The Integration of Bohemian and Hungarian Aristocrats into the Spanish Habsburg System via Diplomatic Encounters, Cultural Exchange, and News Management (1608–1655)

Tibor Monostori
“Momentum” Holy Crown Research Team, Research Centre for the Humanities
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 2  (2023):3–36 DOI 10.38145/2023.2.171

The composite state of the Spanish Habsburgs had a fading military, financial and diplomatic predominance in Central Europe in the first half of the seventeenth century. The Bohemian and Hungarian aristocracy was, to varying extents, integrated into the Spanish Habsburg system. This article presents three forms of integration and diplomatic relationship. First, it examines diplomatic and political encounters in the main governmental bodies and diets advising the emperor in decision-making, or more specifically, in the Imperial Privy Council in Vienna and during the diets of the kingdom of Hungary. Spanish Habsburg politicians and diplomats acted in many powerful ways to establish connections with Bohemian and Hungarian aristocrats so that they follow and adjust to their political agenda. Bohemian families (Slavata, Martiniz) had close relations and alliances with Spanish councilors in Vienna (who acted as ambassadors of the Spanish king), and several Hungarian aristocrats had interactions with them during the diets in order to secure the long-term interests of the dynasty in the Kingdom of Hungary. Second, the exchange, purchase, and influence of cultural goods and objects (e.g., books and gifts) and the ways in which these cultural goods were put to use, as well as the migration of people, show that the relationship went well beyond power politics and formal diplomatic relations. Personal and cultural influence and even early signs of acculturation can be clearly detected in several Bohemian and Hungarian families (e.g., the Forgách, Pázmány, and Zrínyi families), who ordered and read hundreds of books from Spanish Habsburg authors (including several books from Spanish Habsburg diplomats) and cities and exchanged diplomatic gifts with their Spanish counterparts. People, including influential figures (soldiers and nobles), also moved among Habsburg political centers, prompted by diplomatic or family relations between Spanish Habsburg politicians and Bohemian or Hungarian families. Third, information gathered in Vienna radiated to all Spanish Habsburg states in different layers of granularity, density, and confidentiality. Top Spanish diplomats could access and transmit classified documents and the texts of international contracts obtained from Central European aristocrats and events. They also sent thousands of reports to their superiors about general news in Bohemia and Hungary. At the same time, lower-ranking nobles often struggled to keep up with and understand international events and trends and failed to get information about the key results of wars and imperial diets, since they lacked access to the network and the seniority to exert adequate influence.

Keywords: Spanish Monarchy, early modern diplomacy, Habsburg Studies, Central European aristocracy, early modern Hungary, early modern Bohemia

Introduction

Scholars have made efforts to define the nature of the Spanish Habsburg Empire (as that of any other global empire) and its importance in Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Is it best understood, they have asked, as a form of imperialism, a network, or a system?1 The smaller, Central European branch of the dynasty has been treated as something resembling a satellite of Madrid or a little brother.2 The intensity of relations between the center and this periphery gradually grew (though in a very uneven fashion and with setbacks) throughout the sixteenth century, reaching its peak during the Thirty Years’ War, after which it gradually faded. There is growing evidence in recent Hungarian secondary literature that the kingdom of Hungary became a substantial element of the Spanish Habsburg system to a different extent in some areas: either in diplomacy, world trade, warfare, or European power politics in general or in more than one of these.3

Much has been written about the interactions between the two main branches of the Habsburg dynasty (the Spanish Monarchy and the Central European Habsburg Monarchy) in general and in the first half of the seventeenth century in particular.4 Relations between Madrid and the Kingdom of Bohemia and Hungary, respectively, have also been the subject of inquiry,5 including, specifically, case studies on diplomatic relations.6 However, historians have not yet compared the impact of the global empire on the two states. What were the main differences and similarities? This is important, since if we look at hard metrics and the quantity and quality of relations and interactions, we can draw meaningful conclusions concerning cultural and diplomatic history. More precisely, historical patterns and human and social strategies can be detected and analyzed, as can the role and significance that the Bohemian and Hungarian aristocracy played in the Spanish Habsburg courts in Europe.

In the discussion below, I present three points. I offer a detailed comparison (the first to my knowledge in the secondary literature) of the two kingdoms when it comes to their general and diplomatic relations with the Spanish Monarchy, both in a quantitative and a qualitative fashion. I then examine the unique and different ways in which Bohemian and Hungarian aristocrats were integrated into the Spanish Habsburg system in diplomacy. Finally, I identify similar or identical patterns in the behaviors of the ruling elites of both lands. I put particular focus on diplomatic encounters, cultural exchange, and news management. I offer several cases in the course of this investigative journey based on archival sources or printed material, devoting somewhat more attention to cases from Hungary.

I selected the chronological scope of the essay for several reasons. In 1608, Guillén de San Clemente, who had served as the Spanish ambassador at the imperial court since 1581, died, and his successors witnessed a gradually growing, then fading intensity in the intra-dynastic relations after a relatively less eventful stage during the reign of Emperor Rudolf II (1576–1612). The most important and influential ambassadors were Baltasar de Zúñiga y Fonseca (1608–17), Iñigo Vélez de Guevara, Count of Oñate (1617–24), Francisco de Moncada, Count of Osoña, Marquess of Aytona (1624–29), Sancho de Monroy y Zúniga, Marquess of Castañeda (1633–40), and Francisco de Moura Corterreal, Marquess of Castel Rodrigo and Count of Lumiares (1648–1656). At the same time, news about the conflicts and compromise between the Habsburg dynasty and the Hungarian estates started to spread across the lands of the Spanish Monarchy.

On the other hand, 1655 was the last year in which Spanish Habsburg diplomacy made an effort to have a real, tangible, and decisive influence on a kingdom-wide political and diplomatic event: the election and coronation of the new king of Hungary, Leopold I (1657–1705), and the new palatine of Hungary, Ferenc Wesselényi (1605–67), during the Hungarian diet organized in Pozsony/Pressburg/Bratislava.

The Case of Bohemia: Integration and the Early Stages of Acculturation

The multidimensional relationship of the Bohemian and Hungarian aristocracy and nobility with the Spanish Monarchy was defined first and foremost by their geopolitical situation and their material and human resources.

Bohemia was in a unique position. Its kings were prince-electors of the Holy Roman Empire. Their votes were essential to elect the King of the Romans, who became de facto Holy Roman Emperor. For the rulers of the Spanish Monarchy after the reign of Charles V (1519–56), keeping that title in the hands of the Central European branch was of the utmost importance. At the same time, the capital of the Bohemian lands hosted the imperial court between 1578 and 1618, before its move to Vienna. These facts had several consequences.

First, Bohemian magnates were eligible for the most prestigious imperial councilor roles on the Imperial Privy Council or the War Council. In those political positions, they interacted with Spanish Habsburg envoys in a business-as-usual fashion. Vilém Slavata of Chlum and Georg Adam Martinitz, for instance, were among the privy councilors (in 1637–52 and 1638–51, respectively),7 and Václav Eusebius František, prince of Lobkowicz, held the presidency of the Imperial War Council (1652–65). They established intense relations with the representatives of the Spanish Embassy in Vienna when it came to joint decision-making between the two Habsburg branches. In addition, the Spanish ambassadors were councilors of state themselves, too, in Spain, and they were regularly invited to the sessions of the Imperial Privy Council. The Bohemian magnates attended most sessions during their membership. In contrast, no Hungarian aristocrat was granted such a significant role until 1646, when Pál Pálffy (1592–1653), future palatine of Hungary (1649–53), became privy councilor. That said, neither he nor his Hungarian successors enjoyed actual and regular influence on this political body advising the emperor in imperial decision-making since they lived far from the imperial court.

Second, the presence of people of Spanish origin and, in general, the Spanish cultural milieu were much more tangible and quantifiable in Bohemia than in Hungary. When the Spanish Monarchy intervened in the Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648) and the anti-Habsburg alliance of Protestant princes (which included Bohemian magnates) was defeated in 1620 (the Battle of White Mountain), many of their confiscated lands in Bohemia were given de iure to nobles and military commanders from Spain or from the Spanish Netherlands. Baltasar de Marradas y Vic, for instance, received Hluboká and Vltavou. Charles Bonaventure de Longueval, Count of Buquoy, was given the lands of Nové Hrady, Rožmberk, and Vltavou. Martin de Höef Huerta was granted Velhartice. Guillermo Verdugo received Doupov. Nothing comparable happened in Hungary in these decades.8

Marriages also made the bonds between the Spanish and the Bohemian nobility closer. Members of the Pernstein, Dietrichstein, and Popel de Lobkowicz families married Spanish damas, and their descendants maintained strong relations with Spanish diplomats. In 1603, the High Chancellor of Bohemia, Zdenko Adalbert Popel de Lobkowitz (1568–1628),9 married Polisena, the daughter of Vratislav Pernstein (1530–82, High Chancellor of Bohemia from 1567 until his death) and María Manrique de Lara (1538–1608), a Spanish noblewoman. Zdenko Adalbert had a close friendship with Ambassador Zúñiga. His palace and that of the Pernstein family were social and political centers of the Spanish imperial party or faction10 in Bohemia, lasting well into the 1620s. Spanish ambassadors sometimes visited Hungarian aristocrats in Hungary. The marquess of Castañeda traveled to visit Palatine Miklós Esterházy (1583–1645) in person, for instance, in the 1630s. But these kinds of excursions were rare and individual cases.

Third, the methods with which information was gathered and shared between Bohemian aristocrats and Spanish diplomatic envoys were also more direct and thorough, with many connections to the Spanish Habsburg information centers worldwide. After Cardinal Francis of Dietrichstein (1570–1636), who was born in Madrid and served as imperial privy councilor, returned to Moravia in the Bohemian lands, he maintained his wide network with Spain and the Spanish Netherlands through agents across Europe.11 Other Bohemian-Spanish nobles held correspondence with members of the Spanish Habsburg courts. No similar case is known for Hungary, except for Martin Somogyi, whose role I discuss later.

Fourth, Bohemian aristocrats, with the indispensable support of Spanish envoys, applied for and were granted the honor of becoming members of the Spanish military and religious orders. Several members of the Kolowrat, Beřkovský de Šebířov, Pruskovský de Pruskov, and Popel de Lobkowitz families received the order of Santiago, including the aforementioned Georg Adam Martinitz and Joachim Slavata, the son of Vilém Slavata of Chlum. Ulrich Franz Libsteinský de Kolowrat received the order of Calatrava.12 No Hungarian nobleman received this honor.

Fifth and last, many aristocrats and their family members were “hispaniolized.” They learned and used the Spanish language,13 and they deliberately dressed in Spanish clothing.14 Also, many books were printed in Spanish in Bohemian cities.15 Bohemian noblewomen entered the households of the queen consorts of Spanish origin at the imperial court.16 In Hungary, these ties were much less present, if at all. With very few exceptions (like that of Cardinal Péter Pázmány, archbishop of Esztergom17) the aristocrats did not speak, write, read, or understand Spanish.

In summary, the Bohemian aristocracy was tightly integrated into the Spanish Habsburg political and sociocultural system. Several family members born in Bohemia were partially assimilated. This was a significant change compared to the reign of Ferdinand I (1526–1664) when one in 14 members of the court came from the Spanish Habsburg lands.18 That is, imperial courtiers of Spanish Habsburg origins disappeared (except, of course, for the court of the Habsburg Empresses born in Spain). Instead, some members of the Central European aristocracy represented the interests of the Catholic King.

The Case of Hungary 1: Ottoman Wars and International Trade

In recent decades, historians have tended to take for granted that, compared to the Bohemian (and Polish) aristocracy, Hungary’s relations with the Spanish monarchy were more sporadic and accidental.19 In reality, these relations were also strong and pointed to equally important and substantial connections and structures, even if they were expressed more indirectly, many times via the imperial court or in other fields of diplomatic activities.

The Kingdom of Hungary held a unique position from the perspective of Madrid. As an antemurale Christianitatis, it constituted a bastion against the Ottoman Empire. It possessed large Protestant lands and estates, which, together with the power politics of the Principality of Transylvania, led to delicate political negotiations between the dynasty and the Hungarian aristocracy throughout the seventeenth century. In addition, Hungary had plenty of material and human resources, including copper, slaves, horses, cattle, and light cavalry units (hussars). These facts also had several consequences.

First, Madrid needed to take the Hungarian front against the Ottomans into consideration when the court designed the yearly military strategy in the Netherlands or against the Ottoman Empire in the Mediterranean. If needed, they sent soldiers (thousands from the Spanish Netherlands during the Long Turkish War between 1591 and 1606).20 Dozens of military engineers (many of them chief engineers) came from Spanish Italy (Milan and Naples) to be employed by the Habsburg Monarchy to strengthen the defense system. As stated constantly in the diplomatic reports in the Austrian State Archives and in the Simancas General Archives in Spain, the political situation in the east was a recurring subject. In 1639, the Marquess of Castañeda sent his language secretary, Marcos Putz, to meet with Miklós Esterházy and get the latest updates on the Ottoman Empire and Transylvania. The palatine granted him a long audience.21

Second, Spain strategically needed material and human resources. The Spanish diplomatic corps was actively involved in speeding up and facilitating international and intra-dynastic trade. More than once, the ambassador Count of Oñate intervened in the exportation of Hungarian copper, a strategic resource for the military organization of the Spanish Monarchy. Copper was a vital material in the foundries of the Spanish Monarchy for the production of bronze cannons for the navy.22 It is clear from the data from multiple European archives that at least 30 percent of copper exports from Hungary went to the Spanish Monarchy in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In 1622, the Count of Oñate described in detail the possible commercial routes, the status of the negotiations between the imperial court and the German merchants, and the payment alternatives.23

Galley slaves were also in high demand, and the Spanish navy needed them in significant numbers. Throughout the first half of the seventeenth century, Spanish diplomats facilitated the transfer of slaves captured at the Ottoman-Hungarian border towards Italy24 with the help of Hungarian aristocrats, such as Pál Pálffy.25 On the other hand, Hungarian galley slaves (captured by Ottoman troops) also filled the Mediterranean. One of them, Ferenc Egri (Francisco Egri in the Spanish sources), managed to escape and spent decades in the Spanish military service in Naples. Once he had returned to Central Europe from Naples, Pálffy helped get him a yearly pension from the emperor. His papers and biography were read by several imperial privy councilors in Vienna.26

The latter magnate, who was described and praised by Castel Rodrigo after his election to the role of palatine in 1649 as “very biased” towards both Austrian and Spanish services,27 maintained excellent relations with multiple Spanish statesmen, such as Miguel de Salamanca, secretary of state in the Spanish Netherlands in 1647.28 One decade earlier, the Count of Oñate had paid Pálffy 50,000 forints for 3,000 oxen for military purposes at the request of Heinrich von Schlick, president of the Imperial War Council.29

In the 1630s, both Oñate and the Marquess of Castañeda held multiple talks in imperial circles (including with Miklós Esterházy) about the recruitment and regular payment of several thousand Croatian-Hungarian soldiers. The Spanish Embassy in Vienna paid for these troops and managed the end-to-end financial cash flow as well, including the negotiations with Spanish and Italian asentistas and bankers. It was Castañeda who in 1637 contracted Colonel Péter Forgách and his 1,100 hussars, who moved to the Spanish Netherlands and entered Spanish service. A Croatian-Hungarian unit (after many changes) remained there for the next few decades.30

Hungarian horses were bought in significant quantities on the horse markets of Vienna and Raab/Győr in Hungary by Spanish diplomats, both for symbolic purposes as a sign of strength and for military purposes. In 1616, 30 horses were transferred to Brussels, 24 of which were for Archduke Albert, governor of the Spanish Netherlands (1598–1621).31 In 1634, at least 14 were purchased for the Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand, brother of Philip IV.32

The Case of Hungary 2: News Management and Political Micromanagement

The strategic importance of the Ottoman wars and the exotic nature of the Ottoman Empire as subject filled the works of art and the regular news in Spain, Italy, and the Netherlands.33 In the diplomatic corps, special focus needed to be put on the translations, since the texts of international treaties and alliances and the intercepted enemy letters had to be translated too.

It is not a coincidence that the aforementioned Jacques Bruneau, who at the beginning of the 1620s served as Archduke Albert’s diplomatic envoy in Vienna, sent to Brussels a copy of two Central European treaties and detailed some of their linguistic aspects. Both the Peace of Nikolsburg, between the prince of Transylvania, Gábor Bethlen (1613–29), and Emperor Ferdinand II (1619–37), and the Treaty of Khotyn, between the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Ottoman Empire, were signed at the end of 1621.

Brussels and the ruling elite of the Spanish Netherlands had been eager to receive news from the eastern branch of the dynasty since the Twelve Years’ Truce between Spain and the Dutch United Provinces had expired in April 1621, and the parties resumed hostilities at full speed. The emperor’s willingness to assist the Spanish Netherlands depended heavily on whether he remained engaged in war with the prince of Transylvania. Bruneau, like others in the Spanish Habsburg diplomatic corps, started his career as a translator (secretario de lenguas)34 and then moved up the ladder and held many prestigious positions. Since the translation activities in Brussels were less structured and sophisticated than in Madrid, he wanted to make sure that the secretariat in Brussels did not spend time unnecessarily translating texts. He sent the first text in Spanish (translated from the original Latin by the Count of Oñate), but he kept the original version in Latin to avoid any misunderstandings. Bruneau sent the text of the second treaty in Italian a bit later since the councilor of the emperor who possessed it was absent:35

Envío los artículos de la paz en Hungría así los que tocan a los estados del reino en general, como al Betlen Gabor en particular. El señor conde de Oñate los ha hecho traducir en español, […] pienso convener tenerlos también en latín como originalmente se han concebido y concluido. Falta en ellos la entrada y remate, que el embajador mismo no los ha alcanzado de otra manera. [… ] Y también espero de tener los de la paz de Polonia con el Turco, y un consejero del emperador que los tiene está ausente algunos días ha.36

In the kingdom of Bohemia, the local elite corresponded frequently in German with the emperor and his councilors and oftentimes in Spanish with the actors of the Catholic monarchy. In contrast, in Hungary, aristocrats like Palatine Miklós Esterházy exchanged letters in Latin with the Spanish ambassadors in Vienna37 and with imperial politicians and councilors.38

Even further to the east, knowledge of Latin remained crucial in relations with the Ottoman Empire. It is not a coincidence that the most formal translation service in Vienna belonged to the Imperial War Council and was responsible for the relationship with Constantinople (Hofkriegsratsdolmetscher).39 Often, double translations were needed, as was the case with a letter, a copy of which is kept in Brussels, the former capital of the Spanish Netherlands, sent by a diplomatic envoy to the archdukes, signed by the Ottoman governor of Budin (Buda), Karakaş Mehmed Pasha, to Gábor Bethlen, prince of Transylvania in 1620. It was translated first from “Turkish” into Hungarian and then from Hungarian into Latin, word for word: “ex Turcico in Ungaricum, et ex Ungarico in Latinum, de verbo ad verbum translata.”40

In 1644, the Spanish ambassador reported to his king that the archbishop of Esztergom, György Lippay (1600–1666, who served as archbishop in 1642–66) had brought some intercepted letters to Vienna which shed light on the diplomatic activities of France in Constantinople. The French, he claimed, aimed to convince the Ottomans to give license to the prince of Transylvania to attack the lands of the emperor:

Estos días ha venido aquí el arzobispo de Estrigonia con algunos otros cavalleros úngaros sin el palatino [Miklós Esterházy] por su poca salud haciendo gran ruido de que Rákóczi armaba y se entendía con Torstenson comprobándose esto con cartas intercetas deste en que ofrecia facilitar la licencia del Turco para acometer los Estados del Emperador por medio de los ministros de Francia que están en aquella Corte.41

These letters were probably the ones that another Spanish diplomat used in an anti-French pamphlet in Münster during the Westphalian peace congress the same year.42

Hungarian diets and internal politics constituted a much more complex political environment than those of Bohemia (after 1620). Both the election and coronation of the new Hungarian king and the faction politics were closely monitored by the Spanish Embassy.43

Several archival sources from Spain, Hungary, and Vienna show that a light form of political and diplomatic micromanagement on behalf of the representatives of the Catholic king still existed in 1655.

Over the course of 1654 and 1655, the Marquess of Castel Rodrigo focused on the election of the new Hungarian king, Leopold I, and the election of the new palatine. Though the secondary literature does not yet offer a nuanced picture of the full scope of his activities in Pozsony, it is evident from the sources that he made an effort to intervene decisively in the outcomes of the diet. The variety of sources across Europe also shows the nature of such interventions and the ways in which the study of the primary sources can shed light on the motivations of the principal actors from a Spanish Habsburg perspective.

Prince of Auersperg Johann Weikhard (1615–1677) was one of the most influential politicians of Leopold I. Once a privy councilor and the grand steward of the emperor and also a holder of the Order of the Golden Fleece (the most prestigious Habsburg chivalric order, granted by the king of Spain), he fell from grace in 1669. That year, he wrote an essay against the Marquess of Castel Rodrigo, his archenemy.44 He listed several points against the Spanish ambassador, starting with his aggressive interventions in Hungarian politics. Castel Rodrigo wanted Ban of Croatia Miklós Zrínyi (1620–64) to be the palatine:

Als er arbitrium in Hungaricis rebus agiren wollen, und procuriert, dass Nicolaus Sarinius Palatinus in Ungarn werden solle, da doch schon damahls suspectus de infidelitate gewest ist,45 […] [and when he learned that Ferenc Wesselényi was elected palatine of Hungary, it caused him great pain:], sumo dolore illius.

While laying the groundwork for his presence at the Hungarian diet in Pozsony, Castel Rodrigo wrote letters to Hungarian magnates46 and spent significant amounts of money on buying weapons to strengthen his household on his journey to the diet.47 He also requested and received from the Spanish Council of State around 20 thousand escudos for his extraordinary costs,48 and he wrote multiple letters and treatises about Hungarian politics, e.g., about György Lippay.49 Castel Rodrigo often played the mediator role between the Hungarian magnates and the imperial ministers to decrease the number of political and confessional conflicts at a time when Madrid desperately needed a peaceful and stable Vienna during the last years of the Spanish-French War (1635–59).

In summary, in Hungary, for geopolitical reasons, the aristocrats were physically less integrated into the Spanish Habsburg circle of news and the Spanish cultural milieu, which meant that they had less access to political favors, patronage, and political sponsorship. In other areas, however, cooperation was equally important or sometimes more important from the perspective of Spanish Habsburg strategical goals, even if this cooperation was less interpersonal and relied less on physical presence. These goals included the assurance of accessible material and human resources, reliable political allies and diplomatic contacts in the ongoing fight against the Ottoman Empire, and reliable ties to figures with influence in the Hungarian diets.

Common Patterns: Representation, Legal Matters, and Book Culture

Alongside the substantial differences between the two kingdoms in terms of their relationship with the Spanish monarchy in diplomacy, however, many common patterns can also be seen. In these cases, the ruling elites of both states performed similar activities and were engaged in these endeavors in a similar fashion.

While Hungarian noblemen did not enjoy the benefits of most of the Spanish military orders, the most influential aristocrats received yearly pensions (Péter Pázmány and members of the Forgách family, for instance), and several of them were members of the most prestigious Habsburg order, the Order of the Golden Fleece. Miklós Esterházy (1628) and Pál Pálffy (1650), for instance, were granted this honor, as was Miklós Zrínyi (though after the timeframe of the present essay, in 1664). In comparison, between 1608 and 1655, six Bohemian noblemen received it: two members of the Lobkowicz and the Dietrichstein families, one member of the Martinitz family, and one of the Slavata family.

Coronations and rights to the Hungarian and Bohemian crowns constituted common subjects. The most outstanding case was that of the Oñate treaty (1617), signed by both branches of the dynasty. By signing this document, the Spanish king waived his right to inherit the kingdom of Hungary and Bohemia in a political situation when he could have argued that (due to the childless status of several Austrian heirs) it would be logical and even beneficial if the Spanish monarch were to take over these kingdoms. The feasibility of such a claim would nevertheless have been questionable, since it failed to consider, for example, the Kingdom of Hungary’s status as an elective monarchy.50 Also, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, several Spanish princes and princesses waived their rights formally, in writing, to the line of succession of Hungary. These events show and highlight the dynastic unity of the Habsburg family and testify to the fact that, theoretically, there was always a possibility for a reunion of all Habsburg territories under one dynastic ruler.

In several instances, the fate of Bohemian and Hungarian aristocrats and nobles intersected. Margarita de Cardona, the confidante of Empress and Queen Consort Maria (1528–1603), daughter of Charles V, forged a strong relationship with Martin Somogyi, a to-be gentilhombre in the court in Brussels.51 An orphan, Martin got into the household of the Dietrichstein family in Moravia, and he moved to Brussels as a page in the 1590s, where he started his career as the vice-captain of the bodyguard of the governors of the Spanish Netherlands (Archduke Albert and his wife, the Spanish infanta Isabel). Cardona (the wife of Adam von Dietrichstein and the mother of Franzis von Dietrichstein) even requested a Spanish knighthood for Somogyi, a request Archduke Albert repeated some years later, though without success. Instead, Somogyi continued to build his career in the Holy Roman Empire and the Netherlands. He undertook diplomatic missions and remained in close touch with Franz von Dietrichstein, and he became one of his principal informers from Brussels52 In 1620, he became a baron.53 By the 1630s, he had become a landlord (of Bothey in the province of Namur in the Spanish Netherlands and of Štáblovice in Opava/Troppau/Opawa in Moravia) and a tenant of a castle (Vichenet in Namur). Martin Somogyi made several contributions to cultural relations. In 1620, he sent a copy of the second part of Cervantes’ Don Quixote from Brussels to Franz von Dietrichstein.54 A few years later, Diego Muxet de Solís, a local writer in the Spanish Netherlands, dedicated his plays and poems to Dietrichstein at Somogyi’s suggestion.55

Instances of cooperation between Bohemian and Hungarian magnates occurred, naturally, among the Catholic prelates during the Catholic revival. As has been noted in the secondary literature in Hungarian, Philip IV and his ministers kept an eye on Péter Pázmány, archbishop of Esztergom, and later paid even more attention when Pázmány became cardinal. The literature has dealt extensively with the history of Pázmány’s most important diplomatic mission to Rome in 1632 (which has most recently been strongly linked to the Spanish Cardinal Borja’s famous protest the same year).56 New sources revealed that the aim of the Pázmány’s travels, which was to advance the establishment of a league between the Spanish king, the emperor, and the Catholic estates of the Holy Roman Empire, was a cornerstone in the foreign policy of the Count-Duke of Olivares. In 1629, Spanish Habsburg diplomacy conducted in Vienna by the Count of Castro, the Duke of Tursi, Jacques Bruneau, and the Marquis of Cadereyta had begun carefully to pave the way for the mission.57

Although no thorough comparison of Bohemian and Hungarian aristocratic libraries has been conducted yet, the first results show clearly that both groups of magnates wanted to equip themselves with knowledge of the best of Spanish Habsburg culture.

The libraries of Hungarian Catholic aristocrats were full of hispanica, mostly in Italian and Latin translations.58 In 1614, Cardinal Ferenc Forgách ordered and received 206 books from Frankfurt, 30 percent of which were by Spanish authors or writers from the Spanish Monarchy.59 In Pázmány’s private library, a similar proportion of books by Spanish authors can be found.60 The book catalogue of the Zrínyi family in 1662 included at least 91 items in the same category (out of 731).61

Studies of the Bohemian libraries have been more thorough.62 A logical next step in the research in both countries might be to attempt to grasp the influence that the wide variety of military, scientific, ecclesiastical, legal, historical, etc. treatises had on the readers and their political and private activities.

