange. Thus, they contributed to the creation on both sides of the ocean of what Ewa Morawska has called “transnationalism from below,” in which everyday people participated as the principal agents within the borders of the choices allowed to them by the concrete socio-political circumstances.8 On the other hand, while becoming “transnational,” these men and women were able to define who they were and where they belonged, in spite of competing allegiances for different “homes.”9

The realization that the transatlantic migration of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and, in fact, all migration has almost never been unidirectional has prompted many historians to use the term “mobility” instead of the concepts of “outmigration” and “immigration, ” which were originally coined to meet the administrative needs of nation states in the nineteenth century.10 I prefer it in this article, as it better captures the multidirectional and interwoven patterns of migration activities, with emphasis on the short term and the repeated and circular moves over the ocean and back. My goal is to demonstrate, via a very limited case study focused on the Czech Lands/Czechoslovakia,11 how this type of study can help us move beyond a narrowly nationalistic approach to the study of history. Also, as historians have shown a considerably stronger interest in migration to the United States than in migration to the southern parts of the American continents, I have focused on mobility to and from Latin America as the principal starting point of my analysis.

While there has been a steady influx of individuals and smaller groups from Central Europe to the southern parts of the American continent since the colonial period which grew stronger throughout the nineteenth century, the main impetus for increased interest in settling in Latin America was the Immigration Act of 1924, which limited opportunities for Czechs, together with other Central and Eastern Europeans, to enter the USA. Also, the adverse consequences of the global economic crisis in the 1930s in Central Europe and the local booms in various parts of Latin America sparked further interest in Latin America (even though, as I will explain, the global crisis caused drops in available workplaces in Latin American countries as well).12 While the permanent migration from the Czech Lands to Latin America has been studied intensively by Czechoslovak/Czech historians since the 1960s,13 the phenomenon of short-term, circular, and return mobility has not yet received similar attention.

Sources

There certainly is an explanation for the relative lack of interest among historians in short-term mobility, namely, the scarcity of sources. In a sense, these migrants fall into a “blind spot” in the archival documentation, as the official statistics usually only include people who sought the approval of the authorities to leave the country permanently. It is not possible to determine the volume of the back and forth movement between America and Europe with any precision. Short-term laborers often relied on the help of family members or friends, especially at the beginning of their ventures, but they were relatively mobile and they remained largely outside the more compact expatriate communities in America, mixing instead with other salaried laborers, either locals or immigrants from other countries. Thus, their names do not appear frequently in the source materials concerning national clubs and associations in the host societies.14 There is, furthermore, a general problem with statistics dealing with migrants from Austro-Hungary. Czechs were often automatically considered either “Austrians” or “Germans,” or they were mixed with other Slavs, like Poles; they sometimes even presented themselves as such when looking for work.15

There are scattered mentions of companies sending their employees overseas in the published and manuscript autobiographies of migrants, the documentation from official visits by Czech and Austro-Hungarian and later Czechoslovak officials touring Latin America for various purposes, and travelogues or newspaper articles, and in the archival fonds. Interviews were done with Czech settlers repatriated from Latin America after 1918, as well as (by mail) with their fellow countrymen who opted to stay abroad, by the employees of Československý ústav zahraniční [Czechoslovak Foreign Institute].16 Finally, there are the family histories, transmitted orally, together with postcards, photographs, and other memorabilia. Several decades ago, Julianna Puskás eloquently demonstrated the value of these types of documents for the study of (not only) Hungarian migrations.17 Many of the testimonies—some of them so far unknown to or little exploited by historians—are only indirect; often there are just scraps and pieces from peoples’ life histories.

Given the nature of these sources, one is compelled to adopt a qualitative rather than a quantitative approach. My interest lies primarily in the agency of migrants themselves, as individuals and members of family units and local communities, who were acting within concrete social, geographical, and temporal spaces. Overseas migration always involved individual decision making, and if we seek to arrive at a nuanced understanding of these historical processes, we must consider individual stories as well as the broader collective phenomena. Still, my ambition has been to arrive, on the basis of these individual stories, at some general conclusions with respect to the transatlantic entanglements, which constituted one of the crucial historical factors in the making of present-day Central Europe.18

The chronological delineation of this study connects two very distinctive political regimes, beginning with the period when the Czech Lands still constituted part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and ending two decades after they had been made part of the new, postwar state of Czechoslovakia. While major political events often make suitable milestones for historical study (and in certain respects the founding of Czechoslovakia in 1918 constituted a turning point in the history of migrations, since tens of thousands of Czechs, Moravians, and Slovaks returned from over the world to the lands of their birth),19 I still opt for structural approach. Therefore, I examine short-term and circular mobility from its commencement at the very end of the nineteenth century (due to the considerable reduction in the cost of transatlantic passage) up to the beginning of the World War II, when overseas transit in general was brought to an abrupt end.

Back and Forth

The concept of “short-term mobility” escapes precise definition.20 People had a wide array of reasons for leaving for the New World, and a similarly diverse array of experiences once they arrived. For the present analysis, and aware of the insufficiencies of my approach, I take as central the initial aim of returning instead of remaining and becoming permanent residents and, at times, a pattern of repeated visits. The social composition of the group under consideration is also important. I do not take into account the members of the managerial staff of the Austrian/Czech/Czechoslovak companies in the Latin American branches (i.e. what is referred to as “career migration”21), nor do I consider the journalists and travelers who earned their living along the way. Rather, I focus on individuals who came from the same social strata as the long-term and permanent migrants, specifically the lower and middle classes, urban and rural, and in the majority of cases people who did manual labor. For them, living overseas was a means to an end, a labor strategy,22 not the final objective of their endeavors. The intention of returning rules out the poorest, who often had to sell everything they possessed, arriving in the New World “with just the shirt they had on, without a penny in their pocket,” as stated one of the texts from the beginning of the twentieth century the author of which warned Czechs against emigration.23 Surely also those who planned to return sometimes had difficulties raising the necessary cash and were compelled to take out mortgages or ask for loans from their relatives, but were not forced to sell everything (and clearly, the mere act of taking out a mortgage or asking for a loan meant that the person intended to return).24 Also, the poorest migrants usually lacked the necessary qualifications that would enable them to find better-paid jobs and save money for a return ticket.

Of course, sometimes the decision to stay or return was not made by the migrants themselves, but rather was dictated by outside forces. Many of those who originally planned to stay permanently returned within a few years, because the promises made by the agents and the authorities of the host country had given them misleading impressions of the realities of everyday life in the New World. Sometimes people who wished to return were forced to stay when they realized that their savings would barely suffice to buy a return ticket. Judging from the memoirs and interviews, there were many such cases. “I came to Argentina, as many of us did, thinking that I will get rich quickly and easily and I will earn a lot of money and then immediately I will return home. This was my firm conviction when I left home,” stated František Lukešík, who came to Argentina around 1910. As he could not find salaried work, he ended up in the agricultural colony Presidencia Roque Sáenz Peña, founded in 1913 by several Czech families.25

There was never significant seasonal transatlantic mobility from the Czech Lands, i.e. nothing equivalent to the Spanish and Italian golondrinas (swallows), farmhands who took advantage of the alternating agricultural cycles between the hemispheres and spent the European winter harvesting fruit and wheat in Argentina and then returned to Europe in May.26 Even with the improved system of railroad traffic, the Czech Lands remained too distant from the Mediterranean and Atlantic ports to make such movements worthwhile. Most of the Czechs and Moravians who went to America for shorter stays were industrial rather than agricultural workers, and they came for periods of years instead of several months. Still, there was a correlation between overseas mobility and the existing patterns of seasonal work.

This, in fact, is true for the whole of Europe. While traditionally the various types of migration—transatlantic, continental, or regional—have been studied in virtual isolation, in recent decades various historians have proven their mutual interdependence, and the “push” and “pull” models have given way to more complex explanations.27 As for the Czech Lands, in some parts, such as southwestern Bohemia and southern Moravia, mostly poorer agricultural regions with high number of landless or petty farmers who could not support their families by working the land alone, there existed a long tradition of seasonal and short-term labor mobility within and outside the Austro-Hungarian Empire to Germany, Serbia, and Italy. Not just young and single, but also married men would spend up to eight months a year seeking skilled or semi-skilled employment as farmhands, bricklayers, brickmakers etc. Women worked as maids in Vienna, but also as construction assistants all over Germany and Austria.28 A special survey of seasonal labor mobility ordered by the Austrian government in 1913 as a supplement to the regular censuses shows clearly the extent of the short-time absences. At the local level, there were places where seasonal workers made up 20 percent or more of the total population, a figure comparable to the percentages in the best-known regions of seasonal out-migration in Europe, like the Italian Friuli.29 Of course, there were also regular or occasional movements from other regions—for example, miners from northern Bohemia drifted to the Ruhr area in times of labor shortage.30

Given the intensity of this mobility, overseas transfer does not appear as exceptional as traditional historical studies have tended to suggest. Rather, it seems to have been one of the alternatives workers could pursue. The fact that communities with existing traditions of seasonal and short-term mobility had already established social mechanisms for accommodating absences and returns is important. There existed what could be termed a “culture of mobility,” i.e. a collective strategy for coping with and taking advantage of the willingness of some of their members to travel by adjusting existing norms, values, and ideologies to their absences.31 Females took male occupations on the farms or hired day laborers to do them; families and the community at large were willing to accept some of the novelties brought about by the return of laborers. The laborers themselves were already used to making accommodations in the new environments in which they had lived, and, last but not least, while working in various European countries, they had opportunities to learn about the possibilities of transoceanic migration.32

It is possible that some of the seasonal workers originally did not plan to go to America, but decided to cross the Atlantic only after coming to the Italian port, for example, and encountering agents of shipping companies.33 Similarly, it is possible that they were approached with offers of work or attracted by rumors while working in Germany, as was the case of Poláček. Up to World War I, in particular Brazil and later Chile actively spread immigration propaganda in Germany, so the Czech seasonal workers who were coming to Germany also became the targets of agents. And even when they did not opt to move overseas themselves, these seasonal workers brought home information about such opportunities from Germany or Italy.34 America certainly was not an unreachable, strange world for Central European farmhands and workers. Of course, mobility, whether short-term or permanent, also depended on concrete economic conditions in a given region. And it should be noted that for the period under consideration overseas short-term mobility remained of secondary importance in comparison with the continuing seasonal labor movements within the Czech Lands or to neighboring countries. The possible paths for improving one’s economic and social status for the inhabitants of the Czech Lands at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries included a number of choices.

A Typology of Short-term Migrants

The countries of destination in Latin America for the short-term migrants were mostly the same as for the long-term and permanent migrants: first and foremost Argentina and Brazil, then to a lesser degree Chile (mostly due to its geographical position, which made short-term stays more difficult) and Mexico, and only exceptionally Central America or other Latin American countries. Argentina and Brazil in particular offered an acceptable climate and a relatively large array of work opportunities due to rapid modernization and urbanization, which had been underway since the second half of the nineteenth century, a factor even more important for short-term migrants than for those who mostly opted for privately owned land and an independent existence.

Regarding the typology of short-term mobility from the Czech Lands, there are two clearly distinguishable groups. The first of these consisted of unskilled or semi-skilled workers motivated by the vague notion of the “American dream,” as it was spread by the agents of the transportation companies and the colonizing societies or by the successes of their predecessors. In their effort to earn money quickly, they were willing to take any work, but they usually proved ill-prepared for the realities of life in the New World.35 From the point of view of cultural exchange, they did not have much to share with the host societies, and though their work as farm hands or factory workers provided them with new experiences, these insights were not of much use in their native communities. Many of such would-be short-term migrants were in the end forced to remain for a longer period of time than they had initially planned or even permanently, since it proved almost impossible to save money for the return journey. Sometimes, they were repatriated at the expense of the Austro-Hungarian or Czechoslovak embassies.36 Repeated warnings from the authorities and already established fellow-countrymen offer clear evidence of their considerable vulnerability to economic oscillations and social pressures; however, their numbers increased nonetheless, especially during the economic crisis of the 1930s, even though labor opportunities in Latin America decreased sharply precisely at that time.37

The second group consisted of skilled workers. Some of them came to America to find employment in their respective fields, either at random or drawing on the previous experiences of relatives or friends. Others were sent by the companies for which they were working in Europe. For both groups, Latin America offered better opportunities than the United States, where the labor marked had been saturated by immigrant and domestic specialists since the second half of the nineteenth century. Sometimes, factories in Argentina, Brazil, and Chile themselves sent agents to Europe to seek specialists in professions in which there was a high demand for the comparatively few skilled laborers;38 furthermore, these countries actively encouraged the establishment of foreign companies. As the Czech Lands had historically produced some specialized jobs, these workers adapted with relative ease not only to their new lives in various European countries, where their expertise was in demand, but also to conditions on the other side of the ocean. There was also the aforementioned traditional seasonal mobility of construction workers from southern Bohemia and southern Moravia. Matěj Poláček, to whose third arrival in Argentina in the span of ten years I alluded in the opening lines of this article, had been working as a migrant laborer since the 1890s, first in Hungary, then in various German cities, and then in the New World. There, he took part in such projects as the construction of the huge Cruz del Eje dam, the railroad bridge at San Lorenzo, and the “Tiro Federal,” that is, shooting grounds for the federal army in the Argentinian capital.39

There were Czech railroad builders, construction workers, and factory workers all over Argentina, as the precipitous expansion of railroads created a need for people with experience in these professions. For example, workers from the Czech factory in Kopřivnice, a famous producer of railroad carriages, were invited to the state-owned factory in Tafi Viejo in 1910. Because there was a scarcity of work in Kopřivnice at the time, the factory management supported their temporary absence and even organized Spanish courses for them. Of about forty workers, some stayed in Argentina, while others returned home before the war.40 For the dangerous work at the oil fields in southern Argentina, experienced miners were recruited by German agents in the Czech mining regions Ostrava/Ostrau and Kladno.41 At the beginning of the 1930s, the Škoda company of Plzeň delivered facilities for the newly built beet sugar refinery plants in the Argentine provinces of Mendoza and San Juan. Since the nineteenth century, the Bohemian Lands had been at the foreground of sugar production in Europe. After a very unsuccessful first season in the Argentinian enterprise, Škoda arranged to send over technicians and “boilers,” along with the machinery.42

The Bohemian Lands were also famous for beer production. Not only were Czech beer, malt, and hop important export articles, but since the end of the nineteenth century brewing machinery had been exported to furnish breweries all over Latin America. Again, specialized workers were sent to start production, some of them repeatedly when new branches of breweries were established or production was expanded. Vojtěch Vaníček, representative of the Economic Institute of the Czech Academy of Sciences, traveled in South America together with the aforementioned Zdeněk Fafl in 1910 on behalf of the Trade and Commercial Chamber. He found Czech specialists “in almost every brewery we passed through.”43 Similarly, after visiting Argentina and Brazil in 1910 and finding many Czechs in local breweries, Czech economist Leopold Perutz recommended that “our vocational and trade schools teach Spanish and Portuguese.”44 At the beginning of the twentieth century, Jan Mikš first passed through various European breweries, concluding with Zagreb in 1910. He then moved to to South America; there was comparatively intense mobility, both permanent and short term, between Croatia and Latin America, especially Chile.45 For two years, Mikš worked in breweries in Santiago de Chile, Buenos Aires, Montevideo, and other cities. In Santiago, he made the acquaintance of Count Kolowrat-Liechtenstein, the Austrian envoy to Chile, who later employed him as a tenant of his own brewery in the town of Rychnov in eastern Bohemia.46 And, finally, there were representatives of specific professions such as musicians who at the time were in great demand in Argentina, especially in Buenos Aires, where they provided not only the dance music and entertainment in restaurants, but also live accompaniment for silent films.47

The preponderant majority of the short-term migrants were male, in contrast to the more balanced mix in the case of long-term migrants. Still, there were also female specialists. Uruguayan and Argentinian upper-class families preferred maids and cooks from Europe over local labor as a sign of high social standing;48 and there has been a tradition of Czech and Moravian maids going to Vienna, so again the move overseas was more of a prolongation of existing mobility patterns than the establishment of entirely new ones. Also, the Argentinian elites employed governesses from Central Europe who were able to speak French for lower wages than “genuine” French gouvernantes.49 There were certain risks, as the mediating agencies sometimes delivered the young women to brothels.50 In response to numerous reports and complaints, as of 1930, women from Czechoslovakia under the age of twenty-five could only travel to Argentina or Brazil if they could presents an affidavit from a family member or employer who pledged to provide “financial support and moral supervision.”51

Experiences Overseas

Specialized workers often came to South America with a contract already in hand. They were thus spared the humiliating stay in the “Immigrants’ hotels” in Buenos Aires or São Paulo, where they could stay for free, but where conditions were crowded and discouraging,52 and the equally discouraging clamor for work, any work at all. Because they possessed skills that were rare in Latin America, they were able to negotiate their pay and sometimes even the luxury of an occasional trip home. They often felt superior and sometimes voiced a sense of superiority over local laborers, and sometimes even seem to have had a notion of themselves as representatives of a “civilizing mission” who were spreading European/Czech skills in undeveloped regions. The authorities in the home country were actually aware of this and commented on it negatively. While the Habsburg state did not intervene actively in the “export” of skilled workers, the Czechoslovak Ministry of Trade and Industry made efforts (although mostly in vain) to keep specialists in prominent export industries (such as beer-making, sugar-making, glass-making, the textile industry, etc.) within the state borders even in times of rising unemployment during the great crisis of the 1930s precisely because they feared that the transfer of technological knowledge abroad would create competition for domestic production.53

Still, even the position of a highly qualified worker was not at all secure, and America was far from a “new home.” Often, salaries were lower than had been promised.54 Many of the workplaces were far from inviting. For example, in the oil fields in southern Argentina, the workforce consisted mostly of foreigners, the atmosphere was highly cosmopolitan,55 and earnings were relatively high. But, according to the memoirs of some of the Czech workers, the housing conditions were dismal, consisting mostly of crude shacks made of boards and corrugated sheets; there was acute lack of drinking water, which was sold at high prices. Medical facilities were inadequate and there was no compensation for work-related accidents. As the region was isolated, the workers lacked protection and could hardly flee.56

The situation on railroads was similar. When in 1929 the Argentinian government started the construction of the railroad from Salta to Formosa, it negotiated the involvement of a Hungarian company which recruited skilled workers in various places, including the Czech Lands. But as soon became evident, high earnings notwithstanding, the working conditions were hard. Because of the lack of proper machinery, the laborers had to do backbreaking manual work, drinking water was scarce and housing inadequate. In response to reports on these conditions, the Hungarian government forbade further recruitment of workers for Argentina, but the Czechoslovak authorities only issued warnings through the Czechoslovak Foreign Institute.57 Of course, these experiences, if narrated back home, might have had discouraging effects. The dominant image of Latin America as a region in which work was reduced to manual labor is interesting. “In Argentina, intelligence will not find work, as there are enough educated people. Argentina needs only laborers in agriculture and in trade.”58

Those who had worked first in Western Europe, had been members of labor unions and had taken advantage of (or taken part in ensuring) social securities and labor legislature resented the lack of protections for workers in Latin America. The situation was particularly bad in Brazil. “There are no legal protections for workers. The laborers are blatantly oppressed. […] Every factory has its own warehouse with food for workers. Often the laborer does not get any money at all. If he needs medicine or other necessities, he must buy at a high price from the warehouse of the factory and sell at a loss for cash.”59 Of course, this was even more stressful for short-term migrants, who had hoped to accumulate meaningful savings as quickly as possible. For some of the migrants, the stay overseas seems to have been crucial as an experience which increased their awareness of social issues.60 Last but not least, migrants had to face anti-immigrant sentiments, which with the passage of time became more intense in many Latin American countries.

