pdfVolume 2 Issue 4 CONTENTS

Zsuzsanna Cziráki

Prince Gábor Bethlen’s Visits to Brassó as Reflected in the Town Account Books*

This study deals with one of the most remarkable periods in the history of the Principality of Transylvania, the reign of Gábor Bethlen. At the center of the study is an occurrence during Bethlen’s reign that might be described as ordinary: the reception of the Transylvanian prince in Brassó, one of the most important towns of his land and of the territorially autonomous Saxon Universitas (Saxon Land). As an organic part of the princely services encumbering the Saxon towns, hosting the prince was a basic component of the relationship between the Saxon communities and the prince. Accordingly, a more thorough understanding of these events also sheds light on the prevailing relationship between princely power and the Saxon communities. The basis for the analysis is provided by a distinctive group of sources, the account books of the chief economic official of Brassó, the Stadthann (also villicus, quaestor). The entries and comments contained in the account books help to familiarize us with the ceremonial framework for the distinguished guest’s stay in Brassó, the organizational tasks performed by the town as well as the mechanisms of town administration behind them. At the same time, they also offer a glimpse into the eating habits of contemporary Brassó and the lifestyle of the locals, thereby bringing into proximity the everyday life of a seventeenth-century East Central European urban community.

Keywords: Brassó (Kronstadt, Braşov), Gábor Bethlen, Saxon Land, Court of the Princes of the Principality of Transylvania

Sources and Aims

Examining the rich documentary materials of the state and ecclesiastical archives in Brassó (Kronstadt, Braşov), we are assured time and again of the great treasures hidden in the town’s collections (not to mention those of the other Saxon towns in Transylvania), which span almost eight centuries. Stepping beyond the bounds of local historiography, and touching upon numerous scholarly areas relating to the history of Transylvania and the entire region, we can increase our knowledge here, whether dealing with diplomatic history or even the history of everyday life. The following study focuses attention on the era of the principality and on one of its clearly delimited, and in many aspects remarkable, slices: the reign of Gábor Bethlen. Exceptionally, however, at the center of the investigation are not questions of event, military or diplomatic history but merely an event from the era of the Transylvanian princes that could be labeled ordinary: the hosting of the prince, Gábor Bethlen, by one of his country’s major towns, Brassó. As an organic part of the services owed by the Saxon towns,1 the prince’s reception was one of the fundamental components of his relationship with the Saxon communities; accordingly, a more thorough understanding of the event sheds light on the prevailing relationship between the princely regime and the Saxon communities as well. Moreover, on numerous points it complements our knowledge about the event-history of the era, its economic situation, the workings of Saxon autonomy, and even the structure of the town and the princely court.

A distinctive group of sources forms the basis of the research: the collection of the account books of Brassó,2 covering the period of Gábor Bethlen’s reign between the years 1613–1617 and 1620–1629. Even despite the interrupted sequence of events, they are extremely well-suited for familiarizing us with conditions in Brassó, the Barcaság region3 and, from a number of aspects, Transylvania. The inherent possibilities were already discovered in the nineteenth century by Saxon archivists and historians, who even set about publishing the various town account reports as part of the series Quellen zur Geschichte der Stadt Kronstadt.4 However, this project only took the analysis of this immense quantity of materials up to the end of the sixteenth century, and thus the account books of the seventeenth century remained unmapped, occasionally cropping up only as supplementary sources in one study or another. They have yet to be systematically explored, nor have the possibilities inherent in the collection yet been completely exploited. In the course of my research I have supplemented the richly detailed information of the account books with additional data from extant chronicles and archival materials.

The Transylvanian Princes in the Saxon Towns

Receiving and hosting the prince, that is, the ruler’s right to descensus, had been included among the obligations of the Saxon urban communities from the very beginning; at most only the extent of obligation changed.5 The princely visits of the early seventeenth century are interesting from a number of angles. On the one hand, in the Principality of Transylvania, too, we can observe the phenomenon, medieval in origin, of the “itinerant household,” in other words, in spite of Gyulafehérvár turning gradually into a princely capital, the household frequently visited one or another of the country’s major towns. Most of the time these occasions were prompted by some reason of national importance (a partial or full diet, diplomatic negotiations, the administration of justice), with the chosen urban community bearing the brunt of the financial burdens.6 On the other hand, it should not be overlooked either that the burden of hosting the guests and the associated expenses, which could amount to several thousand forints, fell upon the wealthier towns that were amply protected by privileges: the tax-paying towns (those paying the annual tax to the princely treasury in one lump sum) and those of the Saxon Land. In Transylvania the urban communities equipped for receiving the sovereign—particularly the Saxons, who formed the country’s third estate—possessed a wide-ranging autonomy. In many cases they construed the obligation to receive the court as a violation of their privileges and as a rude and unlawful intrusion into the life of the community—not always without reason. Thus, accommodating the ruler represented a constant topic of debate, in everyday life and in the diets. It was the Saxons in particular who led the way in disputing the ruler’s right to descensus, since the overwhelming majority of the major towns were located in the autonomous Saxon Land. 7

Hosting the prince, therefore, met with great resistance on the part of the selected party. Even according to modest estimates the expenses amounted to several hundred, and not infrequently several thousand, forints, which is by no means surprising if we take into account how many servitors belonged to the court of the prince and his wife. Based on the instructions sent by Gábor Bethlen to his seneschal (hopmester), Gáspár Csúti, the persons belonging to the prince’s court consisted of the following groups: those engaged in the preparation and serving of food and drink (master cooks, stewards, dapifers, cup-bearers, wine-pourers, attending servants and other kitchen servants without specific descriptions); the guards of the rooms used by the prince; the retainers of the prince and his wife and other courtiers, who according to the custom of the aristocratic courts were chosen from among the young members of noble families; and the princely guardsmen overseeing the task of maintaining order.8 To them we must add further the councilors and “principal men of the court”9 participating in the prince’s daily activity, who themselves were most often present with their families and personal households and who, depending on their affairs of state, stayed by the prince’s side during his journey as well. The representatives of the court’s religious life, scholarship and entertainment (preachers, doctors, scholars, students, musicians) as well as the armed members of the princely bodyguard also belonged to the entourage. We have no certain data at our disposal about the number of “courtiers,” nor do we know how many of them the prince took with him during his journeys. Allowing for all of this, however, it may be taken for certain that the size of a given company could reach sizes as large as several hundred people. This is supported by a request made by the Saxons in 1613, in which they attempted to cap the size of the prince’s party at 400 persons.10

It is generally known that in 1613 the accession of Gábor Bethlen for the first time in many years brought to the throne of Transylvania a ruler who sought to remedy the tension between the princely authority and the Saxon nation through negotiation.11 It is also evident that the Saxons had played no small role in Bethlen’s election.12 Despite this, the Saxons were unable to impose their will on the new prince, and on numerous points (including with regard to hosting the prince) they were forced to compromise. During Bethlen’s reign the customs regulating the reception of the ruler in the Saxon Land and all of Transylvania, medieval in origin but nonetheless evolving to completion over the course of the early modern era, became fixed. The question of accommodating the ruler also sheds light on Bethlen’s ambition to break the Saxon estate resistance in the interests of strengthening the central authority. But how was all this realized in practice?

The Prince and His Retinue in Brassó

When preparing for a princely visit to Brassó,13 Gábor Bethlen used the ancient southern Transylvanian road connecting Gyulafehérvár with the Barcaság, the successor of which remains to the present day one of the busiest routes of the Transylvanian railway and road network. This is no wonder, since the road arrives from the direction of the Hungarian Great Plain, passing by important economic centers and ensuring numerous points of contact to territories of both commercial and strategic importance, Wallachia, Moldavia and, via these, the Ottoman Empire and Poland. Located along the route is one of the most significant princely estates, Fogaras, which often served as Bethlen’s place of residence and, as we shall see below, was of especial importance in connection with his journeys to Brassó as well.

In addition to the route, the direction of travel may also be called typical. Gábor Bethlen’s visits to Brassó were regularly preceded by stays of varying length in Fogaras. He would enter the Barcaság region with his entourage from the Fogarasföld area, along the course of the river Olt, most often at Feketehalom.14 Following a brief stay in Brassó—leaving the Barcaság at Prázsmár15—he set out for the Szeklerland (Székelyföld). He deviated from this custom only a few times (1616, 1619, 1628 and 1629), when he approached the town from the direction of the Szeklerland and departed in the direction of Fogaras.16 The reason for the change is to be found in the handling of affairs, as a rule military ones, connected to the Szeklerland, as well as in the fact that the prince, suffering from serious complaints stemming from his advanced illness at the end of his reign, would have himself treated at the medicinal baths17 located at the border of the Szeklerland and the Barcaság prior to his stay in Brassó. Theoretically, the prince could request entry into any town of the land on an unlimited number of occasions. Because he went to war in person as well, Bethlen naturally was frequently on the road, though in peacetime, too, he often exited the walls of the princely seat of Gyulafehérvár. His visit to Brassó nevertheless did not mean more than once a year, with only the year 1627 forming an exception to this, when he with his court visited out the town twice, in April and August. The duration of his stay was not long if we take into consideration that elsewhere (Fogaras, the Szeklerland) he might spend even weeks: the number of days spent in Brassó in general lasted four to five days,18 deviating from this in 1616 (six days), 1622 (eleven) and 1628 (eight).

In every case the princely visit took place according to the same timetable. Gábor Bethlen in a letter or through his quartermaster informed the magistrates of Brassó of his intended arrival as well as the expected date of entry. We have already mentioned that he and his household as a rule stayed in Fogaras before leaving for the Barcaság. Based on the chroniclers of Brassó and the Stadthann’s account books it appears that a lively traffic between the prince and the town leadership already existed before Bethlen set foot in the Barcaság: the princely and town post flowed back and forth between Brassó and Fogaras, and the town’s magistrates also often paid their respects at the court in Fogaras in wagons loaded with gifts. A high-ranking official of Brassó awaited the prince at Feketehalom and escorted him into the town with all solemnity.19 It is perhaps not an exaggeration to interpret all this as the diplomatic maneuvering between the town and the princely regime having already begun outside the town walls: the ruler’s personal and not infrequently oppressive presence (between 1613 and 1616, for example, the people of Brassó, secretly in league with the Habsburgs, strove to overthrow Gábor Bethlen’s rule20) included the possibility of settling the town’s affairs directly before the highest forum of power, the prince. In March 1614 councilor Michael Forgatsch hastened to Fogaras to present the prince the overdue Saxon tax.21 Two other councilors also spent ten days there: Johannes Benkner, who had previously acted as Bethlen’s legate in Vienna, and the universally respected elderly Andreas Hegyes. The hasty delivery of the tax arrears was incidentally a recurring element of the princely visits: on February 13, 1616 councilors Christianus Hirscher and Stephan Filstich traveled to meet Bethlen for the same reason.22

Also aiming to win the prince’s goodwill were those gifts with which the people of Brassó paid their respects to the prince already prior to his arrival in the town. Especially eye-catching is the zeal with which the people of Brassó attempted to actively seek out their prince when the price limitations were decreed in Transylvania. Brassó in fact regularly exceeded the centrally imposed limitations on goods production and trade, and it tried to mitigate the consequences stemming from this with circumspect courting.23 The gifts typically were food items considered delicacies: choice salted and fresh fish, eastern luxury items (lemons, lemon juice, oranges, figs, pomegranates, sherbet, raisins), as well as local fruits appropriate to the season (apples, pears, plums, cherries and walnuts). Because of the varying quantity and composition of the goods presented, although it is difficult to generalize, it still can be established that total value hovered somewhere around ten forints—a trifling item in the budget for the princely party that came to several hundred or several thousand forints.24 In addition to the gifts of respect, providing room and board for several days and the per diem of the magistrates attending to town business and the personnel assigned to them (cook, doorward or manservant, and additionally one or more town messengers and carters) represented an additional expense. For not only was the prince entitled to first-rank hospitality, as the data of the account books reveal, but also the lords of Brassó assigned to him. Tenderloin, eye of round, fowl, bacon, vinegar, bread and rolls, parsley, spices, salted fish, fruit, wine and candles were included in the package provided as provisions for their onward journey, the value of which ranged from 1.11 to 4.5 forints depending on the number of travelers and days spent away—generally 3-5 days. To this was added the travelers’ per diem, recorded under trinkgeld (literally “drinking money”), which in the period under examination did not change, amounting to 25 denars a day in the case of magistrates, and 4 denars for their staff.25

Gábor Bethlen’s visit counted as a relatively rare event in the town of Brassó, albeit one demanding great efforts. In propitious cases it also offered the opportunity to further influence “His Excellency” in Brassó’s favor, and thus it is no wonder that the reception of the prince’s court was accompanied by feverish preparations in the town. The prince’s arrival, which in addition often coincided with the stay of foreign envoys in Brassó and the sendoff of Transylvanian envoys, demanded the precise organization needed for housing, feeding and moving a large-sized group, and this could be carried out only through careful preparations. It appears the coordination of the work was concentrated in the hands of the Stadthann, the town official who was also responsible for handling the town’s monetary resources. It was he who controlled and coordinated the work of those entrusted26 with partial tasks, and paid the costs of the purchased products or service against receipts.

Needless to say, the most important question was the lodging and feeding of the guests. We know that the town had its own inn, which is mentioned in the sources by the name Stadthoff. The earliest mention of it dates from the early sixteenth century, at this time still referred to one of the buildings on Saint John’s Street (Szent János utca).27 The inn must soon have proven too cramped, for according to the testimony of the town account books in 1573 the Brassó council purchased two other buildings for a similar purpose, one on Kolostor utca28 for 975 forints, and one on the Rose Market Square (Rózsapiac)29 for 100 forints. An additional costly remodeling, amounting to 568.77 forints, was carried out in order to make the buildings better suited for the purpose. Lacking other data, we may assume that it was here that the town’s official guests were housed in the period under examination.30 For Gábor Bethlen and those around him, however, these two buildings must not have offered satisfactory accommodations, in terms of either the number of rooms or their quality.31 In examining the demands we may rely on the prince’s very own words as well, since—in connection with his anticipated stay in Segesvár in early 1614—he himself articulated to his quartermaster32 the kinds of rooms he needed: a dining hall, a stately reception room, a council chamber, along with numerous rooms for himself and his wife. He requested a large wooden structure for the kitchen, while he had his household placed in separate lodgings befitting their rank and office.33

The Brassó sources make only scattered mention of the assignment of quarters. What can be concluded, however, is that the townspeople could satisfy the demands relating to the various functions of the princely household only if they divided the venues among themselves, i.e. the wealthier citizens who were capable of accommodating guests. It was the town patricians, most frequently the town judge himself, who assumed the responsibility for receiving the prince and his closest companions. The court dignitaries accompanying the prince and their retinue (chancellor, governor, members of the princely council) were accorded lodgings appropriate to their social standing likewise in the homes of the rich citizens, while the court figures of lower status were lodged with the town homeowners in groups. Because the town, ringed with massive walls and bastions, had a limited capacity to receive guests, the field outside the town walls and the outer farms of the wealthy citizens offered the possibility of accommodating larger groups—even in tents.34

To ensure the princely court was served without incident, beyond the advance assignment of lodgings numerous other everyday demands had to be taken care of well in advance. The complicated process of replenishing stocks encompassed numerous products, and for this reason only items used in major quantities will be examined here. The firewood necessary for cooking and, in cold seasons, heating, was purchased from the locals or was brought from the forests under the Brassó town management; in the latter case a separate woodcutting team was employed to cut and process them.35 The town also had to make certain that an adequate quantity of wood was available at every lodging place, since in the event of a shortage the lodgers used up the host’s own supply. If abuse of this kind happened to occur, the town reimbursed them for the damage done by the guests.36 Care of the horses arriving with the guest party also presented the townsfolk with a challenge, since a great quantity of hay, straw and oats needed to be obtained. The account books, which reveal the preparations for the princely visit in all their details, record dozens of those suppliers from whom the aforementioned articles were purchased in bulk.37 Over and above this, a considerable quantity of hay was brought into town from the town’s own hayfields and mowed by day laborers recruited from among the local commoner lads, girls, Romanians and Gypsies. Similar procedures were followed when it came to harvesting the town’s oat supply.38 If even this proved insufficient, those citizens possessing the more substantial supplies hastened to the town’s aid. This is what happened during the prince’s visit in 1627, when the town judge made up for the needed quantity out of his own inventory.39 The prince and his retinue used lighting devices in likewise substantial quantities: lanterns, torches, and the most important article, candles, which were produced locally from tallow and wax.40 Preparations for the princely company extended to the prior acquisition and processing of kitchen spices as well. As a rule, spices arrived at the town warehouse from the tollhouses, and the missing quantity was obtained from the citizens of Brassó with the more substantial stocks.41 In similar fashion to candle-dipping, town women were employed to process them, and the necessary means of storage, chests and spice sacks were also seen to.42 Treated in the same category as spices were refined sugar (received either measured or in the form of a sugar-loaf) and rock salt, which was crushed by wage-workers prior to use.43 To the extent that the storage possibilities of perishable foodstuffs made it possible,44 attempts were made to secure meat in advance as well. Prior to the prince’s arrival live poultry (hens, chickens, ducks and geese) was obtained by the hundreds, while red meat was purchased from the local butchers. Fish, either prepared fresh or preserved salted in barrels, was consumed in proportions equal to that of meat. The fish was obtained from the Barcaság (which had a substantially richer hydrography in the seventeenth century than today—Brassó itself was interwoven by streams, while extensive fish ponds were located outside the town walls) and Wallachia. The town was supplied with fish typically by Romanians, who fished in the town’s own waters either on their own initiative or directly commissioned by the town. In the latter case Brassó paid them for their time even if they did not happen to catch anything.45

Following the prince’s arrival the most important tasks connected to food supplies were overseen by a central kitchen. In Brassó the equivalent of the wooden kitchen structure mentioned in the prince’s letter quoted above was a building referred to in the sources as Kochhaus, or “cookhouse,”46 which was erected in the middle of the town on the market square47 for the duration of the prince’s stay in Brassó. The meals were prepared in this kitchen, well equipped with a hearth and devices needed for cooking and preparing foods, and distributed according to Herbergen, that is, the host lodgings. The production of bread and braided challah bread occurred independently of this in the bakehouses of Brassó. Although it is not the purpose of this article to discuss in detail the food consumption of the princely court in Brassó, by a simple enumeration I would nonetheless like to allude to the level of provisioning while at the same time allowing a glimpse into the eating habits of the age.

In accordance with seventeenth-century customs, bread, meat, possibly fish, and vegetables formed the basis of the lavish meals, and in Brassó, too, it was these that were consumed in the largest quantity. Among baked goods, white and brown bread, rolls and braided bread were consumed. Meats included great quantities of fowl, beef and veal, mutton, goat meat, and pork, as well as old and new bacon, and also wild duck, venison, deer and rabbit meat. For fish we find sturgeon, carp, pike, trout, and crayfish on the lists of victuals.48 Among dairy products, in addition to raw milk, products such as the distinctive Transylvanian cheeses and butter, and occasionally cream, represented the major articles. Consumed in significant quantities were vinegar, lard and oil (linseed oil, more rarely olive oil), honey and eggs. Vegetables and fruits appearing on the tables included fresh or pickled cabbage, peas, onions, garlic, mushrooms, apples, pears, plums, gooseberries, cherries, walnuts and hazelnuts. Besides the locally grown parsley and dill, the spices in use were pepper, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg and mace flower, ginger and saffron imported from the east. Being illustrious guests, they consumed ample amounts of the eastern luxury foods always available in Brassó: raisins, citrus fruits, figs, almonds and even rice, which based on its origin was included here. The list of delicacies was rounded out by the marzipan placed on the prince’s Sunday table.49

The varying accounting practices of each town and community leave plenty of questions open if we strive for a full depiction of events. Thus, for example, based on the rich, though often undifferentiated, system of enumeration of the Brassó account books, we cannot reconstruct to the letter precisely what the hosts served to the lords gathered for a shared meal in the town. At the same time, the entries made by Kolozsvár’s citizen administrators, who preserved the precise details of the princely meals for posterity, may serve as a point of comparison. To single out just one example, let us cast a glance at what could be called an average dinner that Gábor Bethlen spent in the company of the lords of Kolozsvár on November 26, 1613! The food was brought in for those gathered on several large platters, which contained the following: on the first platter pike in its own juices, with pepper, saffron, ginger, parsley and onions; on the second, “cow meat” with red cabbage; on the third, lemon hen with pepper, saffron and ginger; and on the fourth platter roasts of hen and of pork, sausage, with pickles and bread on the side. The meal was rounded out with fruit, cheese, walnuts and pretzels, and the delicious morsels were washed down with 28 Achtels50 of wine.51

The data contained in the account books make it possible to reconstruct the process of how the goods were obtained, particularly interesting from the point of view of urban history. Brassó, where the grandiose display of hospitality was a constant phenomenon, maintained its own inventory of the basic articles used while entertaining guests. This supply, however, was always in need of supplementation if a large and distinguished embassy or the prince himself was expected in the town. The town leadership had several means of making up for the missing quantity at its disposal. First they could directly take it out of Brassó’s customs revenues delivered in the form of goods; this applied first and foremost to commercial goods, especially spices. As far as local products were concerned, these could be obtained from the townsfolk, or possibly from the inhabitants of the surrounding villages and market towns, either through direct purchase or the so-called “receipt-slip method” widespread all across Transylvania. The essence of the latter was that the town official charged with procurement issued a numbered receipt—Zettel or slip—for the product delivered by the suppliers, who could ask for reimbursement in cash afterwards from the Stadthann. The significance of the collected receipt-slips may be discerned also in the fact that it was on the basis of these that the town notary compiled the annual accounts. The system was not perfect, since even Brassó, considered one of the country’s wealthiest towns, frequently struggled with a shortage of money, which incidentally was generally typical in seventeenth-century Transylvania. The solution was to schedule payments,52 though deducting the cost of the product from the supplier’s tax could also be considered.53 It happened also that the necessary quantity of the given product could not be secured even through purchase. In such cases the town itself initiated the importation of the item or—as in the case of candle-making—its production. It was also a frequent phenomenon for the wealthy townsfolk to advance various products to the town out of their own stocks. This was not bad as an investment either, since the town afterwards reimbursed assistance arriving at just the right moment at steep prices.

The situation was similar in the case of drinks, which formed a separate category among the foodstuffs. In Brassó wine was consumed in the greatest quantity (typically local new and vintage wines, Wallachian wines, and for the most distinguished guests’ table, Malvasia), though plenty of beer, and in smaller quantities mead54 and spirits,55 was also consumed. The details of the wine delivery for a princely visit in 1616 have been preserved in the town account books and clearly demonstrate Brassó’s procurement system outlined above in practice. According to the entries for February, in preparation for the prince’s expected visit and with the approval of the Hundred Elders (Hundred Men),56 1,793 Achtels (“eighths”)57 of the town’s own wine, in barrels authenticated by the Weinherrs58 and valued at 107.58 forints were deposited in the town’s cellar. Because this still proved too little, an additional 112 Achtels59 of wine was subsequently brought in from the town’s external cellars valued at 15 forints. However, this was still not enough, and therefore, in order to ensure the uninterrupted supply to the princely court, the Stadthann assisted the town on several occasions, having Wallachian wine from his own cellar delivered to the guests’ lodgings, a total of 157 Achtels60 valued at 94.26 forints. The judge, the notary and one additional town councilor, Lucas Greissing, took similar action. All this was supplemented by the wine deliveries of those citizens61 who used this to pay off their remaining debt62 from the previous year’s wine tax.63

Receiving the prince’s court also presented the town with the enormous task of securing the necessary labor force. For the improvements and construction carried out during the preparations, and later the dismantling of the temporary buildings, beyond the costs of the basic materials, carpenters, stone masons and day laborers had to be paid. As far as meals were concerned, we know that, although the prince had the food prepared by his own cooks64 and served by his own court stewards, serving a party of several hundred guests demanded the employment of numerous local helpers in the kitchen.65 During a princely visit the duties of the town guardsmen, doorwards and toll house attendants in the town’s regular employ also expanded. According to ancient custom, when a distinguished guest was hosted the town’s leading officials stood guard in front of his house, though they were entrusted with less exalted tasks as well: essentially they could be deployed wherever physical strength was needed, from hauling away earth to processing poultry.66 In addition to the bakers and butchers, the most impacted on account of the great quantity of goods they had to deliver, Brassó’s other artisans were also allotted numerous tasks. The residency of the princely court in Brassó directly impacted the blacksmiths, harness-makers, rope-layers, and coopers, since it went without saying that the town would serve the needs related to shoeing the horses of the prince and his retinue and repairing their wagons, coach and sledges. In fact, in 1628 the prince even had one of his valuable horses kept in Brassó for weeks, with the town providing for its feeding and care.67 The prince also had his personal effects that were damaged during the visit repaired by the locals.68 It was also necessary to fulfill occasional demands by the prince as well, the appropriate handling and packaging of which was also seen to locally.69

Based on the available sources we can form a clear picture of the composition of the princely retinue arriving in Brassó as well; the number of guests, however, remains obscure. It has already been mentioned that the visiting party in Brassó was recorded according to place of lodging, which were distinguished from one another by the name of the principal figure housed there. This also included the persons belonging to the latter’s own household, from immediate relatives to the simple maid. Accordingly, the number of those served at the various lodgings could range from the four- to six-member entourage of lower-ranking court figures, to the small households of higher dignitaries numbering several dozen people.70 Added to all this also were the courtiers referred to by the people of Brassó simply by the name Gesindel, whose number was not given in precise figures but rather characterized merely as “many” or “a great many.”

Gábor Bethlen’s stay in Brassó was often connected to a diplomatic event of countrywide importance. For this reason, beyond the prevailing size of the princely household we must reckon with a substantial contingent of guests. It happened often that Bethlen sent his prominent guests to Brassó in advance, who were then forced to wait idly for a few days before the prince himself reached the town. This was how Mehmet Aga and his thirty-nine-member entourage arrived in the town on April 1, 1614—two days before the prince—in the company of Benedek Suky, István Szalánczy, and György Székely, who had been assigned to them; they left Brassó only days after the prince’s departure (April 7). The situation was similar in August 1622, when a few days before Gábor Bethlen’s entry on the fourth, the town began putting up the Turkish embassy coming from the prince: Mustafa Aga, Mehmet Chiaus and Yusuf Chiaus, escorted by the scribe János; a few servants of the pasha of Buda; and the members of the embassy to the Porte formed around Pál Keresztesi. Moreover, only rarely did the entertaining come to an end with Gábor Bethlen’s departure. There are ample instances when, for one reason or another (most often because of illness or a personal matter), the departing prince left one or more of his courtiers behind in Brassó.

The account books also reveal that those arriving in Bethlen’s retinue “wandered daily in and out”71 of the town. Under such circumstances it is understandable that, learning of the prince’s prospective arrival, the Brassó town leadership’s primary ambition was to keep the size and expenses of the guest party down. Fierce debates between the prince and the townspeople over the number of guests were typical particularly of the first years of Gábor Bethlen’s rule. As has already been mentioned, the Saxons believed Bethlen’s reign as prince hung in the balance between 1613 and 1616 and considered his time in power a brief transitional period; the memory of the town-occupier, Gábor Báthory, however, lived all the more vividly in every Saxon subject.72 During the first princely visit in April 1614 Brassó allowed two hundred people into the town,73 and on the next occasion, in 1616, three hundred.74 These numbers are even stricter than the demands contained in the Saxon ultimatum of December 1613,75 issued regarding the return of Szeben—four hundred people at most. If we add to all this the fact that in 1614 even the gun salute due the arriving prince was not even fired,76 we can clearly picture the outward manifestations of the frosty atmosphere between the prince and the people of Brassó. From the point of view of the prince’s reception, too, the year 1616 counted as exceptional, when the people of Brassó once again tried to restrict the size of Gábor Bethlen’s retinue. According to the reports of the contemporary chroniclers of Brassó, the prince took offense to this and in fact postponed his stay in Brassó, thereby causing no small amount of turmoil in the town.77

Since the town’s obligations as host included the presentation of gifts to the visiting officials befitting their rank, the Stadthann prepared a precise balance sheet of the gifts and the recipients in connection with the costs of the visit. The gift lists in fact record a concise image of the Transylvanian state dignitaries and the princely court, since in addition to the prince and his wife they feature numerous important and less important court personages, from the governor to the court attendant.78 The importance of a given office or rank gained expression in the value of the gifts presented as well. Whereas the princely couple received silver Nuremberg chalices, and wash basins and kettles valued at 100–200 forints, the highest-ranking (the chancellor and prince’s brother, István Bethlen, regardless of his current position, and Dávid Zólyomi, commensurate to the office he occupied in the given period) received one or two Persian rugs valued at 25–60 forints, and those on the lower rungs of the ladder (court captains, retainers) were presented gifts of Brassó broadcloth, furs or boots. Among the servitors of minor importance in the princely retinue (in the source lumpen gesindel, that is, “good-for-nothing rabble”) cash was distributed, amounting to a total value of between 40–50 forints.79 Thus, during each princely visit, depending on the number of those present, the costs of gifts alone represented an amount on the order of 1,000 forints.80 Despite this, there were also instances where the prince found the valuables he received to be wanting. This is what happened during the memorable visit of 1616, when, apart from the dispute over the size of the prince’s company, the paltry number of gifts also contributed to a further deterioration of the mood, which was in any case not uncloudy.81

At Gábor Bethlen’s court the master representatives of the arts and sciences enjoyed particular attention. Along with the other narrative sources of the era, the Saxon chroniclers also report on this. Particularly interesting are the notes of Georg Kraus, the notary of Segesvár, concerning those musicians employed at the princely court who married into the Saxon elite and settled in Beszterce, Nagyszeben, and Brassó.82 Apart from them we know of numerous other court musicians from the fields of instrumental music and singing; in addition to the German territories, they arrived in Transylvania from Poland, Bohemia, France and Italy.83

Just how the abovementioned artists and scholars fit into the court hierarchy constitutes a question which research on court history had yet to resolve. The Brassó sources may help to decide the question, since we may conclude from them that the persons in question made up a completely separate group among the courtiers. The account books make particular mention of the prince’s doctors, students and various musicians, and quite precisely about the exceptional treatment the locals afforded them by order of the prince. It is a revealing piece of data that the gift lists do not mention them, and nor do we witness that they were housed with a separate small household, like the leading dignitaries of the princely court. The account books nevertheless allow us to conclude that the prince took particular care of them, since by his orders they were treated in way that clearly distinguished from the other figures of the court. The considerate treatment accorded to them by the grace of the prince distinguishes them sharply from the mass of court servants—Gesindel. It is indisputable, however, that artists and scholars, even despite their honored position at court, stood apart from the men of the Transylvanian court. The reason for their striking outsider status, besides a social status differing from that of the “aristocratic entourage,” is perhaps also to be sought in their foreign origin—the linguistic and cultural obstacles in the majority of cases proved to be so unbridgeable that many of them did not even remain in Transylvania after their princely commission expired. Those native German-speaking masters who found a home among their Saxon “relations” happened to form an exception to this. Also indicative of the special status of artists and retainers is the fact that Gábor Bethlen also kept with him two young lute-players, Konrad and Dietrich, who presumably had arrived in the country with Catherine of Brandenburg and were, in addition to their musical profession, also retainers of the consort’s household.84 Unfortunately the Brassó sources remain silent about the number of musicians belonging to Bethlen’s court. We know of similar information only from the reign of Gábor Báthory, whose entourage may have included approximately 17 persons in such a capacity,85 and we can probably find a similar number of master musicians by his successor’s side as well.

Gábor Bethlen’s patronage of the sciences and the arts is a well-known fact. The educating and sponsoring of talented youth appear from the very beginning in the prince’s cultural policy. At the start of his rule Bethlen had two students educated at foreign academies each year; by the end of his reign this number had multiplied.86 Occasionally they, too, represented guests Brassó had to feed. In connection with Bethlen’s reign, the town account books first record the “king’s students” in Brassó in 1621, when they were provided a meagre amount of food on August 4. On September 7 they make mention of two additional foreign students rescued from the captivity of plundering soldiers. Unfortunately, the Stadthann only rarely considered it worthwhile to record their names, and his attention usually extended only to the services fulfilled on the ruler’s orders and their costs.87

Scholars, musicians and students were recurring guests at the prince’s side. In July 1623 Brassó housed a part of the prince’s court staying in Fogaras, including his court physician and musicians, Tamás Kobzos and the four persons under his direction.88 A similar situation prevailed in March 1625, when, in addition to his physician, the prince also lodged his trumpeters in Brassó, while in September a recommendation letter from the prince assured provisions and transport in Brassó for a few students.89 In April 1626 students traveling to meet the prince, then residing in the Szeklerland, were given provisions, as was his Jewish doctor traveling back in May.90 Beginning in 1627 we encounter throughout Hungarian and German musicians as well as physicians on the guest list during the prince’s visits to Brassó;91 in June 1629 we even find an instance of the prince having his aged, ailing musician treated in Brassó.92 The newly employed Italian physician who stayed in Brassó between March 12 and 15, 1629 on the prince’s authority represents a historiographical curiosity. The doctor must have been held in high esteem, since he arrived on the prince’s own coach, and concerning him the prince commanded that he be “treated respectfully in the town.”93 Perhaps this person corresponds to Doctor Jacobus Carlo, who spent time in Brassó on the prince’s authority in June. At this date the prince’s bath attendant and musicians were also put up there, once again connected to Gábor Bethlen’s stay in Fogaras.94

Comparing the data, we arrive at the surprising conclusion that, similar to the per diem of the town officials, the provisioning of the students was also tied to a certain scale. In general 20-25, at most 26 denars of wine and bread were spent on each of them, which essentially corresponded to the allowance of a common servitor (footman or doorward). The musicians were treated on a similar scale; with respect to the physicians, however, the town was substantially more generous: a sum of around one and a half to two forints was spent on them daily, demonstrating thereby also the weight of that position in the princely court.

For the sake of completeness, it should be noted that the obligations connected to the prince’s visit did not come to an end when Gábor Bethlen exited the walls of Brassó. There is no year in the period under examination when some subsequent assignment of the prince did not have to be fulfilled. Aside from entertaining the court figures left behind, the town had to attend mainly to the transportation and escorting of the prince and his retinue as needed.95 Depending on the standards of the local supplies, the prince often ordered food, personal items or even master craftsmen (goldsmiths, blacksmiths and tailors) for himself.96 A similar situation also arose when, though the prince did not stay overnight in Brassó, he resided in the vicinity (in the Szeklerland or Fogaras). This could take place up to several times a year, depending on what part of Transylvania his duties called him to. In such cases—even if at reduced expense—in addition to putting up the prince’s innermost circle, the services expected of Brassó involved the same duties. Even at this time the prince was in constant contact with Brassó through the town leaders assigned to him, and his own men also made frequent appearances in the town, if only to communicate the prince’s demands. During his stays in Fogaras or the Szeklerland Gábor Bethlen also ordered food and personal articles in large quantities and often availed himself of the work of the tradesmen of Brassó. In certain instances he even demanded that the town put up the lords and servants belonging to his retinue. The types of services and their quality did not differ substantially from that of those the prince made use of during his visits to Brassó. Their costs appear in the town account books sporadically, and their value ranged along an extremely wide scale, from a few barrels of pears to silver collars prepared for the greyhounds of Catherine of Brandenburg to large quantities of food conveyed to the princely retinue on kitchen wagons. All these circumstances make a complete and systematic depiction of the services provided to the prince while he resided in the area of Brassó almost impossible. Thus, when it comes to the serving of Gábor Bethlen himself and his court, the data directly linked to the prince’s personal presence in Brassó is of primary importance on account of its completeness.

All of the above raises the question of how much the town spent during each of Gábor Bethlen’s visits. Because of the sporadic recording of the expenses, we can only estimate the magnitude of the total cost incurred: including the gifts of respect, Brassó spent approximately 1000–1600 forints on provisioning the prince and his court per occasion.97 We may also observe that towards the end of the period examined here this sum showed a tendency to increase, the explanation for which may lie in the improving economic situation, the stabilization of Brassó’s position, and the maximal exploitation of its resources; this last circumstance was due not least to the bargains struck with Gábor Bethlen.98 At the same time, for lack of sources it remains an open question whether the prince reimbursed the town for the incurred expenses, and if so, to what extent. Based on the characteristics of Bethlen’s reign the reimbursements must have been minimal, although it must be taken into account that the Saxons could avail themselves of the opportunity to have their incurred expenses deducted from their annual tax. Whether this happened, and which items, if any, the prince’s agents accepted, we do not know. The likelihood of reimbursement is in any case lessened by the fact that, starting from the Middle Ages, hosting the ruler was interpreted as an obligation of high importance in the Saxon Land, since the Saxon communities, Brassó included, enjoyed significant privileges that offset other similar burdens. It would be superfluous to emphasize just how significant this system, resting on this dual pillar, was in the life of the Saxon Land, which clung to its medieval autonomy tooth and nail.

Summary

During the reign of Gábor Bethlen significant changes can be observed in the relations between the ruler and the privileged Saxon community. The prince frequently stayed in the Saxon towns, generally at the time of diets, for the purposes of receiving envoys or rendering justice. Bethlen and his court retinue expected the town to provide lodging, supplies and gifts, which the local government attempted to keep within still feasible bounds. Each instance of hosting the prince in Brassó provides a particularly good illustration of how the central authority attempted to tear apart the obsolete framework of the Saxon feudal privileges, or at least fill it with new content while maintaining external appearances, in early modern Transylvania.

The prince’s stays in Brassó also direct our attention to the fact that through rational compromises and measured decisions Gábor Bethlen successfully breached the feudal bastions of the Saxon nation, and although in this area he was perhaps less successful publicly (recall the failure of negotiations aimed at a union of the three feudal nations99), behind the scenes he was able to impose his will against even the most determined Saxon communities. Finally, it should not be forgotten either that, beyond an understanding of the relationship between the princely regime and Brassó, a member of the Saxon Universitas, the chronicle of princely visits provides useful knowledge about the life of this distinctive Transylvanian community. The realities of the seventeenth-century characters, urban life, consumption, and weekdays and holidays, which come to life on the pages of the account books and can captivate people even today, all contribute to an ever fuller understanding of this unique era.

Archival Sources

Arhivele Naţionale ale României Filială Braşov [Romanian National Archives, Brassó Branch Archive]

Fondul Primăria Braşov. Seria socoteli alodiale—socoteli vilicaleStadt­hannen­rechnungen, V/19–23.

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára [National Archives of Hungary]

Microfilm Collection. Kolozsvár város levéltára. Roll No: 28962. Kolozsvár város számadáskönyvei (Fond primăria municipiului Cluj-Napoca socotelile orasului Cluj-Napoca).

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Translated by Matthew Caples

1 The Transylvanian Saxons arrived in Transylvania in the second half of the twelfth century at the invitation of the Hungarian king Géza II. Their hospes settlements, formed by decree of the ruler, enjoyed numerous privileges, receiving, among other things, tax concessions, rights of self-determination, and commercial privileges, and in return they owed the ruler specific services. For more details see Karl Kurt Klein, Geysanum und Andreanum. Fragmentarische Betrachtungen zur Frühgeschichte der Deutschen in Siebenbürgen,” in Zur Rechts- und Siedlungsgeschichte der Siebenbürger Sachsen, Siebenbürgisches Archiv. Archiv des Vereins für Siebenbürgische Landeskunde. Dritte Folge 8 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1971), 54–62; Konrad Gündisch, Siebenbürgen und die Siebenbürger Sachsen, Studienbuchreihe der Stiftung Ostdeutscher Kulturrat, Band 8 (Munich: Langen Müller, 1998), 28–43; Georg Daniel Teutsch, Die Geschichte der Siebenbürger Sachsen für das sächsische Volk, vol. 1 (Hermannstadt: Druck und Verlag von W. Krafft, 1899), 140.

2 Arhivele Naţionale ale României Filială Braşov [Romanian National Archives, Braşov Branch Archive] (ANR FB). Fondul Primăria Braşov. Seria socoteli alodiale – socoteli vilicale – Stadthannenrechnungen, vols. 19–23. In Brassó the account book contains the itemized list of the annual expenses and revenues of the town official administering the town’s financial matters (Stadthann or villicus) in German, which, as taken down by the notary and in bound form, were read aloud at the town leadership’s accounting meeting at the end of the administrative yearthe day after Christmas. Characteristic of the book-keeping of the Brassó Saxons is the extreme thoroughness of the entries: every expense was recorded down to the last denar, while the items were as a rule provided with explanations.

3 Possessing substantial economic resources and through its influential merchants and patricians, Brassó was considered one of the key communities of the Saxon Universitas (Universitas Saxonum). Its prestige was increased by the fact that by the end of the sixteenth century it had expanded its leading role among the settlements of the Barcaság region into almost unlimited influence. Based on these criteria Saxon historians have an inclination to compare the crown of the Barcaság, Brassó, to a Swiss canton of the era; cf. Maja Philippi, Kronstadt (Braşov-Kronstadt: Aldus Verlag, 2006).

4 Quellen zur Geschichte der Stadt Kronstadt in Siebenbürgen. Rechnungen aus dem Archiv der Stadt Kronstadt, vols. 13 (Kronstadt: Commission bei H. Zeidner, 1886–1896).

5 For the text of the medieval collection of regulations applying to the Transylvanian Saxonscommonly known as the Andreanum—see Franz Zimmermann and Carl Werner, eds., Urkundenbuch zur Geschichte der Deutschen in Siebenbürgen, vol. 1 (Hermannstadt: Krafft und Drotleff, 1892), 34–35.

6 Iván Bertényi, Gyula Benda, and János Pótó, eds., Magyar udvari rendtartás. Utasítások és rendeletek 16171708, Millenniumi Magyar Történelem. Források (Budapest: Osiris, 2001), 9; Péter Szabó, “A kihelyezett udvarok az Erdélyi Fejedelemség hatalmi harcaiban, in Idővel paloták… Magyar udvari kultúra a 1617. században, ed. Nóra G. Etényi and Ildikó Horn (Budapest: Balassi, 2005), 314–15.

7A szász universitas feltételei Bethlen Gábor szebeni telelése tárgyában. 1613. december 17,in Erdélyi országgyűlési emlékek, vol. 6, ed. Sándor Szilágyi (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia–Athenaeum Ny., 1880), 383; “Az 1613. októberi országgyűlés törvényei, in ibid., 361; “A gyulafehérvári országgyűlés határozatai. 1625. május 129. Propositiones,” in ibid., vol 8., 254–57; Magyar Törvénytár. 15401848. évi erdélyi törvények. Approbata Constitutiones, III. R. LXXXI/I. art, 153.

8 Transylvanian Prince Gábor Bethlen’s Instructions to His Seneschal, Gáspár Csúti. Kolozsvár, 1622/23, in Magyar udvari rendtartás, 69–77.

9 Ibid.

10 A szász universitas feltételei Bethlen Gábor szebeni telelése tárgyában. 1613. december 17,in Erdélyi országgyűlési emlékek, vol. 6, 383.

11 For the antecedents and the significance of Szeben, the Saxon town occupied by Gábor Báthory in December 1610, cf. Harald Roth, Hermannstadt. Kleine Geschichte einer Stadt in Siebenbürgen (Cologne–Weimar–Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2006); on the occupation of the town, see Georg Kraus, Erdélyi krónika 16081665, trans. Sándor Vogel (Budapest: Ómagyar Baráti Társaság Kiadói Részlege, 1994), 70; Teutsch, Die Geschichte der Siebenbürger Sachsen, 32762.

12 For more on the beginnings of relations between Brassó and Gábor Bethlen see Zsuzsanna Cziráki, “Brassó és az erdélyi szászok szerepe Bethlen Gábor fejedelem trónfoglalásában (1611–1613),” Századok 145, no. 4 (2011): 847–76.

13 Gábor Bethlen’s visits to Brassó: April 3–7, 1614; March 5–8, 1616; June 29–July 3, 1619; August 4–11, 1622; September 12–19, 1624; April 11–16, 1626; February 27–March 7 (?), 1627; August 2(?)–13, 1627; February 6–13, 1628; February 6–11, 1629.

14 Ger. Zeiden, Rom. Codlea.

15 Ger. Tartlau, Rom. Prejmer.

16 Ger. Fogrisch, Rom. Făgăraş.

17 Most likely these must have been the springs rising in the vicinity of the villages of Zajzon, Tatrang, Pürkerec, located on the border of the Szeklerland and the Barcaság, as well as Száldobos in the Erdővidék region. Their mineral-rich waters have been used since the Middle Ages for medicinal purposes. The prince’s bath cure at Száldobos in 1629 is recounted in greater detail by Don Diego de Estrada in his memoirs: László Makkai, ed., Bethlen Gábor emlékezete (Budapest: Magyar Helikon, 1980), 252. See also ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 19, 547.

18 Bethlen Gábor Rhédey Ferencnek. Prázsmár, 1619. június 28,in Bethlen Gábor fejedelem kiadatlan politikai levelei, ed. Sándor Szilágyi (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia, 1879), 117.

19 The notables of Brassó delegated to Fogaras or Feketehalom at the prince’s invitation in the period under examination: in 1614 Michael Forgatsch, Johannes Benkner, and András Hegyes (ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 20, 35556); in 1616 Christianus Hirscher, Stephen Filstich, the town notary, Christoph Greissing and András Hegyes (Ibid., 610, 61213); from 1618 and 1619 there is no data; in 1622 the judge, Christianus Hirscher (Ibid., vol. 22, 99); in 1624 Michael Schmidt, and later Andreas Hegyes and Paul Bánfy (Ibid., 599, 603); in 1626 Georg Draudt (Ibid., vol. 23, 72); in February and July 1627 Georg Nadescher (Ibid., vol. 21, 309, 416); in 1628 Michael Draudt and Stadthann Andreas Gorgias traveled to meet the prince, who was arriving from the Szeklerland, and later Paul Bánfy and Michael Schmidt (Ibid., 529, 568); in 1629 town Stadthann Andreas Gorgias and Michael Schmidt, and later Georg Nadescher and Michael Goldschmidt (Ibid., vol. 19, 430, 460).

20 For more detail, see Teréz Oborni, “Bethlen Gábor és a nagyszombati szerződés (1615),” Századok 144, no. 4 (2011): 877–914; Zsuzsanna Cziráki, “Megjegyzések Erich Lassota zu Steblau 1614. évi titkos erdélyi megbízatásához,” Fons – Forráskutatás és Történeti Segédtudományok 19, no. 3 (2012): 321–61.

21 It is also part of the story that Michael was attacked by robbers en route and was forced to turn back with the money; ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 20, 355.

22 Ibid., 610.

23 In 1628, in the two months prior to the prince’s February visit, lively negotiations were already underway between Brassó and the prince, as part of which the prince was provided with gifts of respect, as was András Kapi, entrusted with handling matters concerning the price limitations of the townspeople of Brassó; ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 21, 529. This procedure was repeated almost to the letter in 1629; Ibid., vol. 19, 438.

24 The list of invitation gifts sent to the prince on the occasion of his 1629 visit may be labeled typical: sturgeon for five forints, 36 lemons for 3.60 forints and five lovely pomegranates for 1.25 forints, a total of 9.85 forints; Ibid., 430.

25 Ibid., vol. 20, 612.

26 We know barely a handful of them by name from the period examined here. In 1614 two Brassó agents, Andreß Graser and Merten Kloscher, saw to the fodder needed for the horses arriving with the princely household. In 1624 Magistrate Martin Heltner along with Johannes Klein and Andreas Altstetter were charged with obtaining the basic kitchen supplies. ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 22, 611.

27 Johannisgasse, Stradă Sfîntul Ioan.

28 Klostergasse, Stradă Mureşenilor.

29 Rosenanger, Prundul Rozelor; more recently Piaţă George Enescu.

30 Erich Jekelius, ed., Das Burzenland. I. Kronstadt (Kronstadt: Verlag Burzenländer Sächs. Museum, 1928): 68.

31 Nevertheless, in the event of a visit by the prince the town could not leave a single bed, including the inn, unused. This is indicated by occasional data in the account books about the cleaning and maintenance performed at the guest house prior to the visit: on February 3, 1628 “Zahlt 6 Blochen, welche auffm Stadthoff fegetten.” ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 21, 558.

32 The person employed to organize the housing of the princely court, the quartermaster, regularly visited the town well before his lord’s arrival, and cooperating with the local officials appointed to this task, he set about assigning quarters and inspecting the infrastructure ensuring the visit took place without incident. However, there were also instances of him arriving in town merely a day or barely hours before the arrival of the prince. Ibid., vol. 20, 358.

33 Bethlen Gábor – Levelek. Selected, with an introduction and notes, by Mihály Sebestyén (Bucharest: Kriterion, 1980), 61; Áron Szilády and Sándor Szilágyi, Török–magyarkori állam-okmánytár, vol 1 (Budapest: Eggenberger, 1868): 119; similar demands were articulated in Gábor Bethlen’s court protocol as well. Cf. Transylvanian Prince Gábor Bethlen’s Instructions to His Seneschal, Gáspár Csúti. Kolozsvár, 1622/23, in Magyar udvari rendtartás, 7172.

34 Concordant data can be found in the recollections of Magistrate Andreas Hegyes; cf. “Diarium des Andreas Hegyes,” in Quellen zur Geschichte der Stadt Kronstadt, vol. 5, Chroniken und Tagebücher, vol. 2 (Brassó: Commission bei H. Zeidner, 1909): 465–67.

35 ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 20, 357; V/21, 311; V/22, 113.

36 This is what happened on August 4, 1622, when Mrs. Fiota was reimbursed for the twenty denars’ worth of firewood wrongfully burned in her garden. Ibid., vol. 22, 110.

37 Ibid., vol. 20, 363.

38 Ibid., vol. 22, 603, 607; V/21, 427; V/21, 561, 567.

39 Ibid., vol. 21, 325.

40 The quantity of candles used is revealed by data noted during Gábor Bethlen’s visit in August 1622, according to which three women poured candles for three days in a row. As a result of their work Brassó produced 2,300 tallow candles and eight pounds of wax candles for the princely court, with a value, including wages, of 17.36 forints. Ibid., vol. 22, 109.

41 Among the spice suppliers the wealthiest (those with profitable commercial ties) families in Brassó were represented: Benkner, Draudt, Fronius, Bánfy, Forgács, etc. Ibid., vol. 20, 624.

42 Ibid., vol. 22, 1045; V/21, 311, 432; V/22, 121, 605–6.

43 Ibid., 604.

44 The town had its own cold-storage area, the Eysgruben, which with the approach of spring was filled with broken ice.

45 Ibid., vol. 21, 311.

46 Ibid., vol. 20, 359.

47 Marktplatz, Piaţă Sfătului. Similar to other commercial towns, Brassó in addition to the central market had various markets specializing in categories of goods, indicating the region’s commercial relations. This was how the place names still in use today evolved, such as horse market, fish market, wheat row. The cookhouse incidentally was a typical attendant element of the princely visits in early modern Transylvania. Cf. Annamária Jeney-Tóth, Báthory Gábor udvara 1612-ben Kolozsvárott,” in A Báthoriak kora. (A Báthoriak és Európa), ed. László Dám. A Báthori István Múzeum füzetei, Új sorozat, 3 (Nyírbátor: Báthori István Múzeum és Baráti Köre, 2008), 148.

