Knowledge in Circulation: Methods of Birth Control among Slovak Women in the 1920s and 1930s 

Eva Škorvanková

Comenius University, Faculty of Arts

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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 3 (2026): 464-493  DOI 10.38145/2026.3.464

This study considers the dissemination of knowledge about methods of birth control among Slovak women in the 1920s and 1930s. Focusing on practices based on tracking the menstrual cycle and periodic abstinence, it draws on contemporary statistical data, ethnographic research, and a wide range of sources, including health-education literature, women’s periodicals, and the activities of social organizations. The article analyses the multiple channels through which such knowledge circulated, from medical discourse and church environments to informal networks among women. It argues that, despite the Catholic Church’s rejection of birth control, these methods became part of women’s birth control strategies, revealing tensions between medical knowledge, moral norms, and everyday practice. In doing so, the study adds to the historiography of reproductive health and gender by highlighting women’s agency in the negotiation of competing normative frameworks.

Keywords: natural birth control, reproductive health, women’s agency, interwar Czechoslovakia, knowledge circulation

While the decline in fertility in the Carpathian Basin had already begun by the turn of the twentieth century, population development in interwar Czechoslovakia1 was subsequently affected by the consequences of World War I and the Great

Depression.2 The birth rate in Slovakia3 reached its peak in 1921 and gradually declined until the end of 1938.4 However, birth rates varied considerably across distinct regions of Slovakia, remaining low to very low in the southern part of central Slovakia, Bratislava, and its immediate surroundings.5 The number of births rose slightly again only in 1938, when women born during the baby boom following the end of World War I reached reproductive age. According to analyses of interwar censuses, a comprehensive transformation in reproductive behavior and a reduction in the size of the Slovak family had already taken place.6 According to demographers Pavol Tišliar and Branislav Šprocha, in the northern regions of Slovakia the model of the three-child or four-child family continued to prevail, whereas in the southern part of central Slovakia, the model of the one-child or two-child family became increasingly common. In the districts of southwestern Slovakia, two-child and three-child families were most common.7 The model of simple and reduced reproduction had already begun to emerge more distinctly in certain areas of Hungary by the end of the eighteenth century.8 It is precisely the southern regions of what is now central Slovakia that can be included among these areas.

Differences in reproductive behavior also had a social dimension. Ethno­logical research indicates that artisan families increasingly frequently tended to have two to four children, while in some localities a large number of children was regarded as the cause of an artisan’s failure.9 Efforts to raise the standard of living of one’s family and provide social prestige and financial security for one’s offspring (and thus to regulate fertility) were characteristic in the interwar period not only of civil servant couples or women with higher education. These regional differences were shaped not only by patterns of landholding, inheritance practices, and the organization of agricultural production. In the prosperous agricultural regions of southern Slovakia, fertility limitation served as a strategy to prevent the fragmentation of family estates through inheritance. In contrast, in the northern regions, where smallholdings predominated, this economic rationale appears to have been less significant, and this contributed to the per­sistence of larger family models. At the same time, the interwar period witnessed the gradual spread of modern lifestyles, urban values, and new ideas about family life, accompanied by increasing female education and emancipation. These broader processes of modernization exerted an ever stronger influence on reproductive behaviors across social groups, making fertility decisions less dependent on economic considerations alone. Nevertheless, regional patterns cannot be explained solely by agrarian structures and inheritance practices. The interwar period was also characterized by profound processes of social and cultural modernization. Urbanization, expanding educational opportunities, changing gender relations, and the gradual emancipation of women contributed to new perceptions of marriage, parenthood, and family size. These shifts, in turn, meant that reproductive decisions were increasingly shaped by modern lifestyles rather than solely by traditional economic considerations and familial strategies.10

The gradual drop in the number of children per family and the growing predominance of a smaller family model were inevitably linked to birth control and the use of various contraceptive practices.

The topic of fertility and its regulation was considered an intimate matter for women and was not deemed appropriate for public discussion. Gradually, however, interest in sexuality began to enter specialist literature and the public sphere. It attracted the attention of doctors and sociologists, particularly in connection with the problem of declining birth rates, as well as that of artists, educators, and activists.

In the interwar period, abortion became part of public political and social debates, in which women themselves actively participated.11 In the liberal and democratic environment of the Czechoslovak Republic, women gained new opportunities to express their political views publicly, assert their capacity to make independent decisions about their own lives, and discuss the intimate lives of both sexes. Liberal and left-wing activists sought to implement fully the constitutional principle of equality between women and men and to promote the decriminalization of abortion. They also agitated for social legislation aimed at protecting working women and mothers.12 Although public debates on birth control were predominantly shaped by male political, medical, and religious elites, this article demonstrates that women also played an important role in formulating and disseminating competing views on reproduction, contraception, and abortion. By analyzing their participation in political movements, healthcare, women’s organizations, and the press,13 the article considers the rolls of women not only as subjects of reproductive policies but also as active contributors to interwar public discourse.

What, however, was the lived reality? What methods of birth control did women in Slovakia actually use to achieve a certain degree of reproductive control? In this study, I seek to answer these questions and to demonstrate how knowledge of natural methods of birth control spread among women and, not least, how various political, medical, and ecclesiastical authorities reacted to these processes. Although the analysis focuses on the territory of present-day Slovakia, the developments under discussion cannot be understood in isolation from the broader Czechoslovak context. Political and public debates, the process of modernization, and medical and legal discourses on birth control largely evolved at the state level and shaped developments throughout the republic, including Slovakia.

That is Not Something One Talks About

Women’s reproductive health and sexual life were among the topics that were not discussed in either rural or urban Slovak communities. This was true not only in public but also in private. Based on ethnological research, menstruation, childbirth, and abortion were also regarded as taboo subjects.14 Only sporadically did earlier ethnographic studies encounter indirect references to the sexual relations of women who lived in rural areas.15 In older sociological and ethnological literature, there were only brief mentions of the reproductive behavior of various local communities, while topics such as menstruation and sexuality received no attention at all.16

Based on extensive research, ethnologists Marta Botiková and Kornélia Jakubíková concluded that “as far as the traditional rural environment in our country is concerned, we have almost no information about sexual life within and outside marriage.”17 As these topics were long considered taboo, they were not the subject of systematic ethnological research.

In her current research on the medicalization of the female life cycle, anthropologist Tatiana Bužeková has also addressed menstruation and sexuality. Testimonies from respondents in her research sample who were born before 1945 suggest that, in the past, knowledge about menstruation simply was not passed on in any form from one generation to the next. The older women explained this silence in the same way: menstruation was perceived as “disgusting,” and people were ashamed to talk about it.18 One respondent stated that mothers were embarrassed to speak to their daughters about regular monthly bleeding, while daughters, in turn, were too ashamed to ask their mothers.19 As a result, neither the women nor their partners had any knowledge of the menstrual cycle.20

To date, there are no published relevant sources on the intergenerational transmission of knowledge about the menstrual cycle in urban settings. However, an analysis of the women’s association Živena’s21 educational and awareness-raising activities reveals only very general guidance on personal hygiene and health care. Živena, the oldest women’s association in Slovakia, was founded in 1869. It focused on supporting and organizing educational and awareness-raising activities among Slovak women in both urban and rural areas. The association’s members and trained teachers, who led so-called “people’s courses” for women in rural areas, concentrated on practical skills traditionally associated with women, including household management, cooking, handicrafts, financial matters, hygiene, and health education.22 Most of the association’s members were middle-class women.

In their interactions with women in rural areas and female workers, members of the association often adopted a somewhat distant and condescending attitude. The association’s adherence to conservative values and ideals also constituted a limitation.23 Within the framework of health and hygiene education and public courses, members and instructors avoided topics such as personal hygiene, female anatomy, and birth control.24 When cases of sexually transmitted diseases were identified in a village during their courses, they delivered lectures on the supposed necessity of following Christian morality and moral conduct.25

The situation began to change, at least in part, during the interwar period. Basic information about female anatomy was published, for example, in the fortnightly magazine Proletárka (The Proletarian Woman),26 which was aimed at female workers and women who might have communist sympathies. Individual issues usually were only 10–12 pages long and were printed in a newspaper-style multi-column layout, which necessarily limited the length of individual articles. More extensive educational texts were therefore occasionally published as separate supplements enclosed with the magazine, allowing the editors to present more detailed discussions of birth control and reproductive health than the regular format permitted. The editors reproduced educational articles by the well-known British palaeobotanist, women’s rights activist, and advocate of birth control Marie Stopes.27 In a series of articles titled Protection against Pregnancy, Stopes introduced women to the structure of the female reproductive organs. The editorial team added a detailed description of the menstrual cycle and called for improved hygiene and greater care for one’s body, including among working-class women.28 At the same time, the editors encouraged working women to monitor their menstrual cycles and to pay attention to their bodies, as irregularities could indicate pregnancy or health problems.

Modern views on female sexuality were also presented in the anthology Žena novej doby (“The Woman of the New Era”), which was intended to educate the modern democratic woman about public life, private life, the household, marriage, and paid employment. It was therefore primarily aimed at young women who aspired to obtain an education, secure paid work, and play more independence roles, both publicly and privately. The vision of modern partnership and family life presented in the anthology reflected the influence of the progressive ideals of the interwar period. It was prepared for publication by Alžbeta Göllnerová29 and Jarmila Zikmundová30 and was published in the autumn of 1938. By that time, however, the situation in Slovakia had deteriorated significantly. The authors were first required to revise the volume, and it was later completely withdrawn from libraries and distribution. The anthology presented views on the importance of an active sexual life within marriage that were strikingly progressive in the context of the conservative Slovak society of the time.31 An important contribution to the volume was made by Nina Wollmanová-Fajnorová.32 She called on women, particularly mothers, to pay attention to sex education. In her view, every conscientious mother should educate her child during puberty about sexual life and the physical changes associated with adolescence. She promoted a healthy understanding of sexuality and emphasized the need to become familiar with both the female and male body. In her article, she devoted considerable attention to the sexual dimension of marriage. She drew attention to women’s right to harmonious sexual fulfilment and equality in intimate relations and partnership.33

Midwives and maternity assistants were also important sources of information about the anatomy of the female body and reproductive organs.34 Midwives were educated and trained professionals qualified to manage childbirth, advise mothers on breastfeeding, and treat common conditions affecting women. They also had general knowledge of how to diagnose common diseases and provide first aid, and they were expected to provide advice on sexual and marital life. Their role was further expanded by Czechoslovak Act No. 200/1928 Coll. on Midwifery Practice and the Education and Training of Midwives, which required them to carry out regular home visits to mothers and newborns and to provide guidance on maternal and infant care. In practice, this made midwives the functional equivalent of health visitors. In the predominantly rural and agrarian environment of interwar Slovakia, where many women worked in agriculture and access to formal education and written health information remained uneven, these visits enabled midwives to establish relationships of trust and to enter the intimate sphere of women’s lives. Through their involvement in pregnancy, childbirth, and the postpartum period, they often gained detailed knowledge of women’s health, family circumstances, and reproductive experiences that was not necessarily shared with other members of the household, including the women’s husbands. Consequently, they were particularly well placed to disseminate information on fertility regulation and methods of birth control.

Midwives were highly regarded by both the medical community and the public. They played a key role in spreading health and hygiene awareness, and their working hours were not limited.35

As part of their training, midwives used the Učebnicu pre pôrodné asistentky (Textbook for Midwives) by the Czech gynecologist František Pachner36 and the legal expert Richard Bébr. In the medical section of the textbook (Part 1. Auxiliary Sciences), students learned about the anatomy and functions of the female reproductive organs. Graduates of the course thus had a precise under­standing of the menstrual cycle. The table below illustrates the exact course of ovulation and subsequent menstruation in cases in which fertilization and pregnancy did not occur. The table graphically indicated so-called fertile days, when, in a typical 28-day cycle, ovulation occurs around the fourteenth day and lasts until approximately the eighteenth or nineteenth day of the cycle.37 The chapter “On Women’s Diseases and the Sexual Life of Women,” acquainted midwives with various ways in which to intervene in marital sexual life, providing advice and support regarding pregnancy, the regularity of sexual intercourse between spouses, and various illnesses and disabilities as obstacles to parenthood. Midwives were also expected to be prepared to intervene in matters concerning contraception.38

Contraceptive Practices

The gradual drop in the number of children within the family and the maintenance of a narrow model of reproduction was necessarily linked to birth control and various contraceptive practices. Ethnological research has revealed some of the contraceptive methods and practices that were in use at the time.39 In addition to the application of various magical rituals (so-called magical contraception), various natural substances were commonly used (applied in some way to the vagina) in the hope that they would prevent pregnancy. In the Slovak society of the time, older ethnological research from the Horehronie region reports that women inserted the root of elecampane (Inula helenium) into the vagina.40 Since antiquity, lemon juice, lactic acid, honey, and cedar resin were also used in this manner, and plant peels were sometimes introduced as a form of barrier contraception.41

Protection against pregnancy, especially in areas where not only symbolic but also real results were expected, had to have a rational basis. Practices aimed at inducing abortion were also considered “women’s remedies,” but they posed a high risk to a woman’s physical health (these practices included decoctions (liquids made by boiling plant material, such as roots, bark, seeds, or herbs, in water to extract their active substances), baths, abdominal massages, and intentional falls). In central Slovakia, women seeking to terminate a pregnancy drank decoctions made from beech wood mixed with water, strong alcohol, or a decoction of common clubmoss (Lycopodium clavatum).42

If these methods proved ineffective, women sometimes resorted to abortion by attempting to injure the fetus with a spindle or another sharp object or by using water enemas or some form of abdominal massage.43 Although the present study does not examine these cases in detail, criminal court records from the territory of present-day Slovakia provide valuable evidence on the circumstances under which such procedures were performed and their medical, legal, and social consequences.44

Separate sleeping arrangements for spouses were also a common and reliable practice, accompanied by marital sexual abstinence and withdrawal (coitus interruptus).45 The practice of having newlyweds sleep separately was undoubtedly coordinated by an older woman (the housewife), who represented an important authority within the family and household. She supervised the postponement of pregnancy among young couples and helped uphold economic and social prosperity46 In the case of withdrawal, we must assume some shared understanding of the functioning of male and female reproductive organs. These practices were, according to numerous ethnological studies, widespread in rural environments and clearly shared, as evidenced by folk sayings, such as “they do it on cloth,” “I prefer to wash sheets than nappies,” “thresh the rye in the barn, shake the rye in front of the barn,” and “don’t wait for the final anointing.”47

After World War I, however, sexual restraint, late entry into marriage, and self-control came to be regarded as insufficient means of preventing pregnancy, and both experts and the public began to call for systematic birth control through the wider dissemination of knowledge about contraception. During the interwar period, commercially distributed and advertised methods of contraception were found in Slovakia. Condoms were probably the most accessible means of preventing conception, and they were also promoted as protection against the transmission of sexually transmitted diseases (both in premarital and extramarital life). They were sold in city streets and gradually in rural areas by so-called Bosniaks (Cheap Joes), or in other words, itinerant peddlers.48 These small-scale traveling traders offered their goods (knives, small haberdashery items, combs, razors, face creams, mirrors, hairpins, ribbons, and condoms) stored in wicker baskets, which they carried suspended in front of them with straps.49 They moved through towns, pubs, and entertainment venues.

Condoms were advertised in newspapers, private interactions, lectures, advertisements, counseling centers, medical practices, and pharmacies and also by midwives during visits. Large advertising boards and illuminated displays in pharmacy and drugstore windows were particularly irritating to opponents of contraception.50 The public promotion and display of contraceptive methods, especially in front of children and young people, was continually criticized, particularly by conservative opponents of birth control.

The editorial board of the aforementioned periodical Proletárka provided a comprehensive overview of available contraception. Throughout its publi­ca­tion, this fortnightly devoted attention to issues of birth control among working women. These issues were viewed through the lens of communist ideology, superficially inspired by developments in population policy and attitudes towards motherhood in the Soviet Union (about which the editors had only limited knowledge, however). Nevertheless, many of the positions and opinions presented by Proletárka to Slovak women must have provoked considerable controversy. In 1925, the journal published a series of articles promoting contraception and sex education, including protection against pregnancy.51 The articles drew on the work of the aforementioned Marie Stopes. In the series of articles titled Protection Against Pregnancy, Stopes addressed the issue of safe, effective, and “non-intrusive” contraception. According to her, marriage often became the grave of romance, partly as a result of “a woman’s inability to prevent successive pregnancies and the resulting necessity for spouses to use some form of preventive method.”52 At the same time, she cautioned women that no single contraceptive method was completely effective, but that “if two methods that are each fairly reliable are combined, it is possible to achieve almost complete safety.”53 Stopes focused on describing suitable contraceptive methods and their use. She gave a very detailed account of female mechanical (barrier) contraception (specifically, the pessary). She explained in detail how such devices should be applied (correct insertion, appropriate size, and proper function), as well as the hygienic requirements for use. However, she recommended combining it with a soluble “quinine pessary” as a spermicidal contraceptive in order to achieve maximum effectiveness. This particular method was presented as the most practical, as it “did not destroy the feeling of spontaneous and uninterrupted intercourse.”54 The editor of Proletárka added an explanatory and supplementary commentary to Stopes’s text, aiming to ensure that women learned how to use this type of contraceptive device correctly so that its application would become routine. As she noted, “only parents who are indifferent to how they will provide for their children bear them without responsibility or consideration.”55 In a subsequent text, the editor recommended separate sleeping arrangements for husband and wife as a suitable way to prevent frequent pregnancies. Aware that working-class families often could not afford separate bedrooms, she suggested placing beds in distant corners of the same room: “Separate beds should be recommended as a hygienic measure; it is one of the means of protecting against frequent pregnancy.”56

In the concluding educational articles, drawing on Marie Stopes’s ideas, the editor also addressed the issue of unwanted pregnancy. In this context, she clearly spoke out against abortion. She pointed out that wealthy women could afford such an “operation,” whereas poor women lacked the means to do so. She therefore advised women to prevent pregnancy in advance, to be cautious, and to “use methods that prevent fertilization.”57

She further emphasized that the contraceptive methods sold in pharmacies and drugstores were not prohibited, whereas terminating a pregnancy was forbidden by law and strictly punished. According to the editorial stance, women had the right to exercise free will and could responsibly decide for themselves whether they wanted to have a child or not.58 In addition to the series of articles on contraceptive methods, the editorial board also provided tips and practical advice on how to prevent pregnancy. They recommended59 (albeit with reservations) a brochure by H. Rossen titled Protection Against Motherhood,60 which was distributed by the Proletárka editorial office.61 However, the editors were not entirely satisfied with the content of this brochure. They criticized, for example, its highly scientific style and the use of Latin terminology in descriptions of the reproductive organs. They also found disappointing its critical evaluation of all contraceptive methods known at the time. As a result, the editors drew attention to the method of protection against pregnancy that Rossen considered least harmful to women’s health: the condom.62 In his publication, Rossen also briefly mentioned the method of regulating birth by monitoring a woman’s menstrual cycle. However, the editorial board did not elaborate further on this method in their recommendation.

For the editors of Proletárka, Rossen’s publication was not considered suitable for working-class women and communists. The author himself was labeled bourgeois. Nevertheless, they still recommended the publication to their readers and their husbands, as it was the only widely available source.

In September 1925, the editorial board began publishing, as a supplement to the fortnightly, a brochure titled The Blessed Family, Prevention of Conception, Expulsion of the Foetus by Fritz Brupbacher.63 Brupbacher presented the issue of birth control through the lens of social conflict. Referring to Marx’s Capital, he sharply criticized the fact that birth control among the bourgeoisie was a privilege or even, they suggested, a kind of monopoly. In contrast, the working class was seen as a tool, expected to reproduce and have many children in order to continually replenish the labor force. Any attempt to limit births, they contended, was therefore portrayed as unpatriotic behavior among workers.64 Brupbacher focused particularly on the immense physical burden that frequent pregnancies placed on poor, hard-working women. As a result of repeated pregnancies, these women were often exhausted, weakened, and undernourished. They also aged rapidly and suffered from various health problems. According to Brupbacher, “overly blessed families” were the greatest obstacle to the “personal development and free growth of working-class women.”65 As a physician, he paid particular attention to the medical aspects of pregnancy among working-class women, who often performed heavy labor and suffered from malnutrition, deficiencies in vitamins and minerals, and overall physical weakness. He also noted the consequences these factors had for birth weight and the health of infants born to working-class women, including the issue of high infant mortality in this social group. He therefore called for the abolition of the “monopoly of the wealthy” on contraceptive methods and access to legal abortion in medical facilities. At the same time, he advocated state support and care for pregnant women and mothers, as well as free counseling centers which would provide information and means of contraception. Brupbacher also described the advantages and disadvantages of individual methods of contraception. He discussed methods which, in his view, were the most well-known but least used (namely, abstinence). This was more common in urban environments, though in some regions of Slovakia, it was also practiced in rural areas where spouses had separate sleeping arrangements. According to Brupbacher’s brochure, the most widespread form of contraception was coitus interruptus. He rejected claims about its negative psychological effects, although he acknowledged its lack of popularity.

As alternative methods, various forms of chemical contraception (spermicidal solutions and powders) were proposed, alongside barrier methods such as the condom, pessaries, and intrauterine devices, as well as surgical procedures, including the ligation of the fallopian tubes or vas deferens. In the case of condoms, Brupbacher pointed out a fundamental drawback, noting that “they are used by men, and in sexual matters men are not always the more reliable or rational party.”66 In conclusion, he also addressed the issue of abortion, which he did not approve of, but he called for the abolition of laws that punished it. He drew attention to the large number of unqualified abortions carried out for social reasons. These unsafe procedures had serious health consequences, and therefore, in his view, the role of physicians should be to prevent unwanted pregnancies and to replace unsafe abortions with professional clinical inter­ventions.67

In the 1920s, the women’s communist press published key articles, which educated ordinary working women about female reproductive health, the anatomy of both the female and male body, and the menstrual cycle and also provided concise information about various contraceptive methods, their advantages and disadvantages, as well as the risks associated with their use. The women’s communist press can thus be regarded as an important source of information on birth control in the Slovak context. However, the editorial focus of Proletárka was on a specific social group: women who sympathized with the communist movement, predominantly those employed in industry or agriculture. An important component of these educational texts was, therefore, the emphasis on the necessity of revolutionary and social transformation, presented as the solution to the oppression of women and their position as subordinates to men.

The most effective source of information on women’s reproductive health for all social groups in Slovakia, however, was midwives. These women operated within their assigned districts, had an excellent knowledge of local economic and social conditions, and were familiar with the local communities. They regularly entered households and, based on preserved and published memoirs, midwives enjoyed the trust of the locals, especially women, with whom they maintained regular contact.

Thanks to their education and practical experience, midwives helped pregnant women, ensured the course of pregnancy and childbirth, monitored women’s health during the postpartum period, and helped new mothers care for their newborns. Many were willing to spend long hours with women in labor, provide necessary material assistance, and even intervene within the family when needed. During their training, midwives were given guidance concerning sensitive and caring involvement in family life, particularly when women confided in them about emotional or physical problems.68 At the same time, they were also trained in matters of contraception and the prevention of conception. However, in the midwifery textbook, author František Pachner emphasized that a midwife could only provide advice on birth control if it was in accordance with her conscience, for example, in the case of a woman who was ill, exhausted from repeated childbirth, or a mother of many offspring who could no longer care for another child. She was not permitted to do anything that might encourage or imply support for immorality, promiscuity, or a dissolute lifestyle.

Midwives were educated69 about commonly available mechanical and chemical contraceptive methods (condoms, pessaries, spermicidal suppositories and sponges), the unreliability of withdrawal, as well as surgical methods (such as operations on the fallopian tubes).70 However, the textbook clearly warned graduates of midwifery courses that under no circumstances were they allowed to provide instructions or advice on terminating a pregnancy, nor were they permitted to perform such procedures themselves. Their role was to direct the woman to a physician or, if possible, to dissuade her from making such a decision.71 Despite the undoubtedly positive role of midwives within local health care systems, some were also involved in activities that were technically crimes, as they performed illegal abortions. According to Act No. 200 of 1928 regarding auxiliary midwifery practice and the education and training of midwives, a midwife’s diploma could be revoked, temporarily or permanently, if she carried out an abortion or was found to be complicit in one.72

In his trilogy Slovensko bez dorastu (Slovakia without young people), in which he focused on the child and youth population and provided a statistical-demographic overview of Slovakia’s population, the prominent Slovak pediatrician Alojz Chura73 accused midwives of providing women with inform­ation on contraception and methods of birth control during home visits or while working in counseling centers for mothers and children. Chura may have been particularly concerned about the presence and influence of midwives in rural communities simply because in these communities, midwives were one of the few sources of reliable information about contraception, pregnancy, and birth and thus enjoyed the trust of most of the women.

Naturally, formal “contraception clinics” of the kind that existed in Great Britain did not operate in Slovakia in the interwar period. In Prague, however, around 1935, the Czechoslovak Society for Birth Control was established at the initiative of Senator Betty Karpíšková74 and the physician Jarošová. A sexual counseling clinic also operated at the Second Gynecological Clinic in Prague’s Podolí district, where married couples could consult on methods of birth control (mechanical, chemical, combined, and in extreme cases even sterilization of one of the partners)75 In the Slovak context, it was most likely midwives who fulfilled this role. According to Chura, it was precisely midwives who, in prenatal clinics and counseling centers for mothers and children, were able to effectively advise women on how to prevent conception and in some cases even “prevented conception themselves by inserting pessaries or distributing irrigators.”76 In addition to mechanical or barrier contraception, the specialized literature also mentions so-called “chemical” methods in the form of vaginal tablets.77

Given that midwives possessed strong practical knowledge of the course of the menstrual cycle in women, they were able to pass on information about the calendar method of birth control, the so-called Ogino-Knaus method.78 Based on Chura’s analyses, we now know that it was precisely midwives and staff at mother-and-child advisory centers who educated women about so-called lactational amenorrhoea (the temporary infertility of women during breastfeeding) as well as the method of coitus interruptus. Knowledge of the connection between breastfeeding and the temporary inability to conceive was also present in the Slovak context as part of folk medicine.

Unlike political activists, midwives and traditional birth attendants had direct contact with women from all social strata. Moreover, their clear advantage lay in their sound knowledge of the female body and the course of the menstrual cycle. They accompanied women through the most intimate moments of their lives and had insight into their sex lives, the course of pregnancy, and their family and social circumstances. At the same time, in their work, midwives had to contend with many prejudices and rituals that accompanied pregnancy and childbirth in rural settings. Thanks to the trust and sympathy they enjoyed within the community, they were able to pass on valuable advice and information. Undoubtedly, in doing so, they had to confront the authority of the local priest, as well as older, more conservative members of the community and family, who did not always agree with their efforts of their approach.

Opponents of Birth Control

There was also a sizeable group of people who were opposed to contraception and the regulation of birth. Conservative political circles in Slovakia provided a particularly strong pillar of support, especially representatives of Andrej Hlinka’s Slovak People’s Party.79 In public discourse, the issue of population policy was closely linked to questions of morality and adherence to religious and ethical principles, and politicians readily espoused and exploited this moral agenda. Motherhood was presented as a “duty” of a Christian woman, and if her health permitted, she was expected to bear as many children as possible as a sacrifice on the “altar of the nation.”80 A child was regarded as a gift from God, and therefore, birth control was not considered acceptable. Human beings were not to “interfere with God’s plan,” even in cases of social hardship.81

In conservative political circles, motherhood was viewed as the pinnacle of female virtue. It was a heroic82 form of sacrifice.83 Considerable criticism was therefore directed at the cult of the modern woman, which was seen as a product of the modern lifestyle of the interwar period and was disparagingly labeled comfortable and carefree, particularly in the case of young women in urban settings.

The issue of abortion in the Slovak context was examined in the long term by the aforementioned Chura. In his Slovensko bez dorastu,84 Chura analyzed a number of factors which, in his view, had contributed to the decline in marital fertility. Among the most significant, he identified decreases in marriage and increases in divorce and marital separation. He criticized what he characterized as the moral decline of his time and contended that it had led to a crisis in married life. He also wrote about the dangers of alcoholism, suicide, seasonal migration, and emigration.85 He addressed the economic and social factors behind declining birth rates. Economic conditions affected fertility both directly and indirectly: they led to greater participation of women in the workforce, and in times of hardship, a wife’s income became essential for family survival. According to Chura, this weakened family bonds, as daughters no longer had the opportunity to learn household management and childcare alongside their mothers.

Chura directed some of his strongest criticism at economically active, unmarried women, whose independence, he argued, caused a decline or weakening of the “desire for family life.”86 He also criticized prolonged education and professional training for women. Girls, he believed, should be guided towards sexual restraint, early marriage, family life, and motherhood. In his writings, Chura promoted morality, modesty, and what he characterized as a sense of modesty among women, as well as fidelity within marriage and complete sexual abstinence before marriage.87

Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk, the first president of the Czechoslovak Republic, was also one of the critics of birth control. Masaryk regarded the limitation of conception as an evil of modern society.88 The conservative and Catholic segments of both the medical profession and the general public also voiced opposition to any efforts to recommend contraception and thereby prevent the emergence of new life.89 Similarly, the Evangelical Church condemned the one-child system as a “pathological phenomenon” and a profound social crisis. It feared that declining birth rates among the Lutheran population would weaken its cultural and political position and contribute to the “re-Catholicization” of Slovakia. The Church attributed restricted reproduction to materialism, inheritance practices, and moral decline, arguing that these factors promoted abortion and undermined the Christian understanding of children as gifts from God. To reverse this trend, Evangelical intellectuals advocated public education, taxation of families with few or no children, and the excommunication of anyone who provided an abortion.90

Church teachings condemned as sinful any sexual intercourse that was not directed towards procreation.91 Any form of birth control was considered to be in conflict with the papal encyclical Casti connubii (On Christian marriage),92 issued by Pope Pius XI on December 31, 1930. The encyclical condemned eugenics, emphasized the sacramental nature of marriage as a source of divine grace, rejected birth control, and reaffirmed the prohibition against abortion. It maintained that the primary purpose of sexual relations within marriage was procreation, while also recognizing the mutual good of the spouses. Consequently, marital intercourse was understood as inherently ordered toward the conception of a child, and any deliberate attempt to hamper its natural procreative purpose was regarded as contrary to natural law and intrinsically immoral. Sexual abstinence, when freely and mutually agreed upon by both spouses, therefore remained the only morally acceptable means of limiting births.

A shift away from this fundamental position did not occur until the publication of the encyclical Humanae vitae (On the regulation of birth),93 issued on July 25, 1968 by Pope Paul VI. This encyclical signaled an acceptance of the idea of responsible, natural family planning.

In interwar Czechoslovakia, the topic of contraception and birth control resounded within the context of intense debates and political struggles over the decriminalization of abortion. The issue of abortion had already entered public discussion before World War I, particularly in newspaper advertisements offering various “guaranteed” means of terminating pregnancy.94 From the beginning of the twentieth century, there were increasing calls for the legalization of abortion, especially in response to the tragic consequences of illegal procedures. It became clear that the practice of abortion, which was against the law, could not be prevented solely through repressive measures. Rather, it would be necessary to improve social support for families and single mothers and to eliminate inequalities between legitimate and illegitimate children.

The issue of birth control was also present in the women’s emancipation movements in Europe and the United States. In the Czech context, the publicist Alois Hajn addressed this issue. He pointed to the health risks of abortion, particularly for working-class and impoverished women who could not afford professional gynecological care and were therefore dependent on unqualified abortionists and herbalists. Abortions were most often sought by women living in poverty, who were motivated by economic hardship, social pressures, and fear of losing employment, as well as by unmarried women who were often pressured into such decisions by their partners. Hajn criticized the harsh penalties imposed for undergoing abortion. At the same time, however, he rejected the views of radical German feminists who argued that a woman alone bore responsibility for pregnancy, childbirth, and childrearing and therefore had the right to decide about her own body and whether to bring a child into the world. Instead, he proposed the introduction of measures that would help women prevent unwanted pregnancies, such as premarital and sex education, information about protective methods, access to contraception, and fundamental social reforms.95

In interwar Czechoslovakia, the issue of abortion engaged lawyers, doctors, sociologists, politicians, and women activists, as the number of abortions (which remained illegal) continued to rise. The democratic state offered greater opportunities for the more liberal segments of society to openly discuss birth control and to call for changes in attitudes towards contraception, sex education, and the regulation of reproduction. There were increasing demands to improve social provisions for pregnant women (particularly unmarried women) and to eliminate inequalities between children born within and outside marriage. In these debates, three principal currents or perspectives on the issue of abortion emerged. One current called for the complete decriminalization of abortion. A more moderate current supported conditional criminalization and specified circums­tances under which the act would not be punishable (namely, when it was a response to hygienic, eugenic, and social considerations). Conservative and religious circles, in contrast, upheld the demand for a total and unconditional ban on abortion, with full criminal liability.96 Advocates of the complete decriminalization of abortion based their arguments on women’s right to self-determination in matters of pregnancy and childbirth. They rejected the notion that women who underwent abortion due to adverse social conditions should be punished. It was precisely the so-called social indication (abortion as a response to a woman’s difficult socio-economic situation) that became the subject of the most vigorous debates among politicians, physicians, and sociologists.

Support for a more liberal legal framework on abortion, as well as for the introduction of sex education in schools, wider access to contraception, and comprehensive care for mothers and newborns, was championed particularly by left-wing women members of parliament, including Louisa Landová-Štychová,97 Irene Kirpal,98 Franziska Blatny,99 Maria Deutsch,100 and the deputy and later senator Betty Karpíšková.101 In the first half of the 1930s, the issues of abortion, contraception, and care for pregnant women and mothers with children were also addressed by the Women’s National Council.102

In late 1938, by which time other dramatic changes had taken place, the political struggle over the decriminalization of abortion, the regulation of birth control, the introduction of sex education, and access to contraception remained unresolved. Following the declaration of Slovak autonomy and, subsequently, the establishment of the Slovak State, the earlier debates gave way to a nationalist pronatalist discourse that placed the promotion of fertility at the center of state policy. Pronatalist measures were directed not simply at increasing the birth rate but at strengthening the Slovak nation, as demographic growth was regarded as essential to national survival and state-building. Within this ideological framework, conservative political and social circles pursued a policy of restricting all forms of birth control, imposing an absolute ban on abortion, and prohibiting the sale and distribution of contraceptives. These measures were justified by concerns about depopulation and by the conviction that the growth of the Slovak population was indispensable to efforts to ensure that the nation enjoyed a prosperous future. Elements of this rhetoric have remained present in Slovak political discourse to the present day.103

Conclusion

In the interwar period, Czechoslovak society encountered a range of modernizing and liberal trends that spread across interwar Europe and were linked to efforts to come to terms with and overcome the consequences of World War I. Universal suffrage, women’s emancipation, the sexual revolution, advances in medicine, the employment of women, and the democratization and liberalization of public life increasingly shaped the everyday lives of both urban and rural communities in Slovakia.

The demographic transformation that became evident after 1918, which found manifestation in declining fertility and the regulation of birth rates, is clearly reflected in population censuses. However, its detailed mechanisms, as well as the ways in which knowledge about birth control spread and was shared among the general population, remain a major challenge for historical-anthropological, medical, and sociological research. The study of beliefs and practices concerning taboo subjects such as menstruation, sexuality, and the use of various contraceptive methods is particularly demanding, as it requires careful comparison of diverse sources.

It is also essential to consider the overall conservatism of Slovak society, its economic, social, and sanitary conditions, the mobility of different population groups, and their access to information and education. Based on these factors, it may be assumed that midwives played a key role in the dissemination of information about sexuality and contraception. In many areas, they may have taken over the roles and competencies of older, experienced but untrained women who assisted with childbirth and practiced traditional healing methods. Midwives possessed expertise and practical experience, and they were often able to gain the trust of local communities. Moreover, the sources suggest that, alongside trust, they also enjoyed a degree of authority among local communities. Even male members of the community respected and cooperated with them. These women also facilitated communication between patients and qualified physicians.

Among working-class women, an important source of information was the women’s communist press, which offered essential knowledge of the female reproductive cycle and sexuality. It also advertised and recommended publications that were not primarily intended for working-class women but rather targeted middle-class urban audiences. Without such references, working-class women would have had little opportunity to acquaint themselves with issues concerning modern contraception and sexuality.

Young female activists also spread modern ideas about sex education and sexuality within marriage. In the Slovak context, however, they did not cross the implicit boundary between a conservative yet modern understanding of sexuality within marriage (viewing spouses as equal partners) and a more liberal perspective on female intimacy and sexual emancipation.

A greater understanding of the tensions between modern women’s more open attitudes towards their bodies and sexuality and the prevalent conservative expectations of their communities in which they lived could undoubtedly be enhanced by historical-anthropological analyses of ego-documents, particularly women’s correspondence and diaries. Thus, the scholarship on this subject is hardly complete.

Archival Sources

Slovenský národný archív, Bratislava [Slovak National Archives] (SNA)

Fund Živena. Courses for Women in Slovakia, School Year 1932/1933

Fund Exposition of the Ministry of Public Health (EMVZTV)

Štátny archív v Bratislave [State Archives in Bratislava]

Fund Krajský súd v Bratislave [Regional Court in Bratislava]. Criminal Records 1938–1940

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1. 1 Census data indicate that the population of Czechoslovakia, including Subcarpathian Rus, was ap­proximately 13.6 million in 1921. According to the 1930 census, this figure had risen to 14.729 million. Srb, Obyvateľstvo Slovenska, 14 and Kučera, Populace České republiky, 8–11.

2. 2 In the interwar period, natural population reproduction in Europe approached stagnation. Fertility closely followed economic development and regional differences (the contrast between Western and Northern Europe on the one hand and the less developed Central, Eastern, and Southeastern Europe and the Mediterranean on the other). Bacci, Populace v evropské historii, 204.

3. 3 At the time, Slovakia did not exist as an independent state but formed the eastern part of the First Czechoslovak Republic (1918–1938). Throughout this article, the term Slovakia refers to the territory of present-day Slovakia within interwar Czechoslovakia. Unless otherwise specified, references to women in Slovakia denote all women residing in this territory, regardless of their ethnic or national affiliation, rather than exclusively ethnic Slovak women. Because interwar Slovakia was ethnically and religiously diverse, distinctions between particular ethnic or religious groups are made only where they are relevant to the analysis.

4. 4 The birth rate in Slovakia was 38.91 per 1,000 inhabitants in 1921 and declined steadily over the following years, reaching 23.76 per 1,000 inhabitants in 1937. For a closer look at population development in Slovakia, see Šprocha, “Populačný vývoj Slovenska,” 100–11; Šprocha and Tišliar, Plodnosť a celková reprodukcia, 18.

5. 5 Šprocha, “Populačný vývoj Slovenska,” 103–4.

6. 6 Between 1921 and 1937, the average number of children a woman would have during her reproductive period decreased from almost 5 to 2.8 children. Šprocha and Tišliar, Plodnosť a celková reprodukcia, 37.

7. 7 Šprocha and Tišliar, Plodnosť a celková reprodukcia, 59.

8. 8 Vásáry, “‘The sin of Transdanubia’: the one-child system,” 429 and 443; Koloh, “Szántani lehet, de vetni nem muszáj”; Botíková et al., Tradície slovenskej rodiny, 151.

9. 9 See Mlynka, “Diferenciačné znaky,” 79.

10. 10 These developments were also documented in the 1924 reports submitted by local administrative authorities on population trends in individual regions of Slovakia. Reports on the Phenomena of Depopulation. SNA, fund EMVZTV, box 74.

11. 11 Between 1920 and 1927, left-wing women deputies in the National Assembly of the Czechoslovak Republic (Communists and Social Democrats) introduced several bills seeking the decriminalization of abortion. None of these initiatives, however, was successful in parliament. Parliamentary and press debates on the issue culminated between 1925 and 1927. Škorvanková, “Otázka regulácie pôrodnosti,” 25–29.

12. 12 See Nešťáková, Be Fruitful and Multiply. For discussions on the liberalization of anti-abortion legislation in Czechoslovakia, see Feinberg, Elusive Equality, 129–58.

13. 13 The interpretation of the periodical press also takes into account its material characteristics, including the format, editorial organisation, and intended readership, as these factors influenced the presentation and circulation of information on birth control.

14. 14 Horváthová, Úvod do etnológie, 121.

15. 15 Falťanová, “Vidiecka žena,” 57.

16. 16 Šmakalová, Integrálna dedina, 39, 46.

17. 17 Botíková and Jakubíková, “Sexualita a výchova,” 42.

18. 18 Bužeková, “Medikalizácia životného cyklu,” 178–79.

19. 19 For a more detailed examination of the interpretation of menstruation in Slovak society and within anthropological scholarship, see Beňová, “Žena v tradičnej kultúre Slovenska.”

20. 20 One respondent in the research noted that her husband believed the bleeding was caused by “crushing.” He had no information about his wife’s regular monthly cycle. Bužeková, “Medikalizácia životného cyklu,” 179.

21. 21 The activities and work of Živena have been systematically analysed in various academic and popular studies. See Tkadlečková-Vantuchová, Živena; Kodajová, Živena: 150 rokov spolku; Kodajová, “Živena – spolok slovenských žien,” 215–32.

22. 22 Rišková and Botíková, “Materiály spolku Živena.”

23. 23 Dudeková-Kováčová, “Živena v politických režimoch,” 182.

24. 24 SNA, fund Živena, box 99. Courses for Women in Slovakia, School Year 1932/1933, inv. no. 382.

25. 25 Hroboňová, Ľudové kurzy pre ženy.

26. 26 Proletárka was in publication between 1922 and 1927. This periodical, which was the first political magazine of Slovak communist women, was published in Vrútky. It articles present ideologically defined and revolutionary views on working women and their issues.

27. 27 Marie Charlotte Carmichael Stopes (1880–1958) was a British palaeobotanist and also a supporter of eugenics and advocate of contraception and family planning. She published the journal Birth Control News, wrote works on sex education (Married Love), and founded the first birth control clinic in Britain. She opposed abortion but promoted prevention through contraception and family planning. Despite the controversial and polarizing nature of her views, her advocacy contributed significantly to the development of modern reproductive healthcare. However, based on the research conducted thus far, I have been unable to establish why or how her texts came to be published in Proletárka.

28. 28 Stopesová, “Ochrana proti tehotenstvu,” 7–8.