Migrants who aspired to remain in their new homes for longer period of time or even permanently mostly tried to settle down as quickly as possible on purchased or rented estates. The relative availability of land in Latin America at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, when it was becoming scarce in the USA, was one of the major attractions for Czechs (who, unlike other migrants from eastern and southern Europe, generally aspired to settle in the countryside instead of looking for work in urban areas). The temporary migrants, in contrast, often moved around, either because they were sent to new locations by the companies for which they were working or because, in their search for work, they had gotten to know various parts of the country and fellow workers of various nationalities. As they opted for a short, profitable stay in America, with as few expenses as possible, and as they often worked in multilingual and multinational environments, many of them considered it impractical to devote time and money to activities like learning Spanish or Portuguese, especially when they were working for French or German companies.

The dominance of German companies in Argentine industry eased the process of adaptation for Czechs and Moravians, most of whom had at least a superficial knowledge of German. When Karel Urban, one of the would-be sojourners who decided to stay in America, responded to the questionnaire of the Czechoslovak Foreign Institute, he commented: “I only remembered several words in Portuguese, but that bit of my German helped me everywhere.”61 The language barrier was another factor which prevented the short-term migrants from constructing the notion of a home (albeit temporary) in America. Of course, without the knowledge of the local language, they were also more vulnerable to being cheated by employers or members of the local population.

The American Trunk

While it was demonstrated above that intercontinental mobility in many respects was followed by long-established models of labor sojourns, this did not just mean a widening of the radius of travel for work. Stays overseas had some important repercussions for the migrants themselves, their families, and the local communities. Of utmost importance were the remittances that flowed into the villages and suburbs in the Czech Lands. The fact that “temporary immigrant comes to earn money and then leaves with wages, [which] is important for doing the work, but is not something [the host country] needs for its development” was noted by the contemporary Czech commentators62 and officials in Latin America. Many of the contemporary commentators noted the substantial difference in wages between Argentina, for example, and Europe, not forgetting, however, immediately to note also the high living costs, especially the prices of basic foodstuffs.63 As remittances came mostly through the mail or by personal delivery, it is difficult even to estimate the total sums involved. But they probably meant a boost to local economies through the purchase of land plots and houses64 and also due to the fact that the prolonged absences of numerous males made it necessary to employ hired hands.

The notion of “American wealth” even entered local folklore. One Moravian offered the following characterization of the advantages of migrant labor in the New World for people in the Old: “Good for women in the old country, who have their husbands in America. They work, they send money home.”65 And they also sent exotic goods. Poláček once dispatched a chest of oranges from Argentina shortly before Easter, and his daughters gave them away instead of painted eggs, which is the local custom on Easter Monday.66 This story could be seen merely as a curiosity, but it illustrates the fact that such gifts sent or brought home reinforced the exotic image of the New World in Central Europe and could be also regarded as a symbol of the progressive interlinking of local and regional economies to the transatlantic system.

The returning migrants also brought back information about the world on the far side of the ocean. In his monograph, Mark Wyman uses of the metaphor of the “America trunk” as an apt symbol for both emigration and remigration, of coming to America and returning to the homeland, of conserving the memories of the mother country and bringing home new wares, goods and ideas.67 Certainly, the letters from relatives and friends living in America represented an important source of information for their home communities and, later, for historians.68 But first-hand experiences transmitted by word-of-mouth, together with the presents and memorabilia taken out of the trunk, probably had an even stronger impact, though not one that would leave much trace in historical records. But perhaps these presents and memorabilia influenced the contents of the “American trunk” packed by the next generation of migrants. The seasoned “Mexican” or “American” in fancy clothes, able to deal with any situation and endeavoring to climb the social ladder, even entered the local folklore, including songs, jokes, and fairytales, as well as the popular literature all over the Czech Lands.69

In his memoirs, František Vyšata, a traveler and ardent proponent of the Czech national spirit among migrants, lamented that “the preparation of our fellow countrymen for such a vital step as leaving of motherland was minimal or nonexistent.” Migrants simply bought their tickets from “eloquent agents” and then “off they went to try their luck.”70 But, as was already noted, this was in fact not true. More often than not, prospective migrants had abundant and surprisingly precise information which helped them make carefully considered decisions when contemplating travel overseas. It certainly was not a coincidence that the Czech and Moravian regions in which we find highest number of seasonal migrants to European countries and, later, to America—southwestern Bohemia, southern Moravia—were also regions from which numerous individuals and families decided to move overseas permanently. In a study of contemporary transmigrants, Peggy Lewitt refers to this flow of information as “social remittances” in an effort to accentuate its importance for the increase in the material wellbeing of the home communities because it stimulated other forms of mobility.71 The two types of mobility certainly reinforced each other, as the return migrants spread knowledge, direct or indirect, of the opportunities overseas, while the permanent settlements of fellow countrymen made the shorter stays of those who did not want to remain for good easier. Also, within the framework of short-term mobility, the chain pattern acquired great importance. Memoirs and correspondence confirm that on returning for another stay in America, workers often took with them relatives—brothers, bothers-in-law, nephews etc. —to follow them to the Americas.72

Alongside the economic implications, there were important social and cultural consequences for community cohesion and the lives of the members of communities from which migrants departed for the New World. The overseas sojourns differed from previous patterns of seasonal mobility, if only due to the longer duration of labor stays. Short-term migrants did not dispose of their properties, and for the most part, if married, left their wives behind, thus maintaining also their social position in the community and preventing themselves from establishing closer social ties in the host societies. Though the wives took over the everyday tasks, their husbands managed their affairs from long-distance through correspondence and messages sent back and forth with traveling friends and relatives. Still, the outcomes of their prolonged absences could be damaging. Both contemporary commentators and recent studies have spoken of the “feminization” of society, as wives and other family members were forced to take over some of the work and, perhaps more importantly, the social responsibilities (and thus to some extent the social influence) of the departed men.73 Folklore captured the feelings of uneasiness and a sense of fragmentation, tension, and inconsolable emptiness: “Children are crying aloud when they bid farewell to their father over the wide sea.”74 The documentation of the Czechoslovak Foreign Institute covers many cases of fathers gone overseas and mothers who died or were seriously ill, leaving the care of the offspring to relatives or the state.75 Therefore, since the 1930s, anyone applying for a passport and leaving minor children behind had to demonstrate that he or she had provided for their support.76

Conclusion

The impact of returnees on their home surroundings depended, of course, on many factors, including the length of their stay in the Americas and the extent and type of contacts they had had with American society. However, some general trends emerge. In her comments on the impacts of the return of migrant workers from the United States on the Hungarian countryside, Puskás notes the crucial impact of experiences with the democratic establishment, political freedoms, which made it more difficult for the returnees to tolerate the more restricted conditions in their home country.77 As the sources concerning Czech and Moravian migration to South America indicate, upon returning, the migrants lacked “freedom” in a different sense—lowered social restraints and pressures, less cramped living conditions, and a sense of greater responsibility for one’s own life.

One finds explicit allusions to the lack of “freedom” and the discomforts of living in densely populated areas in the correspondence of returned migrants sent via the Czechoslovak Foreign Institute and implicit references in the memoirs of Matěj Poláček. In this sense, the feeling of being at “home” unexpectedly shifted overseas, throwing into doubt the notions maintained during the sojourns in America. A letter sent in 1929 by the Moravian returnee to compatriots in Argentina documents not only the intense communication with people oversees, the interchange of letters, and the frequent visits of relatives, but also the fact that even returning home and buying land was not necessarily a definite step. “How was the harvest? I am homesick for America, I liked it there, except for the flies. […] Here we are among strange people. […] When we tire from working for others, we will sell [what we have] here again and go over to you. […] The country is nice here, fields all flat, but more work than with the cotton over there.”78 The anonymous author of the letter still drew a distinction between “here” and “over there,” but her loyalties were not at all clear-cut. Poláček bought a “ranch” in Argentina, while also investing in real estate in his native village, manifesting fervent affection for his homeland. That he was prevented in 1946 from embarking again for South America and was subsequently deprived of part of his properties as a consequence of the rise to power of the communist regime is a different story.79 What is important in this context is the evident multiplicity of “homes” Poláček (along with hundreds or thousands of other Czechs and Moravians) was able to come to regard as “his,” a sentiment he was at least partially able to transmit to his surroundings, drawing the peripheral regions of Central Europe into the transatlantic economic and cultural interchange.

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International Architecture as a Tool of National Emancipation: Nguyen Cao Luyen in French Colonial Hanoi, 1920–1940*

Ulrike von Hirschhausen
University of Rostock
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* This paper is the revised form of a lecture given at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest on April 5, 2017, as part of its lecture series “Current Approaches to Global History.” Many thanks go to Dr. Judit Klement and Dr. Krisztián Csaplár-Degovics, who stimulated thoughts about globalizing cities and also made my stay in Budapest at the time of the demonstrations in support of the Central European University a wonderful experience of collegial friendship. I am also deeply indebted to the anonymous reviewer from the Hungarian Historical Review for his or her critical reading and very helpful ideas.

This paper takes the city of Hanoi as an example in order to explore the potential of global history with regard to the urban context. It argues that the specific conditions of French urban planning made international architecture, not indigenous traditions, a tool of national emancipation in the 1930s and 1940s. The colonial administration of France in Indochina became increasingly concerned with integrating vernacular elements in its colonial architecture in order to visualize a policy of assimilation. This “Indochinese Style” was clearly seen as part of an imperial repertoire of power to which Vietnamese architects were opposed. Most of them, as the professional biography of Nguyen Cao Luyen illustrates, therefore considered contemporary architecture, as the International Style, to be an appropriate tool to reengineer a colonized society in the direction of national emancipation. When the French assigned a large area in southern Hanoi exclusively to the Vietnamese, this “New Indigenous Quarter” turned into a laboratory of international architecture that the emerging Vietnamese middle-class regarded as a means of practicing global modernity. Only the interconnectivity of the local, the imperial and the global realm helps us to better understand why at the local level internationalism appeared in Hanoi to be the appropriate tool for designing a national future.

Keywords: colonialism; Hanoi; architecture; international style; urban planning; empire.

Introduction

French colonialism in Hanoi was particularly concerned with urban planning. In 1900, the city, located in the north of Vietnam, became the capital of France’s newly conquered territories in Southeast Asia, termed French Indochina and roughly including the present-day areas of Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. A French presence needed to be created visually in order to assert political domination over the territory against indigenous revolts as much as to demonstrate reformist attitudes towards the Vietnamese in a field considered a less overtly disciplinary form of colonial rule. The bulk of current research on Hanoi’s built environment has followed well-known assumptions of colonial rule as an effective power, which reconstructed the inner city as a French capital, neglected traditional housing of the Vietnamese and enforced ethnic separation between the Vietnamese and the European—primarily French—population.1 This, however, seems to partially reflect long-standing and unquestioned ideas of empire-building as a process planned in Western metropoles, forcefully implemented by colonial élites and resulting in a rather static geography of power between the colonizers and the colonized. The critical New Imperial History that is currently emerging questions this notion by focusing on the ambivalent and changing mutual relationship between the colonizers and the colonized in order to open a new understanding of both their diverse agencies in “making and unmaking” empire. This way, the historic entanglement of peripheries and centers, which historiography has often treated in isolation, also becomes visible. Attributing greater weight also to indigenous actors who were bridging these spaces sharpens our sensitivity to the outcome of the colonial encounter as an interactive phenomenon without neglecting the unequal distribution of power upon which it is based.2

Cities have not constituted a major field in which historians have tested such premises, whereas social scientists are particularly concerned with the emergence and governance of global cities today.3 This article takes the built environment of the colonial capital of Hanoi as an exemplary field in which imperial, colonial and national actors used architecture as a strategy to initiate and enforce their frequently contradicting and sometimes overlapping visions of political power, economic hierarchy and cultural identity.4 The Vietnamese Nguyen Cao Luyen (1907–1987) exemplifies a group of indigenous architects. By tracing his imperial biography in the 1930s and 1940s, the activities of these men who were eager to realize their visions of Hanoi’s urban design and city planning in the face of colonial hierarchy and ethnic segregation will be explored. I argue that the specific condition of French urban planning made international architecture, not vernacular traditions, a tool of national emancipation. This thesis builds on two points. First, France’s colonial administration became increasingly concerned with integrating regional and local traditions and elements in its colonial architecture in order to visualize a policy of assimilation. An “Indochinese style” emerging from these efforts was clearly marked as part of an imperial repertoire of power that indigenous architects opposed. Second, some of these architects, including Nguyen Cao Luyen, therefore considered the International Style that had reached its heyday in Paris, Dessau, Berlin, Chicago and Tokyo during the late 1920s and 1930s to be the appropriate tool to reengineer a colonized society. Rather than a reinvention of indigenous traditions, adapting to and reinterpreting global modernity would strengthen their program of national emancipation and future autonomy. Practicing global modernity as a prerequisite for these aims for them meant selecting and converting principles of contemporary avant-garde architecture and adapting them to the local context of Hanoi. A sufficient explanation for these policies, which they considered to be anti-colonial, needs to take three dimensions into account: the colonial environment of Hanoi as well as the metropolitan influences of Paris that Nguyen Cao Luyen had experienced as an intern with Le Corbusier as much as the global trends of the International Style that in the mid-1930s were practiced selectively on a worldwide scale. The interconnectivity of these realms—the local, imperial and global—helps us to better understand why at the local level of Hanoi, internationalism appeared to be the appropriate tool for designing a national future.

An “Indochinese Style” as a Repertoire of Power

City planning and urban architecture became an object of change after World War I. Various factors were responsible for shifting attitudes of both the French colonial administrators and Vietnamese élites in Indochina. In Paris, debates over colonialism had taken on a new tone in the French parliament. Politicians demanded visible attention to the needs of the colonized and started to replace the former leitmotif of “assimilation” with the term “association” as a means of managing ethnic diversity in the colony. Concealing the hard fact that the unequal distribution of political power and military force had remained intact, they advocated a softer policy of taking ethnic identity, indigenous traditions and geographic factors into account in order win greater support from the indigenous population.5 This seemed even more necessary in the face of ongoing revolts against French colonial rule after World War I, in which more than 100,000 Vietnamese had served without gaining more participation at home.

These new politics of “association” were increasingly intertwined with urban design in Hanoi. An influential colonial actor eager to translate the political strategy into local architecture was Ernest Hébrard (1875–1933), who arrived in Hanoi in 1921 to head the new Town Planning and Architecture Service.6 Hébrard had worked in Thessalonica and Athens, where he had realized plans to protect the historic districts and developed futurist “world city” projects. Although a well-trained Beaux-Arts architect by education, Hébrard took a keen interest in developing new forms of regional architecture that the colonial government was in turn eager to use for political purposes. During his years in Hanoi, Hébrard implemented civic buildings combining indigenous traditions with modern techniques of construction and material that were at the same time adapted to the climatic conditions of Hanoi. The “Indochinese style” became particularly evident in his Colonial Ministry of Finance built in 1927, which today serves at the home of the Foreign Ministry of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Comparable to colonial approaches in Cambodia, Tunisia or Morocco, this regional architecture, often an eclectic mix of diverse cultures within and beyond the colonial borders, remained a product of the French. Only French architectural theorists seemed to Hébrard capable of discerning and building upon the true character of Vietnamese culture and, correspondingly, only French architects were commissioned to implement their vision of the Vietnamese vernacular in the center of Hanoi.