48 The considerable consumption of fish may be assessed as a local characteristic, for when comparing the food lists for Brassó and Kolozsvár, it is striking that—perhaps as a result of the differing geographical and trade conditions—in Kolozsvár fish is hardly ever encountered on the prince’s menu.

49 ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 20, 625.

50 38 liter. Cf. István Bogdán, Magyarországi űr-, térfogat-, súly- és darabmértékek 1874-ig (Budapest: Akadémiai, 1991): 236–37.

51 Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára (National Archives of Hungary; MNL OL) Microfilm collection. Kolozsvár város levéltára. Roll: 28962. Kolozsvár város számadáskönyvei (Fond primăria municipiului Cluj-Napoca socotelile orasului Cluj-Napoca). 1613. XIV. 191. Regarding the eating customs of the era see Borbála Benda, Étkezési szokások a magyar főúri udvarokban,in Idővel paloták, 491507.

52 The Stadthann paid for products used at that time even months following the princely visit.

53 The tax deduction functioned on the town and regional (Barcaság) levels also, since the value of the products and services requisitioned from the Barcaság settlements were often compensated by a proportionate reduction of the annual tax.

54 Based on the date of the account books, mead was the preferred beverage of the Turkish guests.

55 Characteristically, the heavy consumption of brandy took place during the reception of Tatar guests.

56 The forum of the guildsmen and commoner citizens in Brassó was the Hundertmannschaft, or the community of one hundred elders, to which each of the town’s four precincts delegated twenty-five members. That body was dwarfed in importance by the council, chosen from the exclusive circle of the town’s patricians, though in lesser matters of local significance—as the above example also shows—it could make its voice heard.

57 Ejtel, also kupa (Achtel), a volume measure of medieval origin, 1 ejtel = approx. 1.36 liters. Thus, this was approximately 2,438 liters. Cf. Bogdán, Magyarországi űr-, térfogat-, súly- és darabmértékek, 236–37.

58 The officials responsible for matters pertaining to wine.

59 Approx. 152 liters.

60 Approx. 207 liters.

61 Among the persons in question (Hans Hirscher, Daniel Schespurger, Paul Lang, Thomas Schlösser, Hans Valthütter) we see wealthy citizens. The question arises whether their “debtcould truly be attributed to their insolvency or rather to business speculation on town purchases.

62 ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 20, 62324.

63 Weinlosung, Weinlösung: a type of town tax paid on wine conveyed into and out of the town, deriving from Brassó’s wine-selling privilege (educillatio).

64 Based on the account books we know the prince’s cooks from the period under examination, Tamás and János. ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 22, 372.

65 The most basic task was to ensure a constant supply of water in the kitchen building, for which Romanians were employed for a daily wage. Ibid., 110.

66 Ibid., vol. 21, 437; vol. 19, 476.

67 Ibid., 568.

68 Typical was having tin and glass vessels patched by the local guildsmen. Ibid., vol. 21, 56768.

69 There is no way of presenting the prince’s extremely varied demands in their entirety. The following examples, however, clearly demonstrate the variety that the princely commissions represented in the town. In 1622 silver vessels were packed (Ibid., vol. 22, 110), and laundresses were employed at the specific request of the prince (Ibid., 606). In February 1627 four cases were prepared for the prince’s pistols (Ibid., vol. 21, 313), as well as—during almost every princely visit—chests and vessels (Ibid., 314). The town must have needed to supplement the personnel demanded as well, since the leadership was forced to borrow servant girls from the school master’s wife (Ibid., 316). Gábor Bethlen particularly availed himself of the services of the tailors of Brassó, since they sewed several suits of clothing for the princely court (Ibid., 341, 443). In addition, Romanian, Saxon and Gypsy day laborers had to be temporarily employed for the most varied jobs, from sewing sacks to hauling earth (Ibid., 430, 438, 567, 584), carters to convey the court dignitaries (Ibid., 44445, 57274). In 1629 the prince requested gold and white saddles, gold leaf, tents and bathtubs, and had his chest covered with leather in Brassó.

70 The account books provide countless examples of this phenomenon. To single out take just one, we may cite Zsigmond Kornis, the prince’s quartermaster, who during a memorable visit in 1616 visited Brassó together with his family. He himself had arrived on February 18 with an escort of seven to order accommodations for Gábor Bethlen, while on the next day he was joined by another 30 persons. It appears that his wife and other kin also resided at the Kornis lodgings, since the data from the account books reveal that although Kornis traveled to Prázsmár to meet the prince on February 21, his household waited for him in Brassó, until he returned on the 29th with another army of guests (“mit ein hauffen gesindl”). They remained in Brassó after the end of the princely visit, until March 2, as did Farkas Kamuthy, who also arrived with his wife. ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 20, 61215, 618.

71 Ibid., vol. 19, 616.

72 In December 1610 Gábor Báthory had occupied the Saxons’ most important town, Szeben by ruse, and rescinded Transylvanian Saxon autonomy, which had existed since 1224.

73 Diarium des Andreas Hegyes,” in Quellen zur Geschichte der Stadt Kronstadt, vol. 5, 494.

74 Tagebuch des Petrus Banfy,” in Quellen zur Geschichte der Stadt Kronstadt, vol. 5, 431.

75 A szász universitas gyűlésének feltételei Bethlen Gábor szebeni telelése tárgyában,” in Szilágyi, Erdélyi országgyűlési emlékek, vol. 6, 383–89.

76 Diarium des Andreas Hegyes,” in Quellen zur Geschichte der Stadt Kronstadt, vol. 5, 493.

77 The incident is recounted in detail in the diaries of Petrus Bánfy and András Hegyes; see ibid., 431, 542–43.

78 Based on the extant gift lists, besides the prince and his wife the list of those presented with gifts included: in 1614 István Bethlen; Chief Chamberlain Pál Rhédey; Chancellor Simon Péchy; the prince’s secretary, Gáspár Bölöni; the prince’s overseers, quartermaster, master cook and doorwards; and the Turkish and Hungarian lords departing for the Porte (ANR FB Stadthannenrechnungen, vol. 20, 664). In 1616: once again the chancellor; István Tököly; Voivode Marco; Farkas Bethlen; a certain Master Kelemen whose function is unknown; the prince’s overseers, doorwards, master cook, quartermaster, footmen and infantry commanders; as well as Kozma Deli and a certain Anschina (?) (Ibid., vol. 20, 626). In February 1627: the chancellor; Ferenc Mikó; János Balling, captain of Fogaras; István Béldi; Seneschal Mihály Dániel; Ferenc Macskássy; Ferenc Balássi; Cup-Bearer Várkonyi; the consort’s seneschal and prefect; the “Kusch Graff” i.e., István Bethlen the younger; Mihály Bíró (in charge of the prince’s courtiers); Court Captain Pál Nagy; and retainers” Simon Bojár and János Kemény (Ibid., vol. 21, 324–25). The visit of August 1627 formed an exception, and the list of payments to the Old Town residents transporting the court reveals the identity of the guests: István Bethlen the younger; Petneházy; Zsigmond Kornis; Bélaváry; the chancellor; Dávid Zólyomi; Mikes; and Mikó (Ibid., 444–45). In 1628: the chancellor; Dávid Zólyomi; Ferenc Balássi; the “der Bethlenische Hundt,” Mihály Dániel; Macskássy; Chief Seneschal Zsigmond Kékedy; and Pál Nagy (Ibid., 571). In 1629: Mikó; the chancellor; István Bethlen; Zsigmond Kornis; Dávid Zólyomi; Zsigmond Kékedi; Péter Bethlen; Ferenc Macskássy; Mihály Dániel; Ferenc Balássi; Pál Nagy; János Török; the prince’s stewards, attendants and quartermaster; and Benedek Nagy (Ibid., vol. 19, 477–79).

79 It appears that the value of the presented gifts may be called extraordinary not only in Brassó but also in the major Saxon towns with similar aspirations. It speaks volumes that the prince’s capital in Hungary, Kassa, “honored” Gábor Bethlen to a much more modest extent: according to the testimony of Kassa’s town protocols, the prince alone received a valuable chalice during the visit, while those belonging to his entourage were bestowed with gifts of food representing a value befitting their position (calves, oxen and lambs for slaughter, wine, fodder for the horses, etc.). Cf. György Kerekes, Bethlen Gábor fejedelem Kassán. 16191629 (Kassa: Wiko, 1943): 29–32.

80 The amount had increased spectacularly by the end of Bethlen’s reign: 360.87 forints in 1614; 159.1 forints in 1616 (though the value of the prince’s Nuremberg chalice, which must have doubled the sum, was not indicated); 927.02 forints in 1627; 643.32 forints in 1628; and 807.31 forints in 1629.

81 Tagebuch des Petrus Banfy,” in Quellen zur Geschichte der Stadt Kronstadt, vol. 5, 431.

82 The organist Johannes Preussinger settled in Beszterce, the Viennese chorus-singer Johannes Thosselius in Szeben, and the organist Michael Hermann in Brassó. It was precisely after the princely visit of 1626 that the last came to the town, where he later rose to the position of town judge; Kraus, Erdélyi krónika 16081665, 104. One of Bethlen’s favored musicians, the German-born György Virginás, also settled in Nagyszeben. Bethlen Gábor – Levelek, 64; Sándor Szilágyi, Bethlen Gábor fejedelem levelezése (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia, 1887), 33.

83 Péter Király, “Külföldi zenészek a XVII. századi fejedelmi udvarban és hatásuk,” Erdélyi Múzeum 56, no. 12 (1994): 2–5, accessed Sept. 10, 2009, http://erdelyimuzeumfolyoirat.adatbank.transindex.ro.

84 Ibid.

85 Jeney-Tóth, Báthory Gábor udvara,” 147.

86 “For as long as we live, now we too want to send two youths per annum to Academies out there for the purpose of study. We hope thereby the number of learned youth will increase.” Gábor Bethlen to Péter Alvinczi. Gyulafehérvár, August 14, 1615, in Bethlen Gábor – Levelek, 66; Sándor Szilágyi, Bethlen Gábor és a kassai pap, Magyar Protestáns Egyháztörténelmi Monográfiák XIII (Budapest: Magyarországi Protestansegylet, 1880): 35.

87 ANR FB Stadthannenrehcnungen, vol. 22, 1051, 1066.

88 Ibid., 339.

89 Ibid., 752, 914.

90 Ibid., vol. 23, 77, 86.

91 Ibid., vol. 21, 415, 742.

92 Ibid., vol. 19, 562.

93 Ibid., 507.

94 Ibid., vol. 19, 564.

95 Ibid., vol. 20, 366; vol. 21, 572–74.

96 Ibid., vol. 21, 341, 517, 628; vol. 22, 609. Among the prince’s orders at times we find quite surprising ones as well: in 1629, for instance, he ordered carpentry work from Brassó artisans in Fogaras, which included the framing of 18 paintings. Ibid., vol. 19, 590.

97 By comparison, it is worth noting that the data of the account books show the cost of military obligations burdening the town (providing soldiers, supply deliveries) to have ranged around 13001500 forints for a military campaign led by the prince.

98 To single out just two major examples: a significant portion of Brassó’s revenues was affected by the recurring question of the lease of the toll of Törcsvár, which the town, following lengthy negotiations with the prince (and the opening up of ample financial resources)—managed to retain. Also worthy of mention is the violation in the town of the limitations that affected equally Brassó’s guildsmen and merchants, which was likewise successfully glossed over by winning the prince’s goodwill. Each of these illustrates merely one slice of the relationship, built on rational deals and compromises, that linked the ruler and one of his country’s wealthiest towns to each other.

99 Bethlen’s ambition to draw the union of the three feudal nations of Transylvania (the Hungarian nobility of the counties, Saxons, Szeklers) closer and place it in the service of the central authority foundered on the resistance of the estates, and particularly the Saxons, who feared the loss of their autonomy.

* The research was carried out with the support of the European Union and Hungary, with the co-financing of the European Social Fund (under the enhanced project “Nemzeti Kiválóság Program – Hazai hallgatói, illetve kutatói személyi támogatást biztosító rendszer kidolgozása és működtetése konvergencia program”, project number TÁMOP 4.2.4.A/2-11-1-2012-0001).

pdfVolume 3 Issue 1 CONTENTS

András Péter Szabó

Betrothal and Wedding, Church Wedding and Nuptials: Reflections on the System of Marriages in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century Hungary

 

The aim of the present study is to sketch briefly the relationship between the ecclesiastical and secular elements of the marriage customs in the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Kingdom of Hungary and Principality of Transylvania with the help of the sixteenth-century nuptial invitations preserved in the town archives of Beszterce (German: Bistritz; today Bistriţa, Romania), the specialist literature and ethnographic analogies. The common Hungarian and Latin designation for the betrothal and the church marriage (kézfogás/desponsatio) indicates that the two concepts had not separated completely. The terminological uncertainty can be explained by the slow implementation of canonical requirements: in practice the betrothal, adopted in the twelfth century, originating in Roman law, only gradually earned its place. The Reformation gave further impetus to doctrines proclaiming the binding force of betrothal, perhaps also connected with this is the fact that a binding form of betrothal also existed alongside that corresponding to today’s version for a very long time in both Transylvania and Hungary. Betrothal accompanied by church ceremony in this case was followed as a second phase by a purely secular wedding feast. Only after the wedding subsequently became permanently embedded in the wedding feast did the church ceremony become the central element in the series of events.

 

Keywords: marriage rites, church law, ethnography of nuptials, wedding invitations

 

The Starting Point for Research

The examination of marriage in the medieval and early modern eras has been one of the most preferred topics of European and American social history in recent decades. Research into legal history has extended attention not only to the family as an institution but also to the legal regulation of marriages.1 Among the sources of both trends the protocols and documents of the various ecclesiastical courts, which are truly the best and most eloquent sources for the practice of concluding marriages and domestic cohabitation, have occupied a prominent place despite the fact they first and foremost attest to deviations from the norm.2 With a certain lapse of time, indirect evidence has also been included, and thus have, for example, literary texts come under the magnifying glass as well.3 In the present study our guiding thread will be a set of sources that until now has mostly escaped the attention of research: the formal letters of invitation to the great weddings of the early modern era.4

A source publication I collaborated on, which appeared in 2005, forms the starting point for the examination. In it were published the sixteenth-century nuptial invitations sent to Beszterce (today: Bistriţa, Romania), more specifically those invitations that the German-populated town received from the Hungarian nobles of the surrounding territories and preserved in its exceptionally rich archives.5 The 123 invitation letters and the 111 nuptials included in them are a quantity that cannot be statistically evaluated, and in terms of quantity do not even approach the documentary material of the activity of any medieval English ecclesiastical court; yet on the eastern frontiers of Western Christianity, where even from the early modern era the types of serial source known from Western Europe have survived only sporadically, this does represent a sizeable quantity. In our opinion, the multilingual region, which after the Reformation became confessionally variegated as well, as a unique laboratory may also assist us in gaining a better understanding of pan-European developments.

It was while preparing the abstracts of the invitations that we realized just how much the marriage practice of the sixteenth century diverged from that of the modern era. In our study, starting from the invitations of Beszterce, but extending our research to the entire sixteenth and seventeenth centuries as well as all of historical Hungary, we will attempt to chart the most important differences. At the center of our interest there are two questions of key importance: the relationship between the betrothal and the wedding ceremony, as well as that between the ecclesiastical and secular episodes of the marriage (simply put, the wedding ceremony and the wedding feast). In order to obtain a fuller picture, we have extended our research to the full range of source types based on the specialist literature and published sources. The archaism of nineteenth-century folk culture, unknown in the West European region, made it possible for us to rely also on the results of ethnography in interpreting medieval and early modern rituals.6

From the outset a few basic concepts must be clarified, however. By the modern practice of marriage we mean that system in which the betrothal, a legally non-binding promise relating to marriage in the future, creating a freely dissoluble betrothed relationship, represents the first step, and the legal transaction establishing the marriage, the exchange of vows in church or, beginning with the introduction of secular marriages, the civil marriage, represents the second step. Occurring on the same day as the latter is the wedding feast, with a purely social integration function, which can even be omitted altogether. The custom of the traditional folk culture differs from this in two respects: first, the betrothal is more serious and accordingly more difficult to dissolve; and second, the wedding feast as a framework completely encompasses the ecclesiastical (and later the secular) marriage ceremony (thus the celebration commences already before the “wedding”) and cannot be regarded simply as eating and drinking intended to announce the new position in society and strengthen familial ties, but possesses legal significance as well. In other words, the wedding feast is a rich storehouse of legal folk customs, and according to popular perception some of these make up the secular ceremony necessary for contracting the marriage.7 Yet in reality the church could not have considered the wedding feast to be a simple entertainment either, since it included as a crucial factor the consummation of the marriage as well, which had significance in canon law and Protestant church law. Despite its crucial significance, however, we cannot regard canon law/church law as the sole possible framework for interpreting medieval and early modern marriage.

 

The Nuptial Invitations

At first the invitations serving as the guiding thread for our examination were written in Latin, in both of the Christian successor states of the medieval kingdom of Hungary, in the kingdom forming part of the Habsburg Monarchy, and in the Ottoman vassal state, the Principality of Transylvania. In Transylvania it is only from the 1580s on that letters of invitation composed in Hungarian or German completely assume their role. In the Holy Roman Empire, by contrast, invitations in the vernacular were typical in the fifteenth century as well.8 Here it was only Humanists who favored the use of Latin. The structure of the wedding invitations, however, almost independently of the language of the letter, show a uniform image throughout the late medieval and early modern eras, allowing us to conclude that they were written according to a widely used model.

In Hungary the first Latin-language letter we know, already displaying numerous obligatory elements of the genre, is from the early fifteenth century. The Hungarian-language invitations appearing in the mid-sixteenth century are free translations of the Latin versions.

The text of the invitations, regardless of whether they were sent to a noble, a town or some other body, in almost every case is divided into the following units. 1. Address, greeting. Generally in Latin, the corresponding Hungarian- and German-language formulae came into use only beginning in the late sixteenth century. 2. Arenga, or introductory flourish, which calls attention to the fact that man must live in matrimony as ordained by God. In the more verbose formulations, it is the story of Eve’s creation that crops up: “It is not good for man to be alone” (Non est bonum homini esse solum, Genesis 2:18). The story of the first human couple is incidentally the leading topic of Catholic and Protestant wedding sermons. Often only the expression “as ordained by God” (divina ordinatione/Isten rendelése szerint/durch Gottes Ordnung und Fürschung) remains of the obligatory theological justification. Sometimes this is supplemented also by a comment referring to the fact that the decision has occurred “by the approval” of the relatives. 3. Announcement of the approaching nuptials and the antecedent act contracting the marriage, with the names of the marrying parties, their fathers or, in the case of a widow bride, the previous husband. 4. The place and date of the wedding. 5. The actual invitation. 6. The justification for the invitation, which is always that the presence of the addressee will elevate the splendor of the festivities. 7. In return for the favor, the addressee’s presence, the sender of the invitation pledges his future services. 8. The closing good wishes, date and signature customary in such missives. The various component elements of the invitation text at times slide together, winding up in the same sentence, though this does not alter the essence of the structure. From the point of view of the present study it is the third point of the invitations that will be of fundamental importance.

 

The Unknown Menyegző (Nuptials)

At first it perhaps seems curious to ask what kind of event is in fact specified by the early modern wedding invitations. An answer to the question is rendered exceedingly difficult by the fact that the words we currently use for marriage and the modern rituals behind them latently influence all attempts at an interpretation. Therefore, it is worth first examining the meaning of the words, and thereby we may perhaps come one step closer to the old system of marriage.

 

The Meaning of the Words

The Hungarian-language invitation letters of the sixteenth century generally refer to the event specified in the invitation with the word menyegző. The expression menyegző appears in the fourteenth century and is a noun formed from the medieval Hungarian verb menyez (nubo). In contrast to the Latin equivalent, it contains not the word “veil” but “bride” (meny). At the same time, the first printed Latin–Hungarian dictionary (1604) and the bilingual sources give the word menyegző as the precise translation of the Latin word nuptiae.9 We may regard the German Hochzeit, which replaced the earlier expression Brautlauf in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and originally meant simply a large celebration, as having semantic spheres completely identical to these two terms.10 According to the most plausible view, in the early modern era all three words referred to a feast in the modern sense as the secular part of the marriage; however, in many cases they implied the marriage ceremony blessed by the church as well, and thus in their latter meaning they are actually the equivalents of “wedding” (a complex matrimonial event: wedding + feast) in today’s broader sense. While the German Hochzeit is the primary noun for marriage even today, the word menyegző began from the late sixteenth century on to be supplanted in a large part of the Hungarian language area by the expression lakodalom.11

We can show the use of the word lakodalom beginning in the early sixteenth century. Contained in it is the verb lakik (to regale oneself) referring to eating. Originally the term lakodalom was used for all large celebratory feasts. The role played by the festive meal in the menyegző may explain how the word lakodalom could so easily assume the earlier meaning of the word menyegző: first perhaps the narrower, and then in the seventeenth century the broader one encompassing the entire marriage. The explanation of the expression menyegzői lakodalom, typical of this same century, confronts us with a more difficult task. Based on our sources it appears unequivocal that it is the Hungarian equivalent of the Latin expression nuptiarum sollemnitas. In the Transylvanian and Hungarian invitations of the seventeenth century, the event specified in the invitation is quite frequently called menyegzői lakodalom. Does the phrase menyegzői lakodalom possess the broader meaning of menyegző as the word lakodalom does? The signs indicate that generally not in the usage of the majority, but rather that it was used only for the secular celebration, somewhat like the structurally similar modern English wedding party or the German Hochzeitsfeier expressions.

In place of both menyegző and lakodalom the invitations very often employ those words which originally referred to a single episode of the event, though one that held crucial importance, the handing over of the bride from her parents’ home, and her being led over to the groom’s house, but later on they covered the whole secular part of the marriage. In Hungarian these expressions are the megadás and hazaadás (on the part of the bride’s family), as well as the elhozás and hazavitel (on the part of the groom’s family), while the equivalent Latin technical term, which underwent a similar expansion of meaning, is unequivocally elocatio.

The name for the church part of the marriage represents a problem of comparable weight to the above, since some of the equivalent words may equally designate a betrothal in today’s sense also. Such polysemous words are the Hungarian kézfogás/kézfogó (“handfasting”) and the Latin desponsatio or sponsalia. However, there also exist words that beyond any doubt designate only the church ceremony.12 Both the sixteenth-century hitlés/hitelő, and the esketés/esküvő and its variants in use beginning in the seventeenth century refer to the vow by which the parties affirmed their mutually declared intention to marry (consensus) during the ceremony. Our seventeenth-century sources also reveal that a pars pro toto referring to a completely different element of the marriage was regarded as the Latin equivalent of the two word clusters: the word copulatio, which in a narrower sense is that element of the wedding ceremony when the priest (for Catholics before the parties take their vows, and for Protestants following this) declares the marriage established. It is very important to make clear that only in the rarest of cases do the terms for the church part of the marriage occur in the nuptial invitations of the sixteenth- and seventeenth century.

For the sake of better comprehensibility, the results of our conceptual analysis are summarized in a table as well (Table 1).

 

Modern name

16th-century Hungarian

17th-century Hungarian

16th–17th-century German

16th–17th-century Latin

 

Lakodalom

(The entire series of events taken together, or the secular part of the marriage, “nuptials”)

 

Menyekező

Menyegző

Örömem napja

Tisztességem napja

 

Lakodalom

Örömem napja/

Menyegzői lakodalom

 

 

Hochzeit

Hochzeitliche Freude/ ~r Freudentag

 

Nuptiae/

Nuptiarum sollemnitas/

Celebratio

Lakodalom

(pars pro toto terms, not including the church part)

Megadás

Hazaadás

Elhozás

Hazavitel

Megadás

Hazaadás

(often preceded by tisztességes “respectable”)

 

Übergabe (modern form)

ausgeben (verb)

 

 

Elocatio

Elocationis sollemnitas

Esküvő

(the ecclesiastical part of the marriage, the church ceremony)

 

Hitelő

Hitlés

Kézfogás

Hitlés (rare)

Esketés/Esküttetés

Öszveesketés

Esküvő

Derék házasság

Kézfogás

 

Trauung

 

 

Sponsalia

Desponsatio

Copulatio

Eljegyzés/Eljegyez

(the preliminary promise of marriage, i.e., “betrothal”)

Kézfogó/Kézfogás

Vettem/ választottam magamnak házastársul

Kézfogó/Kézfogás/

eljegyez (verb)

Verlobung/verloben

Zu einen zukünftigen Ehgemal vermählen

Zu Ehgemal vertrauen (jemandem)

Sponsalia

Subarrhatio

Desponsatio/

desponso

elego in coniugem

 

Table 1.

 

The polysemy of the nouns meaning marriage in and of itself would not cause much trouble if in the invitations the verb clearly defined the act preceding the invitation. Unfortunately this is not the case. While most Latin-language letters as a rule make use of the phrase desponsavi/desponsaverim in coniugem/uxorem (thus, the inviting party literally speaks of betrothal), in the Hungarian-language letters we generally read vettem magamnak feleségül (“I have taken for myself as a wife”). But if the father or guardian of the bride writes the letter, in the majority of cases he uses the expression adtam feleségül (“I have given as a wife”) and its Latin equivalent (elocavi/elocaverim in coniugem/uxorem). Yet according to our modern linguistic intuition these formulations would mean not the betrothal but rather the marriage.13 The seventeenth-century invitations introduce the announcement of the wedding much rather with the phrases jegyzette(m) el (“I have betrothed”) or, in the case of the bride’s father, ígértem házastársul (“I have pledged as a spouse”). The enigmatic form vettem (“I have taken”) known from the letters crops up in the earliest Hungarian-language marriage vow (from the turn of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries), as well as in numerous Protestant ritual books of the sixteenth century.14

One means of resolving the contradiction would be if we took the expression feleségül venni (“I have taken as wife”) to be equivalent to the phrase választottam feleségül (“I have chosen as wife;” in Latin: elegerim (et petiverim) in coniugem) employed in some of the sixteenth-century invitations, thus we could apply it to a simple betrothal. According to another proposed solution, the odd past-tense expression allows us to conclude the occurrence of a “handfasting” (kézfogó) prior to the invitation and reinforced by a vow (a firmer betrothal than that of today). 15

Even more surprising than the above was that some of the sixteenth-century Latin-language invitations from Beszterce feature iungo or copulo, which are unequivocally the verbs of the church marriage, instead of desponso. All this would mean that the marriage ceremony occurred well before the wedding feast (lakodalom), indeed, before the letters were sent out. Moreover, the verb desponso is also frequently accompanied by a phrase difficult to interpret, namely, iure/ritu matrimonii (or possibly in the form ritu sanctae catholicae ecclesiae), that is, in accordance with the law/rite of marriage of the Universal Church (in a longer version: iuxta ritum et (antiquam) consuetudinem sanctae catholicae ecclesiae/matris ecclesiae, that is “according to the ancient rite and custom of the Holy Mother Church”).

Our analysis of the early modern vocabulary of marriage has perhaps succeeded in conveying the difficulties with which our sources confront us at almost every turn. It is also clear that the old Hungarian system of marriage cannot be decoded solely with the help of the invitations and ritual books—only with the help of reference points outside the text can we free ourselves from the influence of our own era. We must move beyond and examine the ecclesiastical law background and conceptual network that defined the content and interrelationship of the above expressions.

 

The Evolution of Christian Marriage Law in a Nutshell

At first Christianity prescribed no formal marriage ceremony for its adherents; from the mid-fourth century on, however, the practice of the priest blessing marriages after the fact spread. Although the blessing was by no means necessary for the validity of the marriage, later nevertheless it was around it that a nuptial mass gradually crystalized, and as the last stage of the process the marriage ceremony of the church. In this evolution, the twelfth century, when marriage—primarily based on the teachings of Saint Augustine—finally earned its placed among the sacraments, was of crucial importance. The consequence in this life of the acceptance of the sacramental nature was the veritable “reformation” of marriage law and, through it, of society.16 The church thereafter increasingly lay claim to the oversight of marriages, and demanded for itself the right to adjudicate them as well, while it regarded marriage as indissoluble. A new ideal equal in rank to celibacy was born,17 the institutional regulation of which was formed with the incorporation of important elements of Roman law. The most important borrowing undoubtedly was the basic principle that only a free act of agreement between two persons (consensus) with no external coercion could establish a marriage, which was a radical departure from the view emphasizing the exclusive right of the extended family of Germanic law to decide.18

Two great twelfth-century canonical schools were allotted a crucial role in shaping the details of the reform: the Parisian school, representing the Gallic church, and the Bolognese school, closely linked to the Italian church (ecclesia cisalpina). The Parisians, led by Peter Lombard [Petrus Lombardus] (†1164) and the Bolognese, associated with the name of Gratian [Gratianus], agreed on the primacy of consensus and the indissolubility of marriage, though their opinions differed over which act contained the sacrament that ultimately sealed the marital relationship.19 According to Gratian, this element was the consummation of the marriage (copula carnalis), therefore an unconsummated marriage (conjugium initiatum) could be dissolved, and of two declarations of consensus it was always the consummated one (conjugium ratum) that was the valid one, regardless of chronological order. The Parisian school, however, believed to have discovered the sacrament in the declaration of the will to marry itself and sought to achieve the consolidation of the institution of marriage by introducing an additional concept of Roman law, betrothal in today’s sense. It is in the canonical works of Ivo of Chartres (†1116) that the view first appears, which distinguishes the betrothal (sponsalia de futuro), containing a pledge in the future and dissoluble, from the marriage (sponsalia de praesenti), articulating a present-tense promise and regarded as completely indissoluble. By adopting this distinction, the Parisian school—at least on a theoretical plane—created the system of Christian marriages known today. In their view, if a person entered into two “betrothals” (sponsalia), the one in which the intention to marry is expressed by the exchange of words of present consent (de praesenti) was the valid one, and the issue of which was consummated was not crucial. While Gratian carried forward the traditional notion of a processual marriage (placing, it is true, unusually great emphasis on consummation), the Parisian school tied the establishment of the marriage to a single act, the sponsalia de praesenti.20

It was Pope Alexander III (1159–1181), recognized as a canon lawyer as well, who settled the debate between the two schools, in essence more inclined to agree with the Parisian school. Gratian’s views regarding the significant legal role played by consummation prevailed in merely two particulars: in the event of an unconsummated marriage the church permitted the spouses to enter a religious order; and it recognized that consummation transformed the intention to marry expressed by words of future consent into a valid marriage (sponsalia de futuro carnali copula subsecuta).21

Although these changes were meant to increase ecclesiastical influence over marriage, as a result of the exclusive emphasis of consensus, in a given situation they provided an opportunity to evade ecclesiastical and societal rules. For the church, because of its own principles of canon law, was also forced to recognize the validity of those marriages concluded out of the public eye and without formal ceremonies, or even without seeking the parents’ consent (matrimonium clandestinum).22 Thus it is understandable that the fight against clandestine marriages became one of the engines for the development of marriage law. In the eyes of the church marriage remained a sacrament that the parties bestowed to one other, but for this there was an increasing demand for public scrutiny and the authenticating role of the priest.23 Accordingly, the Fourth Lateran Council (1215) prescribed the priestly blessing of marriages, and in addition considered the reading of the banns three times in advance and the presence of witnesses to be necessary. It is true, however, that this regulation did not call the validity of clandestine marriages into question either.24

Yet the late medieval evolution ultimately brought about the slow but continuous strengthening of the church’s role. In many places the church ceremony confined itself to a blessing of the contracted marriage after the fact, but elsewhere it now became linked to some act of the traditionally multiphase marriage, for example, the rite of handing over the bride (traditio/Trauung). Here the priest was promoted from prominent witness to master of ceremonies: instead of the bride’s relative or an entrusted third person it was now he who placed the girl into the groom’s hand, while the ceremony moved from private homes and public spaces to the churches. At first it appeared that the Reformation was creating a new marriage law radically departing from the medieval one. Luther after a brief vacillation rejected the sacramental nature of marriage. Accordingly, he no longer regarded it as indissoluble either, calling it in fact a secular matter, by this he meant that it belonged among the institutions of the world that came into existence after the fall from grace, and subject to secular regulation.25 One practical consequence of the line of thought was that the possibility of divorce appeared, while among the impediments to marriage “spiritual kinship” (coming about during baptism) disappeared.26 Although the Reformation removed marriage from among the ranks of the sacraments, it increased its significance vis-à-vis celibacy, held to be harmful, and in the long term this laid the foundations of the superior ecclesiastical notion of marriage almost reminiscent of that of the sacraments.

At first Luther considered the distinction between the two kinds of betrothal (sponsalia de praesenti/de futuro) also to be contrived, a word game, and recognized only one, legally binding betrothal.27 He questioned the constituting power of betrothal only in those cases where its validity was tied to some specific condition. In his view, therefore, it was the betrothal that created the marriage, while within the church ceremony only the public affirmation of the already contracted marriage took place. His opinion is strongly reminiscent of the teachings of the master of the Bolognese school, Gratian, though he does differ from the latter in that he considers parental consent as necessary for the marriage and, unlike Melanchthon or Théodore de Béze, does not attribute primary legal significance to consummation. Luther’s view about the “secular” character of marriage was shared by the great figures of the Swiss Reformation as well, though the renewal of the faith ultimately failed to bring about a revolutionary change in the area of marriage law.28 It is the medieval legacy of the new denominations that makes it comprehensible why in the end, despite Luther’s fierce outbursts against canon lawyers, Protestant ecclesiastical law was established on foundations of medieval canon law and failed to break completely with the distinction between the two kinds of betrothal: the views regarding the question were visibly sharply divided. It may be stated in any case that, like Luther, a significant number of Lutherans saw the public betrothal as the beginning of legal marital relations and regarded the church ceremony that followed it as only a kind of affirmation. It is the medieval roots that explain also why right up until the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the Protestant churches did not necessarily link the validity of the marriage to the church ceremony. However, in their case, too, the ambition to control marriages became increasingly strong, which was reflected in the marital arbitration as well.

The new Catholic Church born in the debates of the Council of Trent, on the other hand, already quite early on resolved itself to a comprehensive regulation of marriage law, first and foremost in order to eliminate clandestine marriages. With the Council of Trent’s so-called decree Tametsi issued in 1563 a new era commenced in the area of marriage. Here those requirements already articulated in the Middle Ages but not consistently enforced were incorporated into a general system: marriages were to be concluded in a church, before the competent parish priest or priest entrusted by him, in the presence of two or three witnesses, and it was necessary to read the banns three times before the wedding because of any potential obstacles to marriage.29 All marriages not satisfying these criteria were deemed invalid. The Catholic Church therefore stepping over the previous theological and canonical reservations broke with the monopoly of consensus, and proclaimed its own collaboration to be indispensable. (It was from this time on that there appeared the widely held view, naturally erroneous in the canon-law sense, that the act establishing the marriage was the joining of the couple by the priest.)

The reorganization exerted a significant influence also on the Protestant denominations, which were trying to introduce similar rules at this same time. As the final result of a lengthy process, by the eighteenth century, with the adoption of the Roman law notion, they too arrived at a result similar to the Catholic regulation, prescribing the church ceremony for the validity of marriages.

 

An Old Debate and Its Hungarian Offshoot

Naturally, the evolution of Christian marriage outlined above is the topic of numerous debates even today, with regard to both the form of the acts and their legal content. From the point of view of our present inquiry (the relationship of the ecclesiastical and secular elements of marriage) a nineteenth-century German legal history debate that hardly crops up in the modern English-language specialist literature, and its completely unknown continuation in Hungary will be the most important for us. It was at the time of the Bismarckian Kulturkampf in Germany that the debate between two extraordinarily well-prepared Lutheran legal historians, the national liberal supporter of the chancellor, Emil Friedberg (1837–1910), and the conservative Rudolph Sohm (1841–1917) about the history of marriage would take place.30 Their positions held quite strong topicality as well, for it was precisely during the debate (in 1875) that compulsory civil marriages were introduced in the German Empire. The debate occurred mostly around the content and origin of the various legal acts: they tried to uncover the role and interrelationship of Germanic, canon and Roman law in the historical formation of West European marriage.

Sohm claimed no less than that the Germanic marriage law had lived on latently, in the guise of scholasticism, in medieval canon law, and from there the basic structure passed over intact into Lutheran ecclesiastical law as well. Of the two phases of the marriage throughout it was the first that remains binding. In the most widespread form of Germanic marriage (Muntehe) this first phase was the betrothal (Verlobung), which the two extended families concluded with one another in the form of an oral contract (later the groom was also allotted an active role), while the second phase is the ceremonial handing over of the bride and the guardianship exercised over her to the groom (Trauung). The marriage, according to Sohm’s theory, was established by the Verlobung, though to purely negative effect, determining that they could not enter into a similar relationship with another person, then during the Trauung as an act of fulfillment the positive impact appeared: namely the marital union. The Gratian-type conjugium initiatum of canon law was nothing less than the Germanic Verlobung, while the conjugium perfectum essentially corresponded to the Germanic Trauung.31 The sole difference was that in canon law the legal function of the Trauung was assumed by consummation (matrimonii consummatio). Sohm also claimed resolutely that the Parisian school’s distinction, elevated to an official position in the twelfth century, had remained a dead letter: the sponsalia de futuro (the betrothal corresponding to today’s notion) originating in Roman law had not taken hold in practice, and throughout the Middle Ages only a single marriage-forming betrothal had existed.32 This was attested also by those words in numerous Germanic and Romance languages that could designate equally spouse and betrothed, as well as betrothal and marriage. (We could note this fact earlier in relation to the Hungarian language as well.) The church ceremony coming into use after the great reform of the twelfth century as a complementary element in his view was connected to the second phase, counting as an act of fulfillment, and not to the betrothal actually establishing the marriage, since it was on the day of the Trauung that the secular celebration of the marriage was held, i.e., the wedding feast in its narrower sense (Hochzeitsfeier), and it appeared logical that the church celebration should also be connected to this.33 With the linking of the element of fulfillment and the church ceremony, however, it was precisely the act forming marriage, the legally crucial betrothal, that had remained unregulated, and this had resulted in the complete irrelevance of the church. The Catholic Church had drawn the lesson at the Council of Trent: it had carried out the first substantive modification of canon law marriage. Recognizing the marriage-constituting force of betrothal, they had changed the church ceremony into a ceremony in the nature of a betrothal, the second phase, the Trauung in fact had ceased to exist, and its remnants came to be linked to the binding betrothal as wedding formulas. However, it was not these words of copulatio that formed the essence of the new church ceremony, but rather the consensus solemnly declared in the presence of the priest as witness. It was now that the distinction formed in the twelfth century became reality: before the sponsalia de praesenti as marriage solemnized by the church’s involvement, the genuine, modern betrothal that originated in Roman law and could no longer be changed into a marriage through consummation, appeared in the Catholic matrimonial ritual.

The Lutherans, according to Sohm, had tread a different path. Luther had by no means opposed the essence of canonical teachings when he deemed the entirely theoretical distinction between the sponsalia de futuro and sponsalia de praesenti to be word play but rather had simply registered the previously widespread perception.34 As Sohm saw it, Lutheran church law in the sixteenth century had completely preserved the marriage system of medieval canon law, with the betrothal that created a legal relationship, and the fulfillment of the contract, consummation. Over the course of the seventeenth century this had been altered in that it was the church ceremony emerging around the handover transaction of Germanic law (Trauung), at first in addition to consummation, and later completely assuming its role, that represented the second, contract-fulfilling act. And this would have restored the original Germanic marriage system, which only the reception of Roman marriage law in the eighteenth century effaced.35

Friedberg’s views, expounded with similar erudition, were diametrically opposed to the above ideas. For him, already in the era of Germanic law it was the second phase, the Trauung, that established the marriage, and in his view this remained so in canon law as well. Friedberg believed that the Verlobung of Germanic law over the course of the Middle Ages had fused into the Trauung, forming a single act of marriage, and it was as preparation for this that the betrothal originating in Roman law (sponsalia de futuro) appeared in the twelfth century. The sponsalia de praesenti establishing the marriage, likewise adopted from Roman law, in turn appears as one of the elements of the new complex Trauung. It was precisely in this that the canon lawyer believed to have discovered the proof that it was the Trauung that had been the start of marriage in earlier times, too.

Thus, according to Freidberg the distinction of the Parisian school had indeed taken root, and in fact had become generally accepted in canon law. He calls into question the significance of Gratian’s teachings.36 In his opinion, the significance of the Tridentine reform lies not in the fact that it joins the church ceremony to the act establishing the marriage, since it had been connected to it up until then, but rather in that with the complete fading of the legal significance of the Trauung the last elements of Germanic law also disappeared from the marriage rite formed on the basis of Roman law in the twelfth century.

Friedberg naturally thought differently about Luther as well. In his assessment, the reformer had adopted the binding betrothal not from the hated medieval canon law but from the church fathers. Although the Luther-type “sponsalia theory” had won acceptance in Lutheran church law (and betrothals, in contrast to Sohm’s view, were regarded as marriages possessing full legal force), in practice because of the resistance of society and the secular authorities it had penetrated but little.37 Critical voices among Lutheran church lawyers appear already in the seventeenth century, then in the eighteenth century the influence of natural law displaced the archaic notion introduced by Luther, which was completely at variance with medieval practice as well.38

From the above it is perhaps clear that both theories contain numerous speculative elements, and it is their strength that is also their weakness: they seek to provide a unitary, comprehensive explanation for the development of marriage in Western Europe. The seeds of the debate in Germany a decade later sprouted in Hungary. This is no coincidence, for in the decades prior to the introduction of compulsory civil marriage (1894) in Hungary, too, interest in the history of marriage customs increased greatly. Gyula Kováts’s (1849–1935) work A házasságkötés Magyarországon egyházi és polgári jog szerint [Marriage in Hungary according to Ecclesiastical and Civil Law] appeared in 1883, followed in 1887 by Baron Ervin Roszner’s (1852–1928) strongly polemical monograph.39 A heated scholarly debate erupted between the two canon lawyers, followed with lively attention by educated public opinion as well. The Protestant Kováts emerged as a follower of Sohm, while the Catholic Roszner championed Friedberg’s teachings.

Although more than one renowned legal historian of the era paid tribute to Roszner’s accomplishment, nevertheless in hindsight it is evident that in a few important questions we must side with the much better trained Kováts, who adapted his German master’s theses independently. For us, the most interesting element of the dispute is the same question that earlier had caused the greatest commotion in Germany too: the presumed marriage-forming nature of betrothal. In the course of the debate Roszner succeeded in proving that the distinction between sponsalia de praesenti and de futuro in the thirteenth century cropped up in legal documents in Hungary (later, sporadically, in diplomas as well), and on the basis of this he presumed that the modern ritual had appeared in Hungary already in the Middle Ages, with the betrothal that created the engaged relationship, and the subsequent marriage.40 Kováts by contrast argued that although the distinction had been known in theory, in practice for a very long time only one marriage-forming betrothal, called desponsatio or desponsatio per verba de praesenti in Latin, had existed, followed after a certain interval by a secular act of fulfillment incorporating consummation as an essential moment: the wedding feast.41 (In the Hungarian canon lawyer’s theory this occupied the place of Sohm’s Trauung, originating in Germanic law, becoming over time part of the church ceremony.) From his writings it is strongly apparent that he himself could not decide with absolute certainty: to which phase of the marriage the church ceremony, at this time still insignificant in a legal sense, was typically linked—the first: marriage-binding betrothal, the second: the wedding feast (lakodalom), or perhaps occurring as a third element in time between the betrothal and the wedding feast (lakodalom). As far as can be discerned from his obscure formulations, he considers perhaps the first version to be the most widespread, though he does not reflect at all on how strongly he diverges from Sohm’s thinking in this regard. Kováts believed that this custom―at times with the temporal separation of the betrothal (kézfogó) serving as marriage and the church wedding (összeadás)―had predominated, for Catholics until the reception of the Council of Trent while for Protestants right up until the mid-eighteenth century.42 The great strength of his argument, compared not only to Roszner’s thinking but Sohm’s as well, was that his attention also extended to the role played by the wedding feast in the marriage. (For Sohm the wedding feast was merely a secular celebration accompanying the Trauung always held on the same day as the latter, to which he attributes no great significance despite the fact that it serves as the framework for consummation—essentially he considers it a sort of appendage to the second phase.) Although Kováts’s assertions, formulated partly following Sohm and partly on the basis of his own research, are highly generalizing, and debatable with regard to the legal content of certain acts, his theory as an attempt at description nevertheless can offer a strong basis for analysis.

Marriage Practice in Medieval and Early Modern Hungary

One of the Hungarian canon lawyer’s most important guiding threads in the issue of betrothal was Transylvanian memoir literature. It was Gyula Kováts who first read with a truly keen eye the description of marriages given by Baron Péter Apor (1676–1752) in his nostalgic Hungarian-language work about the everyday life of the Transylvanian nobility in the seventeenth century. The text, apart from the blessing of the nuptial table, mentions only one church ceremony, specifically in connection with the “handfasting.” According to the author of the Metamorphosis Transylvaniae, among the Transylvanian nobility the custom was that immediately after the exchange of rings:

 

... the young man sent again his two relatives and called on the girl to pledge herself. Then the father and mother and their relatives once more brought out the girl and the ceremony took place. There was a decent cloth on the table, and another was spread on the ground in front of it, and the priest stood in front with his back to the table facing the assembled company; the young man came forth and stood on the cloth, a female relative led the girl forth, and the priest administered the vows. When the ceremony was concluded the girl was led inside once more (translation by Bernard Adams).43

 

The authenticity of Apor’s description is buttressed by the autobiography of Miklós Bethlen (1642–1716) as well. Reading his account of the two marriages carefully, it is unequivocal that on both occasions the wedding (church ceremony) took place only within the framework of the betrothal, while the feast following the rather large-scale event was merely a feast and nothing more.44

Kováts also uses the bible of traditional Hungarian noble customary law, István Werbőczi’s Tripartitum (1514) as support for his theory. The legal scholar in the first part of his work writes that sons are freed from paternal authority through division of the estate and daughters by the desponsatio and the nuptiarum sollemnitas.45 Because a Roman-law type de futuro betrothal could not have involved such a legal consequence, it is therefore unequivocal in his opinion that the former expression must be translated as a binding betrothal, and the latter as wedding feast. The identification of the nuptiarum sollemnitas in addition is aided by the fact that Werbőczi equates it with consummation by inserting the Latin conjunction sive (“that is”).

Although Kováts unfortunately ignores the ritual books (and his work suffered from this), nonetheless he does list one Calvinist ecclesiastical source rejecting the distinction between the betrothal and the marriage among the main proofs for his theory. This is a work of ecclesiastical law appearing in 1690 and written by Márton Szilágyi, from the Tiszántúl (region east of the Tisza River): the Triga divortialis, which in its outlook truly stands quite close to the old teachings of Gratian.46 Kováts’s observations about the form of the marriage can be supported, apart from the already quoted wedding invitations, primarily with narrative sources: for example, noble diaries, which are excellent records of the schedule of customs. In these it frequently occurs that the church ceremony (handfasting, vow-taking) is joined not to the wedding feast, but to the betrothal. However, in general the two elements are clearly distinguished from one another.47

Among the sources of the church administration, too, we find ones attesting to the fact that the church ceremony did not, or more precisely did not always occur within the framework of the wedding feast (lakodalom). The church visitation register of István Csulyak Miskolci, the Calvinist dean of Zemplén County (1629–1645), contains the following requirement, reflecting the multiplicity of practice: that “those who do not wed at the time of their betrothal (kézfogáskor) should wed in the morning, and in the church.”48 The 1649 ecclesiastical law book of the Transylvanian Calvinist bishop István Geleji Katona prescribes that not much time should pass between the joining of the couple (copulatio) and the wedding feast (nuptiae), lest the couple become intimate ahead of time or, on the contrary, quarrel.49

In examining the relationship of the ecclesiastical and secular elements of marriage ethnographic research also comes to our aid. It was the best known Hungarian researcher of folk legal customs, Ernő Tárkány Szűcs, who observed that in a few conservative Calvinist villages in southern Hungary the handfasting (kézfogó) likewise used to be held in the church, before a priest.50 Among the Hungarians of Slavonia, this ceremony assured the groom the right also to sleep with his fiancée. The author himself thought that the phenomenon was the remnant of an archaic set of customs, in which the contracting of a marriage consisted of merely two elements: the betrothal performed in the presence of the church and the consummation. More recently, researching the ecclesiastical administration of justice, Réka Kiss pointed out that in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Hungary and Transylvania the church wedding ceremony (esküvő) was often linked to the betrothal and in such instances preceded the completely secular wedding feast.51

However, we also possess ample sources that prove the existence in the medieval and early modern eras of the custom known today: the church ceremony integrated into the wedding feast, and the betrothal preceding it. For example, it is unequivocally in connection with the menyegző that the 1538 special statute of Beszterce, citing the provisions of the Hochzeitsordnungen (wedding ordinances) of Germany, stipulates that only as many bridesmaids (nyoszolyólány) escort the bride to the church as can be seated at one table.52

Elsewhere we likewise encounter wedding feast linked with wedding ceremony (and with the betrothal, or exchange of rings, presumably preceding it, functionally corresponding to that of today). One such is the menyegző combined with kézfogó (i.e., wedding) of György Thurzó’s daughter Judit in 1607.53 Nor must we forget that a significant number of the early modern Protestant ritual books not consulted by Gyula Kováts record the custom known today. Finally, we must mention also that in a few of our sixteenth-century invitations from Beszterce the impending event is called hitelés rather than the customary menyegző, which almost certainly indicates that the church ceremony was held within the framework of the wedding feast.

Apart from the two basic form of marriage presented, additional variants crop up in early modern Hungary: it is very likely that the separation and joining together of the different elements of the church marriage (copulatio, vows, exchange of rings, nuptial blessing), as well as their varying connection to the wedding feast, brought about numerous variations.54 Instructive is the case of a seventeenth-century Lutheran noble, Mihály Libercsey, whose first marriage in 1638 occurred entirely according to the modern custom: he became engaged to the girl with an exchange of rings, then the wedding feast was celebrated on the same day as the kézfogás (= wedding).55 After becoming widowed he remarried, but this time following a completely different schedule. On April 3, 1667 he became engaged to the widow of György Zmeskál, Anna Aranyadi, in Lestina [Leštiny, Slovakia], the next day he “takes her as a wife,” while they hold their wedding feast on May 1, 1667 in the castle of Gács [Halič, Slovakia].56 The betrothal and the handfasting presumably incorporating the church ceremony as well here almost coincide (though they are clearly distinct), while the wedding feast became detached in time and space.

 

Conclusion

Based on the above, a unitary, pure picture of the forms of marriages like that which the German and Hungarian legal historians of the nineteenth century believed to see, can certainly not be drawn. All signs indicate that in medieval and early modern Hungary and Transylvania several forms of marriage existed. The Tridentine reform of marriage and the similar resolutions of the Protestant synods later on gradually made the modern betrothal and the wedding ceremony (esküvő) integrated into the wedding feast (lakodalom) a general practice. However, the invitations from Beszterce and other sources reveal that, prior to the reception of the Decree Tametsi and the complete consolidation of Protestant marriage law, a betrothal closely linked to the church ceremony and a purely secular wedding feast formed one of the basic types, which we may by no means consider a rare exception.