Although the interests of Bohemian and Hungarian aristocrats seemed to differ (e.g., the former group included more volumes for pure entertainment in their libraries), the most popular authors were present in the book collections of both territories: Pedro de Mejía, Luis de Granada, Antonio de Guevara, Pedro de Ribadeneyra, Diego de Saavedra Fajardo (a diplomat himself who spent several months in Vienna between 1634 and 1641), Juan Antonio de Vera y Figueroa (the count of La Roca, ambassador of Madrid in Venice between 1632 and 1642, and author of the famous 1620 treatise The Ambassador), and many others. One might reasonably assume that when Bohemian and Hungarian magnates discussed their lectures, actual political events, or their encounters with Spanish culture and persons, they could easily refer to a similar corpus of experiences and perceptions.

In conclusion, from the perspective of Hungary’s relevance to the Spanish Habsburg system, money and strategic geopolitical interests were the primary factors. Hungary was important for the Spanish Empire because of its material and human resources (copper, horses, slaves, and soldiers). As a consequence, a peace between the Ottoman Empire, the Principality of Transylvania, and the Central European branch of the dynasty helped Madrid focus on its fight against France and the Netherlands and strengthen the position of Catholicism. Since Hungary was not part of the Holy Roman Empire and the integration of Hungary’s aristocracy into the Habsburg central government organs and councils was far less advanced than in Bohemia, Spanish diplomacy made fewer efforts to build more meaningful and deep connections and interactions with them through, for instance, marriages, the migration of Hungarian noblemen to the Spanish Netherlands or Spain, or the granting of memberships in religious and military orders. Patronage, favors, and political sponsorship, as a consequence, played a smaller role. Spanish Habsburg diplomats in Prague and Vienna were well aware of the details of all these connections, and they made decisions, intervened, or facilitated solutions whenever necessary.

In contrast, Bohemia constituted a strategic land for Madrid for different reasons. As part of the Holy Roman Empire and as a territory that was historically more integrated into the Central European Habsburg lands, Bohemia needed to be more closely linked to the Spanish Habsburg system of diplomacy and favors. In addition, the Thirty Years’ War created a very specific opportunity for the Spanish Habsburg elite. The defeat of the Protestant nobility in Bohemia freed up a huge amount of land for the Catholic aristocracy, and the emperor distributed some of these lands to Spanish noblemen who were fighting and living in Central Europe. Cultural assimilation, family ties (including marriages), and joint political decision-making in the central government organs in Vienna made relations between Madrid, Spanish Habsburg diplomats, and the Bohemian elite much closer in these areas than Spanish Habsburg relations with the Hungarian aristocracy.

As Bohemia and Hungary were neighboring lands with shared interests and common goals, many similar patterns can be detected as well, however, first and foremost in matters of cultural assimilation (book culture and cooperation in the Catholic revival) and questions of dynastic inheritance (coronations and the rights to the Hungarian and Bohemian crowns).

Archival Sources

Archives Générales du Royaume, Brussels (AGRB)

Secrétairerie d’État et de Guerre

Secrétairerie d’Etat Allemand

Archivo General de Simancas, Simancas (AGS)

Archivo Histório Nacional, Madrid (AHN)

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára [Hungarian National Archives State Archives], Budapest (MNL OL)

P 287 A Forgách család gácsi iratai

Moravský Zemský Archiv [Moravian Land Archives], Brno (MZA)

Rodinný Archiv Ditrichštejnů [Dietrichstein Family Archive]

Prímási Levéltár [Esztergom Primate Archives], Esztergom (PLE)

Archivum Ecclesiasticum Vetus

Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna (ÖStA)

Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv (HHStA)

Allgemeines Verwaltungsarchiv – Finanz- und Hofkammerarchiv

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A Special Form of Diplomatic Encounter: Negotiations in Constantinople (1625–1626)

Zsuzsanna Hámori Nagy
Research Centre for the Humanities
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 2  (2023):3–36 DOI 10.38145/2023.2.224

In this article, I present a case study of a special form of diplomatic encounter that took place as secret negotiations between the resident ambassadors of France, England, Holland, and Venice and the Transylvanian envoys in Constantinople in 1625–1626 about a prospective alliance between Prince Gábor Bethlen and the anti-Habsburg powers during the Danish phase of the Thirty Years’ War. My analysis of this special form of negotiation offers a comprehensive overview of the practices deriving from the most characteristic circumstances and setbacks of diplomatic activity in Constantinople, i.e., what solutions (if any) were found to resolve problems of precedence, information brokerage, poor economic conditions, and bribery and corruption. I address, furthermore, the private interests of the participating Transylvanian diplomats and consider the extent to which these interests corresponded to the interests of their sending polity and especially of Gábor Bethlen. My discussion sheds light on the ways in which, in general, everyday challenges and networks of relations in Constantinople influenced the diplomacy of small states in the Ottoman orbit, specifically Transylvania in this case, when entering into an alliance with major powers outside the bonds of their Ottoman tributary status.

Keywords: diplomacy, Constantinople, Gábor Bethlen, Principality of Transylvania, Ottoman Empire

An Ottoman Tributary State in the Thirty Years’ War

The princes of Transylvania participated1 in the Thirty Years’ War on four occasions, belonging to different anti-Habsburg coalitions. Three of these interventions came about under the reign of Prince Gábor Bethlen (1580–1629, ruled from 1613), who from the first moment engaged in the conflict on the side of the Winter King, Frederick of the Palatinate.2 In his first military campaign, he entered the territory of the Kingdom of Hungary in September 1619, and in November, he participated in the unsuccessful siege of Vienna. By January 1620, the estates of the Kingdoms of Hungary and Bohemia had entered into an alliance with those of Austria. Bethlen was elected king of Hungary in August 1620, but due to his allies’ defeat at the Battle of White Mountain in November of the same year, he started negotiations with Ferdinand II and concluded peace by January 1622, renouncing his royal title. His second intervention was of a much smaller scale: although he constantly negotiated with Frederick through emigrants from the Palatinate, it was not possible to join his army with those of Frederick’s generals after he reached as far as Moravia during his second military campaign of autumn 1623. Therefore, in May 1624, he concluded peace with Ferdinand II again.

His last effort to join an anti-Habsburg coalition was made in 1626, and this time the preparations seemed more fruitful than they had been three years earlier. An international coalition of Protestant powers to help the Winter King regain his throne and title was created in the form of the League of The Hague in December 1625 with the participation of England, Denmark, and Holland. The participants invited other interested states to join their coalition, such as the Principality of Transylvania and France. As for Transylvania, Prince Gábor Bethlen made a great step to become a member of the anti-Habsburg league by marrying Catherine, sister of the Elector of Brandenburg, in the spring of 1626.3 He started military maneuvers against Ferdinand II shortly afterward, in the summer of 1626, but joined the alliance officially only later, between November 1626 and February 1627 by the signature of the Treaty of Westminster and its ratification by Holland and Denmark.4 By this time, however, much to the disdain of his new allies, he had already concluded the peace of Pozsony/Bratislava with the emperor. As for France, despite the support it gave in the form of indirect warfare against the Habsburgs and the dynastic connection with England,5 both confessional and internal political tensions, which reached their climax with the Huguenot uprising starting in 1625, prevented its adherence to the League of The Hague.6

Direct contacts between Transylvania and interested parties such as England, France, Venice, Holland, Sweden, and Denmark were maintained during the 1620s through formal and informal channels with the help of public and secret envoys. However, the Principality of Transylvania as a small state in the Ottoman orbit was not able to build anything resembling the networks of permanent embassies throughout Europe that the main players in international diplomacy had started to build. The only exception was Constantinople where, following from Transylvania’s status as an Ottoman tributary, a resident envoy called a kapitiha was always present beside the occasional, more solemn embassies discussing current affairs or bringing the yearly tribute to the Porte.7 Constantinople had a special status in European and Transylvanian diplomacy as a center for information exchange,8 which in practice meant the permanent diplomatic presence of all major and minor powers. It is thus hardly surprising that, from the middle of the sixteenth century, negotiations at the Porte played a crucial role in maintaining contacts between the Western states and Transylvania.9 From the perspective of the historian, this means that, in contrast with the negotiations conducted sporadically through direct contacts, the practices and methods used during these negotiations and the personal interests of the individuals and polities involved can be more easily reconstructed and analyzed, since the negotiations themselves were continuous and some of the parties left behind a well-preserved corpus of diplomatic correspondence.

Negotiating in Constantinople: Challenges and Solutions

Constantinople was the primary scene to reach one of Gábor Bethlen’s main foreign political goals in the mid-1620s: the granting of permission by his Ottoman overlord to enter an alliance with anti-Habsburg European partners and engage in military actions within these frames. The resident ambassadors at the Porte were Philippe de Harlay, count of Césy10 of France, Sir Thomas Roe11 of England, Cornelis Haga12 of Holland, Zorzi Giustiniani13 of Venice, and László Balásházy14 of Transylvania. They worked together closely to this end in the summer of 1625. The participants worked diligently at the requests of their sovereigns, whose political interests happened to coincide with those of the prince of Transylvania for a short time. However, their collaboration was made difficult by problems of diplomatic precedence and questions of bribery and treason, and they ended with dubious results.

An investigation of the first factor (disputes over precedence and especially the competition between the French and English resident ambassadors) prompts reconsideration of the widely accepted view in the Hungarian secondary literature concerning the primary role of Thomas Roe in supporting Bethlen’s efforts at the Porte. As it is well known, in addition to the diplomatic ranks of different envoys, the order in which Western powers established diplomatic contacts with the Ottoman Empire also had an informal impact on encounters among diplomats in Constantinople.15 It was the task of the permanent French ambassador to guard his own declared precedence, which was constantly challenged by the others. Césy was accused by his successor at the post of resident ambassador, Henry de Gournay, Count of Marcheville, of having allowed the Venetian bailo to proceed at his right and having let the ambassador of Holland to represent Transylvanian, Moldavian, Wallachian, Swedish, and Polish interests.16 On the eve of the negotiations with the Transylvanian resident, Césy was outraged by the cooperation never seen before of the Venetian bailo and Thomas Roe in some ecclesiastical appointments, which caused further disappointment when Giustiniani was not willing to pay him a visit together with the newly arrived Venetian ambassador, Simone Contarini, in April 1625.17

Temporary enmities and conflicts of interest gave rise to short-lived coalitions among the diplomatic players in Constantinople, while political confrontation was sometimes overridden by confessional interests. One of the most typical dividing lines was of a denominational nature. Over the course of the 1620s and 1630s, the opposing parties formed by the French and Habsburg resident ambassadors against those of England and Holland were trying to outbid one another in their negotiations with the Ottoman authorities in order to remove or keep in position the Greek patriarch of Constantinople, who was known to have accepted Protestant doctrines.18 In contrast, the long-lasting conflict between French and Habsburg interests on the European political scene made the ambassadors of the rival powers enemies, a situation in which English support was not always provided to the French despite the dynastic ties formed in 1625. Thomas Roe was equally missing personally from the coalition of the French, Venetian, and Dutch ambassadors, who conspired against the Spanish agent arriving at the Porte in the summer of 1625, as well as from their conferences with the Transylvanian resident during the same period.19 Roe’s personal absence was not the consequence of the plague raging in Constantinople that summer but rather was part of a practice he followed to avoid Césy and thus answer the problem of rivalry. Césy also adopted this practice from the very beginning of Roe’s mission: although he ordered twelve torchbearers to accompany Roe when entering Constantinople, they both avoided public encounters and met only on private occasions.20

This throws into question Roe’s primary role in the negotiations of 1625, which he contended was “the main motive and actor of the present affair.”21 While Roe was constantly informed through the other residents’ letters and acted in Bethlen’s favor separately from the others, it is important to note that Césy was also frequently absent due to illness in the summer of 1625. For the most part, it was Haga, Giustiniani, and Balásházy, together with different interpreters (more on them later), who were present at the negotiations. Gábor Bethlen had already asked Ottoman permission to seek protection from the friends of the Porte and ally with them against the Habsburgs, but this first license was given only “by word of mouth.”22 The aim of the meetings of summer 1625 was to redact the text of a document granting this permission in line with the interests of the involved parties, who insisted that their sovereigns could not be explicitly named therein. Balásházy showed the others a draft that would have licensed Bethlen’s alliance with them, encouraged him to wage war on the emperor, and offered military aid for such an enterprise.23 The final draft was redacted by the bailo of Venice.24 Despite the joint efforts, all the resident ambassadors were left dissatisfied, as the document that was sent to the prince of Transylvania mentioned the kings of France and England, the Republic of Venice, and the Netherlands as friends of the Porte with whom the prince of Transylvania was allowed to unite, but it made no reference to him waging war on the emperor.25

The solution to this failure lay in the combination of two characteristics of Ottoman diplomacy. The first was the prevalent tendency for the Ottoman power to include something different in the documents it issued than had been previously agreed on. The second can simply be called the practice of bribery when it came to any political decision in Constantinople, which meant various sums of money and gifts26 for officeholders of every rank, from interpreters to scribes at the chancellery. In the particular case of Bethlen’s license, the meaning was not lost in translation, but the ambassadors’ refusal to pay the sums demanded by the Ottoman interpreter and head of scribes for the correct formulation of the text might have contributed to the problem. The direct approach of the chancellery would not necessarily have resulted in the right formulation of any document, however. For example, bribes paid to scribes resulted in only slight changes in the text of the ’ahdname sent from the Porte to Poland in October 1623.27 No less could have been expected in the much smaller case of redacting a letter of permission, even if the sums requested had been paid.

When discussing the details of the text of the license, the resident ambassadors could count on their interpreters and to some extent themselves. Césy was sometimes represented by an interpreter named Olivier.28 Balásházy, who spoke Latin (and probably Italian as well) translated some letters himself. Indeed, he considered it a dire mistake that Cornelis Haga “involved those beys” whose ignorance he blamed for the questionable outcome.29 He must have been referring to Grand Dragoman Zülfikâr Ağa,30 the Hungarian-born Ottoman interpreter employed by the Transylvanian embassy permanently during the first half of the seventeenth century, and Yusuf Ağa,31 who as chiaus served as an intermediary between Transylvania and the Porte. It was the kaymakam who ordered Zülfikâr to translate all documents brought by the Transylvanian envoy32 and thus it seems that the dragoman’s presence in Transylvanian affairs could not be ignored in this case, as he emerged as some kind of expert on the region at the Porte.33 Haga wrote to Roe upon first hearing Bethlen’s demand about the license that the three of them (himself, Giustiniani, and Césy) thought it appropriate to entrust Zülfikâr with the negotiations concerning the license and gave their word to pay him one hundred thalers each if the business was finished according to the expectations of the prince. Still, they did not find him trustworthy. Balásházy, however, convinced them that Bethlen had already rewarded him with a carriage and horses for his services.34 After the fiasco, by emphasizing Haga’s role in requesting Zülfikâr’s help, Balásházy, as a representative of the Transylvanian embassy, probably wanted to dilute the blame for the disastrous outcome, which he saw as a consequence of having involved the grand dragoman.

Further complications arose from the fact that Zülfikâr and Yusuf, with Olivier as a witness, promised the head of scribes (reisulkuttab), who was acquaintance of theirs, another four hundred thalers in August 1625 when visiting him at his house. Balásházy offered to pay this latter sum in the name of his master, with the ambassadors paying their share of the other four hundred.35 However, the Venetian and Dutch ambassadors informed Roe about their decision that they would only pay Zülfikâr once the business of the permission had been completed to their satisfaction. They explained their refusal with the contention that they had not been authorized by their sovereigns to make such payments.36 The resident ambassadors do not seem to have had much faith in Zülfikâr’s good intentions concerning the second four hundred thalers either, and they seem to have thought that he wanted it for himself. Sooner or later, however, and against their better judgment,37 they all paid their original share of one hundred each in exchange for what they called the services of Zülfikâr in general.38 The first one to pay was Roe, and Balásházy was clever enough to play on the sentiments of competition among the ambassadors when praising him as the one who “not only superseded but defeated the others.” Upon hearing of Roe’s contribution, the others also started to pay, first, some smaller portions to Zülfikâr, and some money was even offered to Yusuf to compensate for his journey to present the letter of license to the prince.39

As noted above, Haga, Giustiniani, and Césy originally insisted on waiting until the business had been successfully conducted in a manner that would meet the expectations of the prince of Transylvania before making any payments. Ultimately, the matter was indeed resolved and met the prince’s expectations. No matter how much the ambassadors complained that the finalized document lacked any encouragement to Bethlen to wage war on the emperor but mentioned their masters,40 Balásházy argued that Gábor Bethlen was pleased with the letter of license. All the more so, as he indicated that Bethlen had not made the request for permission “out of necessity but for his wellbeing,”41 which corresponded to his original request mentioning “security and caution.”42 It can also be said that the original draft was provided by Bethlen to Balásházy, and the Ottoman chancellery returned to this version from the one that the ambassadors presented.43 This suggests that the aim of Bethlen in the summer of 1625 was to be permitted by his Ottoman overlord to adhere to the League of The Hague in formation, without actually starting any military maneuvers yet, for which he first needed to have his conditions fulfilled by his future allies.

Without elaborating on the details of the preliminaries of such a treaty, it is clear that they were discussed primarily by envoys who were sent directly to the involved parties, of which the ambassadors at the Porte knew very little. In this respect, Constantinople was a scene of secondary importance, as none of the resident ambassadors at the Porte had received any authorization to conclude a treaty of alliance with the Transylvanian envoys. Although Bethlen informed his emissaries in Constantinople about the preliminaries and sent them copies of his main stipulations to be discussed with the representatives of the anti-Habsburg party, several factors hindered the development of such negotiations at the Porte. Apart from the great distances to be covered and the slow pace at which anything could be delivered using postal services (of which the ambassadors continuously complained), the presence of a traitor among the members of the Transylvanian delegation also caused many a problem during the crucial year of 1625.

The suspicion that there was a traitor in their midst arose first among the envoys in March 1625, when Césy, Roe, and Haga noticed the close contact between Balásházy and the imperial resident. Roe suspected that Balásházy was influenced in this not by any duplicity on Bethlen’s part, but rather because of his own status as a member of the Catholic fold. They also heard rumors according to which Balásházy had displeased his lord and would be replaced. To answer the challenge of possible information leakage, they decided to write separately to the prince and forwarded the copy of the sultan’s letter written to him by their own secret courier.44 At the beginning of 1626, Césy wrote about Balásházy’s treason as a fact and used it as a pretext to send his other interpreter, Tomaso Fornetti,45 to Transylvania with instructions he believed to be in accordance with the direction of French foreign politics. I discuss this in more detail later in the essay, but is worth quoting Césy’s complaint that he could not communicate with the ambassador of the prince without the resident being present; and when he was not there, the ambassador, who spoke neither Latin nor Italian, turned for help to the kaymakam’s domestic interpreters, which had even more disastrous consequences from the point of view of information leakage.46 Roe had a more balanced opinion and admitted that he had not managed, with his inquiries, to discover the identity of the traitor. Indeed, he stood by Balásházy, saying that he “hath suffered much affliction,” but nothing had been proven against him, and he might well have been wrongly accused.47

Balásházy’s perspective can be reconstructed with the help of his letters. In August 1625, the ambassadors confronted him with their finding that either he or the interpreter of the Transylvanian embassy was a traitor, as one of them had passed on all the secrets to the imperial party. In order to prove that he always spoke the truth, Balásházy offered to have Olivier translate all the documents that the prince had recently sent to the Porte and that had been read to the kaymakam, as well as the reply that was going to be sent in a few days. He also offered to investigate the possibility that perhaps a domestic servant or the interpreter was the traitor.48 It is worth considering who this interpreter (not to be confused with the Dragoman Zülfikâr) might have been. The sources reveal that he was a man by the name of István Futó (referred to as “Stephanus alumnus” by Balásházy), who had studied at Bethlen’s expense in Constantinople to become a Turkish scribe. Although there exists no information concerning when he entered into service, he might have taken up some tasks of interpretation during the pourparlers of the resident ambassadors. Habsburg diplomatic correspondence reveals that Futó was able to transfer information about Transylvanian affairs to the Habsburg embassy for years before 1626 when he finally left the Porte.49

It is hard to determine the extent to which Balásházy was involved in this affair, but his silence could be interpreted as telling. There is no sign of any further mention of the issue of treason or of any investigation in his letters for about half a year, which suggests that he did not really launch any inquisitions or if he did, he concealed the findings. By December 1625, it was too late. He had lost all credit in the eyes of the resident ambassadors except for Roe, whose trust he especially held dear. A letter written to Roe reveals that both of them considered Yusuf Ağa the source of rumors concerning Balásházy’s treason. When the resident confronted him with this in the presence of the Transylvanian ambassador Pál Keresztesi and the agent Bornemisza, Yusuf denied ever having said anything against him, but he said he had heard talk of István Futó having given Transylvanian letters to the Habsburg resident.50 After this letter was written to Roe, Balásházy disappeared almost entirely from the sources, but he remained for eight more months at the Porte, probably hiding in shame. It was only in June 1626 that the prince appointed Tamás Borsos as a new resident and dismissed Balásházy for “certain reasons.”51 For the last time, Roe stood by his colleague (or possibly friend) when he wrote a letter of testimony to Gábor Bethlen calling Balásházy the prince’s “true and faythfull servant,” whose abilities he found exceptional. Roe’s letter also reveals that the suspicions that fell on Balásházy “proceeded from an enemye” and that “Stephano” finally fled, for which Balásházy accused himself.52

Contrary to Roe’s testimony, Borsos, Balásházy’s successor at the post of resident, reported that Balásházy, who had been condemned by everyone, “was not His Highness’ orator but that of the German emperor.” Furthermore, against Balásházy’s objections, he was only willing to take over the building of the Transylvanian embassy with an inventory, as he claimed to have found at least two hundred thalers worth of damage caused by his predecessor.53 Balásházy was indeed imprisoned in the summer of 1627, and the amounts of money promised by him to several officers (including one hundred thalers for the head of scribes and a carriage to someone unknown) were ordered by the prince to be paid from his own holdings.54 Incidents of residents at the Porte going bankrupt were not uncommon. Césy was also accused by his successor, Marcheville, of causing damage to the building of the ambassadorial residence,55 and when Marcheville himself went into bankruptcy and fell into disgrace, Césy was still present in Constantinople and ready to continue his mission as resident ambassador, as he had not been able to leave the city between 1631 and 1634 because of his unpaid debts.56

Harsh financial conditions, accumulation of debts, and unpaid salaries in the middle of the monetary crisis of the era affected larger and smaller players alike,57 while definitely posing greater problems for such minor characters as Balásházy or even the Turkish scribe Futó. One cannot help but suspect this is what may have driven them to sell the property of the embassy or even some precious information. In a letter written by Futó in 1624, he desperately begged for money from his relative, the secretary of the prince, as he had none left. He was afraid of an approaching peril and said that if he did not get help soon, his soul would be corrupted.58 This suggests a connection between his financial crisis and his passing on diplomatic documents to the imperial resident, which started in late 1624 or early 1625. As for Balásházy, no indications of any such correlation have been found in the sources so far, but he also might have been involved in the scheme to some extent. He otherwise seems to have been a talented diplomat who spoke languages, could argue convincingly, and navigated comfortably among the authorities and officials at the Porte, but his last effort to defend himself from the charges he faced was unsuccessful. In the long run, however, this incident did not break his career as a diplomat entirely, as he represented Prince György Rákóczi I as a member of his delegation at the negotiations concerning the Treaty of Eperjes/Prešov with Ferdinand II in 1633.59

The Impact of Networks of Relations on Negotiating in Constantinople

The discussion so far has touched on several practices used in negotiations in Constantinople and the circumstances surrounding the negotiations. In the last section of this essay, I concentrate on how the resident ambassadors at the Porte reflected on the fact that the negotiations of a treaty of alliance with the prince of Transylvania were basically impossible in Constantinople. I also consider why, if they were aware of this fact, some of them still pursued these efforts without any authorization from home. As I will show, apart from practical reasons, this might have been due to interpersonal relationships similar to the apparent friendship between Roe and Balásházy. Césy’s friendship with the Transylvanian nobleman Ferenc Bornemisza, Bethlen’s agent at the Porte accompanying Transylvanian ambassadors to Constantinople three times in 1625–1626, can also be traced as a factor in the background.

There is a difference between the opinions of the representatives of the two greatest powers involved, that is the resident ambassadors of England and France, about maintaining contacts with Bethlen through Constantinople. Roe, though having spent less time in Constantinople than Césy, warned the Transylvanian ambassador János Gáspár in May 1625 that a treaty should not be concluded at the Porte, as the sole ambassador of England or France could not take upon himself the diverse interests of so many contracting parties, while the grand signor himself might have wanted to be admitted to such a league.60 He also sensed that Bethlen “did only enterteyne us, and that his resolutions depended upon some other place.”61 Nevertheless, he was well aware of the significance of Bethlen’s prospective joining the anti-Habsburg coalition with respect to Frederick of the Palatinate and his wife, Elisabeth Stuart, so he related everything in connection with his moves and underlined the importance of winning him for the common cause. Both James I and Charles I were, however, unwilling to take up diplomatic relationships with the prince of Transylvania directly before the end of 1625, when the English party, partly at Roe’s urging, ultimately considered Constantinople quite a detour for correspondence with the prince.62

As for Césy, a change of attitude can be noticed when considering his negotiations with Transylvanian envoys about the preliminaries of a future treaty. When giving an audience to Gáspár in May 1625, he showed a reserve similar to Roe’s and suggested that these matters should directly be discussed with the French court through the envoy who had already visited the prince.63 The ambiguity of his instructions of October 1625, together with the delay caused by slow delivery by the post services and the information leakage to the Habsburg resident, however, pushed Césy to get in touch with Bethlen directly through his interpreter. In a letter of October 5 which Césy received in early 1626, Louis XIII wanted a confident person, i.e., Césy, to communicate his intentions regarding the preliminaries with the Transylvanian resident at the Porte. On October 30, he warned his ambassador to accept all propositions of a league from the other interested parties or from the Transylvanian resident but only to inform the sovereign and give an opinion about it.64 By the time this latter message reached Césy at the beginning of February 1626, he had already sent Fornetti to Transylvania with the king’s propositions, as he did not dare share them either with the resident Balásházy or the ambassador Keresztesi in December 1625, as the imperial party had already learned of some of the details.