 

 

 

Fig. 1. Ministry of Finance (1927), designed by Ernest Hébrard7

 

Integrating indigenous traditions in this colonial architecture went hand in hand with segregating the urban population according to race. Hébrard, as most city planners of his time, advocated racial segregation as a necessary constituent of colonial urbanism. The reasons for such segregation, which almost all colonial city planners endorsed, were related to hygiene, security, surveillance and racism.8 In an article “L’urbanism en Indochine,” published in 1928, Hébrard argued in favor of an ethnic topography of the city while realizing that mutual interest often eroded this colonial zeal:

 

La ville est divisé en: quartier de commerce genre européen et indigène; quartier d’habitations, européen et indigène; quartier des garages, quartier des chantiers, ateliers, petites industries et usines. Il est souvent de quartiers européens et de quartier indigènes, et certains pourraient croire à une spécialisation absolue et penser que des zones devraient être rigoureusement traces pour éviter tout contact pouvant devenir dangereux. En Indochine, les groupements sont distincts, mais si très rarement les Européens habitant les centres indigènes, par contre des Indigènes aisés vivent souvent dans les centres européens.9

 

Constantly comparing the French methods of controlling colonial societies with those of the British and the Dutch, Hébrard advocated the expansion of land-use zoning in order to enforce strict racial and environmental controls, which, however, were never officially implemented in Hanoi.

In 1926, Hébrard founded a new Architectural Section at the École Beaux Arts d’Indochine at which he hoped to further develop a modern regional architecture as a stabilizing factor underpinning the French régime. The more practical purpose of the colonial administration behind Hébrard was to recruit the much-needed draftsmen, subordinates and technical assistants for the French governmental architectural service. The five-year curriculum of the Architectural Section combined study of Vietnamese traditions with that of Western architectural theories and practices. It became supplemented through surveying and sketching civic buildings of the French, both those in the Beaux-Arts tradition and those in the new “Indochinese style,” such as Hébrard’s Ministry of Finance as well as Vietnamese temples, pagodas and ordinary houses.

Unintended by Hébrard—and even less by the colonial government—the new school spread ideas rather contrary to its original task. The concepts of European and American avant-garde architects increasingly swept into classrooms and lectures and created new models that extended far beyond the Beaux-Arts tradition, Art Deco or French ideas of an “Indochinese style.” The key reason for this unintended outcome was that the interwar-war period, during which around 50 Vietnamese students graduated from the new school, was one of the most stimulating moments in the history of twentieth-century architecture and urban-planning theory. In Dessau, Walter Gropius and Mies van der Rohe developed ideas of Gesamtkunstwerk (“total work of arts”) unifying art, crafts and technology at the German Bauhaus. In the United States, Frank Lloyd Wright created buildings emphasizing simplicity and an organic adaption of the environment in contrast to the ornate architecture prevailing in Europe.10 Most influential for the Vietnamese students at Hanoi’s Section was probably Le Corbusier’s activity as a theorist and architect in Paris. Le Corbusier proclaimed a new aesthetic devoid of any traditional references, oriented toward function and driven by technological development. Although Le Corbusier’s manifesto Vers une architecture, published in 1923, was not part of the curricula, the likelihood that the young French teachers whom Hébrard hired from France circulated and discussed this manifesto with their Vietnamese students is very high.11 Moreover, the publications of the Congrès International d’Architecture (CIAM) radiated worldwide and found repercussions in the colonies.12 In 1932, a year before one of the school’s graduates, Ngyuen Cao Luyen, left for Paris to work as an intern with Le Corbusier, the Museum of Modern Art in New York held an exhibition of “modern architecture.” The show was accompanied by a book entitled The International Style with which Nguyen and his fellow students, as later articles regarding him verify, were fully familiar.

 

Fig. 2. Lecturers and students, among them Nguyen Cao Luyen, from the École des Beaux Arts, Hanoi, in the 1930s13

 

These global trends of how to express modernity in urban architecture increasingly became a topic in the classrooms of Hanoi’s Architectural Section. Here they overlapped and mixed with Vietnamese interpretations of modernity fostered by the activities of teachers like Victor Tardieu. Tardieu was a progressive architect from Paris who had been a key promoter of an Architectural Section at the École Beaux Arts d’Indochine since the early 1920s. When the school finally opened, he taught students who studied there to strive in their work for the same standard as in the metropole (“égaler la qualité métropolitaine”), thereby undermining Hébrard’s demarcation of cultural difference between center and periphery as well as the administration’s interest in maintaining a social hierarchy within Indochina’s colonial society.14

Taken together, the French colonial government founded the Architectural Section at Hanoi’s École Beaux Arts with the primary purpose of creating and promoting a new modern “Indochinese Style” that would serve as a tool of imperial rule and produce subordinates and technical assistants for governmental service. Deviating from these expectations, the school turned into an institution at which both French and Vietnamese discussed radical concepts of modern architecture and their capability to reengineer human societies. This was to have unintended consequences for Hanoi’s colonial society and urban built environment in the 1930s.

Nguyen Cao Luyen between Hanoi and Paris in the 1920s–1940s

Nguyen Cao Luyen, one of the 50 Vietnamese graduates of the Architectural Section at the École Beaux Arts d’Indochine, participated actively in all these discussions.15 Coming from an educated middle-class background, Luyen had early on engaged himself in informal Vietnamese associations that promoted ideas of affordable housing production and fostered an endogenous architectural work beyond mere transfer. Immediately following his graduation in 1933, the 26-year-old Luyen departed for Paris to work as an intern with August Perret and Le Corbusier. This stay in the imperial capital had a formative influence on his biography, both as an architect and as a political activist.

In Paris, Luyen was able to approach two leading representatives of modern architecture, one conservative and one radically progressive. Luyen spent the majority of his internship working at the office of August Perret (1874–1954). In the 1930s, Perret was one of the most acclaimed and booked architects of both the French bourgeoisie and the government and was responsible for the design of many civic buildings. Perret argued that contemporary architecture must represent metaphysical principles of construction, thereby legitimizing a return to classical forms while using modern materials, above all reinforced concrete.16 The success of Perret’s neoclassical architecture certainly had an influence on Luyen as some of his later Art Deco designs suggest. Luyen’s own work in Hanoi, however, points rather to the lasting influence of Le Corbusier (1878–1965) who, in stark contrast to Perret, used sociological arguments as the emergence of a new mass culture and urbanization to legitimize his architecture and its potential to standardize. The English, French and German sources used for this article do not indicate how long Nguyen Cao Luyen worked as an intern at Le Corbusier’s atelier, but new research on the latter’s co-workers sheds light on Le Corbusier’s recruitment pattern.17 In the early 1930s, despite his increasing global reputation, Le Corbusier was constantly in depth, had no state commissions at all, quarreled constantly with his clients and paid almost no salary to his interns and fellow architects. Nonetheless his pioneering role in the new “international” architecture attracted a wealth of young, ambitious architects from Europe, Latin America, Japan and India, mostly of middle-class background, who were eager to work in his atelier at the Rue de Sèvres even without salary. Ngyuen Cao Luyen’s background from a Vietnamese middle-class family certainly contributed to making an unpaid internship with Le Corbusier possible.

The key aspects of Le Corbusier’s programmatic architecture, which engaged Luyen and many other young architects at the time, were emphasis on the geometric line as a regulating principle, a complete independence from historical context, the necessary combination of technology and architecture, the primacy of function and the use of new material such as steel, glass or concrete, among others.18 The “International Style,” a synthesis of design concepts from many primarily French, German and American architects, shared many of these claims and became a global export good that was particularly visible through the joint work of these architects within the International Congress of Architecture (CIAM). It was further promoted by Le Corbusier’s extensive publications of his own oeuvre, which he marketed on a worldwide scale. The time Nguygen Cao Luyen spent at Le Corbusier’s office on Rue de Sèvres, which was full of young architects from all over the world, had similar repercussions. The few texts we have from Luyen after he left Paris in 1933 indicate his preference to contribute actively to the “International Style” that he had studied in Hanoi on a theoretical basis and with which he became acquainted on a practical basis in Paris. In an article for the journal La Patrie annamite in 1937, co-authored with others, Luyen reflected on their formative experiences and the future tasks of the Architectural Section at the École Beaux Arts d’Indochine, arguing that “certain étudiant architectes affirment que le point de vue primordial de l’École est des former des artistes indochinois. Mais les étudiants ont plus d’ambition, ont-ils ajouté, c’est de posséder l’esprit d’artiste . . . c’est de pouvoir se comparer aux artistes étrangers.”19

The French capital in these very years was a laboratory for modern architecture that provided Nguyen Cao Luyen with a wealth of professional stimulation regarding how to translate “international modernism” into his own work as an architect working in Hanoi. At the same time, the imperial metropolis attracted migrants and exiles from various colonies of the French empire and beyond, many of whom became politicized during their stay in the imperial center.20 It is this second, social and political dimension of Paris as a “hotbed of anti-imperialism” that helps to further explain the later activity of Ngyuen Cao Luyen in Hanoi both as an architect and as a political activist.

When Luyen arrived in Paris in early 1933, he came to a metropole that was bursting with “men without a country.”21 The huge number of colonial subjects recruited by the French army to fight in World War I was a key reason for their unintended presence in Europe following the war. Moreover, labor demands in the metropole attracted growing numbers of North Africans and West Africans over the subsequent years. The permissive political climate of Paris differed starkly from the colonial situation back home with its strict censorship, violent restriction of public opposition and discriminatory practices in places such as Algeria, West Africa and Indochina. This added to the attraction of the metropole particularly for educated and politicized colonial subjects who were often deported to the center by the colonial governments.22

The anti-colonialist outlook, which in many cases had already been a reason for the frequently forced departure of the migrants from the colonies, intensified through mutual exchange and communication. A letter written by a Vietnamese student in 1927 documents the importance of mutual contacts and learning for the formation of an anti-imperial perspective among Vietnamese: “Since my departure from home, I have come to think much about the situation of my country. [. . .] There is now in France a small number of Vietnamese who constitute a part of the country and who, benefiting from the situation here, have undertaken its defense. I believe it is my duty to take part in that defense.”23

The idea that learning from the West in political, cultural and economic terms and applying these ideas and concepts to the modernization and political independence of their own nations was a recurrent theme in all anti-colonial discourses worldwide. However, the close mutual contacts within the narrow space of the Quartier Latin, where most of the Vietnamese students lived, intensified these perspectives because each migrant was now able to compare his individual experience of colonialism with that of other colonized men. This experience, which Nguyen Cao Luyen also had in Paris, contributed to understanding his situation less as a singular “colonial” fate than as a part of an “imperial” system. Some of the Parisian migrants, such as Ho Chi Minh in the 1920s, drew the conclusion that inter-ethnic solidarity—such as that experienced at the local level in Paris—needed to be translated into a global solidarity of anti-imperialists. Others, such as Nguyen Cao Luyen ten years later, felt encouraged to apply “modernism” as a tool of national emancipation to their professional work at home. The idea of modern architecture being instrumental for social progress was an overarching theme for all protagonists of the International Style and the Bauhaus movement alike. Upon his return to Hanoi, Luyen translated the social agenda of European architects into a national cause seemingly more applicable to the colonial context. Two years after returning to Hanoi from Paris, he co-founded the association Ánh Sáng (“Lumière”) with the aim of coordinating practical measures of intellectuals in Hanoi’s social sector. The society soon embraced a broad spectrum of engineers, journalists, writers, artists, architects and doctors, which numbered around 3,000 members by 1940, who used their respective professional expertise as a means of national emancipation from French rule.24

The Parisian experience, altogether, marked a central moment in Nguyen Cao Luyen’s imperial biography. In professional terms, he acquainted himself with the architectural movement of “International Modernism,” learned how to implement it into reality and started to reinterpret its agenda for the built environment at home. In political terms, the exposure to a city brimming with immigrants from other colonies stimulated new ways of seeing the imperial order and its possible demise. Colonial Hanoi in the 1930s and 1940s became the theater for putting these global inspirations into local practice.

International Architecture in Hanoi’s Indigenous Quarter

Immediately following his return from Paris, Nguyen Cao Luyen, together with a partner, Hoàng Nhu Tiêp, founded Hanoi’s first architectural office that was run completely by Vietnamese. The chances of implementing modern concepts of urban architecture in Hanoi’s center seemed to be dim. The French colonial government invested heavily in public infrastructure and civic buildings, but did not commission indigenous architects with public works. However, the consequences of colonial urbanism, including racial segregation, created an unexpected niche in the residential market that indigenous architects like Luyen used to their own benefit. The development of the “New Indigenous Quarter” in southern Hanoi shows how concepts of international architecture permeated a zone assigned only to the indigenous population.

Since 1900, Hanoi’s French administration had set aside a large area in the southern part of the city to serve as a Vietnamese residential district. Since the inception of the project in 1902, the area was called the “New Indigenous Quarter.”25 Land acquisition implemented in order to privatize and subdivide the land met with ongoing resistance among the poor and migrant population that lived on the periphery of the colonial capital. Therefore, in 1928, only one-third of the entire area accommodated solid houses, while two-thirds of the area served as the site of so-called Paillotes and huts made of light material. The municipal council stopped tolerating this situation the same year, evacuating the poor and offering land to the growing number of wealthier and educated Vietnamese who were interested in leaving the overcrowded merchant city in the center. In accordance with the colonial hierarchy, actual ownership of the new plots would remain with the French, while the Vietnamese could gain access to them only under a lease agreement with the municipality. By the 1930s, the French administration realized that it had to abandon the idea of controlling and delimiting actual ownership in the private real-estate market after realizing that only full private ownership would have the desired effect of populating the Indigenous Quarter with middle-class Vietnamese families. To qualify for purchase, potential future owners had to satisfy considerable financial conditions and needed to be reliable taxpayers and legitimately married. The above conditions restricted the plots of land to members of the emerging Vietnamese middle-class who in turn preferred to commission Vietnamese architects, in particular the graduates of the Hanoi Architectural Section. For a variety of reasons, the consequences of racial segregation as a constituent of colonial rule helped international architecture become a dominant feature of Hanoi’s Indigenous Quarter.

First, the new owners—educated Vietnamese, young traders or second-tier civil servants who often maintained a staunchly national perspective—wanted to have their status and outlook adequately reflected in a modern, contemporary architecture. They clearly associated the “Indochinese Style” that characterized many civic buildings in the center with colonial architecture. Moreover, the outdated eclecticism of this architecture failed to symbolize the social progress they were making, while its association with the French empire was in no way attractive for this bourgeoning, nationally orientated group. Therefore, the “Indochinese Style” was largely rejected by the very Vietnamese whom it was designed to represent.26 Nguyen Cao Luyen characterized the remoteness that he, his fellow-architects and clients alike felt toward any construction of an imagined Vietnamese vernacular: “Il faut assouplir son esprit et allier son art au gout du public. [. . .] Il faut être très libéral, il faut être élastique en art. [. . .] Il faut dégager le caractère primordial de chaque style. L’architecture, ce n’est pas de la théologie.”27

Second, members of the new Vietnamese middle-class who could afford their own house in the Indigenous Quarter instead preferred a style devoid of any imperial association that was shared by urban élites worldwide. This was a key reason for which they embraced contemporary architectural trends such as Art Deco or the brand new International Style, neither of which carried any imperial connotations or conveyed an overly French character. Particularly the International Style that renowned offices such as that of Luyen and Tiép offered their clients was associated with global modernism. To participate in this global movement was also a sign of social progress as a prerequisite of national autonomy. Internationalism as a means of nationalism was a strategy that Nguyen Cao Luyen observed as a growing pattern: “La plupart de nos élèves, une fois sortis de l’École, croient faire oeuvre d’indépendance […] les architectes, bien entendu, avec le moindre effort, construisent des édifices semblables à ceux que l’on construit en Amérique ou en Scandinavie.”28

Third, being relegated to the margins of the colonial capital unexpectedly resulted in a flourishing new market for Vietnamese architects, developers and builders who became largely independent from the city’s colonial administration. The prolific output of Nguyen Cao Luyen’s office shows how indigenous architects used this very situation to their own benefit. Between 1934 and approximately 1945, Luyen, Tiép, Dúc built around 200 villas primarily in the Indigenous Quarter as well as several churches and temples and a variety of shops. They also collaborated closely with the French administration on a number of social housing projects. Their office offered a broad spectrum of styles corresponding to the tastes of their customers, specializing in Art Deco and the International Style. This exemplary villa (see fig. 3), built for a Vietnamese doctor in the late 1930s, used the Art Deco style with barely any reference to indigenous traditions.

Fig. 3. Villa designed by the office of Luyen, Tiép and Dúc, late 1930s29

Fig. 4. “Compartiment,” Luyen Tiép, Dúc, late 1930s, Hanoi30

 

Luyen worked above all on his own interpretation of the International Style, particularly through the “Compartiment,” a new type of townhouse that he built for customers. The key vocabulary of international modernism with its focus on the regulating power of geometric lines, cubic forms and a flat roof, constituting a break with the historical context, is clearly recognizable in this example (see fig. 4), built in Hanoi in the 1930s. Fine horizontal lines as a décor underlined the importance of geometry, inside corridors provided for the functional segregation of rooms and small pillars created shady outdoor places adapting to the local climate while at the same time using one of Le Corbusier’s favorite elements.

Nguyen Cao Luyen developed a reputation through his buildings that soon transcended the racial segregation that existed in architecture and urban planning. In 1940, the French general governor commissioned him to design the new interior architecture of the governors’ palace. In 1945, Luyen joined Ho Chi Minh’s first communist cabinet as a vice minister in the newly created ministry of architecture.