It may also be rightly assumed that among commoners despite prohibitions in numerous cases the church’s collaboration was lacking.57 Some of the European parallels likewise show the long survival of clandestine marriages and diversity.58 The Protestant and Catholic ritual books of the seventeenth century reveal that the church did not insist firmly in every case on the church building as the venue for administering the vows. The uniform timetable and form of marriage in Hungary emerged as the result of a very long process, through the gradual encroachment of ecclesiastical supervision. We as yet cannot see clearly the existing territorial, confessional and societal differences in regard to marriage, nor the date when the unification occurred in the various areas of the country. We suspect that in many areas this transpired only in the eighteenth century. Indeed, even in an early ethnographic description of customs, György Nemesnépi Zakál’s 1818 work on the ethnography of the Őrség region, the wedding feast figures as an event separate from the church wedding in time. (True, the church ceremony is preceded by a “modern” betrothal.)59

It is not by chance that we spoke about the form of marriage above. At the forefront of Rudolph Sohm’s and Gyula Kováts’s inquiry—being legal historians—is not this, but rather the legal content of the marriage acts. Kováts considered betrothal as constituting marriages not only in those cases when they were paired with the administration of wedding vows, but rather he regarded every betrothal as establishing marriage, regardless of the form it took. This was specifically because he denied the validity of the canonical distinction that appeared in the twelfth century separating the betrothal from the marriage. (Regarding the characteristic form, he in fact diametrically opposes Sohm: according to the German canon lawyer, the church act, for a long time insignificant, was always connected to the second stage of the marriage.) In Kováts’s works the questions of legal content and form become blurred in a very misleading way. The historical sources from Hungary that he cites to demonstrate the marriage-binding betrothal in reality prove only the temporal separation of the wedding feast and the wedding, as well as the frequent coincidence of the betrothal and the church ceremony, that is, the physical sequence of the events. Today scholars view the marriage of Germanic law, which served as Sohm’s standard, differently as well: in addition to Verlobung and Trauung, they interpret the “taking home of the bride” (Heimführung), as well as the ritual placing of the couple into the nuptial bed (Beilager), very important from the point of view of property law, as an independent, temporally separate, third phase introducing marital life.60 Through the change in outlook it was the acts of the wedding feast in fact that assumed independent legal meaning. Moreover similar developments in research obviously dismantle the perfect symmetry of nineteenth-century theoretical systems. Must we completely reject the views of the German canon lawyer and his Hungarian follower concerning the binding betrothal? We think not, because in addition to the opinion victorious in the great debate of the twelfth century, the Gratian-type position, which did not accept the betrothal of Roman law (de futuro), reappeared time and again with varying intensity. It is our strong suspicion that ultimately it is to this legal outlook, gaining strength once again after the Reformation, that the past tense forms appearing in Hungarian wedding vows and banns, as well as the wedding invitations of the sixteenth century, can be traced back, and not to the fact that in terms of form the betrothal happened to occur in combination with the administration of the vows. A further argument in favor of the existence of the notion of marriage-forming betrothal, and against the general and fully clear distinction between betrothal and marriage is the prominent fact that in the early modern era both the Latin and Hungarian languages each had a very widespread term which, as we saw, was equally applied to both acts (desponsatio/kézfogás). And this allows us to conclude that the undifferentiated betrothal of medieval marriages only slowly disappeared from both spoken usage and practice.61

Therefore, the simplest and most concrete results of our examination are the following. From the point of view of the historical sciences, one of the serious lessons is that we must proceed very cautiously in analyzing our medieval and early modern sources: the Latin nuptiae, the Hungarian words menyegző and later lakodalom may designate both a purely secular celebration as well as an occasion that incorporates the church ceremony. The Latin desponsatio and its verbal forms may denote not only a simple betrothal (sponsalia de futuro) but also a betrothal contracting marriage, i.e., “wedding” (sponsalia de praesenti).62

For ethnographic research, in turn, it may be very interesting that in the event of a binding form of betrothal (betrothal + administering of vows) followed by a separate feast (lakodalom) all those liminal rites63 that in a wedding integrated into the feast (known from twentieth-century popular culture) immediately precede the church ceremony, here occur later: do prepare the taking home of the bride or the consummation; moreover, they occur within the framework of a secular feast. The emphasis fall completely elsewhere, it is not the church wedding ceremony that is the great turning-point of the ritual. In addition to making the Trident conditions compulsory this may be one of the crucial moment when the church exercised decisive influence on folk culture. That the integration of the wedding ceremony into the lakodalom fundamentally altered the secular rites of marriage is clearly shown by nineteenth-century ethnographic collections as well. From all parts of the Hungarian language territory we have data from this time that after the wedding ceremony the couple and the two wedding parties withdrew from the church separately and went to separate houses to have lunch as if nothing had happened.64 Only in the afternoon, after the meal had been consumed, did the groom’s wedding party set out for the bridal house, so that the final requesting the bride (kikérés) and solemn handing over of the bride (from an ecclesiastical point of view already wife) to happen in dramatic form, which is followed by the sad farewell of the bride from her kinfolk and her companions and her being led over to the groom’s house. (The above liminal rites clearly indicate that in the given system the leading of the bride to the groom’s house [átvezetés/hazavitel = leading over, taking home] is the most important secular element of the marriage.) This peculiar sequence of nuptial events, widespread in Hungary but not occurring in the West European descriptions of customs known to us, the requesting after the church wedding in our opinion mirrors the fact that the rigid structure of the feast, in its basic form purely secular, only gradually adapted to the insertion of the church ceremony, only after some delay. If we regard the late rise of ethnographic collecting, we now see that the abovementioned liminal rites as the indicators of the crucial event shifted to an earlier time, that is, they immediately precede the church wedding ceremony.

With the help of the sixteenth-century wedding invitations sent to the Transylvanian town of Beszterce we have perhaps succeeded in showing that, in addition to the much-interrogated protocol records and documents of ecclesiastical courts, other sources may also take us closer to the labyrinthine system of medieval and early modern marriages. Their serious advantage over the litigation material is that they are witnesses not of deviations from the norm but rather of everyday practice. The invitations, the narrative and legal sources called upon to assist in their analysis, as well as the ethnographic data all point in the direction that not even in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries can we speak of the full realization of twelfth- and thirteenth-century ecclesiastical regulation in the Kingdom of Hungary and the Principality of Transylvania. Perhaps the denominational variety of the territory also played a role in this, but a comprehensive explanation can hardly be the task of our brief study.

 

Archival Sources

Arhivele Naţionale Direcţia Judeteană Cluj, Primăria oraşului Bistriţa [Cluj County Branch of the National Archives of Romania in Cluj, Archive of the Town of Bistriţa] III. a. 2. Magistratsprotokoll 1525–1541.

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Nógrád Megyei Levéltára. XIV.3. Nagy Iván akadémikus-történész iratai. [Nógrád County Branch of the National Archives of Hungary, Balassagyarmat, Documents of the historian Iván Nagy].

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára. P 481. Madách család levéltára [National Archives of Hungary, Central Archive in Budapest, Documents of the Madách Family].

 

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Translated by Matthew Caples

1 A set of important books: Jack Goody, The Development of the Family and Marriage in Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983); Steven E. Ozment, When Fathers Ruled: Family Life in Reformation Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983); John R. Gillis, For Better, for Worse: British Marriages, 1600 to the Present (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985); Christiane Klapisch-Zuber, Woman, Family and Ritual in Renaissance Italy (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1987); and Joel Francis Harrington, Reordering Marriage and Society in Reformation Germany (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995). Regarding the marriage law, see Hartwig Dieterich, Das protestantische Eherecht in Deutschland bis zur Mitte des 17. Jahrhunderts (Munich: Claudius Verlag, 1970); John Witte, Jr., Law and Protestantism: The Legal Teachings of the Lutheran Reformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 199–256; and Philipp L. Reynolds, “Marrying and Its Documentation in Pre-Modern Europe: Consent, Celebration and Property,” in To Have and to Hold: Marrying and Its Documentation in Western Christendom 400–1600, ed. Philipp L. Reynolds and John Witte, Jr. (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 1–42.

2 The probably best-known book based on records of medieval ecclesiastical courts is Charles Donahue, Jr., Law, Marriage, and Society in the Later Middle Ages: Arguments About Marriage in Five Courts (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007). About the Hungarian applicants of the late Middle Ages at a central church court (Sacra Poenitentiaria Apostolica) in Rome, see Gabriella Erdélyi, “‘Szerettem egyszer egy nőt’: Házasságkötés és házasságtörés 1500 körül,” Történelmi Szemle 49, no. 2 (2007): 165–78.

3 To cite one example: Conor McCarthy, Marriage in Medieval England: Law, Literature and Practice (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2004).

4 About the concept of early modern “big wedding,” see Gillis, For Better, 55–83, and Hans Deltmer, Die Figur des Hochzeitsbitters: Untersuchungen zum hochzeitlichen Einladungsvorgang und zu den Erscheinungsformen. Geschichte und Verbreitung einer Brauchgestalt (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1976), 16–42.

5 Ildikó Horn, Andrea Kreutzer, and András Péter Szabó, ed., Politika és házasság: Menyegzőre hívogató levelek a 16. századi Erdélyből (Budapest: ELTE BTK, 2005). For my detailed interdisciplinary analysis of the published wedding invitations in Hungarian (including, among other things, a presentation of the social background of the invitations and an analysis of marriage seasonality), see András Péter Szabó, “Menyegzőtől menyegzőig: Gondolatok a házasságkötési szokásrend magyarországi fejlődéséről,” Századok 144 (2010): 1027–83.

6 Important publications of Hungarian ethnography on marriage rites include: Ferenc Bakó, Palócföldi lakodalom (Budapest: Gondolat, 1987); and Lajos Balázs, Az én első tisztességes napom: Párválasztás és lakodalom Csíkszentdomokoson (Bucharest: Kriterion, 1994).

7 Bakó, Palócföldi lakodalom, 135–36.

8 An early example (from 1446): Georg Steinhausen, ed., Deutsche Privatbriefe des Mittelalters, vol. 1, Fürsten und Magnaten, Edle und Ritter (Berlin: Heyfelder, 1899), 44–45, no. 58.

9 Albert Szenci Molnár, Dictionarium Latinoungaricum (Nürnberg: Elias Hutter, 1604), without page numbering, word “nuptiae”.

10 Bernward Deneke, Hochzeit (Munich: Prestel, 1971), 7. Christian Rubi, Hochzeit im Bernerland (Wabern: Büchler-Verlag, 1971), 42–43.

11 The Latin–Hungarian dictionary of Ferenc Pápai Páriz (first published in 1708) reflects this changing usage, although in some cases listing also the older term “menyegző;” Ferenc Pápai Páriz, Dictionarium Latino–Hungaricum (Bratislava: Johann Michael Landerer, 1801), 418.

12 E.g., the handfasting of Judit Thurzó on November 25, 1607 was definitely a church wedding and not a betrothal. Documents published in Béla Radvánszky, Magyar családélet és háztartás a XVI. és XVII. században, vol. 3 (Budapest: Helikon, 1986), 6–8, no. 12.

13 One interesting comparison: in English “I take thee as wife/husband” was a typical verbal formulation of present consent and not designed to be used at betrothals; Donahue, Law, Marriage, 17.

14 Dániel Bárth, Esküvő, keresztelő, avatás: Egyház és népi kultúra a kora újkori Magyarországon (Budapest: MTA–ELTE, 2005), 105.

15 Bárth, Esküvő, keresztelő, 106–7.

16 Harrington, Reordering Marriage, 134–42.

17 Franz Falk, Die Ehe am Ausgang des Mittelalters: Eine kirchen- und kulturhistorische Studie (Freiburg: Herder, 1908).

18 McCarthy, Marriage, 13–14.

19 Ozment, When Fathers, 26–27.

20 Reynolds, “Marrying,” 8–11.

21 Donahue, Law, Marriage, 16–17.

22 Gillis, For Better, 20.

23 Ozment, When Fathers, 25–26; Reynolds, “Marrying,” 12–13.

24 Harrington, Reordering Marriage, 57; Donahue, Law, Marriage, 32.

25 Dieterich, Das protestantische, 24–74; Witte, Law and Protestantism, 5–9, 201. Calvin, too, acknowledged the basically secular nature of marriage; Goody, The Development, 167.

26 On the medieval diriment or impedient impediments of marriage, see: Goody, The Development, 110–45; Donahue, Law, Marriage, 18–31.

27 Witte, Law and Marriage, 233–37.

28 John Witte dates the turning point of Lutheran approach (i.e., the first comeback of canon law) to the 1530s (Witte, Law and Protestantism, 199–256); Harrington, Reordering Marriage, 16–17, 273–78.

29 Reynolds, “Marrying,” 17.

30 Emil Friedberg, Das Recht der Eheschließung in seiner geschichtlichen Entwicklung (Leipzig: Verlag von Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1865); Rudolph Sohm, Das Recht der Eheschließung aus dem deutschen und canonischen Recht geschichtlich entwickelt: Eine Antwort auf die Frage nach dem Verhältnis der kirchlichen Trauung zur Civilehe (Weimar: Böhlau, 1875); Emil Friedberg: Verlobung und Trauung. Zugleich als Kritik von Sohm das Recht der Eheschliessung (Leipzig: Verlag von Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1876); Rudolf Sohm, Trauung und Verlobung: Eine Entgegnung auf Friedberg: Verlobung und Trauung (Weimar: Böhlau, 1876). For a brief reference to the debate: Harrington, Reordering Marriage, 4. About the historical context: Stefan Ruppert, Kirchenrecht und Kulturkampf: Historische Legitimation, politische Mitwirkung und wissenschaftliche Begleitung durch die Schule Emil Ludwig Richters (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 118–20.

31 Sohm, Trauung und Verlobung, 61–62.

32 Sohm, Trauung und Verlobung, 74–108.

33 Sohm, Das Recht, 187.

34 Sohm, Trauung und Verlobung, 110–23.

35 A recent application of Sohm’s theory: Richard von Dülmen, Kultur und Alltag in der frühen Neuzeit, vol. 1, Das Haus und seine Menschen (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1990), 144–48.

36 Friedberg, Verlobung und Trauung, 32–34.

37 Friedberg, Das Recht, 153–75 and 203–10.

38 Friedberg, Verlobung und Trauung, 70–78.

39 Gyula Kováts, A házasságkötés Magyarországon egyházi és polgári jog szerint (Budapest: Hoffmann és Molnár, 1883); Ervin Roszner, Régi magyar házassági jog (Budapest: Franklin-Társulat, 1887).

40 Roszner, Régi magyar, 70–78.

41 For the most detailed explanation of Kováts’s views, see Gyula Kováts, Szilágyi Márton tanítása az eljegyzésről 1690 (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia, 1885).

42 Kováts, Szilágyi Márton, 61–68.

43 Baron Péter Apor of Altorja, Metamorphosis Transylvaniae, trans. Bernard Adams (London: Kegan Paul, 2003), 56.

44 Miklós Bethlen, The Autobiography of Miklós Bethlen, trans. Bernard Adams (London: Kegan Paul, 2004), 241, 351–52.

45 János Bak, Péter Banyó, and Martyn Rady, ed. and trans., The Customary Law of the Renowned Kingdom of Hungary: a Work in Three Parts Rendered by Stephen Werbőczy: The “Tripartitum” (Los Angeles: Charles Schlacks, 2005), 118–19.

46 Kováts, Szilágyi Márton, 19–38.

47 E.g., Kálmán Szily, ed., “Farkas Pál és Farkas Ádám följegyzései 1638-tól 1694-ig,” Történelmi Tár (1884): 91.

48 Jenő Zoványi, ed., “Miskolci Csulyak István zempléni református esperes (1629–1645) egyházlátogatási jegyzőkönyvei,” Történelmi Tár (1906): 64.

49 István Geleji Katona, Canones ecclesiastici: Ex veteribus quam Hungariensibus, quam Transilvaniensibus in unum collecti, plerisque tamen aliis etiam pro temporis ratione aucti, ac in paulo meliorem ordinem redacti (Gyulafehérvár/Alba Julia: n.p., 1649), 33–34.

50 Ernő Tárkány Szűcs, Magyar jogi népszokások (Budapest: Gondolat, 1981), 336–38.

51 Réka Kiss, Egyház és közösség a kora újkorban: A Küküllői Református Egyházmegye 17–18. századi iratainak tükrében (Budapest: Akadémiai, 2011), 106–9.

52 Arhivele Naţionale Direcţia Judeteană Cluj, Primăria oraşului Bistriţa [III, a, 2, Magistratsprotokoll 1525–1541], 46–47.

53 Gabriella Weichhart, Keresztelő, házasság és temetés Magyarországon 1600–1630 (Budapest: Stephaneum, 1911), 11–13.

54 About the church rites of marriage and ritual books in early modern Hungary, see Bárth, Esküvő, keresztelő, 39–142.

55 9. October 1638. Wedding invitation of Mihály Libercsey. Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Nógrád Megyei Levéltára XIV, 3. Nagy Iván akadémikus-történész iratai D/1, fol. 1810.

56 The data comes from the diary of the Libercsey Family: Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára P 481. Madách család levéltára, fasc. IV, no. 14, fols. 13–38.

57 Bakó, Palóc lakodalom, 31; Kiss, Egyház és közösség, 115–18.

58 Lawrence Stone, Road to Divorce: England 1530–1987 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 51–66; Klapisch-Zuber, Woman, Family, 181–212.

59 György Nemesnépi Zakál, “Őrségnek leírása,” in Magyar tájak néprajzi felfedezői, ed. Attila Paládi-Kovács (Budapest: Gondolat, 1985), 45.

60 Jörg Wettlaufer, “Beilager und Bettleite im Ostseeraum (13–19. Jahrhundert): Eine vergleichende Studie zum Wandel von Recht und Brauchtum der Eheschließung,” in Tisch und Bett: Die Hochzeit im Ostseeraum seit dem 13. Jahrhundert, ed. Thomas Riis (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1998), 81–128.

61 About the marriage contracting betrothal of the early Middle Ages, see Reynolds, “Marrying,” 4–7.

62 Reynolds, “Marrying,” 11.

63 Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (London: Routledge, 2004), 1–14, 116–45.

64 Bakó, Palócföldi lakodalom, 57–60.

pdfVolume 3 Issue 1 CONTENTS

György Kövér

“A Satisfactory Combination in Every Respect…”

The Spouse Selection Dilemmas of a Young Man of the Christian Middle Class at the Turn of the Century

This case study looks at how a late nineteenth-century diarist from Hungary approached the problem of finding a wife. His system was to make lists of the ladies he met in various social circles, and appraise their potential benefits and drawbacks. In later life, he also left memoirs of his youth, although these make few references to the dilemmas he faced in choosing a wife. The literature on spouse selection focuses on the relative weights of socio-economic motives and “emotional-affective” conditions in courtship. How much did parents and relatives have a say in the choice, and how much did the decision rest on the young people’s individual will, or feelings of love? How much were the norms and the actual relationships differentiated by social class and gender? What was the balance between interests and emotions in the final outcome? Alajos Paikert (1866–1948), taken as a representative of the non-gentry middle class, did attempt to meet family expectations, but did not leave the choice to his parents. He wanted to find his future partner himself. The diary is a document of internal struggle, but is less concerned with feelings than with desires, possibilities and calculations. By bringing in other sources, however, the historian can try to work out what lay behind the words.

Keywords: gender relations, spouse selection, courtship, marriage

Max Weber’s primary operationalized index of “ständische Lage” (which in American sociology became simply “status”) was connubium, or who marries whom.1 Weber here was not thinking of status in its historical-legal sense, but of “behavioral-sociological” status. If we relate this concept to nineteenth-century Hungarian history, then in the pre-1848 (Vormärz) period, this might mean marriage of noble and bourgeois young people within their own groups, and in the second half of the nineteenth century, when “the society of Estates” was breaking down, it manifested itself much more as an expression of the endogamy of occupational or socio-cultural groups.

Historiography oriented to modernization, or more broadly, to evolution, has also come up with a model of the long-term development of spouse-selection strategies. This sees a dominance in traditional societies of socio-economic interests rather than “emotional-affective” relations.2 In the transition to modern society—which Lawrence Stone sees as having taken place in England and New England in the second half of the seventeenth and in the eighteenth century—the spread of individualism resulted in a radical shift of emphasis. Young people increasingly took the decisions themselves, of course leaving their parents the power of veto over socially or economically unacceptable candidates.3 The general picture naturally has some social differentiation, in that wealth strongly influenced the possibility and justification for intervention by parents and relatives, and there must have been numerous types and variants within each group.4

A decade later, although maintaining his views on the direction and phasing of the process, Stone put his argument much more subtly:

At all levels of society, there was a complex admixture of emotion and interest, affection and calculation, and a complex interaction between the wishes of the individuals and those of their ‘friends.’ The higher the social level, the more parents and friends dominated the situation and controlled the outcome; the lower in the social and economic scale the families were, the more free were the individuals to make their own choices, although that choice was itself not infrequently based as much on economic calculations as emotional commitment. Only in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries did patriarchal ideas of parental power, even at the highest levels of society, begin to give way to a new ideal of affective individualism, so that the companionate marriage emerged first to compete with, and finally to take full priority over, calculations of interest and economic advantage.5

Pressure for a more sophisticated evaluation of the process came from leading historical anthropologist authors for whom the above argument was never fully convincing.6 The somewhat limited set of sources—diaries from various social groups—did not support the chronological linearity of the thesis either in the early stage or the stage of transition.7 And the customs of transferring wealth and the regulated institutions of courtship for a long time permitted the parents to control their offspring.8

In addition, if we look beyond the early modern and Western European transition and take a comparative perspective on nineteenth century changes in continental Europe, we find much more differentiated views in recent literature. For example, Josef Ehmer, writing about nineteenth-century “bourgeois” marriages, asserted:

Of course, in many individual cases, there were conflicts between family strategies, parental plans, and the feelings of young people. The novels of the nineteenth century are full of such plots. Historical research, however, has shown that marriage alliances and individual love did not necessarily have to come into conflict. Since these young people moved within a particular social milieu and communication network, their individual contacts were concentrated within a narrow circle of marriage candidates who fitted into their own family strategies.9

David Sabean, looking at European systems of relations over a much longer timespan (and of course always drawing on the enormous Neckarhausen microhistory base) goes further, in declaring about the formation of various networks:

The education of both men and women to open and fluid systems where couples had to cooperate in tasks of social representation required protracted drill in taste, morality, sentiment, and style. Love and sentiment and emotional response or their expected development were built into the very nature of familial circuitry. They were the software necessary to direct the course of all the hard-wired connectors. There were, of course, different ways of falling in love. Some people first chose a suitable family by visiting, dining, walking, and playing cards together in the evening, and others did it by correspondence. Some looked for a friendly face among relatives, while others latched onto families where their careers were directed. Some followed the wishes and advice of their parents and siblings, and some bravely struck off for themselves. But love always determined the flow of capital, access to office, the course of a career.10

Here, the financial and mental motifs are not static preconditions, but interactive products of everyday social organization and the subtle and sensitive network of relationships.

When we examine marriage strategy in general, we attempt to answer the question of “who marries whom” using registers of births, marriages and deaths, and genealogies. So we determine from a kind of ex post viewpoint what the ex ante motives of spouse selection might have been. From the “what it became” we try to find out “what it evolved out of”. Without going into the argument of how this is methodologically possible, we address the question using a source which allows us to take a definitely ex ante approach. This case study looks at how a late nineteenth-century diarist from Hungary approached the problem of finding a wife. His system was to make lists of the ladies he met in various social circles, and appraise their potential benefits and drawbacks. Of course it is difficult to determine the extent to which “marriage market” is based on rational choices, because the emotional motive of decisions, however unpredictable it might seem, is somewhat self-evident. In our case, however, as we shall see, the presence and extent of rational assessment is quite striking. In addition, the man in question left later memoirs, so that we do not lose the ex post viewpoint either. If we have to rely on memoirs alone, we deprive ourselves of the sight of the rival candidates and are forced to look at the whole process of spouse selection purely through the actual marriage.

Youthful diaries permit a genetic study of marriage strategies even for the pre-1848 period. A well-known diary in the Hungarian literature is that of Etelka Slachta. While she was tending her sick mother in Balatonfüred in the summer of 1841, she was also choosing among suitors. At the same time, she wrote the following to her cousin and friend:

There are two serious candidates among these 14 suitors, but that must remain between us. If I do not take their hand, I do not want to enquire about what they have to offer. One is as handsome as Adonis, with fine manners, a majestic upbringing, very noble, elegant exterior. His father was only a grain factor, but he is very rich. He came here with four horses, but fancy, I didn’t say yes! I am this young man’s first true love. He is from Komárom. I thought for a moment, but I know little about this handsome, intelligent youth. The other is from Pest, not so handsome as pleasant, intelligent, jolly, witty and so dreadfully in love, declaring that only now he sees what true love is. He is so rich he keeps an equipage in the city. I think he should also be considered. I am not in love with either of them; I would go to them only out of reason. And where the mind and not heart decides, we always choose more slowly.11

In her diary, she goes well beyond wealth and noble origin to consider many other aspects and tricks of hunting for a husband. Here it is worth having a look at the subtle differentiation of social life in Balatonfüred in the circumstances of society of estates, where a distinction was made between “société” and aristocratic “haute volée”. Etelka, although her mother was a baroness, was not at home in the latter.12 Etelka Slachta’s freedom of choice was afforded to a great extent to her remaining alone after the death of her mother, allowing her to give free rein to her feelings towards the man of the Reformed faith who kept an “equipage”.

Even the diaries do not simply record established customs. That would hardly be worth writing down on a daily basis. As Alan Macfarlane wrote about the diary he published, kept by a seventeenth-century pastor, “the very fact that he kept a diary suggests that he was slightly exceptional.”13 Contemporary diaries certainly do not contain all the important information. There are things that are kept quiet deliberately, and others for which the author has no worlds. There are facts that cannot be uttered.

This is when we can find some assistance in the memoirs of advanced age, which show more insight by virtue of life experience and wisdom, not to mention the distance from the emotional storms of the time. Júlia M. Hrabovszky, aunt of Sándor Márai, put to paper at the age of eighty her memories of struggles to find a spouse in the late 1870s. She too had lost her father at an early age, and the family of landed gentry became impoverished. When still a girl, she earned her bread as a governess while seeking possible spouses in various spa towns (Herkulesfürdő, Buziás). She also had several suitors, and according to the narrative of her memoirs, she too made her own choice. One suitor inquired after her financial position, causing her deep offence. Another, for similar reasons, did not want to marry her but invited her as a girlfriend on a trip around the world, thus putting an end to that connection. One she rejected because he was old, and another was unacceptable on account of his employment as a farm bailiff; she did not want to live with him in a village. The latter, according to gossip, was of Jewish origin, although “nobody could prove it” (why take the trouble if a rumour did the job!). Then she met the nephew of the Prince of Serbia, but ruled him out because he had neither wealth nor employment. Finally, a noble judge of Romanian origin and a Romanian architect from Bucharest came on to the scene almost simultaneously, and clearly coincidentally. Somewhat less accidental was Júlia Hrabovszky’s choice of the latter. In Georges Muntureanu she found everything in one. As she looked back, the former bride wrote in the narrative present: “now that the matter is settled. I am marrying a handsome, elegant witty, well-placed man whom I like.” Later she added, “although I found perfect satisfaction in marriage, and the happiness I wanted, I would still say that unless one is moved by great love or great advantage, a girl should marry in her own country and not wish for a foreign place.”14 But it is not only abroad that sentiment and interest (“advantage”), can harmoniously complement each other.

Alajos Paikert’s Diary Entries and Gender Lists

Alajos Paikert (1866–1948) was much more of a public figure than Etelka Slachta or Júlia Hrabovszky, indeed the biographical dictionaries tell us he was one of the founders of Magyar Gazdaságtörténelmi Szemle (Hungarian Economic History Review) and a founder of the agricultural museums in Budapest and Cairo and of the Turán Society. It is his diaries, however, rather then any public capacity, which make him interesting here. These, written in several volumes of various sizes, and now held in the Manuscript Department of the National Széchényi Library, cover the years between 1887 and 1943.15 He also wrote several versions of his autobiography, now held in the Personal Memory Collection of the Budapest Museum of Agriculture, and from which a member of the Museum staff has published an extensive selection.16 Although he clearly did not keep his diary continuously, we have documentation of a volume that permits analysis to some depth. As might be expected from a male diary, the main subject is the author’s career and his activities in public life. Nonetheless, his private life does feature quite strongly in the diaries of his youth, particularly on the subject of seeking and courting potential spouses. The young man tried to fulfil family expectations, but did not leave the choice to his parents. He wanted to find his future wife himself. His diary is the documentation of this internal struggle. First of all, in order to understand the parental norms, we must first introduce the family.

His parents traced themselves, according to the author of the diary, to Sudeten German ancestors. His father and his maternal grandfather were both high-ranking military doctors: the father, also Alajos, was staff doctor in the army and at the peak of his career was chief medical officer of the Budapest corps. His mother’s father, Dr Vince Walter of Waltenau was also a staff doctor, the chief medical officer of the Kassa corps. Alajos senior (Jeleny, 1831–Budapest, 1914) was raised to the nobility in 1909 with the noble predicate “of Seprős”, which extended to his two surviving sons. Henrik (1865–1949) and Alajos were born in Nagyszombat (now Trnava, Slovakia) and went to school in Pozsony. Henrik chose a military career, enrolling in the military academy of Wiener Neustadt and advancing to the rank of lieutenant of hussars. After his marriage, however, he exchanged life as a hussar officer for that of a farming landowner.17 Alajos first graduated from the agricultural college in Magyaróvár and then matriculated in the Faculty of Law in the University of Pest. For both sons, the somewhat autocratic father played a decisive part in their choice of career. In his memoirs, the son largely blamed his father’s strictness for the loss of his hitherto swelling fortune in 1873. To at least partly recover it was thenceforth his father’s overriding ambition. He did not succeed.18 Young Alajos for a long time swithered between an agricultural or a legal career, and even toyed with the idea of painting (robustly opposed by his father) or becoming an inventor. For a short time, he served as a junior lecturer in the anthropological department in the humanities faculty. Finally, in 1891, he became assistant secretary of the organization representing large estates and the agricultural profession in Hungary, the National Hungarian Agricultural Association (OMGE), later rising to secretary. In that capacity, he made extended visits to England and North America, was involved in organizing the international agrarian movement, edited the agricultural historical journal Magyar Gazdaságtörténelmi Szemle, and founded the Museum of Agriculture. He resigned his office in OMGE in 1896 (again earning his father’s disapproval), and as he rebuilt his career, his thoughts increasingly turned to marriage.

On 21 April 1897, he noted in his diary:

I should: get married, have myself appointed director, I should write articles for newspapers and journals, I should go to meetings, take part in moderate movements, correspond with various personages, make some appearances in society, I should travel, I should take photographs, paint, sculpt, invent, write poetry, do scientific research, etc. etc. This is all feasible!19 (Underlining in the original)

Ultimately, he was not appointed director of the agricultural museum he had founded. Nonetheless, he moved into his office there and worked as a curator (custos) while he planned his future.

His distinctively thorough approach to the subject of marriage was not a new line of thought for him. He also received clear prompts in this direction from home. As he wrote in the unfinished memoirs he intended for his family, after his elder brother married, his mother urged the issue: “...often holding agreeable tea parties to which she invited mothers of girls whom she considered worthy of my considering as a bride; of course the mothers were to bring their daughters.”20 Most often, however, the young man did not even attend these. He wanted to take his affairs into his own hands. Living in the same house as his parents, this was not easy to do.

Over several days in 1894, he drew up a list of his acquaintances among members of parliament, the aristocracy, academia, finance, literature, the arts and public administration. His review of this network of contacts ended with a list of ladies and girls.21 Of course, not all of the seventeen spinsters in the list could have been regarded as candidate brides, but they all had a reason for being there. We cannot identify every name on the list (one even lacks a Christian name), but some are marked with the letter “t”. Since this also appears in the other lists, we have inferred from the names that it denotes a level of social connection. On the page before the young-lady acquaintances, for example, it appears in the list of lady acquaintances against the names Baroness Ida Kollmann, Mrs Ferenc Kintzig and Mrs Béla Kintzig.22

gf. [countess] Mária Kornis

Erzsébet Concha

Hedvig Concha

Melanie Koller

Margit Tyroch

Margit Baross

Laura Whilen [?]

Elsie Whilen [?]

Iza Dömötör

Irén Dömötör

t Ida Kollmann

Herzog

Natalia Kormann

Margit Gombár

t Margit Kintzig

t Erzsébet Hasz

t Sarolta Hasz

The girls marked “t” are mostly placed towards the end of the list, and the last three were probably relatives: his brother Henrik had married Lujza Kintzig in 1891, and Sarolta and Erzsébet Hasz’s brother Antal was also married to a Kintzig girl.

Alajos Paikert’s diary includes several lists of marriageable girls. When planning the period ahead of him a year later, in October 1895, he envisaged getting engaged before the end of the year and marrying during the next. The engagement and marriage had career overtones. The engagement was connected with a post of “ministerial secretary” which carried a salary of 2–3000 forints and required further actions to attain (“an article, a plan, a drawing, a poem, a speech, a deed”), while marriage by 1896, counting on the higher income, was linked with the keywords “travel, son, district, abroad”. The word district (kerület) undoubtedly alluded to an election constituency, and thus to political ambitions. After the action plan came a reduced list of names marked only with initials (although at least half of the names can be deduced from the first list).

Winifred W.

Marie D.

Mária K. [Countess Mária Kornis]

Erzsébet C. [Erzsébet Concha]

Hedvig C. [Hedvig Concha]

Anita G.

Melanie H.

Natalia K. [Natalia Kormann]23

The other names, as our present knowledge stands, remain undecipherable. Even such an intimate journal, it seems, does not lift the veil on every secret. We are restricted to discussing the girls who feature on subsequent pages of the diary.

Countess Mária Kornis (1878–1955), who we may recognize from the top of the first list, was the daughter of Count Károly Kornis (1841–1893). Her brother, also Károly Kornis (1869–1918) appears on Alajos Paikert’s diary as one of his friends.24 Károly, the child count, who was some years younger than Alajos, went to school in Pozsony. Indeed, the strict Paikert father allowed him—at the request of the Batthyány counts—to live in their house as part of the family. Through this friendship, Károly Kornis the elder invited Alajos Paikert several times during his school years to his estate in Szerep, Bihar county, where the hunts and the wetlands of Sárrét aroused pleasant recollections when he wrote his memoirs several decades later.25 We know only from the diary, however, that when he met his friend again in 1896, somewhat different experiences came to the mind of the still-young man:

In Váci utca, I met with Count Károly Kornis, my best friend. I was most pleased to meet him again, and he was too. We walked and talked for half an hour, while he told me of his plans (to sell land for 300 florins per lesser hold [1 lesser hold=0.36 hectares]) and I told him mine (museum and attaché). If Károly divests himself of his estate, he will get about 2 million for it. He will be there in winter, and he will visit me. Marie is now 18 years old. If she loves me as she did then, I will immediately ask her hand […]26

The feelings of a young girl are of course no basis for marriage, as the young Paikert clearly well knew, but Mária’s fate was still on his mind in spring 1897: “I take umbrance at Károly Kornis visiting me so rarely. He has no office, he’s got the time. Will Mária be happy?”27

It was during his years at school in Pozsony that Alajos first developed strong inclinations towards the aristocracy (and the gentry), and some illusions in that regard.28 The feeling of “amalgamation” may have been aroused by musical evenings in certain houses, although the partitions between the “first” and “second” societies clearly remained in place and were apparent on some occasions.29 This occasionality may be compared to that moment after the aeroplane takes off, when the stewardess discreetly draws the curtain between the business and economy classes so as not to show off the difference in service between the classes (but to indicate that this dividing line exists). His time in the OMGE only stoked the awe Paikert felt towards the aristocracy.30 We know from the original manuscript of his memoirs that, after he moved to Budapest, he often went on excursions to the Buda hills. The lady members of the party may have been the inspiration behind his lists of women.31 It was clearly after one of these occasions that Paikert put to himself a kind of “why not?” question: “Why should I not marry Count Béla Széchenyi’s daughter?”32 An interesting point about the retrospective lists of excursion-goers and the contemporary lists in the diary is that Cécile Tormay, who later became a writer, appears only among the excursion company. Considering the system of social connections, this seems plausible, because her father, Béla Tormay, who had graduated in veterinary science and agriculture and gained employment on the Derekegyház estate, rose step by step to membership of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (in 1899).33 It may be a subtle sign that Edina Pallavicini (1877–1964), whose divorce case put the matter of Cecil Tormay’s lesbianism on spectacular public display in the 1920s, may be found in both the contemporary and retrospective lists.34 The name at the head of the list of the excursion company was Helén Bartha, daughter of military staff doctor János Bartha, who belonged to the same professional circle as the Paikert family and was made a noble in 1909. She, however, does not appear in any of the lists of potential brides. In addition, at the turn of the century, the Barthas lived nearby in Döbrentei utca 4, and were very likely to have attended the tea parties arranged by Paikert’s mother.35 The name Margit Tyroch does not appear in the retrospective list of excursioners, but recurs in several other lists. She also belonged to the father’s old professional-collegial circle and the Pozsony company: “Last night I was at the Tyrochs, perhaps the first time for a year. Margit indeed takes my fancy, a bright, kind, natural girl, just right for me. I felt very good in her company.”36

The diary for autumn 1895 makes several mentions of the Concha girls, daughters of Professor Győző Concha. Prof. Concha, from Kolozsvár (now Cluj-Napoca, Romania), was one of the pioneers of political science and history of ideas in Hungary. He had been widowed upon the birth of his fourth daughter in 1883, in the eighth year of marriage. He had multiple connections to the Paikerts’ company, and his mixture of occupational and kin relationships extended to the Baross, Forster and Dömötör families.37 We know only from the memoirs that Alajos wrote for the family that the Dömötör girls’ brother László, another leading light among the young members of OMGE, was also a great admirer of Erzsébet Concha, although this did not damage the friendship between the two men.38 The four marriageable girls must have been a factor in the young Paikert’s interest in the family, even if Győző Concha headed the list of academics for 1894. “I would very much like Erzsike as my wife, but I do not have enough money to satisfy her ambitions. Marriage: must think about it very hard…”39 Perhaps his attitude to the girl would have been more positive had he still been aiming for an academic career, although there may have been something else in the background: upon meeting her father a year later, he noted: “Concha came with kindness. – Concha was as charming as ever, it seems he would like me to forget the past and marry Erzsébet.”40 The Concha girls never completely disappeared from the list of choices. Hardly six months later, new motives appeared: “On the way to Köztelek I met the Conchas. Oh Erzsi why are you not my wife. On the way back, I saw Erzsi again on her father’s arm. It is only because of my parents I do not ask her. And yet what a splendid wife she would make…”41 Alajos, whose abilities also extended to art, actually painted Erzsébet in 1898. The picture shows not a social type but one of the female ideals: she is painted with a bonnet, a combination of innocent little girl and nun.42

A high-ranking name on the early lists was Melanie Koller. Although it has not been possible to identify a Koller named Melanie, the diary frequently mentions the pretty Edith Koller, daughter of Koller Lajos of Grantzow, trade counsellor, who died in 1891 at the age of 51. They also lived not far from the Paikerts in Buda, on Várkert rakpart.43 Beauty and brightness of eyes clearly complicated the choices:

When I was on the underground in the afternoon, Mrs László Arany came on to the train with the pretty Edith Koller at the Opera. She is a decidedly beautiful girl, with good taste. I was somewhat clumsy and did not greet the handsome lady, but Edith threw me a secretive glance with her black eyes – and set me alight. It is difficult to choose.44

So powerful was the experience that next day he put her on the list of his top favourites: “I must get married. Margit Lukács, Erzsébet Concha, Edith Koller, all three grazia are beautiful and good and intelligent.”45 This shows how uncertain was the rationally-selected place in the hierarchy when exposed to the caprices of the market.

For all his thoroughness, the lists he produced were far from perfect. The detailed diary entries reveal that in autumn 1896, young Alajos was making his most fervent advances towards Margit Lukács, whose name is absent from the first lists. Although not listed until early November, she was not a new acquaintance and came from a family with several marriageable girls. Antal Lukács, Director of the Magyar Földhitelintézet (Hungarian Agricultural Land Credit Institute), had seven daughters and one son. Margit (1875–1952) was the fourth daughter.46

I am utterly happy. This evening I was at the Lukácses. I went up in some trepidation that they might receive me somewhat coolly owing to my long absence, but they received me warmly indeed!they were just having tea, and I went with them to the opera and we had a fine time together. I am completely reassured. – I find Margit most attractive, she will be just right for me! It will be splendid, why can’t we have the wedding tomorrow!47

He was clearly finding his self-confidence, as if marriage was of more concern to him than progress in other areas of life:

But my marriage is even more important. At the moment, Margit Lukács is the favourite. I would be glad if she married me, and I think she would be glad to be my wife. I will truly love her and I can make her happy, and that is approximately what I will say to her.48

Then he seemed to waver, while feeling a stronger drive than ever:

My lady, my fine upright lady, loving wife. I forget the past, live for the future, my family’s future. Margit Lukács was a proper and in every respect satisfactory combination, and that it did not become a reality was down to me alone. She was taken hand in hand before me in her finest dress, with the sincere good wishes of both parental families. One word, one misunderstanding, drew us apart. And yet how good it would have been for both sides! There is so much in common between the two families, and it would have been a truly harmonious and healthy accord.49

There seems to have been an understanding between the families, and the failure of the match was obviously because of the young people. In the light of what happened later, it is hard to believe Alajos:

I sigh deeply, thinking that in January I could have taken here my bride, Margit Lukács. How splendid it would have been. What joy I would have caused the good parents!50

Nonetheless, the fateful year of 1898 still seemed to revolve around Margit:

Margit. You have wounded me. I am not like the others. Love me, or do not love me and let us go our separate ways. I will not run after you. I found everything in you that I sought – I want to be your everything, and if I am not, that is the end of everything.

In the meantime, more about the background comes to light:

Margit. She would still have been best for me. She is homely, good-hearted, healthy, nice, good family, thrifty, pretty, etc. etc. – But I have done everything, she knows I am not a courmacher (“Romeo”), why does she demand that from me? I will not humiliate myself.51

What the girl actually felt is sadly unknown to us. Some signs, however, do emerge from the background. These suggest more than “one word” or “a misunderstanding”. There must have been more subtle “behavioural sociological” barriers to the marriage if the error was in the courtship. Could it be that Margit Lukács put him to the test, or in fact wanted to rebuff a young man who she did not really like?

This was just as he was producing his final list, consisting mostly of familiar names (or at least Christian names), but ending with a completely new one. “Girls: Erzsébet – Margit – Adrienne – Hedvig – Irma – T. Margit – Mila – H. Marie – Winifred – Deli.”52

Erzsébet and Hedvig are clearly the Concha girls. The Margit without a surname is Margit Lukács, and T. Margit is Margit Tyroch. The name Adrienne appears only on this list, and may be the Adrienne Fischel from the retrospective list of excursioners, or possibly the lady to whom he wrote a poem in 1895 (Paikert wrote poetry throughout his life), the eldest daughter of Károly Andrényi of Györök, trade counsellor of Arad, who died in 1893 at the age of 55. Whoever it was, she still ruffled the conscience of Alajos Paikert as he sought a mate in 1897: “I am so miserable! – I have alienated the angelic Adrienne from me. How long will this last? It will end in madness.”53 This was clearly the period of ultimate desperation and final effort, but one in which a new ray of hope appeared.

The Decision: Deli

In summer 1898, several of his relatives were still encouraging him to make up his mind and finally marry Margit Lukács: “…I must embark upon the siege of Margit, God grant me that I will succeed and M. will love me, I know we will be a very good couple.54 In early September, however, he was back to the cultural and methodological problems of courtship, considerations unlikely to win him the battle.

Why cannot I say to Margit: I love you, love me, do you love me? – Yes or no. – No, nowadays I have to swerve around the question ten times in all kinds of attitude and costume, and she has to play the most hostile faces, before we get anywhere. What’s the use? Ah – the choice of a wife is certainly the most important when one is married for life. A one-year marriage with a six-month break, that is much more practical.55

His outrage against middle-class courtship norms was stronger than his resolution.

Then the diary seemed to find a new protagonist. At the end of May, for the sake of Deli, the last on the list, he seemed to put all of his cards on the table.

Deli – Do you understand me, will you love me? Oh God give my heart peace! From your beautiful gentle eyes, so much goodness radiates towards me, will you keep what you promise me?56

Then he gives himself a stern command: “It must be decided, a man cannot love more than one! – Let there be an end.”57 This sentence is misleading at first sight. It looks as though Alajos had been simultaneously in love with all of the women he had listed and courted. His diary is not, however, the outpouring of an adolescent girl’s secrets. In fact, he betrays no signs of romantic love, and as for feelings, he wrote much more about what he perceived—or hoped for—in others, than about what he felt himself. We cannot say he was devoid of feelings, but he was certainly either incapable of expressing them or considered it unmanly to write them down.

The diary fails to reveal what caused the sudden urgency surrounding marriage two years into his thirties, or what led to Deli Rónay’s appearance at the end of the final list. More helpful are the memoirs he wrote for his family. From there, we find that he had seen her as a little girl on a photograph when she was eight years old and immediately declared, “she will be my wife.” His first real-life acquaintance with the Rónay family was a wedding, where he was a groomsman and asked Deli to accompany him as bridesmaid.58

Who were they? Károly Rónay (1849–1935) was a prosperous attorney and later royal notary. His wife Izabella Sztipán gave him three daughters and a son, the first, in 1880, being Deli Franciska Izabella.59 The father (and his family) were raised to the nobility in 1912 with the noble predicate “of Osgyán”, thus following a similar path of elevation to that of the elder Alajos Paikert (although neither of them could have known this in 1898).60 Károly Rónay’s wife on her mother’s side was a descendent of the “Fluk family of Rággamb” and brought with her “a substantial fortune”. This important aspect only comes to light in the memoirs, as does the fact that the Rónay parents were “highly cultured, learned, well-travelled and spoke fluent English, French and German, and provided their children with a first-class education.”61

The memoirs give an accelerated account of the courtship, at first leaving the year of engagement blank. The somewhat slower progress of events in reality is evident from the diary. “On 3 October I talked to Dr Rónay. Deli, my gentle little Deli, my youthful dream will come true. Love me, love me, and heaven will be ours!”62 Since the girl was still a minor, it was natural that he spoke with the father. But this did not settle the matter. The uncertainty partly arose from external causes: the father did not want to act in haste:

I do not understand Rónay’s advice not to be in undue haste. I can find no other explanation than that Deli cannot yet decide. It has made me very sad. Or… or. This vacillation cannot go on. As soon as possible! Oh, how I would like a nice little wife.63

On the other hand, the young man himself was in a state of some confusion. We almost see the great dilemma of classical dramas in microcosm: reason or passion? Failing (or not wanting) to realize this himself, he directly ascribed the curious situation to nature (he resembles his mother) or upbringing (father’s hard drilling) or even some kind of disease.

My mind is utterly confused. I am mixing up everything, I cannot make a good judgement, I ascribe importance to matters of no substance and miss what is important, I busy myself with trivialities, ignoring questions of life itself. – Paralysis progressiva. My speech is slovenly, and I write the same way, leaving out words, letters and sentences. I mix up everything. It is all the consequence of an unnatural way of life. I must get married.64

And although falling somewhat short in logic, this sequence of thoughts ends with a fairly definite conclusion. Since the goal seemed to be coming no closer, dissatisfaction and rumination escalated:

Deli’s irresolution is extremely irritating. Or is it hostility? (5 Dec)

Tomorrow, after a long enforced pause, I go again to Deli, or to the Rónays. Why must they draw this out so? – I very much like the girl and would be happy with her, but I do not want to force my love on anyone.65 (6 Dec)

Finally, however, his perseverance bore fruit, and the engagement took place before Christmas. The diary does not confine itself to the romantic moment of the avowal, and records for posterity the family ritual of the engagement day:

Today I engaged myself [sic!] to Deli Rónay. Heaven grant us that we will find mutual happiness. The avowal took place in the Museum of Applied Arts, in the English exhibition in front of a drawing of a yacht. Yes, oh Deli, how happy you have made me.

We went home by coach. Kinga, Alice. Then I went home to give the happy news. Mama was very moved, Papa had been to Count Endre Csekonics and came home in full dress. They came to the Rónays, introductions, festive mood, friendship made. After lunch, at 4 o’clock, the Rónays, the parents and Deli came to us. It was so congenial. Papa and Mama were very cordial, sincere, showing all kinds of things. […] Farewell, tea, whist party, and then to the Rónays, photographs, signatures, […], Papa, dinner, champagne, toasts, Kinga, joyful mood, Dalma, drafting the engagement card.66

The wedding took place on 4 April 1899. The groom’s witness was his youthful friend Count Károly Kornis, effectively representing the historic aristocracy, and raising the tone of the occasion.67 In his sketch book, we find only a portrait taken after the wedding, with the title Deli my lovely wife.68 She was hardly more than a girl, her hair done up in a bun. Not long after the wedding they left for North America, which solved Paikert’s employment problems for a while. The Minister of Agriculture, Ignác Darányi, appointed him as agricultural counsel to Washington (as Paikert had written “attaché” in his earlier plans). The ageing Paikert joined up the themes of career and marriage in his memoirs thus:

My dear wife Deli immediately declared me ready for travel over the ocean, there to share with me for at least three years the vicissitudes of unaccustomed climate and social conditions. This showed her intelligence, astuteness and wifely devotion. Few Hungarian genteel brides would have done the same.69

Thus even in reminiscence, Alajos Paikert felt that he had taken a long time but chosen well. He did not regret missing his mother’s tea parties with girls.

I did the right thing, because that way I could choose as my wife the one who was and is best suited to me, and who has devoted her entire life to me and our children, and if I have achieved anything in life, it is mainly thanks to her… she gave me the gift of three splendid children, brought them up admirably, and now shares with me everything that fate has dealt.70

This frank statement of the male-centred family model may be regarded as a social fact, even if the reminiscence obviously idealizes the image of the past. The marriage hardly features in subsequent volumes of the diary, and we do not even know whether his wife left any source on this subject. Our evaluation is therefore unfortunately but unavoidably asymmetric.

Consequences

The characteristics of Paikert’s marriage strategy may be viewed according to Weber’s criteria of “behavioural sociological status”, and the young man’s dilemmas—at least in the “end game”—can be placed in the context of the “marriage market” model. We will not, however, attempt to interpret events in the spirit of the “stable matching algorithm” of the Nobel prize-winning theory.71 Our sources, however informative and intimate they may be, unfortunately do not provide a sufficiently comparative perspective. We do not know the preference of the other side, the ladies, or the potential rivals.72 Secondly, the original model makes the implicit assumption that there is “no payment (dowry) between the actors,” which in our case would clearly not be realistic. One conclusion of the theory was considered self-evident in the male-dominated society of the turn of the century: the stable matching algorithm leads to a boy-optimum result.73 For the candidate brides who stayed in the “competition” longest, however, we would have to assess which parameters the self-appointed groom took into account.