As mentioned in his letter to Louis XIII, Césy’s other reason for sending his own courier to Transylvania was his close connection with his friend and confidant Ferenc Bornemisza who, according to his instructions given to Fornetti, was the only person the interpreter should open up to when arriving at the princely court. Césy told Fornetti to let Bornemisza and Bornemisza only translate his instructions and to deal with Bethlen secretly, solely in Bornemisza’s presence.65 Ferenc, the Francophile scion of the wealthy Bornemisza family of Kolozsvár/Cluj most probably stayed for some time in France after studying in Olmütz/Olomouc and Freiburg. He and his brother László were employed in diplomatic missions under the reign of Gábor Bethlen, and they both traveled to the Porte several times, László in the 1610s and Ferenc in the 1620s.66 Ferenc Bornemisza stayed by the side of János Gáspár in April–June 1625, when Bethlen’s demands concerning the letter of permission and the first version of the preliminaries were declared to the resident ambassadors.67 He is also mentioned together with Keresztesi in Balásházy’s letter to Roe about Yusuf’s allegations, which suggests that he was also present at the Porte in December 1625.68 He returned as Bethlen’s special emissary in May–June 1626 with the prince’s approval of the conditions sent by Césy through Fornetti.69

This last mission means that Bethlen granted what Césy had requested through Fornetti. Conforming to his demand, he delegated Bornemisza with credentials to the Porte to address the preliminaries of the treaty. The prince did so even though he had reservations about and expressed his distrust in Bornemisza to the ambassador of Brandenburg present at his court in April 1626.70 The reasons behind Bethlen’s distrust are yet unknown. He may have thought that Bornemisza was involved in the scandalous case of Futó and Balásházy, who were still at the Porte at the time. In any case, by assigning Bornemisza the task of negotiating in Constantinople, Bethlen was able to remove someone he did not trust from his court. All the more so, as the Porte was a scene of only secondary importance with regard to the preliminaries of an anti-Habsburg treaty, and the prince continued to discuss the details through agents sent directly to the powers involved. When the direct negotiations reached a dead end with France in the middle of 1626 (just before Bethlen entered into war against Ferdinand II), Bornemisza was withdrawn from Constantinople. This, together with the news that Bethlen had directly sent his courier to France without informing his emissary in Constantinople earlier,71 was as much of a surprise for Bornemisza as for Césy and Fornetti, and it must have contributed to the development of feelings of mutual dissatisfaction. The Bornemisza family’s hatred of Bethlen culminated in 1629 when they “no longer wanted the race of the prince.”72 Still, their real loss of influence came about under the reign of György Rákóczi I, as a result of which Ferenc moved from Transylvania to the Kingdom of Hungary in the second half of the 1630s.73 As for the relationship between the Bornemiszas and the dragoman family Fornetti, it survived until at least 1629, when Francesco Fornetti was involved in the correspondence and financial transactions between the Transylvanian brothers and the merchant Jean Scaich of Galata.74

After Fornetti’s fruitless mission in Transylvania in the spring of 1626, Césy also felt deceived and frustrated to see that the negotiations of a treaty of alliance were going on, but not through his mediation, and his role had been limited to that of an informant.75 The fact that he had been personally misled probably contributed to his loss of faith in Bethlen’s good will. When he learned of the instructions of the direct envoy sent by Bethlen to France, Césy considered some of the points lies. Furthermore, by judging the permission acquired in 1625 as adequate, he was willing to obtain Bethlen’s next license of summer 1626 to wage war on the emperor only half-heartedly, as he did not trust that Bethlen really wanted to attack Ferdinand II.76 This time it was indeed Thomas Roe who played the primary role in convincing Ottoman dignitaries to give Bethlen permission to enter into war and in appointing auxiliary troops for him.77 From the perspective of French diplomacy, it was right before the beginning of the military campaign of the prince of Transylvania that the court also questioned Bethlen’s sincerity, but Louis XIII insisted that Césy continue to keep in touch with him in the most polite way.78

Conclusions

As a comparison of the relevant diplomatic correspondence reveals, the negotiations over procurement from the Ottomans of permission for Gábor Bethlen to join the anti-Habsburg powers and the preliminary discussions of the details of a future treaty were marked by unique collaboration among otherwise unfriendly participants. This comparison also reveals, however, that this initially fruitful collaboration, which essentially resulted from a temporary overlap of the political interest of the participating powers, was limited by several down-to-earth factors, such as the sums demanded by the Ottoman interpreter and head of scribes and the information leakage to the Habsburg resident. European ambassadors in Constantinople relied mainly on information coming from the prince of Transylvania when intervening on his behalf at the Porte. This is probably why Gábor Bethlen was content with the resulting document of license, even though the resident ambassadors who had worked to obtain it were not, as their rulers were mentioned in the text redacted in the autumn of 1625. French diplomatic circles became definitively estranged from Transylvania by the summer of 1626 because of the recurring question of the permission given by the Ottomans, which, however, did not mean the end of collaboration with the English and Dutch resident ambassadors.

From the perspective of Transylvanian diplomacy, Constantinople was a scene of primary importance concerning issues related to its status as an Ottoman tributary state, which in this case was the question of obtaining the aforementioned permission. Although the resident ambassadors tried to help get such documents, they were mostly unaware of their real importance from the point of view of Bethlen as vassal of the sultan. As a scene of secondary importance, the Porte emerged merely as a place to exchange information on the preliminaries of a future treaty of alliance, but one that made it impossible to conclude anything due to the lack of detailed instructions and the information leakage to the imperial party. While negotiating his joining the anti-Habsburg coalition created in the form of the League of the Hague in December 1625, Gábor Bethlen paid attention and formally demanded the permission of his Ottoman overlord. His rhetoric during the Constantinople negotiations presented him as an influential player in international politics but also made it quite clear that his wellbeing depended upon the permission of his Ottoman suzerain. It was partly this ambiguity that can be blamed for the loss of trust among French diplomats in the Transylvanian prince’s goodwill and the termination of their negotiations. Finally, this was complemented by the fact that the personal initiatives of the resident ambassadors, which were in part responses to practical challenges and derived in part from their rivalry, their sense of self-importance, and their personal relationships, were doomed to fail, which might have also contributed to their loss of faith in Bethlen’s sincerity regarding his proposed aims.

Funded by the European Union (ERC, SMALLST, 101043451). Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Research Council Executive Agency. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them.

Archival Sources

Archivele Naţionale ale Românei, Direcţia Judeţeana Cluj [National Archives of Romania, Department of Cluj/Kolozsvár]

Colecţia Sándor Mike

Archives diplomatiques, Paris (Ad)

Correspondance politique Turquie, 133CP3, Correspondance et

documents divers, 1620–1628.

Correspondance politique Turquie, 133CP4, Le Comte de Césy, le Comte de Marcheville, ambassadeurs, 1629–1637.

Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (BnF)

Ms fr. 15584, Recueil de lettres, pour la plupart originales, et autres pièces, relatives à l’histoire de France, principalement sous les règnes de Charles IX, Henri III, Henri IV et Louis XIII (1477–1657). XLV Règnes de Louis XIII et de Louis XIV (1628–1657).

Ms. fr. 16150, Papiers de l’ambassade de Philippe de Harlay, comte de Césy, à Constantinople.

Ms. fr. 16156, Lettres du Roy, des secrétaires d’Estat et principaux ministres à Mr de Césy, 1619–1625.

The National Archives, London (TNA)

SP 97/11.

SP 97/12.

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The Instrumentalization of Courtly Privacy in the Context of the Wedding Celebrations of Emperor Leopold I in 1676

Claudia Curcuruto
Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 2  (2023):3–36 DOI 10.38145/2023.2.279

According to the wishes of Pope Innocent XI Odescalchi and his representative at the imperial court, Francesco Buonvisi (1675–1689), Leopold I married the candidate they favored: Eleonora Magdalena of Palatinate-Neuburg. The emperor’s third wedding and the subsequent wedding festivities were held in Passau on December 14, 1676 in an absolutely private manner and without the intervention of the secular diplomats or the apostolic nuncio. The private staging of the sposalizio contrasts not only with the norms of the traditions of the imperial court with regards to ceremony, but also with the public staging of the emperor’s two previous weddings. Against this background, this article considers the possible functions that can be attributed to the private in this context and how the preferential treatment of the house of “Pfalz-Neuburg” can be interpreted in relation to the ceremonial norms of the imperial court. In this regard, the nunciature’s correspondence and their manifold interconnections thus represent essential sources which shed light on the mechanisms of “privacy” in diplomacy, as well as the shifting importance and meanings of the ceremonial norms of the imperial court.

Keywords: Pope Innocent XI Odescalchi, Francesco Buonvisi, Eleonora Magdalena of Palatinate-Neuburg, Apostolic Nunciature of Vienna, imperial court, Leopold I, marriage in early modern period, privacy

Introduction

“[…] ammettendo la scusa che lo sposalizio habbia da esser totalmente priva­to.”1 On November 1, 1676, Francesco Buonvisi (1626–1700),2 the apostolic nuncio at the imperial court,3 wrote a letter to Pope Innocent XI Odescal­-

chi’s4 cardinal secretary of the state,5 Alderano Cybo (1613–1700),6 about the planned private wedding celebrations of Emperor Leopold I7 to Eleonora Magdalena of Palatinate-Neuburg8 in Passau in December 1676.9 Privacy became the subject of argumentative directives during this dynastic feast at the Viennese imperial court, and the participation of resident diplomats, including the papal nuncio, became a question of diplomatic-ceremonial action. Why was the wedding kept private? Why could the representatives of the crowns, princes, and republics not attend the celebrations? What did the actors understand by “privacy” in the context of wedding ceremonies in 1676, and how was the concept of “privacy” instrumentalized by the actors in this context? What strategies did Buonvisi, in particular, develop to counteract his “exclusion” from the wedding ceremony in Passau?

The matter of the emperor’s wedding (and his choice of bride)10 represented a political issue of the first rank. After the death of Claudia Felicitas of Tyrol (1653–1676),11 Leopold I’s second wife, on April 8, 1676, tough marriage negotiations took place between April and October 1676 for the speedy remarriage of the 36-year-old sovereign. His first two marriages had been childless, so marriage negotiations were initiated after the death of Claudia Felicitas to secure a successor and the property of the Casa d’Austria.12 In addition to the 21-year-old Eleonora Magdalena of Palatinate-Neuburg (whom Leopold I ultimately chose as his new bride), the Protestant princess Ulrike Eleonore of Denmark (1656–1693), daughter of the Danish king Frederick III and later wife of Charles XI (1655–1697) and from 1680 queen of Sweden, was one of the favorites.13 On October 4, 1676, the emperor decided in favor of Eleonora Magdalena of Palatinate-Neuburg.14 His decision was influenced in no small part by the insistence of the negotiators representing Rome,15 as Pope Innocent XI reminded Emperor Leopold in his congratulatory letter of December 1, 1676.16 On December 14, 1676, the wedding between Emperor Leopold I and the Neuburg princess was celebrated in Passau by the arch- and prince-bishop of Passau Sebastian von Pötting (1673–1689).17 In general, these central events in the early modern period were always a public act and were not considered private affairs or private celebrations of the Casa d’Austria. With the wedding in Passau in 1676, however, there was an extraordinary fusion of the public sphere and the private sphere on the part of the Austrian Habsburgs,18 as I show in the discussion below.

Courtly Privacy and Incognito as New Categories of Diplomatic-Ceremonial Practice in the Early Modern Period

This particular Passau event of 1676 marked a decisive turn in the Theatrum caeremoniale19 and initiated a trend for future celebrations at the Viennese imperial court, where the complex categories of private and incognito were to play an increasingly important role in ceremonial activities from 1676 onwards. Following Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger’s studies on “Ceremonial as Political Procedure,” I understand ceremonial action as a larger category of social acts that are precisely standardized in their external form, that depict a social order, and that are therefore always related to participants and/or spectators who perceive and understand these signs.20

According to this definition, ceremonial action is part of the public activity of ruler and court and is directed equally at both participants and spectators, who had to perceive and interpret a given act and communicate its message further, for instance as envoys. The court ceremonial21 as a system of norms binding on all participants is related to the ranks of the persons involved and made visible and recognizable for all participants.22 What happens when the public activities of the imperial dynasty are shifted to the private sphere? First, the imperial court instrumentalized the categories of “courtly privacy,” and second, the apostolic nuncio introduced the field of action of “incognito” in the events in Passau in 1676, both in order to avoid ceremonial-diplomatic conflicts between the resident envoys at the imperial court and the father of the bride, Philip William, count of Palatinate-Neuburg.23

The words “private” and “court” in the conceptual pair of “courtly privacy” represent a counter-pair of privacy and publicity,24 which, however, are not separable for the early modern period and especially for the court.25 It can thus be stated that the dialectical quality of the conceptual pair was not to be adhered to, but rather, as inseparable categories at court, a more or less limited public sphere to be defined stabilized from case to case or a performance of the private occurred in a public setting. The people involved thus organized a supposed privacy while at the same time maintaining publicity by excluding diplomats to avoid conflict at the wedding ceremony and the subsequent banquet through the instrumentalization of courtly privacy.

Thus, in this context, courtly privacy means the claim to be protected from unwanted diplomatic-ceremonial conflicts in decisions and actions in representations and enactments of the private in public space and the claim to be protected from the entry of others into spaces and areas. The representation of the private creates forms of expression that transform existing spaces in the public sphere. Processes of dissolving the boundaries of the public in private staging modify the traditional role model and require differentiated approaches to solutions, such as the use of the concept of incognito on the ceremonial level.26 It should be emphasized, however, that the situational character of the events in the diplomatic-political ceremonial was always preserved, in which the category “private” is not to be regarded as a stable continuum, but was subject to the fluctuations of the actors involved in this complex relational dynamic and was subject to practices at the Viennese court that were always open to being redefined.

The meaning of the term incognito, usually understood to mean “unknown” to a particular person or several persons until the mid-sixteenth century, changed as the term came instead to be understood as “unknown” to the people involved in a ceremonial practice. Following Volker Barth, incognito is a practice that indicates the temporary relinquishment of ceremonial duties, that is, a temporary change of identity. This change of identity, which is as temporary as it is specifically individual, is carried out publicly and, for example, helped “make interaction possible” at conflict-laden meetings of high-ranking personalities without the ceremonial aspects of the meeting being suspended. In this way, forms of incognito emerged that shaped the court culture of the early modern period.27

The introduction of courtly privacy and the practice of going incognito opened up (new) possibilities for action in diplomacy and new ways of taking part in ceremonies for the actors involved in these processes, and this had an impact on subsequent events at the imperial court (including, for example, the introduction of a “private chapel” for the empress dowager Eleonora of Gonzaga-Nevers28 and the [private] wedding celebrations that took place in 1678).29 However, by shifting the “public” to a “private” setting, the apostolic nuncio created a novel situation in which he now could take part incognito.

This is precisely where the great potential for conflict lies: the required absence from the wedding celebrations in Passau in 1676 because of the demand for privacy, and the disputes that were going on over ceremony and rank, in which the nuncio insisted on his claim also to the ecclesiastical functions as papal representative. This established an “invented tradition”30 in the ceremonial practices of the Viennese imperial court and was ultimately noticed at other courts in Europe. We are thus speaking, in this case, of a tradition that was formally established with great speed. Moreover, the notion of “invented tradition” encompasses a set of practices, usually based on openly or tacitly accepted rules, which have a ritual or symbolic character and aim to transmit certain values and norms of behavior through repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the past.31 The essence and function of traditions, even invented ones, is invariance.32 The invention of traditions, it is assumed here, is essentially a process of formalization and ritualization characterized by reference to the past, even if only through the imposition of repetition.33 Accordingly, the possibilities for action by the actors could become visible via the invented tradition, that is, via the instrumentalization of the private in a public event.

In this discussion, I focus on how the Apostolic Nuncio Francesco Buonvisi operated in the spheres of public and private and how his ability to act was demonstrated in the ceremonial performance of the wedding celebrations in Passau in 1676. In his regular correspondence with the Secretariat of the State Buonvisi drew a detailed picture of the emperor’s marriage negotiations, and his daily reports to Rome prove an important source of information and knowledge34 in this context. The nunciature’s correspondence35 reveals that the private was also possible in the courtly public domain.36 As the example I offer shows, considerable political tensions between the courts of Europe could be mollified by limiting ceremonies performed in the public sphere and preferring instead the private sphere. Participation by the public meant pre-programmed conflicts of precedence37 as a result of the “incompatibility of divergent status hierarchies”38 and the claimed “plurality of ceremonial claims,” as can be demonstrated in the conflict between the Nuncio Buonvisi and the count of Palatinate-Neuburg. In this regard, there is an important area of research which, as noted by Elisabeth Garms-Cornides in her discussion of the role of apostolic nuncio in ceremonial events, “can by no means yet be considered to have been adequately dealt with in recent historiography.”39

Basic Constants of the Passau Wedding of Emperor Leopold I to Eleonora Magdalena of Palatinate-Neuburg in 1676: Context

The wedding celebrations for Emperor Leopold I and Eleonora Magdalena of Palatinate-Neuburg deviated significantly from the customary. First, the ceremony did not take place in Vienna but was held in Passau on December 14, 1676. Second, the usual per procuram wedding ceremony was dispensed with in advance. Third, the Advent season was not (and is not) traditionally a time for weddings. What motivated the Viennese court to make these changes remains an open question. That they wanted to avoid excessive splendor in view of the ongoing year of mourning was understandable, but why the diplomats residing at the Viennese imperial court and even the papal nuncio, Francesco Buonvisi, who had played a major role in the establishment of the alliance, were explicitly excluded was less so. These conspicuous features appear all the more strange against the background of the public staging of the Habsburg emperor’s two previous weddings.40 While Leopold’s first two brides had experienced all the pomp and splendor of publicly staged weddings, Eleonora Magdalena had to content herself with a poem of praise, Il Giudice di Paride,41 and a “private” staging of her wedding festivities.

Buonvisi did not attend the events as a private individual. As “servants of the pope,” the apostolic nuncios were representatives of the head of the Catholic Church and princes of the Papal States, far superior in rank to a simple duke or count. Furthermore, at the beginning of the reign of Emperor Leopold I, the ceremonial-liturgical role of the nuncio at the imperial court42 was laid down in detail. The nuncios seem already to have consolidated their ceremonial and liturgical positions at the court, so they were able to invoke deftly acquired ancient privileges. The privileges and functions of the papal minister included, for example, access to all gala days and events of festivals, as well as private chamber comedies. At the same time, the nuncio held supreme jurisdiction over court liturgies (baptisms, confirmation, the churching of the empress and weddings) and events at which the queen’s presence was guaranteed (solemn cappella, hereditary coronations, coronations and wedding banquets).43 Other prominent occasions on which the nuncio was at the center of liturgical events were the Maundy Thursday services in the Augustinian church, at which the imperial family and court publicly received communion from the hands of the nuncio, or processions of various kinds, especially processions held on the occasion of Corpus Christi,44 the laying of foundation stones, and the dedication of newly built churches. The numerous cappellae and the public services that the papal representative and the other diplomats had to attend were added to the many occasions on which the nuncio was liturgically active. Francesco Buonvisi was definitely of great importance in the court ceremonies of the Viennese imperial court, but in his daily life as nuncio, he had to grapple with disputes over rank with regard to the German imperial princes,45 and this caused the pope’s representative incessant discomfort precisely because of his special privileges in the liturgy.46 While Buonvisi had been prominently involved in the ceremonies surrounding the death and funeral of Empress Claudia, the ambassadors and thus also the nuncio were excluded from the wedding of the emperor to the Palatine princess in Passau. Clearly, the court preferred a private wedding ceremony,47 since one had to fear conflicts of precedence with the bride’s family. The wedding ceremony was performed by the bishop of Vienna and the archbishop of Gran/Esztergom respectively specifically to avoid ceremonial disputes at the table. The choice of venue was due to the ceremonial problems that arose between the diplomatic representatives of royal powers and the German princes. Instead, the diplomats were assured that they would not be expected to make the long journey. In an analogous way, the concept of courtly privacy was also applied to the two Habsburg weddings in 1678. Much as in the case of the emperor’s wedding to Eleonora of Palatinate-Neuburg (1676), which was held in Passau in a private manner, in 1678 the wedding of Eleonora Maria Josefa, the widowed queen of Poland and half-sister of the emperor to the duke of Lorraine and the wedding of Archduchess Maria Anna Josepha to the count of Palatinate-Neuburg, John William, were both held in Wiener Neustadt. Furthermore, both were considered private to avoid conflicts of precedence. Nevertheless, Buonvisi and his Venetian colleague paid a courtesy visit to the emperor’s sister Eleonora, the widow of the Polish king, incognito, but not to her husband, the duke of Lorraine; this happens analogously also in the case of Eleonora’s younger sister, Maria Anna. It can thus be stated that the Passau wedding can be regarded as a prime example of the introduction of courtly privacy and the concept of incognito, which also had its effects on subsequent weddings at the imperial court.48

After Emperor Leopold decided on October 4, 1676 to marry Princess Eleonora Magdalena Theresia,49 the daughter of Count Palatine Philip William,50 the following became quite clear: fertility and health were the most important considerations in a princely marriage, as well as the propagation of the Catholic faith (which was not guaranteed despite the announced conversion of the Danish princess) and the securing of the dynasty through offspring.51 In fact, the 23-year-old Catholic Neuburg princess had a head start over all her competitors because of her mother’s many children, which led to the conclusion, whether justified or not, that she too would prove fertile. After the choice was made, Rome congratulated the emperor on decision.52 The questions of the “provedimenti necessarii” were still unresolved, above all the date of the wedding festivities, which at that time were to be held before the first Advent, and the place for the wedding, which was thought to be around Linz.53 As of October 18, there was still no talk of possible conflicts or, better, disputes over precedence.54 After the election of the future empress, correspondence between Rome and Vienna between October 18 and December 14 revolved around the celebration of the wedding and the avoidance of precedence disputes with Count Philip William of Palatinate-Neuburg. In a total of twelve letters and 5 notifications (avvisi), matters between Rome and Vienna were clarified.55

The Incognito Project of the Papal Diplomat Buonvisi

After Buonvisi officially communicated the emperor’s official announcement regarding his future empress in his letter to the secretary of state on October 18, Buonvisi wrote a ciphered letter to Alderano Cybo on October 25, 1676. In this ciphered letter the apostolic nuncio presented a project revolving around the possible wedding festivities in Passau. He reflected on one point in particular: the session disputes at the table between the envoys and Count Philip William of Palatinate-Neuburg. Were the wedding to be held in Linz, the ambassadors of the princes would follow the imperial court and subsequently claim to be admitted to his table on the first day, as had been the case at the weddings of the last two empresses. This would create a conflict between the representatives and the father of the bride, as they would not agree on precedence at the table and elsewhere. Buonvisi therefore proposed the following solution to the Court Chancellor Johann Paul Hocher56 (which Buonvisi reported to Rome): Buonvisi thought of going to Linz at the beginning of December and then going “almost incognito” (portarsi quasi incognito) to Passau to visit the Madonna on her feast day. Subsequently, the sposalizio by Buonvisi should then take place privately (“per farvi privatemente lo sposalizio”). Under the excuse of an indisposition, Buonvisi then intended to leave immediately without taking part in the festivities after the blessing of the marriage in order to avoid disputes over the ceremony. For the secular envoys in general, the “lontananza del luogo, e dalla forma dell’andarvi, di dire a gl’Ambasciatori, che non lo seguitino”57 was considered a decorative, not valid argument (pretesto). Thus, the diplomats were not to be expected to make the arduous journey and the wedding was to take place in a “private form.” In this way, conflicts of precedence between the envoys and the count of Palatinate-Neuburg were to be circumvented.

Unlike his “colleghi secolari,” who somewhat regretted being prevented from attending the solemn occasion, the apostolic nuncio could not simply accept his absence: “ma io vi considero il pregiudizio della Nunziatura, se sotto qualsivoglia pretesto lo sposalizio si haverà da fare, o dal Vescovo di Passavia, o da altri.”58 Buonvisi considers exclusion from the celebration of the wedding or the wedding ceremony made private as damaging to the Apostolic Nunciature, especially if the wedding were to be performed under any pretext by the archbishop of Passau or by others. Buonvisi was concerned with safeguarding his prerogative (“il mio ius”) and his function of celebrating the sposalizio through the apostolic nuncio (“per conservare il possesso di fare lo sposalizio”). On the other hand, Buonvisi considered it very difficult to be present at the imperial table due to the disputes with the count. For this reason, Buonvisi proposed the following solution to Court Chancellor Hocher:

I did not want to disturb Your Majesty’s satisfaction, nor alter the enjoyment that you will have with your relatives, but that at the same time I would like to conserve my privilege, and that I could offer Your Majesty to take me incognito to the place of the wedding, I thought I could offer to take myself to the church at the time of the function, and leave immediately afterwards, but as I was alone without the others, it seemed to me that I could, without prejudice to our prerogatives, refrain from appearing at the other functions, especially as His Majesty wanted to hold them in an almost incognito form.59

Buonvisi proposed the idea of going incognito60 to the emperor at this point as the necessary solution. He thus believed that “aggiustamento” (agreement, rectification) could be reached by dissimulation rather than by approval (“dissimulando, che approvando”). Due to the positions Philip William of Palatinate-Neuburg and Charles V of Lorraine came to occupy within the hierarchy of rank and title in Europe, they were no longer willing to grant the apostolic nuncio the ceremonial precedence without objection from 1676 onwards. For Buonvisi, this ultimately meant coexistence, but without consent (“convivendo, e non consentendo”).61

Buonvisi therefore suggested that he might like to travel to Passau incognito and leave again after the marriage had been solemnized. Thus, according to Buonvisi, the nuncio’s ius for the sposalizio would be preserved, and the emperor would be able to celebrate his wedding at the imperial table with joy and satisfaction without fear of a conflict of precedence. 62 Hocher liked Buonvisi’s proposal and wanted to report it to the emperor.63 Buonvisi’s incognito project was invented as a ceremonial mode, according to Rohr, “to avoid many a precedence dispute’ (“zu Vermeidung mancherley Praecedenz-Streitigkeiten”).64 It was based on a separation of the person from his ceremonial function and created spaces for individual arrangements, which could be instrumentalized, especially by ruling monarchs, to avoid possible political complications specific to the situation. Once again, the act of going incognito opened a way out. In the incognito mode, it was possible to escape the invariable order of a ceremony, which ultimately created an architectural scenery of movable and immovable backdrops.

Once Buonvisi had been informed on October 25 about the location of the celebration,65 he revised his submitted proposal on the same day. Since it was still unclear whether Buonvisi would celebrate the sposalizio and whether the envoys would attend the wedding, Buonvisi wanted to go to the court chancellor the next day, i.e. October 26, 1676, and find out more about “che cosa hanno risoluta in questa materia” and whether “se spediranno il corriero per domandare la dispensa.”66 It is interesting that the avviso announces the form of the wedding in such an impressive way: “[…] e si crede che sarà in forma molto privata.” Previously, the same avviso alluded already to the private nature of the ceremony in a simpler form: “[…] et ivi farà privatamente le nozze.”67 There is thus an increase in the emphasis on privacy in the celebration in Passau from “privatamente” to “molto private” due to the presence of new information.

On October 27, Buonvisi sent a letter by express post to Rome requesting a quick reply to the letters he had already sent (which he presented again as duplicates)68 and asking for instructions on the funzione dello sposalizio. Since, as Buonvisi informed Cybo, Hocher had not yet been able to give him an answer as to who should hold it, he concluded “che habbino gran difficultà a consentire alla mia proposizione.” Buonvisi therefore submitted a modified proposal to Cybo, which he communicated to him in his letter of October 27:

and perhaps it will be better for me to remain in Vienna with all the others, because it would be better not to go to Passau if not incognito, since some people might interpret that I have actually yielded to the pretended precedence; with all this I thought it best to do that reason for not yielding at all to my jurisdiction, since it is true that they will at least tell me that they are not prejudiced by this act.69

Buonvisi thus considered it better to remain in Vienna with the other envoys during the wedding celebration. If the apostolic nuncio were to go to Passau, this could only be done if he traveled incognito. It might be interpreted by “some” (alcuni) that Buonvisi had indeed yielded to his “alleged” precedence (alle pretese precedenze). Buonvisi did not give up “affatto” his ius, and so he asked for instructions.