Conclusion

Colonial Hanoi thus became a location at which both French and Vietnamese protagonists used architecture and urban planning as a strategy to enforce their political, economic and cultural agendas. The colonial administration promoted an “Indochinese Style” that attempted to translate indigenous traditions into the colonial architecture as part of the new French politics of “association.” The Architectural Section that the French founded in 1926 at the École Beaux Arts d’Indochine should implement this goal by training indigenous clerks and assistants. Unintentionally, the school turned into an institution at which students discussed global concepts of contemporary architecture that peaked worldwide in the late 1920s and 1930s. Nguyen Cao Luyen, one of the school’s graduates, personally experienced these concepts while working as an intern with Le Corbusier in Paris. The French capital at the same time functioned as a “hotbed of anti-imperialism” fostered through mutual contacts and networks of students, workers and migrants from various French colonies. Colonial Hanoi became the theater for putting these ideas into practice when the colonial policy of racial segregation set aside a vast area in southern Hanoi to meet the residential needs of the Vietnamese middle-class. Instead of adopting the “Indochinese Style,” which Vietnamese owners, developers and architects alike associated with colonial rule, they favored the International Style associated with global modernism and shared by urban élites worldwide. In turn, the “New indigenous Quarter” at the margins of the colonial capital developed into a laboratory of international architecture that the Vietnamese middle-class also saw as a means of national emancipation from the colonial régime.

 

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The Formation of Global Tourism from an East-Central European Perspective

Sarah Lemmen
Christian-Albrechts-University of Kiel
This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

This article traces the formation of tourism to non-European regions from the late nineteenth century to the end of the interwar period with a focus on its East-Central European and specifically its Czech perspective. Tourism to Africa and Asia—considered here to be the culmination of “global tourism” in the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century—has been generally regarded as part and parcel of the imperial endeavor: empire shaped both the infrastructure and the practice of overseas tourism. By focusing on Czechs as “non-imperial” tourists to non-European regions, this article traces their travel experience as defined by different coordinates: no imperial identity would determine their behavior abroad, and no reasoning of economic nationalism would favor the visit to certain world regions over others.

Following an overview of the globalization of tourism and its interconnectedness with the imperial project, this article focuses on the specifics of Czech tourism to non-European regions. Some specifics have very practical implications, such as the language skills that generally catered rather to a Central European than a global environment, or the average travel budget that was lower than that of travelers from Germany, Great Britain or the United States. Others suggest a Czech identity that was drafted in contrast to the imperial “other” and outside the colonial dichotomy of “rulers” and “ruled.” While Czech travelers profited from a strongly imperial tourist infrastructure, they often professed a general skepticism toward imperial rule.

Keywords: travel; tourism; globalization; East-Central Europe; Czechoslovakia; empire; Africa; Asia

The “Golden Age of Travel” in East-Central Europe

In 1932, Vladimír Hýl, a young teacher and cultural critic from the Czechoslovak city of Ostrava, displayed an unwavering belief in modernization when he formulated a history of advancing means of transportation that would enhance tourism around the globe:

In modern times, the world is shrinking and [thus] enables everyone to get to know her. Distances are soon to be meaningless. While sailing ships still required up to three months to reach America, [and] the first steamship needed fourteen days, [today] the fastest steamship manages the distance in five days and the airplane in eighty hours!1

From today’s perspective, even the stated flight time seems incredibly high and thus lets us continue this narrative of increasing speed and global density up to the present. Yet, this quote highlights the rapid change of overseas travels starting with the first passenger ocean liner launched in 1838, continuing with the faster and more regular ocean liners from the 1870s onward, and passing on to the first transatlantic passenger flight from southern Germany to New Jersey in 1928—only a short couple of years before Vladimír Hýl described the shrinking of the world in such enthusiastic terms.2

The rapid development of the means of transportation, both in travel time and mode as well as in the regions covered, led to a globalization of tourism that by the late nineteenth century had reached all continents and was soon to be criticized for producing a global “mass tourism” to destinations such as Cairo or Aswan.3 Although in his statement Vladimír Hýl was overly optimistic in his assessment that just about “everyone” could go and see the world, he did catch the zeitgeist of the interwar period as a time when even long-distance travels were slowly opening for a growing middle class. Trips to see the pyramids of Egypt, the exotic bazaars of Tunis and Algiers, the famous Buddha of Kamakura or the Taj Mahal in Agra had come into reach for growing social strata not only in London and Paris, but also in Vienna, Budapest and Prague.

This article traces the formation of tourism to non-European regions from the late nineteenth century to the end of the interwar period with a focus on its East-Central European and specifically its Czech perspectives. There are good reasons for the concentration on this region. The globalization of tourism, as the inherent claim suggests, affected virtually all world regions. But it did not affect all of them in the same way. And while around 1900 it was more likely for a European to embark on a leisure trip to India than for an Indian to explore Europe, it was also more likely for a member of British society to travel overseas than it was for a citizen of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy or, during the interwar period, of one of its successor states. Local customs, economic capital and political power played a role in choosing travel destinations, in finding travel accommodations and not least in interpreting and understanding travel experiences. This article will focus on the local appropriation of global processes—or “glocalization”4—when examining Czech tourism to non-European regions in this “golden age of travel” from the late nineteenth century and throughout the interwar period.5 By doing so, it will challenge some general assumptions on the relation between tourism and imperialism.

Tourism to Africa and Asia—as will be considered here the culmination of “global tourism” for the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth century—has been generally regarded as part and parcel of the imperial endeavor. Research on the entanglement of tourism and empire has strongly argued the case that overseas tourism evolved in the wake of imperial outreach, while at the same time reinforcing imperial power.6 The building of infrastructure—railroads, shipping lines—in regions of imperial influence helped create efficient and safe tourism in locations that had been difficult to reach, while tourist infrastructure and its main protagonists —Thomas Cook & Son and others—became central financial and political players overseas, reinforcing imperial interests.7

At the same time, the entanglement of tourism and empire was also reflected in the practice of tourism. Focusing on tourists mainly from Great Britain—not only as the country with the largest overseas empire at the time, but also as the “inventor of tourism”—and from other empires, numerous studies show that these “imperial tourists” were coined by the imperial experience while at the same time they were given a vital role in (direct and indirect) empire building.8 For one, “empire tourism”—e.g. visiting destinations inside the empire—was the common way of traveling, both because imperial tourists may have had stronger ties to these places, but also because imperial tourism was strongly promoted for both economic reasons and in support of imperial identity. Touring the Empire therefore was denoted for British travelers as “buy British, see British, travel British, parade British,” and was part of enforcing imperial power and maintaining the existing world order.9 Travel destinations, choices of travel mode, and behavior on location were affected by an imperial identity and controlled by an imperial network. Looking at it from a reverse angle, travel experience was also tainted by the imperial: while imperial tourism offered a glimpse of the exotic, it was also embedded in a familiar context, as British currency and foods, customs and social routines were “available to British tourists across the Empire, especially in port cities and colonial capitals.”10

To be sure, “imperial tourism” was not the only option for British travelers, although certainly the most frequent one.11 Research has suggested, however, that imperial identity was generally not shed outside the empires, and that the choices and actions of the travelers were indeed imperially informed: independent of their travel destination or motive, it has been suggested, British travelers shared a British imperial mindset, which with “its triumphant rhetoric, [. . .] and colonialist vision [. . .] contributed to ways of seeing the world.”12 Imperial identity, then, coined travel experience and world views both inside and outside the empire.

This concept of “empire tourism” and imperial identity, as historian Gordon Pirie points out, was surely not a purely British phenomenon, but (however in lesser scope and degree) also valid in Belgium, France, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Portugal and Spain.13 In contrast, Czech tourists—as well as those from Hungary, Poland and Austria among others—could not rely on imperial networks and infrastructure overseas or seek the familiar in the exotic.14 This is not to say that Czech—and other non-imperial—travelers were neutral bystanders: they took advantage of the imperial infrastructure and thus, inadvertently, also took part in the European imperial project. They, as much as any other tourist, were part of this form of “un-invited visiting,” of “creating inequality between ‘hosts’ and ‘guests.’”15 For the local populations, therefore, there might not have been a great difference between a Czech and a British traveler, as European travelers generally and inadvertently supported the existing imperial order.16

At the same time, however, the experience of non-imperial tourists was embedded in and defined by different coordinates: no imperial identity would coin their behavior abroad and no reasoning of economic nationalism would favor the visit of certain world regions over others. This would influence both decisions on where and how to travel and the experiences made on location. As the literary scholar Wendy Bracewell has argued, in contrast to British and French imperialist travel writing, “accounts of travel from Europe’s eastern peripheries suggest different relations of knowledge, representation and power, rather less monolithic or polarized.”17 Eastern European travelers, as Bracewell further argues, did not travel in a contextual void, but neither did they adopt all perceptions of the places they visited from Western discourse, as they “may find themselves working with a pre-existing vocabulary of images and stereotypes, but they are far from voiceless.”18 Although certainly not immune to notions of European superiority, East European tourism to non-European destinations certainly did not encounter a familiar environment: The “non-imperial tourist” was dealing with a different set of issues than imperial tourists, some of which were highly practical.

By telling a story of the emergence, development and experience of Czech tourism mainly to African and Asian destinations from the late nineteenth century to the end of the interwar period, I am asking how a world that had been built around imperial interests was appropriated by tourists without any stakes in the empire at hand. While looking specifically at Czech tourists, the underlying question is if (and how) a non-imperial tourism was different from an imperial tourism. In that sense, the arguments and the underlying concept may be valid for other “non-imperial tourists” from Poland, Hungary or interwar Austria.

This article is based to a large part on Czech travelogues published from 1890 to 1938 as well as on articles that were published in contemporary journals and magazines as part of a public discourse on tourism and its importance for the Bohemian lands as part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, as well as later for Czechoslovakia. Without access to quantifiable data on Czech tourism abroad, the steady increase in the publication of travelogues as well as the heightened public debates on tourism and the growing number of commercialized package tours to popular tourist destinations give not only an estimate of trends—of tourist destinations, of travel incentives, etc.—but also an evaluation of how tourism was experienced.

The Globalization of Tourism

Travel connections between continents have always existed, in the form of trade relations, expeditions or diplomatic missions. The specific form of long-distance tourism spanning several continents, however, in its understanding as a leisure activity and relying on the predictability of financial and temporal investment as well as a certain comfort, evolved from the European core of tourism during the nineteenth century.19

The eventual globalization of tourism—its outreach beyond the European continent—was strongly connected to the imperial project.20 Tourism—in contrast to the more adventurous and individualistic (as well as more expensive) earlier forms of long-distance travel—relied on favorable political stability and heavy infrastructure: tourism expanded in the wake of what came to be called “railway imperialism.”21 The speed with which the growing railway network soon connected all continents is remarkable, and it changed international and intercontinental relations as well as the means and speed of transportation and forms of control. In terms of tourism, railways not only considerably enhanced the number of travelers, but they also redefined travel destinations, as travelers would follow the train tracks and therefore were less inclined to venture “off the beaten track.”22 In short, railways enabled tourism to non-European regions on a large scale, while at the same time streamlining tourism to certain destinations and certain forms of travel.

Tourism as an Imperial Project

Only some regions outside of Europe or North America had been established as regularly frequented tourist destinations by the middle of the nineteenth century. One of the earliest and most important certainly was Egypt. The vital train connection between the Egyptian port of Alexandria and further inland to Cairo opened for instance already in 1854, reducing the travel time between these two cities from four days to a mere four hours, thereby connecting the Egyptian metropole to a global transport network and enhancing its history as one of the most popular tourist destinations outside Europe.23 This early date also serves as a reminder that British imperialist outreach did not necessarily predate the financial involvement in infrastructure and the advent of tourism, but rode along with its expansion. Muhammad Ali Pasha, governor of Egypt, was quite a driving force himself in the modernization of Cairo and the accommodation of European tourists.24

Other regions central to European interests and eventually to European tourism obtained railroads during the second half of the nineteenth century, intensifying in the last three decades. The railroad system in Africa was concentrated at first mainly in the north, expanding rapidly from Egypt to Algeria and Tunisia. By the turn of the century, the African continent had 20,000 kilometers of railroads, connecting vast regions by regular schedule.25 A similar timeframe can be established for India, which in 1860 only had 1,350 kilometers of railway tracks, while in 1900, this number had increased 25-fold, with the central train connection between Bombay and Calcutta opening in 1870.26 In South America, similar to Australia, railroads were first introduced in the 1850s, although railway construction accelerated only in the 1880s.27 Only few world regions, such as the vast Chinese empire, remained with virtually no railroad network until the turn of the century, a fact that both hints at the limited influence of European imperial powers in China and accounts for the relatively small number of European tourists during the nineteenth century.28

While the advancement of tourism largely followed European imperial outreach, it went eventually from imperial byproduct to establishing its own driving force. Two of the most famous passenger train services exemplify this trend of an increase in catering to a luxurious form of tourism and to well-paying customers: the famous Orient Express connected Paris—and Vienna—with Constantinople beginning in 1883. The Trans-Siberian Railway, built in the years 1891–1914, finally connected Moscow and eventually all of Europe overland with Vladivostok at the Pacific Ocean.29

The railroad network was complemented by the simultaneous establishment of regular travel routes by seaway. The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 facilitated the direct connection by sea from Europe to Asia. Direct and regular ferry connections on steamships were introduced from Trieste to Port Said in 1869, Bombay in 1870, Singapore in 1880, Hong Kong in 1880, Shanghai in 1881 and Yokohama in 1892, enhancing the global transportation network considerably.

By geographical convenience, it was quite common to hail from East Central Europe. Not only did the trains to Constantinople or to Russia and then on to East Asia stop in Vienna, in Budapest or in Warsaw; but after the opening of the Suez Canal, the Austro-Hungarian port city of Trieste had become a central hub for transportation to the Southern Hemisphere. In its wake, Austrian Lloyd became the leading shipping company on this route for passenger travel.30

In the span of a couple of decades, European tourism to places such as Cairo, Algiers and Bombay had become both considerably faster and safer, more projectable in terms of time and finances, and last but not least, significantly more comfortable if not outright luxurious. By the late nineteenth century, the “golden age of travel” had been heralded for the European tourist.31

An Empire Equipped for Tourists

This apparent accessibility of the world was celebrated and promoted by the tourist industry. In 1890 a brochure by the travel agency Thomas Cook & Son dubbed Cairo “no more than a winter suburb of London.”32 Less possessive, but implying a similar direction, the Czech travel journal Do světa commented retrospectively in 1932 on the immense pace with which tourism had taken over the world and Czech society in particular:

 

While less than a quarter century ago, a trip to Venice was considered a large expedition that only those could accomplish who were not only blessed with wealth but also with great courage, today even the members of less affluent social strata are returning from Aswan in Upper Egypt or from [the Algerian] Biskra as if from a short excursion.33

This perception, of course, was not only due to the easy accessibility of foreign shores and to the calculability both of time and financial means, but to the emergence of a wide range of tourist infrastructure of European provenance and—again—in close relation to the imperial project. In colonial and tourist centers, an array of luxury hotels was built, such as the well-known Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo or the Mena-House right at the foot of the Egyptian pyramids.34 Restaurants and cafés with European fare provided for the culinary well-being of the travelers.35 The first office of the British travel agency Thomas Cook & Son in Cairo (opened in 1872) signaled another feat in the history of global tourism, offering package deals to its clients with measured exotic exposure and a heightened degree of security.36 Soon even trips around the world could be booked as a package tour.37 By the turn of the century, as the historian Robert F. Hunter argues, “there were two empires on the Nile—Britain’s military occupation, and Cook’s Egyptian travel,”38 and both profited from one another: tourism had conquered the world.

Another layer of tourist infrastructure soon followed suit: the exploration of long-distance and global tourism to Africa and Asia was soon taken up by prominent travel guides such as the German Baedeker Guides or the British “red books” by John Murray when they took non-European travel destinations into their repertory, with John Murray offering a first decisive list of “must-sees” of Egypt already in 1847, of Syria and Palestine in 1858 and of India in 1859. Karl Baedeker concentrated on non-European regions somewhat later, focusing on Syria and Palestine in 1875 and on Egypt in 1877, but omitted India altogether until as late as 1914—a hint at the different status of India in the British and the German context as well as the role imperial interests played in the choice of travel destinations.39 Another popular series of travel handbooks, the German Meyers Reisebücher, adhered in 1907 to the globalization of tourism with the publication of a “travel-around-the-world guide.”40 Czech tourists, however, had to make due with foreign-language guides for quite a long time: the first Czech-language travel guide to the Near East and North Africa was published only in 1936.41

The impact of this rapid globalization of tourism was immense—on the regions affected by it, on the travelers and on the local population, as well as on the power dynamics between them. A tourist in a fancy hotel or a European café in Algeria or Morocco during the interwar period could only marvel at the fact that less than a lifetime before, until the 1880s, certain North African regions could only be visited “disguised as a Muslim or a Jew,” as a tourist duly noted in 1928.42 In fact, some of the famous expeditions to explore and conquer the “Dark Continent” had taken place only a couple of years before the advent of the tourist: the 1880s still saw the second Africa expedition by Moravian explorer Emil Holub or the Emin Pasha Expedition by Henry Morton Stanley. Shortly thereafter, the adventurous and troublesome expeditions were exchanged for hotels and railroads, the constant uncertainty of exploration replaced by an exact itinerary and precise timetable. The era of the explorer was mostly over—now focusing mainly on the polar regions—and the tourist came to stay.

The Specificity of Czech Tourism

It is self-evident—if under-researched—that long-distance tourism to destinations in Africa or Asia even in its early phase was not limited to British, French or other “imperial tourists,” but was also enjoyed by a growing number of citizens of the Habsburg Empire and its successor states.

Czech tourists were part of global tourism from the very beginning—quite literally, as various travelers confirmed who took trips along railroad lines that had been built only shortly before.43 This experience, however, was limited in access to certain social classes. While extensive data on the quantity and social class of travelers from the Czech lands is not available, a look at the authors of travelogues suggests that until World War I, long-distance travelers from the Bohemian lands generally had an upper middle-class background. The well-known educator and writer Josef Kořenský, also acclaimed to be the first Czech to travel around the world (in 1893–1894), or the lawyer and journalist Jan Josef Svátek are representative travelers of this time both in social and professional background.44 Researchers and pilgrims were among the travelers, but—specific to the Czech case—there were neither members of the nobility nor public servants. The interwar years offered a democratization in tourism. The opening of travel destinations for ever more tourists, the lowering of the prices through competition and the increased catering not only to the higher society, but also to an ever more mobile middle and even lower middle-class enabled larger segments of society to travel abroad and even beyond the borders of Europe.