29. 29 Alžbeta Göllnerová-Gwerková (1905–1944) was a Slovak literary historian and translator from Hungarian. She studied history, Czech, and Hungarian at Charles University.

30. 30 Jarmila Zikmundová was a high school teacher who also worked in Slovakia and took care of the young Alžbeta Göllnerová, who was an orphan.

31. 31 Bláhová, “Žena manželka.”

32. 32 Nina Wollmanová-Fajnorová, born Anna (1902–1984/5), was a publicist and representative of the women’s movement in interwar Czechoslovakia. She was also married to literary historian and Slavist Professor Frank Wollman, though they later divorced.

33. 33 Wollmanová-Fajnorová, “Pomer dnešnej ženy k mužovi.”

34. 34 For more on the education and status of midwives and birth attendants, see Falisová and Morovicsová, Pôrodné asistentky a ošetrovateľky.

35. 35 Peťková, Od liečiteľov k medicine, 89; Peťková, Duša ženy; Peťo, Lúčanská babica; Štúrová, Spomienky na babku.

36. 36 František Pachner (1882–1964) was a Czech physician, gynaecologist, and obstetrician. A lecturer at Masaryk University in Brno, he published extensively on women’s reproductive health, including infertility, contraception, and maternal care.

37. 37 Pachner and Bebr, Učebnice pro porodní asistentky, 74. Figure 61, Representation of the Cycle of Sexual Activity (Menstrual and Ovulatory Cycle).

38. 38 Pachner and Bebr, Učebnice pro porodní asistentky, 465–67.

39. 39 Botíková et al., Tradície slovenskej rodiny, 156–57.

40. 40 Mjartan, Horehronie, 311.

41. 41 Lenderová, Žena v českých zemích, 235.

42. 42 Mjartan, Horehronie, 311.

43. 43 Botíková, “Kultúrno-spoločenské reflexie,” 63–64; Sigmundová, “K otázke tradície.”

44. 44 Nešťáková, Be Fruitful and Multiply, 26–38 and Nešťáková, “Žena proti štátu,” 31–52.

45. 45 Botíková et al., Tradície slovenskej rodiny, 157.

46. 46 Ibid., 148–60.

47. 47 Botíková, “Jedno dieťa a dosť!,” 110.

48. 48 Door-to-door traders, called “Bosniaks” in Slovakia, came from countries of the former Yugoslavia. They were active in Slovakia and the Czech lands already at the end of the nineteenth century. The term “Bosniak” became standard for this type of door-to-door merchant, regardless of whether they came from Bosnia, Croatia, Serbia, Slovenia, or Macedonia. Door-to-door sales by men from the Balkan region expanded despite their illegal activities, because after 1918, as foreign nationals, they could not obtain permits for door-to-door trade in Czechoslovakia. Many interested parties from today’s former Yugoslavia were issued business licenses for trade. For more, see Falťanová, “Podomový obchod a cudzí obchodníci.”

49. 49 Luther, Z Prešporka, 128.

50. 50 The drugstore on the corner of Dunajská and Kempelenova streets in the Farmers’ House, opposite the girls’ secondary school and the school for women’s professions, was one subject of criticism. Fourteen advertising signs for condoms were displayed in the window. Chura, Slovensko bez dorastu?, vol. 1, 156.

51. 51 Stopesová, “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom,” 5–6; Stopesová, “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom,” 5; “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom,” 4; “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom,” 7–8.

52. 52 Stopesová, “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom,” 5–6.

53. 53 Ibid.

54. 54 Ibid.

55. 55 Stopesová, “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom,” 5.

56. 56 Ibid.

57. 57 “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom,” 4.

58. 58 “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom,” 7–8.

59. 59 The print run of individual issues has not yet been established. The bi-weekly Proletárka was meant for women, especially working women (laborers, smallholder farmers, servants, clerks), in line with the program and goals of the Communist Party. The magazine went out of print in 1927 due to financial problems. The editors of Proletárka were active members of the Communist Party. They participated in political activities and pursued educational programs and campaigned among Slovak women. Their reports, opinions, and speeches, which were published in the pages of the aforementioned magazine, offer an interesting perspective (and also, given the state of the secondary literature at the moment, essentially the only perspective) on the communist feminine discourse in Slovakia in the 1920s, when the communist movement in Czechoslovakia was trying to spread its ideas against a backdrop of tough competition with other democratic and socialist parties under the liberal democratic regime.

60. 60 “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom.”

61. 61 “Ochrana pred tehotenstvom,” 6.

62. 62 Rossen, Ochrana před těhotenstvím, 60.

63. 63 Fritz Brupbacher (1874–1945) was a Swiss physician, writer, and libertarian socialist. A prominent advocate of birth control, sexual reform, and the legalization of abortion, he became an influential figure in European debates on reproductive rights and social reform during the first half of the twentieth century.

64. 64 Brupbacher, “Požehnaná rodina,” 3–4.

65. 65 Brupbacher, “Požehnaná rodina,” 7.

66. 66 Brupbacher, “Požehnaná rodina,” 20.

67. 67 Ibid., 23.

68. 68 Pachner and Bebr, Učebnice pro porodní asistentky, 465.

69. 69 During the interwar period, two schools of midwifery operated in the territory of present-day Slovakia, one in Bratislava and the other in Košice. Falisová and Morovicsová, Pôrodné asistentky a ošetrovateľky, 43–51.

70. 70 Pachner and Bebr, Učebnice pro porodní asistentky, 467–70.

71. 71 Ibid., 471–72.

72. 72 Specific cases are documented in the records of the Branch of the Ministry of Public Health and Physical Education in the Slovak National Archive and the holdings of the Regional Court in Bratislava at the State Archive in Bratislava. SNA, Fund EMVZTV, box 67; State Archives in Bratislava, Fund Krajský súd v Bratislave (Regional Court in Bratislava), Criminal Records 1938–1940, no. 1248/38. For further details, see Falisová, “Remeslo či milosrdenstvo?”

73. 73 Alojz Ján Chura (1899–1979) was a physician and pediatrician, and also head of the Clinic for Children’s Diseases at the Faculty of Medicine, Comenius University in Bratislava. He was the founder and organizer of modern Slovak pediatrics.

74. 74 Betty Karpíšková (1881–1942) was one of the most prominent figures of Czechoslovak social democracy. She was a politician, journalist, and activist and also served as chair of the Union for Birth Control. She was a member of parliament and later senator of the National Assembly.

75. 75 Lenderová, Žena v českých zemích, 238.

76. 76 Chura and Kizlink, Slovensko bez dorastu?, vol. 2, pt. 2, 908.

77. 77 Chura, Slovensko bez dorastu?, vol. 1, 174.

78. 78 The Ogino–Knaus, or calendar, method of natural family planning was developed in the early 1930s. It built on the independent discoveries of Kyusaku Ogino in Japan and Hermann Knaus in Austria concerning the timing of ovulation, while the first practical calendar method was formulated by the Dutch physician Johannes Nicolaas Smulders in 1930.

79. 79 The Slovak People’s Party (Slovenská ľudová strana), renamed Hlinka’s Slovak People’s Party (Hlinkova slovenská ľudová strana, HSĽS) in 1925 after its founder Andrej Hlinka, began to take shape in 1905 and was formally established on July 29, 1913 in Žilina, with Hlinka elected as its chairman. Its political program centerd primarily on the demand for Slovak autonomy, while the party explicitly identified itself with Catholicism and conservative values. During the interwar period, it emerged as the strongest political party in Slovakia in terms of electoral support.

80. 80 H. S., “Je reč o rodine,” 3.

81. 81 Gabriela, “Bezdetné rodiny,” 3–4.

82. 82 “Minister Jozef Sivák,” 4.

83. 83 “Materinská reč,” 1.

84. 84 Chura, Slovensko bez dorastu?, vol. 1; Chura, Slovensko bez dorastu?, vol. 2, pt. 1; Chura and Kizlink, Slovensko bez dorastu?, vol. 2, pt. 2.

85. 85 Approximately half of the marriages that ended in divorce were childless. Chura, Slovensko bez dorastu?, vol. 1, 162.

86. 86 Chura, Slovensko bez dorastu?, vol. 1, 144.

87. 87 Ibid. Is it correct?

88. 88 Ibid., 161.

89. 89 Chura, Slovensko bez dorastu?, vol. 1, 902.

90. 90 Majo and Volanská, “The one-child pest is now affecting the body of the Slovak nation.”

91. 91 The Catholic Church itself regulated fertility by forbidding sexual intercourse during periods of fasting and on mandated church holidays. Lenderová, Žena v českých zemích, 236.

92. 92 Casti Connubii.

93. 93 On the proper way of giving human life / regulating fertility, also called the so-called “pill encyclical” (referring to the contraceptive pill). The encyclical addresses marital love and responsible parenthood. It confirms and develops the traditional stance of the Roman Catholic Church on sexuality and planned parenthood. It rejects methods of birth control that deliberately prevent the fertility of the sexual act (contraception) as well as artificial termination of pregnancy (abortion). The novelty was the acceptance of responsible family planning using natural methods, when “spouses make use of natural dispositions.” Humanae Vitae.

94. 94 Lenderová, K hříchu a k modlitbě, 112.

95. 95 Hajn, Ženská otázka, 182–91.

96. 96 See Nikšová, Nedovolené prerušenie tehotenstva, 71–82.

97. 97 Louisa Landová-Štychová (1885–1969) was an activist in the anarcho-communist and women’s movement. She was also a member of the National Assembly, and she submitted proposals for several laws concerning the protection of motherhood, women’s education, social policy, and family law. She became a member of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia in 1925.

98. 98 Irene Kirpal (1886–1977) was a member of the Austrian Social Democratic Party and a long-serving member of the National Assembly.

99. 99 Franziska Blatny (1873–1949) was an activist and member of the Austrian Social Democratic Party. She was repeatedly elected to the National Assembly.

100. 100 Maria Deutsch (1882–1969) was a member of the Austrian Social Democratic Party. She was elected to the National Assembly in 1920 and was active in German social democracy and the women’s movement.

101. 101 Musilová, Z ženského pohledu, 77.

102. 102 The Women’s National Council was a representative non-political association of women’s associations and prominent figures. It was established at its general meeting on April 8, 1923 in Prague. Its goal was to ensure the equality of women, in principle guaranteed by the constitution, and to put constitutional policy into practice. It also sought to harmonize the activities of public bodies and offices with the needs of women and mothers. The organization published its own magazine, Ženská rad (Women’s Council), and was part of the International Women’s Council, which brought together similar national organizations. Burešová, Proměny společenského postavení, 59–89.

103. 103 Škorvanková, Strážkyne rodinných kozubov, 236–43.

Iconizing Motherhood, Ignoring Mothers: Romanian Forty-Eighter Women, Public Health, 
and the Limits of  Maternal Medicalization*

Ioana Moroşan

Research Institute of the University of Bucharest

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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 3 (2026): 435-463  DOI 10.38145/2026.3.435

One of the earliest public representations of women in Romanian culture is closely tied to maternal identity. In nineteenth-century Romania, women gained political legitimacy both through their association with politically active men and through their status as mothers, which was reframed as a national mission within the broader emergence of nationalism. This romanticized image of motherhood coexisted alongside a persistent crisis of midwifery and the uneven medicalization of childbirth, revealing a significant gap between the Romanian sphere and other Central and Eastern European contexts. The entry into the public sphere of women involved in the Revolutions of 1848, notably Maria Rosetti (1819–1893), combined with the revolutionary and philanthropic ethos of the period fostered engagement among women in initiatives related to public health and the diffusion of medical knowledge. By tracing key moments in the development of medicalization and the medical crisis of the nineteenth century, this study examines both the scope and the limits of these women’s interventions, with particular attention to the life and career of Maria Rosetti. It highlights the paradox of their participation in public health: while they contributed to the dissemination of medical practices, their involvement remained shaped by gendered constraints and did not fundamentally challenge the growing exclusion of women from the medical profession. At the same time, the article argues that figures such as Maria Rosetti functioned as important intermediaries in the process of medicalization, particularly in contexts in which institutional medical structures remained underdeveloped.

Keywords: Revolution of 1848, medical crisis, midwives, women’s exclusion, medicaliza­tion of childbirth, maternal body, nationalism

Introduction

The 1840s in the Romanian Principalities (Wallachia and Moldavia) were marked by growing social tensions generated by inequality and recurring political crises.1 The Russian-imposed quasi-constitution known as the Organic Regulations further widened the gaps between social classes and contributed to increasing unrest and popular dissatisfaction.2 In response, Romanian middle-class intellectuals educated in Paris and inspired by the French republican model challenged the political establishment, calling for social equity while promoting a strong nationalist discourse. Patriotism, expressed primarily in cultural terms through the promotion of the Romanian language, history, and literature, also found expression in philanthropic initiatives and ideals of self-sacrifice.3 Within this patriotic climate, the figure of the mother acquired particular symbolic power.4 Women’s participation in the 1848 Revolution was therefore largely framed in symbolic terms, embodying the image of the “mother of the nation.” Motherhood was no longer confined to biological reproduction and childrearing.5 Rather, the mother came to be conceived as a political figure responsible for the moral and social condition of both the family and the revolutionary community.6 Combined with forms of female political activism, these elements shaped the notion of patriotic motherhood, which was closely aligned with nationalist understandings of maternal duty.

The Wallachian ideal of the “patriotic mother” bears comparison with the German notion of geistige Mutterschaft,7 and the French idea of the mère patrie.8 Yet while women’s political visibility remained tied to their maternal role, the glorification of motherhood coincided with a crisis affecting traditional midwives and with the growing medicalization of childbirth and postpartum care. This article, therefore, examines how the political visibility and activism of Wallachian revolutionary women both enabled and limited their access to emerging medical practices concerning the female body. It also considers the extent to which the participation or exclusion of these women shaped subsequent (under)developments in obstetric practice. Firstly, the article situates these (under)developments in relation to the public valorization of motherhood within the broader process of nation-state building, the emergence of pronatalist discourse, and prevailing popular attitudes toward medical practices. This perspective highlights how revolutionary women contributed to efforts to address broader social and public crises, extending their engagement beyond strictly political and nationalist claims.

The revolutionary women who supported republican values and national ideals generally came from bourgeois and middle-class backgrounds. They had a French-oriented education and were most often partners, mothers, or close relatives of the leading figures of the Romanian upheavals. Against this background, these women’s political participation was cast as a national and social duty. The British–Romanian Maria Rosetti (1819–1893), for instance, was the wife of the radical Wallachian journalist C. A. Rosetti. Zoe Golescu (1792–1879) was the wife of the high-ranking boyar Dinicu Golescu and the mother of Ştefan and Nicolae Golescu, both prominent participants in the 1848 Revolution. Maria Heliade Rădulescu (1806–1870) was the wife of Ion Heliade Rădulescu, a key reformer of Romanian education, one of the founders of the Romanian Academy, and one of the authors of the 1848 Romanian proclamation known as the Proclamaţia de la Islaz (issued in June 1848).

This study focuses primarily on Maria Rosetti, not only because she was the most prominent among these women, but also because she remained actively engaged in social and philanthropic initiatives after the upheavals and offers a particularly revealing case for an understanding of the emergence of a maternal voice and political role. The investigation is grounded in an analysis of institutions and of women’s engagement with maternalistic political discourse, examined in relation to the sociohistorical contexts of hygiene and medicalization. The study draws primarily on sources belonging to the personal archives of the women under consideration, including personal notes, intimate correspondence, and other private documents. It uses these sources to shed light both on their political activism and on the ways in which they experienced these historical processes. This perspective is particularly important because public discourse on women’s roles during the period positioned the deeply personal experience of motherhood at the intersection of neglect, myth, and symbolic figure.

Heroic Mothers and the Making of the Nation-State

As a clandestine movement, the Romanian Forty-Eighters were organized, following the masonic model,9 around movements such as Frăţia (Brotherhood) or Asociaţia pentru înaintarea literaturii româneşti (The Association for the Advancement of Romanian Literature), both of which were founded in the 1840s by the agrarian revolutionary and journalist Nicolae Bălcescu (1819–1852). Female counterparts were present at these gatherings, which thus formed one of the first fora in Romania at which women were present in political life. They served primarily as hosts, however, and their roles were gendered.

C. A. Rosetti, together with his wife, represented the radical wing of the revolutionary movement. He was also a crucial figure in Bucharest’s printing culture, as he owned the city’s principal printing infrastructure. In his influential article titled “Scrisoare pentru femeile claselor privilegiate” (Letter to the Women of the Privileged Classes), he defined women as saviors of the nation. Women were valued for their “natural” qualities, which allegedly included sensitivity and closeness to nature. In Rosetti’s view, these qualities made them the moral angels of society and maternal figures responsible for maintaining both social and familial cohesion: “You do not transgress the laws of nature. […] You are virtue, genius, devotion, and holiness; and if the soul were ever to disappear entirely, a single tear of motherhood would restore all our faith, and the homeland would once again be alive and free.”10

Due to women’s purported nature, maternal sensibility, greater capacity for patience, sensitivity, and tolerance, Nicolae Bălcescu described mothers as patriotic educators, arguing that only a mother’s genuine sensitivity could reach the hearts of children. For this reason, mothers alone were considered both able and willing to educate children and serve as a cohesive force within the family: “a deity of unsuspected power and immeasurable kindness, a mysterious, fantastic, and angelic being who finds joy solely in the happiness of the family.”11 The same representation of woman as a figure of nature, an angelic presence, and a crucial maternal force appears in the writings of the Forty-Eighter poet Cezar Bolliac (1813–1881), also a member of the Forty-Eighter associations, who valued women for their “inner” qualities, noting that “the heart of woman reflects the sweetest graces and the noblest sentiments, as women are a thousand times more sensitive, more tolerant, more poetic, and wittier than men.”12 Maria Rosetti, who founded the first periodical for mothers, Mama şi copilul (Mother and child, 1865), did not depart from this definition either. She embraced this symbolic role assigned to women in political discourse and the sociopolitical legitimization of women through their capacity to bear children and dedicate themselves to the education of children under the umbrella of national identity: “You are mothers, and so am I. Our children are Romanians. My children, like yours, share a common mother: Romania. Is there not then a bond between us when our children are brothers?”13

Maria Rosetti, born Grant in Guernsey, arrived in Bucharest in the 1840s together with her brother Effingham Grant, secretary at the British consulate in Bucharest, and his superior, Robert G. Colquhoun.14 She was one of the many foreign governesses, which had become an increasingly common profession in nineteenth-century Bucharest. She was employed in the household of the high-ranking noble Odobescu family, where she met her future husband, C. A. Rosetti, a noble young man who owned many organs of the press and printing houses in Wallachia.15 For a governess, who typically came from an impoverished middle-class background, marriage often represented a form of social mobility. As she embarked on this path, Rosetti came to embrace the political agenda of the Romanian Forty-Eighters.16 Initially, the courtship ritual appears to have been almost entirely devoid of passion. Indeed, in his private notes from 1845–1846, Rosetti refers to Maria simply as “the Grant woman.”17 He seems to have reserved his romantic feeling for a certain married woman, whose identity he never reveals and with whom social conventions prevented him from pursuing a recognized intimate relationship. At first glance, his marriage to Maria seems to have been one of mutual convenience. For her, it offered an escape from the uncertain future associated with the position of governess, a profession that, at the time, lacked any institutional recognition or professionalization. For C. A. Rosetti, the marriage enabled him to forge valuable connections with the British Embassy in Bucharest through Maria’s brother, Effingham Grant, and the British consul, Robert G. Colquhoun, both of whom played an important role in the events of the 1848 Revolution in Wallachia.18 As a foreigner, and, more specifically, as a Westerner, Maria was warmly received by Bucharest’s upper-middle-class families because of her Western manners and customs, which she was expected to pass on to young Romanian noble women. Her integration into the Bucharest aristocracy through her marriage to Rosetti was met with a degree of skepticism,19 particularly because a governess was to marry a nobleman, but her association with Western values, regarded in the Romanian context as a mark of civilization and progress, ultimately proved more significant than her modest social origins, which were otherwise considered incompatible with her future husband’s social background. Nevertheless, Maria Rosetti was in every respect suited to embody the sacred figure of the mother of the nation at the time.

Ionela Băluţă20 has shown how women’s political participation in nineteenth-century political events was appropriated through the value-laden roles assigned to them as mothers maternal representation and reduced to a mere symbol. Politically progressive aspirations did not influence traditional definitions of gender roles. Women continued to be seen as domestic educators rather than as initiators of their own institutions, as occurred in other East Central European contexts during the upheavals of the 1840s21 (the Biographical Dictionary of Women’s Movements and Feminisms, edited by Francisca de Haan et al., offers several examples of female activists who achieved a significant level of prominence and recognition at the time). Women were granted importance through their roles as mothers and educators, roles supposedly in harmony with their “natural” qualities.

Angela Jianu, on the other hand, has also pointed to the excessive expectations placed upon women to become mothers, assume full responsibility for domestic life, and at the same time participate in their husbands’ political activities,22 becoming fully involved in political life in the name of revolutionary causes and nationalist beliefs. The fundamental characteristics of the Romanian revolutionary movement included its aspiration toward reform, its patriotic spirit, and its affinity with the French republican model. More recent research in Southeastern Europe has shown that the imposition of Western models of legal and political organization often marked a form of regression with regard to women’s social emancipation in these regions. For example, Evdoxios Doxiadis has shown how, in Greece, the replacement of the old Ottoman legal structure after the War of Independence in 1821 with a modern legal model of Western extraction resulted in new limitations on women’s rights.23 Manuela Boatcă has shown how, in the Romanian context, the adoption of Western political models replicated a Eurocentric political and social structure within Romanian society, reinforcing Romania’s semi-peripheral position and the existing social gaps.24 Roxana Cheşchebec likewise questions the notion that women’s struggles for equal rights and the processes of social modernization and Westernization were necessarily intertwined. She suggests, on the contrary, that processes of social modernization often posed obstacles to women’s emancipation.25 In the Romanian context, whether we are concerned with women’s social emancipation or their profes­sionalization, the growing proximity to Western models, which promoted the institutionalization and certification of medical practices, served, on the one hand, to align the Romanian medical system with Western standards, thereby improving the country’s medical infrastructure and its capacity to combat epidemics, reduce infant mortality, and lower the high mortality rates among the young population. This process also contributed, however, to the marginalization of women within an increasingly masculinized medical profession. Consequently, women, and midwives in particular, came to be portrayed in nineteenth-century medicine as “the physician’s assistants [...], devoted young women endowed with exceptional moral qualities.”26

Women’s Exclusion from the Medical Profession: The Crisis of Midwifery in Nineteenth-Century Wallachia

The overemphasis on motherhood in the political discourse in the Romanian space is paralleled by the systemic problem of the medicalization of childbirth. Throughout the nineteenth century, practices surrounding childbirth and the postpartum period in Romania oscillated between local traditions and ritual forms of care for women on the one hand and the early stages of medicalization on the other. Two paradigms thus emerge, structuring and legitimizing the opposition between the feminine and the masculine in obstetric practice.27 The first obstetrical manuals produced in the Romanian sphere, all of which were authored by male physicians, were constructed precisely through the attempt to legitimize male medical science while discrediting untrained midwives, who were held responsible for the deaths of women in childbirth and for infant mortality due to practices allegedly lacking a medical foundation, practices that, in fact, contributed to increasing mortality among both women and children. For example, the first obstetrics manual, Twelve Useful Teachings for Pregnant Women, for the Moment of Birth, for the Postpartum Period, for the Nourishment of Infants and for Their Illnesses (1827), was published in Moldavia by the physician Nicolae Chiriacopol (d. 1842). As he himself states, Chiriacopol wrote this manual because of his concerns about the “incompetence of midwives”:

Since the midwives of Moldavia, Wallachia, and Bessarabia are entirely untrained […] I advise all women not to be misled by their midwifery and guesswork, and not to accept their unfounded and ignorant counsel, for they pretend to be clever without possessing any natural aptitude; they boast and claim to know much, yet in truth they know nothing. A great cruelty resides in some of them, especially among those in the countryside and in small towns; woe to the pregnant women and those in childbirth who fall into the hands of such midwives.28

In 1830, Topografia sanitară a Ţării Româneşti (Sanitary Topography of Wallachia) was published, a book by the Bucharest physician Constantin Caracaş. Caracaş was the founder of Filantropia Hospital, one of Bucharest’s first major hospitals (1773–1828). He explained his decision to write a medical manual likewise by criticizing the persistence of non-medical midwifery practices, call attention in particular to rural midwives, whom he described as nothing more than “killers of children,” “ignorant old women whose mere presence does more harm than good.”29 In 1839, the Midwifery School in Bucharest was established by the physician Iosif Sporer. The school was founded to provide professional training for women to assist childbirth and provide proper care.30 According to these physicians, there was a dire need for such training. However, the first admissions reveal that women actually had only limited access to specialized education and an elitist tendency prevailed at the institution in this regard.31 For example, a very good knowledge of French was a sine qua non, and the school required two years of training. Because the number of students remained low, admission requirements were later relaxed. Nevertheless, the number of graduates continued to be small compared to demand.

Throughout the nineteenth century, the medicalization of Wallachian society followed two major reference models: the German and, later, the French. The lack of specialized institutions for training medical personnel, especially in the first half of the century, meant that physicians from the Romanian space obtained their degrees at major Western university centers, particularly in Vienna and Paris. The precarious state of medical education, which by the mid-nineteenth century was still in the process of developing its own specialized language,32 also contributed to the importation of foreign physicians. Studies on the history of medicine in the Romanian space also show that the medical profession was intrinsically linked to the development of the bourgeoisie,33 as it was an occupation highly representative of this class. Since a middle class was only just beginning to take shape in the Romanian Principalities and the nobility preferred administrative and legal careers, the need for a medical corps was supplemented by bringing in specialists from the West.

Some of the first physicians in the Romanian space, such as Dumitru Caracaş (1730–1804) and Constantin Darvari, were students of the Dutch physician Gerard van Swieten (1700–1772), who served at the Viennese court and brought the medical practices of the Dutch school of Hermann Boerhaave (1668–1738) to the Romanian Principalities. Moreover, the limited studies dedicated to the history of medicalization indicate that the situation of specialized physicians was particularly dire in Wallachia. In the early 1830s, there was one physician for every 47,000 inhabitants, whereas in Moldavia there was one for every 25,000.34 This difference was largely due to the size of the Jewish community in Moldavia, which included a significant number of physicians. Indeed, until around 1840, more than 60 percent of the medical corps in the Romanian space consisted of Galician Jews, as well as Austrian, German, French, Hungarian, and Transylvanian practitioners. In contrast, in Western countries, the ratio was far more favorable at the time. In France, for instance, there was one physician for every 2,000 inhabitants.35

If in the first half of the nineteenth century German-language medical schools (the Viennese school and other German institutions) represented the main sources of medical training in the Romanian space, by the end of the century, the French medical school had become increasingly popular, with the rise of physicians trained in Paris, such as Nicolae Kretzulescu (1812–1900) or Carol Davila (1828–1895). This shift also explains the language imposed by medical discourse, which was structured around a series of binary oppositions: old and new, tradition and science, remedy and prescription. It is therefore not coincidental that Kretzulescu aligned himself with the movement that denigrated uncertified midwives and discouraged recourse to the services provided by these women. According to him, midwives “stray from their calling whenever they try to act as surgeons and pharmacists, crafts they have never been trained in.”36 Kretzulescu expressed his position on midwives in a translation of the manual by the French physician François-Emmanuel Fodéré, one of the most important physicians in France in the nineteenth century. In his seminal work Traité de médecine légale et d’hygiène publique (1813), Fodéré emphasized the importance of eliminating uncertified practitioners. This reflects the fact that, in France as well, a process of medicalization of childbirth and professionalization of medical practice was underway, which in turn contributed to the marginalization of women from medical practice, many of whom worked as midwives.

A case study on the medicalization of the city of Marseille,37 for instance, shows that this process involved a struggle between male physicians and female midwives. Ultimately, medicalization amounted to the imposition of male authority over obstetrical practice and the delegitimization of women’s knowledge. As in the Romanian space, women became the primary targets of efforts to impose scientific rigor, formal training, and certification in medical practice. The role of midwives in society thus must be seen from at least two perspectives. On the one hand, it gave women some access to an officially recognized profession, since while physicians were men, midwifery was largely a feminized occupation that was, however, placed under the control of certified (male) doctors. On the other hand, however, it served as a means with which to exclude untrained women from the medical field.

Another misogynistic and age-based dimension of the discourse on midwifery also appears in this context, as schools in Wallachia opposed the figure of the elderly woman, the “arrogant old crone” (babă arogantă) and “child-killer,” (ucigătoare de copii),38 to that of young women trained in midwifery schools. If the issue of midwives in Wallachia is framed as a conflict between myth and tradition versus science and masculine versus feminine, in Transylvania, the midwife also acquired a political function.39 This is equally relevant in the Wallachian context, insofar as the nineteenth-century patriotic discourse established by the Forty-Eighters attributed the welfare, functioning, and health of the nation to women. Women were regarded as “the cradle of a nation’s future.” From this perspective, the need to medicalize childbirth and women’s bodies also encompassed a dimension of political control over their bodies through the medical profession, in a context in which fertility and successful childbirth played a central role in medical discourse. Physicians themselves constituted part of the liberal elite in the mid-nineteenth century.40 The hygienist movement, however, led Wallachian physicians such as Iacob Felix (1832–1905) to question the values of liberal modernity and to oscillate between liberal individualism and the perceived need for state intervention to ensure the conditions necessary for the development of a genuine medical culture and an awareness of the crucial importance of hygiene in the fight against disease.41 Until then, however, physicians in the Romanian lands aligned themselves in many respects with the patriotic intellectuals who had established the discourse according to which the rearing of the nation’s heroes was an exclusively maternal responsibility, a notion that was likewise reflected in the writings of some physicians.42

Returning to the medical situation in Transylvania, the regulation of midwifery practice transcended public health concerns and integrated the midwife into a political process subordinated to Hungarian authority and imperial policies. From this perspective, admission to higher institutions dedicated to the training of midwives was conditioned by both language and the ethnic identities of the candidates. Nevertheless, after 1850, in Cluj, midwifery training was conducted in Hungarian, German, and Romanian alike.43 In the Hungarian space, the training of midwives had already been identified as a public concern as early as the eighteenth century. By the nineteenth century, the midwifery crisis was considerably reduced. Although many midwives were working as active practitioners, they did not enjoy full professional autonomy, as they operated under the supervision of male physicians and obstetric specialists.44

After 1875, even in Transylvania, the midwifery crisis appears to have been largely resolved,45 as obstetrical practice was already subject to strict regulation, while both the number of graduates and that of specialized training schools continued to increase.46 In contrast, in Wallachia, the first training schools were established only around the 1830s. In this context, attitudes toward midwifery in Wallachia were largely shaped by French models, most likely imported by Wallachian physicians trained in France, along with the knowledge and practices they had acquired there.

Thus, attitudes toward midwives in the Hungarian space and in Transylvania differed substantially from those in the Romanian lands. In Transylvania, for example, efforts were made to include an increasing number of women in obstetrical practice, even if this training also concealed a political dimension. By the mid-nineteenth century, the situation of midwives and the low number of trainees in training schools were already matters of concern. Institutions responded by increasing stipends and imposing sanctions on the practice of midwifery without certification. In Transylvania, these measures had been regulated as early as the first half of the nineteenth century, when the Court in Vienna required that female students at the Medico-Surgical Institute be exempted from public duties during their studies. At the same time, the number of scholarships doubled from one year to the next, and the eligibility criteria for studying midwifery required candidates to be under the age of thirty and to be literate, regardless of their marital status.47 Thus, as Luminiţa Dumănescu has shown, the year 1854 marks a turning point in the midwifery crisis, as competition for places in midwifery schools increased significantly. Rather than denigrating women who lacked formally accredited competencies (as was often done by male medical authorities), efforts were made to integrate them into specialized medical structures.

While the midwife benefited from a form of political legitimization through her inclusion in public discourse, in Wallachia and Moldavia it was the mother who enjoyed predominantly symbolic prestige, as reflected in the pro-maternal discourse of the Revolutions of 1848 generation in these regions. Rather than encouraging the training of women already practicing midwifery or young women who aspired to pursue a career in this field, admission criteria in 1839 at the Midwifery School of Pantelimon Hospital remained quite restrictive.48 The first cohort of “certified midwives” in Wallachia appeared only in 1841. Other data indicate that, by 1862, there were no more than ninety certified midwives in Bucharest: seventy-seven had obtained their diploma there, one in Iaşi, and thirteen in Austria.49 It thus appears that, while in Transylvania the midwifery crisis had already been largely resolved, in Wallachia it was only just beginning, further confirming the significant gap between the two regions in terms of societal modernization from the perspective of public health.

The Forty-Eighters and the Medical Crisis of Romanian Society

The 1848 revolutionary program included the importance of creating institutions, absolute freedom of the press, the abolition of serfdom, the nationalization of monastic estates, and the dismantling of the privileges of the high boyar class sustained by the Organic Regulations, as well as social equity and the abolition of slavery, all to be achieved following the French republican model.50 The aspiration toward progress intertwined with patriotic fervor and the cultivation of nationalist sentiment, within which the mother occupied an important place as both the bearer and educator of future patriots.

The problem raised by the Forty-Eighters’ discourse lies precisely in this romantic, idealistic, and non-material understanding of motherhood and of medical care more generally. This was somewhat paradoxical, given that these definitions of the mother came from the very actors who were preparing a profound social revolution. Thus, the Proclamation of Islaz, the new re­volu­tionary constitution intended to replace the order established by the Organic Regulations, did not provide rights for women, much less for mothers. Motherhood was framed as a purely patriotic responsibility. The only provision concerning women referred to their access to education, a principle integrated into the structure of nationalist ideals.51 Social, economic and political inequalities were not discouraged, either before or after the suppression of the revolutions.

Consequently, women’s access to specialized medical services remained conditioned by social status, while scientific discourse explained illness in terms of scarcity. Two major factors thus contributed to the crisis of midwives and to the exclusion of women from medical sphere: the insufficient effort invested in training new medical personnel and misogyny. The crisis of midwives, furthermore, was also a matter of mentality and of society’s relationship to a specialized and professionalized medical system.

The aforementioned Wallachian physician Iacob Felix attributed the poor health of the population to misery and poverty, an explanation also frequently offered by the earliest physicians and obstetricians. For instance, in the first obstetrics manual published in Romanian, the aforementioned Nicolae Chiriacopol draws attention to the fact that urban misery, especially in the case of Bucharest, contributed to infant mortality and to the deaths of mothers due to poor hygiene. Thus, he advised mothers to withdraw to rural areas during pregnancy, childbirth, and the postpartum period. The inadequate hygiene in Bucharest remained a problem throughout the entire nineteenth century, alongside the overexpansion of cities and the massive migration from rural and peripheral areas toward urban centers such as Iaşi and Bucharest. Moreover, by the mid-nineteenth century, large cities still lacked an efficient sewage system and a sanitation infrastructure capable of meeting the needs of their growing populations. Consequently, Chiriacopol argued that expectant mothers should avoid the city, “where stench is ever-present, and the air is corrupted and harmful to the health of every individual.” Mothers, he maintained, needed fresh air and long walks in forests or in the countryside, where they could avoid “strolling along foul and dusty streets.”52

The lack of hygiene and widespread deprivation, however, fostered resistance to the efforts aimed at the medicalization of society, reinforcing a broadly traditional and archaic mindset, as well as a perception of the physician as primarily a hygienist rather than a therapist.53 For example, in 1847, just one year before the revolution and against a tense sociopolitical backdrop, the authorities made vaccinations obligatory for children. Nevertheless, parental resistance to these new medical practices did not diminish, all the more so as this obligation came in the wake of the cholera epidemics of the 1830s, when physicians’ treatment plans were undermined by the reality of the disease, which continued to claim an increasing number of victims. Thus, the 1830s and 1840s amounted to little more than a prolonged series of struggles for physicians, who were confronted with a local mentality marked by skepticism and attached to traditional treatments and remedies. To this was added the influence of religion, as nineteenth-century Romanian society still believed that “diseases were simply ordained for humankind by God.”54

Access to specialized medical services was equally determined by the patient’s social status. By the mid-nineteenth century, the medical market had expanded in its very terms as a market, as physicians’ patient lists grew significantly. This happened in part because physicians enjoyed professional autonomy, unlike midwives, who were part of the public service sector. Data indicate that even the poorer classes increasingly began to seek medical services. Nevertheless, the physician largely remained associated with the privileged classes, which could afford specialized medical services. At the same time, a subtle shift occurred in the perception of the physician, who came to be seen not only as a hygienist but also as a therapist, while the treatment plans popular at the time were largely balneary or dietetic-hygienic in nature.55 These treatments required resources on the part of the patient that were available only to the middle classes and the nobility. The same applied to midwives who, unlike physicians, were formally part of the public service sector and strictly prohibited from practicing privately. Nevertheless, they selected their clientele, and women from more prosperous families were often favored over those from the lower classes.56

Revolutionary tensions overlapped with the crisis of medicalization, while the apologia of the maternal figure intersected with the crisis surrounding the medicalization of the maternal body. Women’s involvement in the public sphere and in political matters enabled a gendered form of participation in public life. Thus, alongside the prevailing perception of women as mothers and educators, their public actions were framed within the paradigm of care. The emergence of a philanthropic spirit became visible through initiatives aimed at establishing protective institutions, such as hospitals and, to a lesser extent, educational institutions. Nevertheless, this philanthropic spirit did not venture to intervene directly in the sphere of practice, as the women involved in the causes of the 1848 revolution, such as Maria Rosetti and Zinca Golescu, only rarely took initiative in traditionally male domains. Rather, they tended to reproduce forms of knowledge and practices already sanctioned by the masculine authority governing these fields.

Revolutionary Philanthropy and Women’s Contributions to the Medicalization of Motherhood and Childcare

Even the women proclaimed “mothers of the nation” within the nineteenth-century nationalist spirit were not spared the tragedies created by lack of access to medical care. For instance, Maria Rosetti experienced the tragedies of infant loss. It is believed that the Rosetti family had around five children, yet only four survived: Libby-Sofia, Mircea, Vintilă and Horia. A letter from 1852 suggests that the death of her second child was followed by a period of mourning. Correspondence with family members in exile, for example, the Rosetti family and the families of Jules Michelet and Alfred Dumesnil (1821–1894),57 mentions, even if only in passing, the suffering of these women. Even Maria Rosetti’s friend, Adèle Dumesnil, the daughter of Jules Michelet, died in 1855 at the age of only thirty-one after multiple childbirths. The postpartum period and complications of childbirth, for instance, are discussed in softened, euphemistic terms in the intimate correspondence of these women. The experience of motherhood is articulated in strongly gendered terms, as childbirth is projected as the supreme feminine experience. Knowledge of and emotional bonding with one’s child are equated to a scientific discovery by a man. In a letter from 1852, the position of women engaged in political (nationalist) causes becomes clear: for them, political devotion takes precedence over their own personal traumas:

I await with the keenest impatience the moment when you shall be able to give me a detailed account of her features, her complexion, and her talents. I know that, during the three weeks in which a poor mother is confined to her bed, she has no sweeter occupation than to discover the innumerable qualities of the marvel that has just been born to her; and God knows that not even Newton himself could discern them better than she does, I might even doubt that that excellent man could have perceived all the beauties that we, we women, behold in the faces of our little ones. Kiss yours most tenderly; and if you imagine that she is drawing the very life from you, do not be deceived, my dear friend, it is a kiss she is giving you in my stead.58

Though still in the postpartum period, Maria Rosetti, who was closely connected to the British diplomatic corps in Bucharest, made use of all her advantages to save the Romanian revolutionaries from condemnation after the suppression of the uprisings and to facilitate their escape into exile.59 In the correspondence and private notes of her husband, she appears as the counterpart of Anita Garibaldi, precisely because of her courage in venturing into such revolutionary events. In a letter from 1853, Rosetti writes to his wife about how Garibaldi died in 1849, in her husband’s arms, following a miscarriage caused by hemorrhage.60

The repeated comparison of Maria Rosetti and Anita Garibaldi in 1853 arguably also reveals, however, her husband’s concern regarding his wife’s diminished involvement in political life and in the affairs of the revolutionaries, as well as her increasing immersion in domestic and family life.61 Stories of miscarriage, obstetric illness, and infant mortality mark the lives of revolutionary women. At the same time, the philanthropic spirit drove them to contribute significantly to the medicalization of society, though to a lesser extent to the medicalization of their own bodies. Women’s suffering was taken as a given and borne in the name of an ideal, giving rise to a distorted understanding of the importance of prioritizing one’s own body. In the midst of this medical crisis, however, the extent to which Maria Rosetti’s writings on childrearing and the care of women were aligned with legitimate medical practices remains to be seen, as does the extent to which they left room for the dominance of male medicine at the expense of knowledge derived from the lived reality of maternal experience.

The drama of motherhood did not spare even the mother of the re­volu­tionaries Nicolae and Ştefan Golescu. Zinca Golescu married and gave birth at the age of thirteen, and the few monographs dedicated to the family confirm the medical aftereffects of her having given birth at such a young age.62 The form of motherhood assumed by these politically engaged women aligned with the idealistic and patriotic definitions of the time. Thus, in their intimate writings and especially their private correspondence (and also in newspaper articles, as Maria Rosetti was prolific as a journalist), references to the maternal body itself appear only to a limited extent. Motherhood and the physical hardships it entailed are often concealed under various forms of “physical weakness,” reflecting the fact that motherhood as a bodily experience remained a taboo subject in that period.

This reveals a profound discrepancy between the political discourse on motherhood and its lived reality, as the idealization of motherhood served only to obscure the dramatic conditions experienced by mothers in the Romanian space throughout the nineteenth century. The earliest public concerns related to motherhood across the Romanian lands are connected to Maria Rosetti’s publication Mama şi copilul (Mother and child). The journal featured sections with educational content for children, ranging from geography lessons to materials on culture and civilization. At the same time, it also included dedicated sections designed for children’s and mothers’ physical care. It is worth noting that journalism was an occupation readily available to her, first because the Rosetti family owned numerous printing presses and periodicals and was also one of the foremost names in Bucharest’s print culture and, second, because journalism was the first intellectual profession that women could enter in the Romanian sphere.

