Beyond the Sea: Reviewing the manifold dimensions of water as barrier and bridge 9783412217358, 9783412222932

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Marta Grzechnik ∙ Heta Hurskainen (Ed.)

BEYOND THE SEA REVIEWING THE MANIFOLD DIMENSIONS OF WATER AS BARRIER AND BRIDGE

2015 BÖHLAU VERLAG KÖLN WEIMAR WIEN

Gedruckt mit Unterstützung der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft aus Mitteln des Internationalen Graduiertenkollegs 1540 „Baltic Borderlands: Shifting Boundaries of Mind and Culture in the Borderlands of the Baltic Sea Region“ Published with assistance of the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft by funding of the International Research Training Group ”Baltic Borderlands: Shifting Boundaries of Mind and Culture in the Borderlands of the Baltic Sea Region“

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://portal.dnb.de abrufbar.

Umschlagabbildung: Vilhelm Arnesen: Dänisches Barkschiff vor Schloß Kronborg und Helsingör in der Ferne. Undatiert. © Sotheby’s / akg-images Cover illustration: Vilhelm Arnesen: Danish bark off castle Kronborg and Helsingør in the distance. Undated. © Sotheby’s / akg-images

© 2015 by Böhlau Verlag GmbH & Cie, Köln Weimar Wien Ursulaplatz 1, D-50668 Köln, www.boehlau-verlag.com Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Dieses Werk ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig. Korrektorat: Matt Ellis, Budapest Gesamtherstellung: WBD Wissenschaftlicher Bücherdienst, Köln Gedruckt auf chlor- und säurefreiem Papier Printed in the EU ISBN 978-3-412-22293-2

Content

Preface  ............................................................................................................ 

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Marta Grzechnik, Heta Hurskainen and Alexander Drost

Beyond the Sea. Introduction  ...................................................................... 

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Boris Dunsch

“Why do we violate strange seas and sacred waters?” The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry  ................  17 Alexander Filiuschkin

Image of Seas and Rivers as a frontier between the different worlds in Russian Medieval narrative  . . ........................................  43 Lehti Mairike Keelmann

Amber rosaries, Baltic furs, and Persian carpets. The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece as an object of Hanseatic conspicuous consumption? . 53 Magnus Ressel

The First German Dream of the Ocean. The Project of the “Reichs-Admiralität” 1570 –1582  .. ..................................  85 Tilman Plath

Naval Strength and Mercantile Weakness. Russia and the struggle for participation in the Baltic Navigation during the eighteenth century  .....  117 Marta Grzechnik

From moat to connecting link. Sweden and the Baltic Sea in the twentieth century  ..................................  129 Ole Sparenberg

Mining for Manganese Nodules. The Deep Sea as a Contested Space (1960s – 1980s)  ...................................  149 Magdalena Schönweitz

The Öresund region. Between utopia and reality  . . .....................................  165

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Content Stefan Ewert

Governance—an Analytical Concept to Study the Baltic Sea Region?  ....  185 Tim-Åke Pentz, Daria Gritsenko

Maritime Governance in the Baltic Sea Region. The EU’s Success Story?  . 203 Jan Henrik Nilsson

Logistic Revolutions and territorial change. Implications for the Baltic Sea region  .........................................................  227 Biographical Notes  ........................................................................................  253 Index  . . .............................................................................................................  257

Preface   At the University of Greifswald research on the Baltic has always placed the sea at the centre of scholarly attention. This approach contrasts sharply with extant narratives that have relegated maritime regions to the periphery of land-based societies. In shifting the vantage point of examination and by placing the sea now at its centre, new narratives and enriching interpretations can be developed. Of course the sea is more than just about water and maritime spaces: It is also a commercial facilitator, a forum of cultural exchanges, military engagements and a means of providing for daily lives. In this way, the sea becomes an interactive space in the broadest sense of the word, connecting, bridging, and separating peoples, cultures, and lands. Against this backdrop, life at and with the sea deemed to significantly impact the cultural, economic, and social life on land. The present volume aims to nudge attention away from the land and instead focus on both historical and contemporary analyses above and under water, yet maintaining a trans-­boundary perspective. We would like to extend our gratitude to all those who participated in the original conference “Beyond the Sea: Reviewing the Manifold Dimensions of Water as Barrier and Bridge”, and submitted their final papers for inclusion in this volume. A special thank you must go to Mr. Matt Ellis for proof reading the papers and to Peter Borschberg, Bo Petersson, Christer Pursiainen, Stephan Kessler, Mathias Niensdorf, Jens E. Olesen, and Ingo Take for their services and input as academic reviewers. The credits would not be complete without thanking especially Jörn Sander, Maik Fiedler, Lasse Seebeck, Sven Ristau, Friederike Schmidt, Eric Ladenthin, Sebastian Nickel, Silke Kropf, Ines ­Glaubitz, Hielke van Nieuwenhuize, Stefan Lukas, and Doreen Wollbrecht for their time and effort in organizing both the original 2012 conference as well as the publication of this volume. Greifswald, June 2014 Michael North

Marta Grzechnik, Heta Hurskainen and Alexander Drost

Beyond the Sea. Introduction With its long and meandering coastline, its peninsulas and countless islands, Europe appears on a map as an inherently maritime continent. None of its parts lie far from the seashores. And yet, few narratives about European societies have been written from the perspective of the sea and the seashore—they have mostly been constructed from the inland perspective. This is understandable, considering the truth that one’s point of view depends upon one’s position and, because humans are land-dwellers, our position is for the most part situated on dry land. Even so, there is value in shifting our point of view. This book represents a humble attempt to do so. We are, of course, aware that we are not the first ones to explore this idea. Since Fernand Braudel presented his account of the Mediterranean,1 the point of reference for maritime histories to this day, European seas have been subjects of research in diverse fields. Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, having studied the Mediterranean themselves,2 in their effort to explain the appeal of what they call “thalassology”3 mention some advantages of this approach: it transforms the periphery into the core, it enables relative political neutrality, it allows us to ignore political borders and imperial hierarchies and concentrates on water rather than land—not to mention the allure of allowing “seden­tary landlubber historians to indulge a taste for the romance or frisson of seafaring”.4 The other major European sea, the Baltic, has especially interested scholars and politicians since the fall of the Iron Curtain, as the disappearance of the harsh political divisions which had run across the sea made it easier and more appealing to think about the sea’s shores as united into one region, or at least one unit of scholarly analysis.5 A perspective with the focus on the sea—the perspective

1 F. Braudel, La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II . Paris 1976. 2 See: P. Horden and N. Purcell, The corrupting sea: A study of Mediterranean history. Oxford, Malden, Mass. 2000. 3 From the Greek thalassa meaning “sea.” 4 P. Horden and N. Purcell, The Mediterranean and ‘the New Thalassology’. In: Ameri­ can Historical Review Vol. 3 No. 3 (2006), pp. 722 – 740, here: 723 – 724. 5 Some of the best known examples are: D. Kirby, Northern Europe in the Early ­Modern Period: The Baltic World 1492 – 1772. London, New York 1990; D. Kirby, The Baltic

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we propose in this book—is one of looking from or through the prism of that which tends to be the periphery in traditional narratives. It confronts us with a dynamic borderland situation, understood as a conceptual space where different approaches towards the interpretation of the sea and its functions meet and overlap.6 From this follows the diversity of approaches present in this book. While many historical narratives about the sea and sea regions draw from Braudel and concentrate on the physical setting and its impact on living conditions and economic developments, the shortcomings of this approach have also been considered.7 Our approach goes beyond physical determinism to analyse the image of the sea as a construction that relies on actors and protagonists responding to contexts they find themselves in and, in turn, shaping these contexts. In doing this, actors ascribe the sea, whether they see it as a barrier or a bridge, with different functions. It is these functions, their nature and interconnectedness, that we want to look at more closely. Perhaps the most basic function of seas to mankind is that of a space of passage: enabling transport and thus serving as the basis for communication and cooperation. Not only goods and people—merchants and travellers as well as armies—travel across the sea: with them, also ideas and culture are disseminated from shore to shore and from port to port. Port towns not only serve as hearts of a lively network of connections and windows to the world, thanks to which the local becomes connected with the cosmopolitan; together these towns can also emerge as a community of ideas and culture. In this context it is worth quoting David Igler, who states that considerable change on land similarly always alters the connections at sea and thus results in “processes of reconfiguring large portions of coastal geography”,8 which affect the size, structure, and interconnectedness of the sea region. This idea of a sea or a sea region as a space over which spans a network of connections is useful for defining World 1772 – 1993: Europe’s Northern Periphery in an Age of Change. London, New York 1995; M. Klinge, The Baltic World. Helsinki 1995; K. Gerner, K. G. Karlsson with A. Hammarlund, Nordens Medelhav. Östersjöområdet som historia, myt och projekt. Stockholm 2002; M. North, Geschichte der Ostsee. Handel und Kulturen. Munich 2011. 6 G. Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco 1987, preface. 7 E. g. M. North, Reinventing the Baltic Sea region: From the Hansa to the EU-strategy of 2009. In: The Romanian Journal for Baltic and Nordic Studies, Vol. 4, No. 2 (2012), pp.  5 – 17, here: 6 – 7; D. Abulafia The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean. London 2011, pp. xxvi – xxxi; S. S. Amrith, Crossing the Bay of Bengal, The Furies of Nature and the Fortunes of Migrants. Harvard 2013, pp. 29 – 30. 8 D. Igler, The Great Ocean: Pacific Worlds From Captain Cook to the Gold Rush, Oxford 2013, p. 10.

Introduction

regions—especially historical ones. As Marko Lehti writes, it “emphasizes contacts, interactions and the personal relations of individuals and socie­ties instead of institutions, the economy and culture as such”.9 The powerful trading towns and cities of the medieval Hanseatic League are perhaps the first example that springs to mind: it is referred to in this context both by Lehti 10 and other scholars looking for manifestations of unifying processes and functioning networks throughout the Baltic Sea’s history.11 This aspect plays a central role in Lehti Mairike Keelmann’s chapter in this volume, in which she examines coastal towns as nodal points in the distribution of ideas: the sea enables a network of exchange, through which the interaction between local and cosmopolitan becomes possible. However, this function of urban centres as nodal points in emerging networks continues to be valid today, as Jan Henrik Nilsson points out in his chapter. The Baltic Sea Region, in his understanding, is “an archipelagic system”, in which cities are seen as islands connected by the sea, although nowadays the movement of people between the cities is accomplished by airports and air, rather than maritime transport. More than just areas between territories occupied and governed by human societies, the seas are also trans-boundary spaces offering both resources and challenges, such as those of environmental protection. From this arises their second function: of water as a space to govern. This aspect gives rise to questions of legal control over the seas and their resources, as well as governance of marine uses, starting from the most basic one: whether the sea is a space which can be appropriated and thus controlled by people, or if it is a free space with unrestricted access for everyone. This question was first studied at the beginning of the seventeenth century, when Hugo Grotius was tasked with finding the resolution that would be in favour of the Dutch, in their rivalry

9 M. Lehti, Mapping the Study of the Baltic Sea Area: From Nation-centric to Multinational History. In: Journal of Baltic Studies Vol. 33 No. 4 (2002), pp. 431 – 446, here: 438. 10 Ibidem, pp.  438 – 439. 11 E. g. J. Hackmann, Past Politics in North-Eastern Europe: The Role of History in PostCold War Identity Politics. In: M. Lehti and D. J. Smith (eds), Post-Cold War Identity Politics. Northern and Baltic Experiences. London, Portland 2003, pp. 78 – 100, here: 81. It is worth keeping in mind that the Hanseatic League has not been considered univocally a positive and unifying force throughout the region. In some of its parts and in some historical periods, for example in Poland for most of the twentieth century, it was rather seen as a manifestation of German imperialism and drive for domination; see e. g. M. Grzechnik, Regional Histories and Historical Regions. The Concept of the Baltic Sea Region in Polish and Swedish historiographies. Frankfurt am Main 2012, p. 112.

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with the Portuguese, Spanish, and British trade in the East Indies.12 It continued to be an important issue in maritime history, with theorists of international law such as Emmerich de Vattel (1714 – 1767) and Cornelius van Bynkershoek (1673 – 1743) expounding on the issues of extending of maritime law into the narrow coastal waters and the international law regarding free access to and movement at sea.13 With the development of technology enabling exploitation of resources h ­ itherto unobtainable, these ideas and theories of freedom of the seas and access to their resources need to be rethought and perhaps modified. An example of one such modification is described in Ole Sparenberg’s chapter on natural resources discovered on the seabed and the ways in which their exploitation for commercial purposes influences the development of maritime law. Conversely, sharing access to one body of water, and thus both problems and profits connected to it, causes the need for different actors—states and institutions such as the European Union—to cooperate and coordinate policies in order to find common solutions to the issues they all face. The sea thus forces integration, its bridging potential being more than that of the space for forming a network of connections. Tim-Åke Pentz and Daria Gritsenko analyse the interconnectedness of different actors on the Baltic Sea and the need for the cooperation of states in coordinating the manifold maritime practices and the role of already existing co-operational bodies. The question of cooperation is further studied in S­ tefan Ewert’s chapter on the governance of conflicting marine uses, in which he proposes bringing the question of a “proper form” of cooperation on the Baltic Sea Region to the table as case study of this broad question. The importance and meaning of the sea moves beyond the practical and tangible into the realm of the symbolic and utopian, whereby the sea’s third function becomes apparent: as a symbolic space, onto which visions of national and regional identity-building, and dreams of greatness and unity are projected. National utopia is studied in Tilman Plath’s chapter on Russia’s relations to the sea in the eighteenth century and the significant role which the sea played in the construction of the Russian identity as a great power. On a regional level the utopian idea is considered in Magdalena Schönweitz’s chapter on the Öresund region, where such ideas—both successful and failed—have been put forward in an attempt to overcome its dividing character and emphasize its connective 12 P. Borschberg, Hugo Grotius, the Portuguese and Free Trade in the East Indies. Singa­ pore 2011, pp. 83 ff. 13 K. Akashi, Cornelius Van Bynkershoek: His Role in the History of International Law. The Hague 1998, pp. 149 – 154.

Introduction

nature. The theme of utopian ideas is also dealt with by Magnus Ressel, who presents an example from the sixteenth century, of a dream of greatness and unity projected onto the sea by the Count Palatine George John, in his plans for the German admiralty. Finally, the sea is a threshold, a moat, a dividing force. Its physical dimensions separate countries, political blocks, and cultures. In Marta Grzechnik’s chapter, it is posited that this separation does not have so much to do with the sea’s nature as a body of water but with the nature of cultures and political regimes that sit on either side of the sea. The sea also has a metaphysical dimension; it is a mythical, even sacred boundary separating worlds. Alexander Filiuschkin illuminates how the sea was seen in Russian medieval narratives as a sacred border, while emphasizing the alluring character of the sea and the world beyond it. Boris Dunsch approaches the same theme in Greek and Roman poetry, showing the sea both as dangerous and opportunity giving to those who dare set sail. The topic being chronologically the earliest among the ones discussed in this book, it is also the only one dealing with the Mediterranean: the sea on which “thalassology” as a research topic made its first appearance.14 It is our view that the symbolic function of the sea lies at the root of the two other, more pragmatic ones: of the sea as a space of passage and as a trans-boundary space. At the same time, the symbolic function is realized through the other two, and, as such, it is the one that can in fact be traced in all the instances of relations of human societies to seas analysed in this volume. From the understanding of seas as constructions, as most geographical concepts are understood in post-modern geography, it follows that they are the result of dynamic conceptualization processes that are inseparably connected to the questions of control, struggles for domination between different narratives and meanings. Once such conceptualizations have been made, they can, as Anssi Paasi points out, “be powerful in shaping the spatial imagination and spatial action, e. g., in governance”.15 The different functions of the seas being, as we have described, results of actors reacting to the contexts in which they have found themselves, can thus be understood as manifestations of ascribing different meanings to those seas: the sea is conceptualized in ways fitting the actors’ needs. Therefore, when considering the roles and functions of the sea for different actors, it is necessary to look for the goals that these actors strive 14 Horden and Purcell, The Mediterranean, p. 724. 15 A. Paasi, Place and region: regional worlds and words. In: Progress in Human Geo­graphy Vol. 26 No. 6 (2002), pp. 802 – 811, here: 804 – 805. Despite the fact that Paasi writes about regions, his argument fits other geographical units, for instance seas, in this case.

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for, which they hope to realize through the use of the sea and their relation to it. This relation, in turn, is constructed through narratives, images, and imagi­ nations of and relating to the sea. Bo Stråth offers two relatively recent examples of this formulation: the Cold War Soviet idea of the Sea of Peace and the enthusiasm for the Baltic Sea Region in the 1990s. The former “encompassed the notion of a Soviet mare ­nostrum, an inland sea for the exercise of Soviet power politics”, a concept which “linked together the concepts of peace and power”.16 The latter emerged as an expression of “a new, peaceful Baltic vision, a vision that, unlike its predecessor, would not offer a contradiction to power but, although hidden, be linked to power, albeit economic and not military”.17 Several of the authors contributing to this volume relate their topics to the concept of utopia.18 However, an argument can be made that utopian elements can be found in most of the chapters, as all political, social, and economic projects rest on narratives and images of a better, brighter future: for a wider community (e. g. the EU member states, nations with plans of exploitation of the sea resources, urban centres around the Baltic Sea, the communities on both sides of the Öresund etc.) or just the actor immediately involved (e. g. the German and Russian empires, the Hanseatic merchants etc.). The actors conceptualize the sea in ways that they see best for the realization of this future: spanning visions of political projects in which relation to the sea plays an important role in the building up and consolidating of a state’s power, of networks connecting port towns, regional cooperation, practices of common governance, and exploitation of deep-sea natural resources. The goal—to be realized through military power and communication across the sea, but also by common gover­ nance and (redefinition of) maritime law—is a future of greatness and unity, whether understood as internal consolidation or unity with the outside world. The metaphor of the sea and sea connections as a window to the outside world is thus not only applicable to the founding of cities like St Petersburg, but also, for example, to the burghers of Reval striving to partake in the wider European network of merchants and consumers of art; to the projects of the Öresund link, and even to the project of German admiralty. Thus, setting out to sea, 16 B. Stråth, The Baltic as Image and Illusion: The Construction of a Region between Europe and the Nation. In: B. Stråth (ed.), Myth and Memory in the Construction of Community. Historical Patterns in Europe and Beyond. Brussels 2000, pp. 199 – 214, here: 199. 17 Ibidem, p. 201. 18 For concepts relating to utopia in maritime history see: D. Fausset, Writing the New World: Imaginary Voyages and Utopias of the Great Southern Land, Syracuse, N. Y. 1993.

Introduction

going beyond it, controlling it and making use of it, start from constructing a future-oriented image, ascribing to the sea the symbolic function, which is to be filled with practical content via military control, trading links, common governance, and military law. It is to this aim that actors—be it people or institutions—featured in the chapters of this volume promote their narratives related to seas, where seas are understood as bridges between societies. This might seem radically different when it comes to those cases in which water is seen not as a bridge but as a barrier. These visions are not utopian, or at least a utopian future is not projected on the sea. However, they also rely on the symbolic function of the sea, and this symbolic understanding determines the relation to the sea of the societies in question—the relation that in these cases results in a turning of one’s back on it. Let us also not forget that a bridge is not a one-way route: it not only connects but, through this connection, affects the identities of the societies on both sides of the bridge.19 Thus, by placing water in its different roles in the fore, as we do in this book, new perspectives can be revealed on the shape—and shaping—of European societies, their ways of thinking about the world which they inhabit, and their identities. We propose to look at Europe as defined and confined by the sea, dealing with the sea, as, ultimately, spreading beyond the sea.

19 C. King, The Black Sea, A History, Oxford, New York 2005, p. 3; M. Anderson, New Borders, The Sea and Outer Space. In: P. Ganster and D. E. Lorey (eds), Borders and Border Politics in a Globalizing World. Lanham 2005, p. 318; G. C. Gunn, First Globalization, The Eurasian Exchange, 1500 – 1800, Lanham 2003.