While Buonvisi was still waiting for a reply to his letters of October 25 and 27, he reported new events to Rome on November 1.70 Between October 27 and November 1, Hocher came to Buonvisi to inform him of the emperor’s decision: “Sua Maestà gradiva molto la mia moderazione, ma che haverebbe havuto più proprio sarebbe il ritrovarsi a Lintz, al ritorno di Sua Maestà.”71 Emperor Leopold I’s order was unmistakable: Buonvisi should not celebrate the wedding and neither should he undertake the journey to Passau, not even incognito. The emperor considered it “more appropriate” for Buonvisi to wait in Linz for his return.

How did Buonvisi deal with this problem? In a case of conflict or precedence disputes, one could either not appear at all or go to Passau incognito. The emperor, however, had expressed his explicit objection to the latter. The idea of traveling incognito was ultimately discarded in order to prevent a possible prejudicial effect and to avoid, as it were, a ritualization of the conflicts through the practice of traveling incognito. If one did not want it to come to that, the only way was an explicit (public/private) protest against the “invented tradition” adopted in connection with the privately held wedding ceremony, or one demanded a reversal in written form. As a rule, Buonvisi had his reservation of rights explicitly specified and affirmed in the declaration in question in order to prevent any precedent-setting effect. 72

Buonvisi did not insist further on his incognito project, mainly because he had not yet received any instructions from Rome. Instead, he demanded from the court chancellor or Emperor Leopold “che si preservasse la prerogativa della Nunziatura, con qualche dichiarazione in scritto, che esprimesse toccare questa funzione al Nunzio, ma essersi intermessa senza pregiudicare, solo perché Sua Maestà ha desiderato di far la funzione privatamente, e senza l’intervento dei publici rappresentanti.”73

Buonvisi therefore demanded that his liturgical privileges as apostolic nuncio be set down in writing, which he wanted to see safeguarded.74 Only in this case should his legal claim be suspended, because the emperor wanted to hold the function privately and without interference from public representatives. For Buonvisi, the documentation of this specific case and the affirmation in writing of his ius praecedentiae were decisive. Without this, the nunciature remained prejudiced. But due to the circumstances, the nuncio could not contradict the emperor without outraging him and without coming into conflict with the count of Palatinate-Neuburg. Buonvisi expressed his hope to the pope “that our Lord will approve of the reasons for having recalled the nunciature without then insisting on adhering to them, using the excuse that the wedding has to be totally private.”75 The question of the nuncio’s privileges was thus closely intertwined with the problems of precedence regarding German princes. Hocher then promised to convey the demand to the emperor and to present this declaration to him as righteous (“di rappresentarli per giusta questa dichiarazione”). The codification of Buonvisi’s ius gained a new dimension of public recognition and survived for a comparatively long time. If he tolerated an infringement on his right, he could eventually lose this privilege.76 As for Buonvisi’s request to be allowed to travel to Linz, the nuncio refused it. He considered this an escape from the dispute over precedence with the count of Palatinate-Neuburg (“mostrare di haver sfuggito la concorrenza”).

The Concept of “Private” in the Nunciature Correspondence

In the discussion below, I offer a detailed explanation of the meanings of the category of privacy. In Italian, the central term used by Buonvisi to designate the private is privato, in contrast to the category of the public (publico). In Italian, the adjective privato and the adverb privatamente are used primarily to characterize non-official, non-public places, persons, and acts. The reader comes across the term in correspondence mainly in adjectival form. In Buonvisi, one can observe two forms of use of the lexeme “privat.” Thus, we find the phrases such as “in forma privata/da esser totalmente privato” where the term is used as an adjective, or other sentences with “privatamente” as an adverb. In the difference between the public and the private, however, the imperial court valorized the concept of the private ceremonial sphere of action around the wedding ceremony. This instrumentalization of the private sphere was reported by the papal representative in partibus to the Cardinal Secretary of the State Alderano Cybo. He consistently alludes to the sphere of the “private” or the private form of the event. The concepts of rights form a frame of reference, and the associated field of words includes ius, prerogativa, privilegio, and giusto. Buonvisi attributes more influence to this frame of reference around his prerogatives than to any sense of regret over not being allowed to perform the liturgical celebration of the wedding in private. This makes it clear that an isolated consideration of the categories of public and private in the correspondence is not possible due to their discursive embedding. The private is bound to the public and vice versa, even if one or the other lexeme has not been explicitly nominated. This sheds light on the relationship between the public and private spheres of the wedding ceremony, which are always more or less clearly related to each other or reconciled and conceptually related.

On November 7, 1676, Pope Innocent XI and Alderano Cybo respectively replied to the Viennese nuncio via priority dispatch to his letters of 25 and 27 October 1676. The secretariat of the state gave Buonvisi the longed-for instructions concerning the ius of the nunciature and the function of the sposalizio:

Your Holiness, however, judges it right and proper that you should disengage yourself from the matter, as you yourself seem to have thought; since the wedding being celebrated privately, in a remote place, and far from the eyes of the ministers of the princes, it seems that no harm can be done to the dignity and prerogatives of the apostolic nuncio. [...] Nevertheless, for the greater caution of the future, Your Illustrious Lordship may leave a note in the registers of this Chancery of the reason why you have not been able to exercise this function this time, so that it may not be held up as an example in cases where [this function] may be exercised by the apostolic nuncio.77

Thus, Rome assured the papal representative residing in Vienna that with the wedding ceremony taking place privately in Passau there was no violation of the dignity (dignità) and prerogatives (prerogative) of the apostolic nuncio. As a matter of prudence, Buonvisi should describe the case in the registers of the chancery and explain why he was not in a position to exercise this funzione dello sposalizio in this specific case.78 Rome also assured the nuncio that the function of the sposalizio “without doubt” (indubitatamente) fell to the Viennese nuncio and to no one else.79 This concluded the case for Rome. In addition to the instructions, the extraordinary courier consignment contained the dispensation granted by Pope Innocent XI on account of consanguinity in the third degree, which was required by canon law for the marriage of Emperor Leopold to Eleonora,80 and at the same time the marriage license for the bishop of Passau.81 Leopold I had requested both on October 27, 1676.82 The dispensation and license reached Nuncio Buonvisi in Vienna on November 22, 1676, and one day later, on November 23, 1676, the emperor set off from Vienna to Passau.83

Avoidance as a Diplomatic Solution to Conflicts of Precedence

Francesco Buonvisi, reassured of the correctness of his actions by Rome, justified himself once more to make clear the aim of his whole undertaking:

my purpose was only to show that I was responsible for this function, and that I was anxious to serve His Majesty in any way, but in the extreme, I thought it better to avoid it, and I was only determined to procure a declaration that would preserve the reasons for the Nunciature, and perhaps I would have obtained it by now, if Hocher had not fallen ill; However, I will not fail to procure it on the return of Your Majesty, and if I do not obtain it, I will put in the Registers of the Chancery a separate report of the causes for which you omitted to go, so that the memory of it may remain, in order to protect us from the injuries in the future, as I am commanded by Your Eminence.84

“Avoidance” (lo sfuggire) and “excuse” (ammettendo la scusa) were two sides of the same coin in this process of avoiding disputes over precedence in ceremony. Buonvisi considered lo sfuggire more appropriate, while the imperial court advanced the scusa of not wanting the numerous envoys represented at the imperial court to make the long journey to Passau. It was obvious that the emperor’s third marriage was deliberately moved to Passau to spare the emperor unpleasant disputes over matters of ceremony. This in order to ensure that his new relatives would not suffer any insulting treatment at the hands of the diplomatic representatives at the imperial court during the ceremonial dinner where the newly wed emperor, his new wife and her parents (only counts) were supposed to sit at the same table as the diverse high ranking ambassadors,

…so that either the one or the other would have to leave the table, and the ambassadors (when they had moved from Vienna, and had not taken a seat at the table) would have been disgusted. In order to avoid such disconcert, it was arranged that the emperor let the ambassadors know that he was going to Passau to celebrate his wedding and that he did not wish the ambassadors to be inconvenienced, but to remain in Vienna, where he would shortly return with his bride. The ambassadors were indeed displeased with this request, but considering that it could not be otherwise, they concurred in His Majestys pleasure.85

The conflict therefore arose not only in the religious celebration of the wedding but also in the subsequent order of sitting at the table. In order to preserve the positions of the count and the envoys and to avoid conflicts, all the diplomats were, so to speak, disinvited. But in addition to that, in the register of graces in the archive of the Vienna Nunciature during Buonvisi’s term of office, there is no note of the substitution of the blessing of the marriage between Emperor Leopold I and Eleonora Magdalena of Palatinate-Neuburg with the archbishop and prince-bishop of Passau.86 This is probably because the wedding was celebrated “privately” in Passau and, as Cybo himself wrote to Buonvisi, the ius was not affected.87 The affirmation of the ius and prerogatives of the Apostolic Nunciature was a consequence in the avoidance of a precedent and the avoidance of a scandal in Europe over matters of ceremony and thus politics. The nuncio’s prerogatives had not changed since Ferdinand II’s accession to power.

Conclusions

The emperor’s wedding in Passau 1676 was only the beginning of further disputes over ceremony that sharpened the papal representative’s sensitivity to potential threats to his ceremonial position. Thus, privacy and participating incognito in events became important forms of instrumentalization and offered a way to avoid conflicts over precedence in ceremony at the early modern imperial court. On the one hand, the categories should not be understood as referring to retreat from the public eye. Ceremony, rather, was given a performative flexibility and adaptability. On the other hand, strict adherence to established tradition was observable at the imperial court. Leopold I was not free in his definition of ceremonial behavior. Rather, he had to orchestrate his acts on the basis of ceremonial practices in use at other European courts. These imperial responses showed that in matters of ceremony, the emperor always decided according to custom, demonstrating a conservative approach to ceremonial norms, especially towards the numerous envoys represented at the imperial court. This in turn suggests that incognito participation and privacy offered a way out of the dilemma and were seen as suitable means to avoid conflicts around ceremonial performances at the imperial court. However, if the ceremonial really “does what it depicts,”88 then incognito participation and privacy in the Theatrum ceremoniale constituted elements that were to be performed on stage, whereas the true reasons remained concealed behind the scenes.

Table 1. Rhythm of communication between Francesco Buonvisi and Alderano Cybo (October 17 to December 20, 1676)

Postal consignment	Confirmation of the letters	Alderano Cybo to Buonvisi	Francesco Buonvisi to Cybo	Confirmation of the letters	Postal consignment
Ordinario	No arrival of letters	17.10. (Sa), Rome Ciffer
			18.10. (Su), Vienna	3.10.	Ordinario
			18.10. (Su), Vienna
		(24.10.)
			25.10. (Su); Vienna	10.10.	Ordinario
			25.10. (Su); Vienna
			25.10. (Su); Vienna (Avviso)
			27.10. (Tu), Vienna		Staffetta, Extraordinary Shipping
		(31.10)
			1.11. (Su); Vienna	17.10.	Ordinario
			1.11. (Su); Vienna (Avviso)
Staffetta	18.10. 25.10. 27.10.	7.11. (Sa), Rome
			(8.11.)
		(9. 11.; 14.11.)
			15.11. (Su); Vienna	31.10.	Ordinario
			15.11. (Su); Vienna (Avviso)
		(21.11.)
			22.11. (Su); Vienna	7.11.	Ordinario
			22.11. (Su); Vienna (Avviso)
		(28.11.)
			(29.11.)
Ordinario	15.11.	5.12. (Sa), Rome
			(6.12.)
	22.11.	12.12. (Sa), Rome
			(13.12.)
		(19.12.)
			20.12. (Su); Vienna (Avviso)	5.12.	Ordinario
		(26.12.)
			(27.12.)
		(2.1.1677)
			(3.1.1677)
		(9.01.)

Archival Sources

Archivio Apostolico Vaticano (AAV)

Segreteria di Stato (Segr. Stato), Germania 36, 195, 196, 198, 208

Archivio della Nunziatura di Vienna (Arch. Nunz. Vienna) 29, 73, 500

Archivio di Stato di Lucca (ASL)

Archivio Buonvisi II/11; II/30

Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv Wien (HHStA)

Obersthofmeisteramt, Zeremonielprotokolle (OMeAZA-Protokoll) 3

Obersthofmeisteramt, Ältere Zeremonialakten (OMeA ÄZA) 10, 11

Urkundenreihen, Habsburg-Lothringische Familienurkunden (UR FUK) 1757

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Schnitzer-Becker, Rotraut. “Eleonora Gonzaga Nevers, imperatrice.” In Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani. Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana: Roma42 (1993), 428–34.

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Changes in the Diplomatic Measures of the Russian Empire in the Balkans after the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji (1774)

Katalin Schrek
University of Debrecen
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 2  (2023):3–36 DOI 10.38145/2023.2.310

In the last third of the eighteenth century, the foreign policy of the Russian Empire was oriented towards the Ottoman Empire and, as part of it, towards the Balkans and the Black Sea region. The aspirations of Russian foreign policy under Catherine II were shaped not only by the weakening of the government in Constantinople and the acquisition of new territories, but also by the creation of Russian economic, cultural, and political presence in southeastern Europe. The creation of official diplomatic representations was one of the main tools used by Russia to establish its presence in the Balkans.

The establishment of permanent embassies and the creation of the necessary political and infrastructural background became a decisive segment in the development of European diplomacy from the Peace of Westphalia to the Napoleonic Wars. The steps taken by the government in St. Petersburg with the creation of permanent embassies in the leading European courts were in line with the abovementioned trend, but while this kind of “catching up” process gradually moved towards Central and Western Europe, Russia applied a completely different set of conditions to maintain diplomatic relations in the case of the Ottoman Empire. Ottoman diplomacy operated as a “one-sided diplomatic relation”: there were permanent Russian envoys at the Constantinople court, but no representatives were delegated by the Porte to St. Petersburg. Russia had to adapt to this special situation in the eighteenth century. This closed system was broken by the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji, which closed the Russo-Turkish War of 1768–1774 and included a clause according to which Russia had the right to establish consulates in the Ottoman Empire and thus in the Balkans, a key area.
The other key element of the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji was the right of the reigning Russian tsar to be the protector of Christians in the Ottoman Empire, which was also fixed in this agreement. The “authority” acquired at this time was not unprecedented, as the Porte had acceded to such requests in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries through capitulations with other states (such as France, Austria, or the Venetian Republic), thus establishing the “protégé” system. At the same time, the Russian government took the protection of Christians under the jurisdiction of the Porte to a new level and made it an integral part of its foreign policy. In my study, I examine how the Russian Empire applied the results of the Peace of Kuchuk Kainardji to diplomatic advocacy in the Balkans.

Keywords: Russian diplomacy, Ottoman Empire, eighteenth century, Balkan relations, Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji, diplomatic service

In the history of Russian diplomacy, the eighteenth century brought several new elements which fundamentally determined the way in which the state operated in the field of foreign relations. European diplomatic trends served as a model for the development of Russia’s foreign missions and, perhaps more importantly, its institutional system. In this, as in so many other things, the reign of Peter the Great was the starting point, with the adoption of Western (i.e. European) customs, rules of sending and receiving ambassadors,1 protocols, and the abolition (or, more precisely, the transformation) of the prikaz system, which created a system of colleges within which foreign affairs functioned as a separate unit. Building up the institutional system, developing diplomatic practice in line with international trends, organizing the apparatus, and the coordination of all these segments was a difficult and complex process. As part of the latter, the Russian government also paid attention to building up its foreign representations. After the Peace of Westphalia (1648), it became a priority for the European states to maintain constant communication with one another, obtain information more efficiently and monitor the internal and external activities of other (usually rival) countries, which also served to keep one another mutually under control.2 The most effective way to do this was to establish permanent embassies, a process in which the Russian Empire was also involved, although at a somewhat slower pace. The measures adopted by the government in St. Petersburg to establish permanent embassies in the leading European courts were in line with the abovementioned policy. One of the first steps taken by Russia was to establish diplomatic connections with the courts of Central and Western Europe through its envoys delegated to London, Paris, and Vienna,3 though the geopolitical interests of the Russian Empire gradually shifted in the eighteenth century towards the eastern and southeastern regions of the continent.

The Balkan Peninsula, the Mediterranean, and the Black Sea region occupied a special place in Russian foreign political thinking, and several foreign policy concepts were formulated which made these territories (all of which were under the jurisdiction of the Ottoman Empire) a specific target of Russian expansion and influence gaining. These ambitions, motivated by economic and strategic considerations, placed the official relations with the Porte on a pedestal, together with the establishment and, if necessary, the strengthening of Russian ties with the Balkan peoples. But establishing a Russian diplomatic presence on the peninsula was far from easy. The process was slowed down (and heavily burdened) by a series of conflicts between St. Petersburg and Constantinople which flared up at times in the Russo-Turkish wars of the eighteenth century (1710–1711, 1736–1739, 1768–1774, and 1788–1792) and the peculiar and in many respects closed foreign political system that characterized the Ottoman Empire. St. Petersburg’s efforts to build official relations with the Balkan provinces and the strategies adopted and tools used in the pursuit of this aim must be analyzed and interpreted in this context. Russia delegated envoys to the Ottoman capital as early as the beginning of the eighteenth century, but the Ottomans had no official representatives in Russia until 1857.4

The question of Russian foreign policy and Russia’s great power status is a popular topic among Hungarian and international historians of Russian studies, and the process of Russia’s transformation into an empire has been studied from many perspectives in recent decades. Russian diplomacy, territorial expansion, and the aspiration to gain influence over specific regions (including the Balkans) are evident components of the works focusing on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Almost without exception, every work (whether at the level of mention or deeper analysis) devotes attention to the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji, which is considered a starting point in the breakdown of parity between Russia and the Porte and also in the expansion of Russia’s regional influence (whether in the Balkans or the Caucasus). The treaty signed on July 21, 1774 between Russia and the Porte after the war of 1768–1774 was literally a triumph of Russian diplomacy. The negotiations were led by Pyotr Alexandrovich Rumyantsev, and it took almost two years from the armistice for Russia and the Porte to reach a final agreement.5 The historiographical overview of the subject is a difficult task due to its complexity, since the topic of the peace itself and Russia’s presence in the Balkans is mostly treated as one comprehensive thread, i.e. in the study of the history of the Eastern Question in general. In order to bypass this problem, I provide a narrow interpretation of the most significant literature directly related to the subject of this paper chronologically, thematically, and in terms of theoretical methodology.

One of the main directions of research concerning the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji is the traditional political history approach, which for decades has dominated the work of historians on the subject. Part of this is essentially the traditional historiographical approach, based on the thorough processing of archival sources, in which the representatives of Russian historiography have been at the forefront. The monograph by E. I. Druzhinina can be considered a basic work, as well as the works of diplomatic historians (including I. S. Dostyan, G. L. Arsh, V. N. Vinogradov, and V. V. Degoev) that focus on issues less partial than the former, dealing rather with the Eastern Question and the Balkans at the turn of the century and during the first half of the nineteenth century.6 Among the works with new perspectives on Russia’s international relations, in addition to N. S. Kinyapina’s Russia’s foreign policy in the first half of the 19th century,7 I would also like to highlight О. V. Orlik’s monographs, in which Orlik examines regional aspects of Russian foreign policy in the nineteenth century.8 Most of these works do not deal specifically with the subject or the period covered here, but they typically present the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji as an important of reference point.

In Hungary, research on the historical background of the Eastern Question in the eighteenth century has been carried out by Erzsébet Bodnár, who in her monograph and numerous studies addresses the earliest issues of the Eastern Question (in the eighteenth century and the first half of the nineteenth century). She has devoted particular attention to the study of the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji and the Turkish straits.9

One finds the same trend in the Western historiography, which tends to interpret the 1774 treaty and Russia’s Balkan expansion in a broader perspective, such as the context of great power rivalries (Anglo-Russian competition or the Crimean War for instance)10, rather than in terms of practical diplomacy or the tools of diplomacy. The main proponent of the geopolitical approach is John P. LeDonne, who has analyzed Russia’s role as an international political factor, including economic and military aspects.11 In some cases, the geopolitical perspective is combined with an economic approach, as in the publications of Vernon Puryear, and detailed diplomatic histories have also been published telling the story of an individual or a diplomatic mission.12

In addition, studies focusing on the impact of the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji have tended to focus on the ideological and political background of the Orthodoxy and the Russian protectorate and its manifestations in a particular area. These include Viktor Taki’s analysis of the Russian protectorate as a “soft power” and Endre Sashalmi’s discussion of the religious roots and political culture of Russian politics in the Balkans, highlighting the importance of the peace that brought the Russo-Turkish War of 1768–1774 to an end.13

As seen from the above, the historical literature on the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainarji and the subsequent period tends to focus on the territorial achievements and the rights acquired or the economic aspects, but no attention is paid to the specific changes that took place within practical diplomacy. At this point, it is important to make clear the main aspects and objectives of my inquiry. In any analysis and interpretation of large-scale political processes, it is important to map and present the less spectacular methods that are used on lower levels of diplomacy, such as the decade-long practice of establishing diplomatic representation and the instruments associated with it.

This, in my opinion, is the most important achievement of the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji: the gradual transformation of the tools and methods used in Russian diplomacy until its emergence at the level of practical diplomacy, which would create the preconditions for Russian diplomatic representation in the Balkan provinces under Ottoman rule (which previously had not been possible).

I therefore do not aim in this essay to reassess the diplomatic history or geopolitical background of the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji. My main objective is to define and interpret, in the context of the new foreign policy perspectives offered by the peace treaty, the new methods and instruments used by Russian foreign policy in the Balkans, such as the diplomatic representation, the establishment of consulates, and the use of the protégé system. Furthermore, I present the mechanisms that were directly applied in everyday diplomatic practice.

The Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji14 was significant for a number of reasons, but from the perspective of the discussion here, it was important because it offered an opportunity to change the diplomatic toolbox, and in the end, the Russian court took advantage of this opportunity. From a diplomatic point of view, in addition to providing Russia with a number of political advantages, the peace was a milestone in establishing formal (official) relations with the Balkan provinces and in raising diplomatic ties with the Ottoman Porte to a new level. The peace treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji resulted in significant achievements for Russia in three fields: 1) territorial; 2) economic; 3) political-diplomatic-cultural. In terms of territorial gains, Russia extended its borders to the Bug/Dnieper River.15 It finally acquired the fortress of Azov and strengthened its position in the North Caucasus. However, the second and third areas represented the real change in diplomatic terms, which were, to some extent, related to each other. A constant and key issue in the Russian concept of foreign policy was the economic consideration of more active involvement in maritime trade and thus in trade all over Europe, which would put the Eastern European state in a genuinely competitive position economically. The economic provisions of the treaty, which were advantageous for Russia and essentially opened the way for unrestricted Russian commercial shipping on the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles, were closely linked to the establishment of consulates and the development of a network of Russian agents.

As noted above, the peace of 1774 opened up a rather closed Ottoman system from a diplomatic point of view, and this allowed Russia to make three important advances. The first of these advances was the establishment, in accordance with Article 5, of a permanent embassy in the Ottoman capital. Diplomatic relations with the Ottoman Empire were different from the traditional European model, and even in the eighteenth century, they were largely unilateral. This did not mean, of course, that the Porte did not maintain diplomatic relations with other states, but the difference can be grasped in the method according to which envoys were sent. The government of the Sultan received the representatives of other countries, as had been the case in previous periods, but the Porte did not delegate permanent envoys even to the main European courts. Hence, much of the mutual communication was conducted through the foreign envoys stationed in Constantinople.16 Representation in Constantinople had long been a priority for Russia, as is evidenced by the fact that, from Pyotr Tolstoi’s mission as resident ambassador in 1702 onwards, Russian representatives came to the Ottoman capital quite frequently, but they came as part of temporary missions and not as officials of permanent embassies with an uninterrupted presence. Sometimes there was a gap of several years before a new Russian envoy was sent, and their titles varied widely (resident, envoy, charge d’affaire).17 This was the period when Russian diplomacy and foreign affairs began to professionalize on the basis of European standards.18 Thus, the peace treaty confirmed something that had essentially been in existence for decades, and the significance of the relevant article lies rather in the fact that the provision precisely defines the rank of the Russian representative in Constantinople. In this respect, Russian diplomacy took a serious step forward, because from the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji onwards, the Russian government was represented at the Sublime Porte by an envoy who was “ranked second”:

the Imperial Court of Russia will always have with the Sublime Porte a Minister of the second order, that is to say an Envoy or a Minister Plenipotentiary, and the Sublime Porte will have for his character all the consideration and all the attentions that it has for the Ministers of the most distinguished Powers (…).19

It was an important condition that the Russian envoy would follow the Austrian imperial envoy in the diplomatic ranking.20 This was linked to the fact that, under the same treaty, the Sultan recognized the Russian tsar as a padishah,21 and the Russian envoy was therefore to be treated with the utmost respect.22 The treaty was also clear on diplomatic protocol, and it regulated what was to be done if the Russian diplomat and the imperial envoy did not hold the same rank. In this case, “ if this Minister of the Emperor has a different one, that is to say higher or lower, the minister or envoy of Russia will walk (…) after the ambassador of Holland, or, in his absence, after the ambassador of Venice.”23

1774 was a turning point, but not only for Russian diplomacy. On the Ottoman side, it was also a stimulus for change in diplomacy, although this change was somewhat delayed. It was precisely this Russo-Turkish confrontation, i.e. the constant geopolitical threat from the tsarist court, that gave the incentive for the idea that the diplomatic behavior of the Porte had to change, and Constantinople had to find lasting allies to counter Russia.24

At the same time, alongside the change in foreign political strategy, there were also tangible, almost modern elements of this shift: the establishment of the first permanent embassies (usually in exceptional cases and in the capitals of exceptionally friendly countries, for example London, Berlin, and Paris25) and the associated restructuring of the internal Ottoman administrative system.26

The second important advance for Russia in the field of diplomatic representation was found in provision 2), according to which the Russian envoy could represent Moldavia and Wallachia (Article 12, point 10) at the Porte, which in practice meant that after 1774, the Russian envoy in Constantinople could officially represent the affairs of the Danubian Principalities in the negotiations with the Ottoman government.27 This provision, in turn, created a kind of dependency between the Eastern Balkan provinces and Russia. Previously, the princes of Moldavia and Wallachia had had their own envoys in Constantinople, the so-called capu-kihayas, who were removed from their positions during the war. Pending the peace negotiations, Russia paid attention to this case and agreed with the Porte in the same passage of the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji to reinstate the representatives of the hospodars.28 This measure was provided for in point 9 of the same article of the treaty, which also indicates that the two issues (the representation of the affairs of the Danubian Principalities and the reinstatement of the provincial delegates) were treated by Russian diplomacy as an integrated whole. This custom continued, and the only change was the addition of Russian diplomatic representation in Constantinople.