The philanthropic spirit guided Maria Rosetti’s efforts to provide medical support for vulnerable populations, thereby contributing to the process of medicalization in Romanian society. First, she contributed to the production and dissemination of popular literature on the importance of medical treatment through the founding, in 1865, of the first journal dedicated to mothers, which included special sections on childrearing. Second, she was actively involved in philanthropic initiatives aimed at establishing hospitals, as well as in the volunteer medical work carried out within these institutions. The medical advice published in the magazine journal was based on the instructional manual by the physician Christoph Wilhelm Hufeland (1762–1836), one of the most influential doctors in Central Europe in the eighteenth century and the first half of the nineteenth century.63 Hufeland was one of the leading figures of German vitalist medicine. His medical practice promoted an approach that would today be described as holistic, and he was among the principal advocates of natural understandings of disease. It is nevertheless interesting to consider how Hufeland’s teachings reached the Wallachian space, whether due to his widespread popularity or to the proximity of his name. His daughter, Elisabeth Hufeland, married Alexandru Sturdza (1791–1854), a Romanian high-ranking diplomat, and it is therefore possible that his name and reputation also circulated in the Romanian lands through this familial connection.

Vitalism and macrobiotics found their way into Romanian medical thought in the absence of an established medical tradition, a circumstance that left considerable room for speculative thinking. Historians of medicine working on the Romanian lands have shown that Romanian physicians, like those who assumed an auxiliary role in the “care and medicalization” of society, among them philanthropic activists such as Maria Rosetti, were primarily concerned with disseminating remedies and practices related to hygiene, caregiving, and disease prevention. Likewise, physicians themselves showed relatively little interest in scientific specialization or in producing major scholarly works in the field.64 This was true in part because the Romanian medical establishment regarded an approach that combined alternative medicine (vitalism and macrobiotics) with medical science as better suited to the needs of Romanian society. In the midst of a medical crisis, society proved more receptive to traditional folk remedies than to specialized scientific medicine.

Nevertheless, in the second half of the nineteenth century, the vitalist form of medicine represented by Christoph Wilhelm Hufeland’s school had begun to lose its legitimacy amid the rising wave of scientism. At the same time, it is noteworthy how Enlightenment and scientistic modes of thought coexisted among the Romanian revolutionaries of 1848, including Maria Rosetti, and how she reconciled, from a medical standpoint, these perspectives with vitalist practices and a sympathy for holistic approaches to childcare.

For instance, in the early sections devoted to childrearing, Maria Rosetti laments the lack of medical literature translated into Romanian. While she does not undertake such translations herself, her recommendations are nonetheless inspired by major Western medical writings, which she seeks to transmit to mothers across all social classes. Although inspired by Romanian medical practice, her recommendations often belong to the realm of traditional leacuri (folk remedies) rather than medically sanctioned therapeutic advice. This aim, however, appears to have been difficult to realize in a context in which, even as late as the 1860s, the rate of illiteracy among women, especially those from the lower classes, remained very high. Indeed, in the earlier part of the century, most lower-class women were illiterate, a situation that did not improve significantly over the following decades.65

In one of her lessons on infant care, Maria states, following Hufeland’s recommendations, that children should be given “air baths,” that is, they should be kept outdoors as much as possible, in fresh air.66 Interestingly, the same “naturalist” practice can also be found in the writings of the physician Chiriacopol, who emphasized the importance of fresh air and forest environments for pregnant women and those in the postpartum period in his 1827 manual, which was published almost forty years earlier. When proposing treatments and care strategies for children’s illnesses, Maria Rosetti likewise draws on Hufeland’s “naturalist” teachings, advocating a form of childrearing as close as possible to an organic and vitalist model. She criticizes what she considers invasive and “barbaric” practices in Wallachia, where women applied bitter substances such as wormwood, for example, to the breast to wean infants, a method she condemns as deceptive toward the child. She also denounces the piercing of girls’ ears for the insertion of earrings, another custom she regards as harmful and, at times, even responsible for infant mortality. This position was also shaped by her Protestant cultural background, which led her to reject the overlap between religious or traditional customs and the safety of children: “Doctor Hufeland would never have imagined that there exists a country in Europe where it is customary to pierce the ears of poor little girls while they are still warm from their mother’s womb.”67

And yet, before Maria Rosetti’s column, through which she assumed the role of an intermediary in the import of Western medical and childrearing knowledge, Elena Ştirbei had already translated, in 1839, the work of Jeanne Campan, former lady-in-waiting to Marie Antoinette, titled On the Education of Children. Campan was primarily concerned with the education of children. She played a central role in shaping girls’ education in France in the second half of the nineteenth century. Both in terms of education and medical practices, these women drew their references from Western literature. However, the manuals they relied upon appear, in the context of the latter half of the nineteenth century, already somewhat outdated and, more importantly, selected in a rather unsystematic manner, without clear medical criteria. While the strong concern of women in Wallachia with motherhood is well known, neither Elena Ştirbei, nor Maria Rosetti, nor other women displayed an explicit interest in medicalization or in the maternal body itself, except tangentially. This is all the more striking given that the positions and political legitimacy acquired, especially by revolutionary women, might have enabled them to intervene more directly in a medical discourse largely dominated by men.

The contribution of women to the development of the medical network was embedded within a broader philanthropic project of care for others, inspired by the spirit of the 1848 generation. Thus, in 1877 during the Romanian War of Independence, Maria Rosetti founded two hospitals, one in Craiova and another in Turnu Măgurele.68 Both were intended to serve the victims of the war. Meanwhile, her work directed toward mothers came to an end with the final issues of the journal Mama şi Copilul, which ceased publication in 1867. In addi­tion to these initiatives, she engaged in fundraising efforts for war victims and also took part in medical practice herself, treating wounded soldiers. Although Rosetti’s activity unfolded almost in parallel with the obstetrical crisis and the broader crisis of medicalization in Romanian society, she was the first historical figure to bring the issue of maternal trauma and childcare into the public sphere. The first more systematic work on obstetrics written by a woman in the Romanian context appeared only in 1900, authored by the socialist activist for women’s rights and physician Ecaterina Arbore Ralli.

Women’s efforts to contribute to social development, whether in medicine or education, must be understood in the context of a process driven not by a systemic, state-supported program but by the individual initiatives of physicians, intellectuals, and middle-class activists. This also reflects the extent to which the liberal spirit became embedded in Romanian political culture. In the Romanian context, the very concept of patriotism carried more than a nationalist meaning. It also connoted generosity and self-sacrifice in the service of the national interest, or in other words, philanthropy.69 The web of ambitious individual projects reveals the gap between social reality and the ways in which these philanthropists perceived the social crisis and its possible solutions. Throughout the nineteenth century, the hospitals in Bucharest, as well as the specialized institutions of medical education in the Romanian capital, were established largely through private initiatives. For example, the French-born physician Carol Davila founded both the School of Surgery, which provided intermediate medical training, and the National School of Medicine and Pharmacy, which offered higher medical education.70 The Macedonian physician Constantin Caracaş founded Philanthropia Hospital, and the Jewish physician Iuliu Barasch established Bucharest’s first children’s hospital.71 Along similar lines, women gradually began to establish institutions intended to promote social development through philanthropic initiatives. Although these efforts undoubtedly alleviated the effects of crises such as poverty, war, and political instability, they failed to address certain structural problems, with which they engaged only on a symbolic level.

Maria Rosetti likewise participated in the medicalization of society through her philanthropic activity, and public health was one of her principal concerns. In the pages of the journal in which she promoted the teachings of Huffeland, Rosetti wrote about motherhood and childcare in idealized and sanitized terms, failing to engage with the realities on the ground and the medical crisis that affected mothers and children perhaps more severely than any other social group. This disconnect between philanthropic projects and social realities also stemmed from the individualized manner in which social problems were understood and addressed, according to the benefactor’s conception of what constituted the common good.

Maria Rosetti did not aim to provide mothers with “medical training.” She sought, rather, to discourage treatments applied “by ear,”72 that is, based on hearsay or unverified knowledge. Thus, her attempt at the medicalization of motherhood was limited to the spread of medical care to the population. However, midwifery occupies only a marginal place in the discourse of medicalization and in the philanthropic activities of middle-class women in Wallachia. The modesty norms of nineteenth-century women ensured that female practitioners continued to operate under the status of midwives, even when untrained, rather than turning to physicians. While the physician imposed medical discourses and practices, it was the midwife, whether formally trained or not, who actually assisted in childbirth.

The assumption of the midwife’s role by women themselves reflects the fact that midwifery was not solely a medical function but also a social one, grounded in trust and familiarity. For this reason, male medical discourse has often framed the issue of midwifery in a reductive and misleading way, opposing scientific authority to “female charlatanism,” a dichotomy that persists even in some scholarship today.73 In Wallachian women’s culture, childbirth was not merely a biological act requiring medical assistance, but also a cultural ritual in which the midwife played a central role. She was a figure who enjoyed the mother’s trust, and she was capable of baptizing the child and actively participating in its upbringing.

For example, while in exile in Paris, Maria Rosetti, who was close to the Alfred Dumesnil family and especially to his wife, Adèle Dumesnil, assisted at the birth of her children, acting as midwife. We learn from a letter dated 1852 that, when Rosetti was unable to be present, another midwife and family friend (Mme Porter) took her place.74 At the birth of the first child of the Romanian revolutionary couple, the delivery was assisted by Catinca Odobescu, a family friend and the mistress of the household where Maria Rosetti was employed as a governess.75 Because these women belonged to the middle class, they also had access to specialized assistance, and professional midwives were often present. However, the lack of engagement with the broader population distorted their perception of childbirth and infant mortality on the ground. Infant mortality was lower in France than in Eastern Europe, where, by the mid-nineteenth century, approximately 108.9 children per 1,000 births died at birth.76 In Romania, such data are not even available. However, in countries with a somewhat more advanced level of medicalization, such as Croatia or Slovenia, the rate reached as high as 583 deaths per 1,000 births.77 In Austria, the rate was 169 deaths per 1,000 births.78 This situation was caused in part by the significant gap in the professionalization of midwifery. While in Central Europe, under the influence of Maria Theresa’s public health reforms around 1770, training schools for midwives had already been established in the second half of the eighteenth century, medicalization reached the Romanian areas only around the 1820s–1830s.

The role of the women of the 1848 generation, however, and particularly Maria Rosetti, is crucial in this context, as it illustrates the transitional moment in the professionalization of midwifery and the transformation of this practice from a customary female activity into a regulated profession. The creation of a discourse on the need to professionalize midwifery thus becomes part of the broader process of nation-building.79 For instance, even the texts published in Maria Rosetti’s journal reflected a utilitarian view of children: the stated aim was to provide childcare advice to raise healthy children who would be useful to the nation.80

Conclusions

In the Romanian space, the Revolutions of 1848 represented one of the first moments when women succeeded in entering the public sphere and assuming a political function beyond domestic labor and salon life. The philanthropic spirit of the period and political commitment led those who managed to acquire public legitimacy, such as Maria Rosetti, to engage in initiatives with a much broader impact, particularly in the fields of education and public health. Two main factors shaped the extent of their involvement in the process of medicalization: first, the absence of a well-established medical culture, itself still in the process of being articulated by professional physicians and a newly imposed male medical authority; and second, a form of self-limitation to the needs and values of the Western bourgeois milieu with which they were familiar and to which they adhered.

In a study of the Jules Michelet family’s travels in Germany, it is noted that Michelet’s daughter, Adèle Dumesnil, who was later a close friend of Maria Rosetti, was, while still quite young, asked by German acquaintances about her political affinities. She reportedly could not answer because she possessed only limited knowledge of politics, illustrating that French bourgeois education produced children who were less politicized than their German counterparts.81 Indeed, within French republican society, particularly among the middle classes and the nobility, there existed a highly gendered mode of women’s social and political participation. This model also influenced the slower political development of women, especially those in the middle class, in Romanian space, where the French model served as a key reference. As a result, revolutionary women tended to act more as facilitators, through philanthropic initiatives such as founding hospitals and providing medical assistance, rather than as producers of alternative practices or knowledge capable of challenging the authority of male-dominated medical discourse. Nevertheless, in a society marked by high infant mortality rates and lacking both a certified medical corps and specialized training institutions, Maria Rosetti emerged in the post-revolutionary 1860s as an important agent of medicalization. She fulfilled this role precisely through the public dissemination of medical knowledge and practices aimed at prevention and at filling the gaps where official processes of medicalization proved ineffective. The goal of her efforts was to ensure a minimal level of medical knowledge among mothers themselves, within a medical system that was still largely discursive and only in the early stages of consolidation.

Bibliography

Primary Sources

Mama şi copilul [Mother and child], 1st year, issues no. 1, 5, 8, 10, 1865.

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Bolliac, Cezar. Poesia. In Bodea, Cornelia. 1848 la români. Vol. 1, O istorie în date şi mărturii [1848 among Romanians: A history in data and testimonies], 292–94. Bucharest: Editura Enciclopedică, 1998.

Chiriacopol, Nicolae. Douăsprezece învăţături folositoare pentru fimiile aceale îngrecate, pentru ceasul naşterii, pentru lehusie, pentru chipul a se hrăni copiii acei mici şi pentru boalele lor [Twelve useful instructions for pregnant women, for the time of childbirth, for the lying-in period, for the nourishment of infants, and for their illnesses]. Iaşi: Tipografia Mitropoliei Moldovei, 1827.

Fodéré, François E. Manual pentru îngrijitori şi îngrijitoarele de bolnavi [A handbook for the carers of the sick]. Transl. Nicolae Kretzulescu. Bucharest: Tipografia lui Eliade, 1842.

Fotino, George. Din vremea renaşterii naţionale a Ţării Româneşti: Boierii Goleşti [From the time of Wallachia’s national revival: The Goleşti boyars]. Vol. 1. Bucharest: Imprimeria Naţională, 1939.

Gomoiu, Victor. Repertor de medici, farmacişti, veterinari din ţinuturile româneşti [Directory of doctors, pharmacists and vets in the Romanian provinces]. Vols. 1–2. Brăila: Tipografia “Presa,” 1938.

Rosetti, C. A. Prima epistolă către femeile clasei privilegiate [First epistle to women of the privileged class]. Paris: Tipografia E. Soye, 1853.

Rosetti, C. A. Jurnalul meu [Diary]. Edited by Marin Bucur. Cluj-Napoca: Dacia, 1974.

Samarian, Pompei Gh. Topografia Ţărei Româneşti, o veche monografie sanitară a Munteniei de Constantin Caracaş [The topography of Wallachia: An old sanitary monograph on Muntenia by Constantin Caracaş]. Bucharest: Institutul de Arte Grafice Bucovina, 1937.

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Băluţă, Ionela. La Bourgeoise Respectable: réflexion sur la construction d’une nouvelle identité féminine dans la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle roumain. Bucharest: University of Bucharest Press, 2008.

Boatcă, Manuela. “The Eastern Margins of Empire: Coloniality in Nineteenth-Century Romania.” Cultural Studies 21, 2–3 (2007): 368–84.

Bokor, Zsuzsa. “Nők a nemzetben, nemzet a nőkben” [Women in nation, nation in women]. Socio.hu Társadalomtudományi Szemle, no. 2 (2015): 86–100. doi:10.18030/socio.hu.2015.2.86

Borbély, Judit. “A bábaság története Magyarországon a 18. század végétől a 20. század közepéig” [The history of midwifery in Hungary from the late 18th century to the mid-20th century]. Sulinet. http://www.sulinet.hu/oroksegtar/data/muzeumok/ mamutt_evkonyv_11/pages/019_a_babasag.htm. Last accessed on February 4, 2026.

Bucur, Marin. Documente inedite din arhivele franceze privitoare la români în secolul al XIX-lea [Unpublished documents from French archives concerning Romanians in the 19th century]. Bucharest: Editura Academiei Republicii Socialiste Române, 1970.

Cadeschi-Livadă, Ligia. “De la Stat la individ şi înapoi: Vârstele igienismului românesc (1820–1920)” [From the state to the individual and back again: The ages of Romanian hygienism, 1820–1920]. Caiete de antropologie istorică 15, no. 1 (2017): 138–46.

Cantacuzino, Sabina. Din istoria familiei Brătianu [From the history of the Brătianu family]. Vol. 2. Bucharest: Humanitas, 2014.

Cheşchebec, Roxana. “The Achievement of Female Suffrage in Romania.” In The Struggle for Female Suffrage in Europe: Voting to Become Citizens, edited by Blanca Rodríguez-Ruiz and Ruth Rubio-Marín, 357–72. Leiden–Boston: Brill, 2012.

Cornea, Paul. Originile romantismului românesc [The origin of the Romanian romanticism]. Bucharest: Cartea Românească, 2008.

Doxiadis, Evdoxios. “Standing in Their Place: The Exclusion of Women from the Judicial System in the First Decades of the Modern Greek State.” Journal of Modern Greek Studies 25, no. 1 (2007): 75–97.

Dumănescu, Luminiţa, and Marius Eppel. “The Politics of Birth in Composite States: Midwives in Transylvania (19th–20th Century).” Romanian Journal of Population Studies 13, no. 1 (2019): 7–28. doi:10.24193/RJPS.2019.1.01

Dumănescu, Luminiţa. “Moaşele diplomate din Transilvania anului 1875” [Qualified midwives in Transylvania in 1875]. Transilvania, no. 8 (2024): 74–85. doi:10.51391/trva.2024.08.07

Haac, Oscar A. “A Spiritual Journey: Michelet in Germany 1842. A Study of Michelet’s Thought in 1842 According to Original Documents, Diaries of Alfred Dumesnil and Adèle Michelet.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 94, no. 5 (1950): 502–9.

Haan, Francisca de, Krassimira Daskalova, and Anna Loutfi, eds. A Biographical Dictionary of Women’s Movements and Feminisms: Central, Eastern, and South Eastern Europe, 19th and 20th Centuries. Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2006.

Hanulík, Vladan. “Professional Dominance? Encounters between Physicians and Patients in the First Half of the 19th Century under the Habsburg Monarchy.” Dynamis 41, no. 2 (2021): 323–55. doi:10.30827/dynamis.v41i2.24534

Hitchins, Keith. The Romanians, 1774–1866. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996.

Hostiuc, Sorin, Oana-Maria Isailă, Octavian Buda, and Eduard Drima. “From Monastic Benevolence to Medical Beneficence: The Inception of Medical Ethics in Wallachia and Moldavia before the Second Half of the 19th Century.” International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health 19, no. 16 (2022): 10229. doi:10.3390/ijerph191610229

Ioniţă, Elisabeta. Maria Rosetti. Bucharest: Editura Militară, 1973.

Isar, Nicolae. 1848 în Ţările Române: studii [1848 in the Romanian Principalities: studies]. Bucharest: Editura Universitaria, 2013.

Jianu, Angela. Circle of Friends: Romanian Revolutionaries and Political Exile, 1840–1859. Boston: Brill, 2011.

Mărăşoiu, Alexandra. “The First Book on Obstetrics Written in the Romanian Principalities.” Muzeul Naţional 24 (2012): 83–90.

Mârza, Daniela. “Femeia între familie şi societate în Moldova regulamentară” [Woman between family and society in regulated Moldova]. In Despre femei şi istoria lor în România, edited by Alin Ciupală, 7–25. Bucharest: Editura Universităţii din Bucureşti, 2004.

Nicoară, Toader. “Societăţi secrete, loje şi masonerii. Între mitul conspiraţiei şi construcţia societăţii civile româneşti (sec. al XIX-lea)” [Secret societies, lodges, and freemasonry: Between conspiracy theories and the development of Romanian civil society, 19th century]. Caiete de Antropologie Istorică, no. 44 (2024): 18–47.

Reiner, A. “Ajutoarele medicului” [The doctor’s assistants]. In Istoria medicinei universale, edited by Valeriu Bologa, C. I. Bercus, G. Brătescu, and N. Vătămanu, 670–98. Bucharest: Editura Medicală, 1970.

Riall, Lucy. Garibaldi: Invention of a Hero. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007.

Rollet, Catherine. “Allaitement, mise en nourrice et mortalité infantile en France à la fin du XIXe siècle.” Population 33, no. 6 (1978): 1189–203.

Roman, Nicoleta. “Deznădăjduită muiere n-au fost ca mine”: Femei, onoare şi păcat, în Valahia secolului al XIX-lea [“There has never been a more wretched woman like me”: Women, honor and sin in nineteenth-century Wallachia]. Bucharest: Humanitas, 2016.

Roman, Nicoleta. “Educating the Other: Foreign Governesses in Wallachia in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century.” Aspasia 14 (2020): 37–56. doi:10.3167/ASP.2020.140105

Roman, Nicoleta. “Filling the Gap, Making a Profession: Midwives, State Control and Medical Care in Mid-Nineteenth-Century Wallachia.” In Gender and Migration in Historical Perspective: Institution, Labor and Social Networks, 16th to 20th Century, edited by Beatrice Zucca Micheletto, 83–122. Springer International Publishing, 2022.

Sechel, Teodora Daniela. “The Politics of Medical Translations and its Impact upon Medical Knowledge in the Habsburg Monarchy 1770–1830.” East Central Europe 40 (2013): 296–318. doi: 10.1163/18763308-04003005

Stock-Morton, Phyllis. “Control and Limitation of Midwives in Modern France: The Example of Marseille.” Journal of Women’s History 8, no. 3 (1996): 88–112. doi: 10.1353/jowh.2010.0463

Švaljug, Deana, Daniela Malnar, Magdalena Kurbanović, Željka Kuljak, and Dino Bonačić. “A History of the Midwifery Profession in the Republic of Croatia.” Journal of Transcultural Nursing 33, no. 5 (2022): 585–93 doi:10.1177/
10436596221098975

Trăuşan-Matu, Lidia. De la leac la reţetă: Medicalizarea societăţii româneşti, în veacul al XIX-lea (1831–1869) [From remedy to prescription: The medicalization of Romanian society in the 19th century, 1831–1869]. Bucharest: University of Bucharest Press, 2011.

Trăuşan-Matu, Lidia. “Contribuţii la cunoaşterea elitei medicale din Ţările Române în veacul al XIX-lea. Studiu de caz: Ludovic Steege (1813–1872)” [Contributions to our understanding of the medical elite in the Romanian Principalities in the 19th century: A case study: Ludovic Steege, 1813–1872]. Caiete de antropologie istorică, anul 15, no. 1–2 (2016): 39–56.

Verjus, Anne, and Jennifer Heuer. “Les mères de la patrie révolutionnaire: entre représentation et incarnation du politique (1792–1801).” In Les Mères de la Patrie. Représentations et constructions d’une figure nationale, edited by Laura Fournier-Finocchiaro, 257–70. Caen: Maison de la Recherche en Sciences Humaines, 2006.

* This research was supported by a Fellowship for Young Researchers awarded by the Research Institute of the University of Bucharest (ICUB), under Agreement No. 8226/03.09.2025.

---

1. 1 Hitchins, The Romanians, 288.

2. 2 Ibid.

3. 3 Cornea, Originile romantismului românesc, 213.

4. 4 Băluţă, La Bourgeoise Respectable, 56.

5. 5 Roman, “Deznădăjduită muiere n-au fost ca mine,” 12.

6. 6 Băluţă, La Bourgeoise Respectable, 58.

7. 7 Allen, Feminism and Motherhood in Germany 1800–1914, 95.

8. 8 Verjus and Heuer, “Les mères de la patrie révolutionnaire,” 261.

9. 9 Nicoară, “Societăţi secrete,” 42.

10. 10 Rosetti, Prima epistolă către femeile clasei privilegiate.

11. 11 Bălcescu, Filosofie social, 63.

12. 12 Bolliac, Poesia.

13. 13 Rosetti, “Pentru mame” [For mothers], Mama şi copilul, no. 5, August 8, 1865, 5.

14. 14 Ioniţă, Maria Rosetti, 8.

15. 15 Roman, “Educating the Other. Foreign Governesses in Wallachia in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century,” 38

16. 16 Roman, “Deznădăjduită muiere n-au fost ca mine,” 226.

17. 17 Rosetti, Jurnalul meu, 48.

18. 18 Jianu, Circle of Friends, 41.

19. 19 Cantacuzino, Din istoria familiei Brătianu, 71.

20. 20 Băluţă, La Bourgeoise Respectable, 65.

21. 21 Haan et al., A Biographical Dictionary of Women’s Movements and Feminisms.

22. 22 Jianu, Circle of Friends.

23. 23 Doxiadis, “Standing in Their Place,” 77.

24. 24 Boatcă, “The Eastern Margins of Empire: Coloniality in Nineteenth-Century Romania.”

25. 25 Cheşchebec, “The Achievement of Female Suffrage in Romania,” 361.

26. 26 Reiner, “Ajutoarele medicului,” 681.

27. 27 Trăuşan-Matu, De la leac la reţetă.

28. 28 Chiriacopol, Douăsprezece învăţături folositoare pentru fimiile aceale îngrecate, 16.

29. 29 Samarian, Topografia Ţărei Româneşti, 90.

30. 30 Mărăşoiu, “The First Book on Obstetrics Written in the Romanian Principalities,” 87.

31. 31 Trăuşan-Matu, De la leac la reţetă, 115.

32. 32 Romanian physicians who also authored the first medical manuals, deplores the lack of specialized medical vocabulary in Romanian language, Trăuşan-Matu, De la leac la reţetă, 98.

33. 33 Ibid., 104.

34. 34 Gomoiu, Repertor de medici, farmacişti, veterinari din ţinuturile româneşti, 81.

35. 35 Lidia Trăuşan-Matu, De la leac la reţetă, 99.

36. 36 Fodéré, Manual pentru îngrijitori şi îngrijitoarele de bolnavi.

37. 37 Stock-Morton, “Control and Limitation of Midwives in Modern France.”

38. 38 Samarian, Topografia Ţărei Româneşti, 90

39. 39 Dumănescu and Eppel, “The Politics of Birth in Composite States: Midwives in Transylvania.”

40. 40 Trăuşan-Matu, “Contribuţii la cunoaşterea elitei medicale.”

41. 41 Cadeschi-Livadă, “De la Stat la individ şi înapoi.”

42. 42 Bokor, “Nők a nemzetben, nemzet a nőkben.”

43. 43 Dumănescu, “Moaşele diplomate din Transilvania anului 1875.”

44. 44 Borbély, A bábaság története Magyarországon a 18. század végétől a 20. század közepéig.

45. 45 For instance, the first medical manuals, including obstetrical treatises, were translated into Hungarian and circulated in Transylvania from the late eighteenth century onward as part of a broader wave of medical translations inspired by the work of the Austrian physician Anton Störck and his followers. See Sechel, “The Politics of Medical Translations.”

46. 46 Dumănescu, “Moaşele diplomate din Transilvania anului 1875.”

47. 47 Ibid.

48. 48 Trăuşan-Matu, De la leac la reţetă, 110.

49. 49 Ibid., 112.

50. 50 Isar, 1848 în Ţările Române: studii.

51. 51 Jianu, Circle of Friends.

52. 52 Chiriacopol, Douăsprezece învăţături folositoare pentru fimiile aceale îngrecate, 19–21.

53. 53 Trăuşan Matu, De la leac la reţetă, 101.

54. 54 Ibid.

55. 55 Ibid.

56. 56 Roman, Femei, onoare şi păcat, 72.

57. 57 In exile, the Romanian revolutionaries were closely connected to the family of Jules Michelet and to that of Alfred Dumesnil, his son-in-law, both of whom were professors at the Collège de France at the time. The members of the Rosetti family were particularly close to the Dumesnil household. The Dumesnil family archives contain a rich correspondence concerning the activities and exile life of the Rosetti family. This archival collection is housed at the Bibliothèque Historique de la Ville de Paris.

58. 58 Bucur, Documente referitoare, 199.

59. 59 Ioniţă, Maria Rosetti, 36.

60. 60 Riall, Garibaldi: Invention of a Hero.

61. 61 Jianu, Circle of Friends, 18.

62. 62 Fotino, Din vremea renaşterii naţionale, 16.

63. 63 Hanulík, “Professional dominance?”

64. 64 Trăuşan-Matu, De la leac la reţetă, 121.

65. 65 Mârza, Femeia între familie şi societate în Moldova regulamentară, 22.

66. 66 Mama şi copilul, no. 8, August 29, 1965, 47.

67. 67 Mama şi copilul, no. 10, September 12, 1965, 174.

68. 68 Ioniţă, Maria Rosetti, 79.

69. 69 Cornea, Originile romantismului românesc, 211.

70. 70 Trăuşan-Matu, De la leac la reţetă, 409.

71. 71 Ibid., 400.

72. 72 Mama şi copilul, no. 10, September 12, 1865, 172.

73. 73 Hostiuc et al., “From Monastic Benevolence.”

74. 74 Bucur, Documente referitoare, 198.

75. 75 Rosetti, Diary, 213.

76. 76 Rollet, “Allaitement, mise en nourrice et mortalité infantile,” 1196.

77. 77 Švaljug, et al., “A History of the Midwifery Profession in the Republic of Croatia.”

78. 78 Ibid.

79. 79 Roman, “Filling the Gap, Making a Profession,” 122.

80.  

 

1. 80 M. Rosetti, “Către Mame” [Toward Mothers], Mama şi copilul, no 1, July 4, 1865, 2.

2. 81 Haac, “A Spiritual Journey.”

Sir Henry Drummond Wolff and British Strategy in Eastern Rumelia (1878–1879)* 

Nadezhda Vasileva

Institute for Historical Studies, Bulgarian Academy of Sciences

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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 2 (2026): 389-416 DOI 10.38145/2026.2.389

This article examines Sir Henry Drummond Wolff’s diplomatic mission to Eastern Rumelia between 1878 and 1879 as a calculated instrument of British foreign policy in the aftermath of the Russo-Turkish War 1877–1878. Appointed as Britain’s representative to the European Commission for the organization of Eastern Rumelia established by the Treaty of Berlin, Wolff played a central role in drafting the Organic Statute and shaping the administrative structure of the newly formed Ottoman province in Southern Bulgaria. His mission had a broader geostrategic objective: to safeguard British interests in the region and contain the growing influence of the Russian Empire in the Near East. The study argues that Wolff’s involvement in the European Commission was not merely technical but deeply political, anchored in Britain’s determination to preserve its imperial interests near the Straits and to prevent the disintegration of the Ottoman Empire as a buffer against Russian expansion. Eastern Rumelia thus emerges in this context as a focal point of British–Russian rivalry during a critical moment in the reordering of south­eastern Europe under the Berlin settlement.

Keywords: Eastern Rumelia, Wolff, Salisbury, Anglo-Russian rivalry, Ottoman Empire, Treaty of Berlin, Near East, Eastern Question

Introduction

The second half of the nineteenth century was marked by growing geopolitical rivalry between Britain and Russia, as both powers sought to expand their imperial influence in the Near East and Central Asia. For Britain, the primary concern was the defense of India and the security of the communication routes connecting it to the imperial metropole. For Russia, the strategic priority lay in consolidating control over the Black Sea region and securing access to the Mediterranean.

Russia’s steady territorial expansion in Central Asia following its defeat in the Crimean War brought it ever closer to the frontiers of Persia and Afghanistan, causing growing anxiety in Britain.1 The authorities in London regarded both Persia and Afghanistan as essential buffer states, intended to serve as protective barriers against Russian advance toward India. Consequently, the ensuing Anglo-Russian rivalry centered on control over two strategic corridors, the Straits and their natural hinterland, the Balkans and the Khyber Pass, along with Afghanistan in Central Asia.2 Both regions were vital to the defense of British India, as well as to limiting points from which Russia could project a threat to India. They were also essential to the broader projection of British and Russian imperial power across Eurasia.3

British concerns were further intensified during the Eastern Crisis of 1875–1878 and, more significantly, in the aftermath of the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–1878. Russian military gains in the Balkans raised fears that Istanbul itself might fall under Russian control. The Treaty of San Stefano, which expanded Russian influence in the Balkans through the creation of a large Bulgarian state, made these concerns increasingly dire and seemingly imminent in the perception of British authorities and prompted a decisive diplomatic response.

In reaction to Russia’s growing presence, Britain adopted a policy aimed at curbing further Russian advancement in the Balkans and establishing a barrier against its penetration toward the Straits and the Mediterranean Sea. Within this strategic framework, the southern part of the Bulgaria entity created by the Treaty of San Stefano emerged as a pivotal piece on the chessboard of British–Russian rivalry due to its proximity to the Straits and its role as a geopolitical hinterland. Britain moved swiftly to defend its interests by seeking to preserve the territorial integrity of the Ottoman Empire, which it did by imposing the division of the Bulgarian state and the establishment of an autonomous province under Ottoman suzerainty in the region to the south of the Balkan Mountains, subsequently named Eastern Rumelia.

This arrangement was largely orchestrated by the newly appointed foreign secretary, Lord Salisbury, whose objective was to prevent the emergence of any Russian-aligned authority in the immediate vicinity of the Straits. Accordingly, Eastern Rumelia was designed to function as a strategic buffer zone, which would serve British interests by containing Russian expansion in the Balkans and preserving the geopolitical status quo in the Balkans.

In this context, the mission of Sir Henry Drummond Wolff to the European Commission for the organization of Eastern Rumelia played a significant yet underexplored role in shaping British policy in the Near East. His mission in the Balkans represents an important episode in the broader framework of British strategic objectives in the region, particularly as part of its geopolitical rivalry with the Russian Empire. While much of the existing historiography has focused on other aspects of Wolff’s diplomatic career, particularly his assignment in Istanbul in 1885,4 his earlier involvement in the establishment of Eastern Rumelia has received comparatively little attention. This study seeks to address this gap by examining Wolff’s diplomatic activities in the Ottoman province of Eastern Rumelia, with particular focus on the elaboration of the Organic Statute and the establishment of the province’s administrative structure as instruments of British foreign policy objectives. In doing so, the study highlights Eastern Rumelia’s role as a contested space within the British–Russian imperial con­front­ation and contributes to a more nuanced understanding of the geopolitical rivalry that shaped historical developments in the Balkans and the wider Near East.

Eastern Rumelia as a Contested Imperial Space

The establishment of Eastern Rumelia must be understood as a project spearheaded by British Foreign Secretary Lord Salisbury, who assumed office in April 1878. It formed part of a carefully devised political strategy to be implemented at the 1878 Congress of Berlin. In the diplomatic lead up to the Congress, Salisbury outlined Britain’s position in a letter to the British аmbassador to Germany, Lord Odo Russell. He identified four primary concerns stemming from the Treaty of San Stefano and growing Russian presence in the Near East: (1) the ever larger influence of the Slavic state along the Aegean coast; (2) the proximity of this Slavic state to Istanbul, which might place Russia in a position to dominate the Ottoman Empire and, by extension, Asia Minor, Syria, and Mesopotamia; (3) Russia’s territorial gains in Asia; and (4) the potential threat to Britain’s maritime rights, particularly its ability to impose a blockade in the Black Sea. To address these threats, Salisbury proposed specific measures. The first of these was the division of the Slavic state (Bulgaria) into two separate entities, including the creation of a province with a Greek character along the southern border, which would mitigate threats posed by points (1) and (2). The second was to curtail Russian territorial gains in Asia either through the voluntary cession by Russia of territory or through diplomatic agreement concerning the boundaries of the new Slavic state.5

Later in May, during the negotiations preceding the Congress between Lord Salisbury and Count Shuvalov, the Russian Ambassador in London, the establishment of Eastern Rumelia emerged as a key point of contention. The province’s creation was formally sanctioned by the Salisbury–Shuvalov Memorandum, signed on May 30, 1878.6 This agreement represented a major compromise between British and Russian strategic goals, and it strongly influenced the outcome of the Congress of Berlin. With respect to the province to be established to the south of the Balkan Mountains, the Russian authorities conceded to Britain’s view that this province should be granted broad administrative autonomy, comparable to that found in British colonies, with a Christian governor appointed for a term of five to ten years, subjected to the approval of the European powers.7 At the same time, Salisbury strongly insisted on the necessity of the political and military subordination of Eastern Rumelia to the Ottoman Empire, as he considered this an essential precondition to ensure the Empire’s resilience against external invasion and diplomatic coercion.8 Salisbury’s political vision rested on the idea that, although Eastern Rumelia had to be subordinated to the ultimate authority to the sultan, at the same time, the province was to enjoy a degree of autonomy sufficient to conduct its relations with Russia. In this way, the province would play a strong role as a strategic buffer and guardian of the Straits, while also indirectly supporting the stability of the Ottoman Empire’s vast Asian territories.9

Salisbury’s policy thus defined the framework within which Eastern Rumelia was to be organized to fulfil its intended geopolitical function. According to Article XVIII of the Treaty of Berlin, a commission composed of the representatives of the Great Powers was to be established for the purpose of drafting an Organic Statute. This law would define the rights of the governor general and regulate the administrative, judicial, and financial organization of the province, as well as the regulations and functions of the local militia, all within a three-month period.10

To advance Britain’s interests in the region, in July 1878, Lord Salisbury appointed Sir Henry Drummond Wolff as Britain’s delegate to the European Commission for Eastern Rumelia. Wolff quickly became a key figure in shaping and executing British policy in the region. He played a central role not only in strengthening British influence in the Balkans but also in implementing Salisbury’s broader Near Eastern strategy. Following the Congress of Berlin, the struggle to realize Salisbury’s vision shifted from the diplomatic arena to the local political stage within the Province itself. Thus, a new phase began in the British–Russian rivalry in the form of a “chess game” over the administrative organization of Eastern Rumelia. Due to the continued Russian military occupation of the province, which was settled for nine months, Russia maintained a stronger bargaining position.11 This constrained Britain’s ability to implement fully its political objectives and exert control over developments on the ground. And exactly here lay the significance of Wolff’s mission. As a figure on the ground, he was uniquely positioned to observe the political dynamics, assess Russian intentions, gauge the Ottoman reaction, and adjust British policy in real time to achieve its objectives.

As part of his diplomatic mission, Wolff traveled to Vienna and Budapest on his way to Istanbul. He held a meeting in the capitals with Count Nesselrode, Caratheodory Pasha12 (an Ottoman representative at Congress of Berlin), and various Hungarian politicians. These meetings were essential, as they offered Wolff an opportunity to assess the positions of other regional actors on Eastern Rumelia. His conversation with Caratheodory Pasha revealed Ottoman anxieties about the future organization of the province, anxieties which indeed were similar to those of Britain and the rest of the Great Powers. As Wolff reported,

the rights of the province, he [Caratheodory Pasha] thought, should be first established, and then the rest should be left to the sultan. If too much liberty were given to the Slav race the result would be the reproduction of the Treaty of San Stefano: Bulgaria south of the Balkans would be united to Bulgaria north of the Balkans; Eastern Rumelia and Constantinople would be threatened by a hostile State, compassing the Russians; Bulgarians under Russia had at first proposed to which…13

During his visit, Wolff also met with Benjámin Kállay, who was the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s appointed representative on the commission. Their discussions proved highly productive. Kállay proposed that the Serbian con­stitution, with which he was familiar, could serve as a model for the constitution of Eastern Rumelia. This suggestion had a significant influence on Wolff. The collaboration with Kállay and the exposure to the Serbian constitutional framework helped shape his approach to the administrative structure of the province. Reflecting on the challenges ahead, Wolff described the complexity of the task facing the commission:

What is wanted is this. A good government adapted to the people of the province. The essentials of such government are a strong Executive in the hands of the sultan on his representation and representative institutions strong enough to protect the people from misrule and oppression but not to control the executive especially in the point necessary for the maintenance of the sultan authority.14

A crucial early challenge for the commission involved determining the nature of the authority to be established in Eastern Rumelia. Many had assumed that the province would be restored to the status of a regular Ottoman vilayet. However, Wolff strongly opposed this idea. He argued that such a step was both impracticable and politically regressive:

Such a course was evidently impracticable; for, while it was the determination of the Power at Berlin to prevent Rumelia from becoming part of a semi-independent principality like Bulgaria, it was not intended to restore abuses which certainly had previously existed.15

In this matter, Wolff found support in Kállay. At the state level, cooperation between Britain and Austria–Hungary was established early during the Congress of Berlin and proved fruitful. The Balkan policy of the Dual Monarchy largely coincided with that of Britain in seeking to limit Russian expansion in the region. Vienna pursued this objective through a strategy aimed at weakening Russian ties to the Slavic peoples of the Balkans. This was clearly demonstrated by Austria–Hungary’s involvement in the European Commission.16 Before his departure, Kállay was instructed by the foreign minister, Count Gyula Andrássy, to cooperate with Britain and the Ottoman Empire to prevent the Russian authorities from obstructing the implementation of the provisions of the Treaty for Eastern Rumelia.17 When this broader state-level cooperation is considered alongside the personal relationship that developed between Wolff and Kállay, the alignment becomes even clearer. According to Wolff, Kállay expressed a clear willingness to cooperate in shaping the resolutions of the Commission. It is evident that the two statesmen influenced each other’s views regarding the organization of Eastern Rumelia.18 Kállay later recalled that during the Congress of Berlin the British authorities had considered it necessary to grant specific rights to the province to provide safeguards against the reemergence of previous abuses, but he had maintained and openly stated that any substantial divergence between the administrative organization of Eastern Rumelia and that of the other Ottoman provinces would risk fostering separatist tendencies and the eventual unification of the two Bulgarian entities.19 However, during the later work of the Commission, István Diószegi argues that not only Austria–Hungary’s strategic concept but even Kállay’s personal views were consistent with the British position, and he appeared to cooperate with British political aims in Eastern Rumelia. As a result, strategic Anglo-Austrian collaboration emerged. Both parties sought, through careful institutional design, to establish an Eastern Rumelia the liberal constitutional framework of which would serve as a safeguard against union with Bulgaria.20 Kállay essentially adopted Wolff’s attitude toward the future organization of Eastern Rumelia, maintaining that a barrier against Russian influence and unionist propaganda could be created only through a government framework that would establish “truly modern institutions that promote civilization.”21 His position was regarded as “too liberal,” and it was not approved by Andrassy, who felt that “the greater the difference between the conditions in Turkey and Eastern Rumelia, the stronger the incentive for the union of Eastern Rumelia and Bulgaria.”22

Wolff’s political stance regarding the organization of Eastern Rumelia favored the establishment of an institution with a significant degree of autonomy. He felt that a carefully structured system of self-government would act as a barrier against pro-unification agitations, which would emanate from the Principality of Bulgarian and have the support of Russian influence.23 However, on August 27, 1878, Lord Salisbury expressed opposition to this stance, describing it as unwise and particularly susceptible to risk. In a formal instruction sent to Wolff, Salisbury articulated his concerns regarding the delicate balance of power between the legislative and executive branches within the projected constitutional framework of Eastern Rumelia. His warning was particularly rooted in the region’s complex ethnic nature. Salisbury feared that the Bulgarian majority in the province might seek to assert dominance through the legislature, while the executive, remaining loyal to the Ottoman Empire, could become politically isolated. The underlying fear was that excessive political autonomy, particularly in the hands of a nationalist-leaning legislature, could lead to instability and threaten the strategic balance in the region. While Salisbury acknowledged the importance of civil liberties, he advised caution in extending political freedoms, arguing that such measures risked encouraging factionalism, corruption, and a breakdown of order.24 His concerns reflected a broader imperial dilemma about how to grant sufficient autonomy to satisfy local aspirations while maintaining centralized control in multiethnic regions vulnerable to nationalist movements and external interference.