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Boris Dunsch

“Why do we violate strange seas and sacred waters?” The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

1.  Introduction Anyone intending to present, within the limited space of one chapter, how the sea was perceived and codified in antiquity sets out on a formidable tour d’­horizon. The most dangerous pitfall in such a context is that of over-generalization: any talk about “antiquity” is in danger of obfuscating the differences between Greek, Roman, and other Mediterranean cultures. We have to remind ourselves of the fact that ‘Greek’ and ‘Roman’ are umbrella terms for a great variety of regionally and, in part, also ethnically diverse cultures. What we believe to be a ‘Greek’ attitude that we find in one of our source texts, for example, may be no more than an individual manifestation of a local mentality, e. g. that of ­Athens and its vicinity, at a certain time. Spartan or Rhodian views on the same matters may have differed hugely—if only we always had the sources to tell us, we would know more about the differences.1 We also have to keep in mind that during different periods of Greek and Roman history opinions that were held on the same matters were liable to change, sometimes quite considerably. After these cautioning remarks, this paper is nonetheless aimed at presenting a broad outline of the main things that we believe to know about how the sea was read in Greek and Roman culture. It will focus on the ambivalence of the attitudes taken towards the sea and sea travel during antiquity; the negative as well as the positive appraisal of seafaring; and, correspondingly, the perception of the sea as a dangerous boundary and as a bridge of opportunity will come into view.2 For this purpose, I will mainly look at select passages from Greek and Roman poetry, supplemented by a Latin funerary inscription in which the sea and its dangers feature as a prominent theme. The first example will be taken from Homer’s Odyssey. 1 On the problematic nature and incompleteness of our evidence, literary as well as archaeological, see e. g. P. Janni, Il mare degli Antichi. Bari 1996, pp. 27 – 48. 2 For a first general overview with regard to this ambivalence, see M. Durst, R. Amedick and E. Enss, Meer. In: G. Schöllgen et al. (eds), Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum. Band XXIV. Stuttgart 2012, cols. 505 – 609, here cols. 507 f.

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2.  The sea as boundary—the dangers of seafaring The fifth book of the Odyssey begins with a divine assembly (5, 1 – 27).3 Athena tells the other gods about the sufferings of Odysseus, who is prevented from travelling home by the nymph Calypso. She has been keeping him on her island Ogygia for seven years, while he desires nothing more than to return to his homeland Ithaca and to his beloved wife, Penelope. Zeus sends Hermes to Calypso, telling him to instruct her to let Odysseus go (5, 28 – 115). She agrees to do so, then goes to Odysseus and tells him to build a boat that will take him away from her island.4 Unlike what one might expect, Odysseus is not enthusiastic about the idea, at least not initially. For after Calypso has told him to build a boat and offered to equip it with bread, water, and red wine as provisions for the crossing, adding that she would also send a fair breeze after him,5 Odysseus remains fearful and sceptical. He reacts accordingly (5, 171 – 179):6 ÜV w faßto, rÖißghsen de? polußtlaw diqow æ'Odusseußw, kaiß min fvnhßsaw eäpea pteroßenta proshußda: $Allo ti dh? suß, jeaß, toßde mhßdeai ouödeß ti pomphßn, hÄ me keßleai sxedißh# peraßan meßga laiqtma jalaßsshw, 175 deinoßn t' aörgaleßon te: to? d' ouöd' eöpi? nhqew eöi_qsai vökußporoi peroßvsin, aögalloßmenai Dio?w ouärv#. ouöd' aün eögv?n aöeßkhti seßjen sxedißhw eöpibaißhn, eiö mhß moi tlaißhw ge, jeaß, meßgan oÄrkon oömoßssai mhß tiß moi auötv#q phqma kako?n bouleuseßmen aällo.

3 On the relevance of the divine assembly at the beginning of the Phaiakis (= Odyssey 5, 1 – 13, 92) for structure and plot of the Odyssey, see E.-R. Schwinge, Die Odyssee—nach den Odysseen. Betrachtungen zu ihrer individuellen Physiognomie. Göttingen 1993, pp. 24 – 26. 4 In Homer’s narrative the situation is slightly more complicated than I have indicated here: Calypso first tries to sway Odysseus from his purpose by offering him immortality, should he decide to stay with her on Ogygia, but this important aspect of the story is outside the focus of this paper; cf. I. J. F. de Jong, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey. Cambridge 2001, p. 132 f. 5 Leaving on the side other, less widespread versions of the myth, Calypso is variously called a daughter of Atlas (Homer, Odyssey 1, 52, but the interpretation of that line and its context is problematic; 7, 245) or of Ocean and Tethys (Hesiod, Theogony 352 – 355; 1004 f.). Regardless of these divergences, she is a nymph with strong affinities to the sea and thus able to wield at least minor powers over waves and winds. 6 Text and translation follow, with slight modifications, A. T. Murray and G. E. Dimock (eds), Homer: The Odyssey. Books 1 – 12. Cambridge, Mass./London 1995, p. 194 f.

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

So she spoke, but the much-enduring Odysseus shuddered and spoke winged words addressing her: Surely, goddess, you are planning some other thing, and not my sending, you who urge me to cross on a raft the vast gulf of the sea, 175 terrible and grievous. Not even well-shaped ships, swift-sailing, pass over it, enjoying the favourable wind of Zeus. So I would not against your will set foot on a raft, if you, goddess, could not bring yourself to swear me a powerful oath that you are not plotting some other bad evil against me.

What Odysseus tells Calypso in these lines is, in effect, that she really cannot be serious. So she has actually bid him to pick up timber, build some kind of boat with it, and cross the open sea on such a contraption? Perhaps, so he is implying, the nymph has some hidden agenda?7 The choice of words is important; it makes quite clear what Odysseus thinks about her proposal. In line 174, he refers to the boat which he is meant to build as schedie, “raft”, and to the open sea as mega laitma, “vast gulf ”, characterizing it as deinon, “terrible” and argaleon, “grievous”, “causing pain” in the following line. Interestingly, the expression mega laitma, “vast gulf ”, a set phrase for the deep sea in the Odyssey (also found e. g. at 4, 504 and 9, 323; but only once in the Iliad: 19, 267) reappears in later literature in the Argonautica, an epic about the dangerous voyage of the Argonauts written by the Hellenistic poet Apollonius of Rhodes (third century BC). The expression is used in the context of a sea crossing under the conditions of pitch-black, impenetrable darkness (4, 1694: Krhtaiqon … meßga laiqtma). Here and in several other places in Greek poetry, the image is that of the unfathomable maw of the vast and formless sea.8 The Argonauts do not 7 Cf. de Jong, Narratological Commentary, p. 135: “Not knowing the divine background to her sudden change of mind, he distrusts her when she suggests crossing the dangerous sea on a raft, and asks her to swear that she has no ‘hidden agenda’.” 8 P. Green (ed.), The Argonautika by Apollonius Rhodios. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 2007, p. 356 f. thinks that the “shroud of darkness” refers to the fact that “the Kreatan Sea is not only dangerous, but, notoriously, almost the only part of the Aigaian where one is completely out of sight of land for any length of time [Green’s italics]. Unlike the Pheonicians, who learned dead reckoning and astronavigation the hard way, in the open spaces of the eastern Mediterranean, most Greeks remained habitual island-hoppers. When they sailed at night—something they much preferred not to do—they got their bearings, not only from the stars overhead, but from the twinkling lights of up to half a dozen neighbouring islands. The ‘Shroud of Darkness’ occurred when both [Green’s italics] these navigational aids were lost. Low cloud cover would often obliterate the

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know whether they are carried along on the waters of the sea or on the waters of Hades (4, 1699 – 1701).9 But let us return to the Odyssey. Homer lets Odysseus establish a strong contrast between his tiny self-made raft and professionally built proper ships (nees) with even proportions (eïsai). Although such ships are swift-sailing (okyporoi), no one in his right mind would dare to venture out onto the open sea with them, even if Zeus sent a favourable wind. How much less, that is Odysseus’ line of argument, should he dare to do so in a raft of much lesser quality and of much weaker build? Yet, eventually Odysseus does construct a boat with the help of Calypso and sails away, spending seventeen days on sea (5, 228 – 281). But he was right to have forebodings of evil, as his adversary, the god Poseidon, the lord of the sea, destroys his boat in a violent storm (5, 282 – 332). Odysseus can save nothing but his bare life and swims ashore to the land of the Phaeacians (5, 333 – 493), where he spends some more time before he at last reaches Ithaca. What can we learn from these lines about the ancients’ attitude towards and relation to the sea? Basically, first, that they did not really like it, and secondly, that they were quite right not to like it. As we can see, even heroes do not go to sea light-heartedly. Embarking for an open-sea crossing is regarded as a daring enterprise. In terms of the history of mentalités, the main reason for this is that the sea was regarded as a world apart, as a separate realm that was principally unfit for human beings to dwell in. The sea is often seen and described as a sacred domain not to be violated by mortals, an alien and inimical element, unfit for travelling, a watery desert inhabited by monsters. And indeed, this fear was well founded, as death at sea was a frequent occurrence.

constellations; but it took the wide and islandless stretches of the Kretan Sea to blot out all land-based lights too, and thus leave the helmsman in total obscurity.” 9 Cf. D. Wachsmuth, POMPIMOS O DAIMVN. Untersuchung zu den antiken Sakralhandlungen bei Seereisen. Ph. D. thesis Berlin 1967, 206 f.; B. D’Agostini, Oinops Pontos. Il mare come alterità nella percezione arcaica. In: MEFRA No. 111 (1999), pp. 107 – 117, here p. 108. As a place of primeval chaos, the sea also served as a convenient poetic image of the vicissitudes of love in ancient poetry of all periods, see e. g. A. Pulega, Da Argo alla nave d’amore. Contributo alla storia di una metafora. Firenze 1989; P. Murgatroyd, The Sea of Love. In: Classical Quarterly No. 45 (1995), pp. 9 – 25; L. B. T. Houghton, The Drowned and the Saved: Shipwrecks and the Cursus of Latin Love Elegy. In: The Cambridge Classical Journal No. 53 (2006/07), pp. 161 – 179. For the image of artfully steering one’s ship across the sea of love, especially in Ovid, see B. Dunsch, Regere oder movere? Textkritische und exegetische Untersuchungen zu Ovid, „Ars amatoria“ 1, 1 – 10. In: Hermes No. 135 (2007), pp. 314 – 333.

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

3.  Transgressing the boundary The traditional view of the world, not only in Greece and Rome, but also in the ancient Near and Middle East, is tripartite.10 According to this view, the world is divided into three realms: the sky, the sea, and the earth.11 The power wielded over each sphere was allotted to particular deities. Thus, the sea was perceived as a world apart from the land, “a distinct realm”.12 It is in this spirit that in one of his Quaestiones convivales (“Table-Talks”) the Stoic philosopher and biographer Plutarch (ca. AD 46 – 120) calls the sea “another cosmos”, eÄterow koßsmow (heteros kosmos) and remarks that “it is very obvious that angling or seining for any kind of fish is an act of gluttony and of gormandizing, disturbing the waters and descending into the depths with no rightful excuse.”13 According to this certainly somewhat radical view, not only seafaring, but even fishing is an objectionable transgression of a natural boundary. The marine kosmos, not unlike that of the underworld, was imagined to be inhabited by alien creatures and horrible demons.14 Accordingly, once at sea, 10 Cf. E. G. Schmidt, Erworbenes Erbe. Studien zur antiken Literatur und ihrer Nachwirkung. Leipzig 1988, pp. 35 – 70 and 282 – 305; also in Christian poetry of Late Antiquity, cf. K. Smolak, Der dreifache Zusammenklang (Prud. Apoth. 147 – 154). Vorstudien zu einem Kommentar zur Apotheosis II. In: Wiener Studien No. 84 (1971), pp. 180 – 194. 11 By adding the firmament (as dwelling-place of the Olympians and the astral deities) as a separate sphere, the structure of the world is also sometimes conceived of as being divided into four realms, thus corresponding to the quadrupartite system of the elements (air—water—earth—fire), on which see e. g. D. Peil, Das Schema der vier Elemente in der politischen Metaphorik, in: F. Rigotti and P. Schiera (eds): Aria, terra, acqua, fuoco: i quattro elementi e le loro metafore. Luft, Erde, Wasser, Feuer: die vier Elemente und ihre Metaphern. Bologna/Berlin 1996, pp. 213 – 237. The first evidence we can find for this view in Greek poetry are some passages in Hesiod’s Theogony (theog. 736 f. = 807 f.; 839 – 841); see Smolak, Zusammenklang, pp. 192 – 199. On the identical text of lines 736 – 739 and 807 – 810, see M. L. West, Hesiod Theogony. Oxford 1966, p. 363. 12 Cf. e. g. Lindenlauf, The Sea as Place of no Return in Ancient Greece. In: World Archaeology 35 (2003), p. 416 and passim. 13 Plutarch, Table-Talks 8, 8, 3 (= Moral Essays 730 AB), quoted by Wachsmuth, Untersuchung, p. 171 n. 377. The translation follows E. L. Minar, F. H. Sandbach and W. C. Helmbold (eds), Plutarch’s Moralia in Fifteen Volumes. IX: 697 C-771 E. Cambridge, Mass./London 1961, pp. 180 – 183. 14 Cf. R. Schulz, Die Antike und das Meer. Darmstadt 2005, p. 209. In his treatise On the skill of the animals (De sollertia animalium) 14, 970 B, Plutarch explains the pejorative sense of a famous expression in Homer’s Iliad (16, 34), “the grey sea has born you” (glaukh? deß se tißkte jaßlassa) by pointing out that the sea brings fourth neither

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sailors are often depicted as subject to the attacks of strange and dangerous forces and the vicissitudes of fortune, against which the helmsman’s art cannot protect them. Their transgression of the natural boundary between land and sea will often call for divine retribution through shipwreck. An entire subgenre of epigrammatic poetry, the nauagikaß (nauagika), “shipwreck poems”, dealt with such anxieties.15 In Greek and Roman poetry, boundary zones are perceived and described as dangerous areas where gods, human beings, and animals live in a dangerous, confused proximity, and where divine activities always threaten to interfere with the human sphere. In particular, coastlines are seen as boundary markers. So, not surprisingly, signals of liminality can often be detected where poets mention or describe coasts.16 In a comparable way, the crossing of a river could also have symbolic connotations, but this would be another rewarding topic of investigation in its own right and can here only be mentioned in passing.17 The dangers of seafaring are a widespread theme in ancient poetry. “The dividing Ocean”, Oceanus dissociablis, as Horace calls it in the context of a

friendly nor gentle animals; see H. Rahner, Symbole der Kirche. Die Ekklesiologie der Väter. Salzburg 1964, p. 285 with n. 98, where he refers to parallels in Catullus, Vergil, and Statius. 15 Two excellent recent studies of this interesting Hellenistic sub-genre are M. M. Di Nino, Lost at Sea: Pythermus as an Anti-Odysseus? In: American Journal of Philology No. 130 (2009), pp.  47 – 65, and M. M. Di Nino, Posidippus’ Shipwrecks. In: Mediterranean Historical Review No. 21 (2006), pp. 99 – 104. 16 This is not only true in a religious or anthropological sense, but works also on the level of poetic symbolism, see e. g. M. A. Nickbakht, Closure and Continuation: The Poetics of Aeneid 6.900 – 901. In: Philologus No. 150 (2006), pp. 95 – 101, here p. 98 on Vergil, Aeneid 6, 901 and 7, 1. The topic of liminality in literary constructions of the sea is put in a broad diachronic and comparative perspective by T. Feldbusch, Zwischen Land und Meer. Schreiben auf den Grenzen, Würzburg 2003. For a history of the Western attitude towards the sea and the seaside, especially the dramatic change to the positive that began in the second half of the eighteenth century, see A. Corbin, The Lure of the Sea. The Discovery of the Seaside 1750 – 1840. Translated by J. Phelps. Harmondsworth 1995 (originally published as: Le territoire du vide: L’occident et le désir du rivage, 1750 – 1840. Paris 1988). 17 For more details, with Herodotus as an example, see C. Ulf, Vom Anfang des Kosmos bis zum Menschen. Antike Konzeptionen von Wasserräumen und Wasserformen, in: D. G. Eibl et al. (eds), Wasser und Raum. Beiträge zu einer Kulturtheorie des Wassers. Göttingen 2008, pp. 143 – 181, here pp. 164 – 166.

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

send-off poem (propemptikon) for his friend Vergil,18 is perceived as a strong boundary that human beings were better off not to transgress:19 Nequiquam deus abscidit           prudens Oceano dissociabili terras, si tamen impiae           non tangenda rates transiliunt vada. In vain a god has cut off in wise foresight by means of the divisive Ocean separate countries, if, in spite of that, impious rafts leap across the seas they were meant to remain inviolate.

If men decide to cross the sea in spite of this, it is at the risk of destruction by divine powers or at least they are in danger of losing their possessions in retribution for their hybris.20 Any sea voyage is an insult to the divine powers that control the waters, as it challenges their supremacy. Horace underlines the audacity of the people who “leap across” the seas by placing the Latin word for “raft”, ratis, in the text, just as in our previous example Homer put the Greek equivalent of that word into the mouth of Odysseus. In both contexts, the idea of a mere “raft” is invoked and put before the eyes of the audience in order to emphasize the smallness and lack of stability of any sea-going vessel built by human beings.

18 This vigorous poem deals, inter alia, with the theme of audacia and the transgression of natural boundaries, but its various further aspects cannot be discussed in full in the limited scope of this paper. Valuable recent studies include J. G. Fitch, Horace, Odes 1.3: Nature’s Boundaries. In: Eranos No.  104 (2006/07), pp.  31 – 40; I. Tar, Horaz und das goldene Zeitalter (Horaz, carm. I 3). In: Acta Antiqua Hungarica No. 49 (2009), pp.  433 – 442; L. Rumpf, Caelum ipsum petimus stultitia. Zur poetologischen Deutung von Horaz’ c. 1, 3. In: Rheinisches Museum No. 152 (2009), pp. 292 – 311. 19 Horace, Odes 1, 3, 21 – 24; text, translation, and colometry follow, with modifications, N. Rudd (ed.), Horace: Odes and Epodes. Harvard, Mass./London 2004, p. 30 f. 20 Cf. K. Alpers, Wasser bei Griechen und Römern. Aspekte des Wassers im Leben und Denken des griechisch-römischen Altertums. In: H. Böhme (ed.), Kulturgeschichte des Wassers. Frankfurt am Main 1988, pp. 65 – 98, here p. 77 f.