The expansion of tourism also led to an infrastructure around travel needs in the Bohemian lands and especially in interwar Czechoslovakia. Travel agencies opened in urban centers, such as the travel agency Čedok (founded in 1920), offering package tours abroad,45 while the Brno-based travel agency Do světa advertised three organized trips to Northern Africa and the Near East in 1927 alone.46 Other institutions followed suit to meet the growing demand.47 At the same time, journals and magazines sprang up that catered to the growing interest in travel to foreign countries.48 The tourist infrastructure met growing demand: the travel magazine Do světa discussed in its first edition in 1926 the “significance of [Czech] travel abroad“ and stated confidently: “Our travel activities are increasing.”49

Thus, Czech tourism developed in line with a general European trend to “get to know [the world],” as Vladimír Hýl is quoted at the beginning of this article. For a number of reasons, however, traveling turned out to be different for, say, a Czech teacher than for a British colonial officer, and these differences, I argue, were reflected both in the travel experience abroad and in the discourse surrounding long-distance tourism. The choice of travel destinations and travel mode, the language skills and financial abilities coined the travel experiences. A different mode of traveling than that of “imperial travelers” was noted by the tourists themselves and interpreted from a Czech perspective.

Travel Destinations and Financial Means

British tourists, as has been stated, were encouraged to travel the British Empire. Similarly, for French citizens, “[c]olonial tourism was represented as a duty.”50 While this was not an exclusive model of traveling, it certainly was a recurrent one.51 For Czech tourists, however, there was no “self-evident” travel destination in non-European regions. If we take the corpus of published travelogues as an indicator of popular travel destinations, we can determine, out of a sample of almost 100 Czech travelogues on non-European regions published between 1890 and 1938, the preferred destinations for global tourism.

In many ways, Czech tourists followed the travel routes set by imperial infrastructure, and not least by the recommendations of the widely consulted travel guides by Baedeker or Murray. However, they did not follow any imperial pattern. Egypt was and remained the most often and most regularly visited country throughout the entire “golden age of travel,” relying on the extended tourist infrastructure and fairly easy accessibility as much as on the fame of its ancient tourist sites. A trip to Egypt—which included a longer stay in Cairo and a ride to the pyramids, and often entailed an excursion down the Nile to the sites of Upper Egypt—was sometimes combined with a trip to either Algeria and Tunisia, or to Palestine. In the interwar period, various Asian countries such as Japan, India, China and Ceylon had become popular travel destinations at least for more affluent tourists.

Czech tourists, therefore, traveled to the same destinations as “imperial tourists,” if without the focus on one empire or another. However, they generally had distinct access to them. On average, Czech tourists had markedly less financial means than their British or German counterparts, a fact that clearly influenced their travel experience. The—admittedly fragmentary—data suggests that especially in the interwar period, Czech tourists were strongly recruited from professions such as teachers, university professors, journalists, as well as university students or artists. Not only did these professions come with a rather moderate income—although, almost equally important to long-distance traveling, with above-average vacation time—but, in international comparison, Czech spending capacity was limited. Although the national income of Czechoslovakia was higher than that of neighboring Eastern European countries or of Italy, it was somewhat below that of Austria and Germany and clearly below that of Western European countries or the USA.52 A comparison of incomes of some of the relevant professions in Prague, Berlin and New York for the second half of the 1920s show a distinct difference: while teachers in Prague earned about 1,500 Kčs, those in Berlin earned about twice as much and in New York triple that amount. This ratio applies to the income of university professors as well.53 These numbers suggest that in internationally frequented tourist centers that catered to the needs and means of the “imperial tourists,” the average spending power of Czech travelers was considerably lower than that of tourists from Western Europe or the United States.

Accordingly, a trip to Cairo, and even more so to India or Japan, was still an expensive undertaking for the average Czech tourist. The Brno-based travel agency of Jaroslav Karásek advertised a four-week roundtrip tour to Alexandria, Cairo, Aswan, Luxor and Jerusalem for 17,900 Kčs,54 while a four-week trip to Tunisia and Algeria was offered for 6,750 Kčs.55 Even the less expensive tour was four and a half times the amount of the monthly salary of a teacher in Prague. Especially during the interwar period, Czech tourists often opted for a more cost-effective solution by choosing to travel second class. This travel mode was a common topic in the travelogues. The luxurious grand hotels were generally traded for small boarding houses, the comfort of a first-class passage was rejected for the somewhat simpler second-class transit. The distinction of travelers according to social class and financial means was discussed by Czech tourists, who realized that the luxurious hotels were “adapted to the needs of the upper ten thousand,”56 and catered, as was made explicit, to the budgets of tourists from Great Britain or the United States.57 The Czechs, however, were “the only tourists traveling second class,” as the pioneer in Czechoslovak-Moroccan relations, Jan Kořínek, claimed in 1928.58 The travelogues offer a view of a European two-class society following an East-West divide, with the imperial tourists living the high life in the colonial metropolises, while Czech tourists shared the simple boarding houses with other Central and East European travelers, or as one of the travelers noted in 1935, with “Russians, Jews, [and] Poles.”59

Language Skills and Language Problems

Central to travel preparations was the gathering of information. While travelers from imperial nations could generally rely on published information in their mother tongue and thereby partake in a national discourse on those travel destinations, Czech travelers—and with them many others from “small nations”—had to make due mainly with literature in a foreign language, a situation that changed only slowly in the interwar period.

The main Czech encyclopedia of the time, Ottův slovník naučný (1888–1909), comparable in scope, depth and relevance to the Encyclopædia Britannica,60 gives ample evidence of the language distribution of the available literature at the time. The dictionary entries for “Africa,” “Asia,” and “America,” published in the first two volumes in the years 1888–89, refer to only seven literature references in Czech out of 116 mentioned altogether, adding up to six percent of the cited literature.61 The supplement edition of the encyclopedia from the interwar period consulted literature in Czech to a greater extent. The same dictionary entries now referred in 12 percent of all citations to Czech language publications. The majority of references, however, was still made to literature in German, followed by English and French.62 All in all, the increase of Czech-language literature was embedded in a general increase of specialist publications. While the article on “Asia” in the first edition of 1889 still noted that there were “only very little publications on all of A[sia],” the second edition, published roughly 40 years later, came to the conclusion that “[t]he literature on A[sia] has been increasing lately to such an extent that one can only mention the most important works that either reflect on the entire continent or on large regions.”63

The limited amount of literature on non-European regions available in Czech had practical as well as discursive implications. For one, it was not until the interwar years that a national discourse on those regions could flourish with a regular exchange between experts on these subjects. The travelogues under scrutiny here exemplify this change in their mentioning of preparatory literature. In the late nineteenth century and throughout the first two decades of the twentieth century, literary references were mostly made to publications in German or English. Josef Kořenský, for example, referred mainly to travelogues and academic treatises in English and German in preparation for his trip around the world in 1893/94, referring only to the Czech writings of the Indologist Otakar Feistmantel.64 In 1901, the explorer Enrique Stanko Vráz again mentioned for his preparations of a trip to Siam works by European, American and even Siamese authors, but not a single book in Czech was part of his preparatory reading.65

It was only in the interwar period that the corpus of literature in Czech on non-European regions—both academic studies and travel descriptions—had reached a critical mass that could serve as a starting point for discussion and cross-references, and the amount of coverage varied strongly from region to region. The sculptor František Foit, who in 1932 traveled by car from Cairo to Cape Town together with the botanist Jiří Baum, stated that he had read “everything” that was related to Africa, and listed books by the Moravian explorer Emil Holub along with publications by the US-American film maker Martin Johnson and the French writer André Gide about his travels to the Congo and Chad.66

Only in 1934 could the physician Jaroslav Přikryl in his travelogue about Ceylon and South India refer—in addition to novels by Jules Verne, Rudyard Kipling and others—to literature mainly by his fellow countrymen and regional specialists Jiří Daneš (geographer), Karel Domin (botanist), Otakar Nejedlý and Jaroslav Hněvkovský (painters who lived in India for several years and wrote extensively about the country and their experiences there), Otakar Pertold (Indologist), and the explorer and widely published traveler Enrique Stanko Vráz.67

The limited amount of literature in Czech also had very practical implications, as the knowledge of foreign languages determined the accessibility of knowledge about those regions. The Czech school system, however, was focused entirely on Central European needs and traditions: in the Bohemian lands, language education concentrated mainly on German as well as on French in higher education. This focus continued throughout the interwar period. Proficiency in English, on the other hand, was limited to a small minority. In fact, English was not a mandatory school subject throughout the interwar period. The consequences of this educational decision in a global perspective were implied by Bohumil Pospíšil, a frequent traveler to Asia, when he warned in 1935 about the lack of interest in the English language at home and an ignorance toward its growing importance in a globalized world: “English was, is and will be the Alpha and Omega of all success east of Suez and west of Gibraltar. No declaration in French by our academics—[only] half savants in all practical matters—will be able to replace that.”68

Czech Choices in the Face of an Imperial World

In describing and debating their role as tourists in international contexts, Czech travelers reflected on their cultural and national identity and argued for an understanding quite different from that of an “imperial traveler.” It was in this discourse—led both in travelogues and in contributions to journals and magazines—that the Czech identity was drafted in contrast to the imperial (rather than the non-European) “Other,” both in social and in political terms.

A first vector in the discussion of national identity related to considerations on social status. Paired with a moral claim, the prototypical Czech tourist tended to stress his middle-class identity in open contrast to wealth and lavishness, but also to the political power of the imperial traveler. This was strongly linked to the more modest mode of traveling chosen by most middle-class tourists. The decision to stay in unassuming boarding houses rather than in grand hotels, to travel second class rather than first, as discussed above, may have been a financial necessity, but in the travelogues, it was presented as a moral choice. This is most evident in those passages in which Czech tourists write specifically about their choice of the small, yet comfortable boarding house over the luxurious hotels,69 or when a tourist opted for the cheaper mode of transportation, as did the engineer Josef Zdeněk Raušar on his way from Djelfa in Algeria to an oasis lying to the south in 1930. Choosing between two buses with different equipment, he stated that for Czech tourists, “the smaller one, the normal [bus] will do.”70 Other travelers stressed that they chose consciously and “with pride” second- or even third-class tickets for both train and boat passages.71 The specificity and singularity of this way of traveling was emphasized when as early as 1892 another traveler described how he tried to obtain a second-class ticket for the boat passage from Asyut in Middle Egypt up the Nile River—in vain, as it turned out: the captain persuaded him to go first class instead, as “for a European,” anything but traveling first class was inappropriate.72 Other travelers—if only a few—forewent European amenities altogether, as the writer Bohumil Pospíšil, who during his trip to China in 1935 stayed at local hostels, and explicitly called out this breach of expected behavior for European travelers when he stated that he “reduced the reputation of the white race” by living “like a native.”73 The refusal to accept certain norms as laid down for the imperial traveler, and therefore ignoring the maintenance of power as expected of metropolitan tourists, was frequently emphasized by various Czech tourists.74

This general insistence on traveling second class allowed a second interpretation that usually connected this form of traveling with a widespread topos in Czech national self-perception during the interwar period, namely its democratic identity, strongly linked with the topos of a “small nation.”75 In the travelogues, the Czech “democratic principle” (demokratičnost)76 was argued as a world view that held all people as equal. More than once did this idea come up in a debate over a ride in a rickshaw; arguing that a “democratic” Czech should not be pulled by another human being, as Karel Cvrk noted in 1923 on his trip through Ceylon: “A Czech, who is used to equality-liberty-fraternity, is usurped by a strange feeling when here in Colombo he is supposed to be pulled by a man.”77 In the same year, but this time in Japan, the journalist František Václav Krejčí commented similarly about a rickshaw runner that “it is contrary to our Czech democratic principle to see a man doing the work of a horse for us.”78 In these quotes, an understanding of democracy and equality that encompassed all men across the globe was highlighted as an inherent feature of Czech nationality.

Finally, colonial life—the social etiquette of the European upper classes in imperial centers—was distinctly criticized. Czech tourists noted not only the strict dress codes for Europeans that seemed inadequate for the local climate, but also the restrictive social rules that prohibited even superficial contact between men and women in public, or the tediousness of colonial life.79 The sculptor František Foit noted in 1930 with some annoyance on his trip from Cairo to Cape town via the British-dominated city of Omdurman in Sudan that “nothing is allowed, everything is guarded and there is a fake morale everywhere.”80

This general skepticism toward local practices of European behavior in China, in Egypt, or in Algeria—though not necessarily shared by all travelers—was quite a common feature in Czech travelogues and is traceable beginning in the late nineteenth century until the end of the interwar period. This did not, however, imply a fundamental criticism toward imperial outreach or colonialism as such. Rather, the legitimacy of European involvement abroad was only rarely discussed and even less criticized; the political status quo was rarely questioned. This might be somewhat surprising as, since the late nineteenth century, the Czech national movement had been strongly based on an anti-Habsburg sentiment that declared the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy to be a “prison of nations” and therefore phrased itself often as oppressed. Only to a limited extent would this interpretation influence the perspective of European imperial involvement abroad.

Generally, most tourists acknowledged the benefits of modernization for the purpose of travel in vast regions of Africa and Asia, and connected these to the influence of the European imperial powers: railroads, tourist infrastructure and technology were clearly marked as a European influence on otherwise “medieval”81 or backward regions of “silence, sadness and hunger.”82

In the end, it was an in-between position that was taken by most travelers, who neither went “native” nor identified wholly with the imperial powers. As the zoologist Jiří Baum confessed in 1933:

 

The Czech nation can probably only sympathize with the natives, who were deprived of independence and the right to self-determination by the colonial governments, but on the other hand it is hard to dismiss that it is more comfortable to travel in all those world regions where the higher positions are held by Europeans.83

Conclusion

The “golden age of travel” saw the expansion of European tourism to most continents. The spread of the railroad network and tourist infrastructure in many ways streamlined travel as it created transportation hubs and tourist centers in certain parts of the world while others were—for the time being—left aside. Imperial endeavor was the motor of this homogenizing development, and in many cases it coined destinations, transport and lodging as well as food, rule and etiquette. Tourist infrastructure in colonial or imperial settings largely catered to “imperial travelers,” offering the familiar in the exotic while avoiding the “uncomfortable immersion in non-European cultures.”84

Non-imperial travelers, however, could not access all the infrastructure and especially the identity politics connected to “imperial tourism.” As generalized as some of the arguments had to be—not all British travelers were supporting imperial interests, not all Czech tourists were opposed to a higher level of comfort—the argument could be made that a different relationship to imperial power influenced the practices and experience of traveling in an imperial context, and therefore offered a different appropriation of these global processes. Economic means, language skills and access to knowledge influenced the choice of travel destinations as well as the travel mode: Czech tourists often shunned the luxury hotels and the elegant social events and rather opted for the less costly pension or boarding house and chose a second-class ticket instead of first class for their voyage. However, these choices were not based purely on economic considerations. Rather, the travelogues suggest a cultural argument, as they were debating the suitability of behavior abroad in the light of national identity. The self-understanding as a democratic and largely middle-class nation seemed for instance to demand the choice of simple, second-class travel. This also entailed a certain skepticism toward imperial rule, although its benefits for tourism were readily acknowledged, as modernization in the form of railroad tracks and imperialism were viewed as intrinsically linked. This discrepancy was not resolved during the travels. Instead, Czech tourists generally opted to stay outside colonial society and rather associated with fellow compatriots or Central European emigrants who frequented the same hostels or restaurants.

In hindsight, the interwar period turned out to be the most suitable for getting to know the world, as Vladimír Hýl suggested in the quote appearing at the beginning of this article. By the time the “golden age of travel” came to an end just before World War II, the coordinates of travel had shifted, changing from leisure to flight. Some of the most popular tourist destinations on the African, Asian and American continents now became safe havens for those lucky enough to escape Central Europe. The postwar era saw new milestones in the history of public transportation, but it did not, however, see an upsurge in intercontinental tourism. By the time Mr. Hýl had turned 50 years of age in 1948, flying had become a frequent mode of traveling across the Atlantic, with its duration reduced to a mere 15 hours. At the same time, however, he might have had a hard time getting a travel permit: in the face of increasing political tensions, travel across the descending “Iron Curtain” became highly curtailed and strongly controlled. Freedom of movement was regained only in 1989, though is now again restricted mainly by economic means.

 

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Vráz, Enrique Stanko. Cesty světem. Svazek druhý: V Siamu, zemi bilého slona: Cestopisné črty [Trips around the world. Volume two: In Siam, land of the white elephant: Travel sketches]. Prague: Bursík a Kohout, 1901.

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Cores and Peripheries Reconsidered:
Economic Development, Trade and Cultural Images
in the Eighteenth-Century Habsburg Monarchy

Klemens Kaps
University of Linz
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This article explores the relationship between economic development and the trans-regional division of labor in the eighteenth-century Habsburg Monarchy. Using world-systemic models and postcolonial approaches, I offer a critical revision of traditional narratives on the economic history of the Habsburg dominions as a point of departure for a reconsideration of regional disparities in the Habsburg dominions. I examine the relationship between the geopolitical power position of the Monarchy and the socioeconomic transformations towards proto-industries and commercial agriculture in the course of the eighteenth century, with a focus on trade as a major factor which affected the way in which domestic market formation and economic interregional entanglement influenced the emergence of a split between cores and peripheries in the Habsburg dominions. In the last part of the article, I examine the discourses and cultural images which shaped the political-institutional framework regulating these exchange relations. I observe that orientalist metaphors about the Eastern peripheries were a symptom of the way in which some policy instruments were designed in favor of the core areas over the peripheral regions.