Wolff and the European Commission

The European Commission officially commenced its work in Istanbul with its first formal meeting on September 18, 1878. To assist Sir H. Drummond Wolff in his duties, the Earl of Donoughmore was appointed assistant commissioner.25 The other members of the commission included Le Baron de Ring (the delegate from France), Kállay (the delegate from Austria–Hungary), Colonel Schepelew

and Prince Tzertelew (the delegates from Russia), Assim Pasha and Abro Effendi (the delegates from the Ottoman Empire), and Chevalier Veroni (as a re­present­ative of Italy).26 Short thereafter, the commission relocated to Plovdiv, the capital of the province. The first session there took place on October 21, 1878.27 Although the commission’s work was initially intended to be completed within three months, the complexity of the issues necessitated an extension of its mandate. The Organic Statute was finally drafted and signed on April 26, 1879.

Despite the diplomatic investment in the issue of Eastern Rumelia, Lord Salisbury expressed early skepticism regarding the prospects of the commission’s chance of success. In a letter to Wolff dated September 18, he wrote the following: “The general appearance of the prospect of commission are gloomy. It is a work which, of course, can only succeed, if undertaken by all with a wish to make it succeed.” Salisbury advised Wolff to act on the assumption that opposition would come consistently from two members, those representing Russia and Germany, and therefore to build consensus among the remaining majority. However, this posed a significant procedural challenge, as the commission was structured to operate based on unanimity, requiring all decisions to be approved collectively. For the mission to succeed, Salisbury outlined four principal conditions:

It should be, if possible, combine these—somewhat—characteristics: 1. It should take Austria with you. 2. It should be on something which the Turks value highly, so that after the breach has taken place you may be able to say them, “See what I saved you from.” 3. It should not be sufficiently anti-liberal to enable Gladstone to call you a second Metternich. 4. It should not urge the Greek population against you. That you should conciliate the Bulgars of course we must give up as Utopian.28

It was evident that Salisbury’s strategy relied heavily on Austria to counter­balance Russian influence and, ultimately, push Russia out of Eastern Rumelia, an objective that formed the central purpose of this diplomatic enterprise, as Wolff himself admitted in his memoirs.29 Furthermore, the role of the Greek population as a political instrument against Bulgarian influence was once again acknowledged. The internal political context, particularly the potential reaction of British liberal opinion, was also taken into account in shaping the course of action.

The Russian position became unequivocally clear shortly after the com­mission began its work. On September 21, Earl of Donoghmore reported on his first meeting with the Russian imperial commissioner, Prince Dondukov Korsakov.30 In this encounter, the Russian authorities made it explicitly clear that they would oppose the implementation of the British program for Eastern Rumelia, “whatever it might be.” Prince Dondukov declared his refusal to re­linquish control over the Province’s finances and raised concerns regarding the proposed organization of the militia. He warned that the local militia would not accept the officers nominated by the sultan, as stipulated in Article XV of the Treaty, and he cautioned that any attempt to impose such appointments could lead to violence. Furthermore, Dondukov urged the commission to adopt the existing constitution already introduced by the Russian administration, stating that it could be revised, if necessary, but that all government arrangements should remain in their current form until such revisions had been agreed upon.31

Upon its relocation to Plovdiv, the European commission soon revealed that the situation in the province was quite different from what the British authorities had anticipated. Russian influence in the region remained deeply entrenched, and there was widespread opposition among the Bulgarian population to the implementation of the Berlin Treaty’s provisions, particularly those aimed at the restoration of Ottoman authority in the region. Demonstrations, petitions, and press articles expressed the population’s readiness to defend its freedom and reject any attempt to reassert the sultan’s authority. These expressions of dissent were accompanied and reinforced by military displays, making it clear that the commission’s efforts would be met with organized resistance.32

The task of drafting the Organic Statute was divided among the members of the European commission, with each commissioner assigned responsibilities for specific chapters. The Russian commissioners refused to participate actively in the overall preparation of the statute. They contributed only to the sections concerning provisions for the militia and the gendarmerie.33 Wolff was tasked with preparing the sections concerning “Public Law” and “Provincial Assembly,” arguably the most politically sensitive components of the statute.34 Recognizing the importance of this assignment, Salisbury wrote to Wolff on October 1, emphasizing the importance of distinguishing between civil and political liberties. He maintained that fundamental civil rights such as public order, the safety of life and property, access to fair justice, and protection against excessive taxation were essential components of governance. These, he argued, should not be sacrificed in the name of preserving the Ottoman Empire. However, he cautioned that the real threat to the sultan’s supremacy did not lie in these civil rights, but in the unchecked expansion of political rights. He insisted that the true threat to stability was posed by political liberties such as the freedom to agitate, plot, and use a parliamentary position for treason and thus bring the government to a standstill. In his view, Wolff’s task was to strike a careful balance, granting enough political liberties to safeguard civil rights but not so many so as to empower pro-Russian factions or destabilize the provincial administration. Salisbury also warned against placing excessive faith in the loyalty or gratitude of the local population, remarking pointedly that gratitude “is a chimera, whose habitat is after dinner speech” and that people are only content when they “don’t see their way of anything better by stirring.” As the Bulgarians still had national aspirations, Salisbury concluded that any institutions built on the presumed satisfaction of the local population would likely prove ephemeral.35

The first draft of the Organic Statute was presented in early November by the Austro-Hungarian delegate, the aforementioned Kállay.36 It was accepted “tacitly and expressly” by all the European delegates, and it became a basis for the further work of the commission.37 According to this proposal, if the European commission could successfully implement the program in Eastern Rumelia, it would guarantee the rights and freedoms of the population, establish a modern financial and judicial administration, develop an advanced educational system, and create a strong executive authority alongside a capable civil administration devoted to the province’s prosperity.38 Salisbury welcomed the proposal, stating, “[t]he scheme appears to afford a very clear and comprehensive sketch of the framework of such a constitution as the commission is desired to prepare, and of the principles by which they should be guided in the task.”39

Britain sought to reduce Russian dominance in Eastern Rumelia, and if that objective could not be achieved by the subordination of the province to strong Ottoman authority, it could be perhaps be reached by giving extensive rights of self-government to the Bulgarians, which would also mean a chance for the population to free itself from Russian influence. This was the position that Wolff defends at length in his work, endeavoring to persuade Salisbury. Despite this shift in the British strategy, however, the commission’s work proved difficult. In December, Wolff reported that nearly two months after the commission had begun its work in Plovdiv, no meaningful progress had been made. He attributed the delay to Russia’s persistent unwillingness to cooperate.40

Significant disagreement emerged between the Russian and British delegates during the discussion of the chapter of the Organic Statute on “Public Law,” particularly on the provisions that were crucial to the defense of the future governance of the province. The initial draft prepared by Wolff stipulated that, with the exception of the governor general and the governor general’s secretary, all senior officials, officers, and judges were to be appointed by the sultan.41 Russians delegates strongly objected to this clause, viewing it as a limitation of the province’s administrative autonomy. A compromise was eventually reached. The directors of departments, the judges of the High Court, and the local governments would be appointed by the governor general, but these appointments would be subject to the approval of the sultan. Additionally, the governor general was granted the authority to appoint military officers up to the rank of captain.42

Another contentious issue was the Sultan’s right to approve laws passed by the Provincial Assembly, a provision that effectively placed all legislative authority under the control of the Porte. To address this concern, another compromise was reached. The sultan retained the right to approve the legislation, but if no formal rejection was issued within two months, the law would automatically be considered passed.43 Although this arrangement undermined Ottoman authority, Wolff considered it a necessary measure to prevent legislative deadlock and facilitate the administrative development of the province. He defended his view in front of Salisbury:

It will be seen that by our proposals the sultan’s sanction is necessary for the confirmation of every law and that in this respect the governor general has no power of sanction apart from the sultan. I fear it will be unavoidable in the first instance that the Porte will look unfavorably on the legislation of the province, and it is therefore very desirable that as little opening as possible should be left for any (unreadable word) proceedings, either on one side or the other, caused either by ill will or dilatoriness. It is also desirable that any modifications to a law, desired by the sultan, should be communicated if possible during the session of the assembly, which is not likely to last more than two months.44

Initially, Salisbury rejected the measure proposed by Wolff. He expressed concern over its political implications. “[D]o you propose,” he asked, “to deprive sultan of all veto on legislation? Is not that rather dangerous? Might is not result in event of a weak or corrupt governor in laws being passed which would practically unite Rumelia and Bulgaria.”45 Despite Salisbury’s reservations, Wolff remained acutely aware of the obstacles that could arise from the side of the Porte. Specifically, he recognized the risk that the sultan might reject provincial legislation or delay its approval for extended periods, thereby obstructing the work of the governor general and hindering the development of the province. As a result, Wolff succeeded in persuading Salisbury to accept a compromise that introduced an institutional safeguard as a mechanism by which the government of Eastern Rumelia could continue to function even in the absence of timely imperial approval. Wolff’s anxiety regarding the inefficiency and obstructionism of the sultan’s administration was soon vindicated. During the seven years of the province’s existence, out of twelve laws submitted to the sultan for approval, only three received sanctions. Moreover, of the five annual budgets, not a single one was approved by the sultan.46 The record confirmed Wolff’s fears that excessive dependence on the Porte would paralyze the province’s legislative and financial administration.

The greatest difficulties arose during the discussions concerning the chapter on the “Provincial Assembly,” which was also drafted by Wolff. According to the project, the Provincial Assembly of Eastern Rumelia was to be composed of three distinct categories of members: (1) members by right; (2) elected members; and (3) members appointed by the governor general.47 The category of members by right was to include the religious heads of the recognized communities, the chief justices, and the financial inspector of the province. The appointed members were subject to a property qualification and were to be selected from among the hundred wealthiest factory owners and landholding farmers. As for the elected members, eligibility was limited to individuals who owned real property within the province.48 In this form, the proposal tended to concentrate extensive powers in the hands of the governor general, while considerably restricting the population’s right to participate in the governance of the province. The suffrage provisions imposed various limitations, including property and educational qualifications. Furthermore, many members of the Assembly were to be appointed by right or directly selected by the governor general. Had the assembly been established on this model, it would have functioned as a body entirely dependent on the executive authority, thereby rendering its role as a representative and supervisory organ ineffective. In addition, the participation of the Bulgarian population was significantly curtailed.49

The Russian commissioners strongly opposed the British proposal. The sharp disagreement between British and Russian delegations over this issue threatened to derail the commission’s work, as neither side was initially willing to compromise.50 The discussions lasted 39 days. Ultimately, however, a negotiated settlement was reached. The Russian side accepted that the governor general would retain the right to appoint members to the provincial assembly, but this number was limited to ten.51 This compromise granted the population greater opportunity to participate actively in the governance of the province, giving a relatively liberal character to the regime and creating conditions for political self-development. At the same time, the considerable powers retained by the governor general ensured that the influence of the Ottoman Empire would remain limited in practice, even as formal sovereignty was preserved.

Wolff’s efforts contributed to the drafting of an Organic Statute that diverged significantly from the Law of Vilayets,52 granting Eastern Rumelia a semi-independent status. Initially, Salisbury aimed to reinforce the authority of the Ottoman Empire and explicitly sought to prevent the emergence of any form of provincial autonomy that might resemble independence. Throughout the drafting process, he remained skeptical, and he repeatedly cautioned Wolff against adopting what he perceived as an overly liberal constitutional model. In one such warning, Salisbury wrote, “[f]or the purpose of getting a fair amount of money; in order to quell sedition or conspiracy, in order to keep the Russians out, and to protect such Mohamedans and Greeks as remain, the sultan ought to have powers such as no constitutional or parliamentary action can impede. These postulates granted, be as liberal as you please.”53 Nevertheless, Wolff succeeded in modifying Salisbury’s view regarding Eastern Rumelia to some extent, prompting a shift in British policy, particularly as it became increasingly apparent that certain rights granted to Eastern Rumelia were gradually undermining the sultan’s authority in the region. One notable provision of the Organic Statute was the formal recognition of the “indigenous” identity, which conferred a form of local nationality and granted citizenship within the Province. In Wolff’s view, this provision was valuable not as a safeguard against the Ottoman government but rather as a means of preventing interference by the Principality of Bulgaria in the internal affairs of Eastern Rumelia.54 Additionally, it was established that Bulgarian would serve as the official language of Eastern Rumelia, while Turkish and Greek could be used only in regions where at least one-third of the population spoke one of those languages. These provisions were seen by some British statesmen, most notably Sir Henry Layard, as steps towards the eventual full independence of Eastern Rumelia.55

Wolff also defended his position regarding the administration of the province by emphasizing the economic opportunities that it could offer. According to him, “a certain sort of confidence is growing in the minds of traders and moneyed men in the future prosperity of the province.” He argued that the key to sustaining this economic optimism was the establishment of a stable and just administration, one that would leave no room for intrigue. Such governance, he maintained, would serve as the strongest guarantee for the security of the sultan’s rule. As Wolff firmly argued, “[i]f the Bulgarians of Eastern Rumelia are rendered satisfied and prosperous under the government of the sultan they will remain quiet under this rule. If they are governed as before they will intrigue with Russia, and Europe will still be kept in the state of permanent anxiety.” 56

British Policy and the Balkan “Chessboard”

On January 25, 1879, Wolff submitted a detailed report on the progress of the commission’s work and the prevailing situation in Eastern Rumelia. According to his assessment, after four months of meetings, only four chapters of the Organic Statute had been completed, while ten remained to be drafted. The financial administration of the province had not yet been brought under the authority of the European commission. Wolff expressed his view concerning the most significant obstacles stemming from Russian policy:

I am convinced that they do not want war. But as a matter of pride, they have flourished before the Bulgarians—a flag of defiance to the Berlin Treaty. They have produced an agitation which has assumed dimensions beyond their control and which they now find themselves obliged to follow, at the risk of incurring the hostility of the Panslavist organisation both in Russia and abroad.

Their army is fatigued and anxious to return home, and the generals are worried by the complication of their duties. But knowing the feelings they have fostered if not created, they are determined to be able to say to the Bulgarians: “Europe has prevented us from doing all we wished in your favor; but at all events we have secured you a fairly good government, and safety from Turkish misrule. You may therefore bide your time.”57

The Provisional Russian Administration in Bulgaria represented a significant obstacle to the implementation of British policy in Eastern Rumelia.58 Even after the signing of the Treaty of Berlin, the provisional governments of Bulgaria and Eastern Rumelia were not formally separated. The general administration of the province had remained under the authority of the governor general of Bulgaria rather than having been placed under an independent provincial governor. Administrative acts and directives continued to be issued from Sofia, reinforcing the perception of a unified governance structure. These circumstances fostered among the Bulgarian population the hope and, indeed, the expectation of a future unification with the Principality of Bulgaria.59 The continued overlap in administration not only contravened the spirit of the Treaty of Berlin but also undermined British efforts to preserve Eastern Rumelia’s autonomous status within the Ottoman Empire and to limit Russian influence in the region.

During the work of the European commission, Wolff was compelled to contend not only with persistent Russian opposition on nearly every point but also with the ongoing passivity of the Ottoman representatives. As Sir Henry Layard protested to Caratheodory Pasha, the Ottoman minister of foreign affairs, the Ottoman delegates consistently failed to take an active role in the commission’s deliberations. Layard made the following remark: “in consequence of proper instructions not having been given to the Turkish commissioners, who, unwilling to take upon themselves the responsibility of decision on any question of importance, accept the decisions of their colleagues almost in every case with a ‘reserve.’”60 The failure of the sultan’s government to take active steps to fulfil their obligations and assert effective control in Eastern Rumelia was another factor that shaped Wolff’s considerations and forced changes to the British political course. Even three months before the end of the Russian occupation, the Ottoman government had taken no concrete measures to preserve order in the province. As Wolff observed, the Ottoman officials maintained that the Bulgarians would offer no resistance to the Ottoman troops, while ignoring the reality that, should Russians withdraw without appropriate precautionary arrangements, they would be leaving “the seeds of immediate disorder,” having already armed and trained the Bulgarian population.61 Furthermore, almost all administrative posts were occupied by Bulgarians, an arrangement facilitated by the Russian delegate Tzeretelew.62 Wolff was firmly convinced of the influence of pan-Slav agitation, which, in his view, could prompt Russian authorities to intervene in Eastern Rumelia under the pretext of defending the local population. On this issue, Wolff’s concerns were shared by Lord Salisbury, who feared that pan-Slav movements could entangle Britain in a broader conflict, reflecting a growing sense of unease within British political circles.63 However, the two statesmen were divided on the appropriate measures to prevent such a development.

Another contentious issue of significant importance was the establishment of the rights and status of the various nationalities within the province, to be arranged in an appropriately balanced proportion to diminish the threat of a future union with the Principality of Bulgaria. One particularly sensitive matter concerned the authority responsible for appointing bishops in Eastern Rumelia. The Russian delegates argued that the ecclesiastical appointments should fall under the jurisdiction of the local government. However, this proposal met with strong opposition from Salisbury, as conveyed in the instructions sent to Wolff. The rationale was clearly stated: “The policy of England is to sustain the Greeks against the Slavs: and we could not support any proposal in an opposite sense.”64 Salisbury’s concerns stemmed from his belief that, if the provincial authorities were granted independent control over clerical appointments, free from Ottoman oversight, this could lead to the dominance of the Bulgarian Exarchate at the expense of the Greek Patriarchate. In the event of a schism between the two ecclesiastical institutions, the Bulgarian population might come to dominate over the Greek community within the Province. Such an outcome could result in Eastern Rumelia acquiring an exclusively Bulgarian character, thereby en­hanc­ing Russian influence and undermining the province’s status within the Ottoman Empire. The issue remained unresolved and was deferred until the concluding sessions of the European commission. Additionally, alongside the provision for the recognition of three official languages (Bulgarian, Turkish, and Greek), these measures were designed not only to reflect the multiethnic character of the province but also to limit the political and cultural dominance of the Slav (Bulgarian) population and to facilitate the creation of a real barrier against Slavism, which was Lord Salisbury’s most fundamental goal.65 Despite Salisbury’s strong support for the Greek population, Wolff acknowledged that it was unrealistic to grant them widespread official privileges, given their relatively small numbers and concentration in only a few larger towns. As he explained, this posed a significant obstacle for the commission in justifying the extension of broader rights to them. Nevertheless, he made credible efforts and succeeded in securing “what was feasible for the Greeks.”66

In this context, the liberal organization of Eastern Rumelia was not merely an expression of ideological commitment to representative governance. Rather, it functioned as a calculated instrument of geopolitical containment. From the outset, Salisbury pursued the establishment of a multiethnic provincial model in Eastern Rumelia as a strategic response to the Ottoman Empire’s diminishing capacity to assert effective authority over its European territories. By the implementation of a multiethnic administrative framework, he sought to preserve Ottoman suzerainty, creating a buffer against further Russian penetration into and advancement towards the Straits. However, the unchecked predominance of the Bulgarian population, combined with the ongoing migration of the Muslim population, threatened to transform Eastern Rumelia into a political entity with a distinctly Bulgarian character, situated in threatening proximity to Istanbul. This kind of demographic and political shift posed two major threats from the British perspective: the unification of Eastern Rumelia with the Principality of Bulgaria and the extension of Russian influence into the Balkans. While the British authorities accepted the introduction of a liberal constitutional framework in the province, their underlying objective was to use that system as an instrument for the political and cultural reinforcement of the Muslim and Greek populations.67

Although Britain’s foreign policy projected firmness, it was nonetheless subject to periodic adjustments in response to shifting geopolitical realities. The Greeks were generally viewed by British policymakers as a useful counterbalance to the growing momentum of pan-Slavism across the Balkans. However, Wolff felt that a more nuanced approach towards the Bulgarians was necessary, particularly concerning their churches in Eastern Rumelia and in other Ottoman-controlled territories inhabited by Bulgarians. The Greek Patriarch sought to diminish the influence of the Bulgarian Exarch by demanding that the Exarch be confined to the Principality of Bulgaria and that Bulgarian churches in Macedonia, Thrace, and other Ottoman provinces be dissolved or placed under the jurisdiction of the Patriarch. Such a move, however, would effectively revoke the religious liberties already granted to the Bulgarian church community, and in Wolff’s view, it would inevitably push the Bulgarian population to seek protection and support from Russia. Wolff argued that it would be more advantageous for the Ottoman Empire to adopt a more conciliatory stance toward the Exarchate:

The Bulgarians from Turkey should look to Constantinople for their ecclesiastical authority, and the Exarch should govern his churches under a supervision which can only be exercised by the Capital. It is impossible to do away with his authority by artificial means, or permanently to subject the Bulgarian majority to the Greek minority by some quibble of ecclesiastical law which pretends to do away with the existing schism. Excommunication has terrors only so long as it is not pronounced.68

Wolff’s position reflects a pragmatic understanding of the religious and national dynamics in the region. Rather than attempting to suppress the Bulgarian church through coercive means (a scheme which probably would have backfired and led to an increase in Russian influence), he advocated a model of ecclesiastical oversight centered in Istanbul, thereby preserving Ottoman authority while accommodating Bulgarian religious identity.

Had this proposal been accepted, it would have preserved a degree of authority for the sultan over the Bulgarian population and would have given no further justification for or momentum to pan-Slav propaganda concerning the Bulgarian question. From Wolff’s perspective, the most effective way to counter the influence of pan-Slavism among the Bulgarians was not through repressive measures, but rather by strategically dividing the movement into separate centers of influence and thus undermining its cohesion.69

One of the principal concerns of the British authorities regarding Eastern Rumelia was the preservation of public order and stability in the province following the withdrawal of Russian troops. Britain feared that any outbreak of unrest could provide the Russian authorities with a pretext to extend their military occupation beyond the agreed period.70 In this context, the question of establishing of Ottoman garrisons to secure the military defense of Eastern Rumelia became a matter of primary importance for Salisbury. Article XV of the Treaty of Berlin gave the Ottoman Empire the right to station troops in the province.71 From the outset, this provision was effectively ignored by the Russian authorities. However, Salisbury insisted that “Britain cannot abandon in any degree the right of Turkey to garrison the Balkans.”72 For Britain, the presence of Ottoman military forces in Eastern Rumelia was essential, not only as а guarantee for the sultan’s authority but also as a safeguard against the province’s potential detachment from the empire and its transformation into a dominantly Bulgarian-administered territory. Such a development would have created favorable conditions for unification of the province with the Principality of Bulgaria, an outcome Britain sought to avoid. In the proceedings of the European commission, the issue of Ottoman garrisons was repeatedly raised. Salisbury consistently reaffirmed Britain’s opposition to any modification of the Treaty of Berlin clause permitting an Ottoman military presence.73

Indeed, once the British government became fully acquainted with the conditions in Eastern Rumelia through Wolff’s reports, it recognized the threat posed by the deployment of Ottoman garrisons that might operate independently of the governor general’s control. There was particular concern that such forces could mistreat the local Bulgarian population, especially in the initial phase of transferring administrative authority back to the sultan. The risk was not over­looked. In fact, it was explicitly acknowledged by Salisbury, who stressed the need for preventive measures.74

In response to the growing complexity of the situation, British authorities began to consider alternative strategies. During a meeting between Wolff and the Bulgarian exarch, the latter insisted that the Bulgarian population expected Ottoman garrisons to be prohibited from entering the Balkans.75 Reflecting these concerns, Wolff addressed an observation to Salisbury in which he outlined a potential compromise regarding the Porte’s right to station and fortify troops in the region. Specifically, he proposed restricting Ottoman troops to the coastal frontier at Bourgas, while retaining a substantial military force at Adrianople and approximately 5,000 troops in Djuma, Mustapha Pasha (nowadays the region of Svilengrad), and the Rhodope region. Furthermore, Wolff recommended that any garrisons stationed near the frontier should, at least initially, be accompanied by British officers as well as representatives from other signatory powers willing to participate.76 This strategic arrangement was viewed by British officials as a key advantage. It allowed the Ottoman government to retain control over the maritime entry point in Eastern Rumelia while concentrating its forces in a central location from which it could rapidly respond to threats and, if necessary, reassert control over the Balkan interior. Additionally, this disposition provided the Ottoman Empire with leverage in negotiating the construction of a strategic railway route along the Balkan mountain range, further strengthening its logistical and military position in the province.

The negotiations failed to produce a satisfactory resolution, and by April, just one month before the expiration of the Russian occupation, an impasse had been reached on the question of the entry of Ottoman garrisons into Eastern Rumelia. The Russian authorities strenuously opposed the deployment of Ottoman military forces in Eastern Rumelia, as Wolff reported his observations:

The chief aim which the Russians have had in view when exiting and arming the Bulgarians and recently proposing the mixed occupation, has been to postpone and ultimately prevent altogether the execution of that clause of the Berlin Treaty which provides that the Balkans shall be garrisoned by Ottoman troops without the necessity of undertaking a new war for the purpose.77

As a result, Salisbury was forced to yield on this issue. The Ottoman Empire was permanently denied the opportunity to reestablish a standing military presence in Eastern Rumelia, and this outcome effectively undermined Salisbury’s project for the establishment of Eastern Rumelia as a military bulwark for the defense of Istanbul. Nevertheless, Article XVI of the Treaty of Berlin, which granted the governor general the right to summon Ottoman troops in the event of internal or external threat, remained a valuable strategic instrument with which to maintain British influence in the region. By vesting this authority in the governor general, British policymakers secured an indirect mechanism of control over the internal security of the province. The mere power potentially to invoke this right served as a strong deterrent against rebellion and a tool with which to enforce political discipline. This strategic leverage was exercised from the earliest moments of Eastern Rumelia’s autonomous days. The British consul recounted having offered a warning, for instance, to a delegation of Bulgarian notables: “although the Turks might not be in occupation of the Balkans, yet their troops could certainly be brought into the province at the slightest symptom of disorder or rebellion. I impressed them with the necessity of respecting the law.”78 In this way, Britain managed to preserve a key element of leverage in Eastern Rumelia, even if the prospect of direct Ottoman military control had been foreclosed.

The outcome of the European commission’s work was critically assessed by Count Andrassy, who made the following remarks:

The European commission proceeded in a contrary direction, and the Organic Statute now about to be put in force leaves scarcely a vestige of direct authority to the sultan, who, except as regards one or two superior officers of militia, can neither appoint nor dismiss a civil or military functionary in the province, and the whole executive authority is permanently delegated to an irremovable governor general, who necessarily has to be selected less for any supposed aptitude for the post than with a view to secure the requisite unanimous sanction of the Powers.79

In practice, the modifications introduced, primarily under the British influence, significantly deviated from the initial objective of reinforcing Ottoman sovereignty, as originally outlined in the Treaty of Berlin. Instead, they contributed to the broader strategic aim of British policy to limit Russia’s influence in the Balkans, while simultaneously offering the Bulgarian population an opportunity to pursue a distinct path of political administrative development within the framework of formal suzerainty.

Although the British authorities introduced several significant modifications to the administrative framework, their fundamental policy objectives, formulated during the Eastern Crisis, remained unchanged. Chief among them was the determination to prevent Russia from gaining access to the Mediterranean.80 Throughout the drafting of the Organic Statute and the creation of the province’s governing system, Salisbury’s policy was constantly shaped by the fear that the Tsarist authorities were laying the groundwork for annexation. There was persistent concern in London that, following the withdrawal of Russian troops, Britain might be confronted with a fait accompli, wherein Russia would proclaim control over Eastern Rumelia, rendering diplomatic resistance both difficult and potentially futile. 81

In the initial phase of the diplomatic project, amid frequent clashes between the Russian and British delegates, Wolff made the following observation: “We could not expect the Russian authorities and functionaries to obey us, nor could we entirely supersede them before having formed a system to take their

place.”82 This statement encapsulated Wolff’s central objective with regards to his mission in Eastern Rumelia to establish an Organic Statute and administrative framework capable of replacing the existing Russian provisional administration. Reflecting further on his mission, Wolff made the remark: “My anxiety has always been to maintain the Treaty, but to see how far its existing provisions could be carried out without provoking the insurrection prepared by the Russians.”83

Conclusion

The Bulgarian historian Milko Palangurski argues that Eastern Rumelia occupied an inherently ambiguous position, lacking both the degree of autonomy and self-governance enjoyed by the Principality of Bulgaria and the formal status of a traditional Ottoman vilayet. Situated between two spheres of influence, it was only natural for the province to gravitate either toward Sofia, aligning with the movement to unify with the Principality of Bulgarian, or toward Istanbul, reaffirming its ties with the Ottoman Empire. 84

Ultimately, Eastern Rumelia chose the path of unification with the Principality of Bulgaria, an outcome that Lord Salisbury had explicitly sought to prevent through the commission’s work and the establishment of the administrative structure and governmental authorities of the autonomous province. However, the proclamation of unification on September 6, 1885 did not represent a sudden failure or collapse of British policy. Rather, it constituted the culmination and paradoxical fulfilment of Britain’s longer-term strategic vision for the province. Salisbury’s primary objective had been the gradual dismantling of Russian influence in the Balkans. Ironically, this objective was realized through the very act of Union that violated the legal framework of the Treaty of Berlin and contradicted Salisbury’s publicly stated views. The unification effectively terminated Russian leverage in Bulgaria by precipitating a rupture in diplomatic relations between the Russian Empire and its satellite in 1886.

Therefore, Sir Henry Drummond Wolff’s mission to Eastern Rumelia must be recognized as a lasting diplomatic success. The commission’s final product, the Organic Statute, embodied a delicate balancing act. It granted sufficient local autonomy to satisfy internal demands while preserving mechanisms of external oversight, embedded safeguards for Ottoman sovereignty, and subtly reinforced British leverage within the province. Viewed in this light, Eastern Rumelia was not merely an administrative experiment, but a strategically engineered geopolitical construction designed as a buffer zone to resist further Russian encroachment and postpone Bulgarian unification until it served British interests.

Wolff’s mission thus illustrates how Britain adapted liberal constitutional principles to serve imperial goals. Eastern Rumelia stands as a compelling example of how nineteenth-century Great Power’s diplomacy translated legal frameworks into instruments of strategic control, blurring the lines between governance and geopolitics.

Archival Sources

The National Archives, London (TNA)

Foreign Office (FO)

The National Archives, Hatfield House Library and Archives

NRA 9226 Gascoyne-Cecil

Централен Държавен Aрхив [Bulgarian State Archives], Sofia (CDA)

Bibliography

Primary sources

Great Britain, Foreign Office. Correspondence respecting the proceedings of the European Commission for the Organization of Eastern Rumelia: Presented to Both Houses of Parliament by Command of Her Majesty. London: Harrison and sons, 1879.

Secondary literature

Akpınar, Mahmut. “Bir Tanzimat Bürokratı ve Diplomatı Olarak Aleksandır Karatodori Paşa” [Aleksandır Karatodori Pasha: A bureaucrat and diplomat of the Tanzimat era]. PhD diss., Selçuk Üniversitesi, Konya, 2010.

Davison, Roderic H. Reform in the Ottoman Empire, 1856–1876. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963.

Diószegi, István. Ausztria–Magyarország és Bulgária a San Stefanó-i béke után (1878–1879) [Austria–Hungary and Bulgaria after the Treaty of San Stefano, 1878–1879]. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1961.

Efe, Peri. “Bir Osmanlı Bürokratı: Aleksandır Karatodori Paşa: Millet-i Rum’dan Bir Münevver Aleksandros Karatheodoris” [An Ottoman bureaucrat: Aleksandır Kara­todori Pasha: A scholar from the Greek community: Aleksandros Kara­theodoris]. Toplumsal Tarih, no. 193 (2010): 83–93.

Geyer, Dietrich. Russian Imperialism: The Interaction of Domestic and Foreign Policy, 1860–1914. Leamington Spa: Berg, 1987.

Hauner, Milan. “The Last Great Game.” Middle East Journal 38, no. 1 (Winter 1984): 72–84.

Hornik, M. P. “The Mission of Sir Henry Drummond Wolff to Constantinople, 1885–1887.” The English Historical Review 55, no. 220 (1940): 598–623.

LeDonne, John P. The Russian Empire and the World, 1700–1917: The Geopolitics of Expansion and Containment. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997.

Owen, Roger. “Surviving the Drummond Wolff Mission and the ‘Race against Bankruptcy,’ 1885–1887.” In Lord Cromer: Victorian Imperialist, Edwardian Proconsul, edited by Roger Owen, 215–35. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004.

Weeks Jr., Richard G. “Peter Shuvalov and the Congress of Berlin: A Reinterpretation.” The Journal of Modern History 51, no. 1 (1979): D1056–D1070.

Yapp, Malcolm. “The Legend of the Great Game.” Proceedings of the British Academy 111 (2001): 178–98.

Wasti, Syed Tanvir. “Three Ottoman Pashas at the Congress of Berlin, 1878.” Middle Eastern Studies 52, no. 6 (2016): 938–51.

Wolff, Sir Henry Drummond. Rambling Recollections. Vol. 2. London: Macmillan and Co., 1908.

Дюрастел, А. Международен алманах за България 1898 г. [International Almanac for Bulgaria]. София: Придворна печ Братя Прошекови, 1897.

Икономов, Тодор, ред. Протоколите на Берлинский конгрес [Protocols of the proceedings of the Berlin Congress]. София: Книгопечатница Янко С. Ковачев, 1885.

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Козименко, Иван В. Сборник договоров России с другими государствами, 1856–1917 [Collection of treaties of Russia with other states, 1856–1917]. Москва: Госполитиздат, 1952.

Маджаров, Михаил. Източна Румелия [Eastern Rumelia]. София: Печатница С. М. Стайков, 1925.

Манолова, Мария. Русия и конституционното устройство на Източна Румелия [Russia and the constitutional structure of Eastern Rumelia]. София: БАН, 1976.

Манолова, Мария. Нормотворческа дейност на временното руско управление в България (1877–1879) [The normative activity of the Provisional Russian Government in Bulgaria]. София: Sofia: Сиела, 2003.

Муратов, Александар. Документи за дейността на русите по уредбата на гражданското управление в България, 1877–1879 [Documents on the activities of the Russians in the organization of civil administration in Bulgaria, 1877–1879]. София: Министерство на народното просвещение, Държавна печатница, 1905.

Палангурски, Милко. Нова история на България I. Княжеството [New history of Bulgaria I: Principality]. София: Сиела, 2013.

Сергеев, E. Ю. Большая игра, 1856–1907: Мифы и реалии российско-британских отношений в Сентральной и Восточной Азии. Москва: Товаришество научных изданий КМК, 2012.

Стателова, Eлена. Източна Румелива (1879–1885): Иконокика, политика [Eastern Rumelia (1879–1885): Economics, politics]. София: Култура, 1983.

Стоянов, Манио. “Изработване на Органическия устав на Източна Румелия” [Preparation of the Organic Law of Eastern Rumelia]. Исторически преглед 11, no. 2 (1955): 54–87.

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1. 1 Geyer, Russian Imperialism, 86; Сергеев, Большая игра, 18.

2. 2 LeDonne, The Russian Empire, 327.

3. 3 Hauner, “The Last Great Game,” 74–75; Yapp, “The Legend,” 189–90.

4. 4 Hornik, “The Mission of Sir Henry”; Roger, “Surviving the Drummond Wolff.”

5. 5 NRA 9226 Gascoyne-Cecil A27, Marquis of Salisbury to Lord Odo Russel, April 19, no. 2, 3–8.

6. 6 Weeks, “Peter Shuvalov,” D1056; Козименко, Сборник договор России, 176–79.

7. 7 TNA, F.O. 93/81/47, Memorandum communicated to the Marquis of Salisbury by Count Schouvaloff, May 23, 1878, 41–42.

8. 8 NRA 9226 Gascoyne-Cecil, A 20, Marquis of Salisbury to the Queen, May 6, 1878, no. 22, 66–68.

9. 9 NRA 9226 Gascoyne-Cecil A31, Marquis of Salisbury to Lord August Loftus, May 7 1878, no. 4, 9–10.

10. 10 Стателова, Източна Румелия, 13.

11. 11 Икономов, Протоколите на Берлинскии конгрес, 54–55.

12. 12 For more information: Efe, “Bir Osmanlı Bükratı,” 83–93; Akpınar, “Bir Tanzimat Burokratı”; Syed Wasti, “Three Ottoman Pashas,” 938–51.

13. 13 TNA, F.O. 901/1, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Vienna, August 24, 1878.

14. 14 TNA, F.O. 901/1, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Pesth, September 1, 1878.

15. 15 Wolff, Rambling Recollections, 201.

16. 16 Diószegi, Ausztria-Magyarország, 40.

17. 17 Каменов, Граф Андраши, 148.

18. 18 TNA, F.O. 901/1, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Pesth, August 31, 1878.

19. 19 Diószegi, Ausztria-Magyarország, 52.

20. 20 Ibid., 49.

21. 21 Ibid., 52.

22. 22 Ibid., 62.

23. 23 Correspondence respecting the proceedings of the European Commission for the Organization of Eastern Rumelia, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Vienna, August 24, 1878. Turkey No. 9 (1879), 8–9.

24. 24 NRA 9226 Gascoyne-Cecil A34, Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, August 27, 1878, 1–4, no. 1.

25. 25 Correspondence respecting the proceedings of the European Commission for the Organization of Eastern Rumelia, from Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, Foreign Office, August 10, 1878. Turkey No. 9 (1879), 2.

26. 26 Wolff, Rambling Collection, 198–200.

27. 27 Стоянов, “Изработване на Органическия устав,” 66.

28. 28 NRA 9226 Gascoyne-Cecil A34, Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, September 18, 1878, no. 2, 5–7.

29. 29 Wolff, Rambling collection, 197.

30. 30 A Provisional Russian Administration with civil functions was established in the territories occupied by the Russian army during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–1878. Following the Treaty of San Stefano, Prince Dondukov was appointed imperial commissioner of Bulgaria. See Манолова, Нормотворческа дейност, 31–39; Муратов, Документи за дейността.

31. 31 TNA, F.O. 901/ 9, from the Marquis of Salisbury to Lord A. Loftus, Foreign Office, October 15, 1878, no. 533.

32. 32 Манолова, Русия и конституционното, 68–75.

33. 33 Correspondence respecting the proceedings of the European Commission for the Organization of Eastern Rumelia, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, November 7, 1878. Turkey No. 9 (1879), 118–19.

34. 34 Стателова, Източна Румелива, 24.

35. 35 NRA 9226 Gascoyne-Cecil A34, from the Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, October 1, 1878, 9–12, no. 3. “I would not rely too much on the contentment or gratitude of the people. The second is a chimera, whose habitat is an after dinner speech. The first only keeps a people quiet, when they don’t see their way of anything better by stirring.”

36. 36 Correspondence respecting the proceedings of the European Commission for the Organization of Eastern Rumelia, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, November 3, 1878. Turkey No. 9 (1979), 111.

37. 37 TNA, F.O. 78/3034, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, January 3, 1879. 131–34.

38. 38 Манолова, Русия и конституционното, 83.

39. 39 TNA, F.O. 901/9, Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, Foreign Office, November 21, 1878, no. 114.

40. 40 TNA, F.O. 881/3910, Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, December 25, 1878, 105–6.

41. 41 Манолова, Русия и конституционното, 87.

42. 42 Стателова, Източна Румелива, 26.

43. 43 Ibid., 26–27, Манолова, Русия и конституционното, 92–108.

44. 44 TNA, F.O. 78/3034, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, January 2, 1879, 25–27.

45. 45 TNA, F.O. 901/9, from Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, Foreign Office, December 16, 1878, no. 160.

46. 46 Маджаров, Източна Румелия, 50; Стоянов, “Изработване на Органическия устав,” 229.

47. 47 TNA, F.O.78/3035 from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, February 9, 1879, 145–47.

48. 48 Стоянов, “Изработване на Органическия устав,” 75.

49. 49 Манолова, Русия и конституционното, 171–74; Стателова, Източна Румелия, 30–31.

50. 50 TNA, F.O. 78/3035 from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, February 9, 1879, 145–47.

51. 51 Стоянов, “Изработване на Органическия устав,” 78–79.

52. 52 A new Vilayet Law was issued in 1867. This law was based on the French administrative system for provinces and was first implemented in 1864 in the Danubian Province. The Vilayet reform aimed to centralize the provincial government and strengthen the connection between the center and the periphery of the empire. A new administrative division of Ottoman territories was established, and the number of provinces was reduced. Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, 136–71

53. 53 NRA 9226 Gascoyne-Cecil A34, Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, November 21 1878, 41–43, no. 14.

54. 54 TNA, F.O. 78/3035, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, February 12, 1879, 149–51.

55. 55 TNA, F.O. 881/3910, from Sir A.H. Layard to the Marquis of Salisbury, Constantinople, January 6, 1879, 267–70.

56. 56 TNA, F.O. 78/3034, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, January 9, 1879, 131–34.

57. 57 TNA, F.O. 78/3034, form Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, January 25, 1879, 351–53.

58. 58 TNA, F.O. 78/3035, form Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, February 8, 1879, 57–73.

59. 59 TNA, F.O. 78/3034, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, January 30, 1879, 374–75.

60. 60 TNA, F.O. 195/1220, from Sir A. H. Layard to the Marquis of Salisbury, Constantinople, December 28, 1878.

61. 61 TNA, F.O. 78/3034, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, January 25, 1879, 351–53.

62. 62 TNA, F.O. 881/3910, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, December 31, 1878, 203.

63. 63 TNA, F.O. 901/11, from Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, Foreign Office, February 6, 1879.