Two empirical observations should be stated at the outset:

1. There was a substantial oversupply of females in the Concha, Lukács and Rónay families. We cannot say that this was the general demographic male/female ratio (although there was actually a female surplus in the 15–45 cohort at the turn of the century), but it was clearly the situation in the middle-class circles where Alajos Paikert made his selection in the “end game” (the Conchas with four girls, the Lukácses with seven girls and one boy, and the Rónays with three girls and one boy). And as well as playing a part in the number of potential heirs, it indicates a buyer’s market in the wider sense.

2. This is why Alajos Paikert stresses in his memoirs how “the market came to him”, how much in demand he was (which he of course tended to ascribe to his own qualities): “I could have chosen a daughter from any of several very fine families, because I was a young, educated, healthy, well brought-up, well turned-out, modern young man, I excelled in nearly all the manly sports, and I had a good general knowledge and a promising future.”74

Let us now look at Alajos Paikert’s “ranking matrix” in 1896–98:

 

Candidate bride

Father

Noble birth

Wealth

Erzsébet Concha
(1st of 4 girls)

professor

noble (mother’s side)

 

Margit Lukács
(4th of 7 girls)

bank director

noble (father’s and mother’s side)

paternal and maternal inheritance*

Deli Rónay
(1st of 3 girls)

notary public

noble (mother’s side)

paternal and maternal inheritance**

* According to the 1892 national register, Lukács Antal, virilis [major taxpayer] of Bihar county (address: Bp. V., Bálvány u. 7.) paid direct taxes of 2547 forints. In 1895, Lukács’ estate in Újpalota (Bihar county) extended to 2149 cadastral holds (1 hold = 0.57 hectare), but he also owned land in Csömör (Pest-Pilis-Solt-Kiskun county) and in several places in Csanád (his wife also owned land in one of these).75

** Károly Rónay, then still an “attorney” (address: Bp. II., Apor u. 3.) in 1892 was a virilis of Pest, paying tax of 604 forints. He was also part-owner, in 1895, of a farm of 1380 cadastral holds in Osgyán (Gömör and Kishont county), from where later he took his noble predicate.76

Had Alajos chosen a university career (he did reach the status of junior lecturer), Professor Győző Concha’s family would clearly have appreciated in value, even though the father was not of noble birth and the four girls’ dowry could not have been large (this was probably what caused the Paikert parents to oppose the match). To marry her, Paikert would have needed more money of his own (“I do not have enough money to satisfy her ambitions”).

The choice of Margit Lukács (“harmonious and healthy accord”) was expressly supported by the parents (and other relatives). A bank-director father-in-law would have opened up good prospects on the economic front, and he was of noble rank and had a substantial fortune. Here, however, the girl was choosy, demanding that her suitor be a courmacher, which must have meant more than the usual middle-class norms if Paikert regarded the idea of fulfilling her wishes as “humiliation”. He was clearly put off by a female character who placed strong demands, but it is also possible that Margit Lukács was employing a courting-game gambit to express distance, and difference in rank, from her suitor.77

It seems that Paikert, just as he was embarking on a government-service career, was most impressed by a man who was freshly—in 1898—elevated from attorney to notary public in the 1st District (!) of Budapest. Rónay had authority, learning and knowledge of languages (which must have been particularly important for the future American “attaché”), and had inherited wealth and rank through both the paternal and maternal lines. It cannot have been accidental that the Rónay daughters all made marriages befitting their rank. The memoirs particularly mention the excellent upbringing, which in these circles was almost natural. And since Deli was hardly 18 years old, she could be further “educated” as an obedient wife. Although the young man had not found the answer among the military officer–medical-profession circles managed by his mother, he did make a decision that his parents could support. This also contributed to the establishment of a stable marriage. The family dynamics of the choice was only confirmed by the raising of the two heads of the family to noble rank. The match proved to be a “harmonious accord” for more than just that moment, and persisted in the long term. The young couple could make their own lives, but within the bounds of social norms and parental expectations. For which, of course, they had complete freedom in America. Paikert must surely have looked through his old diary entries as he was writing his memoirs in old age. The diary’s serial account of protracted indecision may not have made for pleasant reading. The gallery of rival ladies did not find its way into the catalogue listing of the memoirs. He did, however, leave everything for the archives, so that someone in a later age, with time and inclination, could reconstruct his youthful decision-making mechanism.

 

Archival Sources

Budapest Főváros Levéltára (BFL) [Municipal Archives of Budapest]

VII.6.e. Kihirdetett végrendeletek [Announced Wills], 1896–1950.

Budapesti cím és lakjegyzék [Budapest Directory of Addresses], 1900. http://bfl.archivportal.hu/cgi-bin/lakas/lakas.pl. Accessed March 27, 2014.

Mezőgazdasági Múzeum Adattár, Személyi emlékanyag-gyűjtemény (MgM) [Archives of the Museum of Hungarian Agriculture, Personal Memory Collection].

1338. Paikert, Alajos. Életem (manuscript).

2012.3.1. Paikert, Alajos. Régi feljegyzés, Személyes, 1898. máj. 2. – dec. 18 [Old notes, Personal, 2 May – 18 December 1898] and notes marked “24. napló 1944. máj. 3. – 1945. máj. 8” [24th Diary, 3 May 1944 – 8 May 1945].

2012.8.1. Paikert, Alajos. Kis napló [Small diary] 1946.

2012.9.1. Paikert, Alajos. Kis napló [Small diary] 1947. jan. 1. – dec. 30.

2012.19.1. Paikert, Alajos. Vázlatkönyv [Sketch book].

2012. 20. 1. Paikert Alajos önéletrajza [Autobiography of Alajos Paikert] 1940. II. Életem és működésem [My Life and Work].

Országos Széchényi Könyvtár Kézirattár (OSZK Kt) [Manuscript Department of the National Széchényi Library]

Quart. Hung. 3264. Paikert Alajos naplói (1887–1943) [Diaries of Alajos Paikert]. Vols. 1–11.

Quart. Hung. 3265. Paikert Alajos vegyes feljegyzései és rajzai (1889–1894) [Miscellaneous Notes and Drawings by Alajos Paikert]. Vols. 1–4.

Quart. Hung. 3509. Paikert, Alajos. Naplórajzok (1889) [Diary Drawings].

Quart. Hung. 3605. Paikert Alajos naplói és egyéb feljegyzései (1886–1895) [Diaries and Other Notes by Alajos Paikert]. Vols. 1–4.

Oct. Hung. 1299. Paikert Alajos naplója és egyéb feljegyzései. (1909). [Diaries and Other Notes by Alajos Paikert]. Vols. 1–2.

Oct. Hung. 1445. Paikert Alajos évről évre szóló kis naplója [Small Diaries from Year to Year by Alajos Paikert]. (1911–1916) Vols. 1–2.

Fol. Hung. 2549. Paikert Alajos: Napló [Diary]. (March–October 1890).

OSZK gyászjelentés-gyűjtemény [OSZK Death Announcement Collection]

http://www.rakovszky.net/E1_LSG_ObitsIndex/GYJ-NevIndex.shtml. Accessed March 27, 2014.

 

Registers of Births and Deaths

https://familysearch.org/search/record/results#count. Accessed March 27, 2014.

 

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Translated by Alan Campbell

1 Max Weber, Economy and Society. An Outline of Interpretive Sociology, ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich (Berkeley–Los Angeles–London: University of California Press, 1978), 305–6.

2 Reinhard Sieder, “Ehe, Fortpflanzung und Sexualität,” in Vom Patriarchat zur Partnerschaft. Zum Strukturwandel der Familie, ed. Michael Mitterauer and Reinhard Sieder (Munich: Beck C. H., 1984), 143.

3 Lawrence Stone, The Family, Sex and Marriage In England 1500–1800 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1977), 270–73.

4 Stone, The Family, 390–95.

5 Lawrence Stone, “Love,” in Stone, The Past and the Present Revisited (London–New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987), 334–35. It is interesting that at the end of the quotation, the author refers to chapter IV of his own 1977 book, making no further comment.

6 Alan Macfarlane’s highly critical review of Stone’s book: History and Theory 18, no. 1 (Feb. 1979): 103–26. See also Alan Macfarlane, The Origins of English Individualism. The Family, Property and Social Transition (Oxford: Blackwell, 1978); Jack Goody, The European Family. An Historico-Anthropological Essay (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000).

7 Leonore Davidoff and Cathrine Hall, Family Fortunes. Man and Women of the English Middle Class, 1780–1850 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987). Good examples are the negotiations concerning finance and religious creed preceding the marriage of Rebecca Solly and Samuel Shaen. Ibid., 326.

8 Michael Anderson, Approaches to the History of the Western Family 1500–1914 (London–Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1980), 51.

9 Josef Ehmer, “Marriage,” in The History of the European Family, ed. David I. Kertzer and Marzio Barbagli, vol. 2 of Family Life in the Long Nineteenth Century 1789–1913 (New Haven–London: Yale University Press, 2002), 315.

10 David Warren Sabean, “Kinship and Class Dynamics in Nineteenth-Century Europe” in Kinship in Europe. Approaches to Long-Term Development (1300–1900), ed. Sabean et al. (New York–Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2007), 309–10.

11 To Baroness Mária Baumgarten, 3 August 1841. Katona Csaba, “Azért én önnek sem igent, sem nemet nem mondtam.” Válogatás Slachta Etelka és Szekrényessy József leveleiből, vol. 5 (Győr: Mediawave, 2008), 41–43. The diary reveals that the first candidate was called Mihály Csetke and the second József Szekrényessy. The latter became her husband. In the eyes of the Catholic baroness mother, the latter’s greatest defect was that he was of the Reformed faith. Descriptions in the diary: Csaba Katona (ed.), “…kacérkodni fogok vele.” Slachta Etelka soproni úrileány naplója 1840. december – 1841. augusztus, vol. 3 (Győr: Mediawave, 2006), 133–36.

12 Katona, ed., “…kacérkodni fogok vele.” 139, 159–60, 165, 179.

13 Alan Macfarlane, ed., The Family Life of Ralf Josselin a Seventeenth-Century Clergyman. An Essay in Historical Anthropology (New York: The Norton Library, 1977), 11; Macfarlane, The Origins, 65.

14 Júlia M. Hrabovszky, Ami elmúlt. Visszaemlékezések életemből, ed. Ágota Steinert (Budapest: Helikon, 2001), 33–95. Quotations: 88; 93–94.

15 OSZK Kt. Quart. Hung. 3264. Paikert Alajos naplói (1887–1943), vols. 1–11. The extensive bequest contains other volumes: Quart. Hung. 3265. Paikert Alajos vegyes feljegyzései és rajzai (1889–1894), vols. 1–4; Quart. Hung. 3509. Paikert Alajos: Naplórajzok (1889); Quart. Hung. 3605. Paikert Alajos naplói és egyéb feljegyzései. (1886–1895), vols. 1–4; Oct. Hung. 1299. Paikert Alajos naplója és egyéb feljegyzései (1909), vols. 1–2; Oct. Hung. 1445. Paikert Alajos évről évre szóló kis naplója (1911–1916), vols. 1–2; Fol. Hung. 2549. Paikert Alajos: Napló (1890. március–október). The Personal Memory Collection of the Museum of Agriculture (MgM) also holds some diary-like notes: 2012.3.1. Paikert Alajos, Régi feljegyzés 2 May – 18 December 1898, and notes marked “24. napló” 3 May 1944 – 8 May 1945; 2012.9.1. Paikert Alajos, Kis napló, 1 January – 30 December 1947, 2012.8.1. Paikert Alajos, Kis napló 1946.

16 Alajos Paikert, “Életem és korom (Egy emlékirat a múzeum Adattárának őrizetében),” pub. Rózsa Takáts, in A Magyar Mezőgazdasági Múzeum Közleményei, 1998–2000 (Budapest: 2001), 159–218. The original manuscript and its typed versions: MgM 1338. Paikert, Életem; 1339–45.

17 Paikert, “Életem és korom,” 167. In the substantial apparatus to the diaries, Rózsa Takáts notes: “He married a daughter of the publicly respected and very wealthy Kintzig family… At his wife’s behest, he entered the reserves and farmed as a tenant at Seprős (Arad county). It became a model farm, he had a fine stud farm, ten thousand apple trees… he lost the estate, husband and wife live apart…” Ibid., 208.

18 Paikert, “Életem és korom,” 164. Shortly before his death, his father declared in his will that he had no substantial fortune (capital, property, jewellery, etc.). Only household furniture, clothes, etc. BFL VII,6 e, 1914.-V(I)-105. Alajos Paikert, Testament, Buda, Mai 1913.

19 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/5, Paikert, Napló 1896. szept. 29 – 1898. márc. 11, 32v, 21 April 1897.

20 MgM 2012.20.1. Paikert Alajos önéletrajza 1940. Életem és működésem, 25.

21 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3265/3, Paikert, 45–53, 12–14 November 1894.

22 Baroness Kollmann, née Ida Zinn (1839–1913), for example, may have been one of his acquaintances from Nagyszombat. Certainly, her husband, Colonel Antal Kollmann, died in Nagyszombat in 1875. János József Gudenus, A magyarországi főnemesség XX. századi genealógiája, vol. 4 (Budapest: Heraldika, 1998), 383. Mrs. Ferenc Kintzig née Ilona Kintzig and Béla Kintzig were siblings of Henrik Paikert’s wife Lujza Kintzig. These markings may even indicate guests of the tea parties arranged by his mother. Except where I indicate another source, I have used the death notices collection of the National Széchényi Library to identify the families. Accessed December 26, 2013. http://www.rakovszky.net/E1_LSG_ObitsIndex/GYJ-NevIndex.shtml.

23 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/4, Paikert, Vegyes, 1894–1895. Kis Napló, 41, 7 October 1895. This was not the only list of females in autumn 1895. Shortly afterwards, in early November, in the same book, we find lists of “handsome ladies” and “girls”. Here there are again only different names: “Girls: Kornis, Pallavicini, Szechenyi, Concha, Hegedüs, Kormann, Haller, Tyroch, Lukács, Koller, Czigler, Fábián, Károlyi” OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/4. Paikert, Vegyes. 1894–1895. Kis Napló, 51, 1 November 1895. Besides the standard women’s names, there seems to be a strong presence of girls from aristocratic families.

24 Gudenus, A magyarországi főnemesség, vol. 2, 105–6.

25 Paikert, “Életem és korom,” 166.

26 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/5, Paikert, Napló 1896. szept. 29 – 1898. márc. 11, 11, 16 December 1896.

27 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/5, Paikert, Napló 1896. szept. 29 – 1898. márc. 11, 24, 13 April 1897. The remark was clearly prompted by Mária’s marriage to Baron Géza Gudenus on 26 May 1897. Gudenus, A magyarországi főnemesség, vol. 2, 106.

28 He recorded in his memoirs: “Pozsony was a very aristocratic city at that time, exuding the nimbus of the old coronation city and the direct proximity of the imperial court in Vienna. In my youth I had invitations from the following aristocratic families in Pozsony and environs: the Frigyes archducal (his wife was Princess Izabella Croy-Dülmen), the Rohan, Pálffy and Odescalchi princely, the Esterházy, Batthyány, Pálffy, Zichy, Hunyady, Erdődy, Apponyi, Waldstein, Henckel-Donnersmarck, etc. county, the Vay, Prónay, Podmaniczky, Feilitzsch, Lederer, Hengersen, etc. baronial and many fine Hungarian gentry families. For most of them, my father was their doctor. The magnate families were by their nature of a courtly bent, owing to their family bonds, somewhat international outlook, marriages and extensive travels.” Paikert, “Életem és korom,” 164.

29 “In Pozsony, we lived first in Szél utca (Windgasse) near the county hall and the Crusaders’ Church, and later on the first floor of the enormous Wittmann House in Ventur utca. In the second-floor flat of the insignificant building in the former side-street, my parents, who were both great music lovers (my father played the violin well and my mother sang in a fine alto voice), held intimate musical evenings attended by the finest intelligentsia in Pozsony. Only classical music, Haydn, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and Boccherini, was played. Most frequent were quartets, on which István Dávid played first violin, Gessler viola, Frigyes Dohnányi cello, and Baroness Lederer Mathild played the piano part. There were several excellent musical evening families in Pozsony at that time, such as the Baron Lederer family, Princess Odescalchi née Countess Valerie Erdődy, and several others.” Paikert, “Életem és korom,” 165–66.

30 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/5. Paikert, Napló 1896. szept. 29 – 1898. márc. 11, 43, 23 April 1897. “Aristokratia. This is my world. Oh, democracy is such a fine word. Today we see such climbers in every field, base, villainous climbers … out in the open or into the arms of the aristocracy! Károlyis, Dessewffys, Széchenyis, Andrássys, Pálffys, Esterházys etc. etc. That is my world.”

31 MgM 1338, Paikert, Életem. The participants in the excursions, according to a later list, were: “Helén Bartha, Adrienne Fischel, the Nagy sisters, Miczi Kormann, Alice Széchenyi, Czilli Szalay, Edith Koller, Edina Pallavicini, Erzsi Concha, Cecil Tormay, Mária Herzog [Margit], Elza Pethes, Ilona Dömötör, Margit and Ella Lukács [?]”. 71. The Christian names faded in his memory. The Herzogs had a daughter called Margit (*1871) and not Mária, and she got married in 1893. Gudenus, A magyarországi főnemesség, vol. 1, 542. And Antal Lukács had—to our knowledge—seven daughters, none of which were called Ella.

32 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3605/4. Paikert, Vegyes, 1894, 95, 6v, before December 1894. Alice Széchényi (1871–1945), eldest daughter of Béla Széchényi, married Count Tibor Teleki in summer 1895. Gudenus, A magyarországi főnemesség, vol. 4, 52.

33 The literature on Cecile Tormay classes her without qualification as a child of the gentry, even though her father only gained a title with the noble predicate “of Nádudvar” in 1896. Before then, following her mother (Hermin Barkassy) she could have been at most considered as ‘agilis’ (matrilineal nobility). Béla Pettkó and Ede Reiszig, eds., Magyar Nemzetségi Zsebkönyv, part 2, Nemes családok, vol. 1 (Budapest: Franklin, 1905), 43.

34 Zoltán Ónagy, Tormay Cécile (2009), accessed December 26, 2013. http://www.irodalmijelen.hu/05242013-0953/tormay-cecile. After Count Rafael Zichy’s divorce in 1925, he claimed in public that his former wife Countess Edina Pallavicini had a lesbian affair with the celebrated conservative writer of the age, Cecile Tormay. The two women took the matter to court; the ex-husband lost, and was even imprisoned.

35 BFL Budapesti cím és lakjegyzék, 1900. Accessed December 26, 2013, http://bfl.archivportal.hu/cgi-bin/lakas/lakas.pl. Helén Bartha (d. 1947) married a military officer, Frigyes Quandt and was soon widowed (in 1907).

36 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/5. Paikert, Napló 1896. szept. 29 – 1898. márc. 11, 2v, 29 September 1896. Dr József Tiroch [sic!] was a staff medical officer. He died in Pozsony in 1899 at the age of 62. Only one of his daughters survived to adulthood.

37 First of all, Concha himself came from an agricultural family. His father was bailiff of the Marcaltő estate, and died in 1865. Additionally, his wife Emilia Forster, who died in childbirth, was the daughter of János Forster (1810–1891), primatical steward and brother of Gyula and Kálmán Forster, pioneers of the agrarian movement. Through the Forsters, the Concha family were in-laws to the Baross family of Bellus and also related to the Dömötör girls, who also featured on the list, because Izabella Dömötör’s elder sister Emmy was married to Gyula and Kálmán Forster’s brother Géza. On the Forster family, see József Szinnyei, Magyar írók élete és munkái, vol. 3 (Budapest: Hornyánszky, 1894), 656–58, András Vári: Urak és gazdászok. Arisztokrácia, agrárértelmiség és agrárius mozgalom Magyarországon 1821–1898 (Budapest: Argumentum, 2009), 419. Pál Baross’ wife was called Anna Forster. Their son was Károly Baross, a key figure in the management of the OMGE and elder brother of Margit, born in 1870, who featured on the first list. See Béla Pettkó and Ede Reiszig, eds., Magyar Nemzetségi Zsebkönyv, part 2, vol. 1, 44; Béla Kempelen, Magyar nemes családok, vol. 1 (Budapest: Grill Károly Könyvkiadó, 1911), 431–36. Emmy, daughter of the retired bailiff of Tordas, who died in 1893, buried her husband, Géza Forster, retired director of the OMGE, 1907. He was also mourned by his brothers Gyula and Kálmán, and his brothers-in-law Pál Baross and Győző Concha.

38 MgM 2012.20.1. Paikert, Életem és működésem, 16.

39 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/4. Paikert, Vegyes. 1894–1895. Kis Napló, 47, 27 October 1895.

40 Ibid., 12v, 20 December 1896.

41 Ibid., 52v, 25 April 1897.

42 MgM 2012.19.1. Paikert, Vázlatkönyv. 35. Erzsébet Concha, 4 February 1898. Two of the four Concha girls—Erzsébet and Emília—did not get married. Paikert also notes in his memoirs that Erzsébet retreated to a convent for a while, and most significantly, the rival friend László Dömötör never married either. MgM 2012.20.1. Paikert, Életem és működésem, 16.

43 The Paikerts lived in Buda, at Jégverem u. 2. Paikert, “Életem és korom,” 169. (Note by Rózsa Takáts, ibid., 194).

44 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/5. Paikert, Napló 1896. szept. 29 – 1898. márc. 11, 27, 14 April 1897. Edith Koller of Granzow (1878–1958) married the later minister of finance, Baron Frigyes Korányi of Tolcsva, in 1901. Gudenus, A magyarországi főnemesség, vol. 2, 97.

45 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/5. Paikert, Napló 1896. szept. 29 – 1898. márc. 11, 28v, 15 April 1897.

46 Tamás László Rozsos: Az erdélyi örmény eredetű nemes Lukács család genealógiája (Budapest: 2012), 16.

47 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/5. Paikert, Napló 1896. szept. 29 – 1898. márc. 11, 8v–9.

48 Ibid., 11v, 18 December 1896.

49 Ibid., 20, 12 April 1897.

50 Ibid., 54–54v, 26 April 1897. On his 31st birthday at the end of May 1897, he was fantasizing about getting engaged in Csömör (where the Lukácses lived), ibid., 61, 31 May 1897.

51 MgM 2012.3.1. Paikert, Régi feljegyzés, Személyes, 1898. máj. 2 – dec. 18, 1, 2 May 1898; 3, 5 May.

52 Ibid., 3. 4 May 1898.

53 OSZK Kt Quart. Hung. 3264/5. Paikert, Napló 1896. szept. 29 – 1898. márc. 11, 72, 11 March 1898. The nexus did indeed fit into the above web of relationships, especially after she married Ferenc Baross of Bellus and her younger sister Elvira married Lajos Baross.

54 MgM 2012.3.1. Paikert, Régi feljegyzés, Személyes, 1898. máj. 2 – dec. 18, 4, 28 June 1898. He even came out with a slogan: “Csömör – courtship, siege, capture!” Ibid., 4 August. Theodore Zeldin has aptly described the traditional masculine model of courtship to be a combination of commercial techniques and military means. Theodore Zeldin, An Intimate History of Humanity (London: Sinclair-Stevenson, 1994), 116.

55 MgM 2012.3.1. Paikert, Régi feljegyzés, Személyes, 1898. máj. 2 – dec. 18, 5, 4 September 1898.

56 Ibid., 7, 24 September 1898.

57 Ibid., 7, 2 October 1898.

58 MgM 2012.20.1. Paikert, Életem és működésem, 35–36.

59 Register of Birth and Death, accessed June 16, 2013. https://familysearch.org/search/record/results#count, All four were registered in the Lower Víziváros Roman Catholic register, not far from the Paikerts’ home.

60 József Gerő, ed., A királyi könyvek (Budapest: Gerő József, 1940), 176.

61 MgM 2012.20.1. Paikert, Életem és működésem, 36. The Fluk family were raised to the nobility in 1792. Kempelen, Magyar nemes családok, vol. 4, 145.

62 MgM 2012.20.1. Paikert, Életem és működésem, 7, 13 October 1898.

63 Ibid., 9–10, 28 Nov 1898.

64 Ibid., 8, 24 Nov 1898. There is no sign in the diary of omitted words or letters.

65 Ibid., 11, 5–6 December 1898.

66 Ibid., 12, 18 December 1898. Sunday. On the “English exhibition” see Radisics Jenő, “Az orsz. iparművészeti museum,” Magyar Iparművészet 8 (1898): 368. Kinga and Dalma were younger sisters of Deli.

67 Register of Birth and Death, accessed June 16, 2013. https://familysearch.org/search/record/results#count.

68 MgM 2012.19.1. Paikert, Vázlatkönyv, 47, 13 November 1899.

69 Paikert, “Életem és korom,” 179. Here the “genteel” (úri) was a reference to bearing and not just origins. (GyK’s italics in the quotation.)

70 MgM 2012.20.1. Paikert, Életem és működésem, 35.

71 The game theory model goes back to a 1962 paper by D. Gale and L. S. Shapley. D. Gale and L. S. Shapley, “College Admission and the Stability of Marriage,” American Mathematical Monthly 69, no. 1 (1962): 9–15. The 2012 Nobel Prize went to the surviving Lloyd S. Shapley and to Alvin E. Roth, who developed its application further. The subject has been covered in Hungarian by Péter Biró in “Stabil párosítási modellek és ezeken alapuló központi párosító programok,” Szigma 37, 3–4 (2006): 153–75. I would like to thank Aladár Madarász for bringing the model to my attention.

72 We could take as a basis for comparison the reminiscences of other social ladies, although we do not know of the treatment of any diaries. With reference to the introduction, however, we do not consider this to be methodologically sound. A revealing attempt at confronting interests with feelings has been made by Gábor Gyáni, who examined individual cases of “patriarchal” and “partnership” marriages through three 1914 marriage contracts. Gábor Gyáni, Hétköznapi Budapest, (Budapest: Városháza, 1995), 14–20. On the same, in a wider context, see Gábor Gyáni, “Middle-Class Kinship in Nineteenth-Century Hungary,” in Kinship in Europe, 293–94. These cases were from the year the First World War broke out and I would not hazard to extrapolate them back to the turn of the century.

73 See Biró, “Stabil párosítási modellek,” 153, 155. There have been many attempts to develop the model by building in payment and dynamics (i.e. the effect of new market entrants).

74 MgM 2012.20.1. Paikert, Életem és működésem, 38. It should be noted that according to the 1895 “gazdacímtár” [Farm Directory], the Paikert family did not have land greater than 100 holds. Only the first-born son Henrik farmed, as a tenant, a 330-hold estate in Seprős (Arad county), which was owned by his father-in-law. KSH, ed., A magyar korona országainak gazdaczímtára (Budapest: M. kir. Statisztikai Hivatal, 1897), 418–19. That was the origin of the family’s predicate upon their ennoblement.

75 J. Lajos Máté ed., Magyar Almanach. A Főrendiházi tagok, Országgyűlési képviselők- és az Országos Virilisták Czímkönyve az 1892. évre (Budapest: Fischer J. D. 1892), 85; KSH, ed., A magyar korona országainak gazdaczímtára (Budapest: M. kir. Statisztikai Hivatal, 1897), 244–45; 340–41; 422–25.

76 Máté, Magyar Almanach, 40; A magyar korona országainak gazdaczímtára, 566. It should be noted that in 1917—calculating double—he was a Pest virilis with direct tax of 11,704 crowns (1 forint = 2 crowns). Budapest Székesfőváros legtöbb állami adót fizető – 1200 választó – 1917. évi névjegyzéke (Budapest: Székesfőváros házinyomdája, 1918), 7.

77 Margit Lukács got married in 1900, two years following the siege recorded in the diary. Her husband was also of the nobility, an assistant secretary in the Ministry of Agriculture, Dr Jakab Tahy of Tahvár and Tarkeő. Rozsos, Az erdélyi örmény, 16. (The noble predicate were written out in full in the marriage register!)

 

pdfVolume 3 Issue 1 CONTENTS

Mikołaj Szołtysek, Siegfried Gruber

Living Arrangements of the Elderly in Two Eastern European Joint-Family Societies: Poland–Lithuania around 1800 and Albania in 1918

 

This paper re-addresses the nature of joint-family systems in historic Eastern Europe. It identifies two “hotspot” areas of family complexity and uses census microdata to shed light on attributes of household organization and living arrangements of the elderly in a comparative perspective. A detailed examination of various demographic components of the joint-family systems under discussion reveals important inter-societal differences and suggests that “de-essentialization” of the notion of the “joint-family system” might be necessary when discussing the geography of family patterns in this part of the continent.

 

Keywords: historical demography, household structure, living arrangements, co-residence, joint-family, Eastern Europe

Clarifying the Question

The joint family has long been seen as one of the most peculiar living arrangements in historic Europe. While a preference for residential independence in adulthood (i.e. for residing in small, conjugal groups),1 has long been viewed as the norm in Europe, the underlying principles of joint-family coresidence centered on extensive family solidarity, a high degree of parental control over adolescent children, and the subordination of some groups of individuals to others within the domestic space. It therefore comes as no surprise that historians have commonly assumed that the appearance of joint families in a given area, society, or culture must have resulted from economic, demographic, and cultural constraints which prevented people from indulging in the (allegedly) universal preference for small and simple households. In their explanations of the economics of joint-family arrangements, historians assert that the landholding patterns typical of sharecroppers and some serfs and the demands of the pastoral economy in mountainous settings fostered the formation of big, laterally extended multiple-family residence groups.2 When seeking to explain the cultural factors underlying these family arrangements, scholars argue that patrilinealism, closely linked with corporate (joint) ownership structures that negate individual property rights, probably created mental structures that favored family solidarity, cohabitation, and obedience.3 It was generally assumed that in the absence of these two constraining forces, the “aversion” to joint-family living arrangements4 would find expression and the “instinctive wishes” of the population could be realized.

Despite a lack of clarity about the exact meaning of the term,5 “joint family” (or extended family) has often been used to describe laterally extended multiple-family domestic groups in societies widely dispersed across historic Eurasia.6 Early scholars of historical family patterns argued that joint families could be found in many different societies of Eurasia, from the nomadic tribes of the Middle East to the Slavic serf agriculturalists and the ancient civilizations of the Far East.7 Indeed, more recent research has revealed that legal and residential arrangements that followed joint-family rules existed in many parts of historic Europe, including in early medieval Germanic societies,8 fifteenth-century Tuscany, early modern France,9 nineteenth-century northern Italy,10 Finland,11 Russia,12 and parts of the Balkans.13 Until quite recently, the joint-household system was the most prevalent family arrangement in the world’s most populous agricultural societies, China and India. Referring to such diverse cultural areas, Berkner and Shaffer14 argue that anyone reading ethnographic descriptions of joint-family living “cannot help but be struck by the broad similarities.” These common features include the following: the coresidence of two or more nuclear families; the patrilineal succession of family titles and property; a tendency to keep the sons on the patrimony and virilocal household formation; a tendency to unify the joint domestic group around some common economic project; a tendency toward fission at some point in the developmental cycle; a marginal position of female siblings; and a tendency to recruit workers from among kin rather than from among wage laborers.15

Demographers have been fond of making such essentialist claims and have often used the concept of the extended family to explain worldwide demographic differentials. Accordingly, demographers have contrasted stylized versions of the joint-family system with nuclear or stem-family systems in order to establish a theoretical foundation on the basis of which to link different family types to various demographic outcomes. Since the work of Lorimer,16 Davis,17 and Davis and Blake18 there has been broad acceptance among scholars of the assumption that extended or joint families encourage high fertility.19 Hajnal pushed the analysis toward a specification of the rules of household formation and distinguished two main family forms. He also emphasized an East–West divide, contrasting the “joint-household (formation) system” of the major Eurasian societies with the Northwestern European system.20 To exemplify the characteristics of the joint-family pattern, Hajnal cited data from various historical periods from a wide range of countries with very different conditions, including India, Nepal, China, Italy, Croatia, Russia, and Hungary.21 More recently, Das Gupta drew “a stylized contrast between the stem-family systems of Northern Europe and the joint family of North India” in order to highlight their essential features as determinants of divergent health behaviors and health outcomes.22

While the stereotypical belief that in past centuries the elderly lived out their twilight years nestled in the bosom of their families has generally been refuted over the course of the last two decades,23 the perception that complex family societies performed welfare functions better than Western nuclear family based societies has been particularly resistant to change. Reflecting views that have been prevalent since the nineteenth-century writings of Le Play,24 family historians and demographers have continued to assert that nuclear-, stem-, and joint-family societies performed certain welfare functions for their members and coped with economic hardships in particular ways.25 The residential patterns of the elderly in joint-family societies were seen as representing a combined effect of the authority structure (with elderly males at the apex) and the associated family and kin-based approach to welfare provision.26 Regardless of when and where they lived, most joint families were portrayed as private institutions that encouraged solidarity and support for the elderly and other vulnerable individuals.27 Culture-specific values supported that system, especially those stressing family solidarity and a greater sense of obligation towards members of the kinship group.28

It is in this context that the concept of patriarchy has often been evoked, becoming a convenient shorthand for the presumed distinguishing trait of joint-family relations. The term has often included many different elements, such as the dominance of patrilineal descent, patrilocal or patrivirilocal residence after marriage, power relations that favour the dominance of men over women and the older generation over the younger generation, customary laws that sanctioned these patterns, the absence of an interfering state that could mitigate their influence, and an inert traditional society that emanated from these conditions.29 Combinations of these elements have been used to explain the peculiarity of the joint-family residence patterns in the East and Southeast of Europe relative to the West.30

Although many of these claims are no doubt accurate, the assumption that all joint-family societies are basically the same is, in our view, a gross oversimplification. Why would we think that societies that differ in terms of their cultural metrics, environmental characteristics, and place-specific historical trajectories adhere to the same rules of joint-family living, or that these rules would apply to the same extent in the everyday lives of their members? Without denying that it is possible to identify some essential and generally accepted features of extended families, this paper re-addresses the nature of joint-family systems in Europe by looking at the differences between two exemplary joint-family societies. Instead of treating them as inherently similar, we argue that a detailed examination of various demographic components of the joint-family systems under discussion may uncover important differences and hence suggest the extent to which a “de-essentialization” of the notion of the joint family might be necessary.31

Methodological Issues

This paper identifies two “hot spot” areas of family complexity in historical Eastern Europe and uses census and census-like microdata to describe the residential situations of the elderly in two populations governed by a joint-household formation regime. To compare the living arrangements of the elderly, we used measures commonly applied in demographic and family history studies of aging populations.32 However, we also proposed several indicators which have, to our knowledge, never or only rarely been used in the literature. As our focus is on the comparative morphology of residence patterns in joint-family systems, issues related to the origins of the joint family in the regions under examination or to the factors that contributed to the system’s persistence are not discussed.33

However, because our investigation of the situation of the elderly was based solely on the observation of their residential units registered in the listings, our analysis has certain limitations. The coresident family members may have represented only a small fraction of the kin to whom an elderly individual could turn for economic, physical, or emotional support, and coresidence as such may have been an imperfect proxy for the actual sharing of resources within domestic groups.34 In most developed countries, as well as in some historical societies, the coresidence of the elderly with their kin is just one of many transfer flows involving the aged. The other sources of support are generally in the form of social transfers (pensions, health payments, home care, etc.).35 While we do not wish to ignore these problems, some reservations regarding their implications for our study should be stated. In joint-family societies, household membership strategies were conventionally oriented toward an extensive recruitment of kin, which meant that many (if not most) domestic groups retained their complex structure through a continuous sequence of generations.36 Although it is unlikely that even highly complex domestic groups would encompass all of the kin available to an average “ego,” the accretion of relatives was normally substantial enough in such an environment that we can be certain that, in most cases, coresident kin would have been the most significant “others” from the perspective of an individual. Moreover, in joint-family societies in which domestic units act as property and labor cooperatives, the sharing of physical space was highly related to having the right to the use and ownership of a concrete part of the communal property. Although coresidence may not have always indicated the flow of support from the younger to the older generations, the economic and physical assistance derived from relatives who coresided was likely to have been more beneficial to the aged than the assistance provided by kin who lived close by.37 The coresidence of the elderly with kin had an even greater social and economic significance for pre-industrial rural populations, among which institutionalized social transfers were precarious and investments in human capital were low.

Our analysis relies on two additional operational assumptions. First, we assume there was a hierarchy of caring contexts within domestic groups, with different categories of relatives providing different types of support.38 Second, we assume that the more dense the environment of coresident kin surrounding the elderly—i.e. the larger the group of coresident immediate kin—the greater the potential benefits that could flow to the aged.

In this paper, we only deal with the population living in family (“private”) households. Unlike in historic western Poland, institutional households (often misleadingly called “hospitals”) were largely nonexistent in the eastern part of the country in the eighteenth century. Institutional households were equally scarce in Albania, and the few that existed were omitted from the analysis that follows.

Societies and Data39

To investigate the residential situations of the aged in the two exemplary joint-family societies, we used historical census microdata from two different regions of Eastern Europe: the eastern borderlands of the Polish–-Lithuanian Commonwealth at the end of the eighteenth century and Albania in 1918. The Albanian population census of 1918 and the Polish–Lithuanian database are currently the only existing databases that are large enough to allow us to investigate the demographic conditions and household composition in historical Eastern and Southeastern Europe.

 

Regions

House-
holds

Population

No. of parishes (estates)

No. of settlements

Eastern Poland–-Lithuania, 1791–95

13,885

83,727

143

511

Albania 1918

14,937

82,646

n/a

850

Albania 1918 (weighted)

67,056

390,428

n/a

 

 

Table 1. Basic data distribution. Source: Karl Kaser, Siegfried Gruber, Gentiana Kera, Enriketa Pandelejmoni (2011) 1918 census of Albania, Version 0.1 [SPSS file]. Graz.; Mikołaj Szołtysek, CEURFAMFORM database, Version 0.1 [SPSS file]. Rostock, 2011.

 

On the Polish side, the present study makes use of data for 13,885 peasant households from the eastern territories of historical Poland–Lithuania (Table 1).40 These data were derived from two types of population listings enumerating individuals by residential units.41 The first group of listings (37 percent) comes from the surviving remnants of the censuses carried out by the Polish Diet (Sejm) between 1790 and 1791. The second group of census microdata for the Commonwealth came from the so-called 5th Russian “soul revision.” Designed as periodic tax censuses to be used by the central government to assess the poll tax (which all male peasants in Russia were liable to pay), the “revision” was taken in the Belarusian heartland of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania after the third partition of Poland in 1795. Despite being ordered by an alien administration for the Polish territories, the 1795 revision in Poland–Lithuania followed the traditional Polish concepts of census-taking, rather than the official Russian principles of taxation.

map1 fmt
Map 1. Spatial distribution of Polish–Lithuanian data. Map design: J. Suproniuk for CEURFAMFORM Database.
The area enumerated in the listings are clustered into four territorial groupings located on either side of the historical Polish–Lithuanian border of the Commonwealth (Map 1). To the north of this border, there are two regions that stretch over the central and southern parts of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania (regions 1 and 2). The second of these, region 2, constitutes one of the largest European swamplands, known as Poles’ya. To the southwest, region 3 covers a portion of the historic territory of Red Ruthenia, which today is at the intersection of Belarus, Ukraine, and Poland. Region 4 consists of the Żytomierski district in the former Kiev Voivodship on the southeastern fringes of the Commonwealth, now in Ukraine. However, for the purposes of this study, the four regions are treated jointly for socioeconomic, demographic, cultural reasons. All of the listings discussed here precede the abolition of serfdom in the territories in question. The serf population under consideration was essentially non-Polish and non-Catholic, and was mainly comprised of Uniates (Greek Catholics). Ethnically, the population was mainly Ruthenian (which meant they spoke various dialects typical of “proto-Ukrainians” and “proto-Belarusians”).42 All of the regions also had lower population densities and less stringent forms of the manorial economy based on the forced labor of the peasantry than the western and southernmost territories of Poland.

From January 1916 onward, northern and central Albania was occupied by the Austro–Hungarian army, and a population census was taken on March 1, 1918. The checking and the processing of the data had to be stopped due to the planned withdrawal of the army in October. The order to destroy all of the census material was ignored except in some areas in the south of the occupied territory. The surviving material, which covers the major part of the country, therefore includes people who lived in roughly 1,800 villages, towns, and cities in the territory administered by Austria–Hungary during World War I (see Table 1 and Map 2). The census director published basic tables in 1922 with funds provided by the Albanian government.

Albanien 1918 und jetzt fmt

Map 2. Territory of Albania covered by the 1918 census.

 

The population in the Albanian census was predominantly Muslim (78.2 percent), with a Catholic minority in the north (18.6 percent) and an Orthodox minority in the south (3.1 percent). The ethnicity of the population was almost exclusively Albanian. The economy was dominated by agriculture and the urban population made up only 13.2 percent of the total. Very few Albanian adults who lived outside of the cities were literate.

The majority of individuals in our collection were listed by domestic groups comprising all of the people occupying separate residential units, consisting not only of the core family of the head of the household, but also his immediate and more distant relatives, as well as coresident servants and inmates or lodgers.

We recognize, of course, that a comparison of a phenomenon in Albania in 1918 with phenomena in Poland–Lithuania in the course of the eighteenth century may raise some questions. Sklar has noted that marriage behaviors among the populations of the Czech, Baltic, and Polish regions differed markedly from those of people in the Balkans during the demographic transition.43 However, while our country-specific data span long periods of time, from a demographic perspective both of these populations are pre-transitional. While the Belarusian population exhibited the highest fertility levels in Eastern Europe well into the 1920s, Albania was the last country in Europe to enter the demographic transition (i.e. after the World War II).44 The age-standardized marital fertility ratios of both the Polish eastern borderlands at the end of eighteenth century and early twentieth-century Albania were very similar (60–61).45 Female nuptiality patterns were also very similar (female SMAM of 18.4–18.6), although there were significant differences between the male nuptiality patterns in the two locations (the male SMAM was 27.2 in Albania and 22 in eastern Poland). Apart from the age gaps between spouses, the major difference between the two populations appears to have been the share of elderly people aged 60 and older, which was higher in Albania than in Poland (nine percent in comparison with six percent).46

The populations covered by our listings were joint-family societies per se, with a large share of individuals living in joint-family constellations at some point in their lives. Data from the Polish borderlands and Albania displayed some of the highest indicators of joint-family coresidence out of more than one-hundred census populations from around the globe.47 Further proof of the prevalence of joint-family coresidence in the areas under examination is found in ethnographic accounts and historic-anthropological research. According to Kaser, Albania historically belonged to the area of the Balkans where patrilocal household cycle complexity was prevalent.48 The area covered by Albania was characterized by a distinctive patriarchal cultural background that has been called the Balkan patriarchy.49 The basic elements of this cultural pattern were strong blood ties, ancestor worship, patrilocality, patrilineal kinship structures, the levying of a bride price, and the waging of blood feuds.50

The eastern lands of historical Poland were also characterized by the longevity of archaic forms of communal social organization based on male ancestral kinship. These familial-ancestral communes were believed to resemble closely the well-known South Slavic institution of zadruga.51 The patriarchal model of intra-familial relations prevailed, with full economic power being held by the commune’s head, usually the oldest male. When a head died, the position was passed on to the next-oldest male in the group.52 In the period under investigation, large agnatic descent groups were already at different stages of disintegration, mainly due to frequent efforts by landlords to split up large groups and create individual families.53 Nevertheless, archaic extended family patterns were still going strong in the Polish eastern borderlands, although the patriarchal family group at the time was confined primarily to individuals who jointly inhabited one domestic group (“dym”). Despite increasing tendencies toward household division, even in the second half of the nineteenth century large, multigenerational families had not yet disappeared from the Polish eastern territories.54

 

 

Rural Albania, 1918

Poland–Lithuania, 1791–95

Category

Frequency

Percent

Frequency

Percent

Solitaries

2,590

3.9

78

0.6

No family

2,274

3.4

79

0.6

Simple family household

26,177

39.0

6,644

47.9

Extended family household

12,619

18.8

1,841

13.3

Stem family household

7,630

11.4

2,705

19.5

Joint family household

15,763

23.5

2,515

18.1

Indeterminate

3

0

23

0.2

Total households

67,056

100

13,885

100

 

Table 2. Household structure in Albania and Poland–Lithuania. Source: Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania; Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”. Hammel–Laslett scheme slightly modified. All lineally extended multiple-family households with more than two conjugal family units are treated as “joint families’.”

 

To further illustrate the widespread character of joint-family coresidence in the societies under examination, three measures of joint-family coresidence were applied to our data and presented in tabulated or graphical form.55 The first measure applies a slightly modified Hammel–Laslett scheme to the populations under investigation, while the other two move away from a sole concentration on the household and focus instead on the distribution of individuals and CFUs among different types of domestic groups.56

In Table 2 a canonical Hammel–Laslett scheme was used to present a distribution of households by type in Albania and Poland–Lithuania. The scheme was modified in order to give a better representation of the domestic group structures that fall into the category of joint families. All of the households that belong to Laslett category 5 were divided into two groups (stem versus joint).57 Both datasets show a high prevalence of non-nuclear residence groups. Extended, stem, and joint domestic groups account for more than half of all of the units in both Albania and Poland–Lithuania. While the overall share of multiple-family units was larger in the Polish borderlands than in Albania (38 percent and 35 percent, respectively), the number of domestic groups displaying joint structure according to our definition was slightly higher in the Balkans. The proportions of joint-family households in both datasets were very high compared to other sites in historic Europe, although they are smaller than in the Russian paradigmatic case of the joint family studied by Czap.58 Among Tuscan households in 1427—which have long been regarded as exemplifying joint-family structures in late medieval Europe—only 15 percent were multiple-family households, and only eight percent of those were composed either of two married brothers or three or more couples. Among the Indian rural households in the mid-twentieth century, no more than 12 to 13 percent would have been classified as joint families according to our definition.59 Before Mishino’s data were published in the early 1980s, the highest overall incidence of joint families in historic Europe was found for an estate in eighteenth-century Kurland, where the incidence was about 17 percent.60

 

24109

Figure 1a. Household structure by age of household head (male heads only) Poland–Lithuania 1791–1795. Source: Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”.

24116

Figure 1b. Household structure by age of household head (male heads only) Albania 1918. Source: Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania.

It is generally understood that the distribution of households by structure can obscure the actual fluctuation over the developmental cycles of domestic groups.61 A number of scholars have asserted that these Eastern European domestic groups underwent no cyclical changes from one household form to another, but rather maintained the multiple-family form over the entire life-cycle of the group.62 However, neither the Albanian nor the Polish–Lithuanian data confirm this assumption. When all of the households are ordered by the age of the male household head (Figures 1a and 1b), then a clear upward-trend in the propensity to form joint domestic groups over the family lifecycle becomes visible, with much higher proportions of joint families found among older heads. Some differences between Albania and Poland–Lithuania are also discernable. The accretion of additional family units in Albania occurred earlier in the lifecycle of domestic groups than in the Polish borderlands. Among Polish–Lithuanians, a factor that also contributed to a sharp decline in the share of simple families among middle-aged heads was the increasing tendency to form households composed of only two conjugal-family units, some of which then obviously turned into joint-family households. It appears, however, that the number of joint families in both societies was significant enough that we can conclude that joint-household formation rules were well-integrated into the social norms regarding domestic group recruitment and membership.

24136

Figure 2b. Population by household type membership (sexes combined), Albania 1918. Source: Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania”.

24125

Figure 2a. Population by household type membership (sexes combined), Poland–Lithuania 1791–95. Source: Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”. Notes: Categories ‘No family’ and ‘Solitaries’ omitted (below 0.5 percent across all age groups).

While a substantial fraction of the population spent most of their lives in joint-family environments in both societies (Figures 2a–2b and 3a–3b), the percentage of people in this category was consistently higher in Albania than in eighteenth-century Eastern Poland, where the share tended to fluctuate. But in order to understand better the differences between these two joint-family societies, we need to look at the distribution of conjugal-family units (CFUs) among the different types of domestic group structures based on the age of the family unit head.63 The proportion of CFUs living in joint-family households in Albania generally held steady at around 40 to 50 percent, with only very negligible changes occurring as the CFU head grew older (Figure 3b). Household divisions were obviously occurring less frequently in this society. By contrast, a clear lifecycle pattern of joint-family coresidence can be seen in Poland–Lithuania (Figure 3a). There, the proportion of CFUs residing in joint groups decreased substantially as the head progressed from early adulthood to his mid-fifties.64 While a reverse pattern could be observed after that age, joint coresidence was never as common among units with older heads as it was among family groups with younger heads. Household divisions must have occurred at a very rapid pace among adult Polish–Lithuanians, with a large number of conjugal units gaining residential independence before their heads had reached their late forties. Then, after the head reached the age of 55, the living arrangements of a CFU often shifted again, with many of these groups moving from residing in simple units to living in stem or joint families. These differences in lifecycle developments in Albania and historic Poland may have had important implications for the living arrangements of the elderly in these two societies. It is likely that the delayed division of households in Albania resulted in a considerably higher number and wider range of relatives living in domestic groups that included older people than in Poland.

24143

Figure 3a. Conjugal family units (CFUs) by household type membership, Poland–Lithuania 1791–95. Source: Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”. Notes: Categories ‘No family’ and ‘Solitaries’ omitted (below 0.3 percent across all age groups).

24150

Figure 3b. Conjugal family units (CFUs) by household type membership, Albania 1918. Source: Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania.

Living Arrangements of the Aged

Demographers and family historians have devoted considerable attention to measures of living arrangements among the elderly.65 The most common approaches take into account household headship rates among the elderly, the relationship of the older person to the household head, the older person’s coresidence with married or unmarried children, and/or whether the household in which the elderly person lives has a simple or an extended structure.66 In the analysis that follows, we merge these approaches67 and propose a wider palette of quantified indicators for investigating the position of the elderly. After discussing the results we obtained using these standard measures, we consider some additional tools that may provide us with more insights into the morphology of the residence patterns of the elderly in truly complex family systems like the ones we are dealing with here.

When we look at the living arrangements of the elderly, kin availability plays an important role. The patterns of kin availability are determined by age- and sex-specific mortality, fertility, marriage and remarriage rates, and the age differences between spouses.68 To capture the demographic effects of the availability of kin on the residence patterns of the aged in the populations under examination we use a very simple measure that can be calculated on the basis of the age structures of our populations. The so-called “availability ratio” (AR)69 is the ratio of members of the population aged 15–59 to members of the population aged 60 and over. The former population represents the pool of available individuals with whom the elderly could co-reside. The AR was 10.1 for Poland–Lithuania, but it was only 5.8 for Albania. Assuming this finding is not entirely an artifact caused by the under-registration of certain groups of individuals or a consequence of the age heaping and age exaggeration in the Albanian population, it appears that in Albania there were fewer younger people available for potential coresidence with the elderly.

We begin our analysis by classifying elderly individuals by their relationship to the household head (Table 3). The advantage of this approach is that it allows us to look at the percentage of older people who head a household in conjunction with other features of the living arrangements of the elderly.