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4.  Transgression and retribution: the sea-storm type-scene Since the composition of the Odyssey, divine powers of retribution have often been depicted as mighty sea storms. Taking their cue from Homer, Greek and Roman poets developed an inventory of typical motifs that could be expected to contain vivid descriptions (ekphrasis) of sea-storms. The term ekphrasis is not infrequently used in the description of paintings, sculptures, or other works of art and craft, but has in fact wider implications already in ancient rhetorical theory, underlining the vividness of the descriptive speech, the object of which could be almost anything, ranging from a relatively tiny object to a full-scale narrative scenario like a shipwreck.21 These scenes are highly conventionalized and have been aptly called “sea-storm type-scenes”, a term that will also be adopted in this paper.22

21 For the ancient rhetorician Aelius Theon, to name just one example, ekphrasis was a “descriptive speech that brings what is described vividly before the sight”; in Cicero’s and Quintilian’s terms, the aim of the trope was to “place things before the eyes” (sub oculos subiectio); see Aelius Theon, Progymnasmata 2, 118, as quoted in C. M. Chinn, Before Your Very Eyes: Pliny Epistulae 5.6 and the Ancient Theory of Ekphrasis. In: Classical Philology No. 102 (2007), pp. 265 – 280, here p. 267; and see Cicero, The Orator 139; Quintilian, On the Instruction of the Orator 9, 2, 40 – 43. On ekphrasis in ancient rhetorical theory more generally, see R. Webb, Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice. Farnham 2009. On the ideal of “life-likeness”, see especially G. Vogt-Spira, Prae sensibus. Das Ideal der Lebensechtheit in römischer Rhetorik und Dichtungstheorie. In: G. Radke-Uhlmann and A. Schmitt (eds), Anschau­lichkeit in Kunst und Literatur. Wege bild­licher Visualisierung in der europäischen Geschichte. Berlin/New York 2011, pp. 13 – 34. 22 For an overview of the development and the uses of the sea-storm type-scenes in ancient literature, see B. Dunsch, Describe nunc tempestatem: Sea-Storm and Shipwreck TypeScenes in Ancient Literature, in: C. Thompson (ed.), Shipwreck in Art and Literature. Images and Interpretations from Antiquity to the Present Day, London 2013, pp. 42 – 59; for the terminology “sea-storm type-scene”, I am indebted to P. L. Thimmes, Studies in the Biblical Sea-Storm Type-Scene: Convention and Invention. Lewiston, N. Y. 1992. Out of a wide array of studies, see also e. g. J. Kahlmeyer, Seesturm und Schiffbruch als Bild im antiken Schrifttum. Ph. D. diss. Greifswald, Hildesheim 1934; W.-H. Friedrich, Episches Unwetter. In: Festschrift Bruno Snell zum 60. Geburtstag am 18. Juni 1956 von Freunden und Schülern überreicht. München 1956, pp. 77 – 87; H. O. Kröner, Elegisches Unwetter. In: Poetica No. 3 (1970), pp. 388 – 408; C. Conti, La quiete prima della tempesta. In: Schol(i)a No. 1 (1999), pp. 37 – 56, and ead., Morfologia della tempesta. In: Schol(i)a No. 1 (1999), pp. 106 – 138; D. R. Macdonald, The Shipwreck of ­Odysseus and Paul. In: New Testament Studies No. 45 (1999), pp. 88 – 107; C. Schindler, Der Seesturm

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

The ekphrasis of storms was so common among rhetoricians and declaimers in Rome that Seneca the Elder (ca. 55 BC–AD 40), a famous teacher of rhetoric, father of the Stoic philosopher Seneca the Younger, uses the phrase describe nunc tempestatem (“now describe the storm”) in his Suasoriae (“Speeches of Advice”, a collection of rhetorical exercises) as a mere shorthand stage direction that represents an entire sea-storm type-scene (Suasoriae 3, 2). Seneca reports how the orator Cestius Pius declaimed about Agamemnon’s deliberation whether to sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia to secure a safe sea-passage to Troy for the Greeks:23 Vos ergo, di immortales, invoco: sic reclusuri estis maria? Obstate potius.—Ne Priami quidem liberos immolaturus es.—Describe nunc tempestatem. Omnia ista patimur nec parricidium fecimus.—Quod hoc sacrum est virginis deae templo virginem occidere? Libentius sacerdotem habebit quam victimam. So I call on you, then, immortal gods: Is this the way you propose to open the sea 24 for us? Much rather, stand in our way!—Even Priam’s children you do not propose to sacrifice.—Now describe the storm (describe nunc tempestatem). We are suffer25 ing all this, and yet we have not committed parricide. —What is this rite, killing a virgin in the temple of the virgin goddess? She will rather have her as her priestess than as a sacrificial victim.

This is Seneca’s summary of a show speech delivered by Cestius. Through this speech, Cestius tries to dissuade an imaginary Agamemnon from immolating his daughter. After creating initial pathos by invoking the gods, he asks them to stop the ritual. Then he advances three arguments as to why the sacrifice should not take place. Turning to Agamemnon, he first presents him with an in Senecas Agamemnon (vv. 421 – 578), in: S. Gödde and T. Heinze (eds), Skenika. Beiträge zum antiken Theater und seiner Rezeption. Festschrift zum 65. Geburtstag von Horst-Dieter Blume. Darmstadt 2000, pp. 135 – 149; J. Börstinghaus, Sturmfahrt und Schiffbruch: Zur lukanischen Verwendung eines literarischen Topos in Apostelgeschichte 27, 1 – 28,6. Tübingen 2010. 23 Text and translation follow, with slight modifications, M. Winterbottom (ed.), The Elder Seneca: Declamations in Two Volumes. Volume 2: Controversiae, Books 7 – 10. Suasoriae. Cambridge, Mass./London 1974, p. 536 f. 24 This refers to the seer Calchas’ prediction that a safe passage is impossible unless ­Iphigenia is sacrificed. 25 Murder was not only regarded as a capital offence, but brought with it religious defilement.

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incomplete logical conclusion: since he would not even sacrifice his enemy’s, i. e. Priam’s, children to secure a safe passage to Troy, how much less would he care to sacrifice his own daughter? Then he describes the storm. Yet, there is no more in the text than just a terse stage direction; a trained orator needs no more than that to extemporize all further conventional details. After that, Cestius argues that, even without having committed parricide, the Greeks are already suffering under the storm. How much worse is it going to get after they have defiled themselves with the blood of Iphigenia? This, in turn, could lead to divine punishment, e. g. in the form of shipwreck. He argues that the effect of the sacrifice may actually backfire on the Greek fleet. Third and last, he calls attention to the paradox that Iphigenia, a virgin, is going to be sacrificed in the temple of Artemis, the virgin goddess. This sacrifice, he implies, will arouse Artemis’ anger. This shows how a storm type-scene could be used to illustrate an argument. Elsewhere, Seneca refers to two other rhetorical setpiece type-scenes, the description of a hero fighting and of the Thermopylae, also by giving no more than just brief stage directions.26 The most important and most frequent conventional motifs that a fully-­ fledged “poetic tempest” (poetica tempestas), as it was once called by Juvenal,27 could contain are all found in the sea-storm type-scene which Ovid composed for the shipwreck and death of Ceyx in his Metamorphoses 11, 474 – 572:28 (1) The sea is regarded as a barrier, be it for the returning hero(es), for lovers who are kept apart, like Ceyx and Alcyone, or for other people who are far from the place where they should be or where they long to be. (2) The gods are (or: Fate is) in control of nature—they can initiate and end a dangerous situation at sea. (3) The gods make use of the sea and winds as instruments of retribution and salvation. (4) The sea and the winds are seen as animate. (5) Rising winds are harbingers of impending doom; conflicting winds blow together from all directions or just one wind blows singly. (6) The sea grows rough and rougher; high seas are building up, one wave being bigger than the rest; the sea is surging and boiling, the surf is spinning. (7) Thick mist or black clouds turn the sky dark and hide both land and sea, so that nothing can be seen anymore. (8) Thunder and lightning fill the place. (9) There may be rain and perhaps even hail. (10) Crew and passengers are full of fear and, as the situation becomes 26 Seneca, Controversiae 1, 4, 2; Suasoriae 2, 8. For a fuller storm description, see Seneca, Controversiae 7, 1, 4. 27 Juvenal, Satires 12, 23. 28 For a detailed discussion of these conventional motifs and of the passage from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, see now Dunsch, Describe, pp. 50 – 54.

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

more and more dangerous, desperation. (11) So they pray to the gods, but in vain. (12) Sometimes the reason for the storm is some kind of pollution (spiritual or moral) of some or all of the sailors or travellers. (13) Often the ship is tossed back and forth, up and down, like a toy; it is damaged and then disintegrates, or is completely destroyed. (14) As a consequence, at least a great number of those on board die by drowning. Drowning left people without a proper burial and was therefore feared as one of the worst of all premature deaths. Death by drowning meant that one remained in a place from which there is no return, insofar as the sea was perceived as a place equal to the underworld.29 What is more, such a death, in itself ghastly enough, was rendered even more horrible because it robbed the drowned of their due rites of burial and pious care of their grave by surviving relatives.30

5.  Seafaring, maritime trade, and moral corruption However, not only the possibility of drowning disturbed the ancients with regard to the sea. From a non-individualist perspective, the notion of seafaring as essentially evil was closely related to a belief in the gradual degradation of all human beings that found its vivid expression in the concept of the metallic ages of mankind. According to a widespread moral discourse, first found in Hesiod’s Works and Days,31 there had been no navigation in

29 See e. g. L. Radermacher, Das Jenseits im Mythos der Hellenen: Untersuchungen über antiken Jenseitsglauben. Bonn 1903, especially pp. 73 – 77, 89 f., and by the same author, Das Meer und die Toten. In: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Phil.-hist. Klasse. Anzeiger No. 86 (1949), pp. 307 – 315; A. Lindenlauf, Sea, pp. 416 – 433; J.-N. Corvisier, Le naufrage en Grèce ancienne. In: C. Buchet and C. Thomasset (eds), Le Naufrage. Actes du Colloque tenu à l’Institut Catholique de Paris (28 – 30 janvier 1998). Paris 1999, pp. 17 – 32; E. Vermeule, Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 1979, pp. 179 – 209. 30 Cf. e. g. A. Hermann, Ertrinken. In: Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum No. 6 (1966), cols. 370 – 410, here 383 – 390; H. H. Huxley, Storm and Shipwreck in Roman Literature. In: Greece and Rome No. 21 (1952), pp. 117 – 124, here p. 122. 31 On Hesiod’s story of the metallic ages of mankind, in which anti-seafaring tendencies do not feature as prominently, and especially on the peculiar insertion of the fourth age of mankind (the age of the heroes), see now E.-R. Schwinge, Hesiods Geschichte von den Menschengeschlechtern (Erg. 106 – 201). In: Gymnasium No. 119 (2012), pp. 425 – 448. It should be noted that in this passage ships are first mentioned only in connection with the age of the heroes, and especially with the Trojan War (Works and Days 164 f.). Cf. also

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the Golden Age.32 It was a topos of ancient culture criticism 33 that sailing had been invented in a later and more corrupt age, solely to satisfy the artificial needs that continually arose from human greed:34 trade and military aggression are seen as the main two negative forces which drive man across the sea. The legend of the Argonauts, with all its terrible consequences, is a mythical illustration of that idea.35 The Argo, traditionally regarded as the first ship,36 was built because the Argonauts planned to steal the Golden Fleece, an act

H. Böhme, Hesiod und die Kultur. Frühe griechische Konzepte von Natur, mythischer Ordnung und ästhetischer Wahrnehmung. In: L. Musner and G. Wunberg (eds), Kulturwissenschaften. Forschung—Praxis—Positionen. Wien 2002, pp. 137 – 160, pp. 146 – 149 and the works quoted there. On the ambivalent attitude to cultural progress in antiquity in general, see e. g. J. Kerschensteiner, Antike Gedanken zum Kulturfortschritt und seiner Ambivalenz. In: F. Hörmann (ed.), Werte der Antike. München 1975, pp. 26 – 53. Later in in his Works and Days, Hesiod provides his brother Perses with a rough guide to the right (i. e. safe) times for seafaring. In this passage, he does not condemn seafaring in general, but rather deals with it as a necessary and dangerous, yet potentially lucrative activity, though he admits that he has little personal experience with it and it sounds as if he is altogether not too fond of it (lines 617 – 693; especially 645 – 656, 681 – 683). 32 Cf. e. g. C. Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome, Cambridge 1993, p.  147 f.; R. Müller, Die Entdeckung der Kultur. Antike Theorien von Homer bis Seneca. Düsseldorf/Zürich 2003, pp. 39, 297 f., 406 f. For the reception of the concept of the metallic ages, especially the idealized Golden Age, in Augustan poetry, cf. e. g. B. Reischl, Reflexe griechischer Kulturentstehungslehren bei augusteischen Dichtern. Ph. D. diss. München 1976 (convincingly arguing for the influence of philosophy on poetry, mainly via Poseidonios and Varro); B. Gatz, Weltalter, goldene Zeit und sinnverwandte Vorstellungen. Hildesheim 1967; M. Wifstrand Schiebe, Das ideale Dasein bei Tibull und die Goldzeitkonzeption Vergils. Uppsala 1981. 33 Cf. H. Blumenberg, Schiffbruch mit Zuschauer. Paradigma einer Daseinsmetapher. Frankfurt am Main 1997 (first ed. 1979), p. 11. For a helpful catalogue of this and other commonly used topoi of reproach in Roman poetry, see E. de Saint-Denis, Le rôle de la mer dans la poésie latine. Paris 1935, pp. 303 – 305. 34 Cf. e. g. Reischl, Reflexe, p. 60 (on Vergil, Georgics 1, 137 – 142): “In den Deszendenzdarstellungen ist […] gerade die Entwicklung der Seefahrt das Negativum schlechthin: denn sie verhilft der mensch­lichen Pleonexie zur größten Entfaltung.” 35 For the widespread topos of “had the Argo not been built”, well-known through the speech of the nurse at the beginning of Euripides’ Medea, but also found in several Roman poets, see B. Dunsch, In corthurnis prodit Aesopus: Phaedrus’ literarische Selbstverteidigung (Fab. 4, 7). In: Millennium No. 7 (2010), pp. 37 – 50, here pp. 41 – 45. 36 Cf. T. Heydenreich, Tadel und Lob der Seefahrt. Das Nachleben eines antiken Themas in den romanischen Literaturen. Heidelberg 1970, pp. 23 – 25.

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

that brought about great suffering for many.37 The building of the Argo is disapproved of just as much as is the person of Prometheus, who is said to have donated, among other valuable inventions, the skill of navigation to mankind.38 Ancient rhetoricians actually developed this anti-seafaring discourse into an entire subgenre called yoßgow nautilißaw (psogos nautilias, “denunciation of seafaring”), dedicated to reproaching the invention of the ship and of navigation, as well as the practice of seaborne travel and commerce.39 This attitude corresponds with the then widespread assumption that harbour cities were more liable to be corrupted and in turn became sources of corruption for their vicinity.40

6.  The sea as bridge—seafaring as opportunity Yet this dire image of the sea as a place of physical danger and moral corruption contrasts with another, decidedly less negative perception of the sea.41 This positive view focused on the natural beauty of the sea and particularly on its importance for the development of human culture through the exchange of goods, skills, and knowledge. This was aptly expressed by Plato when he—just to name just one example—famously compared the relation between the Greeks and the Mediterranean with that of frogs sitting around a pond.42 This simile illustrates well the crucial role the sea played for the Greeks. The sea was at the

37 Cf. Huxley, Storm, p. 117: “This expedition should be a grim warning to later ages.” 38 Cf. U. Gärtner, nhqew aörxeßkakoi. Schiffe als Unheilsbringer in der antiken Literatur. In: Antike und Abendland No. 55 (2009), pp. 23 – 44, here pp. 28 – 35. 39 Though the term is probably older, it is first found in a tirade against seafaring and Poseidon in the Progymnasmata of the fifth century AD rhetorician Nicolaus the Sophist, see Heydenreich, Tadel, p. 41 f. 40 Cf. especially Plato, Laws 831e and Cicero, On the Republic 2, 7 – 10; for fuller discussion of this important topos, see H.-J. Drexhage, Handel II (ethisch). In: T. Klausen et al. (eds), Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum. Band XIII. Stuttgart 1986, cols. 561 – 574, here cols. 561 f., and F. Borca, Vitia maritimarum urbium i gli inconvenienti dell’apertura. In: Aufidus No. 38 (1999), pp. 7 – 22. 41 The positive aspects of seafaring are summed up well in Heydenreich, Tadel, pp. 48 – 55; see also e. g. Schulz, Antike, pp. 217 – 220; on the connectivity theme, cf. e. g. F. Lätsch, Insularität und Gesellschaft in der Antike. Untersuchungen zur Auswirkung der Insellage auf die Gesellschaftsentwicklung. Stuttgart 2005, p. 44 f. 42 Plato, Phaedo 109b.

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centre of their world; the land formed its fringe. Plato’s comparison characte­ rizes the Greeks as amphibious creatures, living both on land and in the water.43 When the Cyclopes are mentioned in the Odyssey, their lack in skills and techniques, among which navigation, shipbuilding, and trade are given particular emphasis, is taken as a sign of their generally low standard of living and the poor development of their culture. As early as Homer, it is acknowledged that cultures meet and exchange goods and ideas across the sea. Those who do not partake in this process of communication are envisaged as savage, wild, and uncultivated.44 If you wanted to have commerce with other nations, you had to set out onto the sea. The sailor, the ship-owner, and the trader were part of the daily life experience of ancient times, and they feature as stock characters in ancient literature, e. g. in Greek and Roman comedy.45 On the other hand, those who venture out onto the sea are criticized for being greedy, for trespassing sacred boundaries, and for being morally depraved (or at least suspicious). There appears to be an inherent contradiction between the necessity of seafaring and its condemnation as being a violation of divine will.46 To mention briefly another example: the first half of Vergil’s Aeneid is a poem of maritime departures and arrivals. Vergil uses the Trojans’ diaspora to give a mythical and even cosmic dimension to the founding of Rome.47 The fall of Troy and the loss of a homeland provide the background to his narrative. Venus is determined to ensure that her mortal son Aeneas settles in a land where the Trojan survivors can rebuild their dynasty, safe from their enemies, the ­Achaeans. But Juno, the Greeks’ patroness, is equally determined not to let the Trojans reach their new home, Latium. Aeneas’ only way of escape is the sea, and by moving his comrades, his family, and the sacred symbols of Troy aboard ship, he in effect risks exactly all this: to expose the remnants of Troy, his dear ones, and his entire culture, on the sea. Troy as such, as Vergil says in the Aeneid,

43 Cf. e. g. Lindenlauf, Sea, p. 417. 44 Cf. A. Lesky, Thalatta. Der Weg der Griechen zum Meer. Wien 1947, p. 12. 45 Cf. B. Dunsch, Il commerciante in scena: temi e motiv mercantili nel Mercator plautino e nell’ Emporos filemoniano. In: R. Raffaelli and A. Tontini (eds), Lecturae Plautinae Sarsinates XI: Mercator (Sarsina, 29 settembre 2007). Urbino 2008, pp. 11 – 41. 46 Cf. Heydenreich, Tadel, pp. 13 – 15 und sections A and B of the first chapter, passim. 47 Cf. P. Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid: Cosmos and Imperium. Oxford 1989; on the storm in Aeneid 1, see especially pp. 90 – 97 and 107 – 110. Cf. also D. M. Gaunt, Surge and Thunder. Critical Readings in Homer’s Odyssey. London 1971, p. 63: “Here we are dealing not with one ship but with a flotilla; not with the survival of a single man, but with the persistence of the spirit of Troy to be a component of Roman history.”

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

becomes an exile on the deep.48 At the same time, the ships of Aeneas’ fleet become some kind of real “ships of state”, as opposed to the well-known and widespread imagery. There would be no Rome without Aeneas’ daring voyage. If the Trojans had not had the opportunity to travel across the sea, they could never have founded Rome. So really, can sea travel be all that bad, after all? The ancients seem to have felt a curious ambivalence towards the sea.49 On the one hand, the sea afforded Greek and Roman poets with the best setting for deliberations about the insecurity of life, because the very real dangers of seafaring demonstrated how horribly insecure and subject to fortune (tyche) life could actually be.50 This feeling of helplessness and uncertainty contrasts with the theme of human superiority and the conquest of nature through art (techne), an idea that finds its clearest expression in the systematic study of navigation in antiquity.51 Yet, anyone who ventures out onto the sea, regardless of their purpose and of the appraisal of their motives, has to observe certain limits. This tension between the positive and civilizing effects of seafaring and sea-borne commerce versus the negative and corrupting ones is well brought out in the correspondence of a Christian author from Late Antiquity. In two of his longest and most memorable letters, Synesius, bishop of Cyrene in the fifth century AD, represents the sea both as a conduit of information, having a unifying and cultivating effect on the city, and as a source of foreign goods and customs that allow immoral attitudes and behaviour to spread. In Epistle 148, Synesius describes his Libyan neighbours at some length. Their main characteristic is their general ignorance and naivety, which he sees caused by the fact that the live inland, far away from the sea. For example, they refuse to believe 48 Cf. Vergil, Aeneid 3, 8 – 12. 49 This has been noted by many scholars from various disciplines, ranging from human geography, for which see e. g. Yi-Fu Tuan, Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes, and Values. New York 1990, p. 120 f., to art history, for which see e. g. A. Nova, Kirche, Nation, Individuum. Das stürmische Meer als Allegorie, Metapher und Seelenzustand. In: H. Baader and G. Wolf (eds), Das Meer, der Tausch und die Grenzen der Repräsentation. Zürich 2010, pp. 67 – 94. 50 A good illustration of this is the common convention of representing of the deity of Tyche/ Fortuna at the helm steering the ship of life or the world; on this, see G. Vogt-Spira, Dramaturgie des Zufalls. Tyche und Handeln in der Komödie Menanders. München 1992, p. 60, and the works mentioned there. 51 On the possible existence of nautical handbooks (other than periploi, i. e. handbooks of trading routes and ports of call) in antiquity, see B. Dunsch, Arte rates reguntur: Nautical handbooks in Antiquity? In: Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science No. 43 (2012), pp. 270 – 283.