64. 64 TNA, F.O. 901/11, from Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, Foreign Office, February 25, 1879; TNA, F.O.78/3033, from Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, Foreign Office, February 25, 1879, 164–69.

65. 65 Correspondence respecting the proceedings of the European Commission for the Organization of Eastern Rumelia, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, Desember 2, 1878. Turkey No. 9 (1979), 241–42.

66. 66 TNA, F.O. 78/3035, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, December 16, 1878, 149–51.

67. 67 Манолова, Русия и конституционното, 39–40.

68. 68 TNA, F.O. 78/3039, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Constantinople, May 19, 1879, no. 221, 57–62.

69. 69 TNA, F.O. 78/3039, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Constantinople, May 19, 1879, no. 221, 57–62.

70. 70 TNA, F.O. 195/1215, from Sir Henry Elliot to the Marquis of Salisbury, Vienna, January 3, 1879.

71. 71 Дюрастел, Международен алманах, 25–47.

72. 72 TNA, F.O.195/1215, from Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, Foreign Office, January 31, 1879.

73. 73 TNA, F.O. 901/9, from Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, Foreign Office, December 16, 1878, no. 160.

74. 74 TNA, F.O. 901/9, from Marquis of Salisbury to Sir H. Drummond Wolff, Foreign Office, December 14, 1878, no. 161.

75. 75 TNA, F.O.195/1215, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, January 29, 1879.

76. 76 TNA, F.O. 78/3036, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, Philippopolis, March 9, 1879, no. 106, 140–43.

77. 77 TNA, F.O. 78/3037, Memorandum from Sir H. Drummond Wolff, April 11, 1879, no. 163, 284–85.

78. 78 CDA, KMF 04, inv. no. 106/1, l. 43–54.

79. 79 TNA, F.O. 195/1220, from Sir H. Elliot to the Marquis of Salisbury, Vienna, June 18, 1879.

80. 80 TNA, F.O. 78/3041, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis Salisbury, Philippopolis, Feb­ruary 14, 1879, 107–9.

81. 81 TNA, F.O. 78/ 3041, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis Salisbury, Constantinople, April 4, 1879, no. 132, 283–84.

82. 82 Correspondence respecting the proceedings of the European Commission for the Organization of Eastern Rumelia, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to Marquise of Salisbury, Therapia, October 8, 1878. Turkey No. 9 (1979), 43–44.

83. 83 TNA, F.O. 78/3041, from Sir H. Drummond Wolff to the Marquis of Salisbury, March 12, 1879, Philippopolis, 205–26.

84. 84 Палангурски, Нова история на България I, 98.

* This research was supported by the European Union – NextGenerationEU through the National Recovery and Resilience Plan of the Republic of Bulgaria under the project Geopolitics in Pixels: Digital Visualisation of the Eastern Crisis (1875–1878) (Programme Contract No. BG-RRP-2.024-0001-C01/19.01.2026).

Scholars as Agents: The Influence of Hungarian Explorers, Felix Kanitz, 
Adolf Strausz, and Lajos Thallóczy on Austria–Hungary’s Policy
Towards the Balkan Peninsula (1870–1904)*

Gábor Demeter

ELTE Research Centre for the Humanities

This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 2 (2026): 348-388 DOI 10.38145/2026.2.348

Drawing on unpublished Austrian (Haus- Hof- und Staatsarchiv) and Hungarian archival sources and also a comparative analysis of the diaries and published scholarly works of travelers, this paper examines how Austro-Hungarian scholars exploring the Balkans contributed to diplomatic intelligence activities between the 1870s and 1900s.

Fundamentally, it considers the extent to which the scholars were able to influence diplomatic actions and foreign policy of the Dual Monarchy. Focusing, as case studies, on Felix Kanitz, Adolf Strausz, and Lajos Thallóczy, it places special emphasis on the ways in which national and imperial directives provoked rivalries (or cooperation) between the two major political entities of Austria–Hungary. Additionally, the paper examines whether these scholars acted as intermediaries for Balkan countries while serving their home government.

Keywords: scholars, agents, travels, Austria–Hungary, Balkan Peninsula, economic penetration, intelligence services

Scholars, Travelers, and Agents

Drawing on unpublished Austrian (Haus- Hof- und Staatsarchiv) and Hungarian archival sources and also a comparative analysis of passages from diaries and published scholarly works of travelers, this paper examines how Austro-Hungarian scholars exploring the Balkans contributed to diplomatic intelligence activities between the 1870s and 1900s. It considers the extent to which these figures were able to influence diplomacy, tactics, and even the geopolitical strategies of the Dual Monarchy. Focusing, as case studies, on Felix Kanitz, Adolf Strausz, and Lajos Thallóczy, the paper places special emphasis on the ways in which national and imperial directives provoked rivalries (or cooperation) between the two major political entities of Austria–Hungary. The article also assesses the extent to which these scholars promoted the interests of Balkan states, while reporting to their mother country.

The exploration of the Balkans in the nineteenth century was neither inexpensive nor without risk, so travelers often needed patronage to provide protection, local contacts, or financial resources. While wealthy aristocrats, such as Count István Széchenyi, had no difficulty (self-)financing his 1820 trip to the east, less prestigious or “freelance” explorers, traveling at their own initiative, faced more daunting challenges. A prospective adventurer who did not have substantial scientific or personal resources often had to rely on (state) support, which was rarely granted without conditions. From the perspective of state interests, traveler-explorers had certain advantages over other agents working in the service of the state. They were more mobile than consuls, who were tied to specific towns or cities, or local agents. They were especially valuable, furthermore, if they were able to supplement the information they provided (which could always be gleaned from local informants) with sketches, itineraries, or even maps. Even simple descriptions of a route could serve intelligence purposes, as they offered details concerning bridges, river crossings, and mountain passes, as well as the customs of the local populations and their attitudes towards foreign influence. Unlike railway engineers, who were real professionals in mapping, scholars were not strictly bound to predetermined routes.

Of course, one has to draw a distinction between individuals who traveled to the Balkans in the service of the state and used science only as pretext and travelers who actually had a scientific commitment. There were even journeys undertaken at personal initiative that nevertheless served state interests, such as István Széchenyi’s expedition along the Danube in the 1830s, which aimed to promote trade through the proposed regulation of the Lower Danube in Serbian and Ottoman territories. Széchenyi was accompanied during the trip by an engineer named Beszédes (who later took part in the regulation of the Tisza River) and a younger fellow aristocrat, Waldstein. Both Széchenyi and Waldstein, future vice-president of the Institute for Historical Studies, Bulgarian Academy of Science), kept diaries during the trip, and it is particularly interesting to compare their views on the same event or landscape, or the behaviors and customs of the locals. Széchenyi, for example, was amazed by the “liberty” recently won by Serbia at the cost of considerable bloodshed, even viewing the Skull Tower, a historical monument near the city of Niš, as powerful memorial for future generations of Serbs to remember the costs of freedom and to appreciate liberty. (His reflections were influenced in part by his own interest in mobilizing Hungarian society toward reform and modernization.) Waldstein, in contrast, adopted a more pragmatic stance and responded with sadness to the violence.1 During this travels, Széchenyi pretended to be a merchant (who wanted to trade in wine and horses—good horses were essential for transportation and for the army) and a future government functionary (he was soon assigned the task of regulating Hungarian rivers by the Viennese Court). He did not receive any financial support from the state during his travels, but his goals (as usual) extended beyond personal interest and aligned closely with broader state priorities. This is one of the key differences between his voyage and the travels of the scholars a generation later, analyzed here.

The second difference is that neither Széchenyi nor those in his circles ever considered him a scholar (despite his numerous treatises on economics). His trip was only partly driven by scientific interest, unless we assign scientific character to economic goals (he did visit and mention historical places, and he saw the Roman inscriptions near Turnu Severin, for instance).

From the methodological point of view, this double travelogue of Waldstein and Széchenyi referring to the same route is especially valuable because the rare parallel descriptions can be used both to confirm the events and to show how subjective the attitude and feelings of the travelers toward their environ was. In this study, the parallel travelogues of Felix Kanitz and Benjámin Kállay on their joint trip around Vidin in 1868 will be exploited to reconstruct the events behind the officially published text of Kanitz’s scholarly work, Donau-Bulgarien. 2

There were many ways in which a scholar could come to be considered an agent by later generations. Austria–Hungary’s list of confidants (paid agents) included such names as Jovan Cvijić.3 A Serbian passport was hardly life insurance for someone traveling in Ottoman Albanian territories. The agents of Austria–Hungary, which was seen as the cult protector of the Catholic Albanians, were regarded with less suspicion by the people of this mountain region, so Cvijić did not hesitate to exploit this possibility. This proved a wise choice under the circumstances into consideration. Cvijić was on a field trip during the opening of a Serbian consulate, apparently not coincidentally. Nevertheless, this does not necessarily mean that Cvijić became a permanent deep agent of Austria–Hungary or that the information he provided was ever useful.

The Czech František Zach, born an Austrian citizen, fled after the failure of the 1848 revolutions. Zach served not only as the head of the Belgrade Military Academy and a fellow traveler of the Austrian consul Johann von Hahn (the father of Albanology, who created an ethnic map of Morava valley which was, however, ultimately useful for the Serbian cause too), but was also a revolutionary agent of Czartoryski and the Hôtel Lambert (a political faction of Polish émigrés in nineteenth-century Paris).4

Sometimes scientific activity was utilized by political circles only decades later, when the significance of previous activities increased. The Viennese chemist engineer-photographer Dr. József Székely (born Hungarian), a com­panion of the aforementioned von Hahn, photographed the Ottoman Balkans’ new military facilities accurately, built in the 1840s, with the consent of the authorities in 1863 (he needed a two-hour exposure time to make the photo­graphs).5 A mere 30 years later, border signs were set along the Montenegrin–Austrian border prohibiting such activities.6 However Székely’s pictures were published only decades later, in 1889, in Spiridon Gopčević’s famous (and not impartial) work, Makedonien und Alt-Serbien, a book advertising Serbian national goals.7 This work is a clear example of the secondary political uses of scientific activities. The question naturally arises how Gopčević could get free access to materials kept in the archives of the Austrian Academy of Sciences if he was working in the service of Serbian interests, as supposed by many. The answer is that his work also promoted Austrian interests: it is not a coincidence that the book was published in 1889, at the five-hundredth anniversary of the battle of Kosovo, when the annex of the secret 1889 treaty between Austria–Hungary and Serbia allowed free propaganda for the latter in Macedonia, as long as no similar activities were undertaken in Bosnia. Gopčević, then serving as a Serbian diplomat in Vienna was supplied with material from Austrian circles.

The Case of Felix Kanitz

Why did the government of Austria–Hungary use travelers as agents, even in the 1870s (setting aside the minor advantages mentioned above)? Although the Austrians acknowledged the interest and primacy of the Hungarian side in Balkan affairs, the Foreign Ministry led by Gyula Andrássy did not have a network of trained agents in the late 1860s, only occasional informers who lived in the host society as locals or immigrants. These people were primarily the (former) 1848–1849 emigrants, who by then had a good network of contacts and who themselves propagated a more active Hungarian policy in the Balkans.8 They were organized as a network before the 1870s, when Andrássy was merely the prime minister of Hungary and not was not responsible for imperial foreign affairs. The influence of these agents, whose activities were organized by Gedeon Ráday (a nineteenth-century Hungarian aristocrat and politician associated with informal political and intelligence networks tied to Hungarian interests in the Balkans), was usually small, however, as they were often settled people with families. One such reliable figure in the Balkans was István Mácsay, a Hungarian doctor practicing in Knjazevac who was mentioned both by Kanitz9 and Kállay (then consul general in Belgrade).10 As a doctor at the military hospital, Mácsay regularly reported, as an “informal” agent, on officers of the Serbian army who had originally come from Austria–Hungary11 (e.g., the Horvatović affair).12

Beyond the settled lifestyles of local agents and agents who had become part of the communities in which they were active, another problem was, as Kállay wrote, that Austria–Hungary’s foreign agents did not always report the facts, but rather what they thought Vienna wanted to hear.13 Compared to Russian agents, whose commitment, enthusiasm,14 and knowledge of the local communities15 was recognized and appreciated by Kállay, “the Austrian agents are not guided by ideals, not by a sense of the Empire’s destiny; for the most part, they are only concerned to lead as quiet a life as possible and to win promotion when the time comes.”16 Kállay himself also noted the need for diplomatic training in 1873 (part of which would be provided by the future Oriental Commercial Academy in the Hungarian part of the Empire, alongside the Imperial and Royal Consular Academy in Vienna), because Austro-Hungarian officials were so ill-informed and lacking in motivation.17 The question of training was also raised in 1885 during an informal meeting of Hungarian government officials, when it turned out that the consuls were so overburdened in their efforts to gain a diverse array of information that they were failing to address their original task: promoting Austria–Hungary’s economic interests and representing the interests of Austro-Hungarian citizens residing in foreign lands.

Other informers and agents of the Hungarian part of the new Dualist state, like György Klapka, a former general in the 1848–1849 Revolution and War of Independence, were more mobile and proved to be good organizers too. At the same time, however, they were recognizable figures, and thus certain tasks could not be assigned to them, as this would have been too suspicious. No matter how freely a diplomat could move18 (Kállay himself traveled around Serbia to gain knowledge of the region), official agents had only limited access to information for a number of reasons. As people who were given special attention and treatment, for instance, they could hardly move around in rural areas without being noticed or monitored. As Kállay noted on one occasion,

At one point when I was alone with Mácsay, he told me in Hungarian, so that no one around us would understand, that the nachalniks [local administrative authorities] had received an order from the ministry to receive me in the most friendly way… Mácsay read the decree and, when I asked him whether the nachalniks were not also allowed to keep an eye on me in a nice way, he replied that they were not, that all they were doing was to show me the special courtesy and hospitality which the ministerial decree had asked for. Thank you very much! I am now in the clutches of the third nachalnik, and I know no way of escape.19

As assigned consul in Serbia, Kállay had to travel to the Ottoman Empire to move more freely,20 but even language problems hindered the transmission of proper information.21

These difficulties and circumstances brought travelers into the picture and made them useful figures later too. The use of a traveler-scholar as an “agent” seemed promising, as the given individual’s mobility and quasi-protected status (as a foreign citizen under the stipulations of the capitulations) gave him access to layers of information. In the case of Kanitz, as a trained lithographer, he was also able to draw maps, which immensely important.22

When Kanitz met Kállay in 1868 in Vidin (in Ottoman territory), the scholar had already visited Bosnia and Montenegro in 1858, made a trip to Serbia in 1860, and ventured to Ottoman Bulgaria in 1862. Kállay had already given him minor scientific tasks in connection with the Slavonia-Bosnia and Adriatic railway project (to trace the possible routes).23 Kállay only knew him as a famous “archaeologist,” and since Kanitz was already familiar with Bulgaria, Kállay approached him and accompanied him on his way to Vidin.24 During the trip, he tested Kanitz’s skills and willingness. According to Kállay, Kanitz was not interested in politics at that time. Kanitz usually remained silent during the conversations between Kállay and the politicians he visited (three pashas and the Russian consul).25

Interestingly, however, a few months later, Kállay mentions in his diary that Kanitz, who, unlike Kállay, traveled beyond Vidin, had given him detailed information about Russian political activity and the likelihood of Bulgarian uprisings.26 Kanitz continued to report to Kállay months later and after his stay in Romania,27 and his scholarly work (Donau-Bulgarien und der Balkan: Historisch-geographisch-ethnographische Reisestudien aus den Jahren 1860–1878)28 also reflects a gradual change in tone after their meeting in Vidin. Thoughts on the political situation became very frequent compared to previous chapters of his work.29 Kanitz showed pro-Bulgarian tendencies in his book, though the Monarchy was not united at the time in its stance towards Bulgaria and Ottoman Turkey. One need merely think of another (Hungarian) explorer, the pro-Turkish Béla Erődi (originally Harrach, a Transylvanian Saxon), who served among railway engineers in the 1860 in the Balkans, learned Turkish, and became an official interpreter in 1876, when the sultan returned the famous manuscripts of the Bibliotheca Corviniana (the Renaissance library of the Hungarian king Matthias Corvinus), which had been stolen in 1541 when Ottoman forces had captured Buda.30 Kanitz, despite or because of his pro-Bulgarian sentiments, propagated Andrássy’s Russophobe views in his scholarly works,31 and his argumentation became a bit controversial during the Russo-Turkish War in 1877–1878. However, this controversy offers another hidden clue that he echoed Kállay’s (and thus Andrássy’s) views. When this trip took place in 1868, Kállay was already in imperial service as consul, and Andrássy was the prime minister of Hungary, but they had close ties and a jointly elaborated action plan for the Balkans.

It was not Kállay, in the end, who decided to use Kanitz as an agent. Rather, Kanitz himself turned later to Kállay for support because of the difficulties of his trip to Bulgaria. As Kállay wrote,

Kanitz confessed that he had not had a very favorable opinion of me before our trip, after what he had heard of me in Vienna, but he is now pleasantly surprised to see how disappointed he is, in the positive sense. I wondered if he had understood all I had said to him. I was speaking of ideas which will probably only concern future generations, but he is an archaeologist of the past, and so, in spite of his intelligence, we are far apart.32

Kállay forwarded Kanitz’s application to József Eötvös (a minister under Andrássy and a former member of the revolutionary Hungarian government in 1848), and after May 20, 1869, as we know from the writings of Imre Ress, Kanitz received a yearly grant of 6,000 forints from a secret discretionary fund of the Hungarian government (this kind of solution was not peculiar to Hungary; it was also common practice in England)33 for the purpose of describing and mapping the Danube Vilaet (an administrative province of the Ottoman Empire).34 This was not a small sum. At that time, the annual salary of Benjámin Kállay, consul in Belgrade, was 7,000 forints.35 Since any official spending always required governmental approval, and since Andrássy himself did not like paperwork, his intelligence officers never made written reports,36 so there is little trace of their actual activities. In the absence of documents, Andrássy could only obtain information by personal consultation. Kanitz thus had the opportunity to meet the Monarchy’s joint foreign minister on several occasions. Kanitz made use of this tighter connection at least once, when he asked the foreign minister to receive the Bulgarian delegates Tsankov and Balabanov from the (non-existing) Bulgarian state during the Great Eastern Crisis.37 This offers clear proof of scholarly influence on politics, as acting foreign ministers (Andrássy was Joint Minister of Foreign Affairs then) usually do not host unofficial envoys of non-existing political entities in their office. Thus, Kanitz was influenced by the instructions he received, but he was also able to exert an influence on politics.

This raises two questions: to what extent were Kanitz’s findings reliable and to what extent were Kanitz’s findings and ideas used in politics? The historian Lajos Thallóczy, who later served as Kállay’s secretary, describes Kanitz as a dilettante but also as a “generally useful geographer.”38 Making maps of a region with science as one’s explanation (or pretext) was far more suspicions, even if one was engaged in archeological research,39 than the work of railway engineers who were doing the same thing. The local district administrator of Pirot (or Şarköy by its name at the time), having learned that Kanitz was “making a topographic survey,” banned him from the area, despite the fact that Kanitz had held a permit given by the sultan since 1864. The administrator, the müdir, even denounced Kanitz to the Pasha of Niš as a spy, and he was not wrong. The topographical maps that Kanitz and his later companions (who were also informers) created and collected were of top quality, despite the difficulties and the controversies in ethnic data. Kanitz’s corrections (he made corrections to the map made by Heinrich Kiepert in several places, deleting extreme altitude values assigned earlier to Cherni Vrh, and he also made revisions to the older, inaccurate map of the Balkans produced by the Austrian geographer and cartographer Franz von Schéda (Schedius), for instance altering a mountain which, according to von Schéda, was 5,000 meters high)40 clearly played an important role in Russian operations during the Great Eastern Crisis. In 1878, the Russian General Totleben complained that they did not have a good map of the region to the south of the Balkan Mountains, because Kanitz had not gone there, while where he had gone, the Russians could rely on maps with a scale of 1:300, 000.41

The maps that Kanitz created for Austria–Hungary were also sold to Russia in 1877 in 1,000 copies for 20,000 rubles, despite the fact that earlier, Count Ignatieff also organized an expedition (the Russian Artamonov-expedition) under a scientific pretext to map the peninsula. The high number of copies bought by the Russians suggests that the Austrian authorities must have been aware of what was going on.42 Kanitz was also decorated by a Russian medal after 1877. (This makes his character even more interesting, since his writings published in more widespread forums on political issues were overtly anti-Russian).

Table 1. Examples concerning the data accuracy in Kanitz’s works (a comparison)

Data used in different publications of Kanitz	Muslim	Bulgarian	Greek	Jew	Total	Muslim house­holds	Tartar houses	Bulgarian houses	Greek houses	Jewish houses
Varna, 1871	8,000	6,100				1,392		1,154		20
Varna, 1872					18,000	1,000		200	1,300
Varna, 1880	4,600	4,000	8,600
Balchik, 1855	3,000	500
Balchik, 1868						200	100	600
Balchik, 1872						800	400	150	50

Kanitz defined a “household” as consisting of at least six individuals in the case of Christian “households,” whereas only four was used for other ethnographic groups. This method was often used in contemporary statistics, but it was not reliable. In contrast, Kanitz’s lithographic images of mountains and his maps were highly accurate.

Table 2. Ethnic changes according to Kanitz between 1870 and 1878

Settlement	Total households	Muslim households	Bulgarian households	Gypsy households
Lovech, 1871	12,000, including 1,200 soldiers *	1,200	800
Lovech, 1879		150	930	300

(With a Christian household defined as consisting of at least six people and a Muslim household as consisting of five)

Thus, in the first case study, Kállay’s diary and Kanitz’s aforementioned book on the Bulgarians living along the banks of the Danube River offer two different angles on the same topic and same route and thus enable us to reconstruct the “unofficial” and “irregular” relations of a scholar-traveler and a diplomat involved in high-politics in 1868.43 This in turn sheds light on the ways in which scientific interests exerted an influence on political affairs. It is important to emphasize that Kanitz’s former travels in the semi-independent and allied Serbia also received financial support from Francis Joseph, but this was official (he was even awarded a medal). What is interesting in his case is, first, that his Bulgarian travels were supported discretely from state funds (the so-called discretionary fund was not supervised by the Parliaments).44 And second, Kállay acted as an imperial official of Austria–Hungary, whereas the financial support (the yearly 6,000 forints) came partially from Hungarian sources and encouraged by Count Gyula Andrássy, who was just the prime minister of Hungary and not an imperial official. The conflict of interest between national and imperial goals is a crucial question in the subsequent parts of this study.

Adolf Strausz and Lajos Thallóczy

In the discussion below, which focuses on the Bulgarian crisis in 1885–1887, I examine two specific examples of intertwining interests and scholars acting as agents, one a Hungarian scholar in imperial service (Lajos Thallóczy), the other (Adolf Strausz) a Hungarian in Hungarian service. They knew each other well and their lives intersected several times, even in this early period. Their parallel undertakings, the backgrounds of which were very different, will be highlighted through a recently found report by Thallóczy from 1887 concerning Serbia and Bulgaria, the unpublished diary of István Burián (the only official source mentioning their stay in Sofia), and the writings of Strausz on economic issues (overshadowed by his popular Balkan travelogues from 1888), as well as some of Strausz’s reports (deposited in Vienna at Presseleitung or Nachlass Coburg), which shed further light on his personal activity.

Explorers and travelers in the nineteenth century often claimed that they were carrying out scientific research, and they tended to publish their works as scientific writings. This does not mean, however, that their work did not have other motivations and aims. Such was the case with the young Hungarian historian and archivist Lajos Thallóczy (born Strommer), who later became one of the most esteemed historians of his era (as an expert on the Albanian people, Bosnia and Dalmatia)45 and who was also active as an imperial high-commissioner, as instructor at the Theresianum who also taught at the Consular Academy, and he also served as the secretary of Benjámin Kállay in Bosnia, as Head of Department in the Joint Ministry of Finances in István Burián’s government in Bosnia, 1903–1912, responsible for education and culture, and then as civil governor of occupied Serbia in 1915–1916. During his 1882 trip to Albania, while writing a history of Levantine trade (a narrative which covertly also propagates Hungarian economic penetration)46 under the name Lemaics, he provoked an Albanian uprising to test the local peoples’ attitudes toward Austria (which was the protector of Catholics in the Ottoman Empire).47 This confronts us with the question of the rivalry between Austria and Hungary and Hungary’s separate Balkan policy and distinct Balkan aspirations. As noted above, Count Andrássy organized the secret service in the Balkans using the émigré 1848–1849 officers, who had field experience there, and he did this as Hungarian prime minister, well before his appointment as joint minister of foreign affairs.48 Thallóczy’s aforementioned journey was also considered by Austrian scholars as an initiative of the Hungarian government (Thallóczy was mentioned in the documents as “Konzipist im Landesarchiv, Budapest”). However, as research in the Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv in Vienna has revealed, Thallóczy reported to Kállay, who had then only recently been appointed governor of Bosnia who was thus an imperial official, and Thallóczy’s trip was financed by Gustav von Kálnoky, joint minister of foreign affairs (see Fig. 1 and 2). One may well ask whom did Kállay represent? Hungary? The Habsburg House? Or Dualist Austria–Hungary? Since the governor of Bosnia was the joint minister of finance, Kállay officially acted in the name of the Dual Monarchy (regardless of his personal pro-Hungarian stance), as did Kálnoky.

Figures 1–2. Documents from the Mission Lemaics proving that Thallóczy acted as an imperial agent and not a Hungarian one.
Source: HHStA MdÄ IB Akten 172-4136 = Mission Lemaics, Stjeva = Mission des Dr. Ludwig Thallóczy,
Konzipist im Landesarchiv in Budapest, Reise nach Albanien, 1882.

Figure 3. Scholarly works by Thallóczy including his work on Levantine trade, which served as a disguise for his secret mission in 1882 and which covertly gave advice in support of Hungarian penetration into the Balkans.

That there was a Hungarian rivalry with Austria is confirmed by the fact that, after the 1881 Balkan-expedition of Hochstetter and Suess, in 1885, during a discussion, Hungarians also articulated the idea of launching an own expedition, and resolved to do the following: (1) send an expedition to the Balkans, (2) collect artifacts, (3) deposit them in a museum for easier access for Hungarian entrepreneurs to copy them and export the copies to the Balkans, (4) copy the existing Austrian institutions and thus increase the infrastructural background of Hungarian penetration into the Peninsula.

These resolutions were recorded by Adolf Strausz, who took part in the discussions before the expedition49 on the pages of Nemzetgazdasági Szemle

(National Economic Review),50 edited by György Endre, an economic theoretician close to Kállay and later minister of agriculture in Hungary. Other participants in the expedition included Berchtold Weisz, banker, a brother of Manfred Weiss (a famous industrial entrepreneur) and Béla Inkey, a geologist who earlier had refused to take part in mapping Bosnia after its occupation in 1878, as he considered it an imperial goal and not a national goal of Hungary (and he participated willingly in the Hungarian expedition). Finally, László Réthy, an ethnographer-archaeologist, was also among the participants. Réthy became a well-known erotic poet under the name Árpád Lőwy. He was a close friend of Thallóczy, and both participated later in the Büzértanya circles.51 Thallóczy himself did not participate in the expedition, but he did participate in the discussions leading up to it, as Strausz noted,52 and thus he had precise knowledge of its goals, which included the establishment of a pavilion for the 1885 exhibition to present artifacts from the Balkans. In fact, both Strausz and Thallóczy were members in the industrial committee chaired by Count Jenő Zichy, who in 1886 became one of the candidates to the Bulgarian throne, then led expeditions to the Caucasus in the 1890s. Both traveled to the Balkans even prior to the 1885 expedition under the aegis of this committee to search for business opportunities.53

Figure 4. Government committee and sources allocated to the Eastern Pavillion.
Strausz, “A keleti pavillon” (The Eastern Pavillion), 737–56.

Figure 5. Strausz’s account of the discussion of the necessity of an expedition to
the Balkans and a Pavilion (1885, in Hungarian).
Strausz, “Keleti Kereskedelmünk és egy Magyar Kereskedelmi Muzeum”
(Our eastern trade and a Hungarian Commercial Museum), 233–67.

Figure 6. Excerpt from official instructions of the Hungarian government concerning
which artifacts to collect during the expedition.
Source: Strausz, “Keleti Kereskedelmünk és egy Magyar Kereskedelmi Muzeum,” 261.

It is evident that the discussion in 1885 was not simply about launching a single expedition. Other topics were also discussed, such as the renewal of the consular system, which focused too much on diplomacy and hardly engaged in any economic activity, according to Strausz. This is not surprising, considering the origins of the latter in the Balkans (as noted above, Andrássy used the 1848–1849 émigrés to establish an intelligence service in the 1860s). Strausz also saw it as problematic that there were no institutions in Hungary to preserve Balkan industrial samples and thus to compete economically with Vienna. The Pavillion in 1885 and the Oriental Commercial Academy (which was founded in 1892), where later Strausz became a professor, were also among the Hungarian institutions that had already existed in Vienna.54

Figure 7. Images of the covers of the scientific works of (and on) Adolf Strausz

Returning from the 1885 expedition, Strausz wrote a scientific (and still popular) book on the Balkans (1888) and some articles.55 His activity, however, went far beyond scholarship, much as in the case of Thallóczy. We know from the documents in the Haus- Hof- und Staatsarchiv that he reported to Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria for years (see the analysis below concerning who would be better minister of foreign affairs, Kállay or Gołuchowski). As a journalist (editor of the periodical Donauländer), he was often serving the Hungarian opposition parties in the 1880s, and he was also involved in business. Disguising himself as an ethnologist who collected folk songs (the Bulgarian secondary literature still considers this as his main merit),56 he managed to provoke a revolt in Macedonia in 1904 (as Thallóczy had done in 1882 in Albania, without money and without permission or authority), thanks to his close connections to Bulgarian chetās (small, organized bands of armed fighters active during the period of Ottoman rule in Bulgaria) and enthusiastic articles pushing the idea of the unification of Macedonia and Bulgaria.57 The main problem with his efforts was that he was going against the official policy of Austria–Hungary at the time, which considered peacekeeping as a key task of the Mürzsteg Agreement (1903). The foreign ministry wrote him a letter instructing him to halt his activity, to which he replied in a sharp tone written in Hungarian on an official paper with yellow-black ribbon, mentioning that he had been traveling across the Balkans as scholar for 30 years, but no one had ever asked him what to do with the peninsula. He did not understand why he was being disturbed by politicians with orders concerning his daily business. He must have been convincing, because from then on, he also reported to Vienna, as the materials in the Presseleitung (state press propaganda) show. In the end, he became a follower of the ideas of Friedrich Nauman, a German political thinker who felt that Germany should create and lead a Central European bloc known as “Mitteleuropa” (see Strausz’s book Grossbulgarien).58 So, was he a scholar, agent or propagandist?

Thallóczy’s journey in 1882 under the pseudonym Lemaics was not his only such undertaking. Though he did not participate in the Hungarian expedition in 1885 exploring the Balkans (partly because he earned his first “imperial” office), only in the discussions that were held before the venture, he visited Bulgaria in 1881, participated in the Zichy-commission’s explorations (in Serbia) in 1884, and then in 1888 he traveled to Serbia and again to Bulgaria.59 In 1889, Thallóczy was again in Serbia as an “observer” at the renewal of the Austro-Hungarian–Serbian agreement of 1881. He reported on the public mood during the commemorations of five-hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Kosovo.60 This is the trip (probably together with his travels in 1882) which most scholars have studied.61 Meanwhile, the creator of the modern Albanian national consciousness, who made the Skanderbeg myth (the national-hero narrative built around Skanderbeg, or Gjergj Kastrioti by his name, an Albanian leader who resisted Ottoman rule in the fifteenth century) part of Albanian national history as author of a schoolbook on Albanian history with Zef Zurani,62 was also observed by other informers in 1889, as the reports in the Informationsbüro reveal.

Thallóczy’s scholarly work (for instance, his books on Ragusa, Dalmatia, and Jajca) served as a pretext for other activities as well or served actual imperial or national political aims. We see in his writings an effort to appease and intertwine imperial and Hungarian national goals. As an ardent opponent of the Uvac–Mitrovica railway, he wanted to rely on a railway along the Adriatic seashore. The stabilization of the situation in Albania and the fostering of an Albanian national narrative were thus of vital importance for him,63 and he was able to convince the decision-makers to divert Austria–Hungary’s attention to Albania.

There are other—up to now, unknown—documents which shed light on his unknown travels. In 1887, as we learn from István Burián (then consul to Sofia and later governor of Bosnia and joint minister of finance, whose unpublished diary between 1886 and 1903 has just been edited under press), Thallóczy appeared in Sofia “as an imperial-royal mood-detector,”64 as he described himself, and he negotiated with the Bulgarian regents Konstantin Stoilov, Sava Mutkurov, and Stefan Stambolov during the interregnum. Burián writes,

Thallóczy was here by his own admission, as an “imperial and royal mood-detector.” Although Prince Coburg has not yet decided to come, he is working hard to secure recognition. He must hurry, for if he does not come quickly, he would do better to remain at home. He informed Stoiloff the day before yesterday that he would give a definite answer in ten days. In the meantime, the mood here, especially in military circles, is turning cold and even partly against him.65

The report in connection with Thallóczy’s sudden visit was mentioned in Burián’s diary with this single passage, and the document was found accidentally in the dossier of the aforementioned Lemaics mission, together with another report on Serbia. Thus a report from 1887 was deposited with other reports from 1882–1883.66 During his trip to Sofia, Thallóczy also gave accounts of the Serbs in Vojvodina and the government crisis in Serbia in 1887, the dismissal of Milutin Garašanin, and the rise of the Jovan Ristić government.67

To understand the goals of Thallóczy’s venture, it is necessary to know at least the outlines of the political background. In 1887, the Bulgarian National Assembly was searching for a new prince after the successful Russian coup d’etat against Alexander Battenberg in 1886. The Hungarian opposition was frustrated by the Russian intervention in 1886. It considered this act a violation of the Berlin Treaty (and it drew a direct comparison with the intervention in 1849, when the Russian army defeated the Hungarian revolutionary forces).

At the same time, the Hungarian government was dissatisfied with the Dreikaiserbund (the so-called League of the Three Emperors, an alliance between the German Empire, Austria–Hungary, and the Russian Empire) and with Gusztáv Kálnoky’s foreign policy. Kálnoky did not support the unification of Bulgaria and Eastern Rumelia, which Bulgaria had taken in 1885, in direct violation of the 1878 Congress of Berlin, so consul István Burián was moved from Moscow to Sofia by Kálnoky to secure peaceful relationships between Austria–Hungary and Russia. But from the outset, Burián, as consul, supported Bulgarian unification (i.e., the unification of Bulgaria and Eastern Rumelia) and the efforts of the Bulgarian regents against Russian interference.

The Hungarian government used the Hungarian opposition’s sentiments to attack Kálnoky’s policy in the press, in the Hungarian parliament, and at the convention of the Joint Delegates in late 1886. The Hungarian government even threatened internal governmental crisis (because of the increasingly intense efforts of the opposition) unless Kálnoky changed his policy and abandoned Russia.

Kálnoky finally accepted the shift in the political tides and even Bulgarian unification, as he realized that Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, Third Marquess of Salisbury (who led British foreign policy in the late 1880s) shared similar views. (Salisbury thought that Bulgaria turning against Russia after the failure of the Russian coup could be used as a tool to stop Russian advance towards the Straits). This led to cooperation with the British and the establishment of the “Mediterranean entente” (1886–1896) to replace the collapsed Dreikaiserbund.

The increasing significance of Bulgaria also meant that the Serbian alliance became less important for Austria–Hungary. Thallóczy’s report on the governmental crisis in Belgrade in 1887 also gives a thorough account why Serbia lost its significance.

This is the broader diplomatic context or background of Thallóczy’s unknown trip in 1887. Adolf Strausz, the other protagonist of our tale, also arrived in Sofia in late 1886, as a journalist. Despite his presence was noted in Burián’s diary with few words only, this visit of Strausz also had longlasting consequences. Immediately after the successful Russian coup d’etat against Battenberg, Consul Burián reported on the “intensifying traffic of Hungarians”: “Count Jenő Zichy, Count Elemér Batthyány, Baron Zsiga Üchtritz, Count Gábor Pejacsevich, arrived here in the evening followed by Strausz, Barabás and Singer, journalists.”68 Count Batthyány and Baron Üchtritz were horse-tradesmen, representing the Hungarian agrarian lobby, looking for military purchases, Count Pejacsevich was a Hungarian–Croatian aristocrat of Bulgarian origin, a possible candidate for the Bulgarian throne. Count Zichy (1837–1906, mentioned already) was a politician, who led several scientific expeditions to Asia later in the 1890s. From 1878, he served as a liberal (government-party) member of the Hungarian National Assembly. He was also interested in the railway constructions in the Balkans (close to Baron Maurice Hirsch’s circles).69 He became one of the “kingmakers of Bulgaria” under scandalous circumstances: Zichy was accused of serving as the financial supporter of Prince Coburg Ferdinand’s election to the Bulgarian throne through his local agent, the grain and horse merchant and railway commissioner, Fülöp Waldapfel.70 In fact, though Zichy’s action began as a private initiative, it actually took place with the knowledge of the highest circles.71

Adolf Strausz was also involved in these events: he was mentioned among the “kingmakers” even decades after the event and the fall of Coburg Ferdinand (1931).72 Strausz was accompanied by Béla Barabás, a politician of the 48-er Independence Party in opposition, also disguised as a journalist. He too became one of Coburg Ferdinand’s supporters. Finally, the third journalist, Singer was a well-known owner of a publishing house.

The media campaign initiated by these “journalists” served as the informa­tional basis for the Hungarian opposition’s attack against Kálnoky’s foreign policy, which, incidentally, was conducted with the Hungarian government’s knowledge and tacit support. It was not solely the Russophobia that increased Hungarian activity in Bulgaria: the economic interests of those arriving in Sofia suggest other reasons too. It is Strausz again, who overtly gives some clues in his 1886 article (after his return from Sofia, again on the pages of Nemzetgazdasági Szemle) in which he offered practical tools (like establishing a permanent ware­house for Hungarian samples) for Hungarian economic penetration into the Balkans. Due to the loss of market share caused by the customs war with Romania, Hungarian economic policy sought to compensate for these losses in Bulgaria by taking advantage of the weakening of Russian influence—indeed, these Hungarian circles were definitely interested in weakening the Russian influence.73 So there were multiple reasons, both political and economic causes behind Strausz’s arrival, who was not only a scholar and agent, but a businessman too.

Beside the anti-Russian and pro-Bulgarian press-campaign against Kálnoky’s policy, it is also worth mentioning a higher sphere of action, the Hungarian deputies’ activity in November 1886, during the debates of the Joint Delegations.74 After his return from Sofia, the aforementioned Count Zichy spoke in the delegations in favor of a political turn, supporting Bulgaria, and the refusal of the Russian candidate to the throne.75 The sessions of the Joint Delegations coincided with the arrival of the official Bulgarian delegation in Vienna seeking a new candidate for the Bulgarian throne.76 According to Grujić, Serbian ambassador to St. Petersburg, later minister of foreign affairs, Cisleithanian circles felt with certain reservation towards the candidature of Coburg Ferdinand, while the “Hungarians were eager to do anything to have Ferdinand elected, except war.”77 In short, Coburg Ferdinand was rather the candidate of Budapest, than of Vienna.

Though Strausz and Thallóczy knew each other from 1881 and they also cooperated in 1885 before the Hungarian expedition to the Balkans (and were working closely even later: as a teacher at the Consular Academy of Vienna, Thallóczy often visited the Hungarian Oriental Commercial Academy to harmonize their efforts regarding the Balkans),78 Thallóczy arrived as an official observer representing Austria–Hungary but embracing the platform of the Hungarian program. Thallóczy appreciated Burián’s efforts in the rapprochement between Austria and Bulgaria, and he recommended an anti-Russian policy to Austria–Hungary in his 1887 report, as Burián did in his official correspondence and as the Hungarians (Strausz) demanded in the press. Thus, Thallóczy (who knew well Burián from 1881, who stationed in Sofia, when Thallóczy’s first journey on the Balkans took place) confirmed the consul’s stance. Below, I offer excerpts from Thallóczy’s report on his visit in Bulgaria in English translation.

Public mood and changes in the public mood in Bulgaria79

In Bulgaria, there is no public opinion in the modern sense… There are only provincial centers, such as Ruse, Varna, Tirnovo, Sofia, Philip­popoli, etc., where an official opinion is formed, which is authoritative for the whole district. People learned to be cautious about speaking under the Turkish regime, and this habit is now backfiring.

At the moment, it seems that the prestigious centers mentioned above are in agreement in their views, as I have seen in Sofia circles and from other official reports.

The Bulgarian people are not so easily impressed. This calm, confident mood can also be observed among the rural population. “Über allen Wipfeln herrscht Ruhe”:80 farmers work, take an interest in politics, listen to what the teacher says, while the word of the priest doesn’t count for much.

The farmers show such calm that if you didn’t read the opposite in the papers, you’d think you were in the most peaceful country.

Only one mood, one feeling has changed completely. Hatred against Russia has grown. You would hardly believe, if you had not seen it with your own eyes, that people are angry with the Russians. There would be a nation in similar circumstances that would desperately fear Russia’s obstinacy, but here, they are hated and not feared. There is much that is true of the people, but they are not desperate.

Russia has lost ground. The oldest generation, which saw Russia as a liberator, even these zealots brought up in Russia, although they support the Russians, do not want to become Russians. The generation now in power is, as events have shown, essentially nationalist, and the generation now growing up is being brought up with a Russophobia that we would not expect from even the most ardent Poles. We are taught that Russia did not liberate us, but that we are victims of its greed. We would have gotten rid of Turkey in the long run without sacrifice, so we owe the Russians nothing: […], we shed blood and tears.

Well, it would be an exaggeration to conclude from these symptoms that Bulgaria has lost all its Russian characteristics.

One thing that remained is the respect for the Tsar, his image is everywhere, but he is a “savior” whose sphere of activity ends with a glorious glow, woe betide him if he wants to be involved in politics. By the way, in more recent times, the images of Our Majesty [Francis Joseph] have become such a relic, his image is also purchased, but only as a relic of a powerful patron saint.