Keywords: economic history, Habsburg Monarchy, trade, cameralism, cultural images

Introduction: Theoretical Considerations

The term internal periphery is usually associated with concepts such as uneven regional development, spatial disparities, social inequalities, and development policies. In contrast with neoclassical approaches to regional disparities, the internal peripheries approach assumes a causal link between economic conditions in developed core areas and underdeveloped peripheral regions. The emergence of a trans-regional division of labor according to which peripheries provide the raw materials which are turned into consumable finished commodities in the core areas leads to increasing levels of income, wealth, and productivity, rendering peripheries dependent on the cores. Starting from this basic assumption of world-system analysis and by adopting its key notions and concepts (such as ceaseless capital accumulation, unequal division of labor, and the commodification of social spheres), the internal peripheries’ approach has been characterized by a greater flexibility to include political, social, and cultural factors.1

Classical world-system analysis conceives the political predominantly in relation to the structural rhythms of the whole system, and it seems that the economic sphere in particular dominates political decisions. The internal peripheries approach, for its part, as it was developed by the followers of Hans-Heinrich Nolte,2 takes into account the political sphere as an autonomous though not completely independent variable. While the systemic character of economic development within the center-periphery framework is maintained, the state is an actor which can pursue modernization policies and learn from the core regions. Thus, transfers of ideas, knowledge, and technology from core areas to peripheral zones can, to a certain extent, balance out the unequal flows of capital, commodities, and labor that generally characterize this relationship. Competence accumulation (one of the four elements of Nolte’s world-system, alongside hierarchy, expansion, and competition) is a key variable for the change in the developmental conditions of interconnected political spheres.3

Alongside the political, the cultural sphere is also defined in an innovative way by the internal peripheries approach. A particularly interesting phenomenon is that of stereotypes and images of the other, understood as a condensed form of identity perception between different regions, states, and world regions. While one can read and interpret these cultural artefacts from a spatial perspective and decode the different hierarchies between cores and peripheries inherent in them, there is also potential for a social reading of such constellations. Referring to postcolonial categories of dominants and subalterns, Dipesh Chakrabarty stresses the relevance that these images have for the researcher interested in social differences between various societies.4

Edward Said’s orientalist paradigm is a prime example of how the spatial and the social approach can go hand in hand in an attempt to decode a “Western style of domination restructuring and having authority over the Orient” from the late eighteenth century to the early twenty-first.5 Said clearly underlined that stereotypes and pejorative images of the other acted not only as representations of core-periphery dichotomies, but could shape this chasm between different world regions and states. It is important to point out that orientalist or differently coined pejorative descriptions and ascriptions can also be found within empires and states or between different regions, as Larry Wolff’s classic work Inventing Eastern Europe has amply demonstrated, where the categories of East and West are used to put forth a discourse about the alleged backwardness of Eastern Europe.6 Based on these considerations, this article explores the connections between economic regional disparities and the trans-regional division of labor, with a focus mainly on trade relations and their political regulations, which were influenced by cultural images and stereotypes in eighteenth-century Habsburg Central Europe.

The Position of the Habsburg Monarchy in the World-System in the Eighteenth Century: A Critical Revision

The economy of the Habsburg Monarchy in the early eighteenth century was defined by Immanuel Wallerstein as a rising semi-periphery, albeit his definition rested on geopolitical rather than economic factors. At the end of the War of the Spanish Succession, the Vienna-based Habsburg Emperor Charles VI acquired all the Spanish European dominions except for the Iberian Peninsula, including the Austrian Netherlands, Naples, Sardinia (which in 1720 was replaced by Sicily), and the Duchy of Milan in Northern Italy (which was attached to the Duchy of Mantua, acquired in 1707, and together formed Austrian Lombardy). This notable territorial expansion in northwestern and southern Europe, i.e. in both the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, was endorsed by the Treaty of Rastatt in 1714 and was understood as compensation for the withdrawal of the Habsburg claims to the Spanish throne. The geopolitical gains made by the Habsburg Monarchy are even more remarkable if set against the context of their successful wars against the Ottoman Empire, waged in coalition with other European states between 1682 and 1699 and again between 1716 and 1718. The peace treaties of Karlowitz/Sremski Karlovci (1699) and Passarowitz/Požarevac (1718) brought yet more territories to the Habsburgs, with the incorporation of central Hungary, Transylvania, the Banat of Temesvar/Timişoara, Little Wallachia, and Northern Serbia as far as Belgrade.7

While Wallerstein’s narrative avoids considering the economic development of the Habsburg regions, he interprets its geopolitical expansion as precarious and short-lived. Lost wars with Spain and France and then with the Ottoman Empire and Prussia between 1733 and 1763 brought about major territorial losses and hampered the rise of the Habsburg Monarchy to the status of a great world power. Using classical arguments, Wallerstein sees the loss to Prussia of most of Silesia, the wealthiest province in the Habsburg Monarchy (first in 1742 and then confirmed by peace treaties in 1748 and 1763), as the reason why the Habsburg Monarchy lost the struggle for hegemony between the two semi-peripheral states and remained a second-rate regional power until its disintegration at the end of World War I.8

One could raise several questions concerning this narrative. While it is an undeniable fact that, in terms of territorial growth, the Habsburg Monarchy had peaked in 1718, the shrinking size of the Habsburg dominions was neither linear nor irreversible, as the acquisitions of Galicia (1772), Bukovina (1775), and Venice (including Dalmatia, 1797/1815) eloquently show. Even the loss of Silesia was not the end of Habsburg power aspirations in Central Europe. Silesia had a diversified proto-industrial economy, especially engaged in the production of iron and linen, and it was perfectly connected with world markets as remote as the British and Spanish Atlantic dominions, where slaves were dressed in Silesian linen cloths.9 The political impact of the cession of Silesia to Prussia was immediate, as the substantial (and growing) Silesian tax revenues were now redirected to Berlin.10 But apart from this kind of fiscal shift, the economic consequences of the loss of Silesia were quite limited. Trade relations, including the transit trade that created access to world markets through Hamburg, and the interregional division of labor continued largely unabated throughout the second half of the eighteenth century. 11

Furthermore, the loss of Silesia posed no obstacle to the economic development or administrative and economic reform of the Habsburg dominions. On the contrary, this event triggered political and economic reforms in the Habsburg Monarchy, which was gradually turned into an integrated internal market, for which the custom reform of 1775 was an important step. This reform abolished all internal custom tariffs between Austrian and Bohemia, with the exception only of those areas heavily involved in international transit trade, such as Tyrol and the Austrian Littoral around Trieste.12 In conclusion, Wallerstein’s interpretation of the Habsburg Monarchy as a declining or, at best, stagnating semi-periphery after 1748 has to be challenged on various grounds, both geopolitical and economic. The analysis must take a closer look at economic development in the Habsburg dominions, paying particular attention to how the status of the Habsburg Monarchy as a rising semi-periphery coexisted with persisting and reinforced regional differences within its dominions.

The Emergence of an Internal Economic Core: The Expansion of Proto-industry in the West

The status of the Habsburg Monarchy as a rising semi-periphery can be even more clearly detected in economic than in geopolitical terms. Over the course of the eighteenth century, the quantitative growth and qualitative expansion13 of proto-industrial enterprises turned Bohemia and substantial regions of Austria into producers of semi-finished and manufactured commodities. This created the foundation for the mechanized industrialization of these regions in the nineteenth century, the first wave of which set in after 1825.14 Proto-industry, often labeled “industrialization before industrialization,”15 is defined as the production of manufactured goods for trans-regional markets in a production process that is characterized by a comparatively high degree of division of labor. Conversely, these industries did not use steam-powered machinery, and they relied heavily on the part-time, in particular seasonal labor of the rural population.16

The two models which largely shaped proto-industrial economies were manufactories and domestic industries, organized either as putting-out systems (Verlag) or as small commodity production (Kaufsystem), juxtaposing a central production site including clear organizational hierarchies and differentiated salaries with decentralized workshops, chiefly located in peasant households. Both forms could operate separately but often were combined for the organization of the production process of one commodity. Raw materials provided by middlemen to peasant-workers were turned into semi-finished products in household-based workshops before they were further transformed into consumable commodities in manufactories. This pattern meant that a substantial part of the production process shifted from urban centers to rural areas due to the abundant rural workforce, lower wages, and the lack of guild regulations.17 However, it has been argued that a general uniform pattern of proto-industrialization cannot be detected, and that differences existed in the roles of markets and corporate institutions such as guilds and manors (Grundherrschaft).18

To be sure, the establishment of proto-industries in the Habsburg dominions did not begin in the eighteenth century, but far earlier. Clear examples of this include the production of linen textiles in Vorarlberg, Bohemia, and Upper Austria, iron production in Bohemia, Carinthia, Upper Styria, and Southern Upper Austria (including the production of pig iron in the region between Vordernberg and Innerberg in Northern Styria and the production of scythes, knives, and sickles in Upper Austria), glass manufacturing in Bohemia, and the weaving of woolen cloth in Bohemia and Silesia.19 The second half of the seventeenth century bore witness to the foundation of new enterprises, such as the silk spinning mill at Count Sinzendorf’s Walpersdorf manor (1666), the highly successful and long-lived wool manufactory in Linz (1672), the tobacco manufacture in Enns (1676), and the mirror manufactory in Neuhaus (1701). Some of these factories, however, did not survive long.20

In the eighteenth century, proto-industry expanded dynamically and structurally, leading to the growth of production but also to a diversification of industrial activities in the Habsburg dominions. As early as the 1720s, an economic boom led to the foundation of a range of new textile manufactories in Lower Austria. The Second Oriental Company, using its monopolistic privileges, established cotton manufactories in Gross-Siegharts in 1720 and in Schwechat, near Vienna, in 1724.21 In Bohemia, the foundation of new enterprises had started even earlier, for instance with the establishment of a wool manufactory at the manor of Ossek in 1697, the foundation of a cloth manufactory in Plánice in 1710, and the starting of a linen weaving firm by the English merchant Robert Allason in Rumburk in 1713. The Rumburk plant was also equipped with bleaching facilities, and by 1724 it had produced 157,124 pieces of linen measuring 84–110 ells each.22 In 1715, Johann Joseph Count Waldstein founded a wool mill on his estate of Dux-Oberleutensdorf/Duchcov-Horní Litvínov.23 The establishment of new textile enterprises resulted in a rise in the the overall production. Output of woolen cloth manufactured in Bohemia grew from 6,715 to 39,000 pieces (valued at 700,000 florins) between 1717 and 1731, more than a five-fold increase.24 At the same time, this period of growth also involved the qualitative upgrade of the Bohemian economy. Regional raw materials were being turned into consumable commodities in-house, as prescribed by the prevailing mercantilist doctrines, which tried to avoid the outflow of money towards foreign producers.25

Textile production, which would become the leading industrial sector in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, grew in terms of gross production and variety. Linen and woolen cloth manufacturing, which had a long tradition in the Habsburg dominions, were joined by new activities such as cotton processing in the first half of the eighteenth century and, later, by silk production. Other traditional industries grew as well. In 1730, the Habsburg Alpine provinces produced as much iron as Great Britain.26 The proto-industrial growth of Bohemia, Upper and Lower Austria, and Styria relied chiefly on the mobilization of aristocratic capital, while capital imports by foreign merchants and investments by the state, including the imperial family, played an additional role.27

While wars such as the War of the Polish Succession (1733–36), the Austro-Ottoman War (1736–39), and the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48) not only led to geopolitical setbacks for the Monarchy, but also affected its economic development in a negative way, these were only brief interruptions in an overall tendency towards growth initiated in the 1720s and early 1730s. This is clearly underlined by the foundation of new firms after these wars came to an end. For example, the wool mill in Kladubry in Bohemia was set up in 1749 with the financial support of Emperor Francis Stephen and Queen Maria Theresia. In 1755, a linen manufactory was set up in Potštejn in Bohemia, again with the support of the imperial-royal couple.28 In the 1750s and 1760s, new manufactories for woolen cloth, linen, and silk were founded in Carinthia. While the woolen factory in Linz had to be financially supported by the state in 1754, the growth in textile production was further boosted when the state started cancelling the concession of industrial privileges between 1761 and 1764.29

Early statistics on industrial activity can be used to estimate the industrial development of the Habsburg dominions in the late eighteenth century. Cotton production, which was liberalized in 1763, grew with the foundation of a number of factories in Lower Austria. While the production value of cotton had amounted to 1.2 million florins for the entire Monarchy in 1766, by 1781 this value had soared to 3.5 million florins in Lower Austria alone.30 While the cotton manufactory in Schwechat had processed 30 tons of cotton in 1730 and 50 tons in the 1750s, in 1781 the cotton manufactories in Lower Austria processed an aggregate total of 420 tons of cotton. Employment rose five-fold between the middle of the century, when the Schwechat manufactory employed 20,000 spinners and weavers in a putting-out system, and 1781, when the workforce employed in cotton production amounted to 100,000 workers in all of Lower Austria. While cotton import restrictions imposed in 1784 hindered the growth of the sector, expansion surged again after 1797, and production remained high until the deep recession in the Habsburg economy after the end of the Napoleonic Wars and the lifting of the continental blockade.31

Growth can be detected in other industrial sectors. Wool production in Bohemian rose dramatically in the second half of the eighteenth century, as the increasing employment figures demonstrate. Between 1731 and 1775, the number of workers employed in Bohemia’s wool industry doubled, while between 1775 and 1788 this labor force increased by a further 80 percent. After that date, employment numbers shrank slightly due to technological improvements that reduced the number of workers needed per loom. In Bohemia and Moravia, the workforce employed by the wool sector more than doubled between 1775 and 1788 (increasing from 80,000 to 152,000, spinners excluded), while the overall demographic growth amounted to barely 20 percent. This expansion of the workforce went hand in hand with the rising number of manufactories that organized putting-out systems. In the Brno district, for instance, in 1775 there was one cloth factory, while in 1789 the number had risen to four, all which were located in the Moravian capital city of Brno itself. The growth in output was significant. In 1797, the overall production of woolen goods in Bohemia amounted to 5.5 million florins, which represented 20 percent of manufacture production value in the province. These figures represent a nearly eight-fold increase in current terms compared to 1731 figures and roughly four-fold in real terms.32 The production of woolen goods, mainly cloth, also grew in other provinces, such as Carinthia and Upper Austria, where only one manufactory (in Linz) was allowed to operate. In terms of workforce, this factory peaked in 1790 with 2,289 factory employees and 47,947 putting-out workers.33

Linen production also underwent considerable growth in the second half of the eighteenth century in traditional regions such as Bohemia, the Mühlviertel (in the north of Upper Austria), the Waldviertel (in the north of Lower Austria), and Vorarlberg, all of which benefitted from the disappearance of Silesian competition after 1742. Only with the growing production in cotton textiles and shrinking production costs per fabricated unit caused by mechanization in the early nineteenth century did the expansion of linen production come under pressure.34 Overall textile production in Bohemia grew by an annual average of 3.7 percent in the late eighteenth century.35 Glass production expanded as well, and as many as 52 glassworks existed in Bohemia in 1752.36 Iron production also grew in the second half of the eighteenth century. Towards the end of the century, production was expanding at an average growth rate of 2 percent per year, and growth accelerated further between 1796 and 1803, when the rate hiked to 4.5 percent, not far from that of Great Britain (6.9 percent annual growth between 1796 and 1806).37 Despite this, the Habsburg iron industry lost its leading position on European markets. While in 1767 Styria turned out as much pig iron as the whole of England, by 1780 all the Habsburg Alpine provinces, where 80 percent of all iron production under the Habsburgs was located, were only producing as much as one-third of the British iron output. First and foremost, however, this reflects the dramatic growth of the British economy due to rapid industrialization since the 1760s.38

In sum, over the course of the eighteenth century, most of the western provinces of the Habsburg Monarchy bore witness to steady and dynamic growth in the proto-industrial sector, which crystallized in both the increasing output of existing industries and the emergence of new industrial sectors. Although the leading export products, namely glass, linen, and iron, had lost ground on the Western European markets by the end of the Napoleonic Wars,39 the Habsburg economy was able to increase the share of manufactured goods among its exports between 1800 and 1807 (from 44 percent to 61 percent), which indicates the international competitiveness of Habsburg proto-industry.40

The examples of enterprises and scattered quantitative evidence thus demonstrates that proto-industry gained a stronghold in the western regions of the Habsburg Monarchy over the course of the eighteenth century. However, this does not mean that there were no hierarchies or disparities between the Austrian and Bohemian lands. By 1790, of 280 manufactories in the western Hereditary Lands, half were located in Lower Austria alone and a further 30 percent were found in Bohemia. This clearly indicates that growth and economic transformation also led to spatial stratification within the core areas of the Monarchy.41 To be sure, the hierarchies between western core areas were smoother than those separating cores and peripheries, as we shall see below. Also, agricultural activities were far from absent in the regions undergoing proto-industrialization: The workforce employed in agriculture amounted to 78 percent in Bohemia in 1756 and 75 percent in the Austrian provinces in 1790.42

Apart from the availability of capital, the factors that determined the success of the process of proto-industrialization and the emergence of core areas was the presence of ecological resources, such as wood and water, and a plentiful rural workforce. While skilled workers were often recruited abroad from the Austrian Netherlands, France, and England, strategies to lower wages included employing women and children and a bound work force of beggars, orphans, and prisoners, who were sent by the government to work in sweathouses beginning in the late seventeenth century.43 Economic policies were also of crucial importance. The legal division between local crafts (Polizeigewerbe) and the production of manufactured goods for the trans-regional trade (Kommerzialgewerbe), defined in 1754, created ways around guild restrictions and thus facilitated the establishment of manufactories in urban areas.44 After the international economic crisis of the early 1770s, the abolition of internal custom duties in 1775 lowered transaction costs in the western provinces, triggering a new boom the effects of which were finally consolidated with the protectionist trade policy implemented in 1784 and 1788. This led to a sweeping expansion of proto-industrial production during the 1780s and 1790s.45 Finally, the limitation of serfdom in 1781/82 enhanced the mobility of the rural workforce, which had a particularly deep impact in Bohemia, where demesne lordship (Gutswirtschaft) was especially significant.46