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that fish can exist, and some of them even think that Odysseus has only recently blinded Polyphemus and is actually a friend of the current Roman emperor. Yet, living by the sea alone does not automatically make people more experienced and worldly-wise. This is the point Synesius makes in Epistle 4, where he recounts his shipwreck near Azarium on the North African coast. Its small harbour is only little frequented, so that the Libyans living in that area do not have many encounters with outsiders and thus show similar signs of naivety and a limited knowledge of the world. On the other hand, Synesius associates living by the sea with urbanity, denounces city life as morally corrupting and physically unhealthy, and praises the simplicity of a life in the countryside.52

7.  “Why do we violate strange seas?”—topoi of transgression The following text is intended to serve as an example of how the topoi and figures of thought mentioned so far in this paper were applied in an ancient literary text. It is a fragment of an epic poem cited by Seneca the Elder, in his Suasoriae, from which I have already quoted above. Seneca refers to an epic poem written by one of his contemporaries, Albinovanus Pedo.53 He does so in the context of rhetorical declamations dealing with the question of whether Alexander II of Macedon should conduct further maritime explorations or not.54 The hexameter lines of the poem are often thought to refer to an episode in Roman history, namely the disaster of the retreat of part of Germanicus’ troops down the river Ems and into the North Sea in 16 AD, after a campaign against an anti-Roman coalition of German tribes under Arminius. The fleet was hit by a hurricane, and many soldiers died.55 It is not quite clear to what extent (or whether at all) Albinovanus and Tacitus refer to the same event; sceptical scholars have rightly pointed to the differences between the two texts, notably to the

52 Synesius, Epistles 4 Garzya (= 5 Migne) and 148 Garzya (= 147 Migne). Cf. E. Marshall, Synesius, Homer, and the Sea: The Sea and the Representation of Libyans in Synesius’ Letters. In: G. J. Oliver, R. Brock, T. J. Cornell and S. Hodkinson (eds), The Sea in Antiquity. Oxford 2000, pp. 13 – 18. 53 The most comprehensive treatment of the poem is still V. Tandoi, Albinovane Pedone e la retorica giulio-claudia delle conquiste. In: Studi Italiani di Filologia Classica No. 36 (1964), pp.  129 – 168. 54 Cf. E. Courtney (ed.), The Fragmentary Latin Poets, Oxford 1993, p. 316; A. S. Hollis (ed.), Fragments of Roman Poetry c. 60 BC–AD 20. Oxford 2007, p. 375. 55 Cf. Tacitus, Annals 2, 23 f.

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

absence of a storm in Albinovanus.56 Maybe the thematic similarities between the passages are better explained by extrapolating that they both “derived from a near contemporary tradition that borrowed from rhetoric depicting Alexander the Great’s peregrinations in analogous terms”,57 rather than assuming a straight interdependence between them. Albinovanus Pedo was a friend of Ovid.58 He is usually identified with a high-ranking military officer (praefectus) also called Pedo, who is reported to have served under Germanicus in Germany in 15 AD.59 If this identification is correct (and there is no reason to think otherwise), Pedo might have had first-hand knowledge of the calamity he puts so vividly before his audience’s eyes.60 Seneca the Elder refers to him as a superior example of verve (spiritus), a positive quality to be desired in an epic poet:61

56 See F. R. D. Goodyear (ed.), The Annals of Tacitus. Books 1 – 6. Cambridge 1981, p. 244 f. 57 F. Santoro L’Hoir, Tragedy, Rhetoric, and the Historiography of Tacitus’ Annals. Ann Arbor 2006, p. 204. 58 Cf. Courtney, Fragmentary Latin Poets, p. 315; M. Mañas Núñez, Aproximación al De bello Germanico de Albinovano Pedón. In: Anuario de Estudios Filológicos No. 23 (2000), pp. 271 – 286, here p. 272 f.; Hollis, Fragments, p. 374 f. Going by the little evidence we have, Pedo must have been quite a figure in the cultural life of the early principate. He was known as a witty entertaining storyteller (Seneca, Epistles 122, 15: fabulator elegantissimus; Quintilian, Instruction of the Orator 9, 3, 61). Martial refers to his epigrams along with those of Catullus and Domitius Marsus as precursors of his own art (Epigrams 1 praef. 1; 2, 77, 1 – 6; 5, 5, 1 – 6). Pedo acted as one of the referees (inter arbitros) in the famous contest between Ovid and his friends about choosing Ovid’s best and worst lines (Seneca, Controversiae 2, 2, 12). Ovid refers to him as a friend (Ovid, Epistles from Pontus 4, 10, 3; Pedo is the dedicatee of the poem); once he calls him sidereus (“star-like”, “heavenly”; Epistles from Pontus 4, 16, 6). This is probably meant to be a reference to Pedo’s epic poetry, of which, apart from the work to which the lines quoted here must belong, a Theseis is only known by title (Ovid, Epistles from Pontus 4, 10, 71). 59 Tacitus, Annals 1, 60, 2: equitem Pedo praefectus finibus Frisiorum ducit. 60 Cf. e. g. F. R. D. Goodyear, Annals, p. 244 n. 3; R. F. Thomas, The Germania as Literary Text. In: A. J. Woodman (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Tacitus. Cambridge 2009, pp. 59 – 72, here p. 68. 61 Seneca, Suasoriae 1, 15 = Albinovanus Pedo, FPL (= Fragmenta Poetarum Latinorum, ed. J. Blänsdorf), p. 291 f. For the context of the quotation, namely the literary climate of literary modernism of the early empire, see J. Fairweather, Seneca the Elder. Cambridge 1981, pp. 312 – 318. For this paper, the text of the fragment has been constituted with the help of Blänsdorf’s edition, Courtney, Fragmentary Latin Poets, p. 315 f., and Hollis, Fragments, p. 373 f. Even where my translation differs from Hollis, it is indebted to him; it has also benefitted from Courtney’s commentary.

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Nemo illorum potuit tanto spiritu dicere quanto Pedo, qui navigante Germanico dicit: Iam pridem post terga diem solemque relictum †iam quidem†, notis extorres finibus orbis, per non concessas audaces ire tenebras ad rerum metas extremaque litora mundi. 5 hunc illum, pigris immania monstra sub undis qui ferat, Oceanum, qui saevas undique pristis aequoreosque canes, ratibus consurgere prensis. (accumulat fragor ipse metus); iam sidere limos navigia et rapido desertam flamine classem 10 seque feris credunt per inertia fata marinis iam non felici laniandos sorte relinqui. atque aliquis prora densum sublimis ab alta aera pugnaci luctatus rumpere visu, ut nihil erepto valuit dinoscere mundo, 15 obstructo talis effundit pectore voces: ‘quo ferimur? fugit ipse dies orbemque relictum ultima perpetuis claudit natura tenebris. anne alio positas ultra sub cardine gentes atque alium lignis intactum quaerimus orbem? 20 di revocant rerumque vetant cognoscere finem mortales oculos. aliena quid aequora remis et sacras violamus aquas divumque quietas turbamus sedes?’

 

2 iam quidem BV: iam quidam A iam pridem Dt iamque vident Withof iamque putant ­ ariotti seque vident Goodyear. 4 ad rerum Haupt: asperum AB hesperii VD trans rerum M Håkanson 5 hunc Pithoeus: nunc codd. 11 iam Schott: tam codd. quam Heinsius 12 densum Bramble: cedunt AB cedat corr. ex cedunt V sedat D sedens t caecum Haase 13 pugnaci codd.: pungenti tempt. Nisbet visu (corr. ex visum V) Vt: -sum AB nisu D 15 obstructo D: -tum ABV -ta in … pectora Bursian 16 fugit Gronovius: ru- ABD ruit corr. ex rugit V 19 lignis Mazzoli: liberis AB libris VD bellis Meyer nobis Burman flabris Haupt alii alia

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

None of them [i. e. the Latin declaimers] was able to speak with more verve than Pedo, who says this about Germanicus at sea: For a long time now, day and sun left behind their backs, 62 , banished from the known boundaries of the world, daring to pass through unpermitted darkness to the bounds of things and the remotest shores of the world. 5 This, then, was that Ocean which breeds terrible monsters beneath sluggish waves, wild beasts of the sea everywhere, and dogs of the sea, the one which rose and took their ships with him (the very noise adds to their fears); now they think the ships are sinking in mud and that, deserted by the swift breeze, their fleet 10 and they themselves are left to wild sea-beasts by an indolent fate, to be torn apart, by a no longer happy lot. And someone elevated high up on the prow, after struggling to break through the dense fog with his persistent gaze, when he could not make out anything, for the world had been snatched away, 15 poured out words such as this from his blocked chest: ‘Where are we being carried? Day itself has fled and outermost Nature shuts off the world we left behind in perpetual darkness. 63 Or are we looking for races beyond, living under another pole, 64 and for another world yet untouched by ships? 20 The gods call us back and forbid our mortal eyes to learn of

62 On the corruption of the text at the beginning of line 2, see Hollis, Fragments, p. 376, who follows Courtney in taking Withof ’s iamque vident into the text, a reading which, even if not correct, yields good sense and is also adopted (in angular brackets) for my translation. 63 Cf. Hollis, Fragments, p. 397, comparing Seneca, Hercules furens 1139 f. (sub cardine/ glacialis Ursae); less precise Courtney, Fragmentary Latin Poets, p. 319 (“region of the sky”). 64 I follow G. Mazzoli, Il lamento dell’ignoto marinaio (ancora sul v. 19 di Albinovano Pedone). In: A. Isola et al. (eds), Curiositas. Studi di cultura classica e medievale in onore di Ubaldo Pizzani. Napoli 2002, pp. 167 – 177, and read lignis (lignum being a wellknown metonymy for ‘ship’) instead of libris found in V (liberis in AB is unmetrical). Many other conjectures have been proposed. Alternatively, one might consider libris, taking alium … libris … intactum orbem to mean something like either “another world, not yet treated in books” or “… not yet acquainted with books”, but this is somewhat far-fetched and results in an awkward expression, while Mazzoli’s conjecture makes straightforward sense in the context of the poem.

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the end of all things: Why do we violate strange seas with our oars and sacred waters and why do we disturb the quiet abodes of the gods?’

In order to achieve an adequate understanding of these lines, it is important to keep an eye on the argumentative context in which they are quoted. Seneca censures Alexander’s expeditions “as an unrealistic and hubristic transgression of bounds and limits” and as “a voyage into madness and chaos”.66 This fits with what is expressed in the poem quoted by him, as it “seems to reprimand G ­ ermanicus for ploughing alien seas and roiling the sacred and tranquil precincts of the gods”. It is likely that Pedo has recourse to a Greek intertext, namely that he imitates a previous poem that reprimanded Alexander for a similar transgression of boundaries,67 a poem that was perhaps inspired by contemporary philosophical criticisms of Alexander as an imperialist pirate. At least we know that such criticisms were not infrequent, mainly among Stoic authors, and were adopted by later anti-Alexander literature.68 This fragmentary poem encapsulates some of the most important concepts and beliefs held about the sea as a boundary in antiquity. In lines 2 and 3, the idea of the sailors as outcasts 69 travelling beyond the limits of the world is linked with that of them as trespassers on forbidden ground, audaciously striving to reach the outer rim of the cosmos itself. In order to get there, they have to pass a zone of darkness, which is not allowed to them. As a result, the sailors are not only banished from their own homeland, but actually from the entire habitable world. 65 Hollis, Fragments, p. 380 lets the question of lines 18 – 19 run on for two more (20 – 21). This is attractive, but results in awkward Latin. The asyndeton that would be generated between 19 and 20 is not “quite elegant”, as Hollis claims. Rather, the nicely balanced sequence of question (16a)—excited statement (16b-17)—question (18 – 19)—excited statement (20 – 21)—question (21 – 23) would be unsettled. 66 Seneca, Suasoriae 1, 10; the quotes are from Santoro L’Hoir, Tragedy, p. 203 f. 67 Cf. Santoro L’Hoir, Tragedy, ibid. 68 See B. Dunsch, Remota iustitia quid sunt regna nisi magna latrocinia? Herkunft und Wirkung einer Denkfigur in der Gerechtigkeitskonzeption des Augustinus (civ. 4, 4). In: M. Lotz, M. van der Minde and D. Weidmann (eds), Von Platon bis zur Global Governance: Entwürfe für mensch­liches Zusammenleben. Marburg 2010, pp. 37 – 72, here p. 56 with n. 74. 69 The adjective extorres “particularly conveys the pathos of exile”, see Courtney, Fragmentary Latin Poets, p. 317; it “is not applied objectively to exile, but enlists the reader’s sympathy”, see Hollis, Fragments, p. 376.

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

In this poem, the outer rim of the world is formed by the Ocean, a conventional and widespread concept in all antiquity.70 Its waves are sluggish, as Nature is believed to lose her strength gradually towards the edges of the world.71 The ship is even “deserted” by the winds that she would need to continue her journey. The Ocean is imagined to be full of strange and terrible creatures,72 especially whales and sharks. The entire crew is marooned and unable to take their fate into their own hands. Instead, they have to lie and wait to fall prey to some terrible sea monster “by an indolent fate”, or “in a passive death”73 (10 per inertia fata). Watching the phenomenon of the tides contributes further to the fears of the Romans. They have luckily escaped the rising tides, but now their good fortune has deserted them (11 iam non felici … sorte). The general opinion of the crew is put into the mouth of one sailor who remains unnamed (12 aliquis).74 Going by the fact that he tries to penetrate the dense fog with his “combative” gaze (13 pugnaci … visu), he could have been the ship’s bow officer (proreta).75 At first, his words seem to be stuck in his throat, but finally he bursts out into a nicely balanced sequence of shouted questions and statements of dire fact conveying a sense of utter desperation. The thematic focus of these lines (16 – 23) is the condemnation of navigation, a psogos nautilias taking the form of a schetliasmos (a stylized indignant or passionate complaint).76 70 On the ancients’ perception, discursive conceptualization and literary construction of the Okeanos, see H.-G. Nesselrath, ‘Where the Lord of the Sea Grants Passage to Sailors Through the Deep-Blue Mere No More’: The Greeks and the Western Seas. In: Greece & Rome No. 52 (2005), pp. 153 – 171. 71 For this recurrent motif, cf. Hollis, Fragments, p. 377 with reference to Seneca, Suasoriae 1, 1 (stat immotum mare, quasi deficientis in suo fine naturae pigra moles … ipsum vero grave et defixum mare) and 1, 2 (immobile profundum) and others. 72 Cf. Tacitus, Annals 2, 23, 4, who claims to have reports of some who survived Germanicus’ expedition. They told miraculous stories about the strong force of the storms, unheard-of birds, sea monsters, ambiguously shaped creatures, halfway between human and animal form, “either really seen or believed through fear” (visa sive ex metu credita), as the historiographer adds cautiously. 73 Hollis, Fragments, p. 378. 74 This motif is known from Greek epic, cf. Hollis, Fragments, p. 378. 75 The bow officer was, according to L. Casson, Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient World. Baltimore/London 1995, p. 303, “stationed on the foredeck and entrusted with keeping a sharp lookout”. 76 Cf. e. g. Tandoi, Albinovano, p. 153; Mañas Núñez, Aproximación, pp. 275 and 282. On the schetliasmos as a literary device and its application in ancient poetry, see F. Cairns, Generic Composition in Greek and Roman Poetry. Edinburgh 1972, pp. 7 – 13, 52 – 54, 150 f., and passim.

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At first sight, the text refers to Britain and its inhabitants,77 but on a secondary level, the Hyperboreans are probably also alluded to,78 and maybe even further nations dwelling on the shores beyond the Ocean (18 ultra). This notion is not as hyperbolical as it perhaps appears to us today, as it was not uncommonly believed in antiquity that Germania was indeed girded by a huge part of the Ocean, the northern pelagos, a space of sluggish, almost motionless water full of numerous islands on which one can find fabulous creatures and observe strange physical phenomena,79 not unlike those alluded to in Albinovanus’ poem. As can be seen from other texts, the Romans could realistically claim for themselves to have dared going as far as this, to the ends of the world, e. g. Tacitus in his Germania (34, 2): ipsum quin etiam Oceanum illa temptavimus (“in fact we have also made an attempt on the Ocean in that region”).80 The notion of impiety and violation is present again in the last three lines (21 – 23; note especially 22 violamus; 23 turbamus). The expression “strange seas” (21 aliena … aequora) certainly means seas other than the Mediterranean, called mare nostrum by the Romans, rather than referring to the idea that mankind should not sail at all.81 So it would seem that this poem is not so much intended to be a general and wholesale condemnation of seafaring as such, but rather a specific criticism aimed at those who venture out too far, of those who do not know their limits.

8.  The sea in a Roman funerary inscription Apart from the topoi that are used so widely in literature, the negative image of the sea is also found in other sources, namely funerary inscriptions. These may themselves in turn be influenced by literary discourses about the sea, but 77 Courtney, Fragmentary Latin Poets, p. 319, suggests that “the soldiers suspect that Germanicus intends to conquer Britain”, which is described as alter orbis by Velleius Paterculus 2, 46, 1, and others. The military operation of AD 16 was primarily directed against some German tribes. 78 Cf. Hollis, Fragments, p. 379, with reference to Pomponius Mela, Chorographia 3, 5, 36 f. (sub ipso siderum cardine … non bella novere). 79 Cf. Tacitus, Germania 45, 1 on this northernmost periphery of the oikoumene and see D. Timpe, Rom und die Barbaren des Nordens. In: M. Schuster (ed.), Die Begegnung mit dem Fremden: Wertungen und Wirkungen in Hochkulturen vom Altertum bis zur Gegenwart. Stuttgart 1996, pp. 34 – 50, here p. 43 f. 80 Cf. Thomas, The Germania, p. 67, who also refers to Augustus, Res gestae 26, 4. 81 Cf. Hollis, Fragments, p. 380.

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

they still provide an independent source that tells us even more about the perception of the sea, notably from the perspective of members of slightly broader social strata than those of the poets and their audiences. Not infrequently, the sea is seen as a sacred domain not to be violated by mortals—an alien and inimical element, unfit for travelling, a watery desert inhabited by monsters. Indeed, this fear of the sea is well-founded. Death at sea was a frequent enough occurrence in real life. People’s fear of the sea was aggravated by the fact that it was seen as a place of no return, and insofar, as stated above, as equal to the underworld. Still worse, the drowned are robbed of their due rites of burial, so by their death they have lost even more than those who, after dying on land and receiving a proper terrestrial burial, inhabited the actual underworld as unhappy and insubstantial shadows—a form of existence that was itself already regarded as less than desirable. Correspondingly, the ancients’ emotional attitude to the sea was very different from ours. To give just one example: the funerary inscription of an unknown Roman merchant, obviously involved in overseas trade, dated to the late first or early second century AD, bears witness to the fear with which the sea was regarded:82 Si non molestum est, hospes, consiste et lege. navibus velivolis magnum mare saepe cucurri, 83 accessi terras conplures, terminus hicc  est quem mihi nascenti quondam Parcae cecinere. 5 hic meas deposui curas omnesque labores, sidera non timeo hic nec nimbos nec mare saevom, nec metuo sumptus ni quaestum vincere possit. alma Fides, tibi ago grates, sanctissuma diva, fortuna infracta ter me fessum recreasti, 10 tu digna es quam mortales optent sibi cuncti. hospes vive vale, in sumptum superet tibi semper, qua non sprevisti hunc lapidem dignumq(ue) dicasti. If you please, stranger, stay awhile and read. 82 The Latin text follows A. Franzoi, Sagezza di mercante (CLE 1533). In: Rivista di Cultura Classica e Medioevale 46 (2004), pp. 257 – 263; the translation is my own. 83 For pronominal hicc, prosodically different from adverbial hic, see Franzoi, Sagezza, p. 258.