The headship rates were uniformly high for men in both locations, but they were much lower for women. In addition, in both datasets far more women lived as parents (or as parents-in-law) in the households of children or children-in-law than men. At this point, however, the similarities between the patterns in historic Poland and in Albania come to an end. While one-sixth of the older women in Poland–Lithuania still held a headship, the corresponding share was drastically smaller in Albania. This seems to indicate that due to a “patriarchal bias,” women in Albania had fewer chances of heading a household as widows. The fewer household divisions also explain why elderly Albanian men were found more frequently in the other household membership categories—particularly those of other relatives and siblings of the head or the head’s spouse—than elderly eighteenth-century Ruthenian men. Moreover, relative to their counterparts in Albania, both elderly men and women in Poland–Lithuania were more likely to reside in a household headed by a non-relative, even though this arrangement was still rare.

 

Relationship to household head

Poland–Lithuania 1791–95

Albania 1918

Males

Females

Males

Females

Head

88.6

16.1

79.3

1.7

Spouse

0

34.3

0.1

16.1

Parent or parent-in-law

4.9

39.0

5.2

58.6

Sibling or sibling-in-law

1.5

1.9

5.8

5.8

Other relative

1.2

1.9

6.9

14.2

Non-relative

3.8

6.7

1.4

2.3

Lives alone

0.1

0.1

1.3

1.4

Total

100 (N=2639)

100 (N=1853)

100 (N=16391)

100 (N=17913)

 

Table 3. Elderly (60+) relationship to head of household by sex. Source: Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania; Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”. Note: Albania: weighted population.

 

The major patterns shown in Table 3 allow an initial, tentative hypothesis regarding gender-based differences in the well-being of the elderly in the populations under examination. Assuming the domestic groups in the societies in question were structured hierarchically—and that the household head was the key decision-maker regarding access to resources and used his or her power to ensure that other household members acted in accordance with his or her wishes—it appears that old age was much more advantageous for men than for women in both societies. As only a minority of women were entitled to head households at older ages, relatively few of them were able to exert direct control over decision-making in their domestic group, and this happened much more often in Poland–Lithuania than in Albania. Thus, the well-being of women was dependent on the nature of their membership in a household; i.e., on their placement in the overall web of intra-household relationships.

Before we attempt to deepen our understanding of this issue, we should categorize the elderly householders by sex and the structure of their domestic group (Table 4). Our goal is to determine whether female-headed households were structurally different from male-headed households and whether these structural differences translated into potential vulnerability for older women.

 

 

Poland–Lithuania 1791–95

Albania 1918

Household category

Male heads (%)

Female heads (%)

Male heads (%)

Female heads (%)

Solitaries

0.2

0.7

1.7

48.6

No family

0.2

0.3

1.2

14.4

Simple family

25.3

19.0

31.8

20.2

Extended family

9.9

29.0

10.8

12.1

Stem family

36.0

20.0

21.9

2.3

Joint family

27.9

31.0

32.6

2.3

Indeterminate

0.5

0

0

0

Total

100 (N=2340)

100 N=300)

100 (N=13211)

100 (N=555)

 

Table 4. Household structure of elderly heads (60+) by sex of householder. Source: Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania; Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”.

 

The figures in Table 4 show significant differences between male- and female-headed households in both datasets; however, these differences are manifested in a very specific way. In Poland–Lithuania, female householders were much more likely than male ones to head extended domestic groups and were less likely to head stem families. The first gap is largely attributable to the combined effects of higher rates of remarriage among men and the excess male mortality at older ages, but it points to the relatively strong position of widowed women in the joint-family societies of historic Poland–Lithuania. It is particularly striking that, in Poland, the relative shares of heads living in solitary and joint-family households were similar among men and women. Again, the rather high number of female heads of extended and joint-family units in eastern Poland–Lithuania suggests that the widowed “matriarch” occupied a relatively strong position in the joint-family societies of historic Poland.

The Albanian patterns were quite different. Male-headed households in Albania were far more likely than female-headed households to have been extended and multiple-family arrangements. However, the most striking gender difference in terms of household structure is that women headed almost all of the solitary and “no-family” domestic groups (which represented three-quarters of all of the units headed by women). Thus, unlike in Poland–Lithuania, most of the elderly female heads in Albania were not co-residing with relatives, and they might have been detached from wider kin groups in several important respects.70 However, before we attempt to explain this phenomenon, we should point out an interesting interplay between the figures presented in Tables 3 and 4. Whereas women in Poland–Lithuania were much more prone to head independent households than women in the Balkans, women in Albania—a strictly patriarchal society at the time—were much more likely to have lived alone than their Polish counterparts.71 This issue definitely requires further investigation, but the most obvious explanation is that women were only able to act as household head in Albania in cases in which no male person was available in the household, and such households were rather negligible in number.

While they are easy to calculate and are potentially informative, the research approaches that focus on the household position of the elderly (based on the relationship to the head) and on the composition of older people’s households are obviously insufficient for a description of the entire spectrum of intra-household relationships among elderly people. Although the connection to the household head is definitely the most important principle structuring relationships within domestic groups, it is not the only one in which the coresidents were involved. To explore these issues more fully, we need a classification scheme that takes into account relationships that were not tied to the head and allows us to consider the relationships between older individuals and other members of the domestic group in which they live,72 at least in a dyadic form. For this purpose, we have used a classification scheme that allocates individuals according to whether they were members of a core-family group, which may include unmarried children living with at least one parent, married couples, and lone parents. People who were not members of families are classified in three ways, according to whether they lived with relatives, with non-relatives only, or alone. It should be emphasized that, in this classification, the category of relative is not defined by a specific relationship to the household head, but by the existence of a relationship between the elderly person and members of the household other than his or her children or spouse. The focus is therefore on the individual and not on the household, and relatives are identified not by their relationship to the head of the household, but by their relationship to any household member in the absence of closer family ties.73 The comparison of Polish–Lithuanian and Albanian populations is presented in Table 5.

 

 

Poland–Lithuania 1791–95

Albania 1918

Type of relationship (“lives as”)

Males

Females

Males

Females

Child

0

0.1

0.4

0.2

Spouse

69.5

36.8

77.7

19.0

Lone parent

26.8

56.3

15.8

68.4

Other kin

1.6

2.5

3.4

8.7

Other non-kin

2.0

4.3

1.4

2.3

Lives alone

0.1

0.1

1.3

1.4

Total

100 (N=2639)

100 (N=1853)

100 (N=16,391)

100 (N=17,913)

 

Table 5. Dyadic relationships in the households by sex and region. Source: Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania; Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”.

 

The allocation patterns of older persons to different categories represented in Table 5 are generally very similar in both societies, with more elderly men living with spouses and more women being classified as “lone parents.” However, the differences in the numeric intensity of these patterns are probably more important. First, it should be noted that in Albania, over 80 percent of older women were living without a spouse (potentially the most important source of support, at least in old age), compared with 63 percent in Poland–Lithuania; which again represents a clear effect of the age gap between spouses in Albania. Both men and women in Albania were more likely to live without coresident children than their counterparts in Poland–Lithuania, although the trend was stronger among women than men (14.4 percent of women versus 6.9 percent of men).

 

 

Poland–Lithuania 1791–95

Females living with/as

N (=100%)

% living with adult child (16+)

% living with married child

% living with unmarried or widowed child

Spouse

681

87.7

72.1

54.9

Lone parent

1044

95.4

84.5

40.3

Albania 1918

Females living with/as

N (=100%)

% living with adult child (16+)

% living with married child

% living with unmarried or widowed child

Spouse

691

73.2

55.9

62.0

Lone parent

2343

86.6

70.0

42.5

 

Table 6. Selected dyadic relationships by category of coresident offspring (female population only). Source: Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania; Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”.

 

To better assess the potential vulnerability of older Albanian and Polish–Lithuanian women, it is useful to distinguish between the different types of children coresiding with elderly females in the two settings. For the calculations presented in Table 6, two categories of women who could have lived with children in the same premises (“spouses” and “lone parents” in Table 5) were further subdivided into those who lived with adult children, at least one married child, and unmarried and widowed children (as these categories partly overlap, the given percentages do not sum up to 100). It thus appears that, relative to their counterparts in Albania, women in Poland–Lithuania were more likely to have been living with a husband and were more likely to have been coresiding with adult and married children. The difference between these two sites is equally revealing when coresidence with adult and married children is examined for women classified as lone parents. In Poland–Lithuania, women in this category co-resided with adult and married offspring 10 to 15 percent more often than in Albania.

 

Lives as

Relationship to the household head

N (=100%)

Head

Spouse

Parent or parent-in-law

Sibling or sibling-in-law

Other relative

Non-relative

Lives alone

 

Poland–Lithuania 1791–95

Child

0

0

0

100

0

0

0

1

Spouse

0

93

2

1

1

3

0

681

Lone parent

28

0

68

1

0

2

0

1044

Other kin

7

0

0

30

52

11

0

46

Other
non-kin

0

0

0

0

0

100

0

79

Lives alone

0

0

0

0

0

0

100

2

 

Albania 1918

Child

0

0

0

28

72

0

0

43

Spouse

0

84

7

3

5

0

0

3400

Lone parent

2

0

83

4

11

0

0

12,261

Other kin

5

1

5

23

64

1

0

1553

Other
non-kin

6

0

0

0

0

94

0

409

Lives alone

0

0

0

0

0

0

100

247

 

Table 7. Dyadic relationships of elderly women by individual household position. Source: Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”; Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania.

 

We can perform an even more detailed accounting of the living arrangements of the elderly if we combine the information provided above in Table 5 with the pattern of relationships to the head of household. This approach is based on the assumption that dyadic relationships between individuals within domestic groups can also be structured hierarchically. In other words, it might be assumed that lone parenting, for example, may be framed differently in terms of the flow of resources and support depending on whether a lone parent is a household head, a head’s relative, or a stranger.

Again, the cross-classifications of the various relationships of older people in the two societies are generally similar, particularly among men. However, among women, some interesting differences can be observed (Table 7). The share of women who were lone parents in Poland–Lithuania was highly concentrated among two household statuses: the head and the parental generation (including the parents-in-law). At the same time, the share of female lone parents who headed a household was almost six times lower in the Balkans, and lone mothers in Albania were predominantly clustered around the head’s parents. One possible interpretation of these findings is that Polish lone mothers were receiving more resources from the younger generation; i.e., they were receiving intra-household support. It is important to note, however, that in the Balkans, the authority of the female spouse of the head normally increased only with the age of the woman, and often culminated in the woman achieving the position of the respected mother of the new “patriarch.” This does not fit in with the image of the subordinated, vulnerable, and fully dependent elderly woman.74 Nevertheless, even if we accept that the underrepresentation of Albanian widowed mothers among household heads was counterbalanced by their equally strong position after stepping down from co-headship, we still have to explain the finding that some 10 to 15 percent of lone parents among Albanian women were not mothers or even siblings of the heads, but were more distant relatives of the head couple. It is not entirely unrealistic to argue that a widow’s relationship with her children and the flow of resources between her and her children would have been framed by the status of their respective family units with respect to the core family of the head and his close relatives. Inequality and mistreatment may have arisen in such contexts, especially given that Albanian women often were not surrounded by their adult offspring.

We have already noted that divergences in the life-cycle patterns of domestic groups in Albania and Poland–Lithuania probably had an effect on the number of coresident kin to the elderly. Unless excess mortality took a toll, older Albanians should have had a considerably higher number and a wider range of relatives present in their households. Is it possible to find hard evidence that confirms this assumption?

For the purpose of exploring this issue, the unweighted average of the distribution of households by size commonly labeled “mean household size” needs to be distinguished from another related measure, the “size of household of the average member of the population” (“mean experienced household size”) (Table 8).75

 

Region

Sex

M(E)HS

No. Of adults

All
relatives

Spouse

Children

Sibling

Nephew

Cousin

Grand-children

Poland–Lithuania 1791–95

males

7.07

4,60

3,36

0.68

1.36

0.07

0.04

0.00

0.05

females

7.13

4.67

3.37

0.36

1.47

0.01

n.a.

n.a.

0.09

Albania 1918

males

8.49

5.26

4.13

0.83

0.97

0.28

0.26

0.16

0.04

females

7.88

5.06

3.96

0.19

1.25

0.07

n.a.

n.a.

0.15

 

Table 8. Elderly population by sex, mean experienced household size, and mean number of adult coresident relatives (16+). Source: Kaser, Gruber, Kera, Pandelejmoni, 1918 census of Albania; Szołtysek, “CEURFAMFORM database”.

 

The figures in Table 8 show that the experienced household size was higher in Albania for both males and females, although for older men the difference was substantially larger. Interestingly, unlike in Albania, the size of the household of the average elderly woman in Poland–Lithuania was very close to that of the average man. Once again, this provides some additional evidence that elderly women in historic Poland had a better standing than women in Albania. In both societies, most adults who co-resided with an elderly person were the person’s relatives by blood or marriage. Far more elderly men than elderly women were living with a spouse. However, whereas men in Poland were less likely to have been living with a spouse than men in Albania, the pattern for women was reversed. These results are attributable to the higher remarriage rates of men relative to women in both societies, and to the large age gap at marriage in Albania.76 Older people in Poland–Lithuania generally had more adult children in their household, though we do not yet have enough information to determine whether this was simply an outcome of less favorable demographic conditions in Albania.77 Overall, however, we can see that in Albania, the proportion of elderly people who lived with relatives other than spouses and children was higher than in Poland–Lithuania (figures for men only). In both datasets, the mean number of adult, coresiding grandchildren was negligible.

Conclusions

Although it is still not fully acknowledged in the historical and sociological literature, a significant degree of variation has been shown to have existed within Northwestern Europe with regards to household organization. Richard Wall was among the first to tackle the problem of inter-regional differences in familial organization within areas traditionally subsumed under the label of simple (and neolocal) household systems.78 Referring to the substantial range of variation between individual settlements in England, he warned that it would be incorrect “to see English households as variations on one basic type.”79 Meanwhile, the considerable degree of variation in household structures Wall found within the confines of Northern and Central Europe led him to point out rather boldly that “so great is the degree of variation that it must be doubtful whether Hajnal’s generalization captures much of the reality of family and household patterns of Northwest European societies in the past.”80

Following this thread, in this paper, we have attempted to demonstrate that, even though eastern Poland–Lithuania and Albania both followed joint-household formation rules (i.e., the pattern antithetical to the neolocal one according to Hajnal) and can both be seen as examples of societies with long traditions of the ownership of joint property rights, the family systems in the two settings were not entirely the same. Throughout this exercise, Wall’s argument that family and household systems should not be defined solely on the basis of variations in the proportions of extended and multiple-family households81 has proven particularly valuable, and we have taken a large number of factors into consideration to demonstrate the validity of our approach.

The paper demonstrates several differences between the two Eastern European regions, however, the most convincing findings are related to the distinctly different role of females in households of Poland–Lithuania and Albania. It is in this regard that the patterns detected in the regions of eastern Poland–Lithuania deviate most significantly from many of the tendencies found in Albania. The distinctiveness of female position in the two societies, in turn, suggests that their patriarchal underpinnings may not have been the same. This disparity stemmed from the interplay of various socioeconomic, institutional, and ecological factors that are too complex to be fully discussed here.82 Here, it must suffice to say that manorialism, demesne lordship83 and the associated interventions by landlords in the lives of peasants created a political-economic framework within which historical tendencies to form corporate family groups in eastern Poland–Lithuania were to some extent constrained and the power of lineage groups was partly mitigated.84 In Albania, on the other hand, rather extreme environmental conditions in alpine or highland areas far from communication and trade routes appear to have facilitated the continuity of patriarchal cultures barely subject to state surveillance or socio-cultural currents of the Early Modern and Modern Eras.85

The different interactions among the microprocesses of elderly household membership recruitment discussed in this paper—all within a broad geographical area traditionally associated with family complexity—not only raise the question of how, ultimately, the area as a whole should be characterized, i.e. as pertaining to the operation of different household systems, or, alternatively, variations of one basic system. They also point to the more substantial question of the extent to which the term “joint family” should be used to describe a distinct family system. Further research along the lines proposed here, but extended over other areas of traditional Europe, could help us resolve this problem.86 In fact, the most recent studies suggest that the residential patterns of the elderly are but one element of a much wider “package” of dissimilarities between Polish–Lithuanian joint families and their counterparts in the Black Earth region in nineteenth-century Russia and Albania.87 One solution to the problem could be to abandon the idea that one country or region belongs to one rigid “pattern” and another country to another “pattern,” and instead to use a set of different variables to compare countries, regions, or subpopulations within them. Such a set of variables can be used to analyse similarities and differences between two or more populations and see which ones are closer to or more distant from each other; thus, to approach the Eastern European joint families as various “scalar types.”

Acknowledgments

The authors wish to thank two anonymous reviewers for their comments on an earlier version of this paper.

 

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1 For the argument see: Daniel S. Smith, “The Curious History of Theorizing about the History of the Western Nuclear Family,” Social Science History 17 (1993): 325–53; Michel Verdon, “Rethinking Complex Households: the Case of the Western Pyrenean »Houses«”, Continuity and Change 11, no. 2 (1996): 191–215; Mary S. Hartman, The Household and the Making of History. A Subversive View of the Western Past (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004).

2 Lutz K. Berkner and John W. Shaffer, “The Joint Family in the Nivernais,” Journal of Family History 3 (1978): 150–62; David I. Kertzer, “The Joint Family Revisited: Demographic Constraints and Complex Family Households in the European Past,” Journal of Family History 14 (1989): 1–15; Ulf Brunnbauer, Gebirgsgesellschaften auf dem Balkan. Wirtschaft und Familienstrukturen im Rhodopengebirge (19./20. Jahrhundert) (Vienna–Cologne–Weimar: Böhlau, 2004); Pier Paolo Viazzo, “Pastoral and peasant family systems in mountain environment,” in Pratiques familiales et sociétés de montagne, XVIe – XXe siècle, ed. Bernard Derouet, Luigi Lorenzetti, and Jon Mathieu (Basel: Schwabe, 2010), 245–64.

3 Mark O. Kosven, Semeinaia obshchina i patronimiia (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1963); Karl Kaser, Familie und Verwandtschaft auf dem Balkan. Analyse einer untergehenden Kultur (Vienna: Böhlau, 1995); Michael Mitterauer, “A Patriarchal Culture? Functions and Forms of Family in the Balkans,” Beiträge zur historischen Sozialkunde. Special Issue 1999: The Balkans: Traditional Patterns of Life (1999): 4–20.

4 Steven Ruggles, “Stem Families and Joint Families in Comparative Historical Perspective,” Population and Development Review 36, no. 3 (2010): 563–77.

5 Triloki N. Madan, “The Joint Family: A Terminological Clarification,” International Journal of Comparative Sociology 3 (1962): 7–10.

6 For the sake of convenience, throughout this paper the terms “domestic groups,” households, or “housefuls” are used interchangeably, despite some clear qualitative distinctions between them.

7 Frédéric Le Play, “Le Réforme Sociale,” in Frederic Le Play on Family, Work, and Social Change, ed. C. Bodard Silver (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1982), 259; Frédéric Le Play, L’organisation de la famille selon le vrai modèle signalé par l’histoire de toutes les races et de tous les temps, 3rd edition (Tours: Alfred Mame et fils, 1871), § 12, 94; Charles S. Devas, Studies of Family Life: A Contribution to Social Science (London: Burns and Oates, 1886); M. F. Nimkoff and Russell Middleton, “Types of Family and Types of Economy,” American Journal of Sociology 66, no. 3 (1960): 215–25.

8 Milovan Gavazzi, “Die Mehrfamilien der Europäischen Völker, Ethnologia Europaea 11 (1980): 167–68.

9 Berkner and Shaffer, “Joint Family.”

10 Kertzer, “Joint Family.”

11 Elina Waris, “Komplexe Familienformen. Neue Forschungen zu Familie und Arbeitsorganisation im finnischen Karelien und in Estland,” Historische Anthropologie 10, no. 1 (2002): 31–51.

12 Peter Czap, “The Perennial Multiple Family Household, Mishino, Russia, 1782–1858,” Journal of Family History 7 (1982): 5–26.

13 Karl Kaser, “Introduction: Household and Family Contexts in the Balkans,” The History of the Family 1, no. 4 (1996): 375–86; Robert Wheaton, “Family and Kinship in Western Europe: The Problem of the Joint Family Household,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 5, no. 4 (1975): 601–28; Gavazzi, “Mehrfamilien”; Milovan Gavazzi, “The Extended Family in Southeastern Europe,” Journal of Family History 7, no. 1 (1982): 89–102; Michael. Mitterauer, “Komplexe Familienformen in sozialhistorischer Sicht,” Ethnologia Europaea 12 (1981): 213–71.

14 Berkner and Shaffer, “Joint Family,” 150.

15 Wheaton, “Family.”

16 Frank Lorimer, Culture and Human Fertility (Paris: UNESCO, 1954).

17 Kingsley Davis, “Institutional Patterns Favouring High Fertility in Underdeveloped Areas,” Eugenics Quarterly 2 (1955): 33–9.

18 Kingsley Davis and Judith Blake, “Social Structure and Fertility: an Analytic Framework,” Economic Development and Cultural Change 4 (1956): 211–35.

19 John C. Caldwell, “A Theory of Fertility: From High Plateau to Destabilization,” Population and Development Review (1978): 553–77; Thomas K. Burch and Murray Gendell, “Extended Family Structure and Fertility: Some Conceptual and Methodological Issues,” Journal of Marriage and Family 32, no. 2 (1970): 227–36 for counterarguments; also the discussion in Monica Das Gupta, “Lifeboat Versus Corporate Ethic: Social and Demographic Implications of Stem and Joint Families,” Social Science and Medicine 49, no. 2 (1999): 181–82.

20 John Hajnal, “Two Kinds of Preindustrial Household Formation System,” Population and Development Review 8 (1982): 449–94.

21 Hajnal, “Two kinds,” 455.

22 Das Gupta, “Lifeboat”; also George W. Skinner, “Family Systems and Demographic Processes,” in Anthropological Demography: Toward A New Synthesis, ed. David I. Kertzer and Tom Fricke (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 53–95.

23 Richard Wall, “Relationships between the generations in British families past and present,” in Families and households: division and change, ed. Cathie Marsh and Sara Arber (London: Macmillan, 1992), 63–85; Peregrine Horden and Richard M. Smith, eds., The Locus of Care: Families, Communities, Institutions and the Provision of Welfare since Antiquity (London: Routledge, 1998).

24 Le Play, “Réforme.”

25 Peter Laslett, “Introduction,” in Household and Family in Past Time, ed. Peter Laslett and Richard Wall (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), 1–89; Peter Laslett, “Family, Kinship and Collectivity as Systems of Support in Preindustrial Europe: a Consideration of the »Nuclear-hardship« Hypothesis,” Continuity and Change 3, no. 2 (1988): 152–75; Mead Cain, “Welfare Institutions in Comparative Perspective: The Fate of the Elderly in Contemporary South Asia and Pre-Industrial Western Europe,” in Life, Death, and the Elderly: Historical Perspectives, ed. Margareth Pelling and Richard M. Smith (London: Routledge, 1991), 222–43; Das Gupta, “Lifeboat”; Skinner, “Family systems.”

26 Cain, “Welfare Institutions,” 241.

27 Laslett, “Family.”

28 Laslett, “Family”; Roger Schofield, “Family Structure, Demographic Behaviour and Economic Growth,” in Famine, Disease and the Social Order in Early Modern Society, ed. John Walter and Roger Schofield (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 282–95; Cain, “Welfare Institutions”; Hartman, “Household”; critically Sandra Cavallo, “Family Obligations and Inequalities in Access to Care in Northern Italy seventeenth to eighteenth centuries,” in The Locus of Care: Families, Communities, Institutions and the Provision of Welfare since Antiquity, ed. Peregrine Horden and Richard M. Smith (London: Routledge, 1998), 90–110; Peregrine Horden, “Household Care and Informal Networks: Comparisons and Continuities from Antiquity to the Present,” in The Locus of Care: Families, Communities, Institutions and the Provision of Welfare since Antiquity, ed. Peregrine Horden and Richard M. Smith (London: Routledge, 1998).

29 Vera St. Erlich, Family in Transition: A Study of 300 Yugoslav Villages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966): 32; Joel M. Halpern, Karl Kaser, and Richard A. Wagner, “Patriarchy in the Balkans: Temporal and Cross-Cultural Approaches,” The History of the Family 1, no. 4 (1996): 425–42; Karl Kaser, Hirten, Kämpfer, Stammeshelden. Ursprünge und Gegenwart des balkanischen Patriarchats (Vienna–Cologne–Weimar: Böhlau, 1992); Kaser, “Introduction”; Mitterauer, “Patriarchal Culture.”

30 Siegfried Gruber and Mikołaj Szołtysek, Quantifying Patriarchy: an Explorative Comparison of Two Joint Family Societies, MPIDR Working Paper WP-2012-017 (Rostock: Max Planck Institute for Demographic Research, 2012).

31 Strangely enough, the existence of intra-regional differences within the specific types of family household systems has been endorsed only recently in the family history literature. Richard Wall, in particular, argued that many distinctive patterns could be identified within an area in which Hajnal’s Northwest European household system was allegedly dominant (see Richard Wall, “European family and household systems,” in Historiens et populations. Liber Amicorum Etienne Helin (Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia, 1991), 617–36; Richard Wall, “Historical Development of the Household in Europe,” in Household Demography and Household Modeling, ed. Evert van Imhoff et al. (New York: Plenum Press, 1995), 19–52; Richard Wall, “Transformation of the European family across the centuries,” in Family History Revisited. Comparative Perspectives, ed. Richard Wall et al. (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2001), 217–41; see also discussion in Mikołaj Szołtysek, “Spatial Construction of European Family and Household Systems: Promising Path or Blind Alley? An Eastern European perspective,” Continuity and Change 27, no. 1 (2012): 11–52. However, Wall’s claims remain largely unheard or unacknowledged, cf. Alter’s recent statement about the pervasiveness of the Northwest European family model: George C. Alter, “Generation to Generation: Life Course, Family, and Community,” Social Science History 37, no. 1 (2013): 1–26.

32 See Susan De Vos and Karen Holden, “Measures Comparing the Living Arrangements of the Elderly,” Population and Development Review 14, no. 4 (1988): 688–704; Eugene Hammel and Peter Laslett, “Comparing Household Structure Over Time and Between Cultures,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 16 (1974): 73–109; Steven Ruggles, “Availability of Kin and the Demography of Historical Family Structure,” Historical Methods 19 (1986): 94; Steven Ruggles, “Family Demography and Family History: Problems and Prospects,” Historical Methods 23 (1990): 22–30; Miriam King and Samuel H. Preston, “Who Lives with Whom? Individual versus Household Measures,” Journal of Family History 15, no. 2 (1990): 117–32; also Lutz K. Berkner, “Household Arithmetic: a Note,” Journal of Family History 2, no. 2 (1977): 159–63.

33 See, however Karl Kaser, “The Balkan Joint Family Household: Seeking Its Origins,” Continuity and Change 9 (1994): 45–68; Mikołaj Szołtysek, “The Genealogy of Eastern European Difference: An Insider’s View,” Journal of Comparative Family Studies 43, no. 3 (2012): 335–71.

34 Ruggles, “Availability”; also Douglas A. Wolf, “The Elderly and Their Kin: Patterns of Availability and Access,” in The Demography of Aging, ed. Linda Martin and Samuel Preston (Washington D.C.: National Academy Press, 1994), 146–94; Wall, “Relationships,” 70–76.

35 Alberto Palloni, “Living Arrangements of Older Persons,” Population Bulletin of the United Nations, Special Issue 42/43 (2001): 64ff; Smith, “Structured Dependence.”

36 Czap, “Perennial Multiple Family Household.”

37 Wall, “Relationships,” 63.

38 Sara Arber and Jay Ginn, “In Sickness and in Health: Care Giving, Gender and the Independence of Elderly People,” in Families and Households: Divisions and Change, ed. Catherine Marsh and Sara Arber (London: Macmillan, 1992), 92–93.

39 For the purposes of this exposition, the discussion of data-related issues was reduced to a minimum. See more in Siegfried Gruber and Mikołaj Szołtysek, “Stem Families, Joint Families and the ‘European Pattern’: How Much of Reconsideration Do We Need?” Journal of Family History 37, no. 1 (2012): 105–25.

40 Various parts of this data collection have already been analyzed: e.g., Mikołaj Szołtysek, “Three Kinds of Preindustrial Household Formation System in Historical Eastern Europe: A Challenge to Spatial Patterns of the European Family,” The History of the Family 13, no. 3 (2008): 223–57; Mikołaj Szołtysek, “Rethinking Eastern Europe: Household Formation Patterns in the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and European Family Systems,” Continuity and Change 23 (2008): 389–427; Mikołaj Szołtysek and Barbara Zuber Goldstein, “Historical Family Systems and the Great European Divide: the Invention of the Slavic East,” Demográfia: English Edition 52, no. 5 (2009): 5–47.

41 The database development was supported by the Marie Curie Intra-European Fellowship project (FP6-2002-Mobility-5, Proposal No. 515065) at the Cambridge Group for the History of Population and Social Structure, Cambridge, UK, 2006–2008. More details in Szołtysek, “Three kinds,” “Rethinking.”

42 Not to be confused with Carpatho-Russians or Rusnaks from the Subcarpathian areas in Eastern Central Europe.

43 June L. Sklar, “The role of marriage behaviour in the demographic transition: the case of Eastern Europe around 1900,” Population Studies 28, no. 2 (1974): 231–47; cf. also Kaser, “Balkan joint family household,” 45–46, who contended that “the Balkan joint family came into being independently from other East European joint-family-household organizations.” However, there is an abundant nineteenth- and early twentieth-century literature that claims that the “Balkan zadruga” was a relic of ancient all-Slavic forms of ancestral organisation which can be traced back to the era of first settlement (see below; also reviewed in Szołtysek, “Spatial,” 26–28). Although asynchronic comparisons of the elderly population in eastern Poland–Lithuania and Albania yield important lessons for specific areas of family history research, these lessons are hardly applicable to the broader social history of these regions, because the social, economic, and institutional environment have diverged in the meantime.

44 Samuel Fogelson, “Z badań nad demografią Polesia i Wołynia,” Prace Wydziału Populacyjno-Migracyjnego 6 (Warsaw, Instytut badań Spraw Narodowościowych, 1938).

45 Age-standardized number of own children under age five per 100 married women aged 15–49. Total fertility rate (the average number of children a woman is expected to bear if she survives through the end of her reproductive life span and experiences a particular set of age-specific fertility rates at each age), among the inhabitants of Poland’s eastern borderlands was estimated to have ranged between 5.1 and 5.6 at the end of the eighteenth century. Mikołaj Szołtysek, Rethinking East-Central Europe: Family Systems and Co-residence in the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth (Bern: Peter Lang, forthcoming). 150 years later in Albania, TFR averaged more than six births per woman: Jane Falkingham and Arjan Gjonça, “Fertility Transition in Communist Albania, 1950–90,” Population Studies 55 (2001): 309–18.

46 See also Gruber Szołtysek, “Stem Families.” Unfortunately there is no reliable data about life expectancy at birth available for Albania prior to 1950 (at which time it was 51 years for males and 61 years for females), so we cannot be sure whether that feature is an effect of enhanced survival chances or partly an outcome of exaggerated ages later in life. On the other hand, it is rather unlikely that life expectancy at birth on Belarussian and Ukrainian territories of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth at the end of the eighteenth century was much higher than 27 years for a man and 30 years for a woman (Szołtysek, Rethinking East-Central Europe).

47 Gruber and Szołtysek, “Stem Families.”

48 Kaser, “Introduction,” 383; Siegfried Gruber, “Household Composition and Marriage Patterns in Albania around 1900,” Balkanistic Forum 1 (2012): 101–22.

49 Kaser, “Familie,” 61–165.

50 Karl Kaser, Patriarchy after Patriarchy: Gender Relations in Turkey and in the Balkans, 1500–2000 (Vienna: Lit-Verlag, 2008).

51 Maxime Kovalevskii, “Obscinnoe zemlevladenie v Malorossii v XVIII veke,” Juridiceskij vestnik 1 (1885): 36–37, 54–55; Fedor I. Leontovich, “Krestianskij dvor v litovsko-russkom gosudarstve,” Zhurnal Ministerstva Narodnago Prosvescenija (1896): 341–82; Aleksandra Efimenko, “Dvoriščnoe zemlevladenie v južnoj Rusi” Russkaja Mysl 5–6 (1892): 370–412; Kosven, “Semeinaia obshchina,” 168–69; Marija Gimbutas, The Slavs (New York: Praeger, 1971), 133; Ivan V. Lutchitsky, “Zur Geschichte der Grundeigentumsformen in Kleinrussland,” Schmoller’s Jahrbuch für Gesetzgebung, Verwaltung und Volkswirtschaft im Deutschen Reich 20 (1896): 165–96; also Oswald Balzer, “O zadrudze słowiańskiej. Uwagi i polemika,” Kwartalnik Historyczny 13, no. 2 (1899): 183–256; Henryk Łowmiański, Z dziejów Słowian w I tysiącleciu n.e. (Warsaw: PWN, 1967), 344–72.

52 Mitrofan Dovnar-Zapolsky, “Očerki semejnogo obyčnogo prava krest’jan Minskoj gub,” in Issledovanija i stat’i. T. 1. Ètnografija i sociologija, obyčnoe pravo, statistika, belorusskaja pis’mennost’, ed. Mitrofan Dovnar-Zapolsky (Kiev: A. P. Sapunov, 1909), 9–12.

53 Szołtysek, “Three Kinds.”

54 Dovnar-Zapolsky, “Očerki.”

55 Yet another feature bridging the two regional societies was a pastoral or agro-pastoral mode of agrarian production that has dominated both. The cultivation of land in Albania was decisively constrained by the mountainous environment due to the climatic effects of altitude and the scarcity of productive land, hence the emergence of mountain pastoralism or the combination of animal husbandry and the cultivation of small plots of land (see Kaser, Patriarchy, 236–69). In eastern Poland–Lithuania, on the other hand, the generally low soil quality (and extensive swamp areas in southern Belarus) and the extensive chessboard of arable plots often implied a tendency to switch to non-farming activities (such as cattle breeding) (see Szołtysek, Rethinking East-Central Europe). On the long tradition of postulating links between pastoral economies and a prevalence of extended family forms, see Viazzo, “Pastoral and peasant family systems”.

56 Berkner, “Household Arithmetic”; Steven Ruggles, “Reconsidering the Northwest European Family System: Living Arrangements of the Aged in Comparative Historical Perspective,” Population and Development Review 35, no. 2 (2009): 249–73.

57 Ruggles, “Stem Families”; On the sometimes fluid distinctions between stem- and joint-family systems, see Osamu Saito, “Two Kinds of Stem Family System? Traditional Japan and Europe Compared,” Continuity and Change 13, no. 1 (1998): 167–86.

58 Peter Czap, “A Large Family: the Peasant’s Greatest Wealth: Serf Households in Mishino, Russia, 1814–1858,” in Family Forms in Historic Europe, ed. Richard Wall, Jean Robin, and Peter Laslett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 128–29.

59 John Hajnal, “Two Kinds of Preindustrial Household Formation System,” in Family Forms in Historic Europe, ed. Richard Wall, Jean Robin, and Peter Laslett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 88.

60 Wheaton, “Family,” 615–16; Andrejs Plakans, “Seigneurial Authority and Peasant Family Life: The Baltic Area in the Eighteenth Century,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 5, no. 4 (1975): 629–54.

61 Lutz K. Berkner, The Stem Family and the Developmental Cycle of the Peasant Household: an Eighteenth-century Austrian Example,” The American Historical Review 77, no. 2 (1972): 398–418.

62 Czap, “Perennial Multiple Family Household,” 18; Czap, “Large Family,” 143–44.

63 The “head” of a CFU was considered to be the oldest person within it.

64 These are, of course, hypothetical life-courses constructed from synthetic cohorts based on cross-sectional data.

65 For a review see: De Vos and Holden, “Measures”; Susan De Vos, “Revisiting the Classification of Household Composition Among Elderly People,” Journal of Cross-Cultural Gerontology 19, no. 2 (2004): 135–52; also United Nations, Population Division, Living Arrangements of Older Persons. Special issue of Population Bulletin of the United Nations 42/43 (New York: United Nations Reproduction Section, 2001); Wall, “Historical Development”; Steven Ruggles, “Living Arrangements and Well-Being of Older Persons in the Past,” Population Bulletin of the United Nations 42/43 (2001): 111–61.

66 De Vos and Holden, “Measures”; De Vos, “Revisiting.”

67 Cf. Steven Ruggles, Prolonged Connections: The Rise of the Extended Family in Nineteenth-Century England and America (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987); Wall, “Relationships”; Richard Wall, “Characteristics of European Family and Household Systems,” Historical Social Research 23, no. 1–2 (1998): 44–66.

68 Wolf, “Elderly”; also Ruggles, “Availability”; Palloni, “Living Arrangements,” 88–91.

69 Palloni, “Living Arrangements.”

70 As remarked above, in reality the exact kinship network or the network of supporting family members is not known in this type of analysis; it can be independent of co-residence. For arguments about a close correspondence between the structure of the co-resident kin group and the overall importance of kinship in Polish–Lithuanian reality, see Szołtysek, Rethinking East-Central Europe, ch. 10.

71 In economic demography, living in single-person households in old age is sometimes taken as a manifestation of the desire for privacy and autonomy, which is most likely to be realized when the income of the population increases (see the discussion in Fred C. Pampel “Changes in the Propensity to Live Alone: Evidence from Consecutive Cross- Sectional Surveys, 1960–1976,” Demography 20, no. 4 (1983): 433–47. Another perspective stresses the negative consequences of living alone; namely, the limited potential for assistance from family members, indicated by the presence of others in the same household.

72 De Vos and Holden, “Measures,” 694.

73 Wall, “Characteristics.”

74 This holds true even though in general women are structurally less advantaged in the patrilineal joint-family system than in nuclear- or stem-family societies. According to Das Gupta, “Liveboat,” 178, 180: “This is because the primary unit is the corporate group which consists of male patrikin. Women are at the bottom of two hierarchies: the gender hierarchy as well as the age hierarchy. A young bride enters her husband’s family as a marginal person with little autonomy (…). The powerlessness of women in the patrilineal joint family system (…) is at its peak during the early phases of a woman’s marriage, which are the peak childbearing years (…). In the joint family system, old people are likely to obtain greater emotional and physical support, and also perhaps greater access to financial support in an emergency than might have been forthcoming for retired parents in the stem family system.”

75 See Joel M. Halpern, “Town and countryside in Serbia in the nineteenth-century, social and household structure as reflected in the census of 1863,” in Household and Family in Past Time, ed. Peter Laslett and Richard Wall (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), 401–27; Thomas K. Burch, “Household and Family Demography: A Bibliographic Essay,” Population Index 45, no. 2 (1979): 173–95.

76 Larger age gaps between spouses in Albania may have resulted in better chances of remarrying for widows, as they were younger. However, differing household structure, as well as the differing household position of the women could counterbalance that advantage, as the presence of married adult sons could diminish the probability of remarriage.

77 A similar number of children-in-law should be present in these households (most of these adult children were married), although we have not yet been able to calculate their exact numbers. It is worth pointing out that early twentieth-century observers of demographic conditions in southern Belarus were equally struck by the extremely high fertility of the local population and the surprisingly low mortality (Fogelson, “Z badań”).

78 Wall, “Household systems”; Wall, “Transformation.”

79 Richard Wall, “Regional and Temporal Variations in English Household Structure from 1650,” in Regional Demographic Development, ed. John Hobcraft and Philip Rees (London: Croom Helm, 1979), 109.

80 Wall, “Household Systems,” 625.

81 Wall, “Household Systems”; Wall, “Transformation.”

82 See, however, Mikołaj Szołtysek, Residence Patterns and the Human-ecological Setting in Historical Eastern Europe: a Challenge of Compositional (Re)analysis,” in Population in the Human Sciences: Concepts, Models, Evidence, ed. Philip Kreager (Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming).

83 See Markus Cerman, Villagers and Lords in Eastern Europe, 1300–1800 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012).

84 Cf. also Michael Mitterauer, Ostkolonisation und Familienverfassung. Zur Diskussion um die Hajnal-Linie,” In Vilfanov zbornik. Pravo-zgodovina-narod. In memoriam Sergij Vilfan, ed. Vincenc Rajšp and Ernst Bruckmüller (Ljubljana: ZRC, 1999), 203–21.

85 Cf. Mitterauer, “Komplexe Familienformen,” 67–68; Pier Paolo Viazzo, Upland Communities: Environment, Population and Social Structure in the Alps since the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989); Ulf Brunnbauer, “The Mountains and the Households. Household Structures in the Rhodopi Mountains in a Comparative Perspective.” Paper presented at the 2010 SSHA Convention, Chicago, Ill., October 17–21, 2010.

86 See the agenda for the research and data collection project recently launched by MPIDR, called Mosaic at www.censusmosaic.org.

87 Szołtysek, Rethinking East-Central Europe; and Gruber and Szołtysek, “Quantifying Patriarchy.”

pdfVolume 3 Issue 1 CONTENTS

Levente Pakot

Family Composition, Birth Order and Timing of First Marriages in Rural Transylvania. A Case Study of Szentegyházasfalu (Vlăhiţa) and Kápolnásfalu (Căpâlniţa), 1838–1940

In this article I explore the roles of family composition in the timing of first marriages in two mountain villages in the eastern part of Transylvania (in present-day Romania) between 1838 and 1940. Using micro-level data based on family reconstitutions, I found evidence suggesting the dominant role of family composition in the decision to marry in the case of both males and females. Although strong age norms existed with regards to marriage in the settlements in question, the results of multivariate analysis show that ordinal position of birth, number of siblings, parental presence, and the historical period during which a marriage was concluded, all played decisive roles in determining the age at the time of marriage of males and females. The effect of ordinal position of birth differed by gender: first-born males tended to marry at an older age than their brothers, as opposed to first-born females, who normally married at a younger age than their younger sisters. The death of one or both parents was an inducement among males and females to marry. This response to a family crisis reflects the acceleration of the inheritance process and an effort to maintain the viability of a rural household.

Keywords: marriage timing, sibling configuration, birth rank, Transylvania

In most cases, marriage is not considered an isolated event. Rather it is a complex family event that is related to the needs of parents and siblings.1 If marriage is analyzed within the context of family dynamics, one of the questions that may arise is how the presence of parents and siblings affects the marriage prospects of unmarried sons and daughters. Little research has been done on this question in the case of Transylvania in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In this article I explore the roles of family composition and birth order on the timing of first marriages in two mountain villages in the eastern part of Transylvania (present-day Romania) in the period between 1838 and 1940.

Background

Historical research on marriage patterns has long been dominated by John Hajnal’s hypothesis.2 It is important to emphasize that, according to Hajnal, the Western European historical model, which is characterized by late ages at the time of marriage, is unique since marriage was accompanied by the establishment of independent households. This is the underlying cause of the dominance of simple family households. The material goods required in order to set up a new household were acquired partly by inheritance and partly by savings gathered during the period prior to marriage. Therefore, the average age at the time of marriage was often rather high and a small portion of the young never married at all. According to Hajnal’s model, in other parts of the world where complex family households dominate, the marriage of children requires fewer resources from the parents, as the children normally stay in the parental household. Thus the average age at the time of marriage is lower than the average age in Western Europe, and the proportion of individuals who married is higher.

The Western European marriage model inspired a series of studies on inheritance systems and family reproduction.3 The studies focused on two closely interrelated questions: on the one hand, the differential reproduction of families living in the settlement and, on the other, differences among siblings within the family regarding access to local marriage and migration. Recent studies based on individual level and longitudinal data are part of this inquiry. The underlying question is to what extent do the individual characteristics and the composition of the family, the household and the community in historical-social context affect the possibility of marriage or migration.

In the nineteenth century, the demand for a female workforce in the booming textile industry in small towns in Eastern Belgium led to the migration of young women from nearby villages, thereby creating a very unbalanced marriage market.4 Under these circumstances, the children of farmers had much better marriage prospects than the other groups and were less likely to emigrate. Paternal presence decreased the risk of marriage and migration. The death of a father and/or mother was an inducement for their children to marry and to proceed with the process of inheritance. The risk of marriage and migration was lower among members of groups with many siblings with one exception: older girls living in the same household with their younger sisters, who were prone to emigrate. Based on the results, differential access to marriage and migration were of importance among families and not within the family, and birth order meant neither an advantage nor a disadvantage.5 A comparative analysis of Pays de Herve in Belgium and Zélande in the Netherlands suggests the adverse marriage perspectives of groups with a high number of siblings.6 In these regions, the presence of older sisters reduced the likelihood of younger sisters to marry. However, the marriage of older sisters facilitated the marriage of their younger siblings.7 Inheritance and marriage were tightly correlated in the villages of Alsace in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, where sons without siblings were more likely to marry and on average at a younger age than those who had siblings.8 In parallel to an increase in the number of siblings of the same gender, marriage prospects worsened and the possibility of migration came up, mainly for children in higher ordinal position of birth.

Systematic gender differences in accordance with birth order were observed among Norwegian–Americans living in Wisconsin where the marriage prospects of children of higher ordinal position of birth with limited access to household resources were worse than the marriage prospects of the elder siblings.9 Members of groups with a low number of siblings had better chances of marrying. There was a positive correlation between the death of the father and the marriage of daughters, whereas the marriage prospects of sons were lessened by migration at a younger age.10 In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, first-born children married at a younger age than their younger siblings in Québec.11 Due to the abundance of land and the possibility of establishing one’s own farm, they did not have to wait until they came into their share of an inheritance, and the high fertility of parents ensured the utilization of the younger siblings as a contribution to the workforce on the family farm.

In 1973, when Daniel Scott Smith analyzed the marriages in Hingham, Massachusetts, he drew attention to the fact that the marriage of daughters in accordance with their birth order reflected the influence of parents on their children.12 In pre-industrial patriarchal society, parents were responsible for their daughters’ virginity, as the reputation of the young woman was closely intertwined or even identical with the reputation of her family.13 Therefore, a divergence between birth order and the order in which siblings were married could imply greater freedom in decision-making. Smith’s paper reflected on the fact that, regarding females, the custom of concluding a marriage in accordance with the birth order began to vanish at the turn of the nineteenth century. In the same work, Smith also indicated that in the American colonies fathers sought to delay the marriages of their sons because they needed their sons’ help for a longer period of time and the portion of the inheritance required for the establishment of a new household was issued later.

Most recent studies on Western European and Asian historical populations emphasize the oversimplification and untenable nature of Hajnal’s hypothesis.14 In Asian societies, which were dominated by complex households, providing a dowry for a child who was going to leave the household placed a great burden on parents. Moreover, a child’s savings from the pre-marital period played a less significant role than was supposed by the model. The characteristics of the family, namely, its socioeconomic position and the presence of parents and siblings, also play an important role in marriage in both Europe and Asia.15

Similar efforts can be observed in the Hungarian scholarship on the social history of towns. Differences in age at the time of marriage were detected for the first time by Vera Bácskai.16 She examined the average age at the time of marriage of males and females by applying groups of place-of-origin and occupation data gathered from marriage certificates in Pest from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, organized according to five different periods of time. Results suggest that men and women from Pest had more marriage options and different marriage customs according to occupational group. The impact of occupation, social status and religion on individual life cycle and age at the time of marriage has also been emphasized by Tamás Faragó.17 Among the Hungarian studies, Gyula Benda’s work on marriages in the town of Keszthely is of high significance. It examines marriage at the levels of population, family and the individual.18 By processing individual data of parochial registries in Keszthely and comparing this data with data from other sources, he made it possible to articulate further hypotheses regarding the impact of demographical events (e.g, the death of parents) and family context (the presence of siblings).

Ethnographic and historical studies on marriages in Transylvania, more precisely in the Székely Land, emphasize the influence of parents on the marriages of their children.19 In general, the youngest boy could stay in the parental home, and he had to look after the aging parents in exchange for their property.20 Earlier, parents provided older sons with the chance to establish a separate household.21 According to the study on inheritance customs,22 at the end of the nineteenth century sons inherited a significant share of real estate, whereas daughters were given movable belongings and assets and some real estate. Parents aimed to provide the youngest son with the biggest portion of the wealth, and they paid the other children two-thirds or three-quarters of the market value.23

Hypotheses

In the subsequent sections, I examine the impact of the presence of parents and the sibling configuration on the timing of the first marriages for young females and males. Since the sources are chiefly limited to members of the younger generation who did not migrate, the question here differs slightly from the question posed in mainstream studies. Instead of access to marriage, I focus on the timing of the first marriage. More precisely, I examine how the composition of the family of a young person who was concluding marriage, by which I mean parental presence and sibship configuration, affect such timing.24 I offer hypotheses regarding this subject in the following section.

The first factor I consider is parental presence. The death of either or both parents could accelerate the inheritance process and break up financial resources, thereby indirectly facilitating the marriage of children. The death of a father, for instance, could increase the speed of the distribution of family assets among children and smoothen the progress of their conclusion of a marriage. It is supposed that such a change (the death of a father) is accompanied by the disappearance of tight control, so the child may enjoy a greater degree of liberty in the choice of a partner. Based on the fact that a significant share of the real property was inherited by sons, it is reasonable to assume that the death of either or both parents facilitated the marriage of sons. In order to maintain the economic viability of a household, one alternative was for the surviving parent to marry again or for one of the children to marry, or for the family to dissolve and establish new households. It was in the interests of parents to find a spouse for their children, as the families of children normally supported the parents when they grew old. Moreover, whereas the older generation was able to exploit its status and social network to seek spouses for their adult children, the young who had lost their parents may face disadvantages. Based on the data gathered in Keszthely, Gyula Benda articulated a similar opinion. He argued that children orphaned at a young age had worse marriage prospects, whereas coming close to the acquisition of an inheritance significantly improved marriage prospects.25 At the same time, however, living parents were interested in postponing the marriage of adult sons in order to profit from their labor on the family farm as long as possible. All in all, I assume that the loss of one or both parents at an early age resulted in a higher than average age at the time of marriage. However, in the case of people who were adults when one or both of their parents died, the death of a parent (or the parents) accelerated the conclusion of a marriage. Moreover, as the sons inherited the real property, it is reasonable to suppose that the impact of the death of a parent on marriage is more noticeable among sons.

Sibling configuration may radically influence age at the time of marriage. The size of the group of siblings, the order in which they were born and the composition of the group according to gender played a decisive role. Due to the limited resources of the family and parallel to the increasing number of children, one observes resource dilution. Resources of the family of origin could be modified by the life cycle of the family, and this could affect the children who were born at different times in dissimilar ways.26 Limited resources could greatly impact first-born children, as upon reaching marriage age they had to compete with younger siblings. The position of later-born children who were reaching the normative age of marriage could be better if their older sibling(s) had already married. One of the resources that affected the timing of marriage was the space available for the young adult.27 In households with big families, children often shared a room. The desire to establish their own household may have been a strong incentive to marry for children who had reached marriageable age. According to this reasoning, the establishment of a new family was appealing for first-born children, so they tended to conclude marriages at younger ages than later-born children. The impact of the number of siblings and birth order within the framework of parental resources could be perceived in various ways. In the case of first-born young males, marriage was normally accompanied by the establishment of an independent farm that was indisputably headed by males. In less ideal cases, marriage led to a shared household and shared farming with the possibility of establishing a separate farm later. The majority of females, however, moved to a different household upon marriage. The establishment of an independent household by a first-born son often depleted resources that had to be replaced, and the process of replacing these resources took time. Parents aimed to utilize the labor of the first-born son on the family farm. Based on the reasoning outlined above, it is reasonable to hypothesize that older sons married later than their younger brothers, who had to vie with fewer competitors for the available resources. One could expect quite the opposite in the case of daughters. Since the marriage of a daughter required less financial contribution from their parents, and since resources were limited to space, it is reasonable to hypothesize that the scarcity of resources was a source of pressure for the oldest girl in the sibling group to marry as soon as possible. Put simply, they married at a younger age than their later-born sisters.