It is possible that the internal turmoil could easily give Russia a foot­hold again, but Bulgaria has ceased to be under Russian rule forever […] “Sir,” said an old Russophile, “we no longer have a [pro]Russian party, we have only Russian spies.”

This is the result of Russian political passivity: Russia has lost ground and the Bulgarian leaders have sensed this very accurately. We are now the leading power in Bulgaria, it is our diplomatic agent whose behavior is authoritative and serves as a reference point.81

The Bulgarians are not fans of Austria–Hungary, it would be a mistake on our side to think that, they know very well that we will not go to war for them tout prix, but they are not afraid of us and they know very well that our interests are common to theirs and they respect and are consistently benevolent towards us.

We are not compromising their independence and we are not doing business, they sense that, so we have a really solid base there. The attitude of the Bulgarian army since its purge of rebel officers has been admirable. […]

I talked to Stoilov and Mutkurov, the former spoke frankly about the situation and the prospects for the Regency. The question of the Coburg Prince is just a matter of buying time…

This is not to say that they are not serious about it. They hope he is a dashing, youthful man who, if he wants something, will forcefully see it through. […]

Without further ado, I must explain, having met the delegation, that Ferdinand’s behavior has not made a favorable impression here. […]

Stoilov says it is not too late: despite all the diplomatic mistakes on the part of the newly elected [prince], the army will join him, but the situation is very similar to the Russians, that is, his chances are diminishing day by day.

If nothing comes of this combination, the Bulgarians will have done their duty. And the Regency is holding out because they represent the national party. They did their best to encourage Coburg, and they would have liked the Prince to be encouraged directly from Vienna, but they were well aware that Prince Ferdinand refused any solidarity or cooperation with the Viennese cabinet.

The goal of Mr. Kalchev’s mission was to persuade the Porte to give Coburg broad support, but this does not seem to have succeeded.

However, if Coburg does not come, there are two possible outcomes:

1) The Regency is discredited by the failure and is so weakened by the increasing Russian pressure that an internal reorganization takes place and everything collapses. The chances of this happening are probably slim, but the brilliant conspirator Stambolov has included this possibility in his political program.

2) The Regency proclaims independence and the kingdom, with Battenberg, who, although he is fighting with nerves of steel and is far from being the daredevil he is usually considered to be, does his duty at this moment. Then what should come will come.

Turkey is not feared; it is the Macedonian question that holds the Porte at bay. In Üsküb, I have seen and heard that the Bulgarian population is organized into regular associations that receive their orders from Sofia. They are ready to revolt at the first opportunity, in spite of the strong garrison and the Arnauts [armed Albanian fighters in Ottoman service], now loyal to the Sultan.

Fear of the Macedonian question is thus paralyzing Turkey’s every move. The Bulgarians have no fear of Russia. They are convinced that a war against Bulgaria would be unpopular in Russia. The Serbs are treated with great contempt, and in reflecting on Milan’s public candidacy, the chauvinists said:

“Yes, if he would Bulgarianize the Serbs, we would be delighted to accept him,” and I am not joking, because the Serbian–Bulgarian issue in Macedonia is still unresolved.

Of the candidates, Count Hunyady and Peyachevich, the politics-maker Zichy, do not merit mention. Count Peyachevich was a one-day idea, and Count Zichy discredited himself.

3) The third option would be to continue to wait. If the regents could continue to cooperate calmly, because the affairs of Nikolayev and Radoslavov are not serious symptoms, then things would continue as they are. Only trade and credit are wobbling, and those circles which have suffered financial damage as a result of the crisis are pressing for a solution.

This is how Regent Stoilow envisaged the situation, noting that no Russian candidate (not even the opposition—an important moment) wants to see any Russian officials here.

All the Bulgarians are asking us to do is to maintain the benevolent attitude we have had so far. I would like to add, as an innocent opinion, that our policy has had a very good effect, but our restrained attitude must not be seen as hesitation, fear, or retreat. That is why people believe the myth that we are afraid of war.

I can highlight two points in relation to Macedonia and Old Serbia. Since the delegations, the fear of an Austrian advance has faded, and the Turks are not as suspicious as before. Even if Russia has not completely lost its prestige in the Balkans, Austria has undoubtedly achieved more success with its moderate Balkan program than we might think.

Only the Montenegrins remain the same, and war in the Gusinje and Plevje areas could break out at any time if Albanian territory is ceded in the border settlement. Ali, the little despot of Ipek and its environs, is now a great favorite of the Turks. Killings, blood feuds, despite restrictions as before, especially on the Serbian border.

Russian espionage in Bulgaria and Macedonia is mostly based on common lies, people want to earn their money. That is why in Bucharest or Odessa they report that Regent X. J. had five people murdered, and similar lies. Our worst and greatest enemies are the Czechs, who are hated everywhere else and who are openly aligned with the Russians. The Bulgarian towns on the Danube, as indicated in Sofia, are very well controlled by the authorities, and the emigrants are scattered all over Wallachia, who are only important here from the point of view of the police: they do not carry any political weight.

As a curiosity, I enclose a lithographed portrait of Prince Ferdinand in Philippopol,82 which was at first eagerly awaited by the public, and they bought his portraits, but now the story is getting boring.

I will end my report with the words of an old Bulgarian who lived in Russia for many years: “Everything is very beautiful, we are relatives, fellow believers, but God grant that there may be a sea between us.” And this sentence describes the situation exactly.

As previously noted, the diplomatic events in Bulgaria pushed Serbia back in Austria–Hungary’s list of potential client powers. This was in part a consequence of the war lost against the Bulgarian Principality and in part a consequence of growing Russian interference in the eastern part of the Balkans, which urged the Hungarian half of the Dual Monarchy to pursue a more active, even proactive policy in the Balkans, for which neither the Dreikaiserbund nor the defeated Serbia was appropriate. Serbia, as an ally, could have been used only against Bulgaria, but the Hungarian elite how desired a stronger and not a weaker Bulgaria functioning as a barrier to Russia (as Bulgaria was no longer pro-Russian). From this perspective, even certain Serbian political groups became suspicious, as they had good relations with Russia. Another problem with Serbia as a “foothold” was its claims on Bosnia and its relations with the Serbian minority in southern Hungary. Given these considerations, Bulgaria was seen as a better potential ally, as it had no clash of interest with Austria–Hungary. From the economic perspective, however, Serbia was still more important for Austria–Hungary than Bulgaria. The slow pace of railway construction, the reluctance of the Serbian elite to fulfill this point of the Berlin agreement (which put a heavy burden on them and which also did not really serve Serbian economic interests but rather furthered the economic penetration of the Great Powers), and the constant financial crisis because of this obligation all left Serbia in debt and caused internal political tensions and oscillating foreign. This all made Belgrade a less appealing and less promising potential ally after 1885. Thallóczy undertook his trip in part with the task of providing insights into Serbia’s and Bulgaria’s potential usefulness, from the perspective of Austria–Hungary’s interests, and he described the two countries in quite a different tone with regards to this. His report, which he wrote as an imperial official (though not the official emissary), agreed largely with the pro-Bulgarian opposition in Hungary, the Hungarian government, and the views of Burián, who was consul in Sofia. Thallóczy’s remarks thus supported the abandonment of pro-Serbian policy. His venture was also important from the perspective of the sudden government changes. Ristić’s new cabinet was not supposed to follow a friendly and subjective policy towards Austria–Hungary, partly because Ristić had already seen for himself that Austria did not always keep its promises (before 1878, Kállay, had negotiated with Ristić, and he had offered a large part of Bosnia to Serbia, but this had never actually been implemented).

The report, which was written in German, starts with the problem of Serbs in Hungary. Since the focus of the discussion here is on the Balkan networks of agents, I offer below short excerpts from this part of Thallóczy’s report in English translation.

Incidentally, the government’s efforts to move the seat of the Serbian national church from Karlovci to Budapest should be noted […] These ideas are also strongly supported by the younger, pro-government elements. There are no constitutional objections to these ideas, and the result would be that the political center of gravity of the Serbs would be moved from the colorful south of Hungary to Budapest and would be easier to control.

The education of the clergy is bad, they are either undereducated, ignorant people or half-educated strikers, party henchmen. For the near future, even the prospects for the possibly vacant bishoprics are sad, as there is a great lack of capable and acceptable men. This circumstance, and the fact that the divide between the secular and clerical elements is so sharp, takes away any prospect of beneficial autonomous activity.

There is one good thing to be said for the ecclesiastic system of Karlovci. In the parishes and monasteries of Fruška Gora, loyalty to the state gradually grew stronger, and these almost independent parishes, which show many similarities with the Pomak parishes in Rhodope, feel, I claim this from my own conviction, that they belong to the Crown of St. Stephen. It must also be stated that the stability of the Hungarian government has brought about much development that was previously unthinkable […]

Thallóczy then moves to the problem of Serbia’s foreign policy oscillating between Russia and Austria–Hungary. He sees this as natural and even unavoidable.

If one takes diplomatic history as an aid in illuminating the latest crisis, one sees that Serbia is constantly moving between the sphere of Russia and Austria.

This is the general conclusion that anyone familiar with history can draw from the development of this country. The real Serbian policy is to maneuver between the two great powers and to protect its special interests. Ristitsch proclaims this himself in his works on the foreign relations of Serbia. If one great power temporarily dominated due to particularly favorable material or personal circumstances, it was soon displaced by the other, usually through its own direct or indirect mistakes. […]

In my humble opinion, this seemingly doctrinaire statement is confirmed by the recent crisis. Austria’s influence dominated Serbia until the most recent period. And what did this influence consist of? All sorts of businessmen of dubious origin, mostly of the hated Jewish faith, flooded the country. The Länderbank helped worsen state finances, “a railroad was built for the Swabians” (of course Prussian and French entrepreneurs earned the profits83 […] individuals […] enriched themselves at the expense of others, Garašanin bought an estate, the officials stole, Serbia was oppressed in trade, it was pushed into an unfortunate war, of course it was saved by Austria, which everyone has already forgotten); all these things are true, but Austria is blamed for these… this can be given as a characteristic of the transforming public mood. Garašanin and his party allied themselves with the King, who is considered an Austrian, and everything that happened was skillfully exploited by Ristić and his people for their own purposes, and he forced the king to capitulate […]. And this was to happen in a critical economic situation.

The administration does not work, people did not want to pay taxes, even the savings banks were not trusted because it was believed that the government used these funds also for state purposes. Officials united and got rid of dissenting people […] innkeepers were deprived of wine, farmers were imprisoned and beaten without judgement, the most unworthy espionage even penetrated families. This is now being reported by the deputations sent by Ristitsch into the countryside in an egotistically embellished manner, of which, however, the core is true. The growing unpopularity of the king is added to this, whose generosity to Austria is viewed with shady eyes; he is reproached for every ten francs he gives to Swabian beggars. […]

Objective men from Ristitsch’s immediate circles judged him, the King, to be a talented but shallow and unstable man who did very badly politically to govern himself. It was said in the Queen’s circle that the King would do much better if he followed the good advice of Austria and did not govern alone badly himself, a man worthy of trust told me. The army doesn’t love him, because he shows little understanding for the officers… I noticed the quite unnatural Serbian reticence of the officers and the higher civils.

They shut out their own poor, characterize their own leaders with nouns borrowed from the animal kingdom, and in the future have more confidence in diplomacy than in their weapons. The grumbling Horvatović sulks at the parliament and behaves like Cincinnatus by cultivating his property in the countryside. […]

What mattered to Thallóczy, apart from Serbian sentiments towards Austria–Hungary, was that the country not be left alone as Russia’s prey.

Despite the many dissenting voices, the Ristić government does not seem to me to want to become a Russian one. He has Russian sympathies, his son serves in the Russian army, and like every Serbian, he is somewhat slavophile according to the recipe of old Garašanin (but it is only the tie, he remains a Serb who will play off Austria against Russia when the time comes, and vice versa, provided he is able to do so. His courage so far cannot be denied).

In particular, he has appeased the peasants in Negotin and Zaječar […] It must be frankly confessed that the people were fed up with being considered Austria’s slaves, they were glad to be rid of us, he (Ristitsch) did not hide this joy, but he did not particularly encourage the Russians, apart from bringing the ruble into circulation. […]

His policy, as he told Stoilov, is to keep the neighbors away. “That’s why I understand Bulgarians,” he said, “that you hate the Russians.” With regard to the ex-metropolitan, I have been informed that Ristich is not personally in favor of him, this has come to light quite openly in Russia, and neither is the king; but the metropolitan’s supporters, many of whom are also in Ristić’s camp, are pressing for his reinstatement. […]

His relationship with the king is described by his supporters as having no part in the intrigues and gossip in the royal family; everything was done by Garašanin to capture the king through this quarrel, and the king is said to have been convinced of this. He (Ristitsch) acted as a savior in the last hour.

The Serbian attitude towards Bosnia was also important, in Thallóczy’s assessment, as it shaped Serbian feelings towards Austria–Hungary. Thallóczy often use a sarcastic tone in the passages on this topic, for instance in the excerpts translated below.

Serbian public opinion is expressed in the […] general demand that Bosnia should be united with Serbia, “then,” they naively add, “let’s leave Austria alone.”84

Even the more experienced elements regard Bosnia’s occupation as a “hereditary sin” and diligently believe the news spread by the Russians that Catholic propaganda is being carried out among the Orthodox in Bosnia and that this will lead to a revolution; even though Bosnia is now so close to them, they know very little about the

circumstances, and the people of the country, even as far away as Macedonia, suppose that there is a strict military regime in Bosnia.

The name Kallay is very familiar to them. There is no need to fear Serbian agitation for the time being, but Ristić will definitely take a greater interest in the Reichsland. He will play the idea of Greater Serbia as a card, as a skillful player he counts on the inattentiveness of his partners.

Thus, according to Thallóczy, Ristić was not a chauvinistic pan-Slav, but a player playing a diplomatic game. Greater Serbia was a tactical element in his rhetoric, not a goal. However, if he were to see opportunity to realize it, he would not hesitate.

At the end of July, the Serbian government was working on financial reorganization projects; the keywords are maximum thrift, honesty, and the elimination of redundancies in the previous budget. Who knows whether this will help, but one thing is certain: the new officials are hungry. The intimidated progressives, with the now completely silent Garašanin at their head, are expecting Ristić to commit a mistake, for the time being he said: “Let’s just rest and wait,” and he is looking for allies in the press, hoping for the dissatisfaction of the radicals, whom he calls “Cherkessen,” but Ristić knows this just as well, and is trying, if possible, to get along with them. This will be the test of his regime.

If the election campaign is favorable to him, which seems probable judging by the public mood, and if the Cherkessen will be unable to make progress during the great Skupština, then his regime is secure and stable.

Thallóczy observes, ironically again, that in his political game, Ristić came up with unrealistic political plans.

He promises the people a great deal: he wants to enforce the neutraliza­tion of Serbia like Switzerland, that way eliminating the desire for war, and averting the danger of Austrian occupation (the Slavic Piedmont as Switzerland, says the Prefect of Zaječar).85

He is also not a stranger to the Balkan Confederation idea, how­ever, it is necessary to settle accounts with Turkey first, because Serbian and Bulgarian interests intersect in Macedonia, then Old Serbia must be annexed, possibly the capital moved to the center of the state, etc.

Thallóczy is optimistic regarding Serbian-Hungarian relations, even comparing them to the Bulgarian–Serbian tensions, which were still an issue.

Relations between Hungarians and Serbs have improved remarkably, and the antipathy between the two nations is on the wane. Not as if an intimacy had developed, but the new generation has forgotten many things, apart from the (1)876 demonstrations and Turkophilism […] which is also expressed by Ristić in his aforementioned work, and he informs reporters concerned in this sense.

The mutual hatred between Bulgarians and Serbs is all the more vivid. From Niš to Caribrod, the Bulgarian population is almost bitterly opposed to the Serbian government that has been established here. This is also noticeable in Macedonia, where a possible solution to the question will encounter great difficulties in its implementation.

Finally, Thallóczy gives an account of the economic possibilities, which were as important for Austria–Hungary as the political situation. He also draws attention to the aspirations and efforts of Germany, Austria–Hungary’s greatest possible rival in the region.

Germany’s prestige is on the rise, its military superiority overwhelms even the most enraging Russophiles, and with the exception of Belgrade, where our trade now dominates, German merchants and their Austrian travelers (who naturally grumble about our consuls) are working quite efficiently.

It is significant for the situation that the Serbian tradesmen in Niš, Pirot, and Zaječar became active again after the demise of Garašanin’s cabinet, confidence returned and the fear of occupation vanished, everyone says and confirms this, everyone promises themselves golden days of freedom.

Thallóczy was also observed by agents of other powers during his long journey, but he did not consider these agents well trained or skilled (as he was able to recognize some of them).

In conclusion, I take the liberty of noting that over the course of the last seven months, I was joined by a Russian emissary in southern and eastern Serbia, with little success. Mr. Jastrebov in Salonik and the new Russian consul in Prizrend, are, I am assured, very cumbersome people.

Finally, Thallóczy insists that Austria–Hungary has no need to fear the Serbian political turn of events, even if cooperation between Russia and Serbia was about to deepen.

The fact that the Russians, by their very nature, cannot achieve anything86 and that the Serbs are not really a successful people makes the situation not entirely hopeless, even if Ristitsch was to govern with the most pronounced anti-Austrian program.

The lines cited above do not sound like regular scientific research. The journalist-orientalist Strausz, the semi-official envoy historian, Thallóczy, and the consul Burián (the only non-scholar), i.e., scholars and diplomats of Hungarian origin who were working for the opposition in Hungary or in imperial service, all supported the same policy, despite their different background. They all felt that the policy of Foreign Minister Gustav von Kalnoky was misguided. The historian Thallóczy tried to secure purely Hungarian interests, when he tried to promote Coburg Ferdinand’s election, who was considered the candidate of Budapest and not of Vienna, even though he was working as an imperial bureaucrat. Later, in Bosnia, he tried to further purely Hungarian interests concerning the railway connections. Lajos Lóczy, a leading Hungarian geologist, was commissioned by Thallóczy to search for iron and coal in Bosnia and Serbia for Hungarian (not for Austro-Hungarian) industry, as Thallóczy clearly noted in his diary.87 Lóczy repeated his research in 1916 during the occupation of Serbia, and his diary, sketches, and geological cross-sections are still held (unpublished) in the Hungarian Geological Institute. The fact that research material from World War I is deposited in Budapest and not in Vienna (despite the fact that Thallóczy was then civil governor of occupied Serbia, again an imperial agent) highlights the existence of Hungarian imperialist aspirations and the scholarship strongly intertwined with these aspirations.88

Archival Sources

Haus- Hof- und Staatsarchiv, Vienna (ÖStA HHStA)

Politisches Archiv (PA)

I Allgemeines, 9 Personalia, Kt. 766

XV Bulgarien. Kt. 24, Kt. 107, Kt. 113

XL Interna Kt. 145

Ministerium des Äussern. Informationsbüro (MdÄ IB)

Akten 172-4136 = Mission Lemaics, Stjeva = Mission des Dr. Ludwig Thallóczy, Konzipist im Landesarchiv in Budapest, Reise nach Albanien, 1882

Akten 258/259-3423 = Reise des Archivars Dr. Ludwig von Thallóczy nach Serbien und Bulgarien, Ausweis über Steuerrückstände in Serbien = 1888

Sonderbestände, Nachlässe [SB]

Nachlass Coburg

Presseleitung [PL]

Kt. 271. Akten Strausz

Hadtörténeti Levéltár, Budapest [Archives and Museum of the Military History] (HL)

Personalia, VII, fond 76 Burián István naplói [The diaries of István Burián] – 1887

Magyar Bányászati és Földtani Szolgálat, Gyűjteményi Osztály [Hungarian Mining and Geological Service, Collections Department]

Tudománytörténeti Gyűjtemény 1917 [History of Science Collection 1917]

Országos Széchényi Könyvtár Kézirattár [National Széchényi Library] (OSZK)

Fol. Hung. 1677. Thallóczy diaries, Bosniaca, VIII/7

Elsie, Robert. Early photography in Albania. https://albanianphotography.net (last down­load February 2, 2026)

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Szontágh, Tamás dr. “A M. K. Földtani Intézet szerbiai tanulmányútja 1916. október 1-től november 8-ig” [The Serbian field trip of the Royal Geological Institute from Oct. 1 to Nov. 8, 1916]. In A Magyar Állami Földtani Intézet évi jelentése, 36–39. Budapest: Magyar Állami Földtani Intézet, 1916.

Strausz, Adolf. Bosnyákföld és népe [The land of Bosnia and its folk]. Vols. 1–2. Budapest: Tettey Nándor és társa, 1881–1882.

Strausz, Adolf. “Keleti Kereskedelmünk és egy Magyar Kereskedelmi Muzeum” [Our eastern trade and a Hungarian Museum of Trade and Commerce]. Nemzetgazdasági Szemle 9 (1885): 233–67.

Strausz, Adolf. “A keleti pavillon” [The eastern pavilion]. Nemzetgazdasági Szemle 9, no. 10 (1885): 737–56.

Strausz, Adolf. “Magyar mintaraktárt Bulgáriának” [Hungarian sample stock to Bulgaria]. Nemzetgazdasági Szemle 10, no. 9 (1886): 633–43.

Strausz, Adolf. “Cettinje.” Földrajzi Közlemények 14 (1886): 216–33.

Strausz, Adolf. A Balkán félsziget: tanulmányút 1885-ben. Macedónia, Észak-Albánia és Montenegro [The Balkan Peninsula: field trip in 1885. Macedonia, North Albania and Montenegro]. Budapest: Márkus Nyomda, 1888.

Senga Toru. “Strausz Adolf japán kapcsolataihoz az I. világháború előtt” [Remarks to the Japanese links of Adolf Strausz before the First World War]. Századok 133, no. 5 (1999): 1011–26.

Szabó, Dániel. “Lajos Thallóczy als Zivillandeskomissär im besetzten Serbien.” In Lajos Thallóczy, der Historiker und Politiker, edited by Dževad Juzbašić and Imre Ress, 171–80. Sarajevo–Budapest: MTA TTI, 2010.

Thallóczy, Lajos. Utazás a Levantéban: A keleti kereskedelem története Magyarországon [A travel to Levante: The history of Eastern trade in Hungary]. Budapest, 1882.

Балабанов, Марко Димитров. Страница от политическото ни възраждане [A page from our political revival]. София: Българско книжовно дружество в София от фонда Напръдък, 1904.

Радев, Стoян. Бейла Ерьоди и Адолф Щраус за българската народна култура [Béla Erődi and Adolf Strausz on Bulgarian folk culuture]. София: Унив. изд. “Св. Климент Охридски,” 1990.

Фон Хан [von Hahn] Йохан. Стари текстове за българските земи: Албания, Македония, Поморавието. Пътеписи и карти от 1858 и 1863 година [Old texts on Bulgarian lands. Albania, Macedonia and the Morava Valley]. Поморавието в коментар на Александър Теодоров-Балан. София: Арх и Арт, 2020.

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1. 1 See the descriptions of his travels in Bordás, Széchenyi Szerbiában, 12–47 and 49–59.

2. 2 Kanitz, Donau-Bulgarien und der Balkan: Historisch-geographisch-ethnographische Reisestudien aus den Jahren 1860–1878.

3. 3 ÖStA HHStA, PA I Allgemeines, 9 Personalia, Kt. 766.

4. 4 See the articles of Katalin Schrek and Aleksandar Zlatanov in this volume.

5. 5 Фон Хан, Стари текстове за българските земи; For Székely’s collection, see Elsie, Early photography in Albania. https://albanianphotography.net (last downloaded February 2, 2026).

6. 6 Conway, A Ride Through the Balkans, 166–67.

7. 7 Gopčević, Makedonien und Alt-Serbien.

8. 8 Ress, “Andrássy Gyula és a közös külügyminisztérium,” and Ress, “A kormányzati hírszolgálat átalakulása.”

9. 9 Kanitz, Das Königreich Serbien, 300.

10. 10 Fehér, Kanitz Fülöp Félix, “a Balkán Kolombusa,” 42.

11. 11 As Kállay writes, “I had the opportunity to spend a few minutes alone with him here, and during this time I inquired about the atmosphere here. According to him, the people here are at the lowest possible level of education … they are obedient and respect the government, and therefore, until the government asks, they will do nothing.” Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 296.

12. 12 Horvatović joined the Serbian Army in 1862 from the Austrian army with the rank of lieutenant. He distinguished himself in the First Serbian–Ottoman War (1876–1877). From 1881 to 1885, he was a deputy in St. Petersburg, then commander of the active Army and Minister of War (1886–1887). See “Horvatović Đurai,” in Vojni leksikon (Belgrade: Vojnoizdavački zavod, 1981), 880.

13. 13 As Kállay wrote, Pinkas, the Austrian consul in Vidin, for example, was a local Jewish merchant, an Ottoman subject at the same time, who was also an employee of the Ottoman state (serving as dragoman, or interpreter), and therefore should be considered a “double agent,” and could only provide vague gossips beyond the economic situation, with less relevant information on high politics.

14. 14 “He is completely and sincerely imbued with the greatness and destiny of Russia and the idea of pan-Slavism. He would like to destroy all obstacles hindering the spread of this ideal, and because he cannot do so, he is relentless in his abuse and vilification of everything that seems to hinder Russia in the fulfilment of its destiny. … It is a great credit to the Russian Government that it can select its agents so skillfully, and it is remarkable that a subordinate agent should be so much imbued with the destiny of his country. The Austrian agents are neither guided by ideals, nor by a sense of the greatness of the empire.” Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 257.

15. 15 “At last, I told him how inadequate this kind of kind reception from the Serbian nachalniks was for me, all the more so because I did not know how to repay them, not daring to give them money. To this, Mácsay cited the example of a Russian general, who, while travelling here, was a guest of the nachalnik, and later sent jewels to his wife, which were very kindly received.” Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 296.

16. 16 Ibid., 258.

17. 17 Peykovska, “Hungarian–Bulgarian Relations in Education.”

18. 18 “I was met at the bridge by the steamship company’s agent, Jovanović, and so the Turkish zaptie did not demand a passport or search my luggage through customs. My official capacity, which was let known through Jovanovics, saved me from this inconvenience.” Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 251.

19. 19 Ibid., 256.

20. 20 There are a few relevant details concerning the background to Kállay’s venture into the field. In 1868, the Serbian Prince Mihály was assassinated, who had good relations with the Hungarian elite and who at the same time had anti-Ottoman ambitions, which were realized in part with the establishment of the first Balkan Alliance (Bulgaria would have been part of the emerging Balkan state). He did not dare go further, however, because he feared the reaction of Austria–Hungary. After the murder, Milivoje Blaznavac took power as regent. During his trip, Kállay was curious to know what the Serbian–Bulgarian relationship was like, how strong the links were between the Bulgarian revolutionaries (Georgi Rakovski, Stefan Karadzha) and the Serbs, what the Ottoman power knew about the movement (Bulgarian rebels were rumored to have crossed the Danube into Bulgaria, see Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 267), and how stable Ottoman power was. His focus, thus, was mainly on information gathering. The local barmaid, a tobacco merchant, the Austrian consul in charge of trade, the Russian consul (as a professional diplomat), the agent of the Austrian steam shipping company, and an Ottoman pasha (whom Kállay all visited) represented different levels and layers of access to information.

21. 21 “To characterize the multilingualism of the East, I would point out that what the müdir said in Turkish was explained by the Albanian kavas in Romanian to his Russian master of Tartar origin, who translated it into French for me, the Hungarian, and for Kanitz, who is German, but we understood each other.” Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 253.

22. 22 “Mácsay has finally given me the map of the district of Knjazevac, which will doubtless be of service on my journey tomorrow.” Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 256. The military mapping of the Balkans had not been completed by then.

23. 23 Radenić, Dnevnik Benjamina Kalaja, 704–7.

24. 24 “Luckily for me, Kanitz arrived to Zemun, and of course he visited me, saying that he was going to Viddin, and from there, he intended to make a little tour of the interior of Bulgaria. I took the opportunity and decided to go with him.” Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 247. See also Radenić, Dnevnik Benjamina Kalaja, 39.

25. 25 “The Russian agent Kira-Dinjan soon began his attack by asking why the Austrian and Hungarian newspapers were writing in such an anti-Russian spirit. Naturally, I gave him an answer, and I remarked that we were only defending ourselves against the lovable exclamations which the Russian papers contained, and whose quite openly declared aim was the dismemberment of Austria… Kanitz, who was tired and not particularly interested in this discussion, listened to it half asleep, occasionally interjecting an innocent remark… [The Russian] did not speak of the Bulgarians in favorable terms … I expressed my concern as to what would become of Bulgaria in that case [if Turkey falls]. I had to repeat the question several times before he replied that he would enter into confederation, but with whom and against what he was reluctant to say more definitely. As far as Austria was concerned, he at last openly expressed the view that if it wants to survive, it should strengthen its Slavic character, as the only way to avoid final collapse.” Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 257.

    Or another example:

    “Kanitz left the konak [residence of the pasha] for half an hour to win the bujuruldi [asylum letter, passport] of Sabri pasha. When he came back, we sat down to table… Kanitz soon left us alone to play politics at our leisure. Aziz Pasha, however, did not seem to have much inclination for politics today. Hence, dropping the subject altogether, he preferred to praise hunting games in the Balkans.” Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 267–68.

26. 26 Radenić, Dnevnik Benjamina Kalaja, 120–21.

27. 27 Ibid., 120–21, 335.

28. 28 Kanitz, Donau-Bulgarien und der Balkan.

29. 29 Kanitz reported on the reduction of the tithe, a main problem mentioned by Kállay, and he also recounted the fate of Aziz, pasha of Vidin, with whom Kállay had many conversations. His opponents accused the pasha of supporting the Kossuth emigrants and the Danube Confederation. Kállay also mentioned that he had friends among émigrés, and Kállay’s visit, as well as the arrival of a Hungarian agent named Takácsy in Vidin, aroused suspicion in Istanbul. The Pro-Bulgarian Aziz was accused of conspiring during his favorite passion, hunting in the countryside, that he wanted to make Vidin independent of the center and become king of Bulgaria, as did Pazvandoğlu at the end of the eighteenth century. For this, he was deposed from his position.

30. 30 Erődi sharply criticized the language-based ethnic cartography of the 1870s, specifically Heinrich Kiepert’s maps, which were used by decisionmakers at the Berlin Congress of 1878. Erődi, “Kartografia. Ethnographische Übersichtskarte,” 341–44. Erődi believed that religion was a more important identity-builder in the Balkans than language, thus the few hundred thousand Muslim Slavs (Gorani, Torbeš, Pomaks), who in many cases tipped the balance, should be seen, he felt, rather as Muslim than as Bulgarians or Serbs.

31. 31 Among the Hungarian travelers in the Balkans, Russophobia was a general phenomenon, a sentiment partly inspired by the experiences of 1849. This feeling gained political significance between 1875 and 1878, during the Great Eastern Crisis.

32. 32 Kállay, “Kállay Béni utazásai Szerbiában és Boszniában,” 266–67.

33. 33 England had allocated £15,000 extraordinary spending without any governmental authorization. Roberts states, this would not have been enough to finance a counter coup d’etat after the Russian dethroning of Bulgarian Prince Alexander Battenberg. Roberts, Salisbury – a Victorian Titan, 398. However, a successful revolt could be sparked there with even less financial aid, as proven twice by Hungarian scholar-agents (see later).

34. 34 Radenić, Dnevnik Benjamina Kalaja, May 20, 1869. See also Ress, “A kormányzati hírszolgálat átalakulása.”

35. 35 Ress, “A kormányzati hírszolgálat átalakulása.”, 60.

36. 36 Ress (1985) found two reports (1871) and one memorandum (1870) from Kanitz, in the Beust era.

37. 37 Balabanov, Stranitsa ot politicheskoto ni v’zrazdanie, 106.

38. 38 Kanitz could only rely initially on Schmettau’s description of 1742, Schweigger’s description of 1613, Ami Boué’s descriptions, the analyses by the military engineer Marsigli (held in the Kriegsarchiv), the work of Consul Guillaume Lejean, and the 1861 journey by Hahn, who was then in Serbian service, so the ethnic data are certainly quite hectic. See Table 1. Fehér, Kanitz Fülöp Félix, “a Balkán Kolombusa,” 91. At the time, Serbia was an ally of the Monarchy.

39. 39 Fehér, Kanitz Fülöp Félix, “a Balkán Kolombusa,” 76.

40. 40 Ibid., 94.

41. 41 Ibid., 121.

42. 42 Simov, “Mapping Enemy’s Land,” 45–70, esp. 63–65.

43. 43 Fehér, Kanitz Fülöp Félix, “a Balkán Kolombusa,” 31.

44. 44 Ress, “A kormányzati hírszolgálat átalakulása”, 60.

45. 45 From 1877 an official at the Hungarian National Archives. Between 1874 and 1884, assistant editor of the journal Századok (Centuries). Between 1876 and 1880, assistant editor of Archaeologiai Értesítő (The Archaeological Bulletin), and in 1877–1878 of Magyar Gyorsíró (Hungarian Stenographer). From 1885 to 1914, director of the Court Archives of the Viennese Court Chamber of the Joint Ministry of Finance, teacher of Hungarian history and constitutional law at the Theresianum, teacher of Hungarian public law at the Consular Academy. Corresponding member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (HAS) from 1883. In 1913, President of the Hungarian Historical Society. From 1901, Head of Department (Sektionschef) of the Joint Ministry of Finance (under Kállay, then under Burián), responsible for education and culture in occupied Bosnia and Herzegovina. See Csaplár-Degovics, “Ludwig von Thallóczy und die Albanologie,” 141–64. Also Szabó, “Lajos Thallóczy als Zivillandeskomissär im besetzten Serbien,” 171–80.

46. 46 Thallóczy, Utazás a Levantéban.

47. 47 HHStA MdÄ IB Akten 172–4136 = Mission Lemaics, Stjeva = Mission des Dr. Ludwig Thallóczy, Konzipist im Landesarchiv in Budapest, Reise nach Albanien, 1882.

48. 48 Ress, “A kormányzati hírszolgálat átalakulása.”

49. 49 Adolf Strausz (1853–1944) was born in a well-to-do Jewish family. He studied at the Ludovika Academy, served in the General Staff, then studied law at the University of Budapest, where he focused on the ethnography of the Balkan countries. During the occupation of Bosnia in 1878, he served in a Hussar regiment with the future Bulgarian ruler Coburg Ferdinand, with whom he became friends and who later hired him as an adviser. He was a friend of Bulgarian Prime Minister Stambolov. From 1892, he taught at the Oriental Commercial Academy (Budapest) and became one of the first initiators of the Zionist movement in Hungary. He fulfilled government missions during World War I in Romania. During the Russo-Japanese War, as an official envoy of the Japanese government, his task (together with Ármin Vámbéry) was to persuade the Ottoman leadership not to allow Russian ships to cross the Dardanelles. He was successful and received a medal from the Emperor of Japan. Senga Toru, “Strausz Adolf japán kapcsolataihoz,” 1011–26.

50. 50 Strausz, “Keleti Kereskedelmünk és egy Magyar Kereskedelmi Muzeum,” 233–67. See also Egyetértés, 28 January 1885, 6.

51. 51 An informal group of Hungarian nationalists supporting Thallócy’s circles and Hungarian predominance within Austria–Hungary.

52. 52 They knew each other from 1881, Thallóczy was the reviewer of Strausz’ first scientific book on Bosnia. Strausz, Bosnyákföld és népe.

53. 53 Egyetértés, 5 October 1885, 5.

54. 54 See articles by Strausz, “Keleti Kereskedelmünk és egy Magyar Kereskedelmi Muzeum,” 233–67, and Strausz, “A keleti pavillon,” 737–56.

55. 55 Strausz, A Balkán félsziget; Strausz, “Cettinje”, 216–33.

56. 56 See the title of Stojan Radev’s volume on Erődi and Strausz from 1990: Радев, Бейла Ерьоди и Адолф Щраус за българската народна културa.

57. 57 HHStA Presseleitung [PL] Kt. 271. Akten Strausz.

58. 58 Adolf Strauss, Grossbulgarien (Posen–Leipzig–Budapest–Warschau–Kontantinopel–Sofia, 1917).

59. 59 Serbian and Bulgarian travels from 1888: HHStA MdÄ IB Akten 258/259-3423. = Reise des Archivars Dr. Ludwig von Thallóczy nach Serbien und Bulgarien, Ausweis über Steuerrückstände in Serbien =1888.

60. 60 See HHStA PA XL Interna Kt. 145 1888–1889. Text published by: Heppner, “Serbien im Jahre 1889 nach einem Bericht Ludwig von Thallóczy’s,” 156–93.

61. 61 His activity was similar to Gopčević’s. He gave council concerning new Austro-Hungarian policy towards Serbia, encouraged the creation of a new Serbian history by favoring emphasis on the so-called Velika Seoba, or “Great Migration,” i.e., a major movement of Serbs in the late seventeenth century (as a new basis of historical memory and national consciousness) instead of the Battle of Kosovo, which to this day remains the pivotal even in Serbian national history. This resembled efforts concerning the creation of a revised Hungarian national identity centered around the conquest of the Carpathian Basin. The huge panoramic painting Honfoglalás, or Hungarian Conquest, by painter Árpád Feszty offers a clear example of cultural efforts to foster this narrative.

62. 62 See Csaplár-Degovics, “Ludwig von Thallóczy und die Albanologie.”

63. 63 Demeter, Diplomatic Struggle for Supremacy, 113–39, 139–54.

64. 64 July 23–26, 1887. See Burián István naplói: A szófiai konzulátustól a közös pénzügyminiszterségig (1886–1903).

65. 65 Parts of his diary are deposited in the Archives and Museum of the Military History [Hadtörténeti Levéltár =HL] Personalia, VII / Personalia / 76. fond, Burián István naplói). For official reports from Burián see HHStA, PA XV Bulgarien. Kt. 113, fol. 554–557, July 24, 1887, and Kt. 113, fol. 558–561, 562–567. Parts from later period are available at MREZsLt (The Synodic Archives of the Hungarian Reformed Church).

66. 66 HHStA MdÄ IB 172 – 4136. = Mission Lemaics, 1882. Report from the travel to Sofia: fol. 320–324 (Bulgarische Stimmungen und Wandlungen).

67. 67 For Serbia in 1887, see the record above, fol. 309–319. (Die ungarische Serben…)

68. 68 Burián’s diary, August 31, 1886. HL, Personalia VII. f. 76.

69. 69 Grunwald, Türkenhirsch, 30.

70. 70 For the so-called Waldapfel-affair, see Gábor Demeter, “Forgotten kingmakers–Fülöp Waldapfel, Jenő Zichy, Adolf Strausz and the role of Hungarian politics in the election of Coburg Ferdinand,” and Gábor Demeter “Russian and Austro-Hungarian agents in István Burián’s diary (1886–1895) – the knowledge of consular diplomacy on informal activities” (both in press). The scandal broke out when Waldapfel accused overtly Zichy and Coburg Ferdinand in the press that they did not pay his reward promised for his efforts, then he sued the Count. His indiscretion (he mentioned names) angered the political elite. Budapesti Hírlap, November 5, 1887, 6, and November 15, 1887, 7.

71. 71 If we do not believe the press, there is letter from Kálnoky, dated August 8 and addressed to Ischl (i.e., to Francis Joseph), survived in the state archives; and it mentions the Hungarian prime minister, Kálmán Tisza together with Jenő Zichy, and Major Laaba (one of Ferdinand’s trustees), as well as the “prince,” on the same page. HHStA, PA XV Bulgarien. Kt. 24. Varia 1887, fol. 27–28. Even Burián wrote a report on the scandal stirred by Waldapfel’s revenge. Burián confirms, that Waldapfel was Zichy’s agent and he recommended Waldapfel to Prince Ferdinand well before his candidature, as a trustworthy individual with extensive connections in Bulgaria and the most suitable person to organize propaganda. HHStA PA XV Bulgarien, Kt. 24, fol. 4–8 Burián to Kálnoky, October 30, 1887.

72. 72 Budapesti Hírlap, September 18, 1931, 13. Article by Endre Aczél. Waldapfel and Zichy were dead by that time, Strausz was alive and did not make any objection.

73. 73 Strausz, “Magyar mintaraktárt Bulgáriának,” 633.

74. 74 ÖStA HHStA, PA XV Bulgarien. Kt. 107, fol. 989, and fol. 1356 (French), November 29, 1886. Burián to Kálnoky.

75. 75 Maszák, A közös ügyek, 6th session, November 29, 1886. The speech of Count Jenő Zichy, 71–72.

76. 76 Burián’s diary, November 29, 1886. HL, Personalia VII. f. 76.

77. 77 Poslanstvo Kraljevine Srbije u Petrogradu, 1879–1888, vol. 1, no. 302. December 15/27, 1886, 439–44.

78. 78 Demeter, A modernizációtól az expanziós törekvésekig, 114–15.

79. 79 German title Bulgarische Stimmungen und Wandlungen.

80. 80 Thallóczy is alluding to (though slightly misquoting) the opening lines of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s poem “Wandrers Nachtlied II.”

81. 81 Here, Thallóczy refers to Burián.

82. 82 Plovdiv, Bulgaria.

83. 83 End of fol. 315.

84. 84 End of fol. 317.

85. 85 This is highly implausible, as the sarcastic tone suggests.

86. 86 See the situation in Bulgaria.

87. 87 “Lóczy is glad that this pending Turkish issue has finally been put to an end. A large area is now being freed up for science and the economy. We only have iron ore for 80 years […] We still have coal, but we also need Bosnian coal. There is still petroleum and potassium salt in Bosnia. Our brave scientist is doing a very good job.” OSZK Kézirattár, Thallóczy, Fol. Hung. 1677. Bosniaca, VIII/7, 330–331 (21. 11. 1912).

88. 88 Lóczy’s unpublished diary on geographical explorations in occupied Serbia is deposited in the archives of the former Hungarian Institute of Geology (Magyar Bányászati és Földtani Szolgálat, Gyűjteményi Osztály, Tudománytörténeti Gyűjtemény, 1917). Published reports, Szontágh, “A M. K. Földtani Intézet szerbiai tanulmányútja 1916. Október 1-töl november 8-ig”, 36–39, online at http://epa.oszk.hu/02900/02934/00070/pdf/EPA02934_mafi_evi_jel_1916_036-039.pdf.