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I often roamed the great sea with ships, flying along under sails. I reached many countries, but this is my end which the Parcae once sang me when I was born. 5 Here I deposed all my sorrows and my labours, I do not fear the stars nor the clouds nor the raging sea, and I am no longer afraid the costs could be higher than the income. Benevolent Trust, I pay thee thanks, most holy goddess. I was weakened by broken luck three times, and you saved me. 10 you are worthy of being wished for by all mortals. Stranger, goodbye, may there be always money to cover your costs, for you have not disregarded this stone and proclaimed its dignity.

The poem proper—after a standard address to the hospes, the stranger passing by the grave—opens with an expression which is also found in the Annals of Q. Ennius (239 – 169 BC), the national epic of Rome before Vergil’s Aeneid—“ships, flying along under sails”.84 This is clearly an attempt at heightening the tone of the poem. The writer of these lines, probably a hired professional versificator,85 uses the stock-in-trade of his profession. Then we hear that the dead merchant no longer needs to fear the stars, the clouds, and the raging sea. The three items are ordered in a climax. It was commonly assumed in antiquity that the stars influence the weather, especially the formation of the clouds, which therefore come second. Third and last, the wild sea itself is mentioned: mare saevom, a phrase already found in the Odusia of Livius Andronicus (third century BC ), a Latin verse translation of Homer’s Odyssey. This is just one more indication of the writer’s attempt at giving the poem an air of learnedness and refinement.86 Despite the heightened language, it is clear that the dead man feared the dangerous physical and environmental conditions of the Mediterranean and that the average reader of the inscription did so, too. In the following line, another object of his fear is added: the return on his investments. Here, a different verb is used, indicating a lesser degree of fear (metuo). This fear is, however, also well justified if one considers that for any overseas trader there was always a high risk of losing his investments 84 Cf. Ennius, Annals fr. 379 f. Skutsch: quom procul aspiciunt hostes accedere ventis / navibus velivolis. The verb accessi in line 3 also points to the epigrammatist’s (conscious or unconscious) use of the Ennian passage. 85 Cf. Franzoi, Sagezza, p. 262. 86 For suggestions of various other intertexts for this inscription, see Franzoi, Sagezza, passim.

The Sea as Bridge and Boundary in Greek and Roman Poetry

through shipwreck.87 To take such a statement ironically, as some modern readers might be tempted to do, is only possible in the comparative security of a world like ours in which a failed investment will usually not constitute a real threat to one’s physical existence. Forming a ring composition, the last two lines hark back to the initial address of the stranger, thanking him for paying attention to the fate of the man commemorated by this epigram.88 As already mentioned above, an entire sub-genre of Hellenistic epigrammatic poetry is dedicated to the theme of shipwreck, the nauagikon, an epigram inscribed on a drowning victim’s cenotaph.89 This funerary inscription perhaps helps to better understand the many levels on which the currents of literary tradition may be associated with social realities.

9.  Conclusion The aim of this paper was to examine the fundamental ambiguity in the way the sea was perceived in ancient literature. On the one hand, it was seen as a sacred boundary. Its poetic representations were used to define and confine what is human and what is not. On the other hand, ships took people across the Mediterranean and to the outermost places then conceivable. This opposition has a horizontal as well as a vertical dimension. The vertical opposition can be expressed by the antithesis “above” versus “below”, i. e. the terrestrian world versus the sea perceived as “underworld”. The waterline and the coastline are the defining boundaries of these two spheres. The horizontal opposition can be characterized by the binary concepts of “attainable” versus “unattainable” for mortals, “possible” versus “impossible”, the realm of “(human) techne” versus that of “(divine) tyche”. Transportation by sea had a physical aspect, insofar as the ships carried people and goods. At the same time, they also transported ideas and customs. Thus, ships were the most important vehicles for the dissemination of culture, a fact that is freely acknowledged in Greek and Roman poetry. Much depended on a safe crossing, hostile actions as well as peaceful activities. It is this combination of opportunity and danger that makes the ship a crucial part of the 87 Cf. e. g. L. Casson, Ancient Trade and Society. Detroit 1984, p. 31: “To undertake these risky investments one had to be experienced as well as bold.” 88 For an explanation of the difficult expression dignum dicasti, see Franzoi, Sagezza, p. 262. 89 On the genre of nauagikon, see the literature mentioned above in n. 15.

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culture of any sea-going nation. For this reason, the techne of navigation and seafaring came to symbolize the dangers and opportunities that human aspirations and enterprise may create when subjected to the forces of tyche. Man ponders security in life, and the sea affords him the best setting for his deliberations, because it demonstrates how insecure life can be.90

90 It is not surprising, then, that the seafarers of the ancient Mediterranean developed their own particular forms of religious observance, but that would be the topic of another paper. The most exhaustive study of the religious aspects of Greek and Roman seafaring is still Wachsmuth, Untersuchung, passim; cf. also e. g. J. Rougé, Ships and Fleets of the Ancient Mediterranean. Middletown, Connecticut 1981, pp. 196 – 200. I would like to express my gratitude to Marta Grzechnik and Heta Hurskainen for their editorial work and the anonymous reviewer of my chapter for his/her perceptive and helpful comments.

Alexander Filiuschkin

Image of Seas and Rivers as a frontier between the different worlds in Russian Medieval narrative 1

1.  Russian marine fate Russia is a country with a strange marine history. Its maritime boundaries (38,807 km) are almost half as long as its land ones (22,125 km, including 7,616 km through rivers and lakes). Meanwhile, there have been relatively few significant marine events in Russian history when compared to greater seafaring nations like Great Britain, France, Spain, etc. Yet the discourse of battling through to the sea to guarantee the country’s future greatness plays a very important role in its history. According to official historiography, ancient Russia possessed the lands on the coasts of both the Baltic Sea (Yuriev—1030, Oreshek—1323) and the Black Sea (the Oleshye fortress at the mouth of Dnepr—the tenth century, and the transcontinental trade route “from the Varangians to the Greeks” in the ninth to tenth centuries passed through Russia). Russian shallops plied the Baltic and the Black Seas, and Russian fortresses stood near the seacoasts.2 Then Russia lost all those lands and spent centuries trying to recover them and regain access to the sea. From 1500 to 1721 it fought for the Baltic Sea, and again from 1695 to 1791 for the Black Sea. Thus, from the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries, Russia was eager battling for access to the sea. This was the primary objective of its foreign policy, aiming to ensure it was and would remain a great power.3 The idea that wars are always started by landlocked nations to gain access to the sea has become such an inseparable part of the Russian mentality that occasionally peculiar instances arise. Once, a student 1 The paper was written with the support by Russian Humanitarian Scientific Foundation, Grant No.  11 – 01 – 00462/a. 2 See in details: V. Pashuto, Vneshnyaya politika Drevnej Rusi (= Foreign Policy of Ancient Russia). Moscow 1968. 3 See in details: L. Hughes, Russia in the Age of Peter the Great. New Haven 2000; A. Postnikov, The Russian Navy as Chartmaker in the Eighteenth Century. In: Imago Mundi No. 52 (2000), p. 79 – 95; D. Lieven, Empire: The Russian Empire and Its Rivals. Yale 2002.

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told me at an exam that Napoleon invaded Russia to gain access to the sea. I asked him, “How could that be? The French coast is washed by the ocean”. The student proudly responded, “The sea is quite another matter!” That was just one amusing episode, yet it is a good illustration of the role the discourse of how battling through foreign lands to the sea plays in the Russian mentality. With this in mind, the question naturally arises: what did the Russians know about the sea, and what role did the seas, rivers, and the notion of water space play in their lives? Did bodies of water play an essential role in Russian history by dividing and connecting different landscapes, peoples, cultures, and identities? It is a great theme, which has to be studied in a broad context. Here I am going to consider only one aspect of that question: what role, according to Russian medieval chronicles, rivers and seas played in the history of medieval Russia.

2.  Perception of water in the Russian medieval chronicles Of course, the chronicles examined here cannot be considered an accurate reflection of the national mentality. They were composed by the intellectual elite and assumed a similar kind of reader.4 At the same time, they reproduced the most discursive practices of their time. Therefore, it is logical to use these chronicles to study the Russian medieval discourse of the sea, especially since there is a lack of other sources (acts, epistolary texts, narrative etc.). Russian man’s perception of rivers, lakes, and seas in the Middle Ages was determined by two factors, the first of which is the natural experience. Rivers formed natural demarcations of the territory, serving as boundaries and borders. They were paths and routes for boats and ships in summer, and for sleighs on the ice in winter. The major routes ran over frozen rivers, and were ideal paths of communication, being evenly surfaced and running through all the settlements, since all towns were located on the banks of rivers or lakes. For a long time Russia did not have any highways, like the Roman paved roads running across Europe. Road construction started much later. The first reference to the construction of wooden bridges over the rivers along the major national roads is dated in the sixteenth century. Up until the seventeenth century, all major roads in the country ran either along the rivers (in summer), or by their beds (in winter). Even in the first description of the territory of the

4 I. Danilevsky, Povest vremennych let: Germenevticheskie osnovy istochnikovedenija letopisnych tekstov. Moscow 2004, pp. 7 – 40.

Image between the different worlds in Russian Medieval narrative 

Russian state, the so-called “Big Landscape Sketch Book” (from the end of the sixteenth century to the beginning of the seventeenth century) all roads were marked by the rivers, if not along their beds, then “from river to river”, on the mouths, heads etc., which means it was the river, not the town, that marked Russian roads up to the seventeenth century.5 This was quite natural, since the river not only served as a distinct landmark, but also was a source of drinking water, vital for travellers. Perception of the sea was more complicated. The natural role of the sea was not so obvious to the Russian medieval man. Seas were located on the periphery of the Russian ecumene. Despite the presence of urban centres there (­Tmutarakan,6 Oleshye,7 Russian Yuriev in the Baltics 8), no Russian maritime civilization developed on the banks of either the Black or the Baltic Seas. Coastal possessions were quickly lost. Certain coastal culture economies developed on Russian shores of the Gulf of Finland and the White Sea, but those were remote areas, with little connection with the centre, and thus not an attractive topic for Russian medieval intellectuals. Coastal hunters, fishermen, smugglers, and merchants left no written chronicles. It should be emphasized that Russian chroniclers hardly ever saw the sea.

3.  The Bible dictates the Russian medieval perception of water On the other hand, medieval Russian mentality was largely shaped by the Bible, and biblical images of rivers and the sea were combined with the discourses of the natural experience of perception of those reservoirs. Biblical rivers are mainly dividers and territory markers (Genesis 15:18, Exodus 23:31, Deuteronomy 11:24), hence the symbolic customs of drinking water from a strange river, 5 K. Serbina (ed.), Kniga Bol’shomu Chertezhu. Moscow 1950. 6 A. Stokes, Tmutarakan’. In: The Slavonic and East European Review No. 38 (1960), pp.  499 – 514. 7 L. Serdobolskaya, K voprosu o mestonakhozhdenii ostrova Waryazhskogo na Dnepre (= About the location of Varangian Island at the Dnieper). In: Sbornik nauchnych Trudov Pyatigorskogo gosudarstvennogo pedagogicheskogo institute No. 4 (1949), pp.  213 – 217. 8 E. Blumfeldt, Estonian-Russian Relations from the IX -XIII Century. In: J. Aunver (ed.), Charisteria Iohanni Kõpp octogenario oblate. Flolmiae 1954, pp. 200 – 222; A. Selart, Livland und die Rus’ im 13. Jahrhundert. Köln, Weimar, Wien 2007, pp. 55 – 60; K. Altola, Das Russische Ende im mittelalter­lichen Dorpat (Tartu). In: Steinbrücke. Estnische Historische Zeitschrift No. 1 (1998), pp. 31 – 42.

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or bathing one’s feet or horses’ hooves in it, both of which were believed to break the enemy’s territorial boundaries. When there are a lot of rivers, when the nation’s “land is divided by rivers”, it demonstrates the nation’s great power and size (Isaiah 18:2). The river itself is a boundary, but it passes through the lands, rejecting borders (Isaiah 23:10). The river is a symbol of power, freedom, and the natural elements (the holy man’s mind is compared to a river and sea waves, Isaiah 48:18). The main ­rivers flowed from Eden (Genesis 2:10). The river is a symbol of life (Revelation 22:1); when life ends, it dries up (Job 14:11, Isaiah 19:11). The river is a source of danger, since death can emerge from it (as in the Egyptian plague, when deadly frogs came out of the river, Exodus 8:3. See also the Second Epistle to the ­Corinthians 11:26). Compare this to the common image of river water turning to blood on the ground (Exodus 4:9, 7:17, Revelation 16:4). Submerging oneself in the river and coming out naked represents the holy man’s revival (Isaiah 47:2, mass baptism in rivers). The legend of baby Moses, who was taken out of a basket that had been thrown into the river, is also quite illustrative (Exodus 2:3 – 5). All rivers run into the sea (Ecclesiastes 1:7). The sea is also a border and a limit (Numbers 34:6, Joshua 15:11), and it is a large-scale boundary, since “beyond the sea” means very far away, in another world (Deuteronomy 30:13). From “the other side of the sea” comes an army to wage war (Chronicles 20:2). The sea is a symbol of plurality and enormousness (the noise of sea waves reminds one of the raging of nations, Psalms 64:8, Isaiah 17:12). The sea is abundant (Isaiah 60:5). The sea itself is a world full of fish (people), the apostles— fishermen—become “fishers of men” (Mark 1:16). Power over the sea means God’s power over the world (the Lord walks in the sea like on a dry land and drives the sea back before him). Great secrets and wisdom are hidden in the depths of the sea (Job 38:16). The way of a ship on the high seas is a mystery that cannot be understood (Proverbs 30: 19).9 The sea is also a source of death (Exodus 10:19): whole armies, cities, and nations die in it (Exodus 14:27; Jeremiah 51:42). The sea is a place inhabited by beasts (Job 7:12, Psalms 103:25). It is pleased by human sacrifice (Jonah 1:15). Both the good and the bad sink equally “well” in the sea. Coming out of the sea means a kind of transfiguration of a person or the whole nation (such as the Israeli tribes crossing the sea). Finally, the image of the sea in the Bible also includes navigation:

9 Compare with: J. Wright, The Commemoration of Defeat and the Formation of a Nation in the Hebrew Bible. In: Prooftexts 29 (2009), pp. 433 – 472.

Image between the different worlds in Russian Medieval narrative 

Some went down to the sea in ships, doing business on the great waters; they saw the deeds of the Lord, his wondrous works in the deep. For he commanded, and raised the stormy wind, which lifted up the waves of the sea. They mounted up to heaven, they went down to the depths; their courage melted away in their evil plight; they reeled and staggered like drunken men, and were at their wits’ end. Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress; he made the storm be still, and the waves of the sea were hushed. Then they were glad because they had quiet, and he brought them to their desired haven. Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love, for his wonderful works to the sons of men! (Ps. 107: 23 – 31).

4.  Discourse of the sea in Russian narrative The images of rivers and the sea in the Russian narrative demonstrate the following trends. The image of rivers is dominated by the practical component, and the biblical discourses are secondary. When a chronicler described real events, he wrote about the true, actual role of rivers and seas. But when he created a narrative with symbolical images, he used imagery from Bible. Rivers perform various functions in the chronicles, like marking the territory (the tribes and nations usually “sit along the rivers”), dividing points (borders, lines), and places of integration. The route “from the Varangians to the Greeks”, passing along the rivers of Eastern Europe, tied the Russian North West (with Novgorod and Ladoga) to the south (Kiev in particular), and, in general, the Baltic Viking world/Varangians and Byzantine Mediterranean ecumene.10 There is little symbolism in the perception of rivers in the chronicles, and its content is quite standard. It is different with the sea, which is a rare image in the chronicles. It is also often depicted as the final, ultimate, supreme, or most inaccessible limit (in 1185 Knyaz Igor’s army goes on a campaign to “reach the sea coast”).11 Russians

10 See: I. Garipzanov and O. Tolochko, Early Christianity on the Way from the Varangians to the Greeks. In: Ruthenica. Supplementum 4 (2011), pp. 9 – 16. 11 The image of the sea is found many times in the famous “Igor Tale” (its full title is: “The Discourse about the Regiment of Igor”, 1185). E. g. “Div arose crying calls on the tree-top; he commands a hearing from the Unknown Land, the Vólga, the sea-border, and the Sulá country on the Sea of Azov, Korsuń, and thee, thou idol of Tmutarokáń”; “Now the winds, the scions of Stríbog, blow from the sea like arrows on to the courageous hosts of Ígoŕ”; “The Pólovtsy advance from the Don and the sea and from all sides. The Russian regiments retired” etc. I quote the translation by L. Magnus (L. Magnus, The tale

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do not go in the sea, they go beyond the sea. The sea is not perceived as a place where you can sail or move in any other way. It is a threshold that separates worlds. Traveling by ship or boat means a transition through various worlds (as in the Varangian rite of cremating Vikings’ dead bodies in shallops, funeral rites, and Olga’s revenge to Drevlianys “carried in the boat”12).13 Newcomers from overseas founded states. This is also a kind of an archetype in Russian Chronicles (Rurik—Rus’; Palemon—Lithuania; Aeneas—Italy etc.). What world lies beyond the sea? First of all, it is the world of death (the sun “sinks” in the sea, which is a common image both in the chronicles and folklore). Flood comes when the sea descends from heaven. The sea is a dangerous and hostile place. Philologists found many Russian proverbs with the following rhymes “more—gore” (sea—grief), “voda—beda” (water—trouble), “puchina—kruchina” (the deep—sorrow),14 etc. Thus, we can speak of the nega­ tive symbolic image of the sea in medieval Russian discourse. On the other hand, in eighteenth-century Russian folklore, the Old Believers created an image of the blessed pious country of freedom: Belovodye (White Water), located on islands in the sea. Perception of the White Sea shore in the Russian literary discourse was, and still is, connected with the prototype of Paradise.15 Since ancient times, the sea has been perceived as a country of miracles, where anything could happen, from terrible horrors to unheard-of adventures and fantastic incidents.

of the armament of Igor. A. D. 1185. A Russian historical epic. Edited and translated by Leonard A. Magnus … With revised Russian text, translation, notes, introduction and glossary. London 1915). 12 In 945 Olga’s husband, Prince Igor, was killed by the tribe Drevliane. The tribal chief named Mal wanted to marry Olga and sent envoys. Olga killed them all in a variety of ways. One of them was “carried in a boat” and then thrown in a hole and buried. It was an imitation of pagan last offices. 13 See: N. Jopson, Early Slavonic Funeral Ceremonies. In: The Slavonic Review 6 (1927), pp.  59 – 67; F. Butler, A Woman of Words: Pagan Ol’ga in the Mirror of Germanic Europe. In: Slavic Review 63 (2004), pp. 771 – 793. 14 T. Bochina, Paremika v slovare motivov russkogo folklora (=Paremies in the dictionary of Russian Folk tunes). In: Journal of historical, philological and cultural studies 2 (2009), pp.  37 – 41, here: 39 – 40. 15 K. Chistov, Legenda o Belovod’e (= A Legend about “The White Water”). In: Trudy Karel’skogo filial Academii Nauk USSR 35 (1962), pp. 116 – 181; A. Maltsev, Starovery-stranniki I belovodskaya legenda (=Old-believers-wanderers and the Belovodye legend). In: Humanitarnye nauki v Sibiri 3 (2003), pp. 55 – 58

Image between the different worlds in Russian Medieval narrative 

In addition to written images, a number of Russian chronicles include miniatures presenting the sea. In the ancient Radziwill chronicle, which includes miniatures (thirteenth century, lists of the fifteenth century), the sea is given very little attention. It only appears in the images of the Russian campaigns in Byzantium, and is drawn quite schematically (a blue pond of irregular shape, always with some other images depicted in its centre). The artist had definitely seen the shallops and illustrated them quite accurately, though that was the only image of the sea he knew.16 A more detailed image of the sea is represented in the famous “encyclopaedia of the sixteenth century Russia”, the Illuminated Chronicle (IC) of Ivan the Terrible.17 The ten-volume manuscript chronicles religious, world, and Russian history up to the reign of Ivan the Terrible. The image of the sea here is used primarily to glorify God and embody his will (IC, vol. 1, p. 16, 17—Noah’s Ark and the releasing of doves above the waves; IC, vol. 1, p. 200—Moses crossing the sea and destruction of Pharaoh’s army in the sea; IC, vol. 3, p. 454 on the back—Daniel’s dream: beasts emerging from the sea). The sea is also a mysterious and hostile place where beasts live (IC, vol. 6, p. 313—cage and shellfish). Yet such an image appears just once, and only in the sixth volume. Sea stories from the Illuminated Chronicle present us with a riddle. It is a well-known fact that Russia had no European-style, multi-mast, single-decked ships with an aft rudder, dedicated forecastle, and poop, until the seventeenth century. A galleass “Frederick” was built in 1636, and a frigate “Eagle” in 1668. In the sixteenth century, when the Illuminated Chronicle appeared, there was nothing of the kind. However, the Chronicles have illustrations of European-style naval vessels along with shallops (IC, vol. 3, p. 199, 202, 204 on the back; IC, vol. 4, p. 267; IC, vol. 5, p. 14). The artist obviously did not pay much attention about which fleet to depict; thus, the campaign to reach Troy starts with the European sailing fleet (IC, vol. 5, p. 18 on the back), which somehow changes into shallops at the Troy shore (IC , vol. 5, p. 19). Sometimes illustrations of ships look legendarily amazing, for example the ones with cities built on them (IC, vol. 5, p. 149 on the back); and those are indeed cities, not just fore and aft military turrets (IC, vol. 6, p. 417 on the back). The artist is not only familiar 16 M. Kukushkina (ed.), Radzivillovskaya letopis’: Text, issledovanie, Opisanie miniatur. St. Petersburg 1994, Kniga 1, pp. 27, 29, 31, 38, 42, 52, 53, 54, 55, 74, 79, 80, 89, 90, 104, 133, 164, 172, 187, 198, 203, 309, 389, 467. 17 The Illuminated Chronicle was published in 2004 – 2008 in facsimile by Russian publishing house “Akteon” (Moscow). The issue consists of 40 volumes. In this paper the number of volume and sheet are indicated in brackets.