The impact of sibling characteristics on the timing of a first marriage can also be approached from the field of social relations. According to this, the presence of siblings of opposite gender in childhood facilitates the establishment of relationships with the other gender. I therefore assume that the presence of siblings of the opposite gender smoothens the progress of transition to the first marriage at a younger age.

pakot fmt

Figure 1. The Area Under Study

The Communities Under Study

Szentegyházasfalva (Vlăhiţa) and Kápolnásfalva (Căpâlniţa) are neighboring settlements. They are located along the southern skirts of the Harghita Mountains, in the eastern part of Inner Transylvania, a region in present-day Romania, at about 860 meters above sea level (see Figure 2). The villages lie on the frontier, far from the economic centers of Transylvania. Their total population reached 4,000 in the 1900s. The majority of their inhabitants belonged to the Roman Catholic Church. Due to their geographical proximity (2 kilometers) and the joint privileges received from the Princes of Transylvania, the history of the two villages was closely interlinked: they formed one parish until 1838 and one administrative unit until 1876.28

The discovery of iron ore sites close to the villages and the opening of mines were important events in the nineteenth century in each of the two settlements. An industrial plant, Szentkeresztbánya, was founded a few kilometers away from the villages in the 1850s. It provided an opportunity for the locals to secure some extra income. Due to contemporary financial and infrastructural conditions, mining remained a small-scale enterprise.

The majority of villagers were smallholders, and they earned their livelihoods through lumbering and woodwork in the communally owned woods, as well as through extensive animal husbandry. Timbering and woodwork were carried out within a cottage-industrial framework that required the close cooperation of related families. The number of water-driven sawmills operated by siblings or close relatives reached 100 according to the cadaster of 1909.29 The economic development of Inner Transylvania raised the demand for woodenware. Timber used in construction and agriculture was transported in carriages by male family members in the direction of the agriculturally more developed and more urbanized Southern Transylvanian regions.

The population of the settlements was characterized not only by geographic and economic conditions, but also by particular patterns of demographic behavior. In addition to the dynamic increase of the population and its relative youth (as an average), the common demographic characteristics of the two villages included relatively high fertility, low emigration and relatively high infant and child mortality. Between 1786 and 1869, the population doubled. After 1869, epidemics (cholera in 1873) and increased infant and child mortality in the 1870s and 1880s slowed down this increase, but this was followed by a significant increase around the turn of the century. An important characteristic of demographic behavior was universal and early marriage. Average age at first marriage was 20–21 years for females and 25–27 years for males. The proportion of unmarried people among the old was very low. Strict religious and community regulations forbade divorce.

Data and Methods

We reconstructed the demographic behavior of the settlements under examination on the basis of parish registry data. An electronic database was compiled from parish registries from the period between 1776 and 1941. Based on the principles of the family reconstitution method established by Louis Henry and Michel Fleury30 and making use of available computerized database management facilities, we were able to reconstitute the most important demographic events of families and individuals by applying time-consuming record linking.

The sample population was comprised of people who concluded their first marriages locally in the period between 1838 and 1940 (N=4,116). To define the sibling characteristics, we applied only the data on siblings who concluded marriages locally, that is to say, we disregarded the deceased and migrated members of a sibling group. The exclusion of the first group is explained by the fact that death could be a competing risk with marriage. Regarding the second group, the exact date of migration remained unknown. Consequently, the time at risk of first marriage cannot be detected. In order to arrive at the most accurate identification of surviving parents, the sample was reduced to young individuals whose parents’ date of death is known. The sample, elaborated in this way, was narrowed down by excluding the group of single children (N=346). All in all, the sample used for this study contains first marriages concluded between 1838 and 1940 of 1,580 unmarried females and 1,424 unmarried males.

For the analysis of the timing of first marriages, the beginning of marriage risk was defined at age 15. Individuals in the sample were followed from age 15 until the date of their first marriage. Sibling characteristics were explained by time-constant covariates. Married siblings who shared the same father and mother were grouped and are described according to the following variables: number of siblings of the individual in question, place in the birth order and number of brothers and sisters. A dummy variable was applied to indicate that the individual is the only son or daughter in the sibling group.

In order to test the hypotheses regarding the presence of parents, a series of time varying covariates were introduced that represent the paternal presence from age 15 until the transition to the first marriage. For the hypothesis on the death of a father and/or mother (a factor that, it was conjectured, would be an indirect inducement to marry and to accelerate the inheritance process), the not too remote period of losing parents is also emphasized. I divide the sample into nine categories on the basis of the parent or parents with whom they lived and also on the basis of whether or not either their mother or father had died in the preceding three years. First we identify persons living with both parents. Next we identify persons who had lost a parent more than three years earlier, and lastly we consider those who had lost a parent in the previous three years according to whether this was the first or second parental death.31 Inheriting and marriage subsequent to the decease of one of the parents could be accelerated by the remarriage of the surviving parent. Dummy and time-constant covariates are applied if the surviving parent remarried. To evaluate the impact of the historical period, marriages were analyzed in five separate sections, as follows: 1838–1869; 1870–1889; 1890–1913; 1914–1918 and 1919–1940. To reveal differences by location, data were grouped by parish of residence.

Table 1 gives an overview of the characteristics of the sample.

Men

Women

Sibship attributes

 

 

Number of siblings

2.95 (1.60)

2.98 (1.54)

Birth-order rank

2.47 (1.40)

2.52 (1.46)

Number of brothers

1.32 (1.11)

1.46 (1.08)

Number of sisters

1.62 (1.18)

1.52 (1.17)

Period

 

 

1838–1869

21.56

25.32

1870–1889

24.22

23.49

1890–1913

25.60

21.50

1914–1918

1.65

3.13

1919–1940

26.94

26.56

Parental mortality

 

 

Both alive

58.12

63.64

Only mother alive

14.52

14.08

Only father alive

13.33

10.64

No parents

5.10

3.90

Father died < 3 years, mother alive

3.78

3.64

Father died < 3 years, mother dead

1.01

0.57

Mother died < 3 years, father alive

2.63

2.11

Mother died < 3 years, father dead

1.11

0.86

Both died < 3 years

0.35

0.55

Father remarried

18.05

16.34

Mother remarried

11.93

14.37

Parish

 

 

Kápolnásfalu

49.11

52.71

Szentegyházasfalu

50.89

47.29

Marriage

1,424

1,580

Table 1. Characteristics of the analytical sample

I examine the timing of first marriages in two separate parts. In the first one, I use descriptive statistics in order to present average age at the time of marriage of males and females, the differences by birth order, and the number of brothers and sisters. In the second part of the analysis, by applying event history analysis, I examine the impact of parental presence, sibling configuration, historical period and the parish of residence on the timing of the first marriages for males and females.32 Since I am interested in the effects of family composition and sibling configuration on the timing of marriages, I utilize a series of Cox proportional hazard models.33 By applying Cox models, my aim is to reveal the extent to which the covariates under discussion facilitated or impeded the transition to first marriage.

Results
Descriptive results

pakot2 fmt

Figure 2. Percent of unmarried males and females by age in the two parishes, 1838–1940.

Source: Family reconstitutions based on the data of parish registries from the period 1776–1941.

Average age at the time of marriage for women in the sample is 21.9 years. In the case of men it is 26.1 years. Figure 2 shows the percent of unmarried males and females between 15 and 39, more precisely, it shows how this ratio decreases with age. Since these are cumulative values, the curve is monotonically decreasing. These curves provide information about the change of risk of concluding marriage and the percent of individuals at risk. Curves steeply decrease in periods when the risk of concluding marriage is high. The curve slowly decreases or is horizontal in phases when the risk is low. Significant differences are observed in the timing of first marriages by gender. Women tended to marry at an earlier age than men. Median age at the time of marriage is 21.5 years for females and 25.6 years for males. According to survival curves, the impact of the normative age of marriage is noteworthy for both sexes. However, the curve is more long-drawn in the case of women. Based on this, particular differentiating factors may have played a more significant role among females.

pakot1 fmt

Figure 3. Average age at first marriage for males and females in the two parishes, 1838–1940.

Source: Family reconstitutions based on the data of parish registries from the period 1776–1941.

Figure 3 shows the mean age at the time of marriage for males and females. The extent of fluctuation of age at marriage is different by sex. In the case of men, average age at the time of marriage is between 25 and 26.5, except for two periods: the second half of the 1850s and World War I. In the case of women, age at the time of marriage varies more significantly, but the postponing of marriage during the wars is also observed. After the war, the age at marriage remains higher for a while and then gradually starts to decrease. The reason for the higher age at the time of marriage during the late 1920s and early 1930s, which can be a sign of the introduction of a new pattern, remains unknown. Around the middle of this period, the age difference between males and females increased, whereas around the end of the period it started to diminish.

 

Males

Females

pakot4a fmt
pakot4b fmt

Figure 4. Average age at first marriage for men and women by birth rank

Source: Family reconstitutions based on the data of parish registries from the period 1776–1941.

Regarding the investigation of the effects of sibling characteristics, age differences by sex still played an important role in determining the average age at the time of marriage. Figure 4 and 5 shows the average age at the time of marriage for males and females by birth order and the presence of siblings of the same sex. One observes contrasting impacts concerning males and females. The average age at transition into the first marriage of men decreases by birth order. The highest age at the time of first marriage is found among the older sons (26.6 years), whereas this value is one year less (25.7 years) among the younger siblings.

It is likely that parents aimed to delay the marriage of oldest sons and take advantage of their contributions as part of the labor force on the family farm as long as possible, at least until their siblings reached working age. In the case of females one observes a tendency in the opposite direction: ordinal position in birth increases the age at the time of marriage. While the average age at the time of the conclusion of the marriage of first-born daughters was 21.9 years, it was 22.5 years in the case of the children who were born later. Parents probably pressured oldest daughters to marry, and limited parental resources also were an inducement for them to marry as soon as possible.

Males

Females

 pakot5a fmt

pakot5b fmt

Figure 5. Average age at first marriage for men and women by number of brothers and sisters

Source: Family reconstitutions based on the data of parish registries from the period 1776–1941.

Multivariate analysis

In the next section, by applying multivariable event history models elaborated for each sex, I examine the impact of parental presence and sibling configuration on the age at the time of first marriages for males and females. Table 2 presents results from Cox event history models for men’s entry into a first marriage. Five different models were applied to examine the effects of sibling configuration. The entries in Table 2 are estimates of the relative risk of marriage associated with one unit change in an explanatory variable. A relative risk of 2.0 implies that a one unit increase in that variable doubled the likelihood of marriage. A relative risk of 0.5 implies that the risk of marriage decreased by 50 percent compared to the reference category. In this case, where all the individuals in the sample experienced the transition to marriage, the increase of the risk means a lower age at the time of marriage, while a decrease of risk means a higher age at the time of marriage compared to the reference category. For example, the estimate of 1.14 in the model for male marriage during the period 1870–1889 means that men were 14 percent more likely to marry. In other words, they married at a lower age during that period than in the reference period, 1838–1869. Sibling characteristics. According to the results of models 1 and 2, the marriage risk of males increases parallel to birth order. In other words, the youngest males of sibling groups tended to marry at a younger age. The number of siblings, however, did not significantly affect age at marriage. This corroborates the hypothesis according to which the difficulties of finding the material goods required for marriage delayed the act. Based on the outcomes of model 3, men with a larger proportion of female siblings had a greater risk of entering first marriages at any given pace. That is to say, such men transitioned to first marriage at a faster pace. This result seems to support the hypothesis according to which sisters had positive effects on the marriage timing of their brothers and may have played an intermediary role in the first marriage of a brother. The presence and growing number of brothers had no significant impact on the average age at the time of marriage among males. In model 4, the introduction of an “only son” variable makes no major changes. Age at marriage of only sons did not significantly differ from age at marriage of men who had at least one brother. However, the number of sisters remains an accelerating factor of transition to marriage.

Model 1

Model 2

Model 3

Model 4

Model 5

r.r.

p.

r.r.

p.

r.r.

p.

r.r.

p.

r.r.

p.

Sibship attributes

Number of siblings

1.026

0.12

0.995

0.84

1.000

0.97

Birth-order rank

1.060

0.02

1.060

0.02

Number of brothers

1.010

0.68

1.012

0.71

Number of sisters

1.042

0.07

1.041

0.08

Only male in sibship

1.009

0.91

1.051

0.47

Parental mortality

Both alive

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

Only mother alive

1.064

0.46

1.019

0.82

1.070

0.42

1.070

0.42

1.024

0.78

Only father alive

1.061

0.58

1.003

0.98

1.066

0.55

1.067

0.55

1.008

0.94

No parents

1.239

0.03

1.132

0.25

1.242

0.03

1.243

0.03

1.137

0.23

Father died < 3 years, mother alive

1.292

0.03

1.272

0.05

1.293

0.03

1.293

0.03

1.273

0.05

Father died < 3 years, mother dead

1.204

0.41

1.109

0.65

1.204

0.41

1.206

0.41

1.115

0.63

Mother died < 3 years, father alive

1.813

0.00

1.759

0.00

1.818

0.00

1.818

0.00

1.762

0.00

Mother died < 3 years, father dead

1.110

0.58

1.045

0.82

1.114

0.58

1.116

0.57

1.054

0.78

Both died < 3 years

2.184

0.00

2.030

0.00

2.183

0.00

2.185

0.00

2.037

0.00

Father remarried

1.145

0.16

1.177

0.09

1.150

0.15

1.150

0.15

1.180

0.09

Mother remarried

1.226

0.03

1.238

0.02

1.214

0.04

1.214

0.04

1.232

0.03

Period

1838–1869

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1870–1889

1.143

0.08

1.124

0.13

1.145

0.08

1.146

0.08

1.129

0.12

1890–1913

0.905

0.21

0.886

0.13

0.906

0.21

0.906

0.21

0.887

0.13

1914–1918

0.588

0.02

0.581

0.02

0.585

0.02

0.584

0.02

0.575

0.02

1919–1939

0.823

0.01

0.793

0.00

0.821

0.01

0.821

0.01

0.793

0.00

Parish

Kápolnásfalu

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

Szentegyházasfalu

1.030

0.57

1.030

0.57

1.032

0.56

1.032

0.55

1.032

0.55

Log likelihood

–8885.8

–8883.1

–8885.4

–8885.4

–8882.9

Number of events

1424

1424

1424

1424

1424

LR Chi2

70.2

75.6

71.1

71.1

76.1

Overall p-value

0.000

0.000

0.000

0.000

0.000

Table 2. Estimated relative risks of first marriage, males, ages 15–39, Szentegyházasfalu and Kápolnásfalu, 1838–1940. Source: Family reconstitutions based on the data of parish registries from the period 1776–1941.

Note: gray background if p<0,1.

Parental presence and mortality. Parental presence was of key importance regarding the first marriage of males. The death of a father and/or mother in the preceding three years accelerated the process of inheriting and, possibly as a consequence of this, the conclusion of the first marriage. The recent death of both parents almost doubled the risk of first marriage (p<0,00) compared to people both of whose parents were still alive. The lack of the presence of both parents for a longer period, three years after the last death, was also an inducement to marry. The death of only one parent in the preceding three years could also have been an accelerating factor for marriage. The death of a father who was survived by the mother increased the risk of marriage of sons by 30 percent, while the death of a mother who was survived by a father increased the risk of marriage of sons by 80 percent compared to the reference category of young males where both parents were still alive. This difference can be explained by the fact that the economic survival of the household relied on the complementarity of traditional gender roles. The death of a mother created a need for the labor of an adult female, whereas no such need arose when a father died, particularly if an unmarried adult son lived with the family. The remarriage of the surviving parent was also an inducement for a son to marry. Sons of remarried mothers and fathers transitioned into their first marriages at a younger age than those whose parents married only once in their life. The impact of remarried mothers on the transition into first marriage is greater and statistically significant. It is important to note that these are time-constant variables. They therefore do not reveal the presence of a stepfather or stepmother, but rather only show whether the surviving parent remarried or not. On the basis of this, we may conclude that the potential or actual presence of a stepfather, probably in connection with inheritance, also prompted sons to marry.

Historical period. Between 1870 and 1889, the age at the time of marriage slightly decreased compared to the period between 1838 and 1869, and it remained the same until World War I. Average age at marriage rose between the two World Wars, as is well represented by the lower risk of first marriage of this period (p<0,02).

Parish of residence. After the consideration of family and community factors, there was no significant difference in the timing of transition into first marriages for males living in the two parishes.

Model 1

Model 2

Model 3

Model 4

Model 5

r.r.

p.

r.r.

p.

r.r.

p.

r.r.

p.

r.r.

p.

Sibship attributes

Number of siblings

1.042

0.00

1.066

0.00

1.059

0.01

Birth-order rank

0.961

0.09

0.959

0.08

Number of brothers

0.993

0.80

0.992

0.76

Number of sisters

1.084

0.00

1.099

0.00

Only female in sibship

1.064

0.46

0.937

0.36

Parental mortality

Both alive

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

Only mother alive

1.066

0.44

1.110

0.23

1.063

0.46

1.058

0.50

1.116

0.21

Only father alive

0.884

0.23

0.921

0.43

0.878

0.21

0.876

0.19

0.924

0.46

No parents

0.805

0.08

0.853

0.21

0.815

0.09

0.813

0.09

0.859

0.23

Father died < 3 years, mother alive

1.088

0.48

1.115

0.37

1.092

0.46

1.088

0.48

1.121

0.34

Father died < 3 years, mother dead

1.966

0.00

2.065

0.00

1.991

0.00

1.979

0.00

2.086

0.00

Mother died < 3 years, father alive

1.162

0.34

1.179

0.29

1.163

0.33

1.160

0.34

1.182

0.28

Mother died < 3 years, father dead

1.063

0.78

1.132

0.58

1.083

0.72

1.080

0.72

1.141

0.55

Both died < 3 years

1.089

0.77

1.130

0.68

1.071

0.81

1.070

0.81

1.128

0.68

Father remarried

1.272

0.00

1.245

0.01

1.260

0.00

1.260

0.00

1.243

0.01

Mother remarried

1.156

0.08

1.125

0.16

1.141

0.12

1.143

0.11

1.119

0.19

Period

1838–1869

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1870–1889

1.174

0.02

1.188

0.02

1.183

0.02

1.186

0.01

1.187

0.04

1890–1913

1.459

0.00

1.479

0.00

1.450

0.00

1.448

0.00

1.480

0.00

1914–1918

0.731

0.06

0.741

0.07

0.728

0.05

0.732

0.06

0.737

0.06

1919–1939

0.713

0.00

0.725

0.00

0.703

0.00

0.702

0.00

0.724

0.00

Parish

Kápolnásfalu

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

1.000

ref.

Szentegyházasfalu

1.170

0.00

1.168

0.00

1.184

0.00

1.186

0.00

1.168

0.02

Log likelihood

–9,990.0

–9,988.6

–9,986.4

–9,986.1

–9,988.2

Number of events

1,580

1,580

1,580

1,580

1,580

LR Chi2

144.0

146.8

151.2

151.7

147.6

Overall p-value

0.000

0.000

0.000

0.000

0.000

Table 3. Estimated relative risks of first marriage, females ages 15 to 39, Szentegyházasfalu and Kápolnásfalu, 1838–1940. Source: Family reconstitutions based on the data of parish registries from the period 1776–1941.

Note: gray background if p<0,1.

Table 3 presents similar models of women’s transition to first marriage.

Sibling characteristics. According to model 1, an increasing number of siblings raised the risk of marriage, which means it reduced the age at the time of marriage. When applying a birth-order variable, this effect is more accentuated. Namely, the gradual dilution of family resources motivated daughters to transition into their first marriages as soon as possible. Marriage risks of girls of higher ordinal position of birth were lower than the marriage risks of their older siblings. Due to the marriage of older siblings, the pressure was lower on them and they transitioned into their first marriages at a later age. According to model 3, an increasing number of brothers resulted in a later average age at the time of marriage. However, these results are not statistically significant. On the contrary, the age at marriage decreases with the growing number of sisters. The effect of this variable is more conceivable when the effect of an only sister in the sibling group is filtered (model 4). All in all, females tended to marry in accordance with their ordinal position of birth.

Parental presence and mortality. The impact of paternal presence on the age at the time of marriage of females was less than the impact on the age at the time of marriage of sons, including both direction and extent. It is clear that the recent death of one or both parents was an inducement to marry. In the three years following the death of a mother, the marriage risk of females almost doubled in comparison with females both of whose parents were alive. The distant death of both parents, however, delayed the marriage of women. Lacking the supporting presence of parents, these females had a worse position on the marriage market than those whose parents were still alive. The presence of the mother is of high significance, since the distant death of a mother still delayed marriage of a female even if the father was still alive. It is also valid vice versa: presence of the mother had beneficial effects that counterbalanced the effects of the distant death of the father. However, these results are not statistically significant. Subsequent to the death of her mother and in the presence of her father, it is very probable that a young girl took up the female’s roles in the family, and this directly delayed her marriage. In accordance with this, daughters of remarrying parents married at a younger age than those whose parents married only once. The chance of a female marrying increased with the remarriage of the father by 24 percent to 27 percent and with the remarriage of the mother by 11 percent to 15 percent, compared to the reference category of females where the surviving parent did not remarry et all. Due in part to having received an inheritance after the death of a parent and in part to the potential conflict with the step-parent, young females tended to marry as soon as possible.

Historical period. During the period before World War I, the age at the time of first marriages decreased. Throughout the years of the war and the subsequent period, this trend turned around and women began to marry at older and older ages. In the interwar period the postponement of marriage was characteristic.

Parish of residence. The comparison of the two settlements reveals that, after other factors have been excluded, females born in Szentegyházasfalu married at a younger age than those born in Kápolnásfalu.

Conclusion and Discussion

In this study the effect of parental presence and sibling configuration on the timing of first marriages was investigated using data found in parish registries in two Transylvanian mountain villages in the period between 1838 and 1940. The first marriage of young adults was not treated as an isolated phenomenon. Rather, it was placed in the complex relationship of familial and individual considerations. In the course of this analysis, I intended to reflect on the importance of family dynamics. The most fundamental question of my inquiry was how the ordinal position of birth and the presence of siblings and parents influence the average age at the time of marriage. Based on the inheritance norms regarding young adults, I conjecture that the effect of sibling group configuration might be different by gender in the context of available parental resources.

In compliance with the outcomes of the research, the average age at the time of marriage in a given group of siblings was greatly affected by obligations towards siblings and parents. Although strong age norms existed regarding marriage in the settlements in question, ordinal position of birth, number of siblings, parental presence and the period in history during which a marriage was concluded all played decisive roles in determining the age at the time of marriage of males and females. The effect of ordinal position differed by gender: first-born males tended to marry at an older age than their brothers, as opposed to first-born females, who normally married at a younger age than their sisters. This is explained by the fact that the norms governing the process of inheritance took two factors into account first and foremost, namely, gender and ordinal position of birth. Because the male line inherited real estate, upon reaching the normative age of marriage, males of higher ordinal position of birth competed less for goods required for marriage with their siblings. Since normally the youngest male member of a sibling group remained in the family home as to provide support for parents in old age (even after having married), the parents wanted them to marry as soon as possible. With the aid of their older siblings, more precisely, their sisters, resources based on social relations were more accessible. In the case of daughters (who inherited less than their brothers), parental resources often meant the available living space, and the eldest daughters had the worst position in this context. Desire to establish their own home inspired these females to marry as soon as possible.

Death of one or both parents was an inducement among males and females to marry. This response to a family crisis reflects the acceleration of the inheritance process and an effort to maintain the viability of a household.

According to my interpretation, the timing of marriage for young adults in the period in question was characterized by strong social control and parental influence. The power of parents over their children’s marriage was more palpable in the case of young women. The first marriage of young adults certainly was an important source of tensions between generations. Further studies are needed to investigate the nature of the relationships between generations in greater detail.

The major limitation of this study is that I examined only the experiences of young adults living in these two Transylvanian mountain villages, and these populations were rather homogeneous in terms of religion and socioeconomic composition. Subsequent studies should include more settlements with populations that show a higher degree of variance with regards to religion and socioeconomic background. Furthermore, the period after the Second World War should be included in the analysis.

 

Archival Sources

Arhivele Naţionale ale României Direcţia Judeţeană Harghita, Miercurea Ciuc [National Archives of Romania, Branch of Harghita, Miercurea Ciuc], Fond 47: Colecţia registrelor de stare civilă, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 728, 729, 730, 731.

Szentegyházasfalusi Római Katolikus Plébánia Levéltára [Roman Catholic Parish Archive, Vlăhiţa]

Roman Catholic Parish Registries 1776–1941, vol. II–X.

Kápolnásfalusi Római Katolikus Egyházközség Levéltára [Roman Catholic Parish Archive, Căpâlniţa]

Roman Catholic Parish Registries 1776–1941, vol. I–V.

 

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Suanet, Bianca, and Hilde Bras. “Sibling Position and Marriage Timing in the Netherlands, 1840–1922: A Comparison Across Social Classes, Local Contexts, and Time.” Journal of Family History 39, no. 2. (2014): 126–39.

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Zsigmond, Erzsébet. Sirató. Életem panaszos könyve [The Complainant History of My Life]. Kolozsvár [Cluj-Napoca]: Kríza János Néprajzi Társaság, 1995.

1 Lisa Dillon, “Parental and Sibling Influences on the Timing of Marriage, XVIIth and XVIIIth Century Québec,” Annales de démographie historique 1 (2010): 139.

2 John Hajnal, “European Marriage Patterns in Perspective,” in Population in History, ed. V. David Glass and David E. C. Eversley, 101–43 ( London: Edward Arnold, 1965); John Hajnal, “Two Kinds of Preindustrial Household Formation Systems,” Population and Development Review 8, no. 3 (1982): 449–94.

3 For a review of the secondary literature on family reproduction and differential demography prior to 2000 see Luigi Lorenzetti and Muriel Neven, “Démographie, famille et reproduction familiale: un dialogue en evolution,” Annales de démographie historique 2 (2000): 83–100. For the possibilities of comparative analysis of different family systems see Michel Oris and Emiko Ochiai, “Family Crisis in the Context of Different Family Systems: Framework and Evidence on «When Dad Died»,” in When Dad Died. Individuals and families coping with family stress in past societies, ed. Renzo Derosas and Michel Oris (Bern–Berlin–Brussels–New York–Frankfurt am Main–Oxford: Peter Lang, 2002), 17–80.

4 George Alter and Michel Oris, “Access to Marriage in the East Ardennes during the 19th Century,” in Marriage and Rural Economy: Western Europe since 1400, ed. Isabelle Devos and Liam Kennedy (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999), 133–51; Muriel Neven et al., “Les déterminants du mariage rural en Belgique orientale: une approche multivariée,” in Le mariage dans l’Est de la Wallonie, XVIIIe – XIX siècles, ed. Paul Servais and George Alter (Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia Bruylant, 2005), 97–135.

5 Alter and Oris, “Access to Marriage,” 144, 147–48. Neven et al., Les déterminants du mariage,” 116–24.

6 Hilde Bras and Muriel Neven, “Mariage et décohabitation dans deux régions rurales (XIXe–XXe siècles): Frères et soeurs: rivaux ou solidaires?,” in Les fratries: Une démographie sociale de la germanité, ed. Michel Oris et al. (Bern: Peter Lang, 2007), 181–218; Hilde Bras and Muriel Neven, “The Effect of Siblings on the Migration of Women in Two Rural Areas of Belgium and the Netherlands, 1829–1940,” Population Studies 61, no. 1 (2007): 53–71.

7 Bras and Neven, “Mariage et décohabitation,” 205–13.

8 Kevin McQuillan, “Family Composition, Birth Order and Marriage Patterns: Evidence from rural Alsace, 1750–1885,” Annales de démographie historique 1 (2000): 57–71.

9 Jon Gjerde and Anne McCants, “Individual Life Chances, 1850–1910: A Norwegian–American Example,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 30, no. 3 (1999): 387–88.

10 Gjerde and McCants, “Individual Life Chances,” 394, 398.

11 Dillon, “Parental and Sibling Influences,” 164–69.

12 Daniel Scott Smith, “Parental Power and Marriage Patterns: An analysis of Historical Trends in Hingham, Massachusetts,” Journal of Marriage and the Family 35, no. 3 (1973): 419–28.

13 Smith, “Parental Power,” 412.

14 Tommy Bengtsson et al., “The Influence of Economic Factors on First Marriage in Historical Europe and Asia,” (Unpublished paper, 2011).

15 Bengtsson et al., “The Influence of Economic Factors,” 17–21.

16 Bácskai Vera, “Pest társadalomtörténetének vizsgálata a házasságkötések alapján (1735–1830),” Tanulmányok Budapest Múltjából 21 (1979): 59–105.

17 Faragó Tamás, “Életciklusok és családmodellek egy magyarországi városban a 18–19. században,” Demográfia 48, no. 4 (2005): 415–35.

18 Benda Gyula, “A házasságok Keszthelyen 1749–1850: az átlagtól a mikrotörténelemig avagy a léptékváltás problémája,” in Mikrotörténelem: vívmányok és korlátok, ed. Dobossy István (Miskolc: BAZ M. levéltár, 2003), 82–93.

19 Faragó Tamás, “Nemek, nemzedékek, rokonság, család,” in Magyar Néprajz VIII. Társadalom, ed. Sárkány Mihály and Szilágyi Miklós (Budapest: Akadémiai, 2000), 393–483; Tárkány Szűcs Ernő, Magyar jogi népszokások (Budapest: Gondolat, 1981), 289–318; Kozán Imre, Fekete ugar (Bucharest: Kriterion, 1978), 15–16; Zsigmond Erzsébet, Sirató. Életem panaszos könyve (Kolozsvár [Cluj-Napoca]: Kríza János Néprajzi Társaság, 1995), 49–50.

20 Imreh István and Pataki József, Kászonszéki krónika 1650–1750 (Budapest: Európa, 1992).

21 Tamási Gáspár, Vadon nőtt gyöngyvirág (Bucharest: Kriterion, 1983), 14.

22 Mattyasovszky Miklós, Törzsöröklési jog és törzsöröklési szokás (Budapest: Eggenberger, 1904).

23 Mattyasovszky, “Törzsöröklési jog,” 388–90.

24 For a similar analytical approach see: Bianca Suanet and Hilde Bras, “Sibling Position and Marriage Timing in the Netherlands, 1840–1922: A Comparison across Social Classes, Local Contexts, and Time,” Journal of Family History 39, no. 2 (2014): 126–39.

25 Benda, “A házasságok Keszthelyen,” 89.

26 Aleksandr V. Chayanov, The Theory of Peasant Economy (Homewood Il.: R. D. Irwin, 1966 [1925]).

27 For a similar approach see Wei-hsin Yu, Kuo-hsien Su and Chi-Tsun Chiu, “Sibship Characteristics and Transition to First Marriage in Taiwan: Explaining Gender Asymmetries,” Population Research and Policy Review 31, no. 4 (2012): 612–16.

28 For a history of the privileges of the communities, see Gusztáv Mihály Hermann, “Az Udvarhelyszéki Havasalja kiváltságos települései: a két Oláhfalu és Zetelaka,” in Emlékkönyv Imreh István nyolcvanadik születésnapjára, ed. András Kiss, Gyöngy Kovács Kiss, and Ferenc Pozsony (Kolozsvár [Cluj-Napoca]: Erdélyi Múzeum-Egyesület, 1999), 138–98. For a detailed account of public administration changes and the process of losing the privileges in the 1870s, see Judit Pál, Városfejlődés a Székelyföldön 1750–1914 (Csíkszereda [Miercurea Ciuc]: Pro-Print, 2003).

29 Lajos Sándor, “Fűrészek, malmok, ványolók jegyzéke az 1909-es kataszteri telekkönyv és telekkönyvi rajzok alapján,” in Népélet a Kis-Homoród mentén, ed. József Kardalus (Szentegyháza, 1998), 112–16. István Molnár, “A hazai zsindelyfaragás térbeli-időbeli alakulásának néhány vonása,” in A Székelykeresztúri Múzeum Emlékkkönyve, ed. István Molnár and Nicolae Bucur (Csíkszereda [Miercurea Ciuc], 1974), 328–43.

30 Michel Fleury and Louis Henry, Nouveau manuel de dépouillement et d’exploitation de l’Etat Civil ancien (Paris: INED, 1965); Louis Henry and Alain Blum, Techniques d’analyse en démographie historique (Paris: INED, 1988).

31 In the process of the construction of parental presence and mortality variable we followed the method proposed by George Alter and Michel Oris: Alter and Oris, “Access to marriage,” 143.

32 Possibilities of family reconstitution as event history analysis are described in Myron Gutmann and George Alter, “Family Reconstitution as Event History Analysis,” in Old and New Methods in Historical Demography, ed. David Reher and Roger Schofield (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 159–77.

33 Hans-Peter Blossfeld, Katrin Golsch, and Götz Rohwer, Event History Analysis with Stata (Mahwah: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 2007).

 

pdfVolume 3 Issue 1 CONTENTS

Stanislav Holubec

Between Scarcity and Modernity: Working Class Families in Prague in the Interwar Period

 

This study investigates the life experiences of working class families in Prague in the interwar period with particular emphasis on processes of family formation and sustainment. With regards to the notion of “family formation,” I examined in particular the search for partners, patterns of cohabitation, and sociological aspects of partner’s choice. I analyzed the life course of workers´ families with a focus on child births, questions pertaining to health, and divorces and other non-traditional forms of family. Working class families are interpreted as having undergone and reacted to different aspects of modern social change. These include demographic transition (declining infant mortality, declining fertility), the adoption of modern values (individualization, rise of divorce rates, secularization, female emancipation, multiple identities), the effects of World War I (material scarcity, high mortality), local circumstances (housing shortages), and persistent traditional patterns and values in the mentality among the working class (gender inequality and family hierarchies).

Keywords: Prague, interwar period, working class families, life experiences, life course

 

In the following article I investigate the life experiences of working class families in Prague1 in the interwar period with particular emphasis on processes of family formation and transformation. In the first part I will outline briefly the socioeconomic development of Prague between 1870 and 1940, concentrating on the surroundings in which workers lived, the factors that, in my view, exerted a substantial influence on their family lives, and complex questions regarding identity. In the second part I will present the life experiences of working class families in Prague with emphasis on the processes involved in the formation of a family, including dating, cohabitation and marriage, in their sociological context. The family lives of workers, which includes child births, questions pertaining to health, mortality and the disintegration of families, will be analyzed in the last part. As there has been little research on these topics in the Czech context, I occasionally draw on comparisons with the situation in Germany.

The practice of writing about the everyday lives of workers and their families has a long history. It was strongly ideological under state socialism. The historiography concentrated on the political and social “struggles,” particularly in communities of heavy industry and mining workers, and simultaneously ignored the workers in other branches of the economy, such as agriculture. The official historiography tended to combine very pessimistic descriptions of the prevailing conditions based primarily on statistical data with idealized descriptions of workers as politically highly conscious and supportive of the Communist Party.2 The predominance of class and class struggle in peoples´ identities and life courses was taken for granted. In the studies on working class family histories, the statistical or folklorist perspective prevailed.3 Since 1990, Czech historiography has almost completely abandoned “workers” as a category of study, and only a small group of historians of the older generation has attempted to promote the social history of the lower classes, with emphasis on the nineteenth century.4 The interests of mainstream historiography shifted to the social history of the everyday lives of “elites” or members of the middle classes, sometimes presented as “typical citizens,” or to gender history and the history of ethnic relations. Attention was also paid to the history of the most marginalized social groups (prostitutes, Roma). The political history of the interwar period shifted from class struggle to the clash between democracy and totalitarianism. The history of industrial work remained as insignificant as it had been before 1989. The German scholar Peter Heumos was one of the few exceptions.5 Only in recent years have we begun to experience a return to the history of workers. The pioneering work by Martin Jemelka on everyday life in the miners´ colony in Ostrava until 1950,6 followed by the monograph on the interactions between the middle classes and workers in Moravia at the turn of the century by Lukáš Fasora,7 my monograph on everydayness and the social status of the Prague workers in the interwar period,8 and most recently the monograph on the everyday life of Czech workers during World War I by Rudolf Kučera.9 The problems faced by Czech workers in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries also started to interest young non-Czech historians.10

Prague and Members of the Working Class During Industrialization

In the late nineteenth century, Prague, the historical capital of the Kingdom of Bohemia, was the third largest city in the Habsburg monarchy and one of its most important industrial centers.11 At the time, it had experienced the greatest period of industrial and demographic growth in its history. The population growth in the period between 1870 and 1914 was 25 percent every ten years. Because of the influx of migrants from the Czech-speaking countryside, like other cities of Central and Eastern Europe, Prague started to lose its multicultural character.12 Symbolically, in 1868 the Czech administration enforced the replacement of German street names with bilingual versions and in 1894 exclusively with Czech names.13 Prague was still described as provincial in comparison with the imperial charm of Vienna or Budapest. It had neither the power nor financial resources to develop edifices comparable with those of Budapest. The Prague National theatre (1883), National Museum (1891), and Municipal House (1912) hardly rivalled the Hungarian parliament, the Budapest subway (the first in continental Europe), or St. Stephen´s basilica.

After 1918, as the capital of the new Czechoslovak Republic, Prague became the seat of the central authorities. The influx of migrants to the city continued, although it was slowing. Due to an administrative reform, in 1922 Prague expanded its territory eight fold and its population grew to 676,000 inhabitants, and in the late 1930s it reached 900,000. The historical center was unified with industrial suburbs, residential districts, and in some cases even with villages that had not yet been integrated into the infrastructures of the city. The creation of greater Prague weakened the power of the National Democratic Party (Československá národní demokracie), which was comprised of liberal nationalist forces that had dominated Prague in previous decades. After the administrative reform, the proportion of workers and members of the lower middle classes in the city increased significantly, and power shifted to the hands of centrist Socialists (Československá strana socialistická) and Social Democrats (Československá sociálně demokratická strana dělnická). Prague was not spared post-war political radicalization, and the Communist Party become an important representative of the professionally less qualified and poorest strata of Prague inhabitants. The creation of Greater Prague also further contributed to its ethnic homogenization. Jews and Germans, who lived primarily in the city center, now comprised less than 8 percent of the population, and as a political force they held onto influence only on the level of the central districts. Even increased migration to Prague from Slovakia, Polish Galicia and revolutionary Russia after 1918 did not modify the prevailing ethnically Czech character of the city.14

In spite of the rapid industrialization that had begun in the 1860s, as the country´s capital Prague maintained a strong proportion of middle and upper classes and was never perceived as an unambiguously industrial center, in comparison to Brno (Brünn in German) or the centers in northern Bohemia and Moravia. Its character as a regional capital and its proximity to northern and central Bohemian industrial centers and coal districts promoted industrialization, but the simultaneous growth of administration and the service sphere kept the social structure more balanced, so even after unification with the industrial suburbs, the number of workers and their families did not surpass 40 percent of the population according to statistics. The center of Prague never lost its high social status during the process of industrialization, and it remained home primarily to members of the middle classes,15 who also established the residential districts around it, such as Vinohrady, Bubeneč and Střešovice.16 Proletariats arriving to the city had to look for places to live comparatively far from the city center, close to the factories in the northeast or southwest of the city. As of the early twentieth century, the industry of Prague was oriented primarily around the production of machines, electric equipment and carriages. Textile production and glass production were less important. Industry in Prague was strongly diversified, with predominantly small places of production in comparison with the urban centers established during the period of rapid industrialization from 1870 to 1914. Only eleven plants in the city had more than 500 workers in early 1920s, and two of them were publically owned (the railway heating plant and a tram depot).17 The relative diversity of industry in Prague also meant a diversity of workers and less influence of trade unions.18

In combination with the general housing shortage, the migration of large segments of the agrarian population to Prague created serious social conflicts in the early 1920s. The presence of new workforces allowed owners to cut wages. The lack of appropriate housing led to crowding in apartments and the spread of slums. However, economic growth, which as of 1923 was increasingly rapid, helped to ameliorate the situation.19

The interwar urban slums, which were referred to as “poverty colonies” (nouzové kolonie), are an interesting phenomenon widely discussed in the literature. They came into existence shortly after 1918, as the plots of wasteland at the outskirts of Prague began to be rented to the migrants to the capital for the construction of provisory wooden cabins (old carriages were also used). Their inhabitants were sometimes people from the eastern parts of the republic or refugees from Galicia or revolutionary Russia.20 The colonies, with their picturesque appearance, soon attracted the attention of journalists and writers, and numerous reports on the conditions in them were written. Also the Prague municipal governments began to perceive the colonies as a problem primarily because of hygiene and crime. The illegally built cabins were sometimes destroyed in the presence of the police, creating conflicts between the inhabitants of the slums and the organs of public administration. The political left used the defense of slum dwellers as part of its own political agenda. Later, even the municipal administration of Prague attempted to start its own project of provisional housing for the families in need. Although the colonies are the subject of many documents in the archives and the secondary literature,21 their inhabitants in fact comprised only a small portion of the population of Prague, about 2 or 3 percent.

Even for workers’ families not living in the colonies, the housing situation was not easy. The average workers’ household in Prague was truly overcrowded. The families lived either in one-room apartments or (for the more fortunate) an apartment with a separate kitchen. Two-room apartments with separate kitchens were affordable only for the small numbers of workers who had the best jobs, such as typographers.22 The workers’ families sometimes even offered other people a place to stay, mainly grandparents.23 Occasionally other relatives lived together with the partner’s family, either new arrivals from the countryside or boyfriends or girlfriends who lived together with the family before they could establish their own households. Under these circumstances, not everyone had his or her own bed.24 Most children shared their beds with siblings, and older siblings sometimes slept on the floor.25 The only modern technologies Prague workers enjoyed at the time was the water pipe line to the houses (but only rarely to the apartments) and sometimes electrical lighting, which gradually became more common after the war (in 1931 about half of the workers´ households already had it).26 Other modern technologies already common in the middle class apartments, such as water lines, gas stoves, central heating, separate toilets and bathrooms, and refrigerators were rare in workers’ households until the 1950s.27

The high level of spatial stratification in Prague contributed to the fact that working class families lived primarily in the local neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.28 While workers made up only 10 percent of the inhabitants of the city center according to the censuses in 1921 and 1931, they often comprised more than 50 percent of the population in the peripheral parts of Prague. Although public transportation and bicycles were affordable to all social groups, the lower strata did not frequently go to the city center to indulge in amusements or cultural events, or even to shop, but preferred rather the local facilities. Much of social life also took place in the yards of the houses. The apartments had shared laundry rooms where the women met, and the modest size of the apartments pushed their inhabitants outside, where they spent time interacting with other neighbors (woman doing the laundry, men doing a little craftsman’s work, and children playing).

Those who lived without much contact with their families were mainly the newcomers to Prague from the countryside. In some cases these people commuted on Sunday to visit their relatives, or their work in Prague was of a seasonal nature (construction workers), so they spent the winters at home. If their families lived at greater distances, they would visit them even less frequently. If the grandparents and other relatives lived in the countryside, contact was kept with them only sporadically. Short workers´ vacations, which lasted only about one week (in contrast with the longer vacations enjoyed by state employees or managers), and high transportation costs did not allow workers to take regular visits to relatives. People compensated for the lack of personal contact by writing letters, a practice that was already significant at the time.29 In contrast, families with grandparents living in Prague kept regular contact with them. The grandparents helped with the children and household, while the parents, who had paying jobs, supported them financially, as the elderly often had no pensions.

Due to the character of Prague industry and the character of modern society (which was slowly approaching the phase of mass consumption), the identities of Prague workers were more diverse than the pre-1989 historiography used to claim. It is likely that the inhabitants of Prague recorded in the statistics as “workers” (dělníci) often did not like to use this term to describe themselves. It had a negative connotation for them, and they preferred to call themselves “craftsmen” (řemeslník). They called themselves workers only if they had a job that required no training. The register books that were kept by every district of the city contain interesting information in this respect. Couples who were getting married were obliged to state their professions, along with other data. One could consider, for example, the register book from the district of Karlín from 1923–24. In this district, according to the statistical survey the percentage of workers was about 38 in 1921, roughly the Prague average.30 The wedding book contains 456 marriages, a total of 912 people, which can be considered representative. Surprisingly, in this sample only 13 percent of the people describe themselves as “workers” (dělník, dělnice), and there is no significant difference between males and females. Sometimes male respondents added an adjective, such as “factory,” “shoe,” “brick,” or “mill.” The other employees with manual jobs described themselves as “craftsmen“ or mentioned their trade, e.g. “locksmith,” “plumber,” or “joiner.” This group, which can be referred to as manual trained professions, comprised about 40 percent of the sample among males. Among females the proportion was much lower (only about 10 percent). In the register book no one described his or her job as “day laborer” (nádeník), the term used in the statistics for the untrained workers who worked without contracts at jobs that had the least prestige.

The reluctance of young workers to identify with this term is also visible in the personal ads, which as a practice was quite widespread at the time. We can cite here several ads that were published in the Prague women’s magazine Hvězda in 1930 showing the contrasting worlds of the middle and upper classes and the world of the workers. The first placed clear emphasis on the importance of property, while the second stressed personal characteristics: “A factory owner would like to marry an intelligent woman of gentle character possessing adequate capital. Replies with photographs are welcome and will be given back discretely.” “25-year-old farmer, in possession of 300,000 crowns, with the duty to care for his old parents, would like to marry a woman with a farm of at least 70 acres or a pub with its own farm. Widows are not excluded.” “40-year-old owner of factory, villa and car, intelligent and not unattractive would like to meet an intelligent lady, widow, possessing capital in the amount of 600,000, I offer a marriage and dowry, mortgage ensured.” Sometimes the personal ads were difficult to distinguish from the job ads: “I am looking for a female sales assistant for my shop, who will contribute by deposit 5,000 to 10,000 crowns. Latter marriage to me not excluded.”31

If one looks at ads taken out by people who had less assets, as is the case in the register books, the authors did not like to describe themselves as workers. In the case of males looking for females, they preferred to refer to themselves as “craftsmen” (řemeslník) or “employed.” Sometimes they did not mention their profession at all and stated only their age, along with descriptions of their character and physical appearance. Their ads were also shorter, because the cost of an ad depended on its length: “a blonde with a tall figure would like to meet a nice boy, preferably a craftsmen.” “28-year-old craftsman would like to meet a nice girl.” “25-year-old employed girl would like to meet a railway man, or someone with a similar profession who does not need money, but rather a good housewife.” Obviously the workers could neither offer nor expect money or assets and concentrated instead on character, sentiments or physical appearance.32

Although unattractive in everyday life, the term worker as a collective political identity still had its appeal. Social democratic forces used it in the name of their party and in the names of the affiliated organizations (Workers’ Academy, Workers’ Sport Association),33 while the Communists preferred the more radical term “proletariat.” Those who were reluctant to label themselves “workers” obviously had no difficulties voting for “workers’ parties,” which regularly got one-third of Prague’s votes in the interwar elections. The parties were conscious of this contradiction and strove to educate their members to become more “class conscious.” The party publications appealed to young members not to be ashamed of the word “worker” when they had to state their profession.34

Young Workers Dating and Marrying

Young people from working class families usually had jobs before they were married. For working class boys and girls it was natural to take a job after leaving school or completing an apprenticeship, while for members of the middle class about half of the girls did not have any job before marriage. They either pursued studies or helped at home. The girls from working class families of Prague did not have much chance of getting a job as a house servant, since middle and upper class families tended to prefer girls from the countryside (who were in abundant supply) over girls with a working class background (who were perceived as unclean, frivolous or otherwise having bad habits).35 Workers’ wives did not stay at home after their weddings either, but rather had jobs until they bore children. In contrast, in many cases middle class girls who worked as clerks did not wait until they were pregnant to quit their jobs, but rather quit immediately after having gotten married “to take care of their husbands.”

As it was unusual to send children to a nursery, women had to stay at home with them until they reached school age. This time span was as long as seven to ten years, if one takes into consideration the average number of children and the differences in their ages. As the children began to attend school, only a minority of working class women sought out regular paid work in the factories, as the factories offered jobs primarily to childless women. Instead, mothers in working class households took part-time jobs, mainly as helpers and cleaners in middle class households or as wash-women (a task that was time-consuming; one had to set aside one day a week to clean the clothes for a single family).

Concerning the places where one could find a future partner, the dancing room was a well-known option, but there were other places as well, such as outdoor swimming pools, the workplace, sport organizations (for instance the numerous but middle class and nationalist leaning Sokol [Falcon], which resembled the German Turnvereine, or the less numerous Dělnické tělocvičné jednoty [Workers’ Sport Association], which was close to the Social Democratic Party). Sometimes shared quarters also offered people a chance to get acquainted. An activity that was specific to Czech culture and that allowed young people a chance to meet one another was weekend camping, referred to in Czech as “tramping” (“tramping” usually took place from Saturday afternoon to Sunday, as Saturday morning was still a workday). Tramping is considered the first Czech youth subculture,36 taking form in Prague in the early 1920s, imitating in its dress code and leisure-time activities the life of the American mountain man known from Westerns and adventure novels by Karl May and Jack London. In comparison to the scout movement, it was anti-authoritarian, not divided by gender, and its social base was more working class than middle class. While scouts were mainly for pre-adolescent and early-adolescent kids, “tramping” was popular among late teenagers and young adults. At the time, the only similar subculture seems to have been found in Germany, the so called “wilder Wandervogel” (Wild wandering birds), which was an anti-authoritarian split from the German Wanderfogel movement.37 Czech tramping profited from the hilly landscape covered by forests in the south of Prague, which was easy to reach by local trains. Tramps would stay overnight in tents or improvised wooden cabins, wearing cowboy-like clothing and playing guitars by camp fires and singing their “tramp songs.” Naturally this all created an ideal atmosphere for young people to fall in love. The authorities were alerted by the shocked moralists of older generations (who complained that tramping was a site of “free love,”), and in 1931 the regional government issued a regulation prohibiting unmarried people from spending the night together in a tent or a cabin, bathing together without proper dress, or singing “obscene songs”.38 This was soon followed by police raids against tramps. In response, the movement organized protests, including demonstrations and a press campaign, and the regulation was repealed four years later.

As the working class youth started to date, it was not uncommon for them to have sex.39 Again, the world outside offered more suitable sites for trysts than the overcrowded apartments. The prevalence of premarital sex among members of the working class contrasted sharply with the prevailing expectations of the middle classes, according to which a bride had to be a virgin,40 which was still common at the beginning of the interwar period. Middle class boys had their first sexual experiences as visitors to the brothels, although this habit among middle class students and soldiers, though strong before the war, started to decline after 1918, not least due to the spread of venereal diseases caused by the war.41 It seems that in the 1920s middle class girls also become more liberal in terms of sexuality. In the 1930s all urban youths may well have had similar experiences of premarital sex.