The Emergence of a Core-periphery Dynamic between the West and the East in the Habsburg Monarchy: Trans-regional Division of Labor Embodied by Trade Relations

In contrast with the western core regions, the eastern territories of the Monarchy did not participate to an equal degree in the process of dynamic proto-industrialization over the course of the eighteenth century. This is clearly visible in the dominant position of agricultural activities in these territories. On average, in Hungary, Transylvania, the Banat, Galicia, and Bukovina, around 90 percent of the population worked in agriculture as late as 1790.47 In the aforementioned statistics no manufactories feature in Hungary or Galicia in 1790. However, administrative sources reveal the existence of some factories in both territorial complexes. 34 such factories, dedicated to the production of textiles, glass, and porcelain, existed in Galicia in 1773 and 11 in 1808.48 In addition to this, an extensive linen-processing sector, based mostly on the putting-out system, existed in the barren Carpathian Mountains in the south of Galicia. Although the goods produced were rather crude in quality, in the region around Andrychów in the western district, this rural population also produced linen commodities for foreign markets in Western Europe and the American colonies overseas, while a small fraction of their output also was sold on markets in Bohemia and Austria in the 1780s.49 The data suggest that the number of manufactories in these regions contracted between the 1770s and the early nineteenth century, which is confirmed by other sources documenting the increasing competitive pressure posed by Bohemian and Austrian proto-industrial goods on the Galician market. The tendency, therefore, is the exact opposite of the one that unfolded in the core regions of the Monarchy.50

Similarly, Hungary was not limited exclusively to agricultural activities, as the mining plants (especially copper), iron, and linen production in Upper Hungary underline. And proto-industrial activities stretched far beyond what today is Slovakia, so that in three phases (between the 1710s and the 1730s, during the 1760s, and again between 1784 and 1789), manufactories were founded in a vast range of branches (including textile production, chemical and paper fabrication, and ironworks) in the Hungarian territories. However, the number of these companies was smaller, the quality of their products lower, and their production means less advanced than in the Bohemian and Austrian core areas.51 Thus, by 1770, in Hungary (not including Transylvania) there were 19 manufactories compared with 58 in the Bohemian and Austrian provinces.52 Most of these plants, which had been chiefly founded between 1765 and 1770, were gone by 1784 because of the arrival of Bohemian and Austrian proto-industrial goods. At a later stage, new textile manufactories were founded in Hungary, but the quality of their products never reached the standards of those being produced in the western core areas.53 In any case, proto-industrial production in Hungary covered a rather tiny fraction of the regional demand, as the rising export figures of the western regions to Hungary and Transylvania demonstrate. Thus, in 1784 86.9 percent of Austro-Bohemian exports to the Hungarian territories consisted of manufactures, while this value amounted to 89.1 percent in the case of Galicia. Among the most relevant commodities sold in Hungary and Transylvania, woolen products ranked first (2.2 million florins), followed in importance by linen (1.3 million), silk (1.2 million), and processed mining products (618,702 florins). Conversely, imports to Austria and Bohemia essentially consisted of foodstuffs and raw materials (61.6 percent in the case of Hungary and 92.3 percent in the case of Galicia).54 This clearly underlines the status of Hungary and Galicia as internal peripheries within Habsburg Central Europe, as they provided consumer markets for finished commodities and raw materials and foodstuffs necessary to the core areas, which these areas needed for the creation of these products, both in terms of direct means of production and as nourishment for workers.

This position of Hungary and Galicia as export markets for the Bohemian and Austrian proto-industries was not a new phenomenon emerging in the 1770s and 1780s. According to commercial statistics for 1735, Bohemia exported woolen cloth for a value of 1 million florins, which constituted one sixth of the total exports, to a range of countries and regions, which included Poland, Hungary, and Transylvania.55 With the increasing woolen production and the diversification of proto-industrial activities in the Austrian and Bohemian provinces, these export figures rose significantly. According to the Hungarian trade statistic, 56.6 percent of overall imports in 1748 were composed of semi-finished and finished commodities, a value that grew slightly to 61.5 percent by 1782.56 These structural changes were intrinsically linked to a massive quantitative expansion of commodity exchange. While the exports of the western Hereditary Lands grew modestly between 1733–39/41 and 1743/52 from 2.1 million florins by annual average to 2.5 million florins, afterwards they increased rapidly to 6.6 million florins between 1767 and 1780.57

This growth tendency continued in the following decades, so that exports of the western regions to the Hungarian territories reached an annual average of 9.8 million florins between 1783 and 1785 according to the statistics of the Austro-Bohemian customs union (and a much lower 7.2 million florins according to the Hungarian statistics in 1783/84).58 By the end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1814, this value had more than doubled. While the increase over this rather long period was clearly more modest than it had been in the previous decades, downward effects of the wars have to be taken into account. A dynamic growth of the western regions’ exports to the Hungarian territories, nevertheless, set in precisely in the immediate post-Napoleonic years, reaching 25.1 million florins in 1815 and 34.7 million florins in 1816, but this value could not be exceeded in the following years, as 31.3 million florins was the top export value in 1822.59

Apart from Hungary, the exports from the western regions also expanded to the Galician market, the annexation of which in the first partition of Poland-Lithuania in 1772 led to a politically-induced competitive edge for the Habsburg proto-industry on a formerly external market. This institutionally supported advantage translated into an overwhelmingly rapid expansion of exports, as the fivefold increase of the western regions’ exports to Galicia in only four years (between 1779 and 1783) from 343,043 to 1,706,197.21 florins demonstrates.60

In any case, foreign export markets were still more relevant to the western Habsburg proto-industry, claims and narratives on Habsburg protectionism notwithstanding. While in 1783, 17.2 million florins of foreign exports clearly exceeded the 11 million florins of commodities sold on domestic markets, in 1818, 31.3 million florins of foreign exports took the lead over 28.1 million florins of domestic exports, and in 1822 the corresponding figures were 42.2 million against 31.4 million florins, pointing to a growing ratio in favor of foreign export markets after the end of the Napoleonic Wars. Domestic markets were only more important temporarily in 1816 and 1817 (with margins of 5.5. and 4.8 million florins respectively).61 However, domestic markets are statistically underestimated, as all market transaction within the western regions forming part of the customs union were not registered anymore due to the prevailing custom regimes.

Nevertheless, these figures underline a steady growth in foreign exports at the turn of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This growth was strong in the 1780s, when the exports of commodities produced in the Hereditary lands to international markets rose from 17.2 million to 19.1 million florins between 1783 and 1787 (thus by a rate of 2.6 percent as an annual average). This expansion was exceeded between 1816 and 1822 (with a 6.3 percent annual average growth rate), despite the postwar depression and the often-noted effects of increasing competition from British manufacture imports on the European continent.62 Only during the war and the continental blockade did foreign exports grow far less dynamical (by 1.5 percent as an annual average between 1787 and 1814), although there were strong oscillations during the long war, with some years already exceeding the value of 1814.63

Apart from distortions these data may hide because of the irregular adaption of prices,64 the export figures suggest that the western regions of the Habsburg Monarchy enlarged the exports of their commodities at quite a substantial rate, which only for the late eighteenth century and early nineteenth century meant an overall increase of exports both on domestic and international markets by a factor of 2.6 (from 28.3 million florins in 1783 to 73.6 million florins in 1822).65 This enlargement of sales was thus an important factor explaining the industrial transformation of the western regions of the Habsburg Monarchy, even if not all of them participated equally in this developmental process.

Still, while this expansion of Bohemian and Austrian proto-industrial exports to the eastern peripheries was an undeniably important element of these regions’ growth and their economic transformation, this does not necessarily mean that the imbalance of trade structures led automatically to a quantitative imbalance in trade. Quite the opposite took place, at least concerning the Hungarian territories. While the surplus for the Hungarian lands in trade with the custom unions between the Bohemian and Austrian lands had amounted to 1.6 million florins in 1743 and 1752, it rose dynamically to 2.9 million florins between 1767 and 178066 before reaching spectacular values of 7.2 and 6.7 million florins in 1783 and 1784 respectively.67 Only after the turn of the century did this tendency reverse, so that after the Hungarian trade balance surplus with the western provinces (which by then included Galicia) hit a record value of 13.6 million florins in 1814, the deficit for the western regions shrank rapidly (to 5.8 million florins in 1815) before turning into substantial surplus values between 1816 and 1818 (13.1 million florins in sum). But already in 1822, the trade balance tilted again in favor of the Hungarian part.68 The trade balance between the Hereditary Lands and Galicia, in turn, showed a clear albeit not spectacular advantage for the western regions (here including Tyrol and the Littoral) of 169,806 florins in 1779, which rose dynamically to 797,729.63 florins four years later.69

Thus, the direct and imminently measurable advantage that the western core areas of the Habsburg Monarchy reaped from the structurally unequal trade with the Eastern peripheries differed according to time and space and was quite relative regarding the Hungarian territories in the eighteenth century. However, although the Hungarian territories seemed to earn a lot more money from their commodity exchange with the western provinces, this may simply have been a form of necessary compensation for Hungary’s heavily negative balance of payment.70 In addition, negative trade accounts meant neither that Hungarian consumer markets were not beneficial for the western proto-industry nor that this relationship did not hamper Hungary’s chances for proto-industrial development in the period.

Microeconomic data reveals the significance of domestic consumer markets for the expanding proto-industrial enterprises in the Bohemian and Austrian lands. In 1773, the manager of the estate of Buchlau/Buchlov in Moravia, Prosper Count Berchtold, directed a petition to the Court Chamber in Vienna requiring an import ban or at least a high import duty for Prussian glass to newly acquired Galicia. Berchtold sought to recover an export market for the glass manufactory on his estate which he had lost in part to a newly established glass mill in Prussian Silesia.71 A similar petition sent the Bohemian nobleman Prince Auersperg through the Galician governor to Maria Theresia in February 1774. Auersperg was lobbying to lower the Galician import duty for the fustian produced on his estate of Tuppadl/Tupadly in Bohemia. Auersperg argued that this measure was compensation for the high transport costs he had to incur when exporting his textile products to the Galician markets, on which, he quickly added, the success of his entire fustian manufactory depended.72

These examples testify to the significance of the eastern peripheries’ consumer markets for the business success of the Bohemian and Austrian proto-industry precisely in its phase of expansion in the second half of the eighteenth century. And these cases also indicate clearly the role of political measures supporting this division of labor. Here again, the 1770s did not represent a new turning point. The Viennese Court had used one of his few central policy instruments, that is custom policy, to support the emergence of regionally differing and specialized economies. In 1754, the Hungarian import tariff for finished commodities from Bohemia and Austria was reduced from 30 percent to 3 percent, while duties had to be paid on Hungarian products, both industrial and agrarian, of up to 30 percent when these products were exported to the west.73 This tariff remained in force even after internal custom duties were abolished between the Bohemian and Austrian provinces in 1775, largely due to the persistent refusal of the Hungarian nobility to accept the modes of property taxation implemented in 1749 in the Bohemian and Austrian provinces.74 But still within this fiscal logic, the Court institutions pursued a very clear economic policy favoring western proto-industry to the detriment of the Hungarian periphery.

In addition to providing consumer markets, the peripheries also offered important raw materials for proto-industry, such as wool, hemp, flax, gall oak, and potash, as well as foodstuffs, mainly grain and meat. In order to guarantee provisions for the western producers and work force with these commodities, the Court institutions imposed sound high tariffs and even bans on the export of these goods abroad. This led to the increased sale of these commodities on the Habsburg domestic markets in the west, and it may also have lowered prices and led to a loss of income and profits from export abroad. This was even more severe, as the domestic market in the western provinces could not absorb the whole export production of the Hungarian territories, for example in the case of grain.75 Although not quantifiable, this loss severely damaged the development of the economy of the Hungarian territories, even in a purely peripheral framework.

While this commercial pattern between the Austro-Bohemian lands and Hungary and Galicia could be interpreted as reflecting regional specialization, in fact, it was an expression of the imbalances and spatial inequalities produced by this specific form of interregional division of labor. The impact of the unequal trade relations can be illustrated by the regional differences in income level. In 1785, a rough estimate shows that average per capita income in Austria (28 florins) and Bohemia (24 florins) was well above that in Galicia (11 florins), while the difference with Hungary (20 florins) was less strong.76 This reflects widening interregional disparities after 1750.77

It is important to underline that the dichotomy between cores and peripheries does not solely depend on the importance of agricultural and proto-industrial activities, as this would be a problematic oversimplification of production processes and relations. In fact, as Maxine Berg has pointed out, no successful proto-industrialization process could take place in the absence of a highly productive and commercialized agricultural sector.78 It is thus rather the inefficient agricultural sector of the eastern Habsburg internal peripheries (which relied on extensively managed large estates, harsh conditions of serfdom, and a traditional three-field cultivation system) that hampered its progress. In contrast, the agricultural modernization of the western regions was well underway by the end of the eighteenth century.79

Cameralism and the Creation of the Other: Images, Stereotypes, and the Civilization Discourse

The perception of these internal disparities and dependencies followed various currents of economic doctrines of the Enlightenment, among which cameralism was the most important.80 Originating in the second half of the seventeenth century in the states of the Holy Roman Empire and often described as the Central European version of mercantilism, cameralism was initially mainly concerned with fiscal arguments concerning how to increase the prince’s revenue. However, cameralist thinkers gradually developed a sophisticated theoretical system on economic development between the late seventeenth century and late eighteenth century. In their thinking, the more intense effort of the work- force occupied as central a role as trade, both domestic and international. While cameralists advocated a protectionist trade policy to spur the proto-industrial development of the domestic economy, they were strong supporters of internal market integration through the abolition of monopolies and internal custom duties and the construction of roads and canals. This stance was linked to a particular concern with space in the writings of later cameralists such as Johann Heinrich Gottlob von Justi or Josef von Sonnenfels, who claimed that market integration should lead to diminishing regional disparities as production factors could move freely over the state territory. Nevertheless, this should not be confounded with a free market space, as cameralists defined economic relations always within state territories and, subsequently, ascribed a major role to the state in shaping processes of economic development.81

In the Habsburg Monarchy cameralist thinking was present from the late seventeenth century, embodied mainly in the idea of “universal commerce” (Universalkommerz), understood as domestic market integration, represented by thinkers such as Wilhelm Schröder, Johann Joachim Becher, and his brother-in-law Philipp Wilhelm von Hörnigk, who at the same time was also the secretary of another influential cameralist, Cristobal Rojas y Spínola.82 In the course of the eighteenth century, Justi and Sonnenfels delivered a remodeled influence on the economic policies of the court and its institutions.83

Based on these arguments, I will examine here the degree to which cameralist thinkers shaped the institutional prerequisites of the internal division of labor differentiating between cores and peripheries. In particular, I consider whether this regionalization and spacialization of economic processes were linked to cultural images and stereotypes in the sense of Said’s and Chakabarty’s orientalist and postcolonial theories.

In order to trace back these images and discourses, I examine descriptive statistics, so characteristic of political discourse (Polizeiwissenschaft) in German-speaking states, and official documents. Austria over all, if she only will, a key cameralist treatise written by the above-mentioned Philipp Wilhelm von Hörnigk in 1684, presented a picture of the relative economic subordination of the Habsburg Monarchy to the core areas of Western Europe, such as the Netherlands and France. Although in von Hörnigk’s famous work no internal disequilibrium is detected in the Habsburg economy, it nonetheless contains the first hints at the regional imbalances. Thus, von Hörnigk points to the production of woolen and linen textiles in Silesia and Upper and Inner Austria, praising the “diligence” of Silesian weavers, while Hungary is labeled a “true bread, lard, and meat pit.”84

These early differences between a proto-industrial West and an agrarian East became progressively more acute and were more directly linked with economic factors over the course of the eighteenth century. In 1770/71, the Council of War ordered a series of reports in order to assess the military capacity of the Monarchy’s population. The political comments in the reports concerning Bohemia and Austria pointed out differences in the degree of development and occasionally linked these differences to the ethnic identities of Slavs (Czechs, Slovenes) and Germans. While work ethos, social discipline concerning housekeeping and alcohol consumption, and health conditions were scrutinized, in the western regions of the Habsburg Monarchy these differences were not mapped according to orientalist models.85 In other words, these differences in the degree of development did not lead to the construction of stereotypes, which suggests that the imbalances between internal cores and peripheries within the western half of the Monarchy were not as severe as between the West and the East.