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with the ships, but perceives the image of the sea with ships and coastal cities (IC, vol. 6, p. 201). How is the sea depicted in the Chronicle’s description of the Livonian War of Ivan the Terrible (which is often referred to as the War of the Baltic Sea) in 1558 – 1583? In the text of the Chronicle, there is no mention about gaining access to the sea. Depictions of the sea are extremely rare in the IC miniatures. It is used as a landmark milestone reached by the Russian troops (e. g.: IC , vol. 22, p. 324 on the back). A good illustration of this is a miniature showing foreign mercenaries fighting on the Livonians’ side and captured by Ivan the Terrible who “let them go beyond the sea”. The sea is depicted as a wide river, a boundary that needs to be crossed to reach a different world on the other shore (IC, vol. 23, S. 375). Oddly enough, the marine theme was further developed in the Illuminated Chronicle to refer not to the Baltic Sea, but to the Black Sea. Voivode Danila Adashev’s campaign in the Crimean ulusi, the steppe areas adjacent to the Crimean peninsula, was depicted using, among other images, marine ones, i. e. when the Russian ships attacked Tartar coastal settlements from the sea (IC , vol. 23, p. 440 on the back, 469). It is ironic that the Russian soldiers are depicted on European ships with poops and forecastles, as well as aft turrets. Ivan the Terrible never possessed such vessels, especially in the Black Sea, which was thousands kilometres away from Moscow. This suggests that the artist did not even try to depict the reality, and just relied on images he was familiar with. He was interested in their purely artistic character, the aesthetics of the image, and as such they do not reflect any discursive practices of the period. Does this mean that in the sixteenth century Russians perceived the sea as something strange and indifferent? No, it does not. In 1581, Dmitry Yeletsky, a Russian diplomat, urging the papal legate Antonio Possevino to mediate in the negotiations on the side of Russia, warned that if Livonia was taken from Russia, thus depriving them of their sea ports, then Russians would not be able to travel to visit the pope and would fail to act in time to fight in cooperation with the European kings against the Turks. Here sea ports are clearly not perceived as “windows to Europe”, they are used to blackmail the emperor and the pope: if rulers of “the Christian world” disallow Stephen Bathory (king of Poland and military leader in wars with Russia in 1579 – 82) from capturing the entire Livonia, Russia would help them by sending troops to fight against the Turks. If not, they would be to blame, since Russians would be landlocked and thus not able to reach them. The issue of the absence of a sea route never influenced any prior or subsequent negotiations with the Holy Roman Empire

Image between the different worlds in Russian Medieval narrative 

and the Vatican,18 but in the case under discussion this issue suddenly became a stumbling stone!

5.  Conclusions For the Russian medieval narrative the sea is not perceived as a place where you can sail or move in any other way. It is a threshold that separates worlds, a border between the worlds: exactly a border; not a frontier. Frontiers are permeable, diffusive, movable zones. But a border is a firm, unshakeable, impermeable boundary. None of the Russian medieval narratives up to the end of the sixteenth century contained a word about the need for battling for access to the sea. Russian nobles fought for land and wealth, but were they aware of what to do with the sea? It seems that the marine factor appeared in the Russian culture and politics later on, no earlier than during the second half of the seventeenth century or the beginning of the eighteenth century.19 Previously, knowledge about water (seas and rivers) had only been used in practical aspects. The discourse of the sea began to develop in the sixteenth century only, but it did not connect with the real geopolitical aspirations of the Russian government. It arose primarily in narrative and in the world of symbols and images.

18 F. Uspenski. Nakaz Tsarya Ivana Vasilievicha Groznogo knyazu Yeletskomu s tovarischami (= The Instructions of the Tsar Ivan the Terrible to the Prince Yeletsky with his partners). Odessa 1885, p. 13. 19 On the issues related to the development of the Russian navy, see paper by Tilman Plath in this volume.

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Amber rosaries, Baltic furs, and Persian carpets The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece as an object of Hanseatic conspicuous consumption? 1

1.  Introduction In the 1990s, economic historians began treating altarpieces as cultural commodities, which has presented art historians with the challenge of mediating issues of artistic representation with facets of trade and wealth. Historians Michael North and David Ormrod have rightly noted the need to “arrive at a fair balance between the demand for cultural products and the conditions of artistic creativity and production”.2 This is ever more relevant when examining 1 This paper is part of my on-going research and marks the early stages of my doctoral dissertation. I would like to thank the members of the Baltic Borderlands International Research Training Group for their dutiful work in organizing the Beyond the Sea conference and the subsequent publication, and for extending me an invitation to become a visiting doctoral researcher in March 2013. Thank you to Professor Dr. Michael North who has been especially helpful in facilitating contact with scholars during my research trips to the Baltic Sea region. During my time in Estonia, discussions with art historians Dr. Krista Kodres and Dr. Anu Mänd, yielded fruitful outcomes. My gratitude goes to the staff of the Hamburg State Archive and the Tallinn City Archive who have helped me navigate a sea of materials. My research would not have been as fulfilling without the support of Dr. Lorenzen-Schmidt at the Hamburg State Archive and Director Tarmo Saaret of the Niguliste Museum in Tallinn. Thank you to the Niguliste Museum for granting me access and allowing me to publish images of Figures 1 – 4. Thank you to my committee members, Professors Elizabeth Sears, Megan Holmes, and Helmut Puff who have been instrumental in my academic development and supportive of my interests. And, finally, my sincere appreciation goes to my advisor, Professor Achim ­Timmermann who has encouraged me to boldly move forward with my research interests and provided me with steadfast guidance. 2 M. North, C. Núñez and D. Ormrod (eds), Markets for Art, 1400 – 1800. Seville 1998, p. 15. North is among a group of scholars who suggest that it is unsuitable to refer to the regions of northern, coastal Europe as Nordic or Scandinavian. He asserts that the region must be known in its historical sense as the Baltic Sea region. This qualification points to the region’s historical ties to the Hanseatic League, and resists a comparison

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art production and patronage in the Hanseatic League, an early modern trading association formed along the Baltic Sea. During the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the Hanseatic League, a community of northern European towns headquartered in Lübeck, oversaw a vital trade network in the Baltic Sea region. The League’s influence extended into the commercial, political, social, and even religious spheres. Today, long-held notions of a unified Hanseatic culture are being abandoned, as the complexity of local cultures in the seaside towns emerges in scholarly discourse. This paper will introduce the visual program of a complex, multi-winged object: the Mary Altarpiece [Figures 1 – 3] (before 1493, oil and tempera paints on oak panel) by the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend (fl. 1480 – 1510).3 The altarpiece was produced during the height of the Hanseatic League by a Bruges-­ based workshop and its patrons hailed from the far reaches of the eastern shores of the Baltic. As we will begin to see over the course of this paper, the sea was a shaping force in the production and iconography of this elaborate

between Scandinavia and mainland, northern Europe (home to some countries that were once part of the Soviet Bloc). Additionally, it is important to note, for the purposes of this paper, that scholarship on early Netherlandish art has recently begun to be re-visited. Jeanne Nuechterlein is one of a group of scholars who has suggested a less rigid methodological approach that moves back and forth between micro-analysis, such as close visual analysis, and macro-analysis, drawing on larger issues of context or more conceptual ideas. My paper will follow suit. See J. Nuechterlein, Perceiving Different Images at Different Scales of Research: The Case of Early Netherlandish Painting. In: The International Journal of the Humanities, No. 6/8 (2008), pp. 9 – 17. Other sources demonstrative of the state of the field include: B. Ridderbos, A. van Buren and H. van Veen (eds), Early Netherlandish Paintings. Amsterdam 2005 as well as M. Ainsworth, Early Netherlandish Painting at the Crossroads. A Critical Look at Current Methodo­ logies. New Haven 2001—the Ainsworth publication stems from a symposium at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. 3 For the purposes of this paper, I will use the shortened name of the Mary Altarpiece instead of the “Altarpiece of Holy Mary of the Brotherhood of the Black Heads”. In addition, I will use the “Master of Saint Lucy Legend” in lieu of the “Master of the Legend of Saint Lucy”. The Mary Altarpiece was removed from its original location at the Saint Catherine’s church (now partially extant) in the Tallinn Dominican friary after the events of the Reformation in 1524. The altar was relocated to the Brotherhood of the Black Heads’ headquarters at 26 Pikk Street where it remained until 1943. In 1958, it was displayed to the public at the Art Museum of Estonia. Today, it stands in the Niguliste Museum in Tallinn, home to the medieval and early modern collections of the Art Museum of Estonia. Niguliste is a converted medieval parish church for a merchant congregation. During the fifteenth century, it was home to its share of large-scale altarpieces.

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

object. The aim is not to present a comprehensive study of the altarpiece, or of its patrons,4 but rather, to provide insight into its visual programme and viewing experience as a way of entering into larger debates about altarpieces as objects of conspicuous consumption. The Mary Altarpiece offers an example through which to examine levels of expression—be they individual, group, municipal, or regional—playing to the diverse nature of artistic patronage in the Baltic Sea region during the time of the Hanseatic League.

4 Recently, Anu Mänd has explored questions relating to the artist’s identity and the patrons of the altarpiece in A. Mänd, The Altarpiece of the Virgin Mary of the Confraternity of the Black Heads in Tallinn: Dating, Donors, and the Double Intercession. In: Acta Historiae Artium Balticae No. 2 (2007), pp. 35 – 53. The Mary Altarpiece by the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend is one of 25 works attributed to this artist. His identity remains under examination, but he is a historically known individual and is referred to as the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, referencing the subject matter of an altarpiece in the Saint Jacob’s church in Bruges. He was a member of the circle of Hans Memling (c. 1430/40 – 1494), a Netherlandish master who trained under Rogier van der ­Weyden (1399/1400 – 1464). See also G. Koppel and K. Polli (eds), Madal Taevas, Avar Horisont. Madalmaade kunst Eestis. Tallinn 2005, p. 15. For more information on the historiography of scholarship on the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, please refer to D. Martens, Brügge Lucia legend meister. Kokkuvõte senisest uurimistööst ja uued hüpoteesid. In: T. Abel, A. Mänd and R. Rast, Eesti Kunstisidemed Madamaadega 15.-17. Sajandil. Püha Lucia legend meistri Maarja Altar 500 aastat Tallinnas (Tallinn: September 25 – 26, 1995). Tallinn 2000, pp. 20 – 57.

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Figure 1  Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, Mary Altarpiece, before 1493, oil and tempera paints on oak panel, first position (closed) of the “Annunciation”, Niguliste Museum, Art Museum of Estonia (K. U. M. U.), Tallinn, Estonia (copyright).

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

Figure 2  Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, Mary Altarpiece, before 1493, oil and tempera paints on oak panel, second position (open) of the “Double Intercession”, Niguliste Museum, Art Museum of Estonia (K. U. M. U.), Tallinn, Estonia (copyright).

 

Figure 3  Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, Mary Altarpiece, before 1493, oil and tempera paints on oak panel, third position (open) of the “Sacra Conversazione”, Art Museum of Estonia (K. U. M. U.), Niguliste Museum, Tallinn, Estonia (copyright).

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The Mary Altarpiece was commissioned by the Reval (modern-day Tallinn) Brotherhood of the Black Heads, a corporation serving as a confraternity, town militia, and merchant organization consisting of ambitious, unmarried men, with the help of its father organization, the Great Guild, which consisted of town council members and other prominent figures. The altarpiece is a cultural artefact that demonstrates, through its visual program, a negotiation of disparate values. While a religious work, it also functioned to make secular claims: this is an item of conspicuous consumption that reflects a mediation between cosmopolitan and localized stakes within the seascape of the eastern Baltic. As a liturgical object, it possessed a ritualistic function, and yet the visual content therein points to a greater interest in displaying the Brotherhood and Great Guild’s status in Reval and demonstrating their importance as local organizations. Today, the altarpiece is displayed at the Niguliste Museum in Tallinn, a former medieval parish church that has been converted into a museum for medieval and early modern art objects.5 However, the Mary Altarpiece’s origi­ nal location was in the Brotherhood’s chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary in the Revalian Dominican monastery of Saint Catherine. Any doubts that the altarpiece was commissioned by the Brotherhood for their Dominican chapel are dispelled when one considers the Mary Altarpiece in relation to its location.6 Mary, the chapel’s namesake, features prominently in the visual programme of the altarpiece. The altarpiece’s three positions featuring Mary as a central member—the “Annunciation”, the “Double Intercession”, and the “Virgin and Child”—attest to this.7 Curiously, the Mary Altarpiece is not mentioned explicitly in the altar book kept by the Brotherhood for their Dominican chapel;8 however, as noted by art historian Anu Mänd, it is mentioned in an account book of the Great Guild. We can surmise that the Mary Altarpiece was meant for both organizations, 5 For more information see www.nigulistemuuseum.ee (April 11, 2013.) 6 Unfortunately, the Saint Catherine church and Dominican monastery survive only in partiality today. 7 A. Mänd, Tallinna Mustpeade vennaskonna Maarja altarist ja selle ikonograafiast. In: T. Abel, A. Mänd and R. Rast, Eesti Kunstisidemed, p. 224. 8 See Schwarzenhäupter, Rechnungsbücher über Einnahmen und Ausgaben des Schwarzenhäupteraltars in der Mönchskirche (Altarbuch) 1418 (1403)-1517, Brudershaft der Schwarzhäupter aus Reval (1403-present day). Staatsarchiv Hamburg Collection 612 – 2/6, E1. The author of this paper is currently transcribing the book in its entirety for research purposes. While not explicitly referring to the Mary Altarpiece in its pages, the Brotherhood’s altar book does highlight the Brotherhood and Great Guild’s joint investment in the Mary chapel, with some Great Guild members listed as altar wardens.

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

with the Great Guild recorded to have paid for half of its transportation costs.9 The Great Guild and the Brotherhood of the Black Heads were intimately connected. Brotherhood members would eventually enter the Great Guild, with some even taking up positions in Reval’s civic apparatus, while maintaining strong ties to their former organization. The fraternal bond shared by these organizations is evidenced in the Brotherhood’s altar book, which frequently mentions the groten gildestoven of the Great Guild’s hall, where the two organizations would come together to meet and feast.10 Both organizations exuded kinship and brotherly bonds, with members referring to one another as brodere or brothers. They even shared the same feast schedule.11 The altarpiece’s co-commissioning by the Brotherhood and Great Guild can be seen to reflect the patronage of prominent, familial lineages embodied in fraternal bonds in Reval. For the purposes of this paper, I will focus on the Brotherhood’s role as a principal patron, since its multi-faceted role as a civic, military, and religious organization, along with the transitory nature of its membership, proves an interesting case study. Belonging to the Brotherhood was a privilege that was seen as a rite of passage and a sign of civic pride; success led to social advance. The Mary Altarpiece signalled a break in tradition. Rather than choose a master working in the Hanseatic centre of Lübeck, the Brotherhood and Great Guild chose the Netherlandish centre of Bruges. The Mary Altarpiece made its way aboard a Hanseatic cog ship across the Baltic Sea in a very physical form of cultural transfer. It arrived in Reval, a bustling Hanseatic port town in the eastern Baltic, sometime before 1493. The result was not a cheap, ready-made wooden diptych or tempera on canvas work sold in a Bruges workshop window. Rather, the Mary Altarpiece was a large-scale wooden commission, the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend’s largest known work at 255.0 centimetres in height and 463.5 centimetres in width when the wings are open. The altarpiece is a polyptych, featuring a double set of side wings, harkening to the preferred format in northern German centres. It highlights the prestige and wealth of the patron through its complexity in design and subject matter. 9 For more information see Mänd, The Altarpiece, pp. 35 – 53, in particular page 39 where she refers to Tallinn City Archives, coll. 191, inv. 2, n. 16 and isolates the passage on page 137 where a Great Guild member is recorded to have brought the altarpiece from the West via Lübeck. For more information on the Great Guild, see I. Leimus, R. Loodus, A. Mänd, M. Männisalu, and M. Raisma, Tallinna Suurgild ja gildimaja. Tallinn 2011. 10 Schwarzenhäupter, Staatsarchiv Hamburg Collection 612 – 2/6, N. E1. 11 A. Mänd, Urban Carnival: Festive Culture in the Hanseatic Cities of the Eastern Baltic, 1350 – 1550. Turnhout 2005, p. 47.

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The three positions yielded from the multi-panelled format open and close, corresponding to the significance in the liturgical calendar. The first, closed position of the altarpiece includes an “Annunciation” scene, and would have been displayed on a daily basis [Figure 1]. The second position features the opening of the first set of side wings and shows the “Double Intercession” [Figure 2]. Christ poses with angels in front of an enthroned God the Father. A lactating Mary and Saint John the Baptist flank the portraits of fifteen members of the Brotherhood on each of the side wings. The “Double Intercession” would have been displayed on Sundays during Mass. The third and final position opens the second set of side wings to reveal a scene of the Virgin and Child, surrounded from left to right by four saints: Francis of Assisi, George of Lydda, Victor of Marseilles, and Gertrude of Nivelles [Figure 3]. This final position would be reserved for feast days dedicated to saints, including the Virgin Mary, and holy days such as Easter and Christmas. The positions increase in ornamentation and use of gold, culminating in the Virgin and Child surrounded by saints. One can imagine the changing light conditions according to the time of day, along with the use of flickering candles, all adding to the theatricality of the chapel space.