And finally, the third significant advance for Russia was the newly acquired right to establish consulates in the Ottoman Empire (Article 11) and thus in the Balkan Peninsula, which was of particular importance to the government of St. Petersburg and which was an important milestone in the establishment of formal (official) diplomatic relations with the Balkan provinces. The provision reads as follows:

And as it is in every respect indispensable to establish consuls and vice-consuls in all places where the Russian Empire deems them necessary, they shall be regarded and respected in the same way as other consuls of friendly powers; these consuls and vice-consuls shall be allowed to retain dragomans by the name of Beratlı, that is to say, by granting them imperial patents, and by granting them the same privileges as other consuls in the service of England, France, and other nations.29

This led to the establishment of consulates not only in the Balkans but also in the Danubian Principalities (Bucharest and Iaşi) and later on the Greek mainland and islands (Athens, Patras, and Thessaloniki), in the Belgrade Pashalik (Belgrade), in Montenegro (Kotor), and in several cities in the Middle East.30 The development of the Russian consular system in the Ottoman Empire, which meant the creation of a continuous Russian diplomatic presence in the Balkans, was by no means a rapid process, but rather a systematic one, which took roughly 20 to 30 years for the Russian foreign service, which gradually building this system up along the lines of its original objectives, but always in accordance with the political situation. This reflected in the fact that the first Russian consul started his work in the Danubian Principalities, which was the most important Balkan region for Russia at the time, after the Porte had affirmed Russia’s right in this respect in an auxiliary treaty, in addition to the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji.31

The first Russian diplomat to arrive in this capacity was Sergei L. Lashkov, who served as consul in Bucharest between 1780 and 1782.32 Lashkov had previous diplomatic experience in Constantinople. He presumably learned the diplomatic service here and was chosen as the first Russian consul to the Danube Principalities on the basis of his experience in the Ottoman Empire.33 After 1774, the Dniester River became the newly acquired natural border, and the Russian Empire became the immediate neighbor of the Moldavian Principality. From a geopolitical point of view, this implied a strong Russian presence. The acquired territory was of great importance for Russia’s southwestern border defense, especially because of the frontier nature of the region.34 The term frontier needs to be explained, as the legal status of the Danubian Principalities was completely settled during the period under study, and they were not part of the territories the status of which (i.e. to what state did they belong) was the subject of dispute. On the other hand, frontier areas are generally understood to be territories that act as intermediate areas or transitional zones,35 which a neighboring state is unable to subordinate fully or integrate into its own territory.36 But this was not, essentially, the case with the Danubian Principalities, as they were parts of the Ottoman Empire (as tributary states with their own internal policies), and there was no dispute between the Porte and Russia on this point. At the same time, the region met two criteria that nevertheless gave the Eastern Balkan principalities a kind of frontier character for Russia. The first of these two criteria was the cultural overlap and the second was the fact that Moldavia and Wallachia were usually used as military staging areas in Russo-Turkish conflicts. Thus, in essence, Russia’s southern border zones or frontier zones included the Danubian Principalities37 as well, and this geopolitical role also enhanced the diplomatic importance of Moldavia and Wallachia.

The Russian consulate was very effective through its many connections, but soon other states also began to show interest in the region.38 In addition to Bucharest, a consulate was opened in Iaşi, followed by diplomatic missions to the Greek territories, with Russian consulates being established in Athens, Patras, Thessaloniki, Smyrna, and the Aegean islands.39 This also shows that, regarding the Balkans, the Greek region was given high priority, alongside the Danubian Principalities. In contrast to Russian-Greek relations, Russian-Bulgarian connections remained stagnant in the period after 1774.

The large Greek and Slavic populations that had settled in Russia after the Russo-Turkish war of 1768–1774 and the already existing Russo-Greek connections played a decisive role. One of the most important bridgeheads of the St. Petersburg government in this area was the consulate in Thessaloniki, founded in 1785, which had a special role as one of the paramount ports in the Eastern Mediterranean area, which also served as an information-distribution center. Local connections and transit traffic provided valuable economic and military information for the Russian consuls, who forwarded this information in their reports to the relevant department of the College of Foreign Affairs.40 In addition, the consulate helped the Russian government strengthen the ties to the Orthodox through cooperation with the Greek community, which also ensuring that Christians could make pilgrimages to Mount Athos.41 Among the examples of effective consular activity in the region is the career of Angelo Mustoxidi, who was based in Thessaloniki for several decades, but Sergei Bogdanov42 in the Ionian Islands and Ioannis N. Vlassopoulos, who became consul in Preveza in 1804, were also prominent figures of the Russian diplomatic presence.43 The functioning of the consulates, however, depended heavily on the political conditions in the region. In peacetime and in times of conflict, the role of the consulates was more appreciated, but there are also examples of the diplomatic presence being terminated due to tensions between the Sublime Porte and Russia or because of a war, for instance in 1821.44

Consuls in the Russian service were mostly of Greek descent, sometimes with Phanariot roots. The Phanariotes, who were an influential elite, assisted the Russian government throughout the Balkans, but the Danubian Principalities and Greece were the main areas of cooperation. The Phanariotes had a special position within the Ottoman Empire. This social group of Greek origin, which had extensive international connections and generally excellent language skills, was characterized by a kind of duality. While they were strongly linked to the Ottoman political and administrative system, in which they played leading roles (for example in the leadership of the principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia),45 they also developed deep ties with Russian political and cultural circles, thus predestinating the Orthodox-Russian orientation of the Greek elite, which the St. Petersburg cabinet sought to turn to its advantage.46 In addition, the Russian government also had ambitious plans to create an independent Greek state. The concept of Catherine the Great and Chancellor Bezborodko was based on the revival of the Byzantine Empire. This would have created a geopolitical entity in the eastern Mediterranean that would have been committed to Russia and could have provided new support for the Russian Empire. The draft also envisaged the partition of the Balkans, with Austria receiving parts of the western Balkans and Russia acquiring the eastern provinces of the peninsula.47

Another important means of cooperation with the Greeks was their involvement in Russian economic activity. In addition to the obvious diplomatic representation of Russia, the consular posts established in the Greek territories were given commercial tasks as well. They were given the task of exploring and observing local social, political, and, last but not least, economic conditions.48 The opening of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles to Russian commercial shipping created new perspectives in the cooperation with the Greeks, who were experienced in Levantine trade and commerce. The use of the straits gave Russia a strategic advantage, as the Sublime Porte did not guarantee the freedom of navigation on the straits for all states. It was only a prerogative of the leading European powers (i.e. France and Great Britain). Through capitulations, countries with a permit of passage could allow merchants belonging to other nations to sail under their flags. This was the typical case in the Russian-Greek relationship, as the economic advantages that Russia had gained could be used in a spirit of mutual cooperation. It was a tool in the hands of Russian diplomacy that provided St. Petersburg a stable backdrop to shape the volume of trade in the Eastern Mediterranean. Russia considered the rights set out in article 11 of the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji as obvious, but as a result of negotiations with the Porte, it requested the confirmation of these rights in two conventions over the years. The first such document was the Treaty of Aynalıkavak in 1779, which guaranteed free passage on the Black Sea and through the straits.49 The other was a Russian-Turkish trade agreement in 1783, which guaranteed the unrestricted commercial use of the straits to the Russian Empire.50 These two documents solidified the conditions of Russian trade in the Mediterranean and the results of the peace treaty of 1774. On this basis, it was common practice from the 1780s onwards for Greek merchant ships to transport their cargo under the Russian flag on the routes linking the Black Sea and the Mediterranean.51 Information on local conditions and economic developments was not only relayed by the consuls, but also by the embassy in Constantinople, which had its own department on trade.52 The Russian trade network built up in the Mediterranean through the involvement of people of Balkan origin (mostly Greeks) could not have functioned without the consular network.53 This is where the importance of Russia’s right to establish consulates throughout the Ottoman Empire comes into play, and alongside the Balkans and the Black Sea area, which were immensely important because of their geopolitical proximity, the Middle East (Alexandria, Beirut, Aleppo) also had a prominent place in this process. In economic terms, this Mediterranean network extended as far as Marseilles.54 Russian diplomacy usually employed people who were fluent in the languages of the Mediterranean and well-versed in Ottoman social culture and the workings of Ottoman institutions.55 This also led to closer relations between St. Petersburg and the Greeks.

The development of cultural and political ties with the Serbs, which had a tradition dating back to the decades before the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji, was another key point in Russian-Balkan relations. Among the Balkan nations, the Serbs had the strongest connection to the Russians. This connection was based on common faith and their Slavic origins. In the 1790s, national resistance among the Serbs suggested to the Porte that there was a need to reform the internal relations of the Belgrade Pashalik. This growing attachment to notions of national independence among the Serbs led to the first Serbian uprising at the turn of the century as a result of the inaction (or rather inertia) of the Ottoman central government. In this context, the attitude of Russian foreign policy is of great interest, as they maintained their commitment to the Serb cause in principle and their solidarity with the movement, but they refrained from providing any specific political or military support.56 Russian foreign policy was strongly influenced by its involvement in the French Revolutionary Wars from 1798 (and the Napoleonic wars from 1800), and the method that was applied after 1774 changed in many respects. After the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji, Russian foreign policy towards the Balkans and the Ottoman Empire was divided into two main strands, each of which had different objectives.

The aim of the first was to maximize territorial gains while increasing political and economic influence. This phase lasted until 1774–1792, when the Treaty of Iaşi ended the Second Turkish War of Catherine II. From this point onwards, the original objective (rational but intensive expansion) was transformed, and the aim then was to consolidate the acquired positions and create stability there. Thus, after Iaşi, the Russian government concentrated on the pacification of the newly acquired territories and their incorporation into the empire. This Russian policy of consolidation was disrupted by the emergence of Girondean France in the eastern Mediterranean and the Balkans, which posed a direct threat to Ottoman integrity and Russian influence in the area. This became especially clear after the invasion of the Ionian Islands and the advance of French forces into Montenegro. Hence, the role of Serbia and Montenegro increased greatly.

Regarding Serbian-Russian relations, the government of St. Petersburg sought to preserve good relations and avoid the French orientation of the Belgrade Pashalik, while it was unable to provide any genuine diplomatic or military support to the provisional government led by Karadjordje (George Petrović), since, precisely because of the French threat in the Balkans, Russia had to maintain peace with the Porte. As a result, Russian-Serbian relations were unstable in the late 1790s and early 1800s, and no permanent diplomatic presence was established. In Serbia, this happened much later, although it is true that the Russian protectorate in the strict political sense was guaranteed for St. Petersburg by the Treaty of Adrianople (1829), and the consulate was opened in Belgrade in 1838. 57

However, there were Russian missions and delegations to Serbia,58 which temporarily fulfilled this role, and during the uprising, the Russian Foreign Ministry59 received delegations representing the Serbian provisional government. Thus, official contacts between the two sides did exist, but there was no permanent Russian presence on Serbian territory during the period under examination. This may have been due to the fact that, economically, the Serbian region was a peripheral area compared to the Danubian Principalities and the Greek islands, and the use of periodic missions that had been customary in the past was sufficient for political contacts.60 Furthermore, the lack of consular representation may also have been justified by the fact that, in the unstable European political climate, Russia did not want to make such a serious gesture to a Balkan province that had rebelled against the Porte, since it would be interference in the internal affairs of the Ottoman Empire and could lead to an open confrontation between the governments of St. Petersburg and Constantinople (and even Vienna, which considered this region its own “frontier”) at a time when Russia’s main priority was to hold its ground on the European front.

The situation was different in Montenegro, where Russian foreign policy had other scopes and priorities. Relations with the Western Balkans were not particularly at the forefront of Russia’s concerns anyway, and Austria also had a strong influence in the region. On the whole, however, the Western Balkans were not excluded from the process of building a consular system, as Russia established a consulate in Kotor in 1804. Relations between Russia and Montenegro were complicated before 1774. The Russo-Turkish war of 1768–1774 was also associated with the need for closer cooperation with Montenegro, which simultaneously created a curious situation between the current prince, Šćepan Mali, and the Russian government. The figure of Šćepan Mali was problematic for St. Petersburg, since he had managed to gain support in Montenegro by impersonating Peter III. Although the phenomenon of the “false tsar” was not uncommon in Russian history, it was a particularly sensitive moment for Catherine II, who had come to power through a palace revolution against her husband Peter III. At the same time, cooperation with Šćepan Mali could have provided a new ally in the war against the Porte, so the Russian government initiated negotiations headed by Prince Dolgorukiy in Cetinje.61 Although there were uncertainties about Russian-Montenegrin relations in this period, Russian diplomacy viewed Montenegro as a serious strategic partner in the Western Balkans, capable of counterbalancing the power of Venice and the Ottoman Empire.62

Even so, the Russian presence was more moderate here than in the Eastern Balkan provinces, although the St. Petersburg cabinet considered it important to establish its political and cultural influence in the region. Moreover, the attitude of the Principality of Montenegro towards the Russian Empire was basically positive (especially in the ecclesiastical sphere). There was always some form of contact between the two nations, and information on the situation in the Western Balkans was regularly received from Montenegro and used by Russian diplomacy.63 Russia usually represented itself in the Principality through temporary diplomatic and military missions.64 This was also true in the 1780s and 1800s, when the Adriatic coast underwent several changes as the region became the target of French foreign political ambitions. During the Russo-Turkish War of 1787–1792, Russia sent several envoys to the region to forge an anti-Turkish alliance between northern Albania and Montenegro to support the Austro-Russian alliance in the Balkans.65 The situation was quite complex, since the principality itself was part of the Ottoman Empire, and the smaller coastal part (and the Bay of Kotor) was under the jurisdiction of the Venetian Republic. However, the French Revolutionary Wars led to a change of authority. Venetian power was replaced by Austria in 1797, while Russia began to attach greater importance to the Western Balkans, which by the early nineteenth century was considered part of the Mediterranean sphere of influence of the Russian Empire.66 The Russian Foreign Ministry decided in this milieu to open a diplomatic mission in Kotor that year. However, there are some differences from previous consulate openings. The newest Balkan consulate, for example, was not opened in Ottoman territory. This was a distinctive situation because, as already noted, the Russian consuls adapted to the challenges of the Ottoman political and administrative system by involving and making use of the knowledge of the local people. The same principle would of course have been justified in the case of Montenegro, but the city chosen for the consulate (the strategic and commercial importance of which was undeniable) was in Austrian hands after 1797 (the collapse of the Venetian rule), so it was not enough for Russian diplomacy to adapt to the Ottoman system of relations in the case of Montenegro. Russia also had to communicate with the Austrian Empire about the establishment of a diplomatic representation. Besides the special situation of Montenegro, it also had a strong leader, Petar Njegoš, who was able to build up his power partly with the help of Russian subsidies67 and whose official approval was important for the opening of the Russian Consular Office. In May 1804, under the leadership of A. Mazurevsky, the diplomatic mission was finally opened.68

Another key element of the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji was the right of the Russian tsar to protect the Orthodox Christians living in the Ottoman Empire, which was also laid down in this agreement. The “authority” acquired at this time was not unprecedented, as the Porte had already conceded to such requests in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries through capitulations concluded with other states,69 thus allowing for the development of the so-called protégé system. At the same time, the Russian government took the protection of Christians under the jurisdiction of the Porte to a new level and made it an integral part of its foreign policy towards the Balkans.

During the eighteenth century, the protégé system became an integral part of the European diplomatic missions established in the Ottoman Empire. However, it is important to draw a distinction between the protection needs and rights that applied to individuals and communities. The representatives of the leading European states delegated to the Porte had diplomatic prerogatives granted by international law from the outset, which were supplemented over time in their dealings with the Porte by the privileges granted in the capitulations mentioned earlier.70 Residents with a diverse local network of contacts and a wide range of language skills were given a prominent role in the activities of the missions, helping diplomats, consuls, and other Foreign Service representatives in other statuses. The diplomats could give local residents a mandate which allowed the transfer of privileges that came with the diplomatic service. In general, the persons concerned were non-Muslim residents of the Ottoman Empire who were also engaged in trade and were granted these privileges71 in the form of a specific type of document, the so-called berat.72 It is important, however, to clarify the definition with regard to the protégé system. A distinction must be drawn between the terms protégé and protectorate, which are similar and, in a sense, related but not entirely overlapping. In essence, the protection or rather the exceptional circumstances outlined above (as protégé) emerged at the level of practical diplomacy as a key instrument with which to gain local influence. Therefore, it is not the same as the ideological role of protection at the level of great politics. However, these concepts were not separable, since the protégé was an early, individualized and extended form of the protectorate, which did not think in terms of communities but in terms of protecting individuals. Of course, from a diplomatic point of view, the question of who was worthy of receiving a berat and what that person had to accomplish in order to get one from a foreign country was very subjective, and the individualized protégé system created many opportunities for misuse. In addition to diplomatic immunity, the persons who held the berat (the “beratlı”) also enjoyed customs exemptions, which again opened the door to misuse and corruption.73 Most of the dragomans and agents employed by the consuls were engaged in commercial activities and bought the documents guaranteeing national tax exemption for large sums of money. These merchants carried out a significant part of the trade in the Mediterranean, and so the use of the protégé system was of particular importance for the great powers, including Russia, as it was the basis for the most important economic links of Russian diplomacy.74 However, the method was not only important with regard to maritime and inland trade with the Middle East and Anatolia, but also for the Eastern Balkan region, as the use of berats was also common in the Danubian Principalities, although we have no information on the extent to which Russia used the method there.75

Nevertheless, the claim of protection over individuals evolved into a right over collectives. Although Russia was not the only power to entertain this ambition, it was Russia that used the idea and “institution” of the protectorate most deliberately to shape its relations with the Ottoman Empire. A key rhetorical and political element of the rapprochement towards the nations in the Balkans was the emphasis on belonging together on the basis of denominational and cultural ties.76 Peter the Great had already taken upon himself the role of defender of the Orthodox Christians in the Balkans in the Russo-Turkish War (1710–1711), which was part of the Great Northern War (1700–1721). In April 1711, the tsar issued an appeal in which, based on the Orthodox religious community, he sought to establish cooperation with the nations in the Balkans, in this case the Danubian Principalities. But a similar methodology can also be observed in the same period in the case of the Western Balkan province of Montenegro, where a Russian delegation arrived in July 1711 in the hopes of organizing joint action against the Ottomans.77 The two appeals were successful, yet both ended in failure against the Ottoman army. Nevertheless, the use of this method was an important element in relations between the Balkan nations and Russia, as it essentially set a precedent in the methodology of building alliances with the Balkans. The call on (Balkan) Christians in the Ottoman Empire for a joint action became a motif used frequently in the subsequent Russo-Turkish wars.78 At the same time, in the conflicts between the two empires (Russia and the Porte), which were competing in a common geopolitical space, Russian diplomacy consistently sought to gain protectorate rights over the Christians. This was also the case during the Niš/Belgrade peace negotiations, which brought the Russo-Turkish War of 1736–1739 to a close and which were unsuccessful in this respect. The Russian government, which saw the end of the war as a failure, was unsatisfied with the results. The Porte had not given the tsar the authority he had aspired to establish, and the Habsburg Emperor was able to assume the role of protector of Christians (non-Orthodox Christians) in the Ottoman Empire.79 Similar rights were also enjoyed by other European states in the Ottoman Empire during the eighteenth century, but the other states were typically less likely to take advantage of this in practice.80 Russia finally gained this right in 1774 and, combined with the right to build Orthodox churches, it resulted in a well-constructed cultural diplomacy.

The pursuit of a protective role, territorial gains, and the extension of power/political influence against the Ottoman Empire in the Black Sea region (and the Balkan Peninsula, especially in the Eastern Balkans) became a permanent feature of Russian foreign policy. The Russo-Turkish war of 1768–1774, which in itself determined these Russian ambitions, also fit into this pattern. The emphasis on religious cooperation, solidarity, and protection was the foundation, in principle and in practice, of Russian foreign policy after 1774.

In conclusion, the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji was a real turning point in Russian foreign policy, providing the St. Petersburg government with several advantages in asserting its geopolitical interests in general. The treaty also introduced a new approach to diplomacy and, more importantly, to the practice of diplomacy, ushering in a new era in Russia’s relations with the Porte and the Balkan provinces. I have highlighted in this essay the new measures that the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji provided for Russia. The establishment and development of foreign missions (i.e. official representations in Constantinople) and the formation of cooperation with the Balkan territories (i.e. consulates in the Ottoman provinces) were the most important part of the expansion of the diplomatic toolbox. A change in diplomatic protocol occurred in 1774 in the case of the Russian envoy in Constantinople, and the possibility of establishing a Russian consulate system in the Ottoman lands became a reality. The diplomatic networks established in the Balkans (especially in the Eastern Balkan region) and the opening of consulates in the Danubian Principalities and Greece were examples of this. The results of the formal diplomatic missions were slow and gradual, but their main significance lay in the fact that Russia was able to raise its political and cultural relations with the Balkan nations to a new (now official instead of informal) level. In the long term, this made it possible for Russia to integrate itself into the Mediterranean political and economic structure.

The so-called protégé system also played a decisive role in the transformation of Russian diplomatic practice, the main purpose of which was to provide a network of contacts to support the work of the diplomatic missions and to create a kind of information background through the diplomatic privileges granted to members of the local population by the berats. This was followed by the right of the Russian tsar to protect Orthodox Christians in the Ottoman Empire. Although the protectorate acquired in 1774 did not gain significance until the nineteenth century, when nationalist movements began to flourish in the Balkans, its acquisition was of the utmost importance, as it fulfilled an aspiration that Russian diplomacy had had since the early eighteenth century and provided a kind of continuity between the ideals and goals of Russian foreign policy before and after 1774. Indeed, the hitherto fervently-sought right of patronage became an effective diplomatic instrument after the Treaty of Kuchuk Kainardji, the value and importance of which are reflected in the new European order after the Congress of Vienna (1815), in an international system in which the Russian Empire repositioned itself as the leading power not only in Eastern and Southeastern Europe but on the entire continent.

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A Professor as Diplomat: Johann Heinrich Bisterfeld and the Foreign Policy of the Principality of Transylvania, 1638–1643

Gábor Kármán
Research Centre for the Humanities
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 2  (2023):3–36 DOI 10.38145/2023.2.248

The paper addresses a unique phenomenon, the prominent role played by Johann Heinrich Bistefeld, a German professor at the academy of Gyulafehérvár Alba Iulia/Weissenburg in the foreign policy of György Rákóczi I, prince of Transylvania during the 1630s and 1640s. Having accepted a mission to Western European courts in 1638–1639, where Bisterfeld’s academic activities served as an excellent camouflage for the professor’s secret diplomatic negotiations, the professor maintained a leading role in keeping contact with the representatives of the Swedish and French Crowns also in the period after his return to the principality. As an “alternative correspondent” to the prince, he proved very useful in creating the treaties of Gyulafehérvár (1643) and Munkács (1645), and he played an outstanding role also in keeping the spirits of the prince high not to give up his plans to join the anti-Habsburg side of the Thirty Years’ War. Building upon the ideas Bisterfeld inherited from his tutor and father-in-law, Johann Heinrich Alsted, the German professor treated his pansophistic ideas and faith in the continuing Reformation as well as his political activities as different parts of the same endeavor as long as Calvinist believers were facing political repression in the Holy Roman Empire.

Keywords: diplomacy, Transylvania, international Calvinism, Gyulafehérvár academy, pansophia

“Mister Bisterfeld showed such benevolence towards the allied lords and specifically towards Your Excellency in promoting the negotiations and assisted us to such a degree that I cannot give ample praise for his good will towards the common cause and his loyal services.”1 With these words, Colonel Lieutenant Jacob Rebenstock, the representative of the Swedish Crown at the Transylvanian court, summarized his impressions to his superior, Lennart Torstensson, the chief commander of the Swedish armies in the Holy Roman Empire. Rebenstock was writing about the services provided by Johann Heinrich Bisterfeld, a professor at the Gyulafehérvár academy, in the creation of the freshly concluded treaty of alliance. The surviving documentation indeed shows that Bisterfeld not only helped Prince György Rákóczi I from the background with good advice but also had been in fervent correspondence with prominent personalities of the anti-Habsburg side of the Thirty Years’ War for years, thus apparently masterminding a much wider network in the principality’s western sphere of contacts than the prince himself. As has been noted in several recent monographs, in the seventeenth century, a network of pastors and scholars, often labelled “international Calvinism,” attempted to influence high politics between courts.2 Nevertheless, in the early modern period, it was still rare at best for diplomats, who officially represented various rulers, to have regarded a theologian as a negotiating partner for a longer period. Suffice it to quote the reaction of a clergyman, István Tolnai, the parson of Sárospatak in Hungary, to the news that, in the summer of 1637, Heinrich Meerbott, a churchman from Hanau, was heading for the court of György Rákóczi I allegedly as a representative of various German princes. “I am surprised,” Tolnai wrote, “that those princes (if this is indeed the case) trusted the embassy to a preacher.”3

Although Bisterfeld kept his role as a political advisor at the side of György Rákóczi I and, later, his son, György Rákóczi II, for a long time, he held such a key position in Transylvanian diplomacy only between 1638 (his mission to Western Europe) and 1643 (the conclusion of the Gyulafehérvár [Alba Iulia/ Weissenburg] agreement). In a recent study, I examined the negotiations leading to Transylvania’s reentry into the Thirty Years’ War in the 1640s, but I had occasion to make only cursory remarks on the special position Bisterfeld enjoyed in covering the thousands of kilometers between the principality and its potential allies. In this paper, I focus my attention on why the Gyulafehérvár professor seemed to offer a solution to the practical problems of Transylvanian diplomacy in the first half of the seventeenth century and how his political role interfered with his other ambitions as a scholar. The analysis I offer of the overlaps between the two sides in Bisterfeld’s biography furthers a more nuanced understanding of the workings of “international Calvinism,” and in particular of the group from Johann Heinrich Alsted to Jan Amos Comenius which aimed at continuing Reformation, uniting the knowledge on the universe and making the world a better place through learning – but repeatedly had to face serious political repressions.4

Johann Heinrich Bisterfeld’s Mission in Western Europe, 1638–1639

Bisterfeld became a professor at the Academy of Gyulafehérvár at the end of 1629.5 He came to Transylvania with two elder colleagues, Johann Heinrich Alsted and Philipp Ludwig Piscator, at the invitation of Gábor Bethlen, but he arrived only after the death of this prince, who had set up an ambitious plan to provide the Reformed college in his capital with the higher classes of philosophy and theology. By this time, Alsted had already become a renowned scholar whose name was widely known due to his program, which relied on faith in pansophia and a commitment to continuing the Reformation, as well as his encyclopedia, which was built on the same principles.6 He probably would not have left his cathedra at the University of Herborn in Nassau had the Restitutionsedikt, issued by Emperor Ferdinand II in 1629, not made the position of the Calvinist confession extremely vulnerable in the Holy Roman Empire. The imperial edict, however, seemed to have finally brought to an end the debate whether the stipulations of the Peace of Augsburg related to the rights for religious practices concerned only the Lutheran confession (which was explicitly mentioned by the document) or also the Reformed one (with the argument that their faith was based on a modified version of the same creed). This loophole had been maintained with the active support of prominent political actors in the Empire, and by closing it, the edict forced many important personalities in Calvinist higher education in Germany to leave the empire. Alsted received an invitation from Deventer, but he chose Gábor Bethlen’s offer instead. In this, he was certainly motivated – apart from the salary he was offered, which was decent even by Western European standards – by a certain sense of mission and the opportunity to bring his knowledge to faraway lands.7

There is virtually no secondary literature on the role of Johann Heinrich Alsted as Prince György Rákóczi’s political advisor. Limited but relevant evidence shows that Alsted was not only active as a scholar in Gyulafehérvár but also interfered in questions of the prince’s foreign policy. A statement made by an unknown correspondent from Rákóczi’s court, according to which the prince discussed each issue of importance with Alsted, finds confirmation in other sources. It was not just that the prince seems to have turned to Alsted for help with newsletters in German in order to receive clarification and guidance on news from the Western part of Europe, but the professor himself also maintained some channels of communication with political relevance.8 In 1637, when trying to convince Wilhelm V, landgrave of Hessen-Kassel, of the potential of cooperation with Transylvania, Heinrich Meerbott referred to his correspondence with Alsted, and we also know that in 1638 the Gyulafehérvár professor contacted Cornelis Haga, the ambassador of the United Provinces in Constantinople, to whom he sent letters with the princely couriers, presumably to mediate in the conflict between the two political actors.9 Since such activities are not known from Alsted’s earlier career, he must have been motivated to accept the role of a political advisor by Rákóczi’s openness to counsel offered by his well-versed guests as well as the radical changes in his living conditions due to political repression. His experience of being exiled from his earlier home was made more severe by the fact that a significant share of the three theologians’ belongings, which had been deposited in Regensburg during their journey, was confiscated by the emperor’s administration. In 1635, György Rákóczi I tried to recover these belongings, but even he labored in vain.10

In the early 1630s Bisterfeld’s career was closely connected to Alsted’s: he was the professor’s faithful disciple and also his son-in-law. When Gábor Bethlen’s invitation reached Alsted, Bisterfeld was working as a tutor in Grave (Brabant). It must have been at the invitation of his father-in-law that he came to Herborn, where he taught a course in the spring of 1629 and left with the two others late that summer. Bisterfeld, who was only twenty-four years old at the time, had to refuse an invitation from Groningen (which admittedly seemed somewhat uncertain). Some sources suggest that in 1631 he was not planning to remain in Transylvania for long.11 It is hardly surprising that the young theologian, who at the time had nothing resembling the reputation or network that Alsted had managed to gain, was not terribly motivated to spend his most active years in a land far away from the center of European scholarly life in an environment which must have been quite foreign to him. Also, the year following their arrival proved extremely chaotic in Transylvanian politics. Catherine of Brandenburg, Bethlen’s widow and successor, secretly converted to Catholicism and then resigned. She was replaced first by her brother-in-law, István Bethlen, and then by Rákóczi, one of the mightiest landowners in eastern Hungary and someone who had been a staunch follower of Gábor Bethlen’s policies in the previous decade. These troubles must have added to the fact that Gyulafehérvár hardly offered a comparably lively intellectual life or the proximity of fellow-minded scholars that a Dutch university could have provided for Bisterfeld.12 He clearly had good reasons to agree to a visit to Western Europe, where he was entrusted with the task of using his scholarly activities as a disguise for political negotiations in the service of his prince.