Cohabitation was also quite common among young workers, while it was taboo for the Prague middle classes. This pattern of cohabitation existed at the time primarily among the poorer segments of the working class in Prague, while the “workers’ aristocracy,” like the middle class, rejected cohabitation as unacceptable. From our sample of the 456 couples who married in 1923–1924 in the Žižkov district (who could be identified as workers, at least as far as their professions were concerned), about 15 percent lived at the same address on the day of the wedding.42 Among the 101 couples at least one member of which characterized himself or herself explicitly as a “worker” the proportion of cohabition was about one-third. Cohabitation sometimes preceded dating in cases in which young people met each other as inhabitants of the same apartment. Cohabitation among workers was sometimes criticized by the middle class journals and authorities. One of the complaints of the Prague municipality regarding the urban slums was that many of the inhabitants lived together without having gotten married.43 The young workers active in the Communist Party were similarly scandalized by allegations made in the right-wing press that they lived in a “concubinate.”44 It is worth stressing that unmarried cohabitation often was not a consequence of love but rather of necessity. According to the most common model, due to the lack of apartments one of the partners moved into the home where his or her partner lived with the parents.45

Conservative middle class authors tended to offer shocking descriptions of the sex lives of young members of the working class in the late nineteenth century, characterizing workers as promiscuous, rash, and prone to incest. This discourse was still used in the 1920s and 1930s, mainly with regards to the sexuality of “socially difficult” families, but not anymore with regards to workers, who were perceived in the mainstream discourse almost as “normal citizens.” On the other hand, leftist authors tended to present the sex lives of young workers as “clean” and “honest,” in contrast with the “cynical” sexuality of the sons of the bourgeoisie.46 The two main political forces representing the workers—the Communists and Social Democrats—had different views on the sex lives of young people. The Communists, who were influenced by the radicalism of the Russian revolution, seemed to be more liberal, while the Social Democrats remained quite conservative. For example, in 1922 the Social Democratic brochure recommended that people begin to have sexual relations only after having gotten married and secured employment.47 The question of contraception was not mentioned at all.

Contraceptives that were commonly used by members of the middle classes already in the early 1920s came into use more slowly among the working class. They seem to have entered widespread use first among youngsters. An article entitled “How to avoid unwanted conception,” printed in the women’s communist magazine Rozsévačka (female sower), popularized contraceptives among workers in 1930 as something entirely new. Condoms were recommended as the safest method of contraception. Contraceptives were propagated in Prague with the argument according to which they were already in widespread use in the Soviet Union and they would allow women to be more active in the revolutionary struggle.48 Interestingly, the article was not approved by the police censorship, and only its title and the last sentence were published. The editorial board, however, did not give up, and they let it be read as a speech in parliament by a Communist MP, which meant it could be published again uncensored.49

If contraception failed, abortion was fairly widespread. Although it was prohibited by the law inherited from Austria (approved in the Czech lands in 1852),50 abortion was quite common in the interwar period in Prague, and practitioners ranged from luxurious clinics where it was performed officially as a treatment of the appendix or an inflammation of the peritoneum to backstreet abortionists. The Social Democrats and Communists protested against the law primarily by noting its “class” character. According to them, it brought harm primarily to poor women, because they could not afford good treatment and they were forced to ask for help from amateur backstreet abortionists.51 Also biological arguments were used. For instance the claim was made that too many births would weaken a woman. The Communists argued that women should not produce “slaves for the bourgeoisie” or “soldiers for imperialist wars,” and they referred, in support of their argument, to the legality of abortion in the Soviet Union, at least they did until 1933, when abortion was prohibited there.52 Interestingly, the individual right of a woman to choose (which today is perhaps the most important argument in favor of the legality of abortion) was not cited as an argument.53 The left-leaning MPs even repeatedly initiated the abolishment of abortion laws, but they were unsuccessful in their efforts. The state authorities, however, were quite tolerant in putting the law into practice. They did not actively search for cases of abortions, and they pursued charges only if they had been informed by a doctor, which was usually only the case if an amateur abortionist had endangered a woman´s health and she found herself compelled to ask for professional medical treatment. According to the health statistics, of the estimated 100,000 thousand annual abortions, only about 600 were prosecuted in Czechoslovakia.54 The common penalties ranged from a couple of weeks to six months in prison, though mothers of children generally were given milder sentences.

Many young male and female workers became parents as unmarried couples.55 The extramarital births (referred to as “illegitimate” in the public discourse at the time) were more frequent in Prague than in the rest of the country (about 13 percent of births between 1921 and 1931 in Czechoslovakia were “illegitimate,”56 whereas the figure in Prague was 22 percent). Extramarital birth rates were higher in the capitals all over Europe, because many unmarried pregnant girls from rural areas left for the city to give birth in order to avoid social stigmatization in their communities. The illegitimacy rate was somewhat higher in Prague among the working class than it was among the middle classes. It can be estimated at one-fifth of the total number of births.57 However, most children were “legitimized” by later weddings, which were very informal in these cases. Only very rarely did children grow up living together with both the unmarried parents.

Members of the working class in Prague married at a relatively young age and at a relatively high rate in comparison with members of the middle classes or the Czech Germans and Jews. They also married earlier than the rural population. A typical age at marriage of a working class girl was around 23. Members of the middle class in Prague married on average four years later. The age gap between the workers´ brides and grooms was about two years, lower than among the middle classes, where it was about seven years. This was the result of the middle class custom according to which a man first had to obtain a position and accumulate wealth before entering a marriage. A working class girl who was not married at age 25 was considered an old maid, while the public was much more tolerant of men who remained unmarried. The number of women who never married was much higher than the number of men, in part because of the tremendous casualties suffered by men in World War I. In the cohort born between 1890 and 1900, one in ten males died in the war and one in ten was permanently disabled.58 About one-fifth of the females born between 1880 and 1900 therefore remained unmarried and childless, the highest proportion since the introduction of statistical records until today.

People tend to marry people of similar social, demographic and economic backgrounds (this is known as endogamy). On the other hand, marriage is also considered a channel of upward social mobility, which leads to a certain exogamy. There are numerous discussions regarding the factors that lead to shifts in patterns of exogamy and endogamy, how to categorize different societies, and the thesis according to which there was a shift from endogamy to exogamy during the transition from pre-modern to modern society.59 Although comparisons are always difficult, the inhabitants of Prague in the period under discussion seem to have been more exogamous than the rural population. Of course, a working class girl could not hope to find her millionaire (a common plotline in penny novels and movies at the time), but there was a chance of marrying a bit higher on the social ladder. Men who worked in public service were regarded as a “good catch” for working class girls. They included policemen, subordinate officers, tram conductors, railway men, or qualified workers in the private sector (typographers or electrical workers). A working class man could hope to marry his foreman’s daughter or possibly a widow with some wealth but few other endearments.

Although class barriers were strong in Prague at that time, some marriages were sealed between two people of differing social status. The prevailing marriage pattern of socially unequal partners followed the pattern typical in other modern societies, meaning that a marriage between a bride of lower status and a groom of higher status was more acceptable than vice versa. A young woman with a working class background had somewhat higher chances of marrying someone from the middle classes than a young male worker. In 1925, 9.1 percent of the marriages were partnerships between a female worker and a male clerk, while only 1.8 percent of the marriages involved a male worker and female clerk.60 The barriers between the social classes, however, seem to have been more permeable than the barriers between the Czechs and Germans or Jews, as ethnic identity was considered more important than class identity, and members of different social classes were more likely to meet one another than people belonging to different national backgrounds were, due to a rather clear geographic line dividing ethnic Czechs and Germans.61 Interethnic marriage was almost nonexistent among workers in Prague, as Germans or Jews were not numerous in the city. Although the Prague workers and their families belonged to different Christian denominations (about half of them were baptized as Catholics, a third were atheists,62 and one-sixth was protestant), it was not considered a problem to marry a member of a different church, as the working class in the capital city was already highly secularized.

The political orientation of grooms was sometimes a big problem for the families of brides. There was a significant rift between the Communists and the rest of the community.63 Some girls were explicitly warned not to marry a Communist, and in some cases this led to a break with other family members.64 There was some rational basis for this attitude, since a Communist Party activist sometimes had to face the loss of work, and in military production there was an explicit prohibition against giving members of the Communist Party a job. In contrast, if one had a membership card for the Socialist Party (bearing since 1926 the name National Socialist Party), which dominated Prague, this could prove helpful in the search for a job in publically owned enterprises.

Working class girls were also warned not to marry an alcoholic or a man who liked to play the cards, a habit considered (along with alcohol consumption) the worst social evil.65 For example, one female who wrote a letter to the journal Hvězda on her personal troubles, expressed her appreciation of her husband, since he neither drank nor played cards.66 Consorting with prostitutes, which was particularly common among students and soldiers, was not a big issue among workers.67 All in all, in contrast with the middle classes, working class parents did not have much influence on their children’s choice of partners. The last obstacle to marriage was age. One was only allowed to marry without parental permission at the age of 21. Couples between the ages of 17 and 21 were only allowed to marry if they had the permission of their fathers or legal guardians.68

Family in the Life Course

The period under discussion was marked by the end of a demographic transition in the Czech lands. In 1880, the average woman gave birth to 4.7 children. This figure declined in 1900 to 4.1, in 1920 to 2.8 and in 1938 to 1.9. The working class people of Prague were average in this respect. The birth rate was lower than in the countryside, but higher than among the middle classes. The prevailing model among workers was a family with two or three children.69 The one-child model was not preferred due to child mortality, which was still high.70 The social surveys on the working class people of Prague revealed more nuanced views. According to a survey conducted by Marie Nečasová in the late 1920s, the average clerks’ family had two children, the average workers’ family71 had 2.8, and the average day laborers’ family had 3.8.72 Other authors have consistently confirmed that a lower social position means more children. This was also the case according to a criminological survey on prostitutes with many brothers and sisters,73 as well as a pedagogical survey on schools, according to which “neglected [pupils] who were in danger of being ruined” usually came from the largest families.74 We do not have any data on the basis of which we could compare birth rates among atheist, protestant and Catholic workers, but denominational belonging does not seem to have played a significant role, as social workers did not pay any attention to it. Although the statistics indicate a decline in fertility, even in the 1930s working class women in Prague complained that they gave birth to more children than they actually would like to have had.75

Another aspect of the demographic transition was the decline in infant mortality, which fell from 15 to 9 percent in the Czech lands in the period between 1920 and 1940.76 However, this figure indicates that even towards the end of the interwar period the death of an infant was not uncommon. Although the statistics do not offer any breakdown of infant mortality rates according to social class, the data from different districts of the city clearly show social stratification. Prosek, the district of Prague with the highest proportion of workers and the highest concentration of slums, also had the highest infant mortality rate, 23 percent in 1935, while the suburbs with the highest percentage of “independents and landlords” had rates of only about 10 percent.77 Higher infant mortality was also recorded among children born out of wedlock, whose chances of reaching adulthood were two times lower than those of children of married parents.

Even the children of working class parents who survived infancy often were in poor health according to doctors, primarily as a result of malnutrition. About half of the children at the schools in the working class districts were characterized as unhealthy. The most frequent findings were rickets, anemia, “backward body development,” “weakness,” “nerve instability” and “hypertrophied chest glands.”78

Fathers were often absent from working class families. Female mortality rates were lower, and many men had died in the war. The death of a woman in childbirth, which had been frighteningly common only a few decades earlier, became less frequent, occurring in no more than 5 out of 1,000 of births. The most common cause of death in working class families was tuberculosis, which reached its peak during the war, but steadily declined afterward. In 1914, 26 of 100 deaths in the Czech lands were caused by tuberculosis. By 1937 this proportion had declined to 9 of 100.79 Tuberculosis was truly a “malady of the proletariat,” affecting primarily young adults. According to the statistical bureau of Prague, it was the cause of one in four deaths among male workers, but only one in ten deaths among people employed in liberal professions.80 Even successful medical treatment meant a long period of time and a considerable financial burden for the family.

Two other reasons for the absence of fathers were single motherhood and divorce.81 The Austrian legislature only allowed divorces in the sense of separation (Scheidung/rozvod), but without the right to remarry. Divorce (Trennung/rozluka), meaning that the parties to the process would have the right to remarry, was rarely allowed. The Czechoslovak Republic liberalized the laws regarding divorce after 1918, making divorce (rozluka) much easier and taking the procedure out of the hands of church. Consequently, the divorce rates began to rise: In 1921 they rocketed to 4.7 percent, possibly in part because the option had only recently become available and many people who had already separated from their spouses chose to finalize their separations with divorce. Although the rise in the divorce rate slowed down soon, as of the latter half of the 1920s it began to grow again, reaching 7.9 divorces annually for every 100 marriages in 1935–1937.82 Among the working class people of Prague, divorce was by no means unheard of. However, the statistical evidence shows that divorce was less widespread among working class families than it was among the middle classes, who might have had better proficiency in the use of the law. Members of the middle classes were also better able to afford divorce, since the breakup of a household represented a less threatening economic burden for them than it did for working class families. According to the statistics, divorce was twice as frequent among the middle classes in Prague than among the workers.83

Concerning the reasons for divorce recorded by the court of justice, domestic violence was more common among workers, while adultery was more common among the members of the middle classes.84 This could mean either that adultery was actually more common among the middle classes, who had more opportunity (more leisure time, better apartment conditions), and that domestic violence was more common in the working class families, or that adultery was not as frequently perceived as grounds for divorce among workers.

The outcome of a divorce was the separation of the household and a ruling regarding alimony, which could be a big financial burden to a male worker.85 However, Nečasová noticed in her survey that in the majority of cases divorced working class fathers did not pay anything. According to her, although the court of justice declared it the duty of the father to pay alimony, in many cases the fathers did not meet this obligation and their ex-wives had no legal means of compelling them to do so.86 The impact of the great depression on divorce rates was ambivalent. On the one hand, the rise in unemployment and increasing financial uncertainties frequently led to conflicts within families, while on the other among members of the working class divorce rates declined, presumably because the financial burdens were too great.

Combining divorce and the death of a parent, one can estimate that about one-third of the school-age children of working class parents in Prague came from “incomplete” families. According to research by Stejskal, in three-fourths of the cases the father was absent because he had died. The other one-fourth were cases of unwed mothers or divorced parents.87 The relatively frequent “incompleteness” of the family is confirmed by Apetauer. According to him, about 20 percent of Prague apprentices had lost their fathers, and 10 percent had lost their mothers. In the 1930s, as World War I become a more distant memory, the ratio of deceased fathers and mothers equalized somewhat.

The death of a father created a situation of extreme difficulty for a working class family. One strategy to minimize the disastrous consequences was to move in with grandparents or take in sub-tenants, who sometimes became new partners, as one sees on the basis of the information collected by the authorities about the widows of the 46 men who died during the collapse of construction works of the new shopping mall in the city center in 1928 (street Na Poříčí), the biggest catastrophe of this sort in the interwar period in Prague. Many widows found new partners astonishingly quickly.88 In the case of the death of his wife, a husband usually preferred to turn the children over to the care of relatives or sometimes institutions than to try to combine child care with paid work.

While first marriages were based on personal preferences and sympathies among workers, a marriage after the death of partner or after a divorce was generally a way out of a difficult situation, and the expectations placed on a potential partner were much lower. In particular, children from the previous marriage were instructed by their mothers to behave respectfully in the presence of their stepfathers. Records from the 1920s indicate that mothers even pressured their children to kiss their stepfather’s hand, a practice that was no longer common at the time, or to greet him with the words “praise the lord Jesus Christ” (pochválen buď pán Ježíš Kristus).89 This greeting was already out of fashion before the First World War, and after 1918 it was abolished from the schools and other public spaces, but still was perceived by some people as more polite than the civil “Good day” (dobrý den).

Conclusion

The family-lives of the Prague workers can be interpreted in light of the different transformations at the time. These include a demographic transition (declining infant mortality rates, declining fertility, rise of divorce rates), the adoption of modern values (individualization, secularization, female emancipation, emotionalization), combined with the effects of World War I (material scarcity, high mortality), local circumstances (housing shortages), and persistent traditional patterns and values (gender inequality and family hierarchies). The crucial aspect of the everyday lives of workers’ families seems to have been material scarcity, which was particularly significant at times of economic depressions (in other words roughly half of the period under discussion), resulting often in the malnutrition of children. The welfare system still existed only in rudimentary forms, so changes in the nuclear family, such as the death of a spouse or serious illness, could have disastrous effects on the family. Although the emotional bonds were important aspects of a marriage, in order to minimize the consequences of such catastrophes emotions sometimes had to be put aside, and remarrying was not always a sentimental so much as a rational choice.90

Living standards did not improve much during the period under discussion, and real average wages grew above the pre-1914 levels only for a short period of time, in the second half of the 1920s. World War I and the subsequent economic depression had disastrous effects on every segment of society, but particularly on the urban workers. The spread of “incomplete” families and the “marriage squeeze” for females were two of its consequences. On the other hand, the foundation of the Republic brought an improvement in the living conditions of workers due to the passage of new socially conscious legislation, including the reduction of work hours and the introduction of vacations, pensions and unemployment benefits, not to mention the emancipation of women during the war.

1918 also marked a shift in the values of the generation of young workers, who seemed to bear more affinities with their middle class counterparts than their parents had. In leisure-time activities, the formation of subcultures, dating practices, pre-marital sex, and the free choice of partners, the young workers even seem to have adopted these practices more rapidly than the middle class youth. The youths were also reluctant to accept the exclusive identity as “workers,” as the register books and personal ads illustrate. Also marriages between members of different social classes probably became more common than they had been in the past. The levels of social inequality and perceptions regarding these differences nonetheless remained strong at the time, separating the social strata in terms of consumption, space or demographic behavior. In this respect Prague did not differ from other cities of Central Europe. Due to our limited knowledge of the social history of Polish and Hungarian working class families, comparisons can only be drawn with well-researched life histories of German and Austrian working class families. In this context, Prague was not unusual, differing primarily only in housing welfare policy, which was more developed in the case of Germany or Austria.

 

Archival Sources

Národní Archív České Republiky (NA ČR) [National Archive of the Czech Republic]. Ústřední výbor Komunistické strany Československa 1921–1938 [Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia 1921–1938].

Národní Archív České Republiky (NA ČR) [National Archive of the Czech Republic]. Československá sociálně demokratická strana dělnická [Czechoslovak Social Democratic Workers’ Praty].

Národní Archív České Republiky (NA ČR) [National Archive of the Czech Republic]. Společnost pro potírání chorob pohlavních [The Society for the Fight on the Venereal Diseases].

Archív Hlavního Města Prahy (AHMP) [Archive of Capital of Prague]. Kancelář primátora [The Office of Mayor].

Archív Hlavního Města Prahy (AHMP) [Archive of Capital of Prague]. Rada hlavního města Prahy [Council of the Capital].

Archív Hlavního Města Prahy (AHMP) [Archive of Capital of Prague]. Sbírka matrik [Collection of Register Books].

Archív Národního Technického Muzea (ANTM) [Archive of National Museum of Science] Sbírka vzpomínek a rukopisů [The Collection of Memoires and Manuscripts].

Všeodborový Archív (VA) [All Unions’Archive]. Odborové sdružení Československé [The Union’s Association of Czechoslovakia].

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1 The classic sociological work on working class families: Mirra Komarovsky, Blue-Collar Marriage (New York: Random House, 1964). On the interwar period: Steve Humphries, Pamela Gordon, A Labour of Love: the Experience of Parenthood in Britain, 1900–1950 (London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1993). More recent: Kathe Fisher, Birth Control, Sex, and Marriage in Britain 1918–1960 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). The English historiography of working class families, however, put emphasis on the nineteenth century, and the twentieth century was regarded rather as a field of sociology. Both disciplines bore witness to a shift in interest in the past two decades to questions on gender and ethnicity, although the history of the working class was never abandoned, see: Andrew August, The British Working Class, 1832–1940 (Harlow: Pearson education limited, 2007). The German historiography seems to have experienced even more radical development: While in the 1990s the histories of working class families were as much in vogue as they had been in the 1980s, in the 2000s the subject nearly disappeared from the research, replaced by questions of gender or ethnicity. The best examples dealing with topics similar to those in this article are: Michael Seyfarth-Stubenrauch, Erziehung und Sozialisation in Arbeiterfamilien im Zeitraum 1870 bis 1914 in Deutschland: ein Beitrag historisch-pädagogischer Sozialisationsforschung zur Sozialgeschichte der Erziehung (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1985). Heidi Rosenbaum, Proletarische Familien: Arbeiterfamilien und Arbeiterväter im frühen 20. Jahrhundert zwischen traditioneller, sozialdemokratischer und kleinbürgerlicher Orientierung (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1992). Bettina Günter, Schonen – Schützen – Scheuern: zum Wohnalltag von Arbeiterfamilien im Ruhrgebiet der zwanziger Jahre (Münster: Waxmann, 1995). Christina Benninghaus, Die anderen Jugendlichen: Arbeitermädchen in der Weimarer Republik (Frankfurt am Main: Campus-Verl., 1999).

2 Antonín Chyba, Postavení dělnické třídy v kapitalistickém Československu (Prague: Svoboda, 1982). Václav Veber, Postavení dělnické třídy v českých zemích 1924–1929 (Prague: Práce, 1965).

3 E.g. the best work written from the statistical perspective: Pavla Horská, Kapitalistická industrializace a středoevropská společnost: příspěvek ke studiu formování tzv. průmyslové společnosti (Prague: Academia, 1970). The most substantial work from the folklorist perspective: Antonín Robek, Mirjam Moravcová, and Jarmila Šťastná, Stará dělnická Praha (Prague: Academia, 1981).

4 Jiří Matějček and Jana Machačová, Nástin sociálního vývoje českých zemí 1781–1914 (Prague: Karolinum, 2010).

5 Peter Heumos, “Die Arbeiterschaft in der Ersten Tschechoslowakischen Republik: Elemente der Sozialstruktur, organisatorischer Verfassung und politischen Kultur,” in Der tschechische Weg: Transformation einer Industriegesellschaft (1918–1998), ed. Dirk Tänzler (Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 1999). However, the situation had been different in other countries of Central and Eastern Europe, during the period of Socialist industrialization where workers in particular were thematicized, in the 2000s, see: Błażej Brzostek, Robotnicy Warszawy. Konflikty codzienne (1950–1954) (Warsaw: Trio, 2002). Mark Pittaway, The Workers’ State: Industrial Labor and the Making of Socialist Hungary, 1944–1958 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012). Malgorzata Fidelis, Women, Communism, and Industrialization in Postwar Poland (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010).

6 Martin Jemelka, Na kolonii: život v hornické kolonii dolu Šalomoun v Moravské Ostravě do začátku socialistické urbanizace (Ostrava: VŠB–Technická univerzita Ostrava, 2007).

7 Lukáš Fasora, Dělník a měšťan: vývoj jejich vzájemných vztahů na příkladu šesti moravských měst 1870–1914 (Brno: Centrum pro studium demokracie a kultury, 2010).

8 Stanislav Holubec, Lidé periferie: sociální postavení a každodennost pražského dělnictva v meziválečné době (Plzeň: Západočeská univerzita v Plzni, 2009).

9 Rudolf Kučera, Život na příděl: válečná každodennost a politiky dělnické třídy v českých zemích 1914–1918 (Prague: NLN, Nakladatelství Lidové noviny, 2013).

10 Adina Lieske, Arbeiterkultur und bürgerliche Kultur in Pilsen und Leipzig (Bonn: Verlag J. H. W. Dietz Nachf, 2007).

11 The population of the capital of Hungary was twice that of Prague (in 1910 the population of greater Budapest was 1,178,000, while the population of Prague and its boroughs was only 600,000; the municipality of Budapest had 870,000 inhabitants, whereas the municipality of Prague had only 224,000, due in part to postponed administrative reform, which was implemented only in 1922). Tamás Faragó, “Die Budapester Bevölkerungsentwicklung und die Zuwanderung 1870 bis 1941,” in Wien–Prag–Budapest: Blütezeit der Habsburgermetropolen, ed. Gerhard Melinz and Susan Zimmermann (Vienna: Promedia, 1996). For more on pre-1939 Budapest see: Gábor Gyáni, Parlour and Kitchen: Housing and Domestic Culture in Budapest, 1870–1940 (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2002). Péter Hanák, The Garden and the Workshop: Essays on the Cultural History of Vienna and Budapest (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998). The best synthesis on the history of Prague in German: Jiří Pešek, Václav Ledvinka, Prag (Prague: NLN, 2000).

12 Jaromír Korčák, Vylidňování jižních Čech: studie demografická (Prague: Spolek péče o blaho venkova, 1929). Josef Pohl, Vylidňování venkova v Čechách v období 1850–1930 (Prague: Masarykova ak. práce a Čs. ak. zemědělská, 1932).

13 Václav Ledvinka and Marek Laštovka, Pražský uličník (Prague: Libri, 1997), 14–16.

14 Antonín Boháč, Hlavní město Praha: Studie o obyvatelstvu (Prague: Státní úřad statistický, 1923), 50.

15 I understand the middle classes as those families whose bread winner had an average or slightly above average income and held a position that required professional qualifications (clerks, managers, professionals, intellectuals) and who could have, due to their economic and cultural capital, a lifestyle different from the lifestyle of a working class family. Such a family typically had an apartment with more rooms or a separate house, and the wife was able to stay at home, money was available to finance tertiary and secondary education for the offspring, holidays were taken at hotel resorts, and help was hired for housework.

16 Josef Šiška, Statistická zpráva hlavního města Prahy za léta 1930 – 1933 (Prague: Statistický úřad hl. m. Prahy, 1937), 66.

17 NA ČR, ÚV KSČ, 1921 – 1938, VII/2. Zpráva o odborovém hnutí v Praze, p. 2.

18 For international secondary literature regarding the position of unions in interwar Europe see: Gregory M. Luebbert, Liberalism, Fascism and Social Democracy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). On the position of trade unions in Czechoslovakia in the interwar period see:  Peter Heumos, “Die Arbeiterschaft in der Ersten Tschechoslowakischen Republik: Elemente der Sozialstruktur, organisatorischer Verfassung und politischen Kultur,” in Der tschechische Weg: Transformation einer Industriegesellschaft (1918 – 1998), ed. Dirk Tänzler (Frankfurt am Main: Campus-Verl., 1999).

19 For more on the economic history of interwar Czechoslovakia: Václav Průcha et al., Hospodářské a sociální dějiny Československa 1918–1992 (Brno: Doplněk, 2004). On the economic history of interwar Europe: Charles H. Feinstein, Peter Temin, and Gianni Tonniolo, The European Economy Between the Wars (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997).

20 AHMP, KP, III/7177. Referát o prohlídce provisorních kolonií v obvodu hlavního města Prahy, 22.

21 Vanda Tůmová, Pražské nouzové kolonie (Prague: Ústav pro etnografii a folkloristiku ČSAV, 1971), 23.

22 Josef Šiška, Sčítání bytů v Praze ze dne 1. prosince 1930 (Prague: Vydal Statistický úřad hlavního města Prahy, 1935), 3. The situation in Prague seems to have been worse than in Germany at the time, where apartments with more rooms were common among members of the working class. (Benninghaus, Die anderen Jugendlichen, 69.)

23 Life expectancy, which grew from 55 to 60 between 1918 and 1938, meant that most of the children of working class families knew their grandparents. (Life expectancy among the working class was possibly five years lower than among the middle classes, but somewhat higher than among the rural workers, because medical care was nearby.)

24 Josef Apetauer, Příspěvek k psychologii a pedagogice puberty českého dítěte (Prague: Ústav pro výzkum dítěte a dorůstající mládeže Českého pedologického ústavu hlavního města Prahy, 1927), 19–20.

25 Marie Nečasová, Školní prospěch a sociální poměry dítěte (Prague: Sociální ústav RČS, 1929), 12.

26 Šiška, Sčítání bytů, 65.

27 Holubec, Lidé periferie, 112.

28 Holubec, Lidé periferie, 98. In the attempts to reconstruct the social structure of interwar Prague, we have to rely on the statistical surveys conducted at the time. They defined three categories of Prague inhabitants according to their positions in the labor market: “the independents and landlords” (samostatní a nájemci), “employees” (zaměstnanci) and “workers and day-laborers” (dělníci a nádeníci). Concerning the first group, it might have been very heterogeneous, including owners of small shops and self-employed craftsmen, but also owners of large enterprises. The line between “employees” and “workers” is the line between intellectual and physical work. On the basis of the statistics regarding the apartments inhabited by these three groups, we can assume that the groups were marked by the different incomes, although there were undoubtedly overlaps.

29 ANTM 791/ 275, Paměti Václava Kindla.

30 Šiška, Statistická zpráva hlavního města Prahy za léta 1930–1933, 66, 67, 247.

31 Hvězda československých paní a dívek, 1930, 929/1, 5. Hvězda československých paní a dívek, 1929 217/46, 4. Hvězda československých paní a dívek, 1929, 162, 5. Hvězda československých paní a dívek, 1929, 108/4, 5.

32 The study on personal ads in Germany and France came to similar conclusions concerning the importance of property in personal ads in the first half of the century: Monika Kraemer, Partnersuche und Partnerschaft im deutsch–französischen Vergleich 1913–1993: eine empirische Analyse zum Wertewandel anhand von Heirats- und Bekanntschaftsanzeigen (Münster: Waxmann, 1998). The most recent work on the history of personal ads: H. G. Cocks, Classified: The Secret History of Personal Column (London: Random House, 2009).

33 Dělnická akademie, Dělnické tělocvičné jednoty.

34 Dělník gentleman (o společenské výchově) (Prague: Dorostový odbor výchovného výboru svazu D. T. J.Č., 1922), 13.

35 Ludmila Fialová, “Domácí služebnictvo v českých zemích na přelomu 19. a 20. století ve světle statistik,” Historická demografie 26 (2002): 150. Naďa Machková-Prajzová, “Profese služky v Praze na sklonku 19. a v prvních desetiletích 20. století: služebná na trhu práce,” Pražský sborník historický 39 (2011): 155.

36 See: Jan Pohunek, “Kultura trampů,” in Folklór atomového věku, kolektivně sdílené prvky expresivní kultury v soudobé české společnosti, ed. Petr Janeček (Prague: Národní muzeum, Fakulta humanitních studií Univerzity Karlovy v Praze, 2011).

37 However, this subculture did not survive long. See: Jonas Kleindienst, Die Wilden Cliquen Berlins: “Wild und frei” trotz Krieg und Krise. Geschichte einer Jugendkultur (Berlin: Peter Lang, 2011).

38 Marek Wajc and Jiří Kössl, Český tramping 1918–1945 (Prague–Liberec: Práh–Ruch, 1992), 52.

39 For more on workers’ sexuality see: Carrola Lipp, “Die Innenseite der Arbeiterkultur: Sexualität im Arbeitermilieu des 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhunderts,” in Arbeit, Frömmigkeit und Eigensinn. Studien zur historischen Kulturforschung, ed. Richard van Dülmen (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Verlag, 1990). Detlev Peukert assumes that young workers began to become sexually active around 17 or 18 years of age in the Weimar Republic: Detlev J. K. Peukert, Jugend zwischen Krieg und Krise: Lebenswelten von Arbeiterjungen in der Weimarer Republik (Cologne: Bund Verlag, 1987), 241.

40 Milena Lenderová and Karel Rýdl, Radostné dětství: Dítě v Čechách devatenáctého století (Prague–Litomyšl: Paseka, 2006), 263.

41 Milena Lenderová and Karel Rýdl, Radostné dětství, 6.

42 AHMP, SM, MG KAR 03.

43 AHMP, RHM V/24, Stížnost obyvatel domů družstva Domov, 2.

44 Pavel Reiman, Ve dvacátých letech (Prague: SNPL, 1966), 133.

45 Karel Čapek, Obrázky z domova (Prague: Československý spisovatel, 1959), 80.

46 Reiman, Ve dvacátých letech, 134.

47 Dělník gentleman, 12.

48 “Nechceme děti, jež nemůžeme uživiti,” Rozsévačka, 1, January 23, 1930, 5.

49 This practice, referred to as “immunization,” was used in cases of important texts, as according to the law everything said in Parliament could automatically be published.

50 The Czechoslovak Republic, however, somewhat expanded the cases in which abortion was legal, in contrast to the Austrian law, which allowed abortion only if the mother’s life was threatened. According to the republican law, abortion was allowed if the pregnancy was the result of rape, if the girl was younger than 16, if the pregnancy endangered the mother’s life, if the fetus was deformed, or if the woman was poor and had more than three children already.

51 “Odstraňte potratový paragraf,” Rozsévačka, 21, 1926, 4–5.

52 See: Cynthia Hooper, “Terror of Intimacy: Family politics in the 1930s Soviet Union,” in Everyday Life in Early Soviet Russia: Taking the Revolution Inside, eds. Christina Kaier, Eric Naiman (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006). Frances Lee Bernstein, The Dictatorship of Sex: Lifestyle Advice for the Soviet Masses (Dekalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2007).

53 Melissa Feinberg. Elusive Equality: Gender, Citizenship, and the Limits of Democracy in Czechoslovakia, 1918–1950 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2006), 130.

54 “Sociální pathologie,” Sociologická revue 4, no. 2–3 (1933): 277–79. The estimated number of abortions was even higher than the rate at the peak of the abortion wave in late socialism.

55 See the most recent history of illegitimate children in Germany: Sybille Buske, Fräulein Mutter und ihr Bastard: eine Geschichte der Unehelichkeit in Deutschland 1900 bis 1970 (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2004). For the United Kingdom: Alysa Levene, ed., Illegitimacy in Britain, 1700–1920 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005).

56 Josef Nechamkis, “K otázce nemanželských dětí u nás,” Sociální problémy 2, no. 1 (1932): 197.

57 Šiška, Statistická zpráva hlavního města Prahy za léta 1930–1933, 117.

58 Vladimír Srb, Tisíc let obyvatelstva českých zemí (Prague: Karolinum, 2004), 205–6.

59 Marco H. D. van Leeuwen, Ineke Maas, “Endogamy and Social Class in History: An Overview,” in Marriage Choices and Class Boundaries: Social Endogamy in History, eds. Marco H. D. van Leeuwen, Ineke Maas, Andrew Milles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005).

60 Josef Šiška, Statistická zpráva hlavního města Prahy za rok 1925 (Prague: Statistická komise hl. m. Prahy, 1930), 38–39.

61 Concerning Czech–German marriages, although the Germans made up as much as one-third of the inhabitants of the Czech lands, the interethnic Czech–German marriages constituted less than 5 percent of the total. See more on Czech–German marriages: Chad Bryant, “Občanství, národnost a každodenní život. Příspěvek k dějinám česko–německých smíšených manželství v letech 1939–1946” Kuděj. Časopis pro kulturní dějiny 2 (2002): 43–54. Benjamin Frommer, “Expulsion or Integration: Unmixing Interethnic Marriage in Postwar Czechoslovakia,” East European Politics & Societies 14 (2000): 381410. On Jewish–Czech and Jewish–German marriages: Gaby Zürn, “Religion Nebensache. Intermarriage between Biological Integration and (Self-)Destruction,” Bohemia. Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Kultur der böhmischen Länder 1 (2005): 108–119.

62 Only after 1918 was it permissible to become an atheist. Atheism spread mainly among unskilled workers and activists of the leftist parties. Even the politically moderate Social Democrats were militantly atheist. The form of its party functionaries contained a column: “To which date he/she left the church?” (NA ČR, ČSD, XVIII/ 9, Osobní dotazníky zaměstnanců sociální demokracie.) Catholic or Protestant working class families were in the decisive majority, but many of them were very secular in their everyday habits. Protestant workers belonging to the Czechoslovak church were numerous among the better qualified workers and supporters of the centrist National Socialist Party. (Antonín Boháč, “Hlavní město Praha,” 121.)

63 Jana Kosáková, “Příspěvek ke studiu způsobu života dělníků v Praze v Malém Břevnově” (Master thesis, Charles University Prague, 1975), 200.

64 Josef Spilka, ed., Šípek u haldy: Karolina Štiková vypravuje a ilustruje (Prague: Práce, 1964), 260.

65 Vašek Káňa, Válkou narušeni (Prague: SNDK, 1953), 111.

66 “Dopisy jež nás došly,” Pražanka, 59, 1925, 12.

67 Thomas Nipperday, Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918 (Munich: Verlag C. H. Beck, 1990), 100. Andreas Gestrich, Geschichte der Familie im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2007), 32. According the contemporary statistics of the Prague’s hospitals the workers were rather underrepresented among the sexually infected males. NA ČR, SPPCP, VI/218. Zpráva o činnosti dispenzáře prof. Janovského, 2.

68 Emil Svoboda, Rodinné právo, Prague, Vesmír, 1921, 32.

69 “Znáte viníky, suďte je,” Rozsévačka, 28, July 10, 1935, 2.

70 “Nechceme děti, jež nemůžeme uživiti,” Rozsévačka, 1, January 23, 1930, 5.

71 She did not give a precise definition of “workers,” but she seems to mean people who had regular jobs and even jobs for which they required professional qualifications, because she also writes about “day laborers”.

72 Marie Nečasová, Školní prospěch a sociální poměry dítěte (Prague: Sociální ústav RČS, 1929), 28.

73 Jan Schneider, Cestou k prostituci (Prague: Spolek pro péči o slabomyslné v RČS, 1928), attachment, 6.

74 Cyril Stejskal, “Poznatky z všestranného výzkumu žactva pokusných škol v Praze,” Pedagogické rozhledy 1 (1932): 119.

75 “Otrokyně otroka”. Rozsévačka, 21, 1933, 5.

76 Also the practice of giving birth in the clinics contributed to the decline in infant mortality. Two-thirds of the births in Prague in 1926 took place in the hospital. Zprávy Státního úřadu statistického republiky Československé (Prague: Státní úřad statistický, 1927), 21 (8), 149. The recommendation to give birth at home was considered old fashioned. Znáš své dítě? Rozsévačka, 3, January 15, 1936, 6.

77 Emanuel Hruška, Rozbor zdravotních a osídlovacích poměrů velké Prahy (Prague: Ústav pro stavbu měst při Masarykově akademii práce, 1935), 83. This was also confirmed by Otto Lehovec, Prag: eine Stadtgeographie und Heimatkunde (Prag: Volk und Reich Verlag, 1944), 78.

78 Cyril Stejskal, “Poznatky z všestranného,” 16.

79 Atlas obyvatelstva ČSSR (Prague: Ústřední správa geodézie a kartografie, 1962), 56.

80 Šiška, Statistická zpráva hlavního města Prahy za léta 1930–1933, 186.

81 Kristin Celello, Making marriage work: a history of marriage and divorce in the twentieth-century (Chapel Hill, Univ. of North Carolina Press: 2009).

82 Ludmila Fialová et al., Dějiny obyvatelstva českých zemí (Prague: Mladá fronta, 1996), 395.

83 Josef Šiška, Statistická zpráva hlavního města Prahy za rok 1925 (Prague: Statistická komise hl. m. Prahy, 1930), 101–11. Josef Šiška, Statistická zpráva hlavního města Prahy za léta 1930–1933, 98–107.

84 Ibid.

85 “Zn. Jediná spása”. Hvězda československých paní a dívek, 11, 1930, 12.

86 Marie Nečasová, Školní prospěch a sociální poměry dítěte, 18.

87 Cyril Stejskal, “Poznatky z všestranného,” 119.

88 VA, OSČ. Zpráva o sociální poměrech pozůstalých po katastrofě na Poříčí, 168/ 2173–97.

89 Tůmová, Pražské nouzové, 75.

90 In Czech historiography no research has been done on urban widows. The secondary literature has concentrated until now on the lives of rural widows in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In English see: Bettina Bradbury, Wife to Widow: Lives, Laws, and Politics in Nineteenth-Century Montreal (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2011).

pdfVolume 3 Issue 1 CONTENTS

Mónika Mátay

The Adventures of Dispute: a Marriage Crisis

 

Various developments in the study of history over the past few decades have borrowed theoretical assumptions and methodological innovations from cultural anthropology. Similarly, some of the leading scholars in the field of legal history have done the same.

In this article I investigate the avenues of dispute within a Calvinist burgher family from Debrecen, the biggest Hungarian city at the turn of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I try to reconstruct the individual strategies they adopted in order to achieve their goals and the means and tactics they used against each other in business, defamation conflicts or a divorce case. I approach the legal construction as a creative moment, a formative period in which the combination of central legislation and local statutes offered a space for individual strategies and legal maneuvering. In the analysis, I scrutinize both the disputing habits and the internal motivations of a quarreling couple, the Ladányis, to take their private matters and conflicts to the court, as well as the mutual influences of social actors and increasingly modern social institutions, more precisely, the city court and the legal profession.

Keywords: Calvinism, family, gender, marital dispute, divorce

 

In the 1970s, a harsh debate erupted among anthropologists over legal theory and practice in which the rule-centered or functionalist paradigm and the processual paradigm were juxtaposed.1 Representatives of the first model concentrated on formal written law and legal institutions as the only legitimate objects of legal analyses, and they thought that only laws and norms “from above” could define the boundaries between deviant and acceptable social behavior. Supporters of the second paradigm emphasized individual decisions and the legal competence of social actors, and they refused to view conflicts as “pathological phenomena.” For them, conflict is a natural ingredient of everyday life and it is unavoidable when the individual attempts to realize his or her goals. These anthropologists accept that “order” in a society provides the basis for stability, but they believe that order is not a well-defined structure, but rather a shifting and dynamic environment shaped by the members of the community.

In the end, the scholarly debate led to more ambitious considerations than the mere challenge to traditional views grounded in the coercive power of law and legal institutions. According to Sally Falk Moore, Simon Roberts, John L. Comaroff, Laura Nader and other anthropologists, the processual paradigm as a primary approach to legal life has the potential to pose more radical questions than the subordination of the formal, institutional perspective to individuals’ manipulative strategies and legal competence. In general they argue that the analyses of legal norms should rely on social behavior, because this is the formative context in which social norms and rules are determined. In other words, social behavior is more dependent on social relations than on the regulative authority of any political or social institutions. The shift of focal points led these anthropologists into a new arena in which they paid more attention to concrete conflicts among individuals or social groups as well as to the possible resolutions of these conflicts. That means that social practices are not subordinated to rules, but that they have equally important power in shaping social conditions.

According to the functionalist model, law determined the lives of ordinary people, and historians who applied it ignored the possibility that there might exist a less hierarchical structure and failed to articulate a more mutual correlation between regulations and actors. In the new framework, however, the reductionist interpretation of the law is replaced by a more flexible and complex paradigm in which social historians focus on individuals’ legal competence and manipulative capacities. Undoubtedly, the liberation of ordinary historical actors from the constraints of political, economic and social structures is not an entirely novel approach to history. Microhistorians, among others, Carlo Ginzburg, Nathalie Zemon Davis and Judith Brown, contributed to this “deliberating” process to a large degree. Ginzburg illustrated the contours of self-fashioning, the freedom of individual actions and decision-making strategies in the example of the miller, Menocchio, who even confronted the much-feared Inquisition and sacrificed his life to have a chance to discuss his strange ideas with competent people.2 Davis excellently crafted the personality of Martin Guerre and his rival, the impostor Arnaud du Tihl alias Pansette, who tried to make his fortune by slipping into another person’s skin.3 Brown, in a genuinely new fashion, showed the possibilities a unique female character had to gain public attention in Renaissance Italy.4 After reading these historical analyses, no one would think that these actors of the past were helpless puppets whose actions were dictated entirely by contemporary social and economic conditions. Just the opposite was the case; they seemed to be remarkably creative and active in shaping their own lives. The new paradigm in the study of legal practice made it possible to apply the findings of social and microhistory in a new field, legal history, which has been neglected by most social historians, including the representatives of the Annales School.

One of the most successful attempts to apply the findings of legal anthropology in social history is Thomas Kuehn’s collection of essays that claims to explicate a “legal anthropology” of Renaissance Italy.5 Although the ambitious endeavor remained incomplete in the sense that instead of Renaissance Italy the author focused only on one Italian city (Florence), this does not reduce the value of the work. Kuehn argues that laws and statutes attempted to diminish the freedom of action of the individual within a coherent and logical structuralist framework. Legal practice in real everyday life, however, was very different and contained many irrational, chaotic and contradictory elements. Kuehn paid particular attention to individual choices and decisions even if they did not seem cogent.

Using published and unpublished notarial records and private sources (such as letters and diaries), Kuehn demonstrates that the citizens of Florence were not only familiar with the ever-changing legal statutes, but also knew that the law had an immense influence on people’s everyday lives. For Kuehn, quattrocento Florentine law was incoherent and fluid; therefore, it left space for individual creativity and for the application of alternative methods of dispute in addition to formal litigation. “My desire has been to understand how, or how much, the very sophisticated and complex apparatus of law could serve the interests of litigants and to see how law functioned in a context with other mechanisms of disputing and settling disputes, ranging from fairly formal arbitration to violence.”6 The inherently ambiguous laws created a broad horizon for social actors, individuals and kinsmen, in which they could find ways of accomplishing their goals and interests in competition with other members of the community.

Kuehn’s vision of the relationship between law and society as a formative process, combined with his aim of integrating alternative legal habits into his investigation, provides his readers with a new understanding the legal authority of certain social groups, especially women. He admits that women’s legal activity was circumscribed by the immanently oppressive, patriarchal order of the period. At the same time, he also explains the manifest contradiction between formal legal regulations and everyday legal practice, and the interpretation and application of law in matters such as female inheritance or, more generally speaking, women’s legal authority.

Simona Cerutti, in her work on the summary court of seventeenth and eighteenth-century Torino, examines the day-to-day operation of this peculiar form of jurisprudence.7 She demonstrates that legal practice could serve as a major source of law, because the summary court excluded all forms of professional juridical intervention, including legal experts and written law, and was grounded purely in non-professional individuals’ sentences. Cerutti’s focus on this ancient institution made it possible to pay closer attention to the practical consequences of the ideological assumptions that were articulated by the followers of the processual legal paradigm. In Domestic Dangers, Laura Gowing attempts to reconstruct the litigation and, most importantly, the complex motives outside the court that inspired seventeenth-century Londoners to seek justice and initiate civic legal cases.8 Like Kuehn, Gowing warns against overemphasis on the patriarchal order of early modern society and illustrates in various ways how legal instruments could become powerful weapons even in the hands of women.

Legal anthropology provided several theoretical and methodological findings for historians that I consider in my work. The present inquiry, restricted to an examination of the squabbles of a Debrecenian couple in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, is an attempt to uncover the importance of lawsuits by integrating into its methodology historiographical developments. As opposed to “rules-oriented” legal historians, who were reluctant to apply the law in actual cases and focused either on structural institutional changes or legal theory, my goal is to provide a more nuanced understanding of the couple’s litigation. Of course, I acknowledge that legal norms and rules are “ranges of discourse” which set constraints on disputants as they argued over marriages, wealth and honor.9 However, I try to avoid imposing on my understanding of litigation a sharp distinction between “theory” and “practice.” I approach the legal construction as a creative moment, a formative period, in which the combination of central legislation and local statutes opened up space for individual strategies and legal maneuvering. In the analysis, I scrutinize both the disputing habits and the internal motivations of the quarreling couple, the Ladányis, to take their private matters and conflicts to the court, and the mutual influences of social actors and modernizing social institutions, more precisely, the city court and the legal profession.

The Husband, the Wife and the Marriage

János Ladányi and Erzsébet Diószegi got married on April 27, 1774.10 Both of them were born in Debrecen, the biggest Hungarian city at the time. Debrecen is a former trading center located in the Hungarian plain, about 150 miles to the east of the present-day capital, Budapest. The city lay far from rivers, quarries, forests, and mountains that could have supplied it with raw materials for development and provided natural defensive borders. There was hardly reason to build a city on this empty plain, with the exception of the endless supply of space for expansion. Throughout the early modern era, and even today, visitors have always been struck by the stark contrast between the city’s large size and density and its rural characteristics. In 1715, it was the largest city in the country, and in 1787, when Joseph II ordered a census of the total population of Hungary, Debrecen, with its 29,000 inhabitants, was still ahead Pressburg (27,000; Pozsony in Hungarian, today Bratislava in Slovakia) and Buda (25,000).

Both János and Erzsébet were scions of noble families.11 Within the urban community nobles formed a somewhat closed and particular social group. Fleeing the plunders of Turkish soldiers, they began to move to Debrecen in the 1500s. During the following centuries the Debrecenian nobility permanently grew in size. Most of them never owned estates, but were so-called armalis nobles; in other words, they were ennobled without land, which in practice meant that they enjoyed tax exemption but had to work for a living.12 Most noblemen were farmers and artisans, others were Debrecenian merchants and intellectuals. Some of the nobles of Debrecen had estates outside the city, but regardless of that, none of them were allowed to invoke their noble privileges within the city; like the burghers, they were required to pay ranks and taxes. Although they preferred to marry among themselves, according to profession and residence, they integrated themselves well into the city. According to contemporary national and county records, 132 noble families lived in Debrecen in 1715, and during the reign of Joseph II (in the late 1700s) this number rose to 207. Despite the slow growth of the Debrecenian nobility, their proportion within the total urban population remained around one or two percent.13

The groom’s father, János Ladányi, was a native of Debrecen. Little is known about his background except that he was a hard-working citizen who contributed considerably to the family’s assets. His grandmother, Anna Rácz, made a last will and testament in which she praised her son, János the elder:

 

…he suffered with me much cold and warm, he rushed and troubled himself with my matters and helped me a great deal […] for these reasons all the money I lent to him once or twice [100 Forints] and the vineyard which I bought together with him I leave to János, and my other children should not demand any part of that wealth.14

The elder János Ladányi was probably an artisan, but the available sources do not indicate his craft. Due to the fact that he did not make a last will and testament and did not leave his son valuable properties, I assume he was not particularly wealthy. Affluent members of the urban community usually left behind a written will and made scrupulous decisions about their properties. Mihály Jándi, a tanner and member of a prestigious noble family, was undoubtedly rich, and his last will and testament documents his wealth. He was well-off, and this obliged him to make a number of final decisions. He had a house, several mills, a vineyard, a large piece of land, animals and movable assets.15

Many Debrecenian noblemen spent most of their income on their children. They spent their earnings on their sons’ education and their daughters’ dowries. The elder Ladányi provided his son with reasonable schooling. After completing his compulsory years of apprenticeship, at the very young age of 18, he joined the highly esteemed guild of tanners in Debrecen.16

There is more information about the bride’s background. She was a child of the illustrious Diószegi family.17 Her great-great-grandfather was István Diószegi, who had been a prominent professor of the city’s College for more than three decades. Among her ancestors, Sámuel, the famed chief justice of Debrecen, was a particularly prominent personality. He also headed the highly esteemed postmaster’s office and led the city during wartime at the beginning of the eighteenth century. He was well connected with contemporary European political elites and his exploits were legendary among the citizens of Debrecen. According to a popular anecdote he hosted the Swedish king, Charles XII, for an evening of entertainment.18 István Szücs, the nineteenth-century chronicler of Debrecen, noted that the king spent an amusing evening and a peaceful night in Diószegi’s house, where he met members of the Magistrate, Protestant pastors, and professors from the College.19

Erzsébet’s father was Pál Diószegi, a teacher at one of the ten girls’ schools in the city.20 Noblemen who did not possess extensive estates had to learn a trade or enter the world of industry or the intellectual professions.21 Debrecenian elementary school teachers established the Teachers’ Association in 1708, which increased their prestige, but this still did not mean financial recognition. Teachers in Debrecen lived under miserable conditions. They received their salaries directly from the parents, which resulted in endless complaints on behalf of the teachers: “[…] they brought their children from one school to the other and so they avoided paying tuition-fees. They did not pay, so we could not even afford our basic everyday necessities.”22

Although Pál Diószegi registered his daughter at one of the girls’ schools in the city, Erzsébet apparently possessed no more than a very basic education—typical of elementary schools of that time.23 She learned to read and write and she probably acquired primary mathematical skills and a fundamental understanding of the Bible. Decades later, a letter she wrote as an adult indicates that she could write, but she made many grammatical and spelling mistakes. Like many girls at the time, she most probably learned the necessary skills of a housewife, and later she became an assiduous housekeeper.