2.  A Netherlandish connection The inherent particularity of the Mary Altarpiece commission is that of its Nether­landish origins. Bruges was a burgeoning art centre during the fifteenth century where altarpieces and devotional diptychs were commonplace. However, Lübeck, the Hanseatic trading hub, was also home to a flourishing art market. The majority of altarpiece commissions in the Hanseatic League originated from the workshops of artists such as Hermen Rode or Bernt Notke. While it is futile to engage in a full-fledged speculation as to why the Brotherhood and Great Guild chose a Netherlandish workshop over a Lübeck workshop, we can explore some of the reasons why commissioning from a Netherlandish master may have been favourable. The late fifteenth century commissioning of the Mary Altarpiece may have been welcomed, as after 1470, standards of living were in decline in Flanders.12 It is plausible that the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend was very aware of the agency held by guilds such as the Brotherhood, 12 M. P. J. Martens, Some Aspects of the Origins of the Art Market in 15th-Century ­Bruges. In M. North, C. Núñez and D. Ormrod (eds), Markets for Art, p. 33. As Max Martens notes, “the evolution of the Bruges economy suggests that the situation on the art market may have changed slowly after c. 1475, and more radically after 1482. It is

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

in addition to the authority of the Hanseatic League. This acknowledgement is visually present in the Master’s “Virgin of the Rose Garden” (c. 1475/80) at the Detroit Institute of Arts Museum, which is representative of his use of topographic townscapes as backgrounds.13 Here, one can notice not only the Belfry of Bruges, but to the right, the Oosterlingenhuis, identified as the House of the Hanseatic League.14 Increasing trade relations between Flanders and the Baltic Sea region may have contributed to the accessibility of Bruges as an artistic centre for Hanseatic art patrons. By the end of the fifteenth century, grain was being imported not only into Flanders and Brabant (as it had been during the late Middle Ages), but also into the northern Netherlands where bad crops, marine transgression, and a growing population were responsible for growing demands. This spread of the grain trade is seen by most economic historians as “the driving force behind the Dutch pushing forward into the Baltic”.15 The Baltic Sea region, rich in raw materials, supplied natural resources in exchange for finished, and often luxury goods from the West.16 In addition to grain, furs, flax, rye, and lard were shipped via Lübeck to centres in the Netherlands.17 It is conceivable that some of the Brotherhood’s unmarried merchants were travelling their trade routes as masters of their ships. For instance, in 1426, logical to assume that these turning points in the general economic climate were also felt in the micro-economic environment of the Bruges art market”. 13 The author of this paper has visited the painting on multiple occasions at the Detroit Institute of Arts Museum. See A. Roberts, The City and the Convent: The Virgin of the Rose Garden by the Master of the Legend of Saint Lucy. In: Bulletin of the Detroit Institute of Arts, 72/102 (1998), pp. 56 – 65 and A. Roberts, The Master of the Legend of Saint Lucy: A Catalogue and Critical Essay, Ph. D. Dissertation, University of Pennsylvania. Ann Arbor, MI, U. S. A. 1982, pp. 74 – 75. Please see Roberts for more information on the development of the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend’s townscape views, which she argues evolve over time according to his painting career, corresponding to topographical and architectural changes at the time. 14 Roberts, The Master, p. 72. 15 For more information on the history and nature of the trade in the Baltic Sea region, see Trade and Traders. In: M. L. Hinkkanen and D. Kirby, The Baltic and the North Seas. New York 2000, pp. 144 – 145, qtd. from ft. 3, Blockmans (1993), pp. 143 – 163. 16 J. Bonsdorff, Art Transfer in the Medieval Baltic Sea Area. In: Künstlerischer Austausch. Artistic Exchange. Band II. Akten des XXVIII. Internationalen Kongresses für Kunstgeschichte Berlin, 15.-20. Juli 1992. Berlin 1993, p. 40. 17 R. Pullat, Brief History of Tallinn. Tallinn 1998, p. 65; for more detailed information, see M. Tielhof, The ‘The Mother of All Trades’: the Baltic Grain Trade in Amsterdam from the Late 16th to Early 19th Century. Leiden 2002.

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Hans Blomendael writes in the altar book for the Mary Chapel that he had travelled over the sea or “over zee ghekomen”.18 Some Brotherhood members may have visited the Netherlands and seen Netherlandish altarpieces, or sat for their portrait sketches in preparation for their depiction as kneeling donors in the “Double Intercession” in the Mary Altarpiece. Many scholars note that the pattern of residence during the late medieval period is well-evidenced by the Hansa merchants—a core group residing in trading ports such as Reval, and an equally large group which sailed the trade networks, visiting fairs on a regular basis.19 As asserted by Wim Blockmans, “in th(e) cosmopolitan atmosphere [of Bruges], trade negotiations may well have been followed by exchanges about artistic products”.20 Merchant and artist contact may have occurred regularly, as evidenced by the 1432 ordinance for woodcutter and organ-builders, where the “show days” during the fair were a time for foreign merchants to choose products before sailing away.21 As Lorne Campbell has suggested in his article “The Art Market in the Southern Netherlands in the 15th Century”, there were limited art commissions as opposed to those ready for sale.22 Furthermore, a decrease in the number of Bruges workshops after 1475 led to a “forced adaptation of the structure of production”.23 This could explain the repetition of the brocaded pattern, likely executed through a pouncing technique, used by the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, as well as contemporaries such as Hans Memling.24 Yet, I would argue that despite taking advantage of some mass production labour techniques, understandable for such a large work, the Mary Altarpiece was one of the limited, custom commissions co-existing within a market for standardized art objects. It may not only have been the Brotherhood as a patron who was shopping around; the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend may have also been looking for clientele. Indeed, this resonates with Michael North’s assertion that economic 18 Schwarzenhäupter, Staatsarchiv Hamburg Collection 612 – 2/6, N. E1, 12v. “…do ik wedder over zee ghekomen…”. 19 W. Blockmans, The Burgundian Court and the Urban Milieu as Patrons in the 15th century Bruges. In M. North (ed.), Economic History and the Arts. Köln 1996, pp. 22 – 23, qtd. from ft. 24, Paravicini, Geirnaert in Vermeersch, ed. (1992), refer especially to 100 – 114, 182 – 205. 20 Ibidem, p. 22. 21 Ibidem, p. 23, qtd. from ft.27, Ainsworth & Martens (1994), refer to 16 – 19. 22 M. P. J. Martens, Some Aspects, qtd. from ft. 7, Campbell (1976), refer to 194 – 198. 23 Ibidem, p. 36. 24 Ibidem, p. 36. The pouncing technique involves the tracing (dotting) of patterns onto the prepared panel before the application of paint.

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

prosperity “does not…create art automatically”.25 While the Brotherhood may have been in a favourable position in Reval, there were larger issues at stake in the commissioning of the Mary Altarpiece, playing straight to its Nether­landish origins. The shifts in the nature of the art market in Bruges led to artists selling their ready-mades in Antwerp, and more generally speaking, seeking new markets in order to stabilize their income.26 Furthermore, these were ­un­settled times in Bruges, with the death of Mary of Burgundy in 1482, signalling a decrease in court patronage of art. This coincided with a growth in the agency of the middle class, who ultimately imprisoned Mary’s husband, Maximilian, in 1488.27 Under these conditions, art patronage was shifting, and despite political instabilities, art consumption was on the rise with the ­middle class.28 Even in changing market conditions, the Master of the Saint Lucy L ­ egend was able to garner commissions from his location in Bruges, as well as from Spain, Italy, and the Hanseatic League.29 Could the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend have been, in actuality, a fairly accessible choice for the Brotherhood with their trade connections? Yet, in the context of their hometown of Reval, was the artist understood as foreign and prestigious to those of the far northern region?30 Could a Netherlandish master better fulfil the wishes of the Brotherhood? As a painted altarpiece, this commission goes against the common northern German practice of painted and polychrome sculptural works. By shifting the attention to the medium of paint, the Brotherhood hoped to garner the work of an artist who manifested both the spiritual and material nature of the altarpiece in a novel manner. I would argue that the Brotherhood and Great Guild’s conscious patronage of the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend played to their aspirations, introducing a different degree of artistry and craft to Reval. This craft could captivate without the need for illusionistic, three-dimensional sculpture.

25 J. Bonsdorff, Art Transfer, p. 48, qtd. from ft. 16, North (1996), refer to 6. 26 M. P. J. Martens, Some Aspects, p. 36. 27 A. Roberts, The Master, p. 153. 28 M. Belozerskaya, Burgundian Arts Across Europe: New Paradigms for the Fifteenth Century. Volume I, Ph. D. Dissertation, University of Chicago. Ann Arbor 1997, p. 285. For instance, Belozerskaya notes that there were 114 tapestry weavers in Bruges in the fifteenth century in comparison to 56 in the fourteenth century. 29 D. Martens, Brügge Lucia legend meister. Kokkuvõte senisest uurimistööst ja uued hüpoteesid. In: Abel, Mänd and Rast, Eesti Kunstisidemed, p. 30. 30 As pointed out by Michael North, Danzig patrons were also importing altarpieces from Netherlandish centres.

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3.  Imagining the altar experience Today, when one approaches the Mary Altarpiece in the Niguliste Museum, the once medieval church setting helps to create a highly charged, sensory viewing experience, despite the use of artificial light.31 Arguably, its placement in a church building helps to lend authenticity to the viewing experience. While not replicating the intimate chapel space in which it would have been originally displayed, the Niguliste Museum houses other altarpieces spanning the medieval and early modern periods and a silverworks chamber. The plethora of liturgical objects and altarpieces in the current museum space is similar to the multi-media environment of a chapel space, and helps to situate the Mary Altarpiece within corresponding religious and temporal spheres. A key facet to imagining the Mary Altarpiece’s viewing experience is precisely the multi-­media context. It is beneficial to see the altarpiece as co-existing within the geography of a sacred space, rather than in isolation. The Niguliste Museum was originally the parish church of the Baltic German population in Tallinn and its current state echoes its medieval past with gothic architectural features. Unlike a modern architectural setting, this church allows the viewer to step, quite literally, into a medieval, sacred space. Albeit still a constructed viewing experience, it no doubt aids the critical, informed viewer in developing what Michael Baxandall has termed the “period eye”.32 What becomes especially evident when viewing the Mary Altarpiece in this setting is that there is a great deal of attention paid to surface ornament. Floor to ceiling brocaded fabric in the background of the altarpiece emphasizes a material existence within a very divine, visionary subject matter. The dazzle of the surface ornament becomes evident from far away, as the light streaming through the windows midday animates the gold-treated surfaces. From a closer distance, a myriad of textures becomes visually evident. There are raised ridges of paint which define the pomegranate patterning, and brocades, embroidery, and gleaming metalwork all reveal themselves as illusionistically painted elements on a wooden panel surface. This is very much a feast for the eyes. With the altarpiece’s original placement in a chapel space, the effect would have been even further enhanced by the more intimate setting and the various multi-media accoutrements adorning the altar. The altar book details a number of objects that played to the senses of sight, 31 I am tremendously grateful to director Tarmo Saaret and curator Merike Kurisoo at the Niguliste Museum for their hospitality during my visit to the museum, as well as their insightful commentary. 32 See M. BAXANDALL, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy: a Primer in the Social History of Pictorial Style. 2nd edition. Oxford 1988.

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

smell, and even sound. These include various types of candles made of differing qualities of wax, lamps that used seal or whale oil, and textiles that were used to adorn the altar.33 Fresh grass and tree sapling branches would be laid down for the May Count festival, scenting the chapel with the smells of spring,34 while monks chanted on a ­regular basis upon request of the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood’s chapel was a multi-media space which included two other altarpieces, one notably dedicated to the Holy Trinity (now non-extant), which was flanked by Saint John the Baptist, and one of the patron saints for travellers, Saint Christopher.35 The Holy Trinity Altarpiece was commissioned from Master Francke, one of the most sought-after painters working in Hamburg during the early fifteenth century. The chapel contained a silverwork Mary figure that was dressed in various garments according to the liturgical calendar. The altar on which the Mary Altarpiece rested was decorated with an antependium, an altar hanging, which depicted Mary and saints Victor and Mauritius.36 The objects

33 See Schwarzenhäupter, Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 612 – 2/6, Nr. E 1. The evocation of singing is made several times throughout the altar book. 34 For a study of festival customs and objects, see A. Mänd, Urban Carnival. Fresh grass and saplings are provided by the Brotherhood nearly every year as outlined in the Brotherhood’s altar book. See Schwarzenhäupter, Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 612 – 2/6, Nr. E 1. 35 By the time the Mary Altarpiece arrived in Tallinn, there were a total of three altarpieces displayed in the Mary Chapel. The Holy Trinity altarpiece with Saint Christopher, along with the antependium with Victor and Mauritius, reflect the patronage of the Brotherhood of the Black Heads. Saint Christopher is a patron saint for travellers, while Saints Victor and Mauritius are patron saints for the Brotherhood. For more information on the Holy Trinity altarpiece, commissioned in the early fifteenth century, along with the second, smaller altarpiece dedicated to Saints Gertrude and Dorothea (now non-­ extant) from the same time period, see Schwarzenhäupter, Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 612 – 2/6, Nr. E 1, fol. 1v. & 2v. For a synthesis please see A. Mänd, Tallinna Mustpeade vennaskonna, pp. 221 – 222. Recently, an exploration of the objects contained within mendicant chapel spaces patronized by the Brotherhood of the Black Heads was published by Anu Mänd and Anneli Randla. See A. Mänd and A. Randla, Sacred space and corporate identity: the Black Heads’ chapels in the mendicant churches of Tallinn and Riga. In: Baltic Journal of Art History, Autumn 2012, pp. 43 – 80. 36 The antependium is recorded as having been ordered in 1481: “Item noch leyt ik maken to brueghe eyn antependium vor vnser leuen vrowen to den moneken, dat stond 1 lb. 4 f. 6 d. myt den pattrone to malen is 12 mr. rig. Vnde 1 verdink”. In the year 1486, the antependium’s subject matter is recorded: “Item so sint dar…op vnser leuen vrouwen altare eyn palle myt vorgulden spangen vnde eyn nye antependium dar vnse leue vrouwe inne stet vnde sunte victor vnde sunte mauricius”. See A. Mänd, Tallinna Mustpeade vennaskonna; Schwarzenhäupter, Staatsarchiv Hamburg, refer to Nr. E 1, fol. 56r & 61r.

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contained within this chapel were valuable. The Brotherhood paid yearly so that they would be guarded by an attendant, while a cupboard with lock and key provided safekeeping for the precious accoutrements of Mass.37 In turning to a more focused examination of the altarpiece’s imagery, a question to consider is the following: does this Netherlandish commission portray the Brotherhood as an organization with links to Reval or, more broadly, a merchant body in the far reaches of the Hanseatic League?

4.  Exploring the three positions 4.1.  Mediating the polyptych

The Mary Altarpiece is a polyptych, which features a double set of side wings. This format is not incidental and points to a degree of mediation for the altarpiece’s Baltic patrons. The polyptych was not the common format for Nether­ landish altarpieces, which were usually triptychs. However, it was preferred for altarpiece production in northern Germany.38 Ann Roberts has asserted that the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend was unique in his degree of adapta­ bility for his patrons. 39 She cites the example of the Saint Catherine Altarpiece

37 Schwarzenhäupter, Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 612 – 2/6, Nr. E 1. 38 B. Lane, Hans Memling. Master Painter in Fifteenth-Century Bruges. Belgium 2009, pp.  139 – 141 and G. Koppel and K. Polli (eds), Madal Taevas, Avar Horisont. Madalmaade kunst Eestis, p. 16. The polyptych format did not gain popularity until the sixteenth century in the Netherlands. Even then, the complex format was reserved for custom-made orders. 39 B. Lane, Hans Memling, pp. 116, 139 – 141 and A. Mänd, Urban Carnival, p. 31. An apt comparison of a Netherlandish master working with the demands of a northern patron for a polyptych is Hans Memling, one of the most sought-after masters working in Bruges during the fifteenth century. The Passion Altarpiece (1491) at the Saint Annen Museum was a German commission for the Lübeck Cathedral, donated by the Greverade family, the founders of the Greverade association of merchants in Lübeck. This commission dates from 1491, completed around the same time as the Mary Altarpiece. Memling’s altarpiece is the only known Hanseatic commission he received. Please refer to “Table 2” in W. Blockmans, The Burgundian Court. Blockmans indicates that Memling’s international clientele includes: 17 Italian patrons, 8 Spanish patrons, 1 English patron, and 1 Lübeck patron. Domestically, he received commissions from 9 Bruges merchants and 8 Bruges religious institutions. One of the Greverade representatives, Heinrich Greverade, was a merchant and the Hanseatic representative in Bruges. Like the Mary Altarpiece,

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

(c. 1487 – 1493) in Pisa, made in an Italian format, “composed of tall central panels, pyramidal gables and predellas”.40 The Brotherhood’s choice of a polyptych highlights the prestige and wealth of the patron through its complexity in design and subject matter, pointing to its labour-intensive production. The Brotherhood, as the principal audience of the altarpiece, would also be able to enjoy a highly visual, theatrical, and all-round sensory, religious experience. The three positions yielded from the multi-panelled format would be opened and closed, corresponding to the significance in the liturgical calendar.41 4.2.  First position

The grisaille “Annunciation” [Figure 1] on the exterior, closed panels of the altarpiece depicts Mary and the Archangel Gabriel as illusionistically painted stone sculptures on pedestals.42 The inclusion of an exterior “Annunciation” was a commonality for altarpieces, especially in the Netherlandish tradition, suggesting a link between the Annunciation and Transubstantiation, apt for the altarpiece’s function as a backdrop to the Mass where the wafer is transformed into the body of Christ.43 The figures are crowned by metallic canopies, adding which was meant for the Mary Chapel, this altarpiece is site-specific, linked to its location in a funerary chapel dedicated to the Holy Cross and to the four patron saints that appear in the second position of the altarpiece. Memling’s task to depict certain subject matter, like that of the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, was challenging. Both artists were faced with the prospect of having to incorporate a set of unrelated patron saints, flanking a highly symbolic religious scene—Memling, the “Holy Cross”, the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, the “Double Intercession”. Also see D. Martens, Brügge Lucia legend meister. Kokkuvõte senisest uurimistööst ja uued hüpoteesid, p. 30. Martens also noted that the Memling altarpiece includes a crowning at the top of the central panel, something that reflected northern German altarpiece production. It is possible that the Mary Altarpiece once had a crowning piece that was removed during a restoration. 40 A. Roberts, North Meets South in the Convent: The Altarpiece of Saint Catherine of Alexandria in Pisa. In: Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 50/2 (1987), p. 188. 41 For more information on the function of altarpieces during Sundays and feast days, see A. Mänd, Urban Carnival. The Brotherhood of the Black Heads had a penchant for festivals, prizing four annual events: Christmas, Carnival (coinciding with Lent), the popinjay shoot, and the May Count Celebrations. Referred to in Low Middle German as: winachten drunke, vastelauendes drunke, papegoyen drunke, and meygreven drunke. 42 According to the Gospel of Saint Luke (1.35) the Virgin is overshadowed by the Holy Spirit. Fittingly, the altarpiece is overshadowed by the Holy Spirit during Mass. 43 B. Lane, Hans Memling, p. 141, see Lane’s ft. 77, Lane (1984), refer to pp. 41, 47 – 50 for more information. It is possible that the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend had seen Hans

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another dimension of materiality and luminosity to an otherwise stoic scene. The “Annunciation” is a demonstration of a Netherlandish artist’s craft. This illusionistic grisaille technique in the oil paint medium was also employed by famous fifteenth century predecessors such as Jan van Eyck. The monochromatic colour scheme of the “Annunciation” is an indicator that this marked the first stage of viewing that would open to saturated, jewel-like colours layered with gold. The effect, one could argue, would be similar to that of opening a northern German altarpiece where painted exterior panels lend themselves to polychrome sculpture. There is a sense of continuity in the visual programme beginning in the “Annunciation” with the fringe motif on the canopies, which carries into the tapestry hangings over God the Father and Mary with Child in the second and third positions of the altarpiece [Figures 2 and 3].44 4.3.  Second position

When the exterior wings of the altarpiece are opened, they reveal the second position with the “Double Intercession” [Figure 2]. Thirty members of the Brother­hood of the Black Heads (or possibly also the Great Guild) are depicted at the feet of either Mary or Saint John the Baptist. Christ kneels and reveals his stigmata to God the Father. This subject matter is a unique choice for a largescale altarpiece that alludes to the salvation and redemption of humanity on a pronounced level. Scholars have suggested that the subject of the “Double Intercession” may have been decided in collaboration with the Dominicans in Reval. It is typically reserved for times of trouble, such as plague or famine, and not a common subject for monumental Netherlandish paintings at the time.45 Memling’s Last Judgement (1473), which incorporates similar rounded niches and facial features, along with a canopy over Mary that differs only in the suggestion of material. Perhaps, either the Brotherhood or the artist was familiar with the Last Judgement altarpiece in the Hanseatic town of Danzig—commissioned for a Florentine banker, Angelo Tani. The altarpiece never made it to Florence; the ship was seized by a pirate vessel of the Hanseatic League, which in 1473 (April 25), was at war with England. The Hanseatic captain, Paul Benecke, sailed the altarpiece and cargo to Danzig where the altarpiece remains. 44 Incidentally, the schematic use of black, red, and white in the fringes within the altarpiece are found in the Brotherhood’s emblem of the head of Saint Mauritius. One needs only to look at the scene in Hermen Rode’s Saint Nicholas Altarpiece of Saint Nicholas saving the merchant ship, where the Brotherhood’s emblem is attached to the ship. 45 However, as Achim Timmermann has pointed out, there are plenty of examples of the Double Intercession in the Bavarian and Alpine regions.