* The present study is a result of the project STARTING 150326 “Geopolitical Tendencies and Balkan Strategy of the Austro-Hungarian Empire: Individual Sources and Foreign Policy Actors (1878–1918).” Project no. 150326 has been implemented with the support provided by the Ministry of Culture and Innovation of Hungary from the National Research, Development and Innovation Fund, financed under the STARTING 24 funding scheme.

From the Hungarian Plains to the Balkans: János Asztalos’s Revolutionary 
Exile and  the Idea of a Danubian Confederation (1869–1870)

Penka Peykovska

Institute for Historical Studies, Bulgarian Academy of Sciences

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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 2 (2026): 326-347 DOI 10.38145/2026.2.326

The article examines the revolutionary activities of János Asztalos, leader of the 1868 Hungarian peasant movement, during his exile in the Balkans and his efforts to pro­mote a Danubian Confederation. Drawing on archival documents, including Austro-Hungarian consular reports and contemporary press accounts, it reconstructs Asztalos’s initiatives in Vidin, Bucharest, and Constantinople, including the founding of his “Hungarian–Bulgarian Secret Committee” and his attempts to unite Hungarian émigrés, South Slavs, and Romanians in a common struggle against Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian domination. The study situates Asztalos within broader nineteenth-century transnational revolutionary networks, highlighting the circulation of the ideas of Lajos Kossuth and Asztalos’s interaction with émigré movements and local nationalist initiatives. While the committee’s activities were brief and primarily Hungarian in character, they reveal an ambitious attempt to coordinate anti-imperial efforts in the Balkans. Asztalos’s political work, though limited in direct impact, provides valuable insight into the strategies, connections, and ideological exchanges of revolutionary émigrés in Central and Southeastern Europe.

Keywords: Danubian Confederation, agent network, Hungarian revoutionaries in exile, Bulgarian national awakening, Vidin, 19th century

In the late 1860s, the Balkans and the Danubian region entered a period of intensified political mobilization, driven by the aspirations of various peoples for national emancipation and greater political autonomy. The Ottoman Empire continued to dominate most of the Balkan Peninsula, while the Austro-Hungarian Empire controlled large parts of Central Europe and the Danube basin. Within these imperial spaces, however, national and revolutionary movements increasingly sought forms of cooperation that transcended ethnic and state boundaries. At this time, Bulgaria remained under Ottoman rule, yet revolutionary circles inside the country and among the émigrés had already placed the issue of political liberation on the agenda. Serbia and Romania enjoyed broad autonomy and limited statehood, while Hungary, after the Compromise of 1867, obtained the right to internal self-governance, which, for the radical opposition circles, was still an inadequate solution to the question of in­dependence. On a broader European scale, Poland remained partitioned among the Russian, Austrian, and Prussian empires, while newly unified Italy emerged as an important source of republican and federalist ideas circulating among revolutionary émigré networks. Against this backdrop, projects for Danubian or Balkan confederations began to circulate, seeking to combine national in­dependence with political solidarity and joint action against imperial domination. Although such initiatives often remained short-lived or unrealized, they reveal the shared political horizons of revolutionary circles across the region. The activities of the Hungarian émigré János Asztalos and the attempt to establish a Hungarian–Bulgarian revolutionary committee in 1869–1870 should be understood within this transnational context of political exchange and ex­pe­ri­ment­ation. Asztalos’s efforts to organize Hungarian opponents of dualism in coordination with Bulgarian and South Slavic revolutionary networks exemplify this transnational world of political exchange and limited but meaningful cooperation.

The years 1869–1870 marked a turning point not only for the Bulgarian national liberation movement but also for the broader revolutionary and émigré world of the Danubian–Balkan region. In a context of increasing mobility of political activists, émigrés, and revolutionary exiles, national movements reassessed the experience of the previous decade and sought new forms of cooperation that transceded state and ethnic boundaries. In the Bulgarian lands of the Ottoman Empire, this process coincided with the activities of Vasil Levski, the leading organizer and ideologist of the internal revolutionary network, who began constructing a system of clandestine committees. Among the revolutionary émigrés in Romania, it led to the establishment, in the autumn of 1869, of the Bulgarian Revolutionary Central Committee, an attempt to centralize and coordinate the struggle both inside and outside Bulgaria. There are precious few primary sources on the work of this committee from the autumn of 1869 to the spring of 1870 (a moment crucial from the perspective of the development of the Bulgarian national liberation movement and its trans-Balkan dimensions).1 Of particular interest, however, are some documents from the Hungarian National Archives in Budapest, which concern the impact of the Dalmatian (Krivošije) uprising on the Balkan peoples, the possibility of a joint revolutionary action, and the idea of establishing a Danubian Confederation. These sources also reveal previously unknown facts about the political activities of the Hungarian emigrant János Asztalos in Bulgaria and about his “Hungarian–Bulgarian Secret Committee” in Vidin.2 His activities offer insights into the circulation of Kossuth’s ideas among the networks of revolutionary émigrés in the Balkans, illustrating how such initiatives reflected broader patterns of political engagement, ideological dissemination, and transnational connections at the time. The abovementioned archival documents are official reports from the Austro-Hungarian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, intended to inform the then Prime Minister of Hungary, Count Gyula Andrássy, about the interactions of a Hungarian political émigré with revolutionary activities in exile.3 These reports were prepared based on information provided by the Austro-Hungarian consular officials in Vidin, Ruse, Constantinople, and Bucharest during the period from September 13, 1869 to July 24, 1870. Some of them include copies of consular reports addressed to the Austro-Hungarian minister of foreign affairs, Count Friedrich Ferdinand von Beust, and there are documents originating from Asztalos himself. Furthermore, we seek to clarify when and under what circumstances attempts were made to establish the Hungarian–Bulgarian Secret Committee, what its intended goals were, and how Austrian and Hungarian intelligence services monitored Asztalos’s activities abroad, thereby contributing to a more nuanced understanding of the mechanisms through which revolutionary ideas, political initiatives, and émigré networks operated across borders in Central and Southeastern Europe in the nineteenth century. The present study is based on analyses of the aforementioned documents from the Hungarian National Archives,4 supplemented with reports published in the contemporary Hungarian and Bulgarian press.5 Despite the shortcomings of consular reports as historical sources,6 in regard to the activities of Asztalos there is no reason, for the most part, to call the data into question, since they originate from the Hungarian police agent Mihály Takács, who was assigned to Asztalos upon his arrival in Vidin, quickly gained his trust, and subsequently passed information to Baron Adam Schulz, the Austro-Hungarian consul in Vidin.

In Hungarian history, János Asztalos is known as the leader of the movement of poor peasants in the Great Hungarian Plain (Alföld) that broke out in 1868 in protest against the sociopolitical system of the Austro-Hungarian Compromise of 1867. Asztalos’s movement advocated Hungary’s independence. He was born in Pécs in 1822,7 and little is known about his life prior to the Compromise, apart from information derived mainly from the trials conducted by the Hungarian judicial authorities against him and from his 1868 autobiography.8 In his youth, Asztalos traveled abroad extensively and received a higher education. There is no evidence that he participated in the Revolution and War of Independence of 1848–1849. He returned to his homeland after the defeat to work as an independent lawyer. Initially, he worked in Pécs, where in 1851 he came into conflict with the Hungarian judicial system for the first time. In 1858, he served as a lawyer for the orphanages on the outskirts of Buda, but he was later subjected to an official investigation after having filed a lawsuit against a court counselor. In 1861, Asztalos abandoned his practice as a lawyer and settled in Bócsa (in Pest County), where he rented land to cultivate it. However, he was unsuccessful and fell into debt during 1863 crisis.9 In April 1867, he moved to Kecskemét, where, as a lawyer, he defended the urban poor, seeking to expose the city council’s detrimental policies. Asztalos expanded his activities in late 1867 and early 1868, when he became involved in the struggle of the Hungarian radical left against the 1867 Compromise. Following the movement’s initiative, he established democratic clubs through which he organized mass actions under the banner of Lajos Kossuth, who was in exile. His movement called for the democratization of central and local government, the reform of legislation, and the redistribution of municipal lands.10 These efforts were seen as subversive by the authorities, and Asztalos was arrested on April 15, 1868 and taken to Pest on charges of treason. He remained in prison there until May 22, 1869, after which he was transferred to the prison in Vác. With the help of his wife, he escaped on July 17, 1869 together with his ally and the movement’s second-in-command, Vilmos Madarász.11 The three of them fled through Romania to the Ottoman Empire.

According to the documents from the Hungarian National Archives, Asztalos spent seven months in Vidin (from mid-September 1869 until the end of March 1870). Adam Schulz’s report of September 13, 1869 states that “the Hungarian lawyer, known for his revolutionary intentions,” had arrived in Vidin from Wallachia12 (where Asztalos had lived for some time in Turnu Severin).13 Asztalos was accompanied by his wife and Madarász, who, however, departed for Calafat and from there to Craiova, where he settled.

Asztalos immediately set about arranging his life in Vidin, as he intended to settle there permanently. The specific reason for this was likely connected with his revolutionary plans and his earlier activities in Wallachia.14 He introduced himself to the governor of Vidin, Aziz Pasha, to whom he explained that he intended to organize the publication of a “Hungarian newspaper” in Bucharest and that he needed a regular Turkish passport in order to travel without hindrance.15 Vidin was particularly suitable as a place where he could pursue his ambitions, and his choice of the city was certainly not accidental. After the defeat of the Hungarian Revolution and War of Independence of 1848–1849, the town became a center for Polish, Romanian, and Hungarian émigrés and refugees who nurtured revolutionary visions. It was the first stop, after the failed revolution, on the way to the Ottoman Empire for the Hungarian political exiles who followed or supported Lajos Kossuth, some of whom remained in the Bulgarian lands. The governor of Vidin, Aziz Pasha, was known for his sympathy for the Hungarians. The Austro-Hungarian consul in Belgrade, Benjamin Kállay, wrote in his travel diary from his journey along the Serbian-Bulgarian border in September 1868 that Aziz Pasha not only loved the Hungarians but had helped the refugees after the revolution and had continued to maintain contact with some of them later on.16 In the summer of 1869, György Szilágyi, another émigré with ties to Kossuth, was also residing in Vidin, where he worked as a pharmacist in the First Cavalry Dragoon Regiment of the Second Ottoman Army.17 It is very likely that Asztalos was already aware of Szilágyi’s presence in Vidin while staying in Wallachia, where he maintained contacts with Hungarian émigrés. Moreover, Vidin was among the towns visited in the spring and summer of 1869 by Bulgarian revolutionary activists, including Georgi Mirkovich, Vasil Ganchev (known as “the Plevneliya” or “the man from Pleven,” a historically important center in northern Bulgaria), and Brayko Ts. Kofardzhiev. They sought to prepare the population of northwestern Bulgaria for a coordinated uprising against Ottoman rule.18 Concrete steps were taken by the Bulgarian revolutionary émigrés, while within the Tuna Vilaet itself, the efforts of the aforementioned Vasil Levski were soon combined with the organization of an armed (cheta) campaign.19

It is quite possible that Asztalos learned something about the planned uprising20 while in Wallachia. A direct connection to his arrival in Vidin is provided by the figure of György Bogáti. In the reports of the Austro-Hungarian consuls, Bogáti is mentioned as an agent of the Romanian prince Alexandru Cuza, who abdicated in 1866 and had since been living in exile.21 Very little is known about Bogáti.22 In the spring and summer of 1869, his activities were linked to the anti-dynastic campaign in Bucharest against Prince Carol I.23 Bogáti also visited Vidin before Asztalos’s arrival, and he later traveled to the Banat, where the Romanian national-liberation movement was consolidating its ranks. In the Banat, Bogáti sought contact with Romanian politicians who, as supporters of active resistance, were striving to secure their national rights, but within the framework of the existing structure (the unified Hungarian state).24 This allowed them to undertake tactical cooperation with Hungarian parties, and particularly with the Hungarian opposition, which still regarded the national minorities who opposed the Dual Monarchy as potential allies.

Asztalos and Bogáti had known each other from Wallachia. Initially, they had lived together in Vidin in the same house. However, Bogáti intended “to wait [in Ruse] for the imminent removal of Prince Carol.”25 Asztalos, for his part, sought to settle in and establish connections among the local population, particularly the Hungarians living in the area. In Ruse, he met the pharmacist János (or Johan26) Mohos, the name by which Baron Majthényi was known in the local Austro-Hungarian colony.27 Majthényi acted as his guarantor for a teskere (an official permit or identification document issued by the Ottoman authorities that allowed one to travel freely). Asztalos also became involved in two enterprises in Vidin, a sawmill and a small steam-powered mill. In October 1869, he diligently maintained correspondence with acquaintances in Kecskemét, Debrecen, and Turnu Severin and also with Madarasz in Craiova. He was also in contact with János Vidács,28 one of the leaders of the Party of 1848-ers.29 Vidács managed the agricultural machinery factory in Pest founded by his father. From Vidin, he wrote to request two millstones for the aforementioned mill.

At that time, the Vidin consul Schultz described Asztalos’s behavior as “calm.”30 If Asztalos was indeed calm or restrained in his efforts, this was probably due in no small part to the fact that he needed permission from the Austro-Hungarian authorities to travel to Hungary. The forthcoming official visit of Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria–Hungary to the Ottoman Sultan provided an appropriate opportunity to request such permission. For this purpose, Asztalos drafted a petition in which, explaining the reasons for his escape from the prison in Vác, he asked to be allowed to return “unpunished to Hungary for 14 days to arrange his wife’s property matters.” He promised not to engage in politics while in Hungary.31 He informed Consul Schultz of his intentions, but his request was denied. At the end of 1869, an uprising broke out in southern Dalmatia among the Serbian Krivošije clan.32 The uprising was triggered by widespread discontent over a newly introduced military law and in response to the Austro-Hungarian government’s attempt to introduce military conscription in the region.33 The insurgents, supported by Montenegrins and Herzegovinians, managed to repel imperial troops and extract concessions from Vienna. This event resonated strongly among South Slavic and Hungarian opposition circles. This revolutionary atmosphere gave new impetus to Asztalos’s political activity in Bulgaria, which he intensified in November 1869, after the outbreak of the uprising in Dalmatia against the Austrian authorities. As Hun­garian army units were also sent to fight against the insurgents, Asztalos, who had acquaintances among the officers of the Hungarian “Franz Karl” regiment, sent them a proclamation urging the regiments stationed in Dalmatia not to fight against their “Bokeši brothers.”34 Although the text of this proclamation has not survived, Asztalos later stated that it had the desired effect: the far-left (oppositional) newspaper Magyar Újság (Hungarian News) repeatedly reported in its “Dalmatian Movements” column about the defeats of the imperial troops. On this occasion, Asztalos “expressed great joy” and circulated “the latest battle reports described [in the newspaper] in the darkest possible tones.”35 Then, the Austro-Hungarian consul in Ruse, Karl Wolfart, described him as having a “rowdy” and “scandalous” character. Wolfart suggested that Asztalos should not be extradited from Vidin, since he could be monitored more easily there.36 Asztalos became even more suspicious because of his connections with the Russian vice-consul in Constantinople, Konstantin Arkadyevich Gubastov. Austro-Hungarian foreign policy was particularly sensitive to Russian behavior, Russia being the main regional rival. Although at that time Russia had adopted a policy of temporary reconciliation with the Ottoman Empire and restraint regarding popular independence movements, Austro-Hungarian consuls attributed every revolutionary manifestation in southeastern Europe to Russian influence. Moreover, the Austrian press claimed that the Dalmatian Uprising was the result of “Pan-Slavist intrigues.” At the end of November and the beginning of December 1869, Asztalos founded a secret committee in Vidin. Sources unambiguously confirm that he took this step due to the surge in the South Slavic movement on Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman territory in the wake of the outbreak of the Dalmatian Uprising. The uprising inspired independence fighters in southeastern Europe, including Bulgarians in exile, and rekindled their hopes for a coordinated revolutionary movement in the spring of 1870. In this context, the Bucharest-based newspaper Svoboda (Freedom) reported the following:

We, the Christians living in the Turkish and Austrian empires, today are bound by the same interests and the same ideas… and soon we will show to all the peoples of Europe that we are worthy of being free not only as nations but also as individuals. Thus, we prophesize that 1870 will be a year in which our fallen national rights and our human freedom will be restored.37

The Istanbul-based newspaper Macedonia, edited by Petko Rachev Slaveykov, also reported on preparations for a “general uprising of the Austro-Turkish Slavs.”38 In December 1869, the arrival of the Montenegrin commissioner Nikola Kovačević caused great “excitement” among the Bulgarians in Bucharest. An Austro-Hungarian Foreign Ministry note mentions that, in connection with this visit, a rumor spread about a general uprising of Dalmatian, Montenegrin, Bosnian, Serbian, Bulgarian, and Greek groups that was to take place the following spring.39

Regarding the impact of the Dalmatian Uprising on the Bulgarians, as early as the beginning of December 1869, Magyar Újság reported that in the western parts of Bulgaria people were arming themselves and that “detachments had been formed there which were in close connection with the insurgents.”40 According to the report of a Polish émigré from Ruse,41 at the end of December 1869 and the beginning of January 1870, representatives of twelve Bulgarian committees, including one central committee, gathered in Bucharest to discuss the tasks of the revolutionary movement in the political context of the Balkans following the outbreak of the Dalmatian Uprising. At the meeting, two proposals were formulated: first, to organize armed detachments immediately and send them to Bulgaria and, second, to assess the readiness of the people for an uprising and take preparatory measures. A decision was reached to send four people to Bulgaria, but only the name of “Dyakon [deacon] Levsky” was mentioned, as he was to “prepare the minds and organize the detachments.”42

The reports of the Austro-Hungarian consuls show that Hungarian opponents of Dualism attempted to unite their efforts in the struggle for independence with those of the South Slavs, including the Bulgarian revolutionaries. Judging by the information provided by Consul Schulz, preparations for the uprising had begun as early as December, with the creation of Hungarian–Slav committees. Schulz’s first report concerning such an initiative refers specifically to Vidin and is dated December 10, 1869.43 In his reports to Beust and Kállay, he mentions the imminent establishment of a committee in Vidin under the chairmanship of Asztalos, along with information on the emergence of committees in Bulgaria, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Montenegro, and Serbia.44 In mid-December, Schulz claimed that there already existed a network of Hungarian–Slav revolutionary committees in Dubrovnik, Shkodra, Zvornik, Cetinje, Sarajevo, Derventa, Belgrade, Tulcea, Tarnovo, Niš, Sulina, Dumaleprovac, Gradac, and Kodjes. He also mentioned, albeit vaguely, a central leadership in Cetinje.45 The newspaper La Turquie likewise writes about a “central insurgent committee,” which, as usual, it portrays as Pan-Slavist.46

According to Consul Schulz, the Hungarian radical left (who were opponents of the 1867 Compromise) took an interest in the activities of the early Hungarian–Slav committees. It is known, however, that after the unexpected revolutionary turn of the peasant movement in 1868, the views of the moderates gained predominance within the ranks of the left. As a result, the radicals’ program envisaged as its main goal the further achievement of Hungary’s independence (including an autonomous military, foreign policy, and finances, which were missing from the Compromise of 1867) and the restoration of the laws of 1848, but only through constitutional means.47 In practice, among the members of the radical party there were differences regarding the appropriate methods for the struggle for independence. “The radical left has split into as many factions as it has members,” wrote Lajos Kossuth in a letter from November 1869.48 Thus, if indeed any member of the Party of ’48-ers had been associated with the Hungarian–Slav committees, it must have been János Vidács and his supporters. They are referred to in several sources as the “Vidács Party,” “to which J. Asztalos also belonged.”49 Consul Schulz suspected that Kossuth, living in exile in Turin, may have been directing the preparations for joint revolutionary action, with the start of the operations merely awaiting his signal. Kossuth probably knew of the ongoing activity, as the Hungarian radical left maintained tight connections with him. However, there is still no reliable documentary evidence that he was directly involved in the events surrounding the Dalmatian Uprising. The letter cited reflects Kossuth’s pessimism regarding the effectiveness of the efforts of the Hungarian radical left. Kossuth himself emphasized that, among the political parties in Hungary, the one closest to his views was the Party of ’48-ers, but he underlined a crucial difference between them: while the Party of ’48-ers accepted the personal union (a common ruler for Hungary and Austria as separate states) and opposed only the closer links between the two countries (such as joint ministries and delegations), Kossuth had always advocated full independence for Hungary. These claims, which also appear in Schulz’s reports, were based on statements from Asztalos, who presented himself as an “agent” of Kossuth. Despite the consul’s reports, any possible direct connection between Asztalos in Vidin and Kossuth in Turin appears highly unlikely. First, in 1868, Lajos Kossuth, who had initially hoped that Asztalos’s movement might develop into a national movement and secure Hungary’s independence, later rejected the social demands of the poor peasants for land and forbade any association of his name with the movement of poor peasants.50 Second, Kossuth feared Russian foreign policy and the “Pan-Slavism aligned with Russia.”51 Asztalos himself also expressed concern that Kossuth would hardly approve of his acquaintance with Gubastov.

Contrary to Schulz’s reports, the formation and the very existence of Hungarian–Slav committees in the Balkans was questioned by the aforementioned Wolfart, Austro-Hungarian consul in Ruse.52 In this context, the few documents appended to the reports of the Austro-Hungarian consuls acquire particular significance. The nature and activities of the Vidin committee are illuminated by an impression of the committee’s seal in red wax, as well as copies of four documents produced during its operations: an indictment addressed to the Hungarian government (dated, for unknown reasons, in Istanbul, January 5, 1870), a proclamation to the “people’s leader” Jovo Radanović in Dalmatia (place not indicated, January 12, 1870), an oath to be taken by the members of the committee (Vidin, November 3, 1870), and a letter to the Romanian liberals containing a draft for a Danube Confederation (Shumen, November 4, 1870).53 These documents were undoubtedly drafted by Asztalos, chair of the committee, and, as noted in them, they were approved at meetings of the committee council.

The formation of the committee can be dated to early January 1870. Its headquarters was in Vidin, where the principal agitator resided, though it also had a branch in Shumen. Among its members were the abovementioned Mihály Takács and György Dobrovics (a former lieutenant who had been dismissed from Prince Albrecht’s infantry, in whose name the oath was written).54 The members of the committee were drawn from among the Hungarians living in the Bulgarian towns along the Danube who were either refugees with attachments to Kossuth or his political circle or people who supported his cause. One of the consular reports mentions that in Shumen there was an individual “from Asztalos’s party,” who was “strongly possessed by Kossuth’s fantasies.”55 It is highly likely that this refers to the aforementioned Hungarian revolutionary György Szilágyi, who had taken part, as a companion of Lajos Kossuth in the 1860s, in the Polish uprising, the American Civil War, and Garibaldi’s Italian liberation movement. In August 1869, Szilágyi left the Ottoman army and Vidin and settled in Shumen as a pharmacist.56 The fact that Szilágyi was оn close terms with the aforementioned Mohos,57 the pharmacist in Ruse who acted as guarantor for Asztalos, indirectly confirms his connection with Asztalos.

While in the reports of the Austro-Hungarian consuls the committee founded by Asztalos was referred to as “Hungarian–Slav,” in the four documents mentioned above it appeared under the name “Hungarian Secret Committee in Bulgaria” (Bulgáriai magyar titkos comité). On its seal, however, the inscription read “Seal of the Hungarian–Bulgarian Secret Committee” (A Magyar–bulgár titkos comité pecsétje), which is a bit different. These discrepancies in naming naturally raise the question of what the actual nature, aims, and intended function of this committee were, and to what extent it was connected with the Bulgarians and their revolutionary committee network.

The four documents were written in an anti-Habsburg spirit, in harmony with the ideas of the Hungarian Revolution of 1848, and identified the struggle for Hungary’s independence as the committee’s principal objective. In this respect, there was continuity between the committee’s views and those of the peasant movements in the Great Hungarian Plain in 1868. The negative attitude toward the Compromise was expressed most strongly in the indictment of the Hungarian prime minister Gyula Andrássy and the ministers of his cabinet and in particular of Ferenc Deák, the theoretician and ideologist of the 1867 Settlement. Deák was accused in this indictment of treason against the homeland (having served as a minister in 1848, as Kossuth had) and of having used armed force against the democratic clubs in 1868.58 The oath taken by the members of the committee was intended exclusively for Hungarians. It states that they swear “by the God of the Hungarians” to fight for “the independence of their Hungarian homeland and for the long-awaited restoration of the laws of 1848.”59 In his proclamation to Radanović (the aforementioned leader of the Dalmatian insurgents) raising the banner of freedom, fraternity, and equality, Asztalos summarized the committee’s most immediate task as follows:

In the very near future, we shall place at your disposal several proven, courageous men who will attract under your banners (…) the freedom-loving, valiant soldiers from (…) the army, from neighboring countries, especially from Hungary; who will organize the youth streaming to you in defense (…) of our common freedom; and who, once incorporated into the honvéd60 battalions, will fight under your supreme command for your freedom and, through you, for the freedom of the Hungarian people. (…) Put your faith in Garibaldi, Kossuth, and Mazzini (…) put your faith in the universal European revolution, which is destined to break out in the month of April.61

The sources indicate that the committee over which Asztalos presided as chair was indeed “Hungarian” in character. It was intended to organize Hungarians opposed to Dualism who were residing in the Bulgarian towns along the Danube for participation in a common uprising, together with the South Slavs. The committee was “Hungarian–Slavic” only insofar as it advocated the unification of the efforts of Hungarian and South Slavic fighters for independence. Did Asztalos maintain correspondence with various “Pan-Slavist,” that is, Slavic committees, as claimed by the Polish émigrés?62 He did indeed seek contacts with existing Bulgarian and other Slavic committees. This is also confirmed by a report of the Austro-Hungarian ambassador in Constantinople, Baron Anton von Prokesch-Osten, who noted that when Asztalos arrived there in early April 1870, he immediately met with Josef Pečko, the chair of the Slavic society.63 There is, however, no reliable evidence indicating that Asztalos maintained contacts from Vidin with Bulgarian or other South Slavic committees. Thus, the designation he gave the committee (“Hungarian–Bulgarian”) was more an indication of his intentions and ambitions.

The seal of the Vidin committee was produced some time after its establishment. From a letter bearing an impression of the wax seal and dated November 22, 1870 we learn that it had been received “recently from Bucharest.”64 The design of the seal features a shield with the Hungarian coat of arms but without any image of a crown, divided vertically. On the dexter side appear the alternating horizontal stripes traditionally associated with the Árpád dynasty, while on the sinister side a double cross rising from a triple mound is depicted

beneath the year 1870. The double cross and triple mound are well-established heraldic elements of the Hungarian coat of arms, symbolizing Christian kingship and historical geography, and the striped field refers to the historic Árpád stripes on Hungarian heraldic shields. The inscription itself, “Seal of the Hungarian–Bulgarian Secret Committee,” suggests a dual character. This, however, is not reflected in the iconography itself, which corresponds to the so-called Kossuth coat of arms of 1848, encircled by a laurel wreath with the year 1870 beneath it. Thus, while the sources offer no clear, incontrovertible evidence of this, it is nonetheless quite possible that Asztalos entertained ambitions to have Bulgarian participation on the committee, and he may even have taken some initial efforts in the service of this aim. The available documents allow us to conclude that the committee originated primarily as an organization of Hungarian émigrés, and the inclusion of Bulgarian revolutionaries was either anticipated at a later stage or partially realized.

Although Vasil Levski had not yet established a fully developed secret committee network at that time, revolutionary groups did exist in Bulgaria. These groups included followers of Georgi Rakovski, members of the 1866 Secret Bulgarian Central Committee, and groups that Levski began organizing in 1869. The establishment of “Bulgarian clubs” toward the end of 1869 was also encouraged by Svetoslav Sapunov, secretary of the Bulgarian political committee founded in Constantinople.65 It remains difficult to determine whether Asztalos’s committee in Vidin maintained direct links with revolutionary committees in Bulgaria. It is nevertheless plausible that he was connected, through György Szilágyi, to the so-called “Shumen Private Revolutionary Committee.” This hypothesis rests on the fact that Szilágyi was among the initiators of the revival of the Shumen cultural society Archangel Michael in the autumn of 1869 and was one of its most active members. The founders of the Shumen Committee emerged from among these cultural activists.66

In early 1870, Asztalos intended to travel to Bucharest to establish contact with the “local committees” and arrange for the printing of both the proclamation to the Dalmatian insurgents and the indictment. He himself did not have a passport, however, and thus was unable to undertake the journey, so he decided to entrust the mission to Mihály Takács. Accordingly, Asztalos drafted a letter to the “Romanian democratic party,” or in other words, the liberals associated with Constantin Rosetti and Ion Brătianu, the so-called “Reds.” This letter was accompanied by an “instruction” for Takács outlining a proposal for negotiations concerning the establishment of a Danubian confederation.67 Although the Dalmatian uprising had by then been suppressed, preparations were underway in Bucharest for a meeting of revolutionaries from various Balkan countries, at which the prospects for joint action were to be discussed. In March, through the mediation of Aziz Pasha, Asztalos obtained the necessary travel document, and on March 29, he departed for Ruse, together with his wife. He intended to proceed to Bucharest if the anticipated meeting took place. Otherwise, he planned to travel onward to Constantinople.

Asztalos arrived in Bucharest on April 1, 1870 as a representative of the Hungarian–Bulgarian Secret Committee.68 He remained there for three days. The consular reports provide only fragmentary and sometimes inaccurate information regarding his stay in Bucharest. According to these reports, Asztalos held several meetings with the leaders of the Romanian liberals (“the Reds”) and “especially with Rosetti,” who placed their printing press at his disposal. One report from the Austro-Hungarian Ministry of Foreign Affairs to Prime Minister Count Gyula Andrássy claims that, during Asztalos’s stay in Bucharest, a meeting of “foreign republican emissaries”69 took place, at which it was decided to continue preparations for planned incursions into Transylvania and Bulgaria. The commencement of these actions was allegedly postponed by several months and made contingent upon the possible “assassination” of Prince Carol I of Romania, reportedly to be orchestrated by the “Bucharest emissaries.” In this case, however, it is unclear exactly who sought the “removal”70 of Carol I (and why). At that time, the Romanian liberals with whom Asztalos was in contact supported the prince, whom they had brought to the throne.

The sources do not decisively reveal whether representatives of the Bulgarian revolutionary emigration were present among the “foreign republican emissaries.” According to Wolfart, the above decision was made “by the ‘Reds’ and by the Bulgarians, with Russian approval.”71 If Bulgarians did indeed participate in the meeting, they were most likely representatives of the radical “Young” faction. As early as March 1869, this group, influenced both by Romanian liberals and by the generation of 1848, had formed the organization “Young Bulgaria” in Bucharest.72 The members of this organization embraced republican ideas and maintained close personal ties with the leaders of the “Reds.” In the summer of 1869, two of their representatives, Teofan Raynov and Raycho Grablev, met Giuseppe Mazzini in London. Mazzini advised them to coordinate Bulgarian efforts for an armed uprising with those of the neighboring peoples. Mazzini himself advocated a federal republic including Serbs, Montenegrins, Croats, Dalmatians, Slovenes, and Bulgarians.73

By early April 1870, when the aforementioned events were unfolding, the Bulgarian Revolutionary Central Committee already existed in Bucharest under the leadership of Lyuben Karavelov, and Vasil Levski was also in Romania. Both figures were influenced by Mazzini’s ideas and by the “Young Bulgaria” movement.74 The committee newspaper, Svoboda, promoted the idea of revolu­tionary cooperation among the South Slavs and, more broadly, among the Balkan peoples, including the establishment of a South Slavic and Balkan federation. “The Slavs have begun to strive for a single goal, namely to create a federative dominion while each people lives independently. Among the Austrian and Turkish Slavs, this idea matures very quickly and will bear fruit,” wrote Svoboda in December 1869.75 In February 1870, the newspaper contained the following bold prediction: “In the hands of the Bulgarians, Serbs, and Romanians lies the knot of the Eastern Question, and the Danubian federation will soon untie it and liberate 14 million people from the heaviest bondage… Our common happiness lies in a free Danubian federation.”76

According to Takács, during his stay in Bucharest, Asztalos took part in a “conspiracy to create a confederation of the principalities of Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Montenegro.”77 According to the aforementioned report from the Austro-Hungarian Foreign Ministry to Andrássy, at the meeting, the “foreign republican emissaries” also discussed the future of the region. They resolved to establish a “Hungarian–Romanian branch of the Republican Danubian Confederation.” Asztalos probably advanced his own proposal, which presumably would have shown continuity with earlier plans from 1848–1849 and 1859–1862 for a Hungarian–Romanian–South Slavic confederation.78 In the spirit of Mazzinian republicanism, he envisioned a confederation “on a broad democratic basis… for mutual defense in the Danube valley,” in which Hungary would achieve its independence “shoulder to shoulder with Romania” and “with the accession of Serbia and Bulgaria.”79 Asztalos upheld equality and fraternity among peoples as fundamental principles for coexistence within the confederation. Presenting his views on the question of national minorities and most notably with regard to the demands of the Romanians in Hungary and Transylvania for the recognition of their national rights, he advocated the formation of independent states “without any restrictions whatsoever on nationalities and religions.”80 Asztalos’s vision drew on the broader currents of revolutionary thought circulating among émigrés in Europe, combining Kossuth’s federal concepts with Mazzini-inspired republican principles. In the early 1860s, Kossuth envisaged a Danubian Con­federation encompassing Hungary, Transylvania, the Romanian principalities, Croatia, and Serbia, with shared federal institutions for foreign relations, defense, commerce, and customs. Bulgaria was not explicitly included, likely because Kossuth focused on territories associated with the former Habsburg domains, while regions under Ottoman rule, such as Bulgaria, were perceived as within the Russian sphere of influence. These federal concepts emphasized equality, autonomy, and cooperation among nations, providing an institutional framework for coexistence. In contrast, Mazzini emphasized revolutionary solidarity, national self-determination, and the creation of democratic republics, often independent of existing imperial structures. Together, these intellectual currents informed Asztalos’s proposals and shaped his vision of a Danubian confederation “on a broad democratic basis… for mutual defense in the Danube valley,” in which Hungary would achieve its independence alongside Romania, with the accession of Serbia and Bulgaria.

From Bucharest, Asztalos traveled to Constantinople, where he intended to meet with Russian ambassador Count Nikolay Pavlovich Ignatiev, for whom he carried a letter of introduction by Gubastov.81 Since the Austro-Hungarian ambassador regarded Asztalos’s activities as increasingly dangerous, Asztalos was not permitted to return to Vidin. Pressured by the Ottoman authorities and threatened with internment in Asia Minor, Asztalos chose to remain in Constantinople and resume his legal practice. After the Congress of Berlin and during the Austro-Hungarian occupation of Bosnia and Herzegovina (undertaken as a measure to restore order following the Herzegovinian–Bosnian uprising against Ottoman rule), he attempted to continue his political activity. In September 1878, he issued a new proclamation on behalf of the “Secret Hungarian Committee in Constantinople” calling upon Hungarians not to participate in the occupation but to unite with the South Slavs in a common struggle against both Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian domination, in the name of independence and religious and national freedom. In keeping with Kossuth’s views, he openly criticized the self-serving aims of “Pan-Slavism and imperialism,” and he again urged the unification of Hungarians, South Slavs, and Romanians within a con­federative framework.82 In the years that followed, Asztalos attempted to establish himself in various cities across the Balkans. In 1877, he sought to return to his homeland, but the Austro-Hungarian authorities denied his request. The sources reveal little about the final years of his life. We know only that he fell into poverty and died by his own hand in Belgrade in November 1898.

Taken together, the archival evidence and biographical data examined in the discussion above illuminate the activities of János Asztalos against the backdrop of a broader landscape of revolutionary mobilization and political experimentation in the Danubian–Balkan region in the late 1860s. Although his individual historical impact was limited and the Hungarian–Bulgarian Secret Committee founded by him existed only briefly, these initiatives provide valuable evidence of and insight into the circulation of revolutionary ideas, federalist concepts, and strategies of cooperation among émigré networks operating across imperial borders. The committee founded by Asztalos was primarily Hungarian in composition and orientation, rooted in opposition to the Austro-Hungarian Compromise of 1867 and inspired by the political legacy of 1848. At the same time, its proclaimed openness to cooperation with Bulgarian revolutionaries and other South Slavic movements reflected wider efforts to link national struggles within a common framework of anti-imperial solidarity. The idea of a Danubian confederation, as articulated in the committee’s documents, should therefore be understood not as a concrete political project but as an expression of the shared political horizons of revolutionary circles seeking alternatives to imperial do­mina­tion in Central and Southeastern Europe. Asztalos’s initiatives demonstrate how individual émigré actors could function as intermediaries between different revolutionary milieus, transmitting ideas shaped by Kossuth’s federal concepts and Mazzini-inspired republicanism into new regional contexts. Asztalos’s activities in Vidin, Bucharest, and Constantinople illustrate both the potentials and the limitations of such transnational engagement. While these kinds of efforts fostered ideological exchange and momentary coordination, they remained dependent on personal networks and were vulnerable to surveillance, repression, and shifting political circumstances. Despite its short lifespan and limited scope, the Hungarian–Bulgarian Secret Committee occupies a distinctive place in the history of nineteenth-century Balkan and Danubian political movements. It represents a rare attempt to connect Hungarian opponents of Dualism with the Bulgarian revolutionary movement, the liberation struggles of other Balkan peoples, and the political projects of Romanian liberal circles. Viewed in this light, János Asztalos emerges not as a marginal revolutionary figure but as a revealing example of the transnational circulation of political ideas and initiatives that shaped the revolutionary imagination of the Danubian–Balkan world in the decades following 1848.

Archival Sources

Български исторически архив – Националната библиотека “Св. св. Кирил и Методий” [Bulgarian Historical Archive, St. St. Cyril and Methodius National Library] (BIA-NBKM)

F. 370, a.u. 15, fol. 1; a.u. 39, fols. 1, 4, 9.

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára, Budapest [National Archives of Hungary] (MNL OL)

K 26-I A 24-1870-740, fol. 40.

K 26-VI1-1869-1332; К 26-I А 24-1870-410, 521, 541, 606, 647, 671, 713, 740, 753, 807, 826;

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Bács-Kiskun Vármegyei Levéltára [National Archives of Hungary Bács-Kiskun County Archives] (MNL BKVL)

Court records

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1. 1 Шарова, “Към историята на българското освободително движение през 1869 г.,” 195.

2. 2 Българското национално революционно движение, т. 1, 328, 357.

3. 3 MNL OL, K 26-VI1-1869-1332; К 26-I А 24-1870-410, 521, 541, 606, 647, 671, 713, 740, 753, 807, 826; К 26-111-1870-787; К 148-XIVa-1870-965. See their publication in Bulgarian: Пейковска, “Политическата дейност на Янош Асталош в българските земи през 1869–1870 г.”

4. 4 The published sources have also been taken into account: Българското национално-революционно движение, (particularly documents no. 206 and no. 225, in which Asztalos’s name is also mentioned).

5. 5 Including the following newspapers: Magyar Újság (Hungarian News), Македония (Macedonia), Отечество (Fatherland), and Свобода (Freedom).

6. 6 Alongside interesting and varied information, these sources also contain rumors and inaccuracies.

7. 7 Magyar életrajzi lexikon, vol. 1, 60. According to Ferenc Pölöskei, in 1824. See Pölöskei, Az 1868-as parasztmozgalom.

8. 8 MNL BKVL, Court records, 4 March 1868, fol. 1491.

9. 9 The 1863 crisis in Kecskemét and its surroundings (including Bócsa) was caused by a catastrophic drought that devastated the Great Hungarian Plain. The resulting total crop failure and mass loss of livestock led to a complete economic collapse and a credit crisis, leaving tenant farmers and landowners unable to meet their financial obligations or service their debts.

10. 10 Pölöskei, Az 1868-as parasztmozgalom.

11. 11 Born in Gyöle on May 2, 1836 (MNL OL, R 130, 2. cs., 4. t.), Vilmos Madarász was the son of László Madarász, who was a former ally of Lajos Kossuth. From exile in Wallachia, Vilmos Madarász guided the actions of the Hungarian radical left in 1868.

12. 12 In 1859, the principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia united, forming the state of Romania.

13. 13 MNL OL, K 26-VI1-1869-1332. 4.

14. 14 The investigated documents do not contain any information about J. Asztalos’s activities in Wallachia.

15. 15 MNL OL, K 26-VII-1869-1332, 10. 

16. 16 Чужди пътепици за Балканите. Том 2: Маджарски пътепису за Балканите XVI–XIX v., 86.

17. 17 BIA-NBKM, f. 570, а.u. 39, fol. 9.

18. 18 Ликовски, “Спомените на Брайко Ц. Кофарджиев от Копривщица (1838–1914).” Manuscript preserved at the Bulgarian Historical Archives, St. St. Cyril and Methodius National Library: II А 9149.

19. 19 For further details, see Грънчаров, “Васил Ганчев в българското революционно движение през 60-те години на XIX в.”

20. 20 In 1868, Kállay, consul in Belgrade at the time, also paid a visit to Vidin. He was motivated by his suspicions concerning revolutionary activities among Bulgarians.

21. 21 In mid-1867, Cuza sought to return to his homeland, but Carol I did not allow entry into the country, fearing that he would attempt to reclaim the throne. The press also leveled similar attacks against Cuza, claiming that he would use Russian assistance to try to claim the throne. See Воgdаn and Stribu, Pe urmele lui Alexandru loan Cuza, 208–25.

22. 22 He is also mentioned as “Major Georgescu.” In 1864–1865, he settled in Bucharest at the request of Baron Karl von Eder, the Austro-Hungarian consul there. Bogati was suspected of being involved in the assassination of the Senate president Catargi. In 1871, he was arrested for his revolutionary activities. (MNL OL, К 26-VII-1869-1332, fol. 10-11, К 148-1871-3403, 3491).

23. 23 According to Alexandru Cantacuzino’s letter to Cuza, written in 5/17 November 1868, the dynasty had been compromised due to the Stroussberg railway line.

24. 24 In the late 1860s, two centers of the Romanian national liberation movement emerged: Timis,oara (in Banat) and Sibiu (Transylvania). Unlike the organization in Banat, the Sibiu center advocated passive resistance to the Dual Monarchy and managed to establish itself in the following years. See Erdély története, vol. 3, 1648–49.