Erzsébet had two brothers, Mihály and Sámuel. Mihály married into the nationally recognized Fazekas family. His brother-in-law was a writer and the author of one of the most popular satires of the early nineteenth century, Ludas Matyi, which is still required reading for Hungarian school children. Erzsébet’s other brother, the twelve-year younger Sámuel, taught at the city’s College. Later he moved to a neighboring town, Hajdúböszörmény, where he worked as a schoolmaster. He then moved on to a bigger city in the Hungarian Plain, Kecskemét. He attended the University of Gottingen, where he studied geometry, physics and medicine. He completed his university degree in the 1790s and became a Protestant pastor in his native Debrecen. Sámuel co-authored the first Hungarian botanical treatise and was member of the enlightened intellectual workshop, the Debrecen Assembly. His sermons, entitled Moralistic Teachings in Preaching, were published in Debrecen in 1808.24

We do not know whose idea the marriage was, nor can we know how and when they met first. Both the Ladányi and the Diószegi families resided in the heart of Debrecen, and most likely the couple had already known each other as children. There are no references to mutual attraction or love in the archival documents, but neither physical attraction nor emotional commitment was considered a prerequisite for marriage in the waning years of the eighteenth century. The surviving archival sources on divorce cases suggest that marriages were usually arranged by the parents or relatives and sometimes the couple hardly saw each other before the wedding.

Marriage was considered the first real step into adulthood. In order to be accepted as a “mature man,” János had to get married. He was already 26 and had been guild master for eight years at the time of his wedding. Most likely he was following public expectations when he decided to marry Erzsébet. The bride was almost the same age, 25, anything but too young to marry by the standards of the time. Examining registers of marriage from this period, the data suggest that most women married about five years earlier, around the age of 20.25 For a woman, marriage was almost compulsory: in the traditional Protestant views of Debrecenians, it was shameful, dangerous and immoral for a woman to live alone.26

In Debrecen, parents or relatives arranged marriages. They introduced the couple and controlled the necessary fiscal negotiations. Documents of divorce cases suggest that economic motivation provided a weak bond to sustain a bad marriage, and mere financial ties were not enough to prevent separation or divorce. Many plaintiffs in divorce cases complained that they disliked their spouses from the first time they met and reluctantly yielded to parental pressure, resulting in a forced wedding. They used this circumstance to convince the court that the marriage had not been the result of a voluntary decision. Erzsébet Böszörményi, the wife of János Szilágyi, a cobbler, argued during her divorce trial that “boundless parental power forced her to marry János Szilágyi,” but after nine doleful years of her marriage she preferred to try the life of the lonesome female than suffer the hardships of living together with her husband.27

Presumably, in this case money did not serve as a primary motivation for the marriage.28 Neither of the two families was particularly wealthy. Despite the lack of economic motivation, the parents thought this an acceptable match because of the noble origins of both families. Nobles in the market towns of the Hungarian Great Plain lived in closed communities and preferred to marry among themselves. In most cases, noble families refused to allow their children to marry to non-noble citizens.29

The couple had been living in lodgings for more than twenty years and could afford a house only as late as 1798, when they received Erzsébet’s inheritance.30 It is true that in Debrecen many young people, even scions of wealthy citizens, often began their adult lives in a sublease. That did not necessarily mean that they were poor. But the fact that the Ladányis were unable to buy a house for more than two decades indicates that they were not financially prosperous. Ultimately, they could only afford the house when they received Erzsébet’s inheritance.

Once they were able to buy their own home, they purchased it along with a very small piece of land. In nineteenth-century Debrecen houses were surrounded by land. Actually, the value of the property was dependent on the size of the adjacent estate, not the building itself. The Ladányis bought their house with a plot that was a bit smaller than the average size on their street.31

A document about the renovation of the house in 1823 offers a rough sketch of the ground plan. It was a typical Debrecen home, neither rich nor poor. There were two rooms in the house. The main room, which was bigger and more comfortable, was the multipurpose tisztaszoba (clean room). The window in this room afforded a glimpse of the street. The members of the household rarely used this room; it was a combined living and dining room, and visitors were entertained here. The only bedroom of the house, reserved for the spouses and their daughter, was in the back of the building. The family spent most of their time in the kitchen, located between tisztaszoba and the bedroom, which also served as the main entryway from the yard.

Unfortunately, the sources do not indicate why the couple was in such dire financial straits. Whatever the case, they were unable to accumulate much wealth despite the fact that Ladányi was a recognized master craftsman. After entering the guild in 1766, he made something of a name for himself as a talented artisan by producing high quality leatherwork.32 The Magistrate rewarded him for being more productive than his fellow-artisans in the guild by bestowing monetary recognition on him. His products earned a special prize from Joseph II, the emperor in 1785, furthering bolstering his reputation.33 When making his testament, he displayed with pride to the witnesses and the notary “that golden medal […] which weighs about 10 ounces and which [he] received from late glorious Joseph II for exemplary knowledge of his trade.”

Erzsébet contributed substantially to his work as an artisan: “in the practice of the craft she took an active part.”34 In the everyday life of an artisan family, women always played an important role. In addition to performing the traditional tasks of women, which included cooking and looking after the servants and the apprentices, they were also expected to work the land, trim and hoe the vines, and feed domestic animals. As legal documents suggest, Debrecenians harshly criticized “lazy and neglectful” housewives. Mária Zefer, a cobbler’s wife, “worked in the craft like a man, as much as she could.”35 Besides assisting their husbands in the workshop, artisans’ wives also sold the products at local or even distant fairs. If the husband joined the army, left his family, or squandered the family’s earnings, women often took over the craft as if they were masters. We also know of a few examples when women, although they lived together with their husbands, were independent artisans. Although her husband was a well-off quilt-maker, János Kapros’ wife brought in a huge amount of money by herself according to her husband: “she has always lived on independent earnings.”36

Erzsébet’s contribution to the family’s income was essential because Ladányi did not hire apprentices. Certainly he could have had assistants, and he was competent enough to supervise the workshop with multiple apprentices. Sámuel Teleki, a royal representative in Debrecen and a well-known, enlightened figure of contemporary public life, noted in his report on the work of tanners in the city that masters should send their apprentices to the house, where they could profit from Ladányi’s knowledge of the craft. Still, in the documents of the guild no assistants were ever registered with the tanner. Erzsébet later testified during the trial that young men were afraid of her husband’s “cruelty and rigor.” There were many rumors in the city regarding his unruly behavior. How could she live together with a man who alienated potential apprentices and seemed so uninterested in furthering their economic means?

Dilemmas of a Bad Marriage

The marriage was anything but a good emotional match, at least by the second decade. Erzsébet wrote a statement around 1806 or 1807 that was fashioned in the style of a last will and testament and bears further witness to the hardships of their relationship. We do not know to whom she addressed her writing. Most likely, she just wanted to document the miserable conditions under which she lived. Although this unique reflection on her circumstances is informal, she prepared it as part of the legal maneuverings that she used against her husband, or rather as part of a strategy to ensure that she would be able to defend herself from him when necessary. She complains that, with her husband, “[she] suffered much, and in particular in the course of the past four years I underwent enormous torments.”37 She does not go into the details, but the bitter tone of her letter attests to endless miseries. Most likely, Ladányi brutally struck and possibly tortured his wife. At the end of her one-page long note, Erzsébet crafts a statement in a convention meant to leave a record of her misery. She complains about her husband’s control over the family house and his intent to distribute her wealth. Ladányi refused to give her either the wealth she had inherited from her parents or the goods they had accumulated together. She declares that she wishes to leave all her belongings to her daughter and grandchildren. The letter suggests that she had decided to leave her husband: “that from now on I not suffer further disasters.”38 Such an act would make her a social outcast.

Erzsébet’s letter shows that her relationship with her husband was irrevocably ruined, and yet they did not separate. We learn from Ladányi’s last will and testament that the couple split-up several times. He laments that his wife “was unfaithful to him, she left him many times, on at least 13 occasions.”39 Finally, in 1818, at the age of 69, she fled from the house, three years before he made his will and testament. Why did she wait so long? Why did she return to her “devilish husband” over and over? And most importantly, why did she fail to initiate divorce proceedings against Ladányi?

Were there any economic considerations behind her reluctance to leave? In Debrecen, an independent life for a woman was hard, but possible. Compared to their counterparts in small villages, where women could only find work jointly with their husbands or male relatives, Debrecenian women had opportunities to work outside the family circle. At times, widows could make respectable incomes, and when they made their wills, they proudly emphasized how much they had amassed after their husbands’ deaths. Mária Ferge, the widow of a carpenter, acquired money through net making.40 Women also worked as servants, midwives, bartenders and innkeepers. They spun thread for weavers and made loaves of bread or cakes to sell. One young girl made her living by painting furniture. Between 1820 and 1830, more than 400 spinners were registered as artisans working outside of guilds, and most of them were women. In all likelihood, Erzsébet could have managed to live independently from her husband. She probably had skills in some traditionally female work. Still, she decided to stay. Why? If divorce was legally possible and socially acceptable, why did Erzsébet Diószegi not decide to write a petition and start divorce proceedings against her husband? One possibility was that, while divorce was considered acceptable, it clearly was not looked on favorably at the time, and this may have influenced Erzsébet.

In 1791, Leopold II, the Habsburg Emperor, passed a law that permitted Protestants to be granted a divorce in a secular court for the first time. The law was liberal by the standards of the time, since it allowed divorce on a broad range of grounds and divorce was made available both for men and women. Still, Leopold II’s enlightened policies did not lead to a divorce revolution in Debrecen. Between 1793, when the first petition for divorce was submitted to the court, and the middle of the nineteenth century 201 couples in Debrecen decided to get divorced. 41

Leopold II’s legislation was similar to statutes in Germany, where people could also get divorced regardless of their social status or gender.42 A divorce law was introduced in France during the revolution in 1792 that prompted thousands of French couples to turn to the courts.43 In England, the situation was not that liberal. For the overwhelming majority, legal divorce was not available. A Divorce Reform Act was introduced in 1857.44

To initiate a divorce case in Debrecen, first the couple had to go to their pastor and request a certificate asserting that reconciliation was impossible. Then the main plaintiff called on a barrister and initiated the divorce proceedings in the local court. In this sense, the ecclesiastical authorities played an important role in the legal procedure, but the decision was made by a secular assembly.

Remarks that were made in the course of trials and the arguments that were made by the magistrates when the issued their decisions suggest that the courts were adamantly opposed to divorce. They were well aware that citizens of Debrecen paid close attention to the outcomes of divorce trials: “Many eyes watch at this scandalous trial in the local Public and eagerly await its outcome […].”45 Clearly, the judges attempted to discourage divorce among Debrecenians, and whenever possible they rejected petitions for divorce.

A high number of divorce petitions were withdrawn, which suggests that the vast majority of ordinary people were somewhat hesitant about divorce. As is often the case in the study of history, sources yield little insight into the opinions individuals had regarding the dissolution of a marriage. Still, on the basis of the plentiful archival documents, we can attempt to reconstruct views about divorce expressed by the couples involved and by the witnesses, who most often were parents, relatives, servants, tenants or neighbors. Like the judges of the city, most of the petitioners said they were reluctant to divorce and contended that the drastic step had been forced upon them by external circumstances. They complained about their spouses’ misconduct, which included multiple attempts to poison and physical and psychological torture, alcoholism, adultery, and absence. Despite the hostility of the legal elite and the reluctance of the general public to accept divorce, the number of court cases that ended in divorce and the attitudes of defendants suggest that someone living in an impossible marriage could find a sympathetic ear and persuade the courts and society in general to accept divorce as one possible solution to a marital breakdown.

In addition to the doubts she may have had regarding the attitudes towards divorce, Erzsébet may well have had several other considerations on her mind. For a while, she might have hoped that Ladányi’s coarseness would pass. Perhaps she thought of her family, especially her brother, Samuel, the respected scholar, and did not want to involve them in a scandalous family battle. She had a daughter, Julianna, whom she certainly did not want to leave under the care of a brutal father. Gathering her belongings, leaving the house, and starting a new life under someone else’s roof was anything but appealing in the eyes of a lonely mother with a child. The probability that a divorce decree would give her back her ancestral property was very low. Not that the court was reluctant to respect women’s property rights, but Erzsébet’s inheritance had been spent when the couple had purchased their house. Even if the divorce sentence was favorable to her, due to her husband’s extremely aggressive behavior, she would never see a penny of her money. Finally, she had invested not only her money but also her energy into the shop and the household. She may have been unwilling to leave everything behind. Last but not least, though she might not have put it in these words, she certainly was concerned about her reputation as a woman. She was no longer young and did not have significant economic resources, so her chances of marrying again were very small. For whatever reason(s), she learned to accept life with her husband for almost fifty years. What can we know about the person with whom she decided to live for so long? Did he have any redeeming qualities that persuaded her stay, or did she remain with him simply because of the factors enumerated above?

János was vindictive, bitter, and peevish. As a young man, he worked as a tanner. In the census of 1792, twenty years into their marriage, when all the members of the tanner guild of Debrecen were registered (including the widows), he was listed as “inactive”: “They are masters, but they do not work in the trade themselves, neither do they have assistants who would work for them, and they do not bring profit to the guild.”46 Why did Ladányi decide to stop practicing his trade? We know about special cases when an artistan went into bankruptcy or was too incompetent or helpless to work alone. Many artisans of Debrecen were engaged in agriculture in the city’s extended adjacent lands.47 They purchased farms outside the borders of the city and worked in the fields, in addition to working as members of the guild. Sometimes the wife took over the trade while the husband devoted his energies to cattle breeding and other peasant work. None of this was true of Ladányi. Unquestionably, he was a very talented tanner, and neither in wealth registers nor in the legal documents is there evidence indicating that he pursued work in agriculture.48

It is impossible to know why he stopped working as a tanner, but in all probability he thought that he would raise more money and better succeed in life as a casual businessman than as a hard-working artisan. We know for certain that he abandoned his craft sometime in the 1790s, and, as the surviving legal documents of his multiple conflicts with fellow citizens suggest, most likely his earnings came from fishy business dealings.

A Quarrelsome Nobleman

Ladányi started his first legal case against a certain András Nagy, a local salesman, in 1815.49 They were involved in a honey hoarding business together, but, as Ladányi argued in court, Nagy had cheated him and refused to give him his share.50 Nagy, on the other hand, firmly stated that he had never asked Ladányi to take part in the transaction because Ladányi had no talent and he was also far too vehement and “impetuous.” Still, he required the money for the transaction. Nagy called the tanner a person “who was well-known for his unruly behavior” and “made a judge of himself and took revenge without any consideration of the consequences.” The court rejected Ladányi’s request on the basis of the lack of a written contract. Further evidence about his court cases suggests that he was engaged in several business dealings in which he became entangled in interpersonal conflicts and gained quite a few enemies in Debrecen.

The tanner was unbearably aggressive, a real scandal-maker. In 1816, one of the city representatives began a defamation case against him because he had publicly called him a bastard. Ladányi was sentenced to pay a considerable fine, and the judges, who usually were impartial, used extremely derogatory language when talking about him. They described him as “hideous-tongued, blatant, and disobedient.”51 Undoubtedly, the city authorities were tired of the intractable old man’s disruptive behavior. The Magistrate was especially sensitive to a haughty demeanor and the flaunting of noble origins.52 Clearly Erzsébet lived with an irresponsible husband who abused her and all those around him. Enough was enough. In 1821, after 47 years of marriage, she called on a well-known attorney, Gábor Keresztessy, and asked him to draft a petition for divorce.

The brief for Erzsébet was a masterpiece, both in its style and its content. The petition effectively captured the attention of the judges and no less effectively infuriated Ladányi (these two goals went hand in hand for a well-written legal petition at the time). Many of the most successful petitions were first-person narratives created on the popular notion that putting one’s life on display in all its details was automatic proof of virtue and honesty. One was not compelled to address the court, but this could be a very convincing tactic. So, Keresztessy composed a first-person account that studiously imitated the tone of a humiliated, tortured and guileless elderly woman: “A single day has not passed without me suffering from his [Ladányi] violent nature, either because I am chased or because I am tortured. At times, he forced me to take my clothes off and then he laid me down naked on the floor and, standing next to me, beat my naked body with a wooden stick until he finally got tired. I remained half-dead on the floor, he kicked me several times... A year before last Christmas he hurt me so badly with a ripping iron that I lost one of my eyes; other parts of my body have also been injured. Considering that it is impossible to share a house with such an inhuman husband, who has threatened to kill me one day, a year ago I had to flee, and I moved in under someone else’s roof to escape his fury.”53

The opening gambit of the petition was unquestionably dramatic and artistic, at least according to standards at the time. Lawyers attempted to sway the magistrates by appealing to their sense of compassion, indignation, and horror. They therefore composed sensationalistic narratives of the tragic turns of a simple life. These narratives demanded a unique vocabulary consisting of extravagantly excessive terms. Contemporary lawyers almost routinely adorned their briefs with hyperbolic language, and they presented the two parties to the case as moral polar opposites: complete innocence on the one hand, the embodiment of evil on the other.

Keresztessy’s rhetorical efforts harmozined with the everyday realities of early nineteenth-century Debrecen. The most common manifestation of family breakdown, at least according to the evidence presented to the court, was domestic violence. Offended wives and eyewitnesses gave testimony indicating cases of brutal physical torture. Usually violence was directed at women and can simply be described as wife beating. Although men did not have a monopoly on rage, examples of women using violence, even to defend themselves, were rare. While it is impossible to provide a catalogue of the various forms of violence used by men against their wives, the offenses included frequent punches and kicks, beatings with sticks, stones, and whips, and the use of knives or whatever else happened to come to hand, not to mention starvation, imprisonment, the binding of various body parts, and murder. This list, though surely not complete, gives an impression of the many ways in which husbands vented their fury. Legal testimony made frequent mention of women’s cries of pain and calls for help, which indicates that physical violence against wives was a common pattern of masculine behavior. Was this really true, or were the varieties of brutality fictive contrivances, little more than a rhetorical strategy used by shrewd attorneys who were seeking favorable rulings for their female clients? The truth is perhaps somewhere between the two extremes. Women may have exaggerated their complaints in their statements to the judges, but at the same time, divorce and criminal documents attest to widespread male violence against women and indicate that the charges that were levelled against husbands and fathers for unusual brutality could not possibly all have been inventions, and indeed may well have been mostly true.

Contemporaries considered wife beating a proper and accepted form of discipline and punishment for a woman’s misbehavior. Relatives and neighbors did not interfere in this kind of domestic strife unless the wife’s life was in danger. Erzsébet Somogyi complained that her husband struck her so brutally, and “without any true reason,” that she needed medical treatment for weeks.54

Keresztessy’s brief, although somewhat manipulative, was not exaggerated at all. The certificate of pastoral reconciliation, which had to be attached to the petition, confirmed the allegations of brutality. Ladányi acknowledged his wife’s accusations: “He confessed to me the cruel acts he had visited on his wife several times. He also declared that he did the right things to his wife when he beat her, so I do believe that there is no hope for improvement.”55

Erzsébet also accused her husband of adultery, saying that “my murderous husband met with bad women and squandered our money …”56 If the plaintiff had a good lawyer and was able to provide satisfactory evidence, these allegations were enough to persuade the court in Debrecen to grant a divorce. In the Ladányis’ case divorce was never granted. A few months after the beginning of the case, Ladányi made a last will and testament, and shortly after that he died.

Last Farewell as Punishment

The tanner’s last will and testament caused as much distress after his death as his presence had during his life. He decided to punish his unruly family members and left the house, which he had purchased together with his wife, to the city. “Forgetting about his fatherly duties,” Ladányi also excluded his daughter, Julianna, and his grandchildren from the inheritance.57 His daughter’s behavior had been a great disappointment to him, because, despite his wishes, she had left a suitable and auspicious marriage that he had arranged for her, and after her divorce she had married a second time, taking a lowly pastor as her husband, although her father harshly opposed the union.

Ladányi sent a letter to the council written in a humble tone in which he said that he wanted to make a last will and testament. He named the people he wished to be present for the act. Usually, the chief justice designated five or seven members of the council and neighbors or friends of the person making the will to execute the process. As always, the tanner’s case was exceptional. He had so many enemies in the city that he was cautious about including his friends as members of the testament committee. He knew very well that his wishes ran contrary to the law. In all probability, he must have realized that the members of his family were likely to challenge the testament after his death.

The process of drawing up his will was a magnum opus, a melodramatic performance. Ladányi moved those who were present to pity, but at the same time, he remained dignified. He made it clear that he was well aware of his extraordinary skills. He was sitting on his bed when the officials entered the room. He then stood up clumsily and crawled to his trunk. He opened it and produced the major piece of evidence of his family’s cruelty: “a torn and blood-spoiled shirt,” which he had been wearing when his granddaughter’s husband, Bálint Szetsey, had attacked him. In tears, he described to the officials his family’s rogueries and his loneliness, calling his wife and his daughter “disloyal, unjust, and his murderers.” Then he got to the point. He declared that he “had always lived in this city in peace and quietly.” He also reminded the committee the Magistrate had once rewarded him for his extraordinary talent. To ensure that he would be remembered as an upright citizen, he had chosen to leave his house, which was so dear to his heart, to the city. He gave the medal that he had received from the emperor to the Reformed Church under one specific condition: “the pastors should make a small golden plate of the medal with his name engraved on it....”

As of the first half of the nineteenth century, personal memory became a much more prominent concern among Debrecenians. Testators had a strategy for the afterlife: they made decisions regarding how to be sure their names would be remembered. Some of them established special scholarships in the city’s College, others made pious gifts to the Calvinist church. In Ladányi’s case, his self-fashioning included stressing his noble origins, to which the family documents attested. Finally, although “they do not deserve it,” he was “generous” with his family and forgave them for their hostile behavior. He gave the chattels to his wife and daughter, but “the people who took care of him should get a reasonable portion of that wealth.”58

A City against a Widow

A few days after making his last will and testament, Ladányi died.59 His testament was read aloud in the presence of his widow’s new attorney, Sándor Sinay, who “challenged the document as a whole and in all of its details.” Sinay argued that the house that Ladányi had left in his will to Debrecen was a common property with his wife, and when the couple had purchased it, they had used Erzsébet’s inheritance. The widow initiated a case to revoke the testament, while the representative of the city ordered it finalized.

A few months earlier Ladányi had tried a very unusual trick to cheat his heirs. He tried to exchange the house for one outside of the city. Alarmed by her husband’s plans, Erzsébet had immediately turned to the court and asked the judges to prevent the transaction.”60

It is hard to imagine that Ladányi, who was current in legal matters and knew how quickly gossip spread in the city, seriously believed that he would be able to pull off this transaction behind Erzsébet’s back.61 Most probably, he hoped that his wife, who was weak and was struggling with financial troubles, would be unable to exercise her legal rights. Even with a lawyer’s help, if the real estate were no longer in the city, it would have been much more difficult for her to stake her claim to it. The transaction was registered in the city’s real estate records, but since the court ruled in her favor, she could take some satisfaction in the fact that she had hindered her husband’s attempt to defraud her at the last moment.

Still, the old woman was in a weak position, because her husband’s last will and testament caused her a great deal of trouble. She had to fight against the city, against commissioners with whom, while her husband had been alive, she “had apparently experienced […] good will.” In the legal petition, her attorney, Sinay, marhsalled the whole arsenal of eloquent romantic rhetoric.62 He reminded the judges that they had previously expressed their compassion for the weak and defenseless woman when she had suffered from her husband’s “brutal cruelty.” He described Erzsébet’s torments in detail, the horrors of her decades-long marriage. He asked the judges not to withhold their compassion now in a time of need that matched her misery during the divorce case. He also reminded the jury that Ladányi had deliberately caused confusion with his last will and testament, which had created the conflict of interest between the city and Erzsébet. Based on the man’s history and the evidence against him, Sinay claimed that the will should simply be nullified and that the court should allow the homeless widow to move back into her house. Two days later, Erzsébet received permission to move back home.63 She had every reason to hope that neither she nor her family would ever be disturbed again by any questions concerning its ownership.

This, however, was not the case. Although the court was well aware of Ladányi’s malicious intentions, the widow’s interests conflicted with the interests of the city. In the end, Erzsébet was allowed to remain in the house for the rest of her life, but the city retained half of its ownership. This essentially meant that after her death the house had to be sold at public auction and the heirs were only entitled to half of the total price. Erzsébet had no other choice than to accept the ruling. Legal restrictions made it impossible to open the same case again, but even had they not, she herself had neither the money nor the energy to renew struggle against the city. She was old and weak and could hardly survive on the money she received from her tenants. She died in 1825 at the age of 75, in a “miserable state,”64 according to the register of deaths.

The Stalwart

After her father’s death, Julianna, who had also been widowed, decided to leave her own household and move in with her mother.65 Her children had already grown up, so this seemed like a rational choice, since it would have been financially wasteful to maintain two separate households for two single women.66 After her mother’s death, for five peaceful years nothing happened to the house. Finally, in 1830, the Magistrate decided to enforce the ruling. The sale of the house was announced by the beat of a drum, in the typical fashion, and the property was turned over to the buyer who offered the highest price. A local artisan purchased it for a reasonable price that exceeded the opening bid.67

Julianna brought a suit against the city immediately. She claimed that nine years earlier, in 1821, Ladányi had violently taken her money and invested a large amount into a precarious brandy business. Since the city now held her father’s estate, she contended that it was also responsible for his debts to her. She argued that the business in question caused her immense losses, and now she demanded compensation. She also demanded a huge amount as reconstruction expenses. Once she had moved in with her mother, she had initiated major reconstruction of the old building. Moreover, in an attempt to appeal to people’s sense of compassion, she requested funds to cover her mother’s funeral expenses.68

The next step in the legal procedure was to collect information from the witnesses named by Julianna. She listed people who stated that they knew about the brandy conflict and remembered the scandalous event very well. Julianna gathered enough evidence to prove that she finally had had to sell the brandy for only one-third of the original sum her father had stolen from her. Although Ladányi had promised in front of other people to compensate her, he had never lived up to his word.69

She went too far and her apparent greed made the jury irate. For five years after her mother’s death, she lived rent-free in a house that was owned by the city. The lawyer representing the city rejected Julianna’s request and indignantly lectured her on the “impudence” of her suggestions. Legally, the demands were unfounded because she had already received her maternal inheritance, half of the price of the house.

Again years passed. In 1835, as a final step, Julianna played her last card. She alarmed her adult son by explaining that the case did not seem very promising, and she asked him to address a letter to the jury. Her well-educated son used an age-old trick when he tried to play on the jury’s empathy. He described his mother’s lonely life in detail, the torments of an atrocious father, the sacrifices she had made for her mother, and in general he convincingly portrayed Julianna’s life as a permanent struggle for survival. He argued that she needed the money she was seeking from the city badly. Otherwise, the judges risked committing the cruel sin of sentencing a lonesome and deprived woman to starvation.70 The Ladányis’ legal skirmishes came to an end in 1836, more than twenty years after János Ladányi had first sought to exact his form of justice in the city court. In their final ruling, the judges rejected all of Julianna’s requests for money, stressing that the widow had been disrespectful of the jury’s generosity. She should have been satisfied with half of the price of her homestead. Any further demand was unrealistic and surely demonstrated her infinite greed.71 There is no evidence indicating that either Julianna or her children were involved in any further legal fights in Debrecen.

Conclusion

My interest in Ladányi’s case was piqued by a series of legal conflicts and cat-and-mouse games that he played with his family and the city authorities. I had been working with last wills and testaments from Debrecen, collecting statistical data from the documents in order to study the mental changes of the Calvinist burghers. In the meantime, however, I began to understand the limitations of the quantitative approach. János Ladányi appeared in my database as an old, married male who had one daughter, who was a Calvinist by religion, a tanner by profession, and a nobleman, and whose most important decision was to will his house to the Magistrate. Shortly after reading about the circumstances of his decision, I realized that by forcing his life into a column of figures I lost useful information about his motives and I misinterpreted his acts. After all, he was not a generous donator, but a vengeful Debrecenian tanner who wanted to vex his wife and daughter, and he was fairly successful in doing so.

In fact, preparing a last will and testament was not a particularly widespread practice among Debrecenians. Although this was one of the most important privileges of the city, granted to Debrecen as early as the fifteenth century, until the mid-1700s it remained rather sporadic. Even in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries it was not common. No more than 5 percent of the adult population prepared written wills.72 Although it was not obligatory to provide a reason for making a will, most people explicitly named their reasons for doing so. The overwhelming majority of Debrecenian testators were obsessed with potential conflicts among their successors, and included clauses and conditions in their wills to avoid fights over their wealth. Many will-makers stated that they actually decided to leave behind a written testament because they thought that the family members and relatives would not be able to agree about how to divide up their belongings. Most burghers only referred to these possible “battles” in general, but some explained their family circumstances in detail and named the potential enemies. Mihály Csonka, a farmer, declared in his last will and testament that he had had two wives, that he had living children from both, and that he wished “to avoid competition and litigation” among them.73 Csonka tried to explain his circumstances as clearly as possible, and he described in detail what he had accumulated with his first and second wives, how they had raised the children, how much they had spent on them and what they had already received in their adult years. These explanations served as justifications for his decisions. Meticulous testators enlisted not only the members of their nuclear families, but also their cousins, uncles, aunts, brothers-in-law, and sisters-in-law, not to mention other legatees, such as friends, servants, journeymen, neighbors, mentors, doctors and lawyers. The most common reason for making a will was to prevent “disturbances,” and other factors (such as war, epidemics, illness, old age or enlistment) were mentioned much less frequently. What should one think of this rhetoric, that placed such emphasis on order and peace?

It should not be taken for granted. Reading the testaments more closely, one has the impression that conflict-management rhetoric was only a “facade” and actually concealed the real motivation of will-making: in many cases the testament served to reward and to punish surviving family members, relatives and other relations.74 Most testators made decisions that were favorable to one or more heirs, while leaving significantly less to others or even completely excluding them from the inheritance. These acts did not prevent conflicts, they generated them. We can identify various grounds for privileging or punishing heirs that were a mix of emotional causes and rational considerations.

Those children—both sons and daughters—who “showed cold behavior” and neglected their parents were more likely to receive less of the inheritance. Parents often accused their adult children of “never showing up on the doorstep anymore,” although they provided them with financial means for their professions and weddings.75 The archival sources suggest that emotional alienation had the biggest role in the decisions, but other factors could also play an important part. Testators kept personal offences in evidence and often mentioned them in wills, which were tools with which they could inflict punishment for what they saw as improper behavior. István Dobszai complained that his elder sons did not respect him and that once one of them had even struck his beard.76 As a consequence, the aggressive child was excluded from the inheritance. In addition to physical violence, other forms of abuse were mentioned in the complaints, including verbal abuse and theft. István Horváth had two adult daughters. The younger, Erzsébet, “once called him a bad father and old man in front of the maid.”77 Her punishment was severe: she did not get a penny of her father’s possessions. An old widow, Anna Oláh, left her soldier son nothing because “when he enlisted in the army, he stole 70 Forints from her.”78

Parents rewarded children who had learned trades, built careers, and accumulated wealth. They scathingly commented on half-wit, alcoholic, vagrant, and prodigal offspring, who received less than their siblings because of their misbehavior. In most cases, testators did not consider the causes of successes and failures, but simply punished “losers” by leaving them trifling amounts or excluding them entirely from the family wealth.79 Deviant children were regarded as unworthy of “parental benevolence,” both because they were unable to attain much in life and because they were a source of shame for their families. Idiots got less or nothing, and they were often left in the care of their healthy family members. Sons were punished for frequenting pubs and daughters for immoral sexual behavior. János Csarnai, a potter, endlessly grumbled about his children. His sons were journeymen, but he could not expect much of them (so he lamented), because they spent more time in inns than in the workshop. His daughter, Erzsébet, stole from him several times and, even worse, wasted her life in taverns, engaging in “sinful conversation with strangers, causing her father much bitterness and pain.”80

Of all the possible sins a child could commit against his or her parents, entering a match that did not have the approval of the parents was the worst. Péter Mélius, the city’s most influential pastor in the sixteenth century, defined marriage as the following: “Marriage is a contract that is dependent on the free and legal consent of the uniting parties and their parents.”81 By the nineteenth century, parents had somewhat less influence on their children’s decisions to marry, their approval remained an important consideration. An advantageous match could secure the family more wealth and stability, and children who resisted their parents’ instructions could suffer exclusion. John Gillis has argued that early modern parents regarded the marriage of one of their children as a capital investment; 82 in nineteenth-century Debrecen this perception was still dominant. Although in the early 1800s Sámuel Diószegi, the protestant pastor and professor of the city’s College, preached that parental coercion was the worst possible foundation of a marriage, in everyday practice fathers and mothers continued to meddle in their children’s affairs, and they used the testaments as a means of enforcing their will.83 János Kováts’s widow openly blackmailed her son: “if he does not marry that girl from Somogy with whom he had a secret relationship against his mother’s and relatives’ will, he will receive 40 Forints as a reward; if, however, he marries her, he gets nothing for his wedding.”84

Testators also mentioned their spouses in their wills. Although wives and husbands received less attention than sons and daughters, the distribution of an inheritance could serve as the pronouncement of final judgment on the spouses’ behavior. Debrecenians made a very clear distinction between good and bad marriages; from the testaments we can more or less reconstruct the criteria of both. In a good marriage the spouses lived together peacefully and diligently accumulated wealth. In this case, the surviving mate could at least expect access to common properties for a lifetime; if there were no children, he or she could count on full property rights. When the union was less successful, the will was often written in a bitter tone and dwelt on the everyday details of the bad marriage, resembling more at times a petition for divorce than a last will and testament. An artisan, György Horváth, took five wives in the course of his long life. When making his last will and testament he had an opportunity to compare them to one another. While his second mate was “hard-working and modest,” his last spouse was a rover who neglected him in his final days: “she does nothing but take her baby in her arms, and she stays out of the house with him all day.”85 She was excluded from any inheritance by her husband for her misbehavior. Many people punished their spouses in their testaments. The causes varied, but drinking, laziness, prodigality and infidelity were the most common.

One might be tempted to ask at this point whether Ladányi’s will was, after all, really so extraordinary. The fact that so many people used their last will and testament to exact vengeance or bestow rewards suggests that his ploy was not exceptional. He adered to an old and widespread tradition by punishing the members of his family, especially his daughter, Julianna, who married against his will, and his wife Erzsébet, who may well have been acting on her daughter’s advice when she initiated divorce proceedings against him. The testament is a formal legal action, but also a social practice which serves to address private conflicts.

The tanner consciously induced and cannily seized on the conflict of interest between the city and his family, maximizing the avenues of revenge. His story also allows us to pose questions about the authority and role of a last will and testament, and it offers insights into a historical phenomenon usually overlooked by social historians who tend to end their analysis where, one might suggest, they should begin. They interpret testaments as documents that settle earthly matters, taking for granted the idea that the words of the testament, cloaked in legal authority, are a terminal point, and not the beginning of new conflicts between the surviving heirs.86 Their focus on the last will and testament as a reflection of social reality blinds these historians to the underlying tensions, motivations, and goals of the testator and ultimately to the aftermath of human conflict. Closer study of inheritance legal cases offers new perspectives on people’s everyday lives and daily squabbles. These questions remind us that the dead have an afterlife in human affairs and that death does not remove people from the stage of history. We can explore a lively human space filled with tensions and hostility on behalf of the successors.

The analysis of the tanner’s will and the subsequent legal battles is an account of an exceptional person’s life and his influence on those who were unfortunate enough to be members of his family. The story extends beyond the borders of Ladányi’s personal narrative and opens avenues of further investigation into the social structures, legal practices, marriage and divorce, cultural values, conflict and solidarity among the burghers of Debrecen. This case study allows us to pose questions about how Debrecenian burghers tried to fashion their lives in unexpected and extraordinary ways and how they used legal means to do this.

 

Archival Sources

Tiszántúli Református Egyházkerületi és Kollégiumi Levéltár [Archives of Tiszántúl Reformed Church District and College]:

Tt.REL. I. 99. a. Keresztelési és házassági anyakönyvek 1703–1948. [Registers of Baptism and Marriage 1703–1948].

Hajdú-Bihar Megyei Levéltár [Archives of Hajdú-Bihar County]:

IV.A. 1011.b. Register of Civic Legal Actions.

IV.A. 1011.v. Czegléd utcai vagyonösszeírások 1811–1838 [Wealth Register of Czegléd Street 1811–1838].

IV.A. 1011.y. Örökbevallási jegyzőkönyvek 1636–1848 [Records of Civic Properties 1636–1848].

IV.A. 1011.z. Végrendeletek 1518–1848 [Testaments 1518–1848].

IV.A.1018. Debrecen szabad királyi város törvényszéki iratai 1604–1848 [Court Records of the Free Royal City of Debrecen 1604–1848].

IV.A.1018.b. Polgári és büntető törvénykezési jegyzőkönyvek 1726–1848 [Registers of Civic and Criminal Court Records 1726–1848].

IV.A.1018.c. Polgári peres iratok, 1760–1850 [Civic Court Records, 1760–1850].

IX. 35. Debreceni tímár céh iratai 1599–1825 [Records of the Tanner Guild of Debrecen 1599–1825].

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár [National Archives of Hungary]

C-53. Departamento publicum-politicom. Relationes by count Sámuel Teleki.

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1 For more on the debate: John Comaroff and Simon Roberts, Rules and Processes. The Cultural Logic of Dispute in the African Context (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1981), 5–17; Simon Roberts, Order and Dispute. An Introduction to Legal Anthropology (New York: Penguin Books, 1979), 11–29; Simona Cerutti, “Normes et pratiques, ou de la légitimité de leur opposition,” in Les formes de l’experience. Une autre histoire sociale, ed. Albin Michel (Paris: Éditions Albin Michel, 1995), 127–49.

2 Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms. The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980).

3 Natalie Zemon Davis, The Return of Martin Guerre (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983).

4 Judith Brown, Immodest Acts: the Life of a Lesbian Nun in Renaissance Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985).

5 Thomas Kuehn, Law, Family and Women: Toward a Legal Anthropology of Renaissance Italy (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1991).

6 Ibid., 11.

7 Cerutti, Normes.

8 Laura Gowing, Domestic Dangers: Women, Words, and Sex in Early Modern London (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996).

9 Kuehn, Law, 97.

10 Tiszántúli Református Egyházkerületi és Kollégiumi Levéltár (hereafter Tt.REL) Registers of Baptism and Marriage. I. 99-a 6 VI. 1772–1778, 30. “János Ladányi from Péterfia Street married Pál Diószegi’s daughter from Csapó Street on April 27, 1774.”

11 János Ladányi was born on Csapó Street on June 23, 1748. His father was János Ladányi the elder, his mother was Sára Hadházi. Tt.REL. Registers of Baptism. I. 99-a vol. n. 35, 1742–1757, 283. Erzsébet Diószegi was born on the same street on November 24, 1749. Her parents were Pál Diószegi and Erzsébet Szappanos. Ibid. 372.

12 Rácz István, Városlakó nemesek az Alföldön 1541–1848 (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1988), 83.

13 Rácz István, “A cívis fogalma” in A Déri Múzeum Évkönyve (Debrecen: Déri Múzeum, 1986), 77–111, 104. and also see Herpay Gábor, Nemes családok Debrecenben (Debrecen: published by the author, 1925).

14 Anna Rácz’s last will and testament, August 6, 1746. Hajdú-Bihar Megyei Levéltár (hereafter HBmL) IV.A. 1011/z. 206. Anna Rácz was first married to János Ladányi’s the elder’s father, István Ladányi, a native of Debrecen. Her second husband was a well-to-do nobleman in the neighboring Közép-Szolnok county.

15 See: Younger Mihály Jándi’s last will and testament, February 17, 1837. 1944. Mihály Jándi the younger married the unmarried daughter of Mihály Szabó from Sámson, June 25, 1832. Records of Marriage. Tt.REL. I. 99-a Book 140, 491.

16 Registers of the tanners guild of Debrecen. HBmL IX. 35/9, 234.

17 See the article on the history of the Diószegi family: S. Szabó József, “Diószeghy Sámuel”. Debreceni Képes Kalendárium (1908): 226–34. The Diószegi family was registered as noble in the eighteenth century. See: Herpay, Nemes.

18 S. Szabó, Diószeghy, 228.

19 Szűcs István, Szabad királyi Debreczen város történelme három kötetben ábrákkal. A legrégibb kortól a mai időkig, vol 1(Debreczen: Városi Nyomda, 1871).

20 He was called the praeceptor of Kis-Csapó street. Tt.REL. Registers of Baptism I. 99-a3 vol. 5, 1742–57, 283. I found further information on his profession; István Vecsei mentioned in his last will and testament that his northern neighbor was his daughter’s teacher, Pál Diószegi. István Vecsei’s last will and testament, April 17, 1769. 441.

21 Rácz, Városlakó, 126–37.

22 On conditions of teaching in eighteenth-century Debrecen, see: Mervó Zoltánné, “A leányok iskolai oktatása Debrecenben a polgári forradalom előtt,” A Hajdú-Bihar Megyei Levéltár Évkönyve, vol 1. (1974): 27–58, 35.

23 Mervó, “A leányok”.

24 Diószegi Sámuel, Erköltsi tanítások prédikációkban (Debrecen: n.p., 1808).

25 Mátay Mónika, Törvényszéki játszmák: válás Debrecenben 1793–1848 (Debrecen: Csokonai Kiadó, 2006). 161–73.

26 For Protestants, marriage was a means of maintaining social order, morals, and control over people’s sex lives. The institution was intended to protect the faithful from earthly seductions. As opposed to the Catholics, Protestants did not consider celibacy superior to marriage. They believed that single life was contradictory to human nature and God’s will. See: Roderick Phillips, Untying the Knot. A Short History of Divorce (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 1–27.

27 Divorce case of Erzsébet Böszörményi and János Szilágyi HBmL IV.A. 1018/c. n. 46. Supplement A.

28 Analysis of the Debrecenian divorce and inheritance cases demonstrates that money could play an important role in marriages. See for example: Mónika Mátay, “The Adulterous Wife and the Rebellious Husband: a Marital Dispute in a Calvinist City,” Social History 34 (2009): 145–62.

29 Rácz, Városlakó, 152.

30 The Ladányi couple bought the house for 1,225 Forints, which was the average prize for a middle category house in Debrecen in the late eighteenth century. Records of civic properties 1636–1848. HBmL IV.A. 1011/y/vol. 5.

31 Rácz, Városlakó, 32.

32 His name was mentioned in the register of the guild several times between 1776 and 1785. Registers of the tanner guild of Debrecen, HBmL IX. 35/9.

33 Relationes by count Sámuel Teleki. MOL, C-53:1786/205.pos.1.p.1-58.(=fol.5-34.)

34 Witness record. HBmL IV.A.1018/a, August 30, 1823, 388.

35 Gábor Tsenger, an apprentice’s confession. Divorce case of Gergely Barta and Mária Zefer. HBmL IV.A. 1018/c/1822, n. 48.

36 János Kapros’s last will and testament, April 23, 1763. 300.

37 The letter was attached to Ladányi’s last will and testament. The document is a unique mixture of informal last will and testament and private contract.

38 Ibid.

39 János Ladányi’s last will and testament, August 14, 1822. 1605.

40 Mária Ferge’s last will and testament, October 25, 1806, 1152.

41 See Mátay Törvényszéki, 161–73.

42 L. Abrams, “Crime against Marriage? Wife-beating, the Law and Divorce in Nineteenth-century Hamburg,” in Gender and Crime in Modern Europe, ed. Margaret L. Arnot and Cornelie Usborne (London: UCL Press, 1999), 118–36.

43 On the law see: Roderick Phillips, Family Breakdown in Late Eighteenth-Century France. Divorces in Rouen 1792–1803 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980), 12–14.

44 Lawrence Stone, Road to Divorce. England 1530–1987 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 368–82.

45 Divorce case of István Steiner and Zsuzsanna Bőhm, September 12, 1816. HBmL IV.A. 1018/c 40/22, 61.

46 Records of the tanner guild of Debrecen 1599–1825. Classificatio. September 17, 1792. HBmL. IX. 35/1.

47 A contemporary journalist reflected on the double activities of artisans: “All residents, with the exception of farmers, have two occupations; the tanner, the cobbler, the salesman, the pastor, the attorney, and the teacher at the same time cultivate their land, sometimes so intensely that their original profession is often secondary.” Helmeczy Mihály, ed., “Debreczen állapotjának rövid rajza,” Társalkodó I. (1837) 35–36.

48 On the basis of wealth registers we can trace most of Ladányi’s activities between 1811 and his death in 1822. In this period, he owned the same house at Czegléd Street, he did not work as a tanner, he did not buy land, and he had a tenant only once. Wealth Register of Czegléd Street (1811–1838) HBmL. A. 1011/v, vol. 6.

49 Civic court records, 1760–1850. HBmL IV.A. 1018/c/1815, May 8 and 16, vol. 21, 231–34, 261–62.

50 Ibid.

51 Civic court records, 1760–1850. HBmL IV.A. 1018/c/1816, July 22, vol. 23, 288–89.

52 See more about the conflicts between the city and the nobility: Rácz, Városlakó, 152–82.

53 Register of civic legal actions. HBmL IV.A. 1011/b, 21, 1821, 281–82.

54 Divorce case of Erzsébet Somogyi and István Czezcei. April 29, 1816. HBmL IV.A. 1018/c/40.

55 Ibid. attachment n. 3.

56 HBmL IV.A. 1018/b/1822, May 21, 282.

57 Civic court records, 1760–1850. HBmL IV.A. 1018/c/1830, February 18, attachment “A.”

58 According to Ladányi’s last will and testament, the chattels consisted of the furniture of the house, the goods in his case, his bed-clothes, dishes, a wall-clock, a pocket watch, and a silver spoon.

59 He died in his house at Czegléd Street on August 17, 1822, three days after making his last will and testament. Usually, the cause of the death was given in the Register of deaths. In his case there was no comment about why or how he died. Considering the fact that when he made his will he did not seem very ill and could still move around in the house, he may not have died a natural death. However, there is no surviving archival evidence of murder or any other malicious acts against him. Tt.REL. 99-a 88, 223.

60 HBmL IV.A. 1018/c/1821, November 22, 581–82.

61 In fact, according to the documents, Ladányi had exchanged the house for “some real estate in a village,” but the court invalidated the contract.

62 Ibid. September 19, 1822, 337–38.

63 Ibid. September 21, 1822, 348. Erzsébet provided a copy of the city’s real estate register that proved that the house was common property with Ladányi. She could also prove along with her two brothers that she inherited money and a vineyard from her mother, Pálné Diószegi. HBmL IV.A. 1018/c/ 1823, 388–89.

64 She died as János Ladányi’s widow at the age of 75 in her house at Czegléd Street on March 19, 1825. Tt.REL. 00-a 88, 327.

65 This information is in a letter written by János Kálmán, who was born from Julianna’s second marriage. He wrote a letter to the city council on March 16, 1830 in which he described his mother’s reasons for returning to her parents’ house. HBmL IV.A. 1018/c, vol. 56, n. 5, August 26, 1830, attachment “t.”

66 Detailed list of the instructions given to the artisans, ibid.

67 On February 22, 1830, Sándor Németh bought the house for 3,056 Forints, while the sale price was 3,000. Ibid., attachment “D.”

68 Sándor Borsai’s confession, Ibid., attachment n. 1.

69 She refers to confessions in which Ladányi had made such a promise to his daughter.

70 János Kálmán’s letter to the Council of Debrecen. HBmL IV.A. 1018/c, vol. 59, n. 7, August 12, 1835, attachment “z.”

71 HBmL IV.A. 1018/c. vol. 60, February 22, 1836, 123–24.

72 Tárkány Szücs Ernő, Magyar jogi népszokások (Budapest: Akadémiai, 1981), 727.

73 Mihály Csonka’s last will and testament, September 6, 1799, 1035.

74 The statements I make in the following paragraphs are based on an examination of 1,000 last wills and testaments drawn up between 1700 and 1875. They include about one-third of the last wills and testaments made by Debrecenian burghers in this period.

75 István Munkácsi used this reasoning in his testament. He stated that although he had five children, four of them refused to take care of him and they did not even knock on his door. “Although all of them were his own children, some behaved as if they were stepchildren, never helped him with anything, except his daughter, Mária, János Kováts’s wife, who had been taking care of him for 17 years, and she treated him properly ... lifted and washed his body, gave him food, while the others did not show up and did not even give him a glass of water.” István Munkácsi’s last will and testament, September 20, 1792, 895.

76 István Dobszai’s last will and testament, February 8, 1738, 133.

77 István Horváth’s last will and testament, July 20, 1744, 226.

78 Anna Oláh’s last will and testament, August 8, 1736, 122.

79 Weak or sick, disabled children could not count on an inheritance from their parents. Their share was mostly left under the supervision of a sibling or relative.

80 János Csarnai’s last will and testament, March 6, 1794, 920.

81 Cited in Bucsay Mihály, ”Méliusz theológiája kátéja tükrében,” in Bucsay Mihály–Czeglédy Sándor–Esze Tamás et al., A második helvét hitvallás Magyarországon és Méliusz életműve (Budapest: A Magyarországi Református Egyház Zsinati Irodajának Sajtóosztálya, 1967), 305.

82 John R. Gillis, For Better, For Worse. British Marriages, 1600 to the Present (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), 86.

83 Diószegi, Erköltsi.

84 Last will and testament of János Kováts’s widow, July 26, 1783. HBmL IV.A. 1011/z, 724. Somogy is a county in southwestern Hungary.

85 György Horváth’s last will and testament, November 17, 1808, 1274.

86 See for example: Jacques Chiffoleau, La compatibilité de l’au-delà: Les hommes, la mort, et la religion dans la région d’Avignon à la fin du moyen âge, vers 1320-vers 1480. In Collection de l’Ecole français de Rome, vol. 47 (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1980); Samuel Kline Cohn, Death and Property in Siena, 1205–1800. Strategies for the Afterlife (Baltimore–London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1988); Samuel Kline Cohn, The Cult of Remembrance and the Black Death. Six Renaissance Cities in Central Italy (Baltimore–London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992); Steven Epstein, Wills and Wealth in Medieval Genoa, 1150–1250 (Cambridge, MA–London: Harvard University Press, 1984); Hoffman, Philip T., “Wills and Statistics: Tobit Analysis and the Counter Reformation in Lyon,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 17 (1984): 813–34; Michel Vovelle, Piété baroque et déchristianisation en Provence au XVIIIe siècle. Les attitudes devant la mort d’après les clauses des testaments (Paris: Pion, 1973).