The disparities between western cores and eastern peripheries were, in turn, visible in the discourse. Between the 1780s and early 1820s, several statistical works were published that constructed a pejorative image of eastern territories such as Hungary, Transylvania, the Banat, Croatia, and Galicia. In particular, the native populations (Magyars, Slovaks, Romanians, Serbs, Croats, Poles, Ruthenians, and Jews) were accused of laziness, drunkenness, leading a dirty lifestyle, bad housekeeping, irresponsible use of money, and, as follows, indebtedness.86 In contrast, German settlers were praised for their well-built houses and their diligence. These descriptions were brimming with openly pejorative adjectives. Serbian peasants settling in the military frontier in Croatia were compared to “wild animals” by the statistician Andreas Demián in 1804.87 Serbs, Croats, and Vlachs (Romanians) were labeled “natural men” (by Demian and Martin Schwartner), who needed “civilizing” before they could partake of economic progress.88 Also, Galicia was targeted by the civilizing discourse after its annexation in 1772. In the 1780s and up to the end of the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars, Poles, Jews and Ruthenians were repeatedly labeled backward, “dirty,” and “lazy.” Their low cultural status required that they be civilized before they could become part of enlightened mankind and participate in the Monarchy’s wealth-generating projects. The invention of a new province, as pointed out by Larry Wolff,89 went hand in hand with the portrayal of a backward space which “had not yet become as advanced as its neighbours”90 and which, it follows, had to be “lifted up” and “civilized” by the Habsburg authorities.91 At the peak of this discourse, Galicia was compared to “El Dorado,” Peru, India, and Siberia, i.e. it was symbolically identified with non-European colonies.92

Cultural Images and the Interregional Division of Labor

As these examples clearly illustrate, the core-periphery-dichotomy in Habsburg Central Europe was translated into a definition of the peripheral “other” in pejorative cultural terms. This “other” was dirty, did not work assiduously, was prone to drinking too much, spent too much, and in general had only a low cultural status. This orientalizing discourse explained regional development differences according to a culturalist agenda: it is the culture inherent to peripheral societies which makes them poorer than core regions. Consequently, the dominant narrative claimed that these obstacles had to be removed before any successful catch-up with core regions could occur.

However, a critical analysis of these discourses and their relation to expressions of economic interests and self-representation of the core areas exposes them as a mercantilist agenda expressed in orientalist terms. One prime example is trade. A government report dated March 1, 1762 stated, “The true commercial relationship between Hungary and the German Hereditary lands seems to respond to the principle ceteribus paribus; Hungarians, as favored subjects, should not become too rich in terms of money, but should remain prosperous in terms of natural products, so that these can be the food of Austria, which, desirably, should increase its population, industry, and manufactories.”93 Only a few years later, the Commercial Council claimed that proto-industrial production in Hungary was to be limited to the absolute bare minimum in order to maintain the “natural trade so profitable for the state.” Hungary should be confined to the proto-industrial activities that posed no competition to the western core areas, but should, above all, deliver the materials necessary for proto-industrial production in Austria and Bohemia.94

This is a restatement of the mercantilist principle according to which money should not cross the borders of the state, so it can add to the wealth of the prince and his subjects. Interestingly, however, in this, case the principle is applied to territories that were part of the Habsburg state, although they had been left out of the administrative and fiscal reforms implemented after the end of the War of the Austrian Succession in 1748. While this was one of the reasons why Hungary had been excluded from the abolition of custom tariffs between Austria and Bohemia in 1775, custom policy had farther-reaching goals, such as maintaining the structural differences between a proto-industrial west and an agrarian east, which contradicted cameralist concepts, which in theory envisaged equilibrated regional development.95 A practical institutional consequence of this discourse was the already mentioned unequal custom duties that were levied on western against Hungarian products after 1754.

This stance of leading court institutions was eventually also shared by the monarch. Queen Maria Theresia, who in 1765 had stressed the “usefulness” of the foundation of manufactories in Hungary and had even issued a decree that liberated state subsidies and permitted privileges to be granted to newly founded manufactories in Hungary,96 changed her position dramatically in 1767, after failing to persuade the Hungarian nobility to accept property taxation in exchange for easing custom duties. In 1771, she stated that as long as the Hungarian nobility did not accept taxation, no support or official recognition was to be granted to manufactories in Hungary that potentially would threaten the sales of Bohemian and Austrian proto-industrial plants. Here, the unequal custom duties were reaffirmed.97

Although during Joseph II’s reign between 1780 and 1790, the Viennese Court declared its willingness to support the development of proto-industry in Hungary, the measures imposed earlier where not derogated. The abolition of the Hungarian import custom duties on western industrial products between 1786 and 1793 strengthened the position of the core areas’ proto-industrial enterprises on the Hungarian markets even further. The court, however, now supported the immigration of skilled workers to Hungary, granted subsidies to selected manufactories, and eliminated the internal customs barrier between Hungary and Transylvania in 1784. This policy, however, was abandoned after Joseph’s death. At the same time, the protectionist foreign custom regime introduced in 1784 and reinforced four years later also strengthened the position of Bohemian and Austrian proto-industrial enterprise in Hungary against foreign competitors. Despite the (in any case limited) measures for fostering proto-industrial activity in Hungary, as late as the early nineteenth century, Hungary was still an agriculturally-dominated economy, which confirms its status as an internal periphery.98

Galicia, which was incorporated into the Bohemian and Austrian customs regime in 1785, was given a similar role in the internal division of labor.99 Even before the First Partition of Poland-Lithuania, the local Commercial Council in Austrian Silesia defined the neighboring territory as “a second America” and hoped to “attract Cracow, L’viv and Kamieniec-Podolski’s trade to Austria.”100 Colonial imaginary, therefore, provided a readymade pretext for an argument in support of the application of mercantilist policies in a territory over which political control should be established. After imperial troops had occupied the new province in summer 1772, the merchant guild of Inner Austria addressed the Court Chamber to express its interest in “being among the first to draw benefits from this new successful acquisition” and expand trade with the northeastern province, as the provincial governor reported to the Court Chamber in Vienna.101 In fact, single entrepreneurs and proto-industrial activities were granted custom privileges in the first years after the annexation of Galicia, while the import of foreign competitors was forbidden, as mentioned above.102

However, while the Court Chamber was eager to promote the export of Bohemian and Austrian manufactures to Galicia, it handled Galicia’s custom policy carefully. Already in 1774, export tariffs were lowered to only 5/12 percent, and in 1776 import duties for Galician commodities to the western regions were cut from 20 to 4 percent.103 After attempts to persuade Prussia to sign a trade agreement that would have guaranteed Galicia’s exports on the Vistula River to Gdańsk failed, the new province was incorporated into the Austro-Bohemian customs union in 1785.104 While no institutional barriers prevented Galicia from integrating economically with the western regions from that moment, Galicia’s trade structure was further peripheralized.105

This was clearly in line with the perception of the bureaucracy, which by and large considered Galicia “destined to agriculture by nature,” as the provincial councilor Ernest Traugott Kortum stated in 1786.106 In addition, custom policy was only one instrument with which to regulate regional economic development and supra-regional competition. As in the case of Hungary, in Galicia crafts and industrial policy was another one. Thus, while granting loans, subsidies, and privileges to single proto-industrial businessmen in Galicia between the 1770s and the early 1790s, the bureaucracy up to the monarchs carefully ensured that these new plants not create additional competition for the Austrian and Bohemian firms on the Galician market so that support was only granted after assuring that these initiatives put forward were complementary to, and did not pose a competitive risk to, existing manufactories in the Bohemian and Austrian core regions.107 In some cases, the impact of pejorative cultural images on the arguments backing the rejection of funding applications is visible, for example when Emperor Joseph II turned down a funding petition for support for a silk manufactory with this claim that “Galicia is not a country where silk manufactories can be a successful business.”108 In the 1790s, the state withdrew its support entirely owing to financial shortages.109

In sum, while both custom and industrial policies were not at all designed to harm the eastern peripheries, they persistently were characterized by a prevalence of the interests of the Austrian and Bohemian core regions and their proto-industry, both in terms of maintaining consumer markets in the periphery as well as by obtaining resources, in particular raw materials, for their production. The state policy was thereby influenced by a pejorative perception of the peripheries’ economy and society, which started as a description of poverty and underdevelopment but all too easily ended up in a justification of the imbalances and an explanation and at the same time dismissal of them as the result of cultural or ethnic factors. From this, it was only one step to the instrumentalization and operationalization of this discourse in order to reinforce the institutional arrangement that supported the core regions’ economic dominance over the eastern peripheries.

Conclusions

Habsburg Central Europe was characterized by profound dichotomies between core and peripheral areas after the middle of the eighteenth century. While proto-industrial regions in the west managed to expand their economic profile in terms of both quantitative growth and qualitative development, extensive agrarian production in eastern peripheries did not undergo a comparable transformation. While the East-West-dichotomy is an oversimplification obscuring the presence of peripheral spaces in the west, such as raw material extraction and low-productive agriculture, and core areas in the east, such as craft production sites, it is, to some extent, justified by the fact that peripheral spaces in the west could expect to fare a good deal better than core areas in the east as far as future development was concerned. The East–West split is attested to not only by the productive profiles of each region, but also by their mutual exchange relations. Western regions largely exported manufactured products to the Hungarian and Galician territories in the east, while mainly importing foodstuffs and raw materials. Even if this exchange relation did not bring the western core regions imminently measurable gains in terms of commercial balance surplus, the core regions benefitted by these enlarged consumer markets and the relatively cheap acquisition of raw materials and foodstuffs. This relationship was heavily supported by the court institutions and their customs, trade, and industrial policies. Cultural perception is the other face of this coin and does nothing but confirm the analysis. First, the perception of spatial differences intensified over the course of the eighteenth century, as economic factors were translated into a culturalist narrative defining the eastern peripheries’ status. These stereotypes covered a wide range of clichés: a low work ethos, high alcohol consumption, a tendency to spend more than means would warrant, widespread social poverty, all condensed into narratives surrounding the idea of the “natural man” and the “wild animal.” Subsequently, a civilizing mission was advocated, a mission the alleged goal of which was to create the conditions necessary for these regions and their populations to participate effectively in economic progress. This discourse clearly demonstrates an orientalist logic, as spatial disparities are blamed on the attitude of the peripheral population, rather than on structural economic factors, including power relations. The official and statistical discourse of the government, for its part, assumed and displayed these power relations in policies concerning trade and proto-industry, where the interests of core areas prevailed over those of peripheries. The pejorative cultural images of the eastern peripheries not only expressed the hegemony of the core areas, but effectively contributed to maintaining the peripheral status of some regions within the Habsburg economy in the late eighteenth century.

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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 9 Issue 3 (2020): 385-389 DOI: 10.38145/2020.3.385

Andrea Pető, Alexandra M. Szabó, and András Szécsényi

There was a significant debate in the Hungarian journal of social sciences and culture Kommentár in 2008 initiated by Gábor Gyáni as to whether Hungarian Holocaust research had or had not been successfully integrated into international discourse after 1989.1 One element missing from the debate was that after 1989, main concepts and the language of the discipline derived from the Western side of the (fallen) Iron Curtain. The histories of the Holocaust survivors had been only descriptive in nature, while the experiences of Jewish communities, the members of which had lived under communism was of predominant focus. There was no theoretical inquiry in Holocaust scholarship as long as the objective fact-finding was taking place, expanding on questions as to when, where, and what had happened to which actors. Historical inquiry, however, needs to extend further to explain the uncovered events and experiences.

For instance, a significant element missing from the scholarship in its entirety is gender analysis, and this observation brings to the fore the lack of discussion on methodology and the consequent absence of acknowledging developments. Hungarian scholarship of Holocaust historical inquiry with a central aim evolving around gender analytical perspectives is still nonexistent, yet there are some contributions about women and the Holocaust in the English language, for instance by Andrea Pető.2 This special edition of the Hungarian Historical Review lines up studies which draw on new modes of analyses and frameworks with the aim of achieving knowledge production on a whole new level about the Holocaust in Hungary.

The lack of innovative theoretical frameworks and other new approaches in understandings of the history of the Shoah in the Hungarian context explains the current poor state of institutionalized Hungarian Holocaust research. The consequences are not only prevalent in academia, but also in the public sphere (which influences science policy) and in shifts in public memory of the Holocaust in Hungary.

However, the current struggles for memory are far from a memory policy based on democratic consensus and development. Since illiberal states do not have an ideology but only a memory policy, the weak domestic institutionalization of Hungarian Holocaust research with low international recognition has contributed to the successful reinterpretation of the Holocaust remembrance paradigm by illiberal actors. Scholarly attempts against this were and are still being made, such as the relevant scholarly volume published on the occasion of what is referred to as the 70th anniversary of the Holocaust in Hungary, which was published in Hungarian and English by CEU Press3 (a year of anniversary that is misleading as it suggests that the Holocaust in Hungary began with the German occupation in 1944 instead of with the labor service system and with the earlier deportations of Hungarian Jews, such as the deportation of Jews to Kamianets-Podilskyi in 1941, where an estimated 23,000 Jewish deportees were massacred in two days). At the same time, historical research workshops operating in Hungary mostly outside the system that ensures scientific standards and outside the international scientific frameworks are growing, and they are pursuing ad hoc research in parallel with the existing research infrastructure in support of the present government’s politics of memory.

Demonstrating the lack of new research directions in Hungary that are prevalent in international Holocaust scholarship, Andrea Pető called for the organization of a conference entitled The Hungarian Holocaust: Victimhood and Memory, together with Gábor Gyáni, Edit Jeges, and András Szécsényi and in cooperation with Central European University and the Humanities Research Center of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest on December 18, 2017. A selected number of presentations were considered for publication in Századok, the most prestigious Hungarian historical journal, for its special section dealing with the Hungarian Holocaust. The selection of conference speakers and publications mirrored the work of mostly young researchers who, despite the dwindling research infrastructure, had carried out methodologically innovative work based on archival research. The introduction to this section in Századok was censored for discussing “illiberal memory politics,” although the authors took a clear stand against this suppressive act.4 The presentation of this special issue, which took place on September 25, 2019, was met with unprecedented interest at Central European University, indicating that the Holocaust continues to be a subject of major scholarly and public interest.

Despite the controversial nature of memory politics and the lack of proper infrastructure, a new generation of researchers worked on this special issue to present new approaches and findings, thus taking an important step towards international exchange by elevating Hungarian Holocaust research onto the international stage and bringing innovative research methods from the international pool into Hungarian scholarship.

The articles in the present volume contribute to historical understandings which primarily work from the perspectives of the victims of the Holocaust. Based on the division of historical inquiry by Raul Hilberg, the Hungarian historiography of the Holocaust focuses on one of categories suggested by Hilberg: perpetrators, victims, or bystanders. This mainstream allocation, however, has been widely criticized in recent decades by many researchers worldwide, and they have offered new approaches which shift the focus to the behaviors, interactions, and dynamics among societies and communities involved in the Shoah, together with closer study of the psychological and sociological perceptions of these groups. This paradigm shift has emerged only recently in Hungarian scholarship, another significant reason as to why Hungarian historiography has only rarely constituted a serious part of the international discourse.

In recent decades, there have mostly been descriptive, fact-finding monographs published that are based on archival sources and avoid the use of private or narrative sources.5 A group of Hungarian Holocaust researchers who mainly belong to the new generation would like to break from this approach and widen the perspective of inquiry. The papers in this issue seek answers to questions concerning how Jews, who were deprived of their basic rights, forced to serve in labor service, and then, in 1944, compelled to live in ghettos and yellow star houses or deported to concentration camps, lived and survived under these extreme conditions. The histories presented here also consider how the survivors remembered their pasts in the immediate postwar setting with a specific focus on the modes in which these experiences were later recounted.

The approaches and viewpoints presented by our authors are of a wider scale. Some papers belong to the field of microhistory, while others closely examine and reflect on specific oral historical sources and narratives. The interpretations largely rest on contemporary and postwar narrative sources (memoirs, diaries, and other notes), in addition to the archival documents, which touch primarily on questions pertinent to individual life stories.

István Pál Ádám examines the case of the butchers of Budapest and considers how the governmental and municipal administration of the late Horthy-era impacted the leftists and the Jewish butchers from the issuance of the 1939 anti-Jewish law. Ádám examines the ways in which the butchers of the capital were forced to change their strategy in the postwar democratic society of Hungary. Tamás Csapody examines diaries, some of them incomplete, written by six inmates of the camps in and around Bor. They were Hungarian citizens of Jewish and other free church denominations who had been deported from Hungary in 1943 and 1944 and taken to the lager-system of Bor (Serbia), later to be brought back to Hungary in the second half of 1944 and then (some of them) taken to German concentration camps. He provides insightful content analysis and examines diaries written by six inmates, one of which is being presented for the first time in this volume. Heléna Huhák analyzes the spatial experiences of some of the inmates who were deported from Hungary to Bergen-Belsen in 1944–1945. She draws on diaries, memoirs, and correspondence in order to explore perceptions of space formed in the memories of camp inmates. Edit Jeges examines survivor accounts by Polish and Hungarian Jewish women and reflects on the nature of her primary sources. She also considers the further potentials of digital storytelling as a source and the importance of survivor memory at a time when fewer and fewer survivors remain among us. Borbála Klacsmann summarizes the roles and the activities of the Government Commission for Abandoned Property regarding the restitution of Hungarian Jews in the first three years of the postwar period, providing specific examples from Pest County through personal accounts and correspondence. Alexandra M. Szabó examines Jewish women’s experiences of miscarriages before, during, and after the Shoah through a specific case study in order to draw attention to the significance of such corporeal events from a social historical point of view. Her study considers the implications of the silence concerning women’s experiences in Holocaust research to show that gender analysis substantially adds to further knowledge production. In his case study, which partly overlaps with Huhák’s paper, András Szécsényi also concentrates on one space, a German DP camp. Szécsényi tries to reconstruct the spatial experiences of György Bognár, a former inmate of Bergen-Belsen who was taken to the Hillersleben DP camp after liberation. The paper explores space perceptions based on Bognár’s diary and the maps he drew, which Szécsényi compares with his own in-person experiences of the sites (or what remains of them). Ferenc Laczó’s paper presents German historiography from recent decades on the Hungarian Holocaust by exploring the relevant findings and conclusions of the most important German histories. Through his findings, he seeks answers to questions concerning why there has been so little institutionalized cooperation between the German and Hungarian research communities.

We would like to dedicate our work to the memory of Randolph L. Braham (1922–2018), who, as the pioneer in Hungarian Holocaust research, was a true inspiration and supportive friend of the scholars whose works are part of the present volume.