25. 25 MNL OL, K 26-VII-1869-1332, fol. 6–7.

26. 26 Николчев, Материали за историята на аптечното дело в България, 79.

27. 27 Lukáts, Gyula. “Ruszcsuk a bombázása után.” Egyetértés, July 15, 1877.

28. 28 János Vidács (1826–1873), son of István Vidács. The latter was the founder of the first Hungarian agricultural machinery enterprise in the mid-nineteenth century. By the 1860s, he owned a steam mill in Craiova. János Vidács actively participated in the revolution of 1848–1849. After its defeat, he was sentenced to death, but he was later pardoned and given a long-term prison sentence. From 1861, he lived in Pest. He remained a member of parliament for his party in the Hungarian Parliament until his death.

29. 29 The Hungarian radical left was formed as an independent party in 1868 under the name “1848-as Párt,” or Party of 1848-ers.

30. 30 MNL OL, K 26-VII-1869-1332, fol. 14–15.

31. 31 MNL OL, K 26-VII-1869-1332, fol. 21.

32. 32 It is worth noting that Dalmatia had been a province of Austria since 1816, despite the Hungarian Parliament’s claims for its return to Hungary.

33. 33 The so-called Dalmatian Uprising (1869) is referred to in more recent historiography as the Krivošije Uprising, after the mountainous region of Krivošije to the north of Kotor. Both names refer to the same event.

34. 34 They were given this name because the insurgents were active in the Bay of Kotor, historically also known as Bocche di Cattaro.

35. 35 MNL OL, K 26-VII-1869-1332, fol. 30–31.

36. 36 MNL OL, K 26-1 А 24-1870, fol. 4.

37. 37 Свобода (Svoboda), February 12 (February 25), 1870.

38. 38 Македония,(Macedonia), October 23 (November 5), 1869, November 18 (December 1), 1869.

39. 39 Българското национално-революционно движение, т. 1, 347.

40. 40 Magyar Újság, December 2, 1869.

41. 41 Българското национално-революционно движение, т. 1, 335–36.

42. 42 See Шарова, “В. Левски и Л. Каравелов в началната история на БРЦК (1869–1870),” 78–82; Шарова, “Събрания на революционната емиграция,” 26.

43. 43 Българското национално революционно движение, т. 1, 328.

44. 44 Ibid., 327–28; MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870, fol. 3-4.

45. 45 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870, 3. о., K 26-VII-1869-1332, fol. 31.

46. 46 Cited in Македония, November 11 (December 1), 1869, January 17 (January 30), 1870.

47. 47 Magyarország története, vol. 6/2, 828.

48. 48 MNL OL, R 195, 3. cs., 7. t. Letter from Lajos Kossuth to Gyula Tanárky, November 22, 1869.

49. 49 MNL OL, K 26-VII-1869-1332, fols. 15, 19.

50. 50 Pölöskei, Az 1868-as parasztmozgalom, 631.

51. 51 Коssuth Lajos iratai, vol. 8, 223, 385–87.

52. 52 MNL OL, K 26-I A 24-1870, fols. 3–4.

53. 53 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-410, fols. 6–11, K 26-1 А 24-1870-510, fols. 12–24.

54. 54 “I, György Dobrovich, swear by the God of the Hungarians and by my honor…” and at the bottom it is written, “signature” in brackets and then his name in parentheses.

55. 55 MNL OL, K 26-1 А 24-1870, fol. 3.

56. 56 BIA-NBKM, f. 570, а.u. 39, fols. 1, 4.

57. 57 BIA-NBKM, f. 570, а.u. 15, fol. 1.

58. 58 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-521, fols. 14–23.

59. 59 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-410, fol. 7.

60. 60 The term “honvéd” refers to the revolutionary tradition of the Hungarian national forces of 1848–1849. In the context here, it functioned as a symbolic and programmatic model of national revolutionary armed struggle, invoked in transnational revolutionary discourse.

61. 61 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-410, fols. 8–10.

62. 62 Българското национално-революционно движение, т. 1, 356.

63. 63 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-740, fol. 39. 

64. 64 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-521, fols. 12, 13, 24. 

65. 65 Шарова, “Към историята на българското освободително движение през 1869 г.,” 198–203.

66. 66 Джумалиев, “Шумен и шуменци в революционните борби преди Освобождението.”

67. 67 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-541, fols. 26–28.

68. 68 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-606, fol. 31, K l48-XIVa-1870-865, fol. 1.

69. 69 MNL OL, К 26-1 А 24-1870-606, fol. 31. The information comes from Wolfart.

70. 70 MNL OL, K 26-1 А 24-1870-713, fol. 37. 

71. 71 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-606, fol. 31.

72. 72 The group disbanded in the autumn of 1869. Велики, Румъния и българското револю­ционно движение.

73. 73 Арнаудов, Любен Каравелов. 1834–1879: Живот, дело, епоха, 228.

74. 74 Велики, Румъния и българското револю­ционно движение, 130.

75. 75 Свобода (Svoboda), December 11 (24), 1869.

76. 76 Свобода (Svoboda), January 29 (February 11), 1870.

77. 77 MNL OL, K 26-I А 24-1870-753, fol. 41.

78. 78 Мérеi, Föderációs tervek, 35, 58.

79. 79 MNL OL, K 26-I A 24-1870-541, fol. 26.

80. 80 Ibid.

81. 81 MNL OL, K 26-I A 24-1870-740, fol. 40.

82. 82 Árnyéka eltűnő nevemnek, 215–19.

Surveilling the Danube: The Austrian Consulate in Vidin (1848–1878)* 

Simeon A. Simeonov

American University in Bulgaria

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ORCiD: https://orcid.org/0000-0002-5358-2804

Hungarian Historical Review Volume 15 Issue 2 (2026): 307-325 DOI 10.38145/2026.2.307 

This article examines the establishment and expansion of the Austrian consular network in the Lower Danube region with a focus on the town of Vidin in the period between the Hungarian and Wallachian Revolutions and the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–1878. In the 1830s, the Habsburg Empire established a firm consular presence on the left bank of the Lower Danube in the Danubian Principalities, but over the course of the next decades and particularly in the 1850s, it also progressively expanded into the northernmost part of the Ottoman Empire south of the river. The article seeks to illuminate the significance of one hitherto insufficiently examined node in this nascent Austrian consular network, the vice-consulate/consulate in Vidin, the second most populous Ottoman settlement on the Lower Danube (after the rapidly advancing Ruse farther downstream). This Austrian extraterritorial office, the article argues, served as a crucial information, commercial, political, and diplomatic agency in a region characterized by economic growth and marred by episodes of international warfare in the middle of the nineteenth century.

Keywords: consuls, Balkans, Vidin, Hungarian Revolution, Danube, Ottoman Empire

The introduction of steamboat transportation to the Danube River in the fourth decade of the nineteenth century completely transformed the complex commercial, political, and diplomatic history of the region. The new technology brought about intensified connections between Danubian ports and hinterlands, increasing the exchange of people, ideas, and goods across the borders of the different political entities that populated the region. The river had played a crucial strategic role in the historical evolution of the imperial states that still dominated the political landscape in the middle of the nineteenth century (the Habsburg, Ottoman, and Russian Empires), but it also attracted the interest of the new nation states of Serbia, Wallachia, and Moldavia (after 1859, Romania), which were emerging as important regional actors. With the development and sophistication of steamboat transportation, it became incumbent upon the different regional actors to gain access to the technology and harness it in their imperial or national projects.1

Naturally, as it had control over large parts of the Upper Danube and also a technological edge over its regional rivals, the Habsburg Empire stood to gain the most from the steamboat transportation advancements in the early decades of the nineteenth century. The foundations of its expanding control over Danubian steamboat transportation were laid in the 1830s, when the Erste Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft (DDSG) and the Austrian Lloyd began establishing Habsburg dominance over ever larger stretches of the Danube. Their operations were facilitated by a relatively peaceful period among the respective Danubian states after the conclusion of the Russo-Turkish War of 1828–1829 and the Greek Revolution of 1821–1829. The confluence of inter­national peace and technological innovation created the conditions for the con­struction of a new political and diplomatic infrastructure in the Danubian region, which would in turn further promote economic development.2

As one of the leading and more prosperous regional players, Austria realized the numerous opportunities presented by this new constellation of peace and progress and sought to take advantage of them. Given the flow of the river itself and the course of political affairs in the 1820s and 1830s, Austrian officials and merchants concentrated on the Lower Danube, a site of exchange, con­tention, and conflict between the Ottomans, Serbia, Wallachia, Moldavia, and Russia. As Prussia and Italy were realizing their ambitions for national unification, their advancing political projects came at the cost of diminishing Austrian influence and territories along its western borders, which naturally prompted Austrian officials and merchants to shift their attention to the east. Meanwhile, the promulgation of new Ottoman reforms in the wake of the so-called Tanzimat opened economic opportunities for Austrian entrepreneurs to enter the lucrative and vast markets of the Balkans and the Levant.3

At the intersection of these complex processes, which have been vigorously studied in a large and still expanding field of scholarly inquiries, a less noticeable process took place: the evolution of the Austrian consular network along the Danube.4 In the 1830s, this network established a firm presence on the left banks of the Lower Danube, in the Danubian Principalities, but over the course of the next decades and particularly in the 1850s, it would also progressively expand into the northernmost part of the Ottoman Empire, an area locked between the Balkan mountain range and the Danube that currently comprises, and in the mid-nineteenth century was often referred as, Northern Bulgaria.5 This article seeks to illuminate the significance of one node in this nascent Austrian consular network, the Austrian vice consulate/consulate in Vidin, the second most populous Ottoman settlement on the Lower Danube (after the rapidly advancing Ruse farther downstream), from the first consular operations in 1849 through the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–1878.6 This largely neglected Austrian extra­territorial office, the article argues, served as a crucial information, commercial, political, and diplomatic agency in a region characterized by economic growth and marred by episodes of international warfare in the middle of the nineteenth century.7

The Creation of an Austrian Consular Network on the Lower Danube

The integration of the Lower Danube into Austrian commercial networks was followed quickly by the placement of the first Austrian consular officials in Ruse and Vidin. In 1845, Adolphe-Salvador Tedeschi, a French Jewish merchant from Marseilles,8 was appointed Austrian consular agent under the direct supervision of the consul-general in Constantinople, with jurisdiction covering the settle­ments of Varna, Balchik, Kavarna, Mangalia, Kostence, and Messembria. With the exception of Messembria, these settlements were located on the Black Sea coast north of Varna, and they linked Varna to the Danubian delta, while Messembria connected it to Constantinople. Clearly, Tedeschi’s jurisdiction meant to secure the safety and growth of Austrian commercial interests, including those of the DDSG and the Austrian Lloyd, along the section of the western Black Sea linking the Danube to the imperial capital.9 Established in Varna, Tedeschi’s missions naturally privileged maritime interests linked to growing trade between the Ottoman Empire and other European maritime powers, and his reports reflect the increasing turnover of exports such as wheat, barley, corn, tallow, wool, butter, cheese, firewood, poultry, and flour, as well as imports such as coffee, cotton yarn, draperies, sugar, and pepper.10

The growth of trade in Varna suggested the necessity of establishing a stronger presence on the Danube, where many of the goods traded in the port town (including many Austrian goods) were transiting.11 There was another important reason for efforts to nurture Austrian interests in the region: the protection of the rights of transhumant shepherds (mocani) from Transylvania, who used the fertile pastures of Dobrudja to feed their large herds of sheep.12 These mass seasonal migrations prompted Christian Wilhelm Huber, the Habsburg consul in Galatz, to travel to Constantinople in search of a solution to the plights arising from the unregulated crossing (or, to the Ottoman authorities, trespassing) of the international border along the Danube. Having negotiated an agreement with the Ottomans in 1845, Huber pressed for a more durable institutional solution to the issues of transhumant pasturing and steamboat transportation via the creation of a network of consulates in Vidin, Ruse, Tulcea, and Varna.13

Against this backdrop of international negotiation, the first Austrian consul, the Viennese Emmanuel Edler von Rössler, established himself on the southern shores of the Lower Danube, in the Ottoman town of Ruse, in 1848. Rössler, who laid the groundwork for the consular activities in the period around the Hungarian and Wallachian Revolutions, argued for a denser consular presence in the area flanked by the Danube and the Balkan mountain range. In his view, the central office in that region should be in Ruse, with subordinate vice-consulates in Vidin and Varna. He strongly emphasized the importance of ensuring that the “Bulgarian” consulates remain outside the hierarchical structure of those established in Romania, for instance the consulate-general in Galatz.14 Rössler also asked the Ottoman authorities for a tezkere (an official permit to travel) allowing one of his servants to visit Silistra, the previous eyalet capital and an important Danubian center. But the events of 1849 also proved the necessity of the Austrian consular network reaching into the Balkan interior, for example to important administrative and commercial towns like Shumen/Shumla.15 To ensure that the network fulfilled its potential, Rössler asked the Austrian authorities for a special fund on which he could draw in order to pay trusted informers (spies), who could supply reliable information confidentially and professionally. In fact, this approach had enabled Rössler to navigate the complex events of 1849–1850, but the intensification of trade and the military buildup in the region put a premium on the regular acquisition of reliable information through a trusted group of informers.16

The Austrian Consulate at Vidin: Personnel, Profile, and Significance

One finds clear evidence of the emergence of an Austrian network on the right bank of the Lower Danube in the middle of the nineteenth century not merely in the designs of Viennese authorities or the imperial internunciature, but also in the career trajectories of the consular officials who staffed the growing number of extraterritorial establishments. Emmanuel Edler von Rössler, who laid the foundations of the Austrian consular network in the region, set a precedent for his consular subordinates and peers in Vidin by entering the consular ranks after having served in various imperial provincial governments (in Prague, Venice, and Graz). His knowledge of Serbian proved important in his appointment to the position of chancellor at the Habsburg consulate in Belgrade in 1842, after which he obtained an appointment as vice-consul in Ruse in 1848. After a promotion to the rank of consul in 1850, largely due to his services during the Hungarian and Wallachian Revolutions, he married Therese, née Baroness von Margelik and assumed the position of consul-general in Sarajevo in 1857, an office he held until rumors of homosexual acts precipitated his recall three years later.

Rössler’s successor, the jurist August Lenk von Wolfsberg, was born in Bratislava and worked as a junior clerk in the Royal Revenue Administration for Galatz before joining the Ministries of Finance and Commerce. With his solid command of foreign languages, he began work as a chancellor at the consulate in Galatz before receiving a vice-consular appointment in Vidin in March 1851, a position he held until 1859. He rose to the rank of consul in Trabzon and consul-general in Jerusalem before returning to the Balkans in 1864 and serving as a diplomatic agent in Salonica, a deputy consul-general in Belgrade, as well as consul-general in Corfu and diplomatic agent in Ioannina in the end of the 1860s. Lenk ended his career as a consul-general in Barcelona and Marseille. The career of Vidin’s second Austrian consul, the Viennese Leopold Walcher von Molthein, was remarkably similar. He, too, began his career in the Royal Revenue Administration, but unlike Lenk, his station was responsible for Upper and Lower Austria and Salzburg. After passing his consular examinations, he held short-term appointments in the administrations in Leipzig and Trieste before assuming similarly short-term positions in the consular chancelleries in Izmir, Trabzon, Galati, and Alexandria in the 1850s. Like Lenk, Walcher worked at the Vidin consulate for several years before moving to the consulate-general of Jerusalem and returning to Europe, with employment opportunities arising in Palermo and Paris.

The career trajectories of the vice-consuls who served in the decades prior to the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–1878 ossified into predictable patterns. The short tenure of Svetozar Theodorović von Szentendre in Vidin raises several questions, which shed light on the operation of the consular system, proving that everyday practice did not always coincide with that suggested by official documents. According to historian Engelbert Deusch, Theodorović first had military training, followed by a decade-long career in Belgrade, which saw him rise from the rank of vice-chancellor to that of chancellor. He was then appointed and served as vice-consul in Vidin in 1868–1869. However, the biographical data published by Deusch are contradictory, and based on other historical sources, Theodorović did not take the position in Vidin but rather remained at the Consulate General in Belgrade throughout the period.

Deusch also indirectly refers to the very peculiar case of Theodorović’s double promotion in 1868, when he mentions that Theodorović was simultaneously promoted to the position of Consul General in Belgrade.17 At the same time, however, historian Rudolf Agstner has provided additional inform­ation indicating that during Theodorović’s term of office in Vidin, Samuel Pinkas, the local Jewish “Honorardragoman” (a locally appointed interpreter and intermediary who worked with foreign diplomatic missions in the Ottoman Empire), replaced him as “interimistischer Gerent,” or interim representative, though Agstner does not specify the precise duration of this period.

The mystery surrounding Theodorović’s dual appointment and the circum­stances of Samuel Pinkas’s long-term replacement in Vidin can be re­constructed from the diary of Benjamin Kállay, the Austro-Hungarian consul general in Belgrade (published in Serbian), who took his office in April 1868.18 Kállay, who had been sent to Belgrade to promote Hungary’s national liberal Balkan policy objectives, insisted that Theodorović, who was well acquainted with Serbian affairs, should remain in Belgrade for an indefinite period despite his appointment as vice-consul in Vidin.19 Later, with the intervention of Béla Orczy, head of department (Sectionschef) at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Kállay again managed to have Teodorović’s stay in Belgrade extended.20 From the summer of 1868, Samuel Pinkas definitely served in Theodorović’s stead in Vidin, because he sent important political reports on the situation on the Serbian-Bulgarian border to Kállay (serving as cause for Kállay’s travels to Ottoman Bulgaria, Vidin, discussed in another study in this issue). We have evidence that Pinkas21 also sent information directly to Theodorović from Vidin about how the Circassians had plundered a Bulgarian village.22 This confirms that Theodorović could not have been staying in Vidin. Finally, Kállay personally met Pinkas when he traveled to the Serbian-Bulgarian border region in September 1868, accompanied by Felix Kanitz.23

Why was Theodorović retained in Belgrade despite his appointment? Dr. Svetozar Theodorović von Szentendre was the son of the Orthodox priest of Pomáz, a village in Hungary near Szentendre and Budapest. His father was a firm supporter of Benjámin Kállay in the parliamentary elections in Hungary. Therefore, Kállay, consul in Belgrade from 1868 on, strongly relied on this family and Theodorović’s knowledge of Belgrade, and in addition to supporting Theodorović’s career, he also wanted to retain him as his personal confidante in Belgrade, especially when he was traveling in distant places.24

After his years in Belgrade, Theodorović took the position of consulate general of Sarajevo (1872) and, later, consulate general of Tunis (1878), where he won over the Muslim notables and defended the interests of Christians, only to end his career amidst allegations of corruption. The last Habsburg consul in Vidin on the eve of the Russo-Turkish War was Adolph Ritter von Schulz, a Viennese disciple of the Oriental Academy, who began his career as a dragoman at the Internunciature in Constantinople and continued as a chancellor at the consulate-general in Beirut and the consulate in Salonica. Like Theodorović, Schulz ascended to the consular ranks as a vice-consul in Vidin, a position he held for eight years before returning to Beirut as the Austro-Hungarian consul general in late 1877, amidst the ongoing war between the Ottoman and Russian Empires.

The profiles of the consular officials in Vidin demonstrate both a degree of professionalization as well as dynamic regional (and trans-regional) mobility. Roughly half of them were Viennese-born Austrians, and another half were Habsburg subjects of a wide range of ethnic backgrounds. Like other consuls in the region, they married relatively late, shortly after having received a promotion, with some consuls remarrying after the deaths of their spouses. Commercial and status considerations were clearly present in the first marriages of Lenk (von Wolfs­berg) to the daughter of an imperial noble and of Walcher (von Molthein), still de jure consul in Vidin, to Camilla Malanotti (1839–1872), the daughter of a Vien­nese silk merchant, in 1853. Both of them also married late in their lives, either shortly before or after turning forty, and they later remarried. However, none of the consuls seems to have had familial connections to the others, a testament to the fact that the consular network largely operated upon meritocratic principles and that Vidin attracted well-trained consular officials with some previous experience, almost always in secretarial functions. In fact, the elevation of the office in Vidin to a consulate helped propel several of the incumbents into an ascendant imperial consular career.

If the revolutions of 1848–1849 bore witness to the inception of the Austrian consular network in the southern Lower Danube region, then the Crimean War of 1853–1856 marked its first important test.25 The activities of the consulates produced hundreds of pages of correspondence with a focus on the military strength, capabilities, and maneuvers of the belligerent Ottoman and Russian armies. The Austrian consuls on both sides of the Danube provided important information on the occupation of the Danubian Principalities by the Russian army in June 1853, leading to an escalation of the military and diplomatic situation. Their reports reflect the concentration of Ottoman forces in Vidin and between Ruse and Tulcea, with the likely objective of an attack on the assembled Russian garrisons on the left side of the Danube. In the first months of the war at the end of 1853, the Austrian consul in Ruse reported the cannonading of a Russian boat carrying munitions from Isaccea to Braila and the capture of a Russian garrison on a Danubian island by an Ottoman force led by Omer Pasha. Afterwards, it was Lenk (von Wolfsberg), the Austrian consul in Vidin, who supplied crucial information to Vienna regarding the military activities in the region. The Ottoman army launched a daring campaign, using the adjacent Danubian islands as a spearhead for a massive attack on the Russian detachments in the area of Cetate. Consul Lenk followed the Ottoman forces despite the explicit orders by the local commander not to do so. In the first months of 1854, he informed the Viennese authorities about the course of the Ottoman expedition toward Calafat, a campaign involving approximately 50,000 soldiers and resulting in many casualties on both sides. His reports were invaluable to the Austrian authorities, as they reflected in a seemingly objective manner the strength, objectives, and prospects of the belligerent powers.26 This information was of great significance to the decisions that the Austrian authorities had to make in the course of the conflict, namely, whether to remain neutral, aid their recent Russian allies, or join the growing coalition. This decision was by no means foreordained in the early period of the war, and Lenk played an important role in mediating information about Austria’s potential involvement with the Ottoman authorities or subjects with whom he traveled and lived on a daily basis.27

As had happened at the end of the Hungarian and Wallachian Revolutions, the close of the Crimean War brought about the institutionalization of several consular practices that had become common in wartime. For example, it reaffirmed the importance of systematic consular observation and reporting on troop strength and military maneuvers within their respective jurisdictions. Russia’s defeat, the unification of Romania, and the creation of the European Commission of the Danube meant that the powers interested in maintaining or expanding their influence in the Lower Danube region had to adapt to the changing circumstances and protect their various interests against the threat of a new military confrontation.28

The Austrian consular presence on the southern Lower Danube was distinguished from that of the other powers who sought to establish a consulate there by the remarkable experience of the revolutionary uprisings of 1848–1849, which accentuated the need for a coordinated approach to cases of individual or group migrations across the expanding network. Crucial to this endeavor was a heightened focus on the management of the people who entered various consular jurisdictions. In this regard, the experience of the Hungarian and Wallachian Revolutions clearly imprinted itself upon the consuls in Vidin and Ruse. The reports issued by these consuls over the following years were marked by counterrevolutionary considerations. The counterinsurgency measures of consul Rössler might not have prevented the migration of Lajos Kossuth’s followers, but a few years later, the Habsburg consul in Belgrade contemplated adopting similar actions to combat “the trace left over by the Hungarian emigrants,” whom he blamed for the disturbances around the Serbian dynastic crisis of 1853.29

Fears of potentially subversive migrants also marked the activities of the Austrian consulate in Vidin throughout the early period of its existence. “Recently several reports have been received here,” wrote consul Walcher (von Molthein) to the Austrian Foreign Minister in 1864, “according to which many foreign subjects from Serbia are crossing over into Wallachia and are crossing the Danube at Cladowa in order to enter Wallachia directly at Turnu-Severin.” In view of the “unusual gathering of foreigners in the Danubian Principalities, especially of Polish, Hungarian and Italian nationality,” the consul desired to obtain “more precise information on a journey to Turnu-Severin about the foreign traffic taking place at the abovementioned Serbian–Wallachian point, and at the same time to extend the journey to the nearby Austrian cordon station of Orsova, in order, in agreement with the k.u.k. (Imperial-Royal) cordon command and by personal consultation, to promote mutual official assistance for the supervision of passersby.”30 In 1873, consul Adolph Ritter von Schulz reported a similar collective movement that seemed suspicious. He wrote to Gyula Andrássy,

I have just learned, that the Wallachian peasants of the village of Bregawa, situated on the Serbian border, have recently acted against some Turkish security authorities in a manner that must all the more arouse attention, since until now the inhabitants of the Wallachian villages lying on Turkish territory, and mostly toward the Serbian border, have distinguished themselves by their correct [i.e., loyal to the Ottoman authorities] conduct.31

Another important aspect of the work of the consuls was the monitoring and stimulation of Austrian commercial activities in their jurisdictions. As a first prominent Ottoman port for Austrian boats navigating the Danube, Vidin gained a strategic significance within the Habsburg consular network, as it became a node of Europeanization and of the introduction of modern inven­tions into the Ottoman interior. It is important to note that the first phase of Austrian consular activity coincided with an expansion of trade with the Ottoman Empire, but the devastations of the Crimean War adversely impacted commercial exchange between the two empires. However, the end of the war brought substantial French and British investments in railroad and telegraph infrastructure, particularly in the Danubian delta, with the launch of Cerna voda-Constanza and Ruse-Varna railroad projects to expedite the transport connection between the Danube and the Black Sea.32 The foreign ministries of Paris and London also considered creating a consular network along the Lower Danube to facilitate these imperial projects. A French consul openly discussed these plans with his Austrian colleague, a testament to a certain collegiality and institutional culture that began to take root over the years of common service in the Bulgarian lands.33

Though not included in these grand infrastructural projects, Vidin attracted the attention of the French and British authorities due to its strategic location, administrative significance, and military importance in the context of the Crimean War. Unlike their Habsburg peers, the French and British authorities did not establish a solid and continuous consular presence in the Danubian town in the 1850s, to the detriment of their commercial, political, and diplomatic interests. The absence of foreign consuls likely proved a blessing for the Austrian consular officials in Vidin in this period. Despite the missing prospects for cross-national cooperation (for example, in the areas of migration management, cultural exchange, and information distribution), there were also considerable risks associated with the different, at times opposing interests of the Western powers (as well as Russia) in the Lower Danube region. The Habsburg consuls in Ruse and Varna, for example, bemoaned the pro-revolutionary activities of their British colleague in the important Black Sea port, who had enabled the escape of prominent Hungarian revolutionaries from the tightening grip of the imperial officials.34 In 1860s, there were frequent allegations of the newly installed Russian consul in Vidin inciting Bulgarians to emigrate to the Russian Empire. A strong presence of French or British consuls would have presented obstacles to Austrian interests in Vidin, not to mention increased commercial competition for the gradually recovering local markets in the wake of the Crimean War.

Certainly, the relative prominence of Austrian consular interests in Vidin also benefitted from the development of imperial steamboat transportation across the Danube. Consul Rössler complained to the Viennese authorities about the unreliability of steamboat transportation, as he failed to intercept the migration of the thousands of Hungarian, Wallachian, Polish, and Italian exiles from Vidin to Shumen in November 1849, missing them by eight days. Therefore, he reported to the Austrian minister on November 9, “I will catch the steamboat arriving here on the 14th in the direction of Ruse, from whence I will undertake a land journey to Shumla, where I will arrive two or three days before the refugees.” Rössler anticipated saving several days by choosing steamboat navigation, since the “journey by foot to Shumla advances very slowly, at only four hours per day,” mostly due to poor roads and a particularly harsh winter.35 Rössler believed that his ability to utilize the Austrian steamboat would provide a strategic advantage over the last group of rebels, who would arrive in Vidin later than he. He wrote,

It is not to be doubted, that after covering such a wide route (the journey should last up to 75 days, most [migrants] completing it on foot), all those already inclined to return would, considering the approaching harsh season and the absence of any comfort and of all essentials, be even more determined to undertake a return trip.

If that were indeed the case, Rössler stressed, he would provide all those willing to return but lacking the means to do so with the necessary money to depart from Shumla to Ruschuk, “from whence they would embark on a steam­boat via Orsova to their homeland or wherever they were to be sent.” To act “swiftly and successfully,” however, the consul needed not only a significant “sum of money, but also, at his disposal, per official order, command over a steam­boat at Ruschuk, which would transport the refugees to Austria.”36 In the end, a delay in the departure of the Austrian ship caused the consul to lose vital time in mounting his horse, and his counter-insurgency efforts toward Shumen. He arrived there late on November 21, largely due to the unforeseen delay of his steamboat’s departure, missing Kossuth’s arrival by only two hours.37

The expansion of steamboat transportation was a double-edged sword for the consuls, for it inevitably entangled the Habsburg monarchy in the nascent revolutionary struggles taking place on both sides of the Lower Danube. In October 1849, consul Rössler reported the movement of “traitors” on board the steamboat to Orsova, who allegedly sought to join the “Hungarian and Polish refugees [and] accompany them to Shumla.”38 As steamboat transportation improved over the next years, Bulgarian revolutionaries in Romania made use of the new technology to navigate the river on their way to the homeland, at times inciting conflicts with captains or the Ottoman police closely monitoring their activities.39 In 1867, a daring expedition by the rebel leaders Nikola Voyvodov and Tsvyatko Pavlovich, who boarded the Austrian steamer Germania at Galatz with the goal of revolutionizing the Bulgarian lands, was thwarted by the Ottoman police, and the two leaders were killed by the guards after a gunfight at the wharf in Ruse. It was very difficult for foreign consuls to avoid getting dragged into these confrontations, and the nascent Bulgarian national press vigorously reported on consuls’ actions on different occasions.40 In fact, the involvement of imperial subjects in local revolutionary affairs continued after the liberation of Bulgaria from Ottoman rule. In 1880, merely two years after the end of the Russo-Turkish War, the Austrian consuls in Vidin and Ruse monitored the activities of a secret Macedonian committee in Bulgaria, which included an imperial subject in a highly influential position. The consuls communicated with the Austrian representative in Sofia to affect the quick deportation of their subject before the incident turned into a major debacle.41

Steamboat navigation remained dangerous over the following decades for environmental reasons as well. In the early years of Austrian consular activities along the Danube, the Iron Gates (a stretch of the Danube where the river passes through a narrow gorge) presented an insurmountable barrier to steamboat transportation, an important limiting factor to an even greater consular presence. A report by consul Walcher on the sinking (and rescue) of an Ottoman government steamer named Silistria near Orsova in March 1864 demonstrated the risks of underestimating the geographic limitations on the expansion of steamboat navigation.42 This incident highlighted the importance of close collaboration between the Habsburg consuls and the imperial steamboat navigators. Numerous conflicts in the late nineteenth century attested to the necessity of having an imperial consul in Vidin, as well as a chancellor fluent in Bulgarian to ensure the swift and unproblematic resolution of conflicts.43

Conclusion

The Habsburg consulate in Vidin established itself as an important node in the nascent imperial extraterritorial network that began to take shape in the Lower Danube region around the middle of the nineteenth century. Undoubtedly, the creation of the network was precipitated by the expansion of Habsburg steamboat transportation, the recurrence of transhumant pasturing, and the overall economic penetration of imperial goods into the Ottoman Empire during the Tanzimat Era. But if these developments set the conditions for the establishment of an Austrian (vice) consulate in Ruse, then the kindling of revolutionary ferment in 1849 was ultimately the decisive factor for the com­pletion of this endeavor. The Crimean War clearly demonstrated the utility of an imperial consulate in this seemingly peripheral location, inasmuch as Vidin, the adjacent region, and the lands on the opposite side of the Danube became an important, complex, and fiercely contested battleground in the early months of the military clashes.

While the Crimean War brought devastation to the region, the Austrian consulate continued its operations, helping promote the interests of its subjects, entrepreneurs, and steamboat operators in a period that witnessed the growth of imperial commercial interests in the area. A reorganization that took place after 1859, when the consular system was attached to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, also resulted in enhanced activity paired with greater efficiency. Even as Austrian consuls in Vidin helped promote imperial interests (and, indirectly, local economic recovery),44 they consistently emphasized the importance of setting up a comprehensive surveillance regime across the Lower Danube region, as the river functioned as an artery that enabled revolutionary ideas to proliferate, against the designs of the reactionary officials. As shown in the discussion above, the Austrian consuls in Vidin managed to establish the consulate as an important node within a growing extraterritorial network. Their services helped advance the interests of the Habsburg Empire well beyond the conflicts that defined the late nineteenth century (i.e., the Hungarian and Wallachian Revolutions, the Crimean War, and the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–1878). Finally, the article also corrected errors in the two major handbooks on Austrian consular activity, based on personal archival sources, thereby facilitating further research on these largely neglected extraterritorial establishments.

Archival Sources

Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna (ÖStA)

Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv (HHStA)

Diplomatie und Außenpolitik (1848–1918)

Ministerium des Äußern (1735–1924)

Politisches Archiv 33 (1848–1918)

Konsulate 1848–1918

Централен държавен архив, София [Bulgarian National Archives, Sofia]

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1. 1 Ardeleanu, Steamboat Modernity.

2. 2 Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube.

3. 3 Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire: The Sublime Porte, 1789–1922; Alloul and Martykánová, “Introduction: Charting New Ground in the Study of Ottoman Foreign Relations.”

4. 4 Matsch, Geschichte des Auswärtigen Dienstes von Österreich(-Ungarn), 1720–1920; Deusch, Die effektiven Konsuln Österreich(-Ungarns) v. 1825–1918; Agstner, Handbuch des k.k. / k.u.k. Konsulardienstes; Мишев, “Дипломатическото дело на Австро-Унгария (1867–1918 г.): Институционални аспекти”; Симеонов, “Австрийското вицеконсулство.”

5. 5 Roussev, “Old Glory Returns,” 79; Florescu, “Lord Strangford and the Problem of the Danubian Principalities, 1821–4”; Florescu, “R. G. Colquhoun, Ion Câmpineanu and the Pro-Western Opposition in Wallachia, 1834–1840”; Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube; Агетнер, България-Австрия 125 години дипломатически отношения и 160 години представителства на Австрия (Австро-Унгария) в България.

6. 6 On Ruse’s rise in this period, see Плетньов, Мидхат Паша и управлението на Дунавския вилает; Бакърджиева, На крачка пред времето.

7. 7 On the significance of consular establishments as surveillance and information agencies, see Aliprantis, “Transnational Policing after the 1848–1849 Revolutions: The Habsburg Empire in the Mediterranean”; Симеонов, “Австрийското вицеконсулство.”

8. 8 Roussev, “Old Glory Returns,” 80–81.

9. 9 Паскалева, “Икономическото проникване на Австрия.”

10. 10 Roussev, “Old Glory Returns,” 83–90.

11. 11 Other important routes for Austrian goods included the land routes stretching across the borders between the two empires in the Balkans. See, for instance, Паскалева, Македония през погледа на австрийски консули, passim.

12. 12 Deusch, Die effektiven Konsuln, 307, 353. See also Тодоров, Овчарската аристокрация.

13. 13 Deusch, Die effektiven Konsuln, 352–53.

14. 14 Симеонов, “Австрийското вицеконсулство.”

15. 15 Симеонов, “Списъкът на Рьослер.”

16. 16 See Арато [Arató], “Принос към истоията на описанието на град Шумен,” as well as the literature cited there. Rössler seems at one point to have suggested moving the consulate to Shumen, but this is probably due to the novelty of the Ruse consulate and his unfamiliarity with the town and region. I would like to thank Gábor Demeter and Imre Ress for their help in surveying the secondary literature, as well as their help with the preparation of the current manuscript.

17. 17 Deusch, Die effektiven Konsuln, “Generalkonsulatskanzler, May 2, 1868; V[ize]-K[anzler] in Vidin, May 2, 1868,” 655. However, Deusch does not examine the circumstances and consequences of this unusual double appointment. He simply assumes that Theodorović took his post as vice-consul on the day of his appointment, as Deusch found no reference in Theodorović’s personal file to a date of entry into service (Dienstantritt, abbreviated to DA) in Vidin other than the date of his appointment. A similar approach can be observed in another fundamental handbook, Rudolf Agstner’s posthumous work Handbuch des k.k. / k.u.k. Konsulardienstes, in which Agstner also gives what are supposedly the exact dates of Theodorovic’s tenure as vice-consul in Vidin (April 23, 1868–April 29, 1869.) I would like to thank the anonymous reviewer of this article for this important observation.

18. 18 Radenić, Dnevnik.

19. 19 Radenić, Dnevnik, May 5, 1868.

20. 20 Radenić, Dnevnik, August 7, 1868.

21. 21 Material on Pinkas is available at Administrativ Registratur. ÖStA, HHStA, MdÄ AR F4-260-1 (1864-1886).

22. 22 Radenić, Dnevnik, January 15, 1869.

23. 23 His travel notes were also published in Bulgarian by Petar Miyatev. Миятев, “Бенямин Калай (1868).”

24. 24 Another study by Rudolf Agstner contains a wealth of information about the administrative history of the consulate in Vidin, which was not included in his posthumously published handbook. Agstner, “Österreich (-Ungarn) und seine Konsulate in Bulgarien 1844–1918.”

25. 25 See Schroeder, “Austria and the Danubian Principalities, 1853–1856.”

26. 26 Паскалева,“За Кримската война по Долния Дунав (1853–1854).”

27. 27 Ibid.

28. 28 On the European Commission of the Danube, see Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 1856–1948.

29. 29 Teodor Radosavlievič to Count Karl Ferdinand von Buol-Schauenstein, Belgrade, 25.07.1853, ÖStA, HHStA, Diplomatie und Außenpolitik (1848–1918). Ministerium des Äußern (1735–1924). Politisches Archiv 33 (1848–1918). Konsulate 1848–1918. Karton 98, Bulgarian National Archives, Sofia, KMF03/360/13 (microfilm).

30. 30 Walcher von Molthein to Count Johann Bernhard von Rechberg und Rothenlöwen, Vidin, March 30, 1864. ÖStA, HHStA, Politisches Archiv 1848–1918, PA XXXVIII. Konsulate; Bulgarian National Archives, KMF03, inventory no. 5 (microfilm).

31. 31 Adolph von Schulz to Gyula Andrássy, Vidin, April 27, 1873. ÖStA, HHStA, Politisches Archiv 1848–1918, PA XXXVIII. Konsulate; Bulgarian National Archives, KMF03, inventory no. 5 (microfilm).

32. 32 Platon, “Les intérêts français au Bas-Danube à la moitié du XIXe siècle à travers la correspondance commerciale du consul français Eugène Poujade (1849–1854).”

33. 33 Roussev, “Le consul français: un intermédiaire de la modernisation occidentale dans les Balkans au XIXe siècle”; Roussev, “Les premiers pas de la pénétration consulaire française en Bulgarie.”

34. 34 Симеонов, “Списъкът на Рьослер,” 148; Плетньов, “Русия и преселването на българи в Русия след 1862 г.,” 146–50.

35. 35 Consul Emanuel Edler von Rössler to Felix Ludwig Johann Friedrich, Prinz zu Schwarzenberg, Ruse, November 9, 1849. ÖStA, HHStA, Politisches Archiv 1848–1918, PA XXXVIII. Konsulate; Bulgarian National Archives, KMF03, inventory no. 5 (microfilm).

36. 36 Emanuel Edler von Rössler to Felix Ludwig Johann Friedrich, Prinz zu Schwarzenberg, Ruse, November 10, 1849. ÖStA, HHStA, Politisches Archiv 1848–1918, PA XXXVIII. Konsulate; Bulgarian National Archives, KMF03, inventory no. 5 (microfilm).

37. 37 Emanuel Edler von Rössler to Felix Ludwig Johann Friedrich, Prinz zu Schwarzenberg, Ruse, November 22, 1849. ÖStA, HHStA, Politisches Archiv 1848–1918, PA XXXVIII. Konsulate; Bulgarian National Archives, KMF03, inventory no. 5 (microfilm).

38. 38 Emanuel Edler von Rössler to Felix Ludwig Johann Friedrich, Prinz zu Schwarzenberg, Ruse, October 26, 1849. ÖStA, HHStA, Politisches Archiv 1848–1918, PA XXXVIII. Konsulate; Bulgarian National Archives, KMF03, inventory no. 5 (microfilm).

39. 39 Simeonov, “Microhistory of a Djemadan.”

40. 40 For more information on how consular activities in Ruse contributed to the tensions and national liberation struggle in the period of the Great Eastern Crisis, see Simeonov, “Microhistory of a Djemadan.”

41. 41 Rudolf von Khevenhüller-Metsch to Heinrich Karl von Haymerle, Sofia, October 5, 1880. ÖStA, HHStA, Diplomatie und Außenpolitik 1848–1918 Politisches Archiv (PA) 1848–1918, PA XV Bulgarien 1879–1918; Bulgarian National Archives, KFM03, inventory no. 295b/2-3.

42. 42 Walcher von Molthein to Count Johann Bernhard von Rechberg und Rothenlöwen, Vidin, March 11, 1864. ÖStA, HHStA, Politisches Archiv 1848–1918, PA XXXVIII. Konsulate; Bulgarian National Archives, KMF03, inventory no. 5 (microfilm).

43. 43 See, for example, Stanislaus Ritter von Piliński to Gustav Kálnoky von Körös-Patak, February 27, 1888. ÖStA, HHStA, Politisches Archiv 1848–1918. PA XXXVIII – Konsulate; Bulgarian National Archives, KFM03, inventory no. 360/6. On the need for a chancellor to handle the increasing amount of work due to the navigation season, see Anton von Prokesch-Osten to Johann Bernhard von Rechberg und Rothenlöwen, May 16, 1860, Constantinople. ÖStA, HHStA, Diplomatie und Außenpolitik 1848–1918 Administrative Registratur 1848–1918 F 8 Kaiserliche Konsulate und Agentien, Karton 33; Bulgarian National Archives, KFM03, inventory no. 552/4, p. 256–262.

44. 44 See Симеонов, “Консулствата като фактори.”

* Research for this article was supported by the Bulgarian Ministry of Education and Science, National Science Fund, National Science Program “Cutting-edge Research and People for the Development of European Science 2024” (VIHREN–2024), Project Balkan Consuls: Extraterritorial Agents and the Making of the Modern State in Southeast Europe, Program Contract: КП-06-ДВ-3/16.12.2024.