Since the early years of the Thirty Years’ War, the Principality of Transylvania recurrently participated in the endeavors of the party opposing the Habsburgs. Gábor Bethlen was allied to Friedrich of the Palatinate, and he was later accepted as a member of the League of The Hague between the United Provinces, as well as the kings of Denmark and England. He led three campaigns to Hungary (in 1619–1621, 1623–1624, and 1626), and in the consecutive peace treaties he secured substantial gains with respect to territory and prestige.13 Shortly after having secured his throne, György Rákóczi I continued Bethlen’s policies and sought contact with Gustav II Adolph, who had just accomplished the first successes of his German campaign. The Swedish king, however, found the costs of Transylvanian intervention too high, and communication problems made it difficult for the two parties to reach any sort of compromise. Although in 1632–1633 there was even a Swedish resident by the name of Paul Strassburg at the Transylvanian court, for over a year he received no instructions from his king, and thus his presence did little more than create more tension for the Transylvanian prince.14

When György Rákóczi I signed the Peace of Eperjes/Prešov/Eperies on September 28, 1633 with Emperor Ferdinand II, many observers concluded that, by doing so, he had abandoned any plan for cooperation with Sweden. This was not the case, however. Transylvanian envoys traveled to meet Axel Oxenstierna on various occasions over the course of the next two years, but they failed to attract the attention of the head of the Swedish Regency Government. In 1637, then, the aforementioned Heinrich Meerbott took the initiative to motivate the Transylvanian prince to take action again. He was sent to Stockholm in secret, but this insistence on the secrecy of the mission backfired. It was very important to Rákóczi that the plans for an anti-Habsburg alliance not be revealed too early. This, however, meant that he had to come up with creative ways to ensure that his envoy would secure accreditation, and the methods that were devised proved so unusual that they ultimately hindered the creation of any political alliance. The members of the Swedish State Council were presented with a letter in which Rákóczi entrusted Meerbott with the task of recruiting artisans (“artifices mechanici”), as well as a ciphered note which presented the prince’s proposal and reached Danzig/Gdańsk hidden in a pistol barrel, on a route separate from the pastor’s. Meerbott explained that the “artifices” the prince was looking for were actually parties in the intrigue (“artificium”), i.e. the kings of France and Sweden, as well as the landgrave of Hessen. However, after giving the proposal short consideration, the Swedish government decided not to sign anything at the exhortation of someone who lacked clear proof of having been granted plenipotentiary powers.15

Meerbott’s account of the developments did not survive, but it must have reached Transylvania, because the next envoy, Bisterfeld, received credentials which seem to have followed the Swedish State Council’s suggestion to speak in general terms but be addressed to a specific person in the court. The addressees were not the royal persons but the leading policymakers of the Swedish and French court, Cardinal Richelieu and Axel Oxenstierna, and the credentials did not include Bisterfeld’s name.16 It seems that they must have been penned only after Bisterfeld’s departure from Transylvania in mid-April 1638, and they were surely given to him at a later point of time, thus ensuring that the true nature of the professor’s journey could not be revealed as long as he was passing through the Habsburg-friendly territories of Hungary and Poland.17

Although the credentials only revealed that the envoy was supposed to discuss “certain issues” with the addressees, this proved enough for Richelieu and his administration to enter into a serious conversation with Bisterfeld. After having met Karl Ludwig, the heir of Friedrich of the Palatinate, in The Hague, Bisterfeld reached Paris on July 10, where he was welcomed with enthusiasm according to the account of Hugo Grotius, who was serving there as a Swedish resident envoy.18 The administration of Louis XIII almost immediately sent forth the king’s own envoy to Transylvania (using the sea route through the Mediterranean), and in November, Charles du Bois, Baron of Avaugour, agreed with Rákóczi that he would soon return with full credentials to conclude their alliance (though this never actually happened).19

While d’Avauguor traveled across half of Europe (eventually arriving in Danzig, where he remained as one of the most important points of contact for Transylvanian foreign policy over the course of the next few years), Bisterfeld also reached his new station, Hamburg. The central location of this harbor city and its professed neutrality had made it an important diplomatic hub as early as the first half of the 1630s, but from 1638 on, it is legitimate to speak of a diplomatic congress of the powers interested in the developments in Germany there. Negotiations concerning the possibilities for peacemaking between the Swedish and imperial envoys were running parallel to parleys among the ambassadors of the Danish, English, and French kings, as well as the United Provinces about creating an anti-Habsburg alliance. The representatives of Swedish and French foreign policy were the same persons who would later act as head commissioners at the Westphalian peace congress: Johan Salvius and Claude de Mesmes, Count of Avaux.20 It seemed obvious that Bisterfeld would join this “congress,” even if he arrived somewhat late, because by this time the high spirits caused by the Anglo–French and Swedish–French treaties of February 1637 and February 1638 as potential foundations for an anti-Habsburg alliance had already dissipated.

In Hamburg, Bisterfeld met Sir Thomas Roe, one of the most experienced English diplomats, who was happy to hear the Transylvanian offer (which was similar to offers he had often received from Gábor Bethlen in the 1620s as his ruler’s representative in Constantinople). Roe informed Bisterfeld, however, that it would be futile for him to travel to England, since it had become clear by that time that King Charles I did not have the financial means necessary to join the coalition.21 It also turned out that the Dutch were not ready to give up their neutrality towards the emperor, and although Johann Joachim Rusdorf, the diplomat of the exiled Palatinate court (and also Bethlen’s correspondent from the previous decade) was enthusiastic to have met Bisterfeld, it was Salvius who became his most important negotiating partner.22

On his way to Paris, Bisterfeld also informed the Swedish government about his mission. Axel Oxenstierna and his colleagues were eager to bring him to Stockholm.23 Bisterfeld declined the offer, most probably because, in Hamburg he was closest to each potential negotiation partner and also to prominent members of the European academic network. He nevertheless informed Salvius about the developments and suggested that if the Swedish resident envoy received plenipotentiary powers, he would also make sure that his prince would send him one so that the parleys on the details could start.24 In early January 1639, the Swedish plenipotentia to Salvius was sent from Stockholm, but a letter by György Rákóczi I reached Hamburg at the same time in which he ordered Bisterfeld to return to Gyulafehérvár. The prince also wrote letters to the French and Swedish diplomats in which he did not even mention the planned alliance and only asked for their support in finding a successor to Alsted, who died on November 9, 1638.25

This unexpected development, which seems to have seriously damaged Rákóczi’s credibility among his potential allies, was the result of the problems of communication and the Transylvanian prince’s efforts to secure the secrecy of his negotiations. As Bisterfeld explained to Salvius in a note, György Rákóczi I was expecting d’Avaugour to return to his court with the necessary accreditation by April 1639, so he did not need to risk the potential discovery of his intentions were his correspondence to fall into the wrong hands. As the prince expected the final parleys to take place at his court, there was no need to mention the issue to the diplomats in Hamburg, and Bisterfeld’s further stay in the western part of Europe also seemed unnecessary. On the other hand, Bisterfeld’s request for plenipotentiary powers to be sent to Hamburg did not reach György Rákóczi I in time. For the sake of secrecy, the German scholar did not correspond directly with the prince, but rather sent his messages to Alsted – but since the elder professor was dying, Bisterfeld’s messages were only forwarded with delays, and Rákóczi acted before having received the most recent news from Hamburg.26

The professor listened to the prince’s summon, but he clearly was not in a hurry. In late March 1639, Grotius already knew that Bisterfeld was going to go to Paris again, but it was early May when the professor actually arrived. In the meantime, he visited the United Provinces again: in March he sent a letter to Rákóczi from Amsterdam, and in April he met Karl Ludwig in The Hague.27 When already in Paris, he had long conversations with Jean de la Barde, a secretary of the Chancellery, and he had the impression that the French court was still ready to conclude the alliance, although, rather surprisingly he did not reflect on why d’Avaugour never returned to Transylvania.28 He also made sure to keep the interest of Swedish diplomacy alive, and he shared the contents of his parleys with Grotius, and also, by letter, with Ludwig Camerarius, the Swedish resident envoy in The Hague, whom he must have met during one of his stays in the Dutch capital.29 Bisterfeld then returned to Transylvania across the Mediterranean. In mid-July, he was already in Venice, but we do not know exactly when he arrived in the principality. Rákóczi’s envoys in Constantinople were still forwarding his letters to Transylvania in late August. He put his final report for the prince on paper November 1639 in Medgyes/Mediaş/Mediasch.30

Bisterfeld as a Diplomatic Correspondent

Bisterfeld and György Rákóczi I’s expectations were proven overly optimistic in the months and years to come. The professor’s impressions in Paris did not deceive him: the French were positive about the chances of cooperation with the Transylvanians, d’Avaux received an order to discuss the articles of the future treaty with Salvius, and a plenipotentia was signed for Louis Fleutot, the envoy to be sent to the principality.31 Rákóczi was already exchanging messages with d’Avaugour about the best possible route for Fleutot, and he started laying the ground at the Sublime Porte to gain the sultan’s consent for his campaign in Hungary. During the summer and autumn of 1639, Transylvanian ambassadors visited Constantinople and consulted frequently with the French ambassador there about the possible ways to win the support of the sultanic administration. Their preliminary inquiries with the Ottoman dignitaries yielded no success, but this was not the primary reason why there was no Transylvanian intervention in the Thirty Years’ War immediately after Bisterfeld’s journey in Western Europe.32

Contrary to the French court, the Swedish administration lost all interest in any kind of cooperation with György Rákóczi I. In March 1639, shortly after having received the news that Bisterfeld had been summoned back to Gyulafehérvár, the State Council announced that in the future it would not take the Transylvanians seriously, and no further development could move them from this position.33 Neither the repeated inquiries of the French diplomats nor the incoming messages from Transylvania could convince Axel Oxenstierna to dedicate attention to the issue again, and even the complaints of Johan Banér, the chief commander of the Swedish army in Germany, fell on deaf ears. Salvius dropped various remarks in his letters to the Regency Government according to which the involvement of more allies in the war, such as the prince of Transylvania, would further Swedish success, but to no avail. The Swedish government’s reaction, which involved several irrational elements, did not change. Even when Banér’s successor, Lennart Torstensson took matters into his own hands and arranged a treaty of alliance with György Rákóczi I (the agreement of Gyulafehérvár, signed on November 16, 1643), Axel Oxenstierna’s government refused to ratify it. They rightfully pointed out the formal shortcomings of the text, but did nothing to address them, and thus the Swedish–Transylvanian cooperation in 1644–1645 was never formalized by a fully legitimate international treaty.34

The tension due to the Swedish reluctance eventually poisoned Rákóczi’s contacts with the leaders of French diplomacy as well. In d’Avaux’s correspondence with his colleagues in 1640 we find a growing number of ironic and, later, sarcastic remarks on the Transylvanian prince, and after a while, Rákóczi also did not conceal his frustration that the promises he had been made were not kept. The prince stopped answering the letters from Jean de la Haye, the representative of the French Crown at the Sublime Porte, and he told Bisterfeld to ask d’Avaugour whether the French considered the Hungarians simpletons who would not start to wonder after such a long time whether they were merely being mocked by their partners.35 This formulation, which is so foreign to Bisterfeld’s usually moderate style and suggests the direct interference of the prince in composition of his letters, directs our attention to the latter’s function as a mediator between the Transylvanian court and its potential allies.

Bisterfeld was a good choice to serve as the bearer of György Rákóczi I’s message to the court of his potential allies, as only rarely in the seventeenth century was a political mission entrusted to scholars of his kind. Some surviving letters prove that Rákóczi’s adversaries knew about Bisterfeld’s journey, and it clearly raised suspicion among them, but none of these sources suggest that the Catholic elite of the Kingdom of Hungary would have come to any direct conclusions concerning the politics of the Transylvanian prince based upon the fact that Bisterfeld, a professor from the Gyulafehérvár academy, was traveling to Western Europe.36 Bisterfeld’s academic activities during the journey (to which I will return) seem to have served as an excellent pretext. As noted before, the secrecy of the mission was also secured by the fact that Bisterfeld sent his letters to Alsted, thus creating an illusion of a politically neutral (or at least politically irrelevant) exchange between scholars.37

Of course, after his return to Transylvania, Bisterfeld’s position as a scholar ceased to be an asset for political communication. If any of his letters had fallen into enemy hands, the adversaries of the Transylvanian prince would have been just as eager to know why a professor from Gyulafehérvár was sending ciphered messages to French and Swedish diplomats as they would have been in the case of any other person. In this period, Bisterfeld’s involvement had other advantages. For György Rákóczi I, the developments caused serious embarrassment. It was humiliating that he was bombarding his potential allies with new offers, to which they replied with little more than noncommittal words. After a while, it would have been an immense loss of prestige for him to continue knocking on their doors with further suggestions, especially seeing as how d’Avaugour, d’Avaux, and Salvius were not his equals in the seventeenth-century “society of princes.” It would have been unbecoming for him as a prince to refer again and again to how long he had been waiting for a definite answer and to mention how much frustration this had caused for him. As a princely counselor, Bisterfeld did not need to have such scruples, and in his accounts, he could paint the fury of György Rákóczi I in dark colors, much as he could also claim that, if the prince did not soon receive a positive answer to his proposals, he would give up his heroic plan to assist the common cause.38 Before Bisterfeld’s return to Transylvania, János Kemény, another personality from the prince’s court, had already served this function of an “alternative correspondent,” since he had acted as d’Avaugour’s guide during the French diplomat’s stay in the principality. Bisterfeld’s reputation as a professor, however, made him better fit for the task than the young Transylvanian aristocrat. Also, he personally knew many more of the diplomats involved.39

For a while, the prince and the professor maintained a parallel correspondence with the French and Swedish diplomats. In the letters addressed to d’Avagour during the winter of 1639, however, we can already trace a duality. György Rákóczi I limited his messages to news, whereas it fell upon Bisterfeld to urge the figures of French diplomacy to continue negotiations.40 Then, in 1640, the prince stopped writing to d’Avaugour and the envoys in Hamburg. The entire correspondence with d’Avaux and Salvius went through the Gyulafehérvár professor, who could be regarded being of the same rank as they were. In February 1640, Jean de la Haye wrote to Bisterfeld from Constantinople (parallel to his letter to György Rákóczi I), but we do not have any further evidence that they established a more or less continuous correspondence in the same manner as the diplomats in Hamburg did. The resident embassy of the prince in Constantinople could take care of this connection (whenever Rákóczi was ready to communicate), and since the French diplomat and Bisterfeld were not personally acquainted, maintaining contact with the professor would not have brought any specific advantages.41 In any case, in the autumn of 1643, we again have evidence that De la Haye sent news to Bisterfeld from the Sublime Porte.42

After György Rákóczi I’s decision to abandon the diplomatic exchange with the French and Swedish representatives, he was involved again only when a new correspondent appeared on the horizon. In the summer of 1641, when Count Zdenko von Hoditz, a Bohemian exile and colonel in Swedish service, contacted him, Rákóczi answered the letter in his own name, as he did again when Lennart Torstensson initiated contact in July 1642.43 The Swedish field marshall maintained parallel correspondence with the prince and the professor during the negotiations leading to the agreement of Gyulafehérvár, and the separate contact with Bisterfeld also proved useful in this. The French disapproved of two points in the agreement of Gyulafehérvár (which theoretically bound them as well). They therefore sent their plenipotentiary to sign a separate treaty with György Rákóczi I (the so-called treaty of Munkács/Mukačevo on April 22, 1645). It would have been beneath the prince’s dignity to ask directly for Torstensson’s approval for this move, but this could be easily arranged by having Bisterfeld write to the field marshall about Rákóczi’s concerns, even if it only took place after the treaty had been signed.44

Upon his return to Transylvania, the professor requested the cipher which had been in use during earlier Swedish-Transylvanian contacts and also a list of the people to whom he should write.45 Nevertheless, as one would have expected, he did not write anything he wanted. The sources suggest that Rákóczi controlled the content of the letters that Bisterfeld sent to the diplomats in his own name. Some of the drafts which survived were written in the professor’s hand, but they have a number of corrections by the prince.46 At the same time, it would be a mistake to see Bisterfeld only as a medium through which György Rákóczi I could express his wishes. The prince counted on the professor’s expertise and judgment. Bisterfeld played an important role during the negotiations directly preceding the conclusion of the agreement of Gyulafehérvár and the treaty of Munkács. He himself drafted several of the articles, and he also made corrections to the text in the final round of revisions.47

Although we do not know of any opinion papers from Bisterfeld in which he would have given direct advice to the prince on political issues, the lines penned by Jacob Rebenstock, quoted in the introduction to this essay, testify that the professor (who seems to have befriended the lieutenant colonel representing the Swedish Crown at the Transylvanian court) was one of the most important lobbyists in support of a united stand for the Protestant cause in Rákóczi’s circles.48 In all likelihood, it was Bisterfeld who helped the prince keep his spirits high and convinced him that he should keep the importance of the task in the forefront of his mind instead of the recurrent frustrations he faced when offering his services to the Protestant cause. Shortly before making the final decision, Rákóczi had serious doubts as to whether he indeed had a divine calling to take up arms and thus serve the confessional cause. It was again Bisterfeld who assisted him and counterbalanced the counsel of István Kassai, the prince’s other intimate advisor, who was urging the prince to pursue peace instead.49

Last but not least, Bisterfeld not only provided services for the prince himself. He also mobilized some family connections. Several people maintained contacts between the court at Gyulafehérvár and d’Avaugour’s residence in Danzig at the turn of the 1640s. Prominent among them was a young Scot, Andrew Gawdy, who later had a spectacular career as a high-ranking officer in the Transylvanian army (and thus is known in the secondary literature in Hungarian as András Gaudi). Gawdy helped transmit Bisterfeld’s letters in 1639, 1641, and 1643, whereas in 1639 and 1640, this role was played by Pál Göcs and Ferenc Jármi, Rákóczi’s Transylvanian clients, who had good connections in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (Jármi later was also the envoy of his prince at the congress of Westphalia).50 In the late summer of 1642, however, a new person knocked on d’Avagour’s door. Peter Wiederstein, who had brought the professor’s letters this time, was Bisterfeld’s nephew (the son of his half-brother). He had settled in Transylvania, and he later inherited his uncle’s house and part of his library.51 His involvement in Bisterfeld’s political endeavors can be seen as a logical extension of his uncle’s position and further proof that the illusion of scholars being relatively harmless in the field of power politics could prove both convincing and useful in these turbulent years.

Political Role and Academic Career

Even before his mission to Western Europe, Bisterfeld was involved in parleys concerning György Rákóczi I’s potential involvement in the Thirty Years’ War. A letter from November 1637 testifies that he maintained a network of correspondents and supplied the prince with current news concerning developments in the German theaters of war and the related Protestant courts.52 Heinrich Meerbott told the Swedish State Council in the autumn of 1637 that his mission was so secret that, apart from the prince, only Alsted “and another theologian” knew about it.53 On the basis of Bisterfeld’s letter to the prince, it is easy to identify this other person as Alsted’s son-in-law and faithful follower.

Bisterfeld was unquestionably eager to accept the 1638 mission, which made it possible for him to travel as far as Paris. As noted earlier, at that time, he did not yet have anything comparable to Alsted’s network or reputation, and while he was waiting for answers from the various courts, he was able to visit many of his fellow scholars and make acquaintances with useful contacts. In a friendly letter written in the early phase of the mission to Samuel Hartlib, who was one of the most important figures in the international Protestant network, Bisterfeld expressed his joy over the possibility to meet a number of great scholars if, as he hoped, he would be able to travel to England.54 Although he had visited Britain in the 1620s, the connection to Hartlib’s circle was most likely made during John Dury’s journey to Transylvania. Bisterfeld was one of the signees of the position paper on the union of Protestant churches compiled by prominent Transylvanian church authorities at the request of the Scottish irenicist theologian in 1634.55

As mentioned earlier, Sir Thomas Roe dampened Bisterfeld’s enthusiasm when he declared the journey to England pointless from a political perspective, and thus the German theologian had no excuse to cross the Channel. He nonetheless remained active as a scholar. While making arrangements regarding the creation of an anti-Habsburg coalition in the interest of the Protestant cause, he also defended his church on another battlefield. As a response to the Antitrinitarian treatise of Johann Crell, published in Raków (Poland) in 1631, he published his De uno Deo … mysterium pietatis in Leiden, with the renowned Elsevier publishing house. The work was a logical link in the chain of theological attacks upon the Transylvanian Anti-Trinitarians (who, known as Unitarians, were one of the four accepted confessional groups in the principality) in the second half of the 1630s. The Mysterium pietatis was a success (it was rereleased three times), and Bisterfeld made important contacts in Hamburg and the Netherlands which he later maintained. In the long run, Andreas Rivetus and Johann Rulitius proved his most important correspondents, but he also established (or renewed) contact with Johann Adolf Tassius, Joachim Jungius, Gisbert Voetius, Johann Moriaen, and Marin Mersenne.56 Hugo Grotius, who often complained about being overburdened by his tasks as a Swedish resident envoy in Paris instead of being able to dedicate himself to his research on the law of nations, wrote with noticeable envy in April 1639 that, according to news he had heard, Bisterfeld was trying to secure a tranquil academic position for himself.57 As noted before, this accusation was quite unjust. While the publication of his book and his introduction to the scholarly networks unquestionably furthered Bisterfeld’s career ambitions, they also served the interests of Rákóczi’s foreign policy by providing credible camouflage for political negotiations.

Bisterfeld made a very good impression in the Western European Calvinist academic world. At the recommendation of Rivetus, in 1639 he received an offer from Leiden University to serve as a substitute for a regular professor and teach for a semester, and in May 1640 the curators invited him to take over the position of Antonius Walaeus, a professor of theology who had passed away the previous year. The invitation letter also noted that another professor, Antonius Thysius, was mortally ill (he died a year later), thus it is clear that Bisterfeld would have been very welcome in Leiden if he had decided to leave Transylvania.58 This widely respected institution of higher education (which a Hungarian visiting student, Márton Szepsi Csombor, had labeled “Paradisus terrestris” only a few years earlier) clearly would have opened an entirely different career path for Bisterfeld than what awaited him in Transylvania, even if his salary would have been smaller.59 In addition to Leiden’s prominent rank in the academic world, the work environment offered by the university also made it an attractive option. Suffice it to mention the famous library, in contrast to all the problems and enormous costs Bisterfeld had to face when trying to transport the books he had purchased during the 1638–1639 mission to Transylvania.60 Furthermore, István Geleji Katona, the Reformed bishop of Transylvania, informed György Rákóczi I that Bisterfeld was not only attracted by Leiden’s prestige but also by other motivations: the professor had been recently widowed, and he was planning to marry the daughter of Ludwig Camerarius. The bishop feared that the ambitious plans concerning the Gyulafehérvár academy were collapsing, and he left no stone unturned to please Bisterfeld and Piscator (who had just recovered from a serious illness) while at the same time making scathing remarks and insisting that Bisterfeld and Piscator start meeting the obligations of their office in more than just name only.61

In the spring of 1641, it seemed that the endeavors of Geleji Katona were bound to fail and that Bisterfeld was going to return to Western Europe; he even informed Salvius of his plan. However, during the summer the letter by Count Hoditz arrived in Transylvania, and with new hopes on the horizon concerning military assistance for the Protestant cause, György Rákóczi I managed to convince the professor to stay.62 The prince also informed the curators in Leiden that the Gyulafehérvár academy needed Bisterfeld’s services.63 Nevertheless, in 1642 the issue of the invitation from Leiden was still on the table. Furthermore, Jan Amos Comenius thought that Bisterfeld had already arrived in the Netherlands, and he was looking forward to meeting him there.64 The Leiden curators eventually became frustrated with the long delay of the project, and they blamed György Rákóczi I for hindering communication. As the prince seems already to have given permission for Bisterfeld to leave in the previous year, however, it is more likely that the Gyulafehérvár professor gave up his plans concerning the position in the Netherlands because of the new wave of negotiations, initiated by Torstensson that year.65

Bisterfeld’s plans to reestablish his family with an offspring of a prominent member of the international Calvinist network also failed. The forty-one-year-old Anna Katherina Camerarius married none other than Paul Strassburg, the former resident envoy of Gustav Adolph II in Transylvania.66 All in all, we can say that the German professor paid a huge price for the position he acquired among the prince’s political counselors. His marriage to Anna Stenczel, a Saxon burgher’s daughter from Kolozsvár/Cluj/Klausenburg, in June 1643 offers a fairly clear indication that he had finally resolved to remain in Transylvania. He and his wife acquired land and a mansion in Tövis/Teiuş Alba/Dreikirchennot far from Gyulafehérvár, and in 1644, they bought a house in Nagyszeben/Sibiu/Hermannstadt, the center of the Saxon communities of Transylvania.67 His decision to settle in the principality for good, however, must have left a bad taste in Bisterfeld’s mouth. Otherwise, he hardly would have told Comenius (whom he finally met in the early 1650s) that “scholars and artisans summoned to Hungary receive an invitation to perpetual imprisonment.”68

Various factors contributed to Bisterfeld’s decision to stay in Transylvania. The salary may have played a part, albeit not a prominent one. Although the sum (500 talers annually) was competitive on an international level, payment was often delayed. Geleji Katona mentioned such problems as early as 1640, and in 1649, the Transylvanian treasury already owed the professor 600 talers.69 Bisterfeld’s fellow scholars in Western Europe believed that György Rákóczi I simply refused to let him go. This interpretation, however, seems unconvincing for two reasons. First, in 1641, Bisterfeld was already preparing to depart with the prince’s knowledge. Second, had Rákóczi been exerting pressure to limit his mobility, Bisterfeld hardly would have pursued work in his field of expertise with the fervor that he showed in the 1640s. He continued, for instance, to nurture Alsted’s legacy, even at the expense of his own research. In 1641, he published an index for the late professor’s magnum opus, the Prodomus religionis triumphantis, which was published in Transylvania. Over the course of the following years, he fulfilled the wishes of István Geleji Katona and served as a professor not only in name. He continued the program of publishing new schoolbooks, which had been launched by the three Herborn scholars in the previous decade to elevate the educational standards of the Gyulafehérvár academy.70 His achievements were praiseworthy and not at all obvious: his fellow professor, the aforementioned Philipp Ludwig Piscator, could not boast half as many publications. For Bisterfeld, who remained a dedicated supporter of the idea of continuing Reformation, the move to Gyulafehérvár was a sacred mission (as he put it in one of his letters when he accepted the Transylvanian invitation),71 and he tried to live up to his commitment to this mission to the best of his abilities.

It would be quite logical to think of the role Bisterfeld played in Transylvanian foreign policy as a part of this program. We find relatively few references to the fight against the Antichrist in his accounts of current political events (especially if we compare these to Meerbott’s), but these accounts nevertheless show that he was influenced by Alsted’s attempt to unite the Ramist encyclopedist approach with Millenarist thought. He was, after all, one of the contributors to his master’s Diatribe de mille annis apocalypticis, a rational attempt to interpret the Bible’s account of the Apocalypse and calculate the end of times.72 Everything was in place, therefore, for Bisterfeld to feel that serving the fight against the Antichrist and assisting the cause of the empire’s German Protestants in distress was a personal duty; back in 1629, he had presided over several disputations in Herborn on the right of resistance.73 This attitude also explains why Bisterfeld was not satisfied when György Rákóczi I concluded the Peace of Linz in the summer of 1645. Although the documents secured the liberty to practice religion in Hungary with unprecedented precision, they did not fulfil the professor’s expectations, whose aim was to assist Protestantism in a much wider circle. Of course, in his letters to the Catholic d’Avaux and Abel Servien, the other representative of the French Crown at the peace congress of Westphalia, Bisterfeld did not refer to the fight against the Antichrist, but he did give voice to his fear that the Peace of Linz might become a hotbed for even worse conflicts.74

Bisterfeld’s understanding of his task as a multi-faceted sacred mission must have played an important role in his decision in the early 1640s to forfeit the offer of a professor’s position at a renowned Western university and a wife who, through her family and her family’s connections, would place him in the center of the international Calvinist network. He did not have many opportunities to formulate his stance clearly in writing, but the few occasions when he did are revealing. In a letter to Cardinal Mazarin after the conclusion of the Treaty of Munkács in 1645, he made only a modest remark on how God had called him to the light of public service from the tranquility of the school,75 but to Lennart Torstensson he had more to say. Having read the aforementioned lines penned by Jacob Rebenstock, the Swedish Field Marshall assured the professor of his gratitude for his earlier deeds, at which Bisterfeld wrote the following: “Although I am unworthy of the great praise Your Excellence showers on me so graciously, I can state as much with good conscience that I am almost a martyr of the common cause. It is not only our enemies who want to destroy me, but also those who place their private interest before the public good and the welfare of the motherland. But even so, I am faithfully serving God, all of Christianity, my gracious lord, Hungary, and Transylvania.”76

The mention of martyrdom in the passage cited above was not a general reference to Bisterfeld’s willingness to make sacrifices. It was, rather, a hint at a direct threat upon his life. Other evidence also suggests that Bisterfeld felt that several people around him were reacting with malice to his involvement in the world of politics, and he was afraid that he might be assassinated. He was especially suspicious of the reactions of the Catholic members of the Transylvanian elite.77 We do not know whether these fears were well-founded, but Bisterfeld’s role in the principality’s political decision-making network was unquestionably unique, even compared to the prominent personalities of the Transylvanian Calvinist church. In the early autumn of 1643, when György Rákóczi I sought counsel as to whether the planned war followed divine will, Bishop István Geleji Katona and Pál Medgyesi, his court preacher, noted in their opinion (signed together with Bisterfeld) that, unlike the professor, they had very little knowledge of the diplomatic backdrop. The position paper mirrored a very cautious position, and although (in line with the prince’s wishes) it proclaimed the planned military intervention a heroic deed which served God’s plan, it repeatedly called Rákóczi’s attention to the contention that it was not the duty of members of the clergy to make such political decisions, and from a tactical perspective it was even unfortunate to ask them to do so.78

Bisterfeld’s involvement in Transylvanian politics made him stand out not only among the leading personalities of the local church but also among most of the intellectuals from the west who stayed in the principality for a time. Martin Opitz, one of the most important poets of German Baroque literature, who had taught in Transylvania for a short while in 1622 at the invitation of Gábor Bethlen, informed Axel Oxenstierna from Danzig in the 1630s about developments in the principality. According to his letters, he continued to maintain contacts with Transylvanians, but there is no evidence that he ever would have tried to influence György Rákóczi I’s foreign policy.79 Simiarly, one finds no indication in the sources that Philipp Ludwig Piscator made any effort to influence Transylvanian foreign policy, and the same is true of Isaac Basire, who as an exiled Anglican pastor spent some time at the Gyulafehérvár academy before it was destroyed by the invading Tatar armies in 1658.80 It was only Comenius, who tried to convince the Rákóczi family of the need to assist the international Protestant cause by political and even military means, but his plans, supported with contemporary prophecies, fell upon deaf ears. The dynasty turned to Bisterfeld for advice, and it was the Gyulafehérvár professor, who deemed it unlikely that the visions were of divine origin (much to the disappointment of his Moravian colleague).81

This development in the 1650s may seem to be in direct contradiction with Bisterfeld’s earlier attitude. However, if the professor’s radical program of military intervention indeed had its foundations in the dire position of Calvinism in the Holy Roman Empire, this changed with the Peace of Westphalia. It is easy to imagine that, after the Reformed creed had secured recognition in German territories, Bisterfeld – who had settled in Transylvania in the meantime and enjoyed a prestigious reputation among the members of the ruling family – had no desire to see more decades of bloodshed. Comenius’ position was profoundly different, since as bishop of the Bohemian Brethren, he saw with despair that the peace treaties signed in Münster and Osnabrück delegated the treatment of religious issues in his homeland to the hands of the Habsburg dynasty.82 Although his opinion on various political questions was still sought (such as the choice of Zsigmond Rákóczi’s bride in 1649 and the Cossack request for support against the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in 1651), Bisterfeld’s position in the Rákóczi family’s foreign policy changed after 1648. As a teacher, he was still an ardent supporter of the idea of the continuing Reformation, and the princes could make use of his network of correspondents (which no longer seems to have included the Swedish and French diplomats) in the pursuit of their diplomatic aims, but there is no indication in any of the sources that he was still playing a role as someone who initiated policies.83 His unique, prominent role in György Rákóczi I’s diplomatic efforts, which parallelly assisted the policy-making of the prince with advice and masterminding the communication, was no longer necessary after the Peace of Westphalia.

Funded by the European Union (ERC, SMALLST, 101043451). Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Research Council Executive Agency. Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them.

Archival Sources

Arhivele Naţionale ale României Direcţia Judeţeană Sibiu [National Archives of Romania: County Directorate, Sibiu] (ANR DJS)

Colecţia de acte fasciculare

Colecţia de documente medievale

Bayerische Staatsbibliothek (Munich) (BSB)

Clm 10359.

Hessisches Staatsarchiv, Marburg (HStAM)

Rep. 4f Siebenbürgen

Koninklijk Huisarchief [Royal House Archives], The Hague (KH)

G 015 Collectie Handschriften, 1e serie

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára [Hungarian National Archives State Archives] (Budapest) (MNL OL)

A 98 Magyar Kancellária Archívuma: Transylvanica

E 190 Magyar Kamara Archívuma: Archivum familiae Rákóczi de Felsővadász

E 204 Magyar Kamara Archívuma: Missiles

X 1904 Mikrofilmtár: Mike Sándor gyűjtemény

Prímási Levéltár [The Primate’s Archives] (Esztergom) (PL)

Archivum Saeculare Acta Radicalia (AS AR)

Riksarkivet [State Archives] (Stockholm) (RA)

Diplomatica, Turcica bihang Transylvanica

Oxenstiernasamlingen

Salvius samling

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Stjepan Radić and Nikola Pašić as Heralds of Liberal Democracy in Croatia and Serbia: Historiographical Myths and Reality

Alexander Silkin
Russian Academy of Sciences
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 1  (2023):87–117 DOI 10.38145/2023.1.87

Historians from the former Yugoslav republics traditionally participate in ongoing political discussions about the ways in which their homelands should progress. Referring to their knowledge of the past, scholars indicate certain historic phenomena and time periods that should serve as ideal models that should be “reproduced” by modern societies in the near future. With regard to the Serbian historiography, the late Belgrade professor Miroslav Jovanović detected several “restoration ideas,” the implementation of which, according to their adherents, would allow modern society to “revise the mistakes of history.” In today’s Serbia and Croatia, certain historical figures, with real and imaginary virtues, are presented as role models and heralds of everything progressive in the field of politics and state building. In particular, in the works of many authors, Nikola Pašić, the head of the Serbian People’s Radical Party (PRP), and Stjepan Radić, the chairman of the Croatian (Republican) Peasant Party (C(R)PP), appear as the “founding fathers” of liberal democratic traditions in the late nineteenth century and the first three decades of the twentieth. The “golden era of Serbian parliamentarism” (1903–1914), which was characterized by the dominance of the PRP and the virtual “Croatian Neutral Peasant Republic,” a program that allowed the C(R)PP to consolidate the Croatian people in the 1920s, are worthy candidates of “restoration.” In this article, I consider whether there is any substantial historical truth to these images. I conclude that neither the PRP nor the C(R)PP (and neither Pašić nor Radić) espoused liberalist tendencies, which would have favored individualist ethics and respect for the rights of minorities. Both leaders and their parties adhered to the principle of majority dominance and were intolerant of anyone who did not belong to this majority, whether for ethnic, social, or other reasons. The PRP and C(R)PP could be described as the patterns of the same socio-political phenomenon, separated by several decades. They shared and made use of common ideological roots, social bases, organizational structures, self-perceptions among the leadership, slogans, and other strategies and tools of mass manipulation. These factors and also the influence of the nineteenth-century Russian narodnik movement on both parties during their formative periods make them typologically more related to the Russian Bolsheviks than they ever were to Western liberal trends.

Keywords: Serbia, Croatia, Yugoslavia, republic, parliamentarism, liberal democracy, Nikola Pašić, Stjepan Radić, politics of memory, historical myths

“Restoration Ideas”: Present-day Serbian/Croatian Historiography and Myth-construction

Twelve years ago, Miroslav Jovanović, a university professor in Belgrade, wrote in his book Kriza istorije (Crisis of History) about the “transformation of the historical consciousness”1 of the Serbs resulting from the upheavals of the 1990s and the early 2000s. What happened at the time prompted historians to think about the changes in the social roles they had to play in the countries that emerged from the ruins of Yugoslavia. Both the book cited above and the works by Dubravka Stojanović published at about the same time can be considered attempts at such rethinking. In their reasoning, both researchers relied on the postulate of Lucien Febvre, who insisted that the sciences are not created in ivory towers. Therefore, the task of overcoming “the gap between science and society that feels the need both for history and for understanding historical subjects”2 was considered relevant by Jovanović. Agreeing with Jovanović, Stojanović argued that the mission of a scholar was “to look in the past for answers to the questions asked by the present, help society arrive at rational interpretations of contemporary events, and provide knowledge about the causes of phenomena and their origins.”3

However, involvement in the vicissitudes of public life inevitably brings Clio’s servants into collision with “epic and mythological as well as ideological abuse of history, which, as a rule, is carried out in order to legitimize some political idea.”4 This compels the historian to confront the following dilemma: should she “agree with the actualization of the past events that are imposed by non-scientific centers of power or fight for the emancipation of knowledge, rational understanding, and interpretation of this past.” What choice did Serbian historiography tend to make in the late twentieth and early twenty-first century? Not the one that Jovanović considered right, judging by the title of his book, which offers several examples of how, “instead of performing its main function—the formation of rational historical consciousness—historical science spoon-feeds public memory, which is already traumatized and drugged by myths, with mythological constructions.”

The search for conditionally positive episodes of history that could serve as “support” for the Serbian people who had gone astray was one of the trends of such retrospective “constructing.” It was supposed to “draw readymade solutions from the ‘past,’ to find in it preferred models of social behavior and value systems that would make it possible to lay the foundations for the present-day collective self-identification of the Serbs.”5 In other words, looking back, it was necessary to determine “the point to which the modern Serbian society could ‘return’ in order to ‘correct the mistakes’ of history.” Jovanović points out several “restoration ideas” of this kind, from “Saint Sava” (svetosavska), which suggests “a direct connection to and continuity with ‘glorious’ medieval Serbian history and the self-perception of modern Serbs,” to “četnik,” “Ravna Gora” (ravnagorska), which implies breaking with the socialist past and returning to bourgeois monarchist values.

Those who are convinced that Serbia’s belonging to the European political and cultural tradition needs “historical” confirmation profess the “Pašić–Karadjordjević” restoration. It is based on the myth of the “golden era of Serbian democracy (1903–1914),” according to which “from the moment of its inception, the Serbian state was open to Western concepts of liberalism, parliamentarism, and democracy, and the political elite, educated at western universities, fully accepted the Western model of development and modernization.”6 According to this interpretation, after gaining independence in 1878, the Principality of Serbia was transformed into a “modern European state” in two decades despite the absence of the social prerequisites for such a transformation. In a few years, the environment in the country became favorable to the formation of political parties and the introduction of parliamentarism, and by the beginning of the century “the British two-party model of democracy had almost been put into place.”7 The process of Europeanization allegedly reached its climax during the reign of King Petar Karadjordjević (1903–1914), when Serbia could be considered “an advanced democracy, one of the most developed in Europe.”

Stojanović, Andrei Shemjakin, and Olga Popović-Obradović8 devoted several works to a demonstration of the inconsistency between this speculative representation and the real state of affairs in Serbia in 1878–1914. However, the complimentary view of the political development of Serbia is not limited to the specified chronological framework. When it comes to the interwar period (1918–1941), some historians tend to interpret the aggravation of interethnic relations in the Kingdom of SCS / Yugoslavia as a consequence of the confrontation between the advanced Serbian intellectual/political elite and the inert and retrograde representatives of the Yugoslavs from the former Austria–Hungary. According to Ljubodrag Dimić, “the Serbian dynasty of Karadjordjević adopted Western European liberal civil ideology,” and “the political forces of the former Kingdom of Serbia advocated liberal civil solutions in the new state.”9 It was seen as a “parliamentary democracy based on European standards and Serbian experience.”10 His colleague Djordje Stanković was of the same opinion. Stanković attributed such a “vision” to Nikola Pašić, head of the PRP, who allegedly “envisaged the Yugoslav state as built on the liberal principles of the civil state.”11

The espousal by the majority of Serbian politicians to their “modern political integrating Yugoslav idea” was a manifestation of their progressive views. As Dimić continues, “cherishing the Yugoslavs’ awareness of ethnic proximity, common language and territory of residence, its followers sought to overcome the fragmentation and barriers that had been left behind by the previous centuries.”12

The failure of the implementation of the “modern idea” is explained by the fact that it “was counteracted by the particularistic consciousness of agrarian society, which had deep-rooted national ideologies that were clerical, conservative, and authoritarian by nature.”13 Catholic Yugoslavs, whose centrifugal aspirations became the main cause of the crisis of the first Yugoslavia, are proclaimed the bearers of those ideologies. As Stanković wrote, “The energy directed at the ‘political exhaustion of the opponent’ led to a waste of the time and creativity that were necessary for the modernization of society. Even more regrettable is the fact that it was organized according to modern European liberal principles.”14

How does contemporary Croatian historiography assess the 1920s? There is a dominant view which is the opposite of the one cited above but is no less “convincing.” In particular, it was expressed in the edited volume Hrvatska politika u XX stoljeću (Croatian Politics in the Twentieth Century, Zagreb: Matica hrvatska, 2006), which crowned the project “Twentieth Century” of Matica Hrvatska. Ljubomir Antić, the editor of the publication, also interprets the events that happened in the first Yugoslavia as a confrontation between backwardness and progress. He explains the defeat of the latter by the fact that “the hopes of the Croatian and Slovenian ‘Yugoslavs’ that Croatia and Slovenia, with their developed societies, economies, and cultures, would Europeanize the remaining part of the new state did not come true. On the contrary, [the remaining] part Balkanized them.”15

The assertion of forced “Balkanization” is one of the elements of the “mythological construction” that has been present in socio-political discourse for more than a century. According to this notion, Croatia was originally destined for the role of “the last detachment of the European front against the Balkans.” In 1918, the “front” was forced to retreat, and “the vanguard” became “the rearguard”:

For Croatia, the interwar time passed under the sign of breaking the age-old alliance with Austria and Hungary and the subsequent entry into the first Yugoslav state. Although geographically Croatia remained in the same place, it turned from a Central European outpost in relation to the Balkans into the last frontier separating the Balkans from Central Europe. The consequences of this change were fatal.16

Nikša Stančić agrees with this assessment. However, he does not write about the “Balkanization” of Croatia. He contends, rather, that as a result of the dissolution of Austria–Hungary, Croatia had to vegetate on the “periphery of European modernization.” To denote the inappropriate geographic object within which Croatia ended up, the euphemism “Yugoslav state with its center in Southeastern Europe” is used instead of the term “Balkans,” which has so many negative connotations.17 To show the extent to which being part of this Yugoslav state was “fatal,” Stančić mentions that Croatia joined “Southeastern Europe” for the first time in the sixteenth century as a result of the Ottoman conquest.

Only “five centuries later, Croatia again joined the development of the part of Europe that we refer to as the European West, of which it was left out in the modern era.”18 Namely, it joined the European Union in 2013, having preliminarily carried out “advanced democratization” in order to become “acceptable” to the European Union. Naturally, democratism in Croatia today did not appear out of nowhere. Its roots go back to the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, which, according to Stančić, were marked by “the formation of Croatian civil society and national integration.”

Stjepan Radić as the Founder of Today’s Liberalism in Croatia: Between Myth and Historical Accuracy

To whom does Croatia owe these achievements? Many historians and publicists credit Radić first and foremost. The prevailing attitude towards Radić fully fits Jovanović’s formula of “restoration ideas.” In the modern socio-political arena, Radić’s apologists occupy a place between two extreme camps: nostalgia for the communist Yugoslav past on the one hand and the legacy of the Nazi-like Ustaša on the other. An article by journalist Zvonimir Despot (whose name bears an unfortunate but purely coincidental resemblance to the English word “despot”) offers an example of the conventional democratic “restoration” of Radić’s type:

Today, Radić should have been one of the main role models in the process of building a democratic society. Instead, being divided into those who are for Tito and those who are for Pavelić, the Croats have been engaged in daily internecine slaughter for many years. Radić’s legacy is above routine politics and any political orientation. What he said a century ago matters to this day.19

Hrvoje Petrić is in full agreement with Despot: “Stjepan Radić and his brother Antun outlined what Croatia should be like and the values on which it should be based.”20 Branka Boban sums up her text in Antić’s aforementioned collection in the following words: “He made a substantial contribution to the development of modern Croatian national consciousness, which is inextricably linked with democratic principles.”21

In order to fill in the gaps in the political education of his compatriots, Marijan Lipovac started a page on Facebook under the title “Daily Dose of Stjepan Radić.”22 Lipovac gives the leader of the Croatian People’s Peasant Party (C(R)PP) the flattering title of “the greatest Croatian politician and educator of the first half of the twentieth century,” as he was “the first to raise the topic of human rights, the first to talk about women’s rights… the first among Croatian politicians to advocate European integration, the first to touch on environmental issues.”23

According to Despot, today, the main obstacle to the realization of the “ideals” is the adherence of many Croats to far-left and far-right views. Explaining what counted as such in the 1920s, the authors bring us back to the myth of “Balkanism” that Radić faced in Serbian politicians: “intoxicated with victory in the war, they [the Serbian politicians] were not even ready to talk about his demands.” Boban laments that, as leader of the C(R)PP, Radić “had to defend his democratic and liberal principles in a state that had nothing in common with either a rule-of-law state or a democratic state.”24 Antić, coauthor of the collection, echoes these views. According to Antić, the atmosphere in the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes “was poisoned by political primitivism, alien to the part of the state that was located in Austria–Hungary. We are talking about violence, vulgarity, manipulations during elections, nepotism, corruption.”25 As an expert on the nineteenth century, Stančić does not go into such gloomy details and simply states that the Serbian political elite “lacked established democratic traditions.”26

Since “democratism” is presented as the main attribute of Radić’s theory and practice, it is reasonable to ask what kind of “democracy” is meant. I repeat the question posed by Stojanović with respect to the so-called “golden era of Serbian democracy”: “What exactly is the meaning of this concept, which is accepted all over the world, to which everyone swears allegiance, and which, after everything that happened in the twentieth century, has so many mutually contradictory meanings that one can speak of the victory of the word over its meaning?”27 However, before trying to arrive at an answer to this question, let us evaluate the reliability of some of the assessments quoted above of the context in which the C(R)PP had to operate.

As for the lack of democratic traditions among the Serbs, it is possible to talk about this alleged lack only if we are guided by the Western European standard. By Balkan standards and in comparison with what the Yugoslav subjects of the Habsburgs had been able to venture, pre-war Serbia experienced a triumph of democracy in 1903–1914. The country had a constitution, the parliament, upon which the throne could not impose its will, was formed on the basis of universal suffrage (for men), and rival parties succeeded each other at the head of the government.

One can hardly object to Antić’s enumeration of the unattractive aspects of Serbian “Balkanism.” But was Croatia itself free of nepotism and corruption, vulgarity and “primitivism”? Not quite, as follows from the pre-war texts written by Radić himself. Addressing the Sabor in May 1910, he names social ailments which his party promised to address with its “peasant policy”: “We want to free our people from the horror of the bureaucrats, the horror of the priests, and the horror of the Jews.28 We resolutely oppose bureaucratic arbitrariness, priestly brainwashing, and Jewish exploitation.”29 The atmosphere was even more poisoned by the fact that the Jews allegedly did not limit themselves to economic exploitation only. “Their slyness merged with boldness and meanness into a single property of their soul,”30 which enabled the “foreigners” to bend ministers of the Church and some local politicians to their will, in particular Ante Starčević, the founder of Croatian nationalism, who purportedly “obeyed a Jew,” 31 namely, Josip Frank. As far as the clergy was concerned, “it has succumbed to the Jews today, and together they go to dinner with those in power in order to get themselves red cardinal belts.”32

Obviously, Radić’s anti-Semitism is not something his panegyrists would like to bring to light. For example, Lipovac and Petrić, in order to confirm that, for Radić, democratism was above nationalism, cite the following phrase: “If the peasant continues to be beaten in free Croatia […] this is not the Croatia we want.”33 In the article by Boban, we find what the authors hid behind the ellipsis: “If the peasant continues to be beaten up in free Croatia, if counts and priests with Jews continue to play the master [italics added, A.S.], this is not the Croatia we want.”34 While acknowledging that Radić hated Jews, Boban nevertheless insists that he was “an outspoken supporter of a tolerant attitude towards other nations.” She does not explain how the one could be combined with the other, but we should read the following between the lines: even the sun has the occasional dark spot, and the peasant tribune always denounced the aristocracy and the clergy together with the “Jews,” which allegedly indicates Radić’s commitment to social equality and democracy.

Returning to the question of the nature of the latter, national tolerance is not the only virtue that can be found under the guise of xenophobia if desired. Radić is described as a politician with a “European outlook,”35 a man “of European format, our first educated modern political scientist.”36 As a graduate of the École Libre des Sciences Politiques in Paris, he was “especially inspired by democracy in Britain.”37 “Having organized a modern political party” (with a program that was “modern in every respect”),38 according to Boban, Radić “believed that all goals should be fought for by democratic means within the framework of the system of parliamentarism.”39

According to Boban, the “cornerstone liberal democratic principles” were embodied in the Constitution of the Neutral Peasant Republic of Croatia (1921), which provided for “the highest (even for today) standards for the observance of rights and freedoms.”40 Hodimir Sirotković concurs. According to Sirotković, the constitution contained “solely liberal positions.” Ivo Goldstein writes about the “liberal-democratic positions” of the C(R)PP’s program documents and cites “social justice, broad public education, the rule of law, and control of the executive and legislative power through referenda” as examples of these alleged positions.41

Is the above interpretation of the constitution credible, and did Radić really take a stance resembling the intransigence and commitment of Martin Luther when he purportedly said, “Here I stand, I cannot do otherwise”? It is possible to answer in the affirmative only if we ignore the general context of the activities and propaganda of the C(R)PP before and after the adoption of the document. However, before considering the image of the state and power that emerged from Radić’s speeches and texts from various years, let us pay attention to a circumstance that in itself demonstrates the implausibility of the position cited above. In the 1920s and 1930s, the “heyday of peasant policy,” the C(R)PP did not display interest in the work of the parliament, nor did it seek to exert much influence on its decisions, as one would have expected from a “modern party” with a “modern” program.

Members of Radić’s party appeared in the Belgrade Skupština only in the spring of 1924, i.e. five years after the foundation of the state and a year before they recognized the monarchy and abandoned republicanism. The party returned to the policy of boycotting the parliament after the assassination attempt on Radić, which took place in the parliament on June 20, 1928. As a result of the establishment of the regime of King Alexander Karadjordjević on January 6, 1929, the C(R)PP was banned, like all other “tribal” Yugoslav parties. After the death of Karadjordjević in 1934, the party took part in the elections twice (in 1935 and 1938) but abstained from going to Belgrade. Following the signing of the Cvetković–Maček Agreement in August 1939 and the formation of Banovina Hrvatska, the new government, with the participation of the C(R)PP, dissolved the parliament without calling new elections. The Croatian Sabor was not convened either, although the agreement specifically provided for this.42

Radić’s party ignored the Skupština for years while still participating in six elections (in 1920, 1923, 1925, 1927, 1935, and 1938). This can hardly be interpreted as convincing evidence of a commitment to liberal democracy, a fact which prompts some of his apologists to resort to sophistical argumentation. For example, S. Leček justifies the tactics of the C(R)PP by the fact that the Yugoslav parliamentarism of the 1920s (“imaginary” or “pseudo-parliamentarism”) and of the second half of the 1930s (“tolerated parliamentarism”) was far from the original Western model. Therefore, Radić’s choice in favor of “extra-institutional ways” and “alternative methods” is presented as justified.43 At the same time, the fact that these “ways” and “methods” largely determined both the shape of the representative bodies and the state structure of the Kingdom of SCS / Yugoslavia as a whole goes unmentioned. In particular, Radić’s party’s failure to participate in the work of the Constituent Assembly in 1921 facilitated the adoption of the Vidovdan Constitution, which infringed upon the interests of the Yugoslavs of the former Austria–Hungary.44

In 1923, the C(R)PP made a secret deal with the Serbian Radical Party (the so-called Markov Protocol), according to which Radić’s followers promised to continue the boycott of the parliament so as not to prevent the radicals from forming the government majority. In return, the radicals promised to suspend administrative centralization in Croatia. In 1928, a year before the establishment of the dictatorship, Radić was the first Yugoslav politician to propose that the king appoints an “extra-parliamentary person” at the head of the government, namely, a general who would be “against large Serbian parties that had placed themselves outside the parliament, the state, and the will of the people.”45 Finally, in 1939, Radić’s successors neglected their obligations to the Serbian opposition, with which they were united by the demands for democratization, a return to genuine parliamentarism, etc., and concluded a separate deal with the “bearer of military force,” that is, with the authoritarian regency regime.

To return to Radić’s constitution, it is worth noting that indeed, démocratie libérale cannot be built without many of the things it stipulated. At the same time, some of its provisions poorly correlate with liberalism and any “modern” vision of the legal structure of the state in general. Therefore, the text in question could equally reflect Radić’s eclectic but progressive views and the desire to meet the expectations of the widest possible target audience at home and abroad. It is indicative that the description of the national flag of Croatia is immediately followed by a list of the “world factors that made small nations subjects of international law.” Gratitude is expressed “first of all to the great republican Union of North America, […] equally to the Russian Revolution, which overthrew Russian militarism forever,” and then to “the two largest Western European constitutional democracies.”46 The leadership of the C(R)PP did not abandon all hope for some form of external intervention in internal Yugoslav affairs until 1925, when it dropped the letter “R” from its name and recognized the monarchy and the existing constitution. Before that, Radić went to Moscow and joined the Peasant International (1924). Earlier (1919–1924), the C(R)PP counted mainly on the help of the West, and therefore the articles on the separation of powers, the rule of law, etc. could not but be included in the constitution.

Furthermore, earlier texts and speeches show that Radić did not consider himself a liberal:

It is known that the first democracy arose in France, its economic name was liberalism or […] free competition. Jews were very fond of it. The second democracy is workers’ or socialist democracy. Its economic name is confiscation […] And the Jews supported it, hoping that confiscation would not be from them but from someone else. The third democratism is peasant democratism, which is called production or economy. While we are on this soil, we do not need liberalism and competition. How can you compete when you have nothing?47

 

As a summary of this lecture on political economy, which Radić delivered to his fellow deputies in 1910, let us quote what he had written five years earlier under the pseudonym Baćuška: “Liberalism does not recognize the soul of the people and at the forefront it puts itself rather than ‘body of the people.’ Therefore, it is far from Slavic democracy and from the Croatian People’s Peasant Party.”48

According to Mark Biondich, behind such claims there was a view that

the most salient characteristic of liberal ideology was the state’s dissociation from society. According to Radić, “the state had no obligation to help its citizens, and Jewish liberals also teach that it is not in the state’s interest to help the poor people, the peasant or pauper, but that everyone must be left to his fate.”49

Biondich contends that the C(R)PP’s program “differed from liberalism in its emphasis on the whole peasant community as opposed to the individual and in its opposition to the economic principle of laissez-faire.”

Choosing between the rights and freedoms of an individual on the one hand and the collective interests of the “agricultural estate” on the other, Radić was guided by the idea of “five-fold superiority” of peasants over other social groups:

1. Superiority in numbers, because the peasantry constitutes the overwhelming majority of the people (more than 80 percent); 2. In labor and acquired property, since the peasant works from dawn to dusk, and the peasantry owns a large part of the total national property; 3. In honesty and morality; 4. In political stability and ability to sacrifice, loyalty to the national language and folk customs, that is, to everything that constitutes the Croatian nationality and the Croatian fatherland; 5. In humanity.50

 

It is not surprising that Radić considered the peasantry the only “political factor” capable of “putting in order our domovina—the state that we all want.”51 The latter appears as an enlarged model of a peasant home (homestead) and at the same time as the totality of such homesteads: “Our first task is to protect and develop these homes, and the second task is to turn the large domovina consisting of small homes, maybe, not into Belgium or Switzerland, but into Denmark.”

The high mission of the villagers was dissonant with their political position, in which they suffered discrimination. It was the responsibility of the educated urban strata to correct this. Radić appealed to the deputies in the Sabor: “Knowing what the people are, what their physical and moral strength is, we are obliged to embody it properly. Because if the people do not have that strength, the intelligentsia will remain without a cause.”52 The explanation of what this “cause” consisted of demonstrates that La science politique is not the only root of Radić’s ideology: “This is most clearly written in Russian literature, which, in fact, is peasant literature. Russian writers profess that they are in debt to the people, but not the people to them.”53

“The value of Russian literature lies not only in its artistic merits,” wrote Antun Radić (1868–1919), Stjepan’s brother and cofounder of the party. “For us,” Antun insisted,

it is even more important because it offers a solution to two problems […] folk culture and the attitude of the intelligentsia towards the people. Having rapidly adopted Western European education and alien customs, the intelligentsia became a stranger to its people. Thus, a chasm started to yawn between the educated people and the common folk. The best Russian people struggled to overcome it, and Russian fiction acted as an assistant in that.54

This explains why, according to historian Stipe Kljaić, the profile of the political and ideological world of the Radić brothers was shaped by the Russian narodniks and Russian literary realism. “Following the example of the Russian narodniks,” Kljaić writes,

the Radić brothers were going to liberate the intelligentsia that was “alienated from the people” from servility to the West and offered the cult of the people, the village, and the peasantry instead […]. Copying the contemporary Russian experience, the Radić brothers also embraced the anti-Western Slavic myth. Western culture is presented as the destroyer of the autochthonous Croatian peasant culture […] Rejecting western civil modus vivendi, the Radić brothers chose peasant existence as the source of their ideology.55

 

Bridging the “chasm” in Radić’s way meant the implementation of the “concept of peasant right,”56 which was supposed to protect against “atheism and clericalism, revolution and bureaucracy, as well as today’s socialism and capitalism—the apostle of state omnipotence and the tyranny of money over labor.”57 Industrialization posed a particular threat to peasant homesteads, for “large-scale industry turns broad strata of the people into real slaves, and the agricultural system makes the man a giant.”58 Taking this as a point of departure, the C(R)PP insisted on “expanding the electoral legislation,” guarantees of “protections for the peasant’s plot of land,” the organization of self-governing economic and administrative communities, etc.

The post-war period raised new harsh demands formulated in the constitution. The “government of the peasant majority” was to become an obligatory attribute of the “republic,” and the “peasant homestead” was to be its lower administrative unit.59 Apparently, the abolition of universal conscription and the regular army, the abolition of customs duties, and the “establishment of cooperatives instead of capitalist banks”60 were provided for in the interests of the “majority.” In addition, it was supposed that the university and gymnasiums with lyceums and non-classical secondary schools should be closed down. Large land holdings should be expropriated.61 In general, the document described the state as if to make it seem as little burdensome as possible for its citizens.

Such an evolution of views was caused by the radicalization of the sentiments of the Croatian peasant, who, according to Radić, “during the four war years […] was not only a real slave of the state but was also exploited by all masters in a manner worse than any draft animals were.”62 That is why after the war this Croatian peasant “demands the same freedom and rights for which his peasant brothers are fighting in Russia.”63

In 1924, Vitomir Korać, the leader of the Yugoslav Social Democrats, shared the following recollection of the pre-revolutionary situation in the Croatian lands in 1918–1920:

The psychological condition of the masses was dangerous. Exhausted by the difficult war, they hoped for immediate changes for the better as soon as the war ended. But the hardships of the war continued. Captive soldiers of the former Austro-Hungarian armada were returning from Russia and preaching “the dawn from the East.” Psychosis spread through the masses. And then “saviors” of all kinds appeared; they promised deliverance in 24 hours. Thus, demagoguery of any kind fell on fertile soil.64

 

However, of all the “saviors,” the peasant masses chose Radić, which Korać explained as a consequence of his “virtuosity in demagogy,” i.e. his ability to articulate the entire wide range of ethnic, social, and political phobias of a potential voter:

If there are supporters of Charles I of Austria nearby, he appears to be a real Caesarist; if someone supports the pravaši, he is for the Croatian state right; if someone hates the Serbs, he starts to disparage them […] if someone doesn’t like priests, neither does he; if someone is a republican, so is he; if someone is against the war, he is a pacifist […] if someone is against military service, he is against the army; if someone does not want to pay taxes, here he is. In short, he did not disdain any propaganda slogans and managed to catch every bluster of discontent in his sails. No one could compete with him in demagoguery—neither the communists, nor the Catholic clerics, nor Frank’s followers.

 

Dragoljub Jovanović, a Serbian left-wing politician expressed a similar opinion:

Stipica knew that the peasant soul is not a monochord, that it has more than one string. And it would not be enticed by agricultural communes (zadruga), politics, Croatian identity, or the republic taken separately. […] There were always several strings on his harp, and many arrows in his quiver. With them, he captured the hearts of his supporters and hit his opponents.65

Radić himself confirmed the validity of those characterizations in 1925:

The masses were seized by the spirit of the losers. On the one hand, the supporters of the Habsburgs. On the other hand, the Bolsheviks. We had to act quickly, and it took a strong “schlager.” We seized on the republic because of Wilson, America, Germany, Austria, and Hungary. If it hadn’t worked, we would have to look for something else. However, now we can be satisfied. We finished off the Habsburgs and stopped the spread of Bolshevism. Another cause is the danger of clericalism.66

 

To achieve such results, it was necessary not only to present oneself to the public in a favorable light but also to discredit competitors. The party’s awareness of the masses’ hostility to their newfound “brothers,” the Serbs, was an a priori advantage over many of its competitors. As Ante Trumbić recalled in 1932, “Radić comprehended the soul of the Croatian peasant, who returned home after four years of suffering […] and was filled with rage, having found the country under Serbian occupation.”67

In the early 1920s, anti-Serbian rhetoric allowed Radić’s followers to outrun the communists (who preached ideas of international solidarity that were strange to the average peasant) in the struggle for the sympathies of the villagers. As for the urban parties that were represented in the Croatian Sabor and later in the People’s Assembly of SCS, they became an even easier target for defamation. For the most part, they recognized Yugoslavia and the theory of national unity among the Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes underlying it, which made it possible to accuse them of betraying Croatian national interests. Of significance in this respect is Rudolf Herceg’s description of the electoral victory of the C(R)PP in the election to the Constitutional Assembly in Croatia in November 1920: “It was being decided whether the Croatian people wanted to vest rights in Radić or in those of their gentlemen who […] had decided to hand power over Croatia to Belgrade.”68

Against those who could not be accused of loyalty to the “occupiers,” the thesis of the exploitation of the Croatian peasant by all sorts of kaputaši69 and cilindraši was effective, regardless of their political orientation and the position they held during and after the war. Therefore, as Radić said in the autumn of 1918, “having become a full-fledged person as a result of the war,” in the upcoming elections to the Sabor or the Constituent Assembly, the peasant “will no longer vote for gentlemen who have broken all their promises, […] but will vote only for people from the plow and hoe.”70 In order to “finish off” those who were nostalgic for the Habsburgs or were associated in the public mind with the nobility, the higher clergy, and the Austro-Hungarian bureaucracy in one way or another, the C(R)PP ideologists explained that the “rulers and their first assistants—bishops and noblemen” are to blame for all troubles and misfortunes.

Eliminating “the danger of clericalism,” the C(R)PP took advantage of the popular perception of the priesthood as an accomplice of the violent state on the one hand and the stable patriarchal piety of the villagers on the other. Appealing to this, Radić emphasized that “for us, the peasantry is not a class, but […] the people of martyrs.”71 Party propaganda promised them brilliant prospects: “The peasant procession goes forward and, without turning off the path, to the paradise of the peasant republic.”72 The procession was headed by the C(R)PP, “the bearer of the peasant movement, which is outgrowing the narrow class frame and transforming not just into a popular (Croatian) movement but also into a universal one.”73

What were these ideals of universal significance? We find the answer in Herceg’s work cited above: “And among the Croatian people there appeared a revived Christian religion, faith in rights and truth, goodness and the man—the person who is righteous, courageous and wise.” This did not mean abstract Homo sapiens, but a concrete man of flesh and blood: “This person is not a thief, not a coward, not overly smart, like those who believe that they are smarter than all the people and are therefore insane. In 1918, all the leaders could be reproached for this, but not Radić.”74 Who this “righteous man” considered himself to be can be seen from his letter to Tomasz Dąbal, an activist of the Peasant International, sent in May 1924: “Agitation in the ordinary sense of the word does not exist in our country. We do not have any agents at all. Everything is done in the most ideal way—by means of apostolate, that is preaching the liberation of the peasant people.”75

The way in which Radić’s associates conducted themselves after his death in 1928 offered clear proof of the quasi-religious nature of the C(R)PP ideology. The heart and the brain of the deceased “high priest” were removed from his body by his orphaned “apostles.” They were supposed to be put on display in a special mausoleum, where they would offer exaltation of “Radić’s epistle to the people and maintain his cult.”76 Stipica Grgić contended that this plan (which remained unfulfilled) bore the strongest affinities with “the concept of Lenin’s mausoleum, where the mortal remains of the leader were kept.”

Of course, even during his lifetime, fellow party members and supporters did not treat Stjepan Radić as

the chief of some Western European party. He is the leader whose decisions are carried out unquestioningly […] even when he expels someone from the party, from the ranks of the Croatian people. Like a patriarch, he exercises his power, which was vested in him by the people by plebiscite. He instructs, threatens, punishes, praises, but at the same time he always remains a good father at heart.77

 

This passage from the party’s press organ not only confirms Radić’s high status but also makes one wonder who deserves “expulsion from the people.” Apparently, the answer to this question was anyone who did not support the C(R)PP or, as Radić wrote, “that gentleman or worker who is outside the peasant circle, and therefore outside and against the [Croatian – A.S.] people.”78

Thus, Radić’s adherence to the principle of the majority dictatorship and his intolerance of those who didn’t fit into this majority for ethnic, social, or other reasons (in the spirit of “whoever is not with us is against us”) give reason to assume that he was very far from liberalism, which inherently has an ethics of individualism, pluralism, and reverence for the rights of the minority. However, those who consider the patriarchal traditionalist elements of the theory and practice of the C(R)PP to be a manifestation of their “modern” essence would hardly agree with this statement. For instance, reproducing Radić’s thesis about “the identity of the republican system with the organization of the traditional Croatian zadruga,” Ivo Banac argued that the “republican model proposed by him had much in common with western parliamentary systems.”79 Sirotković, whose reasoning went along the same lines, believed that the definition of the republic as “the association of the homes and the people” was an “exclusively liberal provision” of the constitution.80

Nikola Pašić as the Historical Predecessor of Stjepan Radić: Similar Ideas, Similar Policies, and Contemporary Perceptions

As noted at the beginning of this article, Radić is not the only figure in the modern and contemporary history of the southern Slavs who tends to be portrayed as a forerunner of modern “European modernization,” as Stančić put it. The results that historiography has produced in connection with historical problems similar to Radić’s controversy are important for our polemic. This involves the contradictory assessments of Nikola Pašić and the Radical Party headed by him. According to Holm Sundhaussen, “its demands were similar to those stated in the Radić brothers’ program.”81 Similarities between the programs were due to the identical base of Radić’s and the radicals’ supporters. In the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth, peasants of approximately equal income comprised nearly 90 percent of the population of Serbia, and the lion’s share of them followed the PRP shortly after its formation in 1881.

The social homogeneity of the Serbian people is seen by some researchers as a factor in the formation of a “politically progressive system.”82 Almost echoing Radić, Banac felt that the zadruga and Western parliamentarism shared common features. Slobodan Antonić, a Belgrade political scientist, refers to the illiterate peasant majority as “the middle class” in the collective monograph Srbi 1903–1914. Istorija ideja (Serbs, 1903–1914: The History of Ideas, Belgrade: Clio, 2015). Therefore, a society in which it dominates “is ideal for the introduction of democracy in terms of classical concepts.” Apparently, he was thinking of liberal democracy, judging by the fact that Miloš Ković, coauthor and editor-in-chief of the publication, titled his chapter “The Time of King Petar: The Victory of Liberal Democracy.”83

During the reign of Petar Karadjordjević and earlier, under the last rulers of the Obrenović dynasty, the Radical Party played first fiddle on the Serbian political stage. In Academician Milorad Ekmečić’s view, it was established “on the model of modern European parties,”84 and according to Milan Protić, it “had a decisive influence on the transformation of Serbia into a democratic European state.”85 As the late Dušan Bataković wrote, the radicals “advocated democratic ideals and strictly parliamentary procedure in political struggle,” “defended the principles of modern parliamentarism, universal suffrage, and individual freedom.” The authors cited above retrace the ideological roots of the party exclusively in the western direction, or in other words, they find these roots in British parliamentary theory and French radicalism, which had a decisive influence on “the political program and organization of the movement.”86

It is difficult to agree with this point of view. Pašić’s growing popularity in the 1880s reflected the refusal by the masses to accept the very intentions that the above-cited authors attribute to him. Namely, these are the attempts “to make a European people […] out of the Serbian people, and to turn Serbia into a European state.”87 According to Stojan Novaković, the Serbian Progressive Party (Srpska napredna stranka), which formed the government in the 1880–1887s at the behest of Prince/King Milan Obrenović, was faced with this task. To address it, the ruling circles had to adopt the basic principle of European liberalism: the state exists for the man but not for itself. According to Milan Piroćanac, another prominent naprednjak, the man “is free and has the right to use and improve all his abilities with which he is endowed by nature.”88 However, there is no rose without a thorn, so “the man,” i.e., the Serbian peasant, was required to learn “the state’s discipline.” This meant, as Shemjakin wrote, transforming himself “from a former insurrectionist against the Turks into a disenfranchised subject of his state, from a guerrilla rebel into a regular soldier, from a self-sufficient producer into a taxpayer with an ever-growing tax burden.”89

Such a “metamorphosis” imposed from above could provoke only one response from the closed agrarian society. This response was described by an astute contemporary: “The instincts of the masses increasingly rebelled against the modernization of the state.” The opposition radicals managed to “catch, articulate, and transform them into the form of a powerful people’s movement.”90 Pašić opposed Europeanization of the naprednjak type with reference to the importance of protecting Serbian identity:

The main aspiration was to preserve good institutions, consistent with the Serbian spirit and hinder the introduction of new Western institutions that could bring confusion to the people’s development. The Serbian people have so many good and healthy institutions and customs that the only thing to do would be to protect them and supplement them with the wonderful establishments that the Russian and other Slavic tribes have.91

In the parliament and outside of it, the party sabotaged government-proposed reforms by rejecting the laws concerning the railroads, banks, and the regular army, by opposing the attraction of foreign capital into the country, etc.

What the radicals termed “native Serbian institutions” were the zadruga and the community consisting of several zadrugas.92 For Pašić, the latter was “the soul of the Slavic world. It is its origin, and modern social science considers it the crowning achievement in the development of the existing Western European social order.”93 Therefore, the community served both as a micro-model and as the primary self-governing unit of the virtual entity that Pašić proposed as an alternative to the naprednjak project of a “European” Serbia. It was called the “people’s state” or the “people’s homestead,” the inhabitants of which were not divided into those who govern (bureaucracy) and those who were governed. “It is built and developed on the basis of a fraternal agreement,” and the master in it is the people, who “have created […] everything that we now have” and therefore have the right to “dispose of everything as of their own property.”94

Shemjakin describes the ideological background of the conflict between the radicals and the naprednjaks as follows: “Favoring of the individual and the apology of the community came to grips: personal freedom was opposed to the sovereignty of the people; the whole society was opposed to the individual; individualistic values were opposed to collectivism and solidarism.”95 Being embodied in the “people’s state,” those principles provided protection against capitalism, with its militant individualism and stratification of society into hostile classes, against industrialization, against alien non-Serbian “culture,” and, in general, against the “infection” coming from the West. According to Pašić, the West “had exalted money above everything else on earth,” above peasant “virtues and dignity-honor, labor, and morality.”96 Spreaders of the “infection” in Serbia are listed in a song sung by the radical crowd:97

 

Против бога и владара, Против попа и олтара, Против круне и скиптара, ... За радника, за ратара Боримо се ми! Устај сељо, устај роде, Да се спасеш од господе... Чиновнике, бирократе, Ћифтарију, зеленаше, Цилиндраше и сабљаше, Који газе право наше, Гонићемо сви.

Against god and rulers Against the priest and the altars, Against crown and scepter, … For the worker, for the plowman, We fight! Rise, peasant, rise, people, To escape from the masters... Officials, bureaucrats, Merchants, moneylenders, Cilindraši and sabljaši, trampling on our rights, Let’s drive them out together.

 

Those listed above who managed to seize power and pursue state policy in their own interests instead of the interests of the peasant majority dwelt in Belgrade and other cities. According to the memoirs of the radical mouthpiece Samouprava (1941), in the 1880s, the cities were “swept over by foreignism,” which resulted in the “alienation of urban residents from the peasants, from the people.”98 Who expresses the people’s will? The People’s Party, of course. It appears as both an instrument of struggle for the “people’s state” and its supporting pillar. At the same time, the PRP was viewed by its members as a “movement.” As Miloš Trifunović, a member of the PRP’s Central Committee wrote many years later, its essence “is not expressed in the party structure and charter because it [the movement – A.S.] lives in the soul of many people. It is more than just a party, more than a doctrine or an idea. The movement exists as a deep feeling which has acquired the power of a religion, a deep political faith.”99

The radicals owed the acquisition of this faith to the same “prophets” as the Radić followers did twenty years later. As Pera Todorović recalled, “the living example of Russian nihilists has influenced us most of all. Faith is contagious, and when we saw how our Russian comrades unreservedly believe in socialism, we also believed in it.”100 Shemjakin continues:

In their project of the “people’s state,” they did not go beyond the system of narodnik socialism. Among their main guidelines, which return to the ideological stock of this system, were the denial of capitalism and bourgeois civilization, the perception of the people as a single and integral organism, the construction of a cult around the properties of the communal (collectivist) mentality, the concept of a “people’s party,” etc.101

The “faith” certainly had a universal character, which is why the radicals viewed their fight against Milan and the naprednjaki as a struggle to protect the entire Slavic tribe, “Slavic culture,” and the coming “Slavic era” against the Western Drang nach Osten. The adepts were tied by bonds that were stronger than those of ordinary political associates. According to the memoirs of a younger contemporary of the PRP’s founders, its structure “very much resembled the army and the church at the same time.” Shemjakin agrees: “It is exactly so, in fact, the party was a symbiosis of this kind. Hierarchy and discipline lent it the features of a military unit; ideology and its exalted perception added the character of a religious order.”102 Naturally, Pašić was its grand maître and commander in chief. He had no less authority among party members and sympathizers than Radić did thirty years later. Shemjakin offers an example of reliable testimony given by a European observer: “Pašić created an aura of legend around himself, having become a personification of some terrible force among the people. If something is wrong, you can hear from everywhere, ‘Ah! If only Pašić were here. When will he be here? Fortunately, Pašić remains!’”103

The PRP’s interpretation of its own role as a sacred mission resulted in its claim for political hegemony, a claim and aspiration which it continued to cherish for decades. Its validity was confirmed by the fact that, for the radicals, the meaning of democracy was reduced to the right of the majority to monopolistic power. “Considering themselves the exclusive spokesmen for the interests of the whole people,” they viewed parliamentarism not as a mechanism for alleviating social contradictions but as “the institutionalization of such a right.” Accordingly, those who thought differently “were perceived not as political opponents but as irreconcilable adversaries and therefore enemies of the people.”104 As they were averse to pluralism, the radicals rejected “the very essence of the liberal ideology and hence the doctrine of parliamentarism that ‘was growing’ directly from it.”105

Indeed, not much in the appearance of the radicals corresponded to the “model of modern European parties.” In what capacity did the PRP achieve total superiority over its opponents and mobilize the majority of Serbia’s population? Popović-Obradović offers an answer to this question. According to her, “in parallel with the first steps towards modernization, a mass populist socialist party was founded in Serbia with the type of organization that would come into practice only with the emergence of totalitarian ideologies of the twentieth century.”106 Shemjakin gives more details concerning the type of organization that was meant: “Principles of organization, strict hierarchy, an outright cult of the leader, a political culture based on the rejection of political pluralism and on the principle ‘whoever is not with us is against us!,’ obvious messianism and one-dimensional thinking—all these ‘generic’ features make them related to ‘the party of a new type’—the Russian Bolsheviks. And this similarity does not appear accidental at all if we bear in mind the common narodnik basis on which (obviously, at different times and under different conditions) both parties grew.”107

Conclusion

Are the above findings of any importance for an assessment of the C(R)PP? Before we answer this question, it is worth reminding ourselves of the tasks this article tackles. The evident commitment of Serbian and Croatian historiographies to similar mythological constructions which reduce the course of interwar history to the struggle of “our” liberalism/progress against “their” tyranny/regression prompted us to compare and verify the authenticity of the politically colored historiographic images of two key Serbian and Croatian figures (and the parties they formed) and to establish the nature of their ideological similarity. We have shown that, despite the 23-year age difference, both parties shared common ideological roots, a common social base, similar organizational structures, similar self-perceptions among the leadership, common slogans, and other means of mass manipulation.

There is no reason to believe that Radić and his followers succeeded by imitating the radicals or deliberately copying their experience. Much as had happened in Serbia, which gained independence after two wars with the Turks (1876, 1877–1878), small rural proprietors and producers constituted the lion’s share of the electorate in Croatia in 1918–1920. As the members of the population who were least inclined to bear the burden of state building, they were prepared to accept populist recipes to get rid of it. In this situation, the PRP and the C(R)PP, armed with the arsenal of narodnik socialist propaganda, were “doomed” to succeed. Branko Bešlin, a historian from Novi Sad, describes the formula of this success as follows: “The illiterate and backward peasantry could only be led by a firmly organized party, whose members devoted themselves to political work entirely and were ready for any sacrifice.”108

The PRP and the C(R)PP were arguably examples of the same socio-political phenomenon, separated by two and a half decades. The study of the former furthers an accurate, more subtle “diagnosis” of the latter. Even a cursory glance at Radić’s activities reveals that he was not a forerunner of liberal democracy. However, it is easier to substantiate this by relying on the precedent that is already known to history. Thus, the overwhelming evidence of anti-liberalism and anti-Westernism among the radicals and their typological kinship with the Bolsheviks “works” in relation to the Radić-followers. And we have the right to address the contemporary apologists for the latter with a critical remark that Shemjakin made in his polemical exchange of ideas with the adherents of the “Pašić–Karadjordjević restoration”: “The radicals’ ideas of ‘freedom,’ ‘democracy,’ etc. could not be identical to the modern meaning of these concepts (in a liberal spirit), which is used by some Serbian historians writing about Pašić and the radicals. Thus, they [Pašić and the radicals] are far more ‘Europeanized’ than they deserve.”109

Archival Sources

Arhiv Jugoslavije, Belgrade [Archives of Yugoslavia] (AЈ)

80 Jovan Jovanović-Pižon, Fasc. 31-151.

305 Djura Popović. Fasc. 4.

335 Vojislav Jovanović-Marambo, Fasc. 6.

Hrvatski Državni Arhiv, Zagreb [Croatian State Archives] (HDA)

Ante Starčević. Kutija 1. Pismo Stjepana Radića Marku Došenu. 27. I. 1919.

Rossijskij gosudarstvennyi arhiv social’no-politicheskoj istorii, Moscow [State Archives of Social-Political History of Russia] (RGASPI)

535 Krestjanskij Internacional [Peasant International] 2-190-19.

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