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

Could the Brotherhood have been seeking divine intervention with the “Double Intercession”? Derived from the medieval theological text Speculum Humanae Salvationis, this second position of the “Double Intercession” would have been displayed on Sundays, with the third position of the Virgin and Child reserved for feast days.46 Perhaps the Dominicans in Reval owned a copy of the Speculum or benefitted from the network of print culture by acquiring a broadleaf woodcut image of the “Double Intercession”? What link can be made between a popular devotional literary source (the Speculum Humanae Salvationis) and the imagery in the Mary Altarpiece? Not only the iconography, but also the depiction of the donors themselves, signals the local patronage. This is a universal theme represented with local specificity. 47 In this rendition of the “Double Intercession”, Mary and Saint John gesture to their earthly, Brotherhood members in an act of redemption, praying to God for their protection. Mary is seen as the nurturer of Christ, who kneels beside instruments of his torture, displaying his wounds to God the Father and the Holy Spirit symbolized in dove form.48 As suggested by Beth Williamson, Mary 46 H. Flaherty, The Place of the Speculum Humanae Salvationis in the Rise of Affective Piety in the Later Middle Ages. Ph. D. Dissertation, University of Michigan. Ann Arbor 2006, pp. 5, 35, 39, 47 – 48, 50, 53, 236 – 303 and A. Roberts, The Master of the Legend of Saint Lucy: A Catalogue and Critical Essay, p. 166. Heather Flaherty notes that the S. H. S. had particular draw in German-speaking lands. The Virgin Mary is a primary focus and thus the Double Intercession in its emphasis on Mary as a co-redeemer, is appropriate to Livonia, a land dedicated explicitly to the Virgin Mary by the crusaders. Flaherty asserts that Mary is positioned in the S. H. S. as a spiritual warrior, further linking the Brotherhood to their crusader (Teutonic) origins. This dedication has a legacy especially in Estonian choral music where Estonia is referred to as the “Maarjamaa” or Mary land. Scholars argue that the S. H. S. had a Dominican origin. Imagery stemming from the S. H. S. was adaptable for the specific patron. Flaherty notes that the Virgin is often shown as a mediator, flanked by saints Francis and Dominic. Mary and Christ are almost equally emphasized as redeemers, protectors, and intercessors. The S. H. S. was owned by laity and clergy, and had a wide circulation. As Flaherty indicates, the S. H. S. was a book of popular piety and thus its use as source material for the Mary Altarpiece warrants positing some weight. 47 Indeed, subject matter was often deliberate, such as in the case of southern German wine-maker guilds, which often commissioned scenes of the “Mystical Winepress”. 48 As Beth Williamson notes, “The Virgin has the power, and the inclination, to intercede for human souls… illustrat(ing) the effectiveness of her intercession by showing Christ interceding with God the Father, and the Father, by implication, bestows his blessing on Christ’s request, by the sending down of the Holy Spirit, in the form of a dove”. In this vein, Christ’s blood and Mary’s milk share in the sacrificial message of Christ. Please

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is seen as the “mediatrix” for human salvation, representing Christ’s human body “which she formed and carried in her womb” and during Mass, when this second position was displayed, became “the bread of life”.49 Represented in the altarpiece is this Marian notion of the consecration of the body of Christ, which endows Mary with a sense of agency appropriate for the chapel’s dedication. Furthermore, it should be noted that ultimately, an “intercession of the Virgin was regarded not only as effective, but as practically foolproof ”.50 Reval was undergoing a series of plagues in the late fifteenth century. 51 Its German community even commissioned a Dance of Death (after 1463) by the Lübeck artist Bernt Notke for their parish church of Saint Nicholas. Plague and salvation were a theme represented in the popular imagery of the “Dance of Death”.52 Typical of religious donor portraits, thirty men of the Brotherhood are depicted in the altarpiece’s “Double Intercession”, disproportionate in size, their gazes looking off into the distance, symbolizing their earthly, as opposed to their divine existence. They are privy to a visionary event and kneel with hands in prayer-gesture as loyal servants, and moreover, merchants of God. Were these portraits, and if so, did members travel to Bruges on business? While it is debatable whether the faces are accurate portraits of Brotherhood members or rather Flemish types which have been individualized according to sketches made by local Tallinn artists, it is visually evident that these people are accessorized with the Baltic’s finest wares. They are adorned in contemporary dress—the height of fashion at the time—and many wear fur-collared

see B. Williamson, The Cloisters Double Intercession: The Virgin as Co-Redemptrix. In: Apollo, 465 (2000), p. 50. 49 Ibidem, p. 51. 50 Ibidem, p. 49. 51 R. Pullat, Brief History, p. 67. Documented plague years in Tallinn around the time of the Mary Altarpiece commission were: 1464, 1474, 1482, and 1503. There is some discrepancy with the plague dating. Some contend that plague first hit Tallinn in 1418, followed by 1464, and then 1504 – 05. Please see P. Adalian, G. Böetisch, D. Chevé, O. Dutour and M. Signoli (eds), Peste: entre Épidémies et Sociétés. Plagues: Epidemics and Societies. Florence 2007, p. 54 qtd. from Gustavsson (1995). 52 For more information see E. Gertsman, Death and the Miniaturized City: Nostalgia, Authority, Idyll. In: Essays in Medieval Studies, 24 (2007), pp. 43 – 52, E. Gertsman, The Dance of Death in Reval (Tallinn): The Preacher and his Audience. In: Gesta, 42/2 (2003), pp. 143 – 59, & A. Mänd, Bernt Notke. Uuenduste ja Traditsioonide Vahel. Tallinn 2010, pp. 20 – 28. Please see Mänd for detailed image reproductions. The painting is currently displayed at the Niguliste Museum (originally the Saint Nicholas Church for which the painting was commissioned).

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

garments, symbolizing the Baltic fur trade, in addition to providing another dimension to the illusion of texture. Strikingly, one of the members dressed in green in the foreground, ahead of John the Baptist, even clutches an amber rosary with regal blue tassels [Figure 4]. Amber and fur were considered luxury items from the Baltic that were imported across Europe. Rosaries were items of prestige, frequently passed onto heirs, and made out of precious materials such as coral. Items such as these were products of the burgeoning industry for fashion and luxury. It is understandable that the Brotherhood wanted to be depicted wearing the latest fashions. Scholars have emphasized that fashion was a source of prestige and “was satiated only by the ever-increasing quantities and ever-­differentiated qualities of articles of consumption”.53 The altarpiece, as a macro­cosmic fashionable item, could portray these “ever-differentiated qualities”54 of fashion all at once. I would argue that the attention paid to rendering Baltic luxuries serves not only to point to the success of the Brotherhood, but also attests to the organization’s hopes and prayers for continued success in trade. While archival documents do not specifically cite Saint John the Baptist as one of the Brotherhood’s patron saints, it is known that they specified his inclusion in the “Double Intercession”. This posed a dilemma for the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, who was forced to create a non-symmetrical composition of figures not customary for scenes of the “Double Intercession”, typically comprising of Mary and Christ kneeling in front of God the Father.55 Consequently, the Master has chosen to balance the compositional space by having fifteen members of the Brotherhood flank Mary and Saint John the Baptist, respectively, in the outer panels of the “Double Intercession”. Saint John was one of the major players in Christian salvation—making him not only a logical choice for the altarpiece, but also one that adhered to a doctrine of universal, Christian redemption.56 In this vein, Saint John the Baptist cradles the Lamb of Salvation and the book of the Gospel. God the Father takes his cue from the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend’s predecessor, Jan van Eyck and his Ghent Altarpiece (1432). He sits on a sculptural throne that includes colourful marble columns with floral capitals. He is 53 M. Belozerskaya, Burgundian Arts, pp. 262 – 63, see Belozerskaya’s ft. 232, Sombert (1967) & Appadurai (1986), refer to 29 – 41. 54 Ibidem, pp.  262 – 63. 55 B. Williamson, The Cloisters, pp. 48 – 54. 56 A. Mänd, Tallinna Mustpeade vennaskonna, p. 225. Saint John the Baptist was also included as a figure in the Holy Trinity Altarpiece—one of the two other altarpieces located in the Mary Chapel.

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shown with the emblems of courtly ritual—the crown, orb, and sceptre, which were famously worn by the earthly, Holy Roman Emperor. One may notice that God the Father and his throne are decorated with gems of varying shades of red, brown, and black. Like the inclusion of the amber rosary in the hands of one of the Brotherhood members, are these also amber, which can occur in various colours, including the most common yellowish-brown, but also in shades of black, green, and red?57 If they are indeed meant to signify amber, the crown jewels would be very Baltic in nature.

Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, Mary Altarpiece, before 1493, oil and tempera paints on oak panel, detail from the second position (open) of the “Double Intercession”, Niguliste Museum, Art Museum of Estonia (K. U. M. U.), Tallinn, Estonia (copyright). Figure 4 

57 For more information on Baltic amber, please see C. Beck, K. Kermani, D. Kossove, S. Meret and E. Wilbur, The Infrared Spectra of Amber and the Identification of Baltic Amber. In: Archaeometry 8/1 (1965), pp. 96 – 109, S. G. Larsson, Baltic Amber: a Palaeobiological Study. Klampenborg 1978 and A. Spekke, The Ancient Amber Routes and the Geographical Discovery of the Eastern Baltic. Stockholm 1957.

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

4.4.  Third position

The third position of the altarpiece, displaying the Virgin and Child with saints, referred to as a sacra conversazione, is especially significant when considering that this final position would have been reserved for the holiest days in the liturgical calendar. As to the choice of saints in the third position of the altarpiece, the Brotherhood had their favourites—the Virgin Mary and Saint George, among other military saints.58 In this “Sacra Conversazione” [Figure 3], saints Francis of Assisi, George of Lydda, Victor of Marseilles, and Gertrude of Nivelles converge around the Virgin and Child, serving as symbolic embodiments of the Brotherhood. They are divine witnesses in a miraculous meeting between holy figures. But, are these saints specific to the Brotherhood or do they signal their greater position within the larger scheme of Hanseatic Reval? In the case of the Mary Altarpiece, the military saints George and Victor flanking the Virgin Mary in the final position of the “Sacra Conversazione”, represent both regional and local saint cults.59 Military saints were fitting subjects as the Brotherhood was charged with the protection and defence of the town, a logical choice given that they were unmarried men. Although membership in the Brotherhood not only provided great social gains, it also meant that members were ready to sacrifice their lives for the safety of Reval. Members even demonstrated their marksmanship to the town, partaking in an annual popinjay shoot, where the winner was awarded a silver popinjay, one of which survives today from the first half of the sixteenth century.60 In many ways, the Mary Altarpiece served as a moralizing reminder of decorum for young and 58 A. Mänd, Urban Carnival, p. 34. 59 This lends itself to a broader question that has been posed by Anu Mänd as to why the cult of soldier and knight saints is so prevalent in Hansa towns. This questions remains under exploration to this date, recently under the auspices of the EuroCORECODE programme of the European Science Foundation, undertaken by T. Kala, M. Kurisoo and A. Mänd in a project entitled: “Shifting Identities: Communities in Medieval and Early Modern Livonia (c. 1200–c. 1700) Through the Prism of Saints”, Symbols that Bind and Break: Saints’ Cults as Stimuli and Expressions of Local, Regional, National and Universalist Identities, http://cultsymbols.net/node/21026. 60 A. Mänd, Eesti Kirikute Sisustus I. Kirikute Hõbevara. Altaririistad Keskaegsel Liivimaal. Tallinn 2008 and A. Mänd, Hõbedakamber Niguliste Kirikus. Tallinn 2002, p. 30. Similar metalworks, in particular silverworks, were owned by the other two major guilds in Tallinn—the Great Guild and Saint Canute’s Guild. Most of the metalworks collected were melted down during the Reformation, the Livonian War (1558 – 1583), and the Northern War (1700 – 1721). Inventories state that in 1710, the “Black Heads delivered

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wealthy bachelors, whose elevated status may have tempted their egos. Saints George and Victor, as chivalrous characters, echoed themes of knighthood and honour that were correlated to the cult of Mary.61 Appropriately, they are depicted in the altarpiece with glistening armour, which was in itself a mark of distinction as a luxury metalwork.62 Saint George was considered a very important patron saint to guilds in the Baltic Sea region. Saint George’s affinity in the Baltic Sea region is evidenced by the number of polychrome wooden sculptural groupings of “Saint George Defeating the Dragon”. Among these figures, two of particular interest include a polychrome wooden sculpture in Riga which housed a saintly relic, later supplemented by an ornate silverwork figure of the saint commissioned from Lübeck,63 and an over life-size sculptural grouping made for the Stockholm Cathedral by the Lübeck master Bernt Notke.64 In the Mary Altarpiece Saint George is distinguished by the slain dragon at his feet, positioned to the ­viewer’s left of Mary. While Saint George represents a regional saint cult, the inclusion of Saint Victor to the viewer’s right of Mary may have signalled the Brotherhood’s dedication to their locality. Believed to have been the patron saint to sailors and travellers, Saint Victor of Marseilles’ legend espouses that his body was thrown into the sea, and yet was miraculously recovered and given a Christian funeral.65 Anu Mänd has suggested that Saint Victor is speculated to have

4 tankards, 3 standing cups, and 89 beakers (donated by members upon admission) to the town council”. 61 R. Reidna, Tallinna Mustpeade Vennaskonna Maarja Altar. Tallinn 1995, p. 11. 62 See M. Belozerskaya, Burgundian Arts, pp. 228 – 238 for more information on the craft of armour and weaponry. 63 A. Mänd, Tallinna Mustpeade vennaskonna, p. 225. More recently, the Soomepoisid (Finnish Boys)—Estonian members of the Finnish army during World War II, unveiled a monument to Saint George. 64 For more information on the Notke sculptural group, along with quality images, please see the recent exhibition catalogue, A. Mänd, Bernt Notke. Uuenduste ja Traditsioonide Vahel, pp. 75 – 79. Sweden venerated Saint George, especially during the conflict of the Kalmar Union. 65 A. Rasche, Das Hochaltarretabel der Nikolaikirche in Reval/Tallinn von 1481. In: Gotik im Baltikum (6. Baltischen Seminar 1994). Lüneburg 2004 and A. Mänd, St. Victor, pp. 27 – 29. The Chronicle of Tallinn, written by one of the councilmen and members of the Great Guild, Johann Gellinckhusen, is a particularly revealing source in determining Saint Victor’s importance as a patron saint of Tallinn. Mänd isolates the passage, dated from October 10th, 1503, which indicates that the councilmen assembled in the

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

been one of the patron saints of Reval.66 As early as 1440, the Brotherhood is recorded to have donated a shield decorated with a figure of Saint Victor as a liturgical vestment to the Dominican church housing the Mary Altarpiece.67 Both the Church of Saint Nicholas and the Church of the Holy Spirit in Reval were recorded as having altars dedicated to Saint Victor.68 Saint Gertrude of Nivelles and Saint Francis of Assisi on the side panels of the “Sacra Conversazione” further allude to the Brotherhood’s civic duty— both as a military and merchant force for Reval. Saint Gertrude was a patron saint for travellers, as well as a protector against plague, fever, and pests such as mice. Saint Gertrude is depicted on the side panel to the viewer’s right as an abbess with her attribute of a mouse, complete with a spindly tail at her feet. Legend describes that Saint Gertrude sent some of her followers on a journey across the ocean, whereby the threat of a sea monster was repelled through the invocation of the saint. It is also known that travellers would frequently drink “Gertrudenminte” as a precaution before embarking on a journey.69 It is conceivable that the Brotherhood would have patronized Saint Gertrude because she not only protected travellers, but also would guard against the spoiling of their shipments. A major item for import was grain, which was susceptible to

guildhall “on the day of our beloved protector and patron Saint Viktor”. While Revalians only celebrated the feast day of Saint Victor of Xanten on 10 October, it is likely that they viewed both Saint Victor of Xanten and Saint Victor of Marseilles as the same saint. Gellinckhusen’s passage is further supported by the Great Guild’s veneration of the saint, also documented in its well-preserved archives, and by the existence of two statues of Saint Victor that had been placed at Tallinn’s city gates. 66 Ibidem, pp. 6 – 29. Anu Mänd is working on female saints and their significance within the context of medieval Tallinn. 67 A. Mänd, Tallinna Mustpeade vennaskonna, p. 224 qtd. from ft. 37, Staatsarchiv Hamburg, refer to Nr. E 1, fol. 55r. 68 A. Mänd, St. Victor—the Patron Saint of Tallinn?. In: Kunstiteaduslikke Uurimusi, 3 – 4/12 (2003), p. 28. Mänd also notes that there was a small devotional guild of Saint Victor in Tallinn with members who were servants of the town. 69 A. Mänd, Lecture: Naised ja naispühakute kultus keskaegses Tallinnas. (Attended on April 11, 2013 in Tallinn), E. Brouette, Gertrude of Nivelles, Saint. In: New Catholic Encyclopedia. 2nd Edition, Volume 6. Detroit,2003, pp. 191 – 192. (Accessed from: Gale Virtual Reference Library, April 30, 2011), and M. Ott, Gertrude of Nivelles, Saint. In: C. G. Herbermann (ed.), The Catholic Encyclopedia: an International Work of Reference on the Constitution, Doctrine, Discipline, and History of the Catholic Church. Volume VI. New York 1913, pp. 533 – 34.

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pests on board ships. Gertrude was also one of the saints featured in one of the two other altarpieces located in the Brotherhood’s Mary Chapel.70 Saint Francis of Assisi, located on the side panel to the viewer’s left, was the founder of the Franciscan Order, devoted to the cult of Mary, known for its dedication to populations particularly beset by plagues. Saint Francis serves as a visual link to the plea for salvation so very prominent in the second position of the altarpiece featuring the “Double Intercession” and thus, creates continuity in the larger visual programme of the altarpiece, from position to position. It is also known that Riga’s of the Brotherhood of the Black Heads patronized their local Franciscan order. Scholars have suggested that Francis serves as an apt link to the Brotherhood because he was a merchant’s son, serving in that profession during his younger years.71

5.  Craft and artifice In traversing the relationship between local and regional expression beyond saint cults, one can look at the Mary Altarpiece’s illusionistic elements. The degree of craft and acute attention paid to rendering detail features prominently in the altarpiece and merits a closer look. While many parts of Europe were in line with Michael Baxandall’s astute suggestion, shifting from a preoccupation with material value to a preoccupation and taste for artistic skill,72 Reval, along with other Hanseatic towns, were still concerned with materiality. As Caroline Walker Bynum has suggested, the medieval period was preoccupied with a “materialization of piety” and this is certainly the case with the Mary Altarpiece.73 The altarpiece becomes an extension of the altar space—one that is richly ornate and blessed with saintly presence. Its overt materiality plays to its visionary, spiritual experience. The Mary Altarpiece also resonates with Lynn Jacobs’ assertion that “altarpieces are able to establish levels of sacredness

70 Schwarzenhäupter, Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 612 – 2/6, Nr. E 1, fol. 1v. This altarpiece featured Mary flanked by Saint Gertrude and Dorothea (now non-extant). 71 See P. Robinson, Francis of Assisi, Saint. In: C. G. Herbermann (ed.), The Catholic Encyclopedia. Volume VI, pp. 221 – 30 and A. Mänd, Tallinna Mustpeade vennaskonna, p. 225. Francis’ father was the cloth merchant Pietro Bernardone. 72 M. Baxandall, Painting and Experience, pp. 17 – 23. 73 See C. Walker Bynum, Christian Materiality: an Essay On Religion In Late Medieval Europe. New York 2011.

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

within differing sections of the work”.74 There are changing levels of holiness marked by the increase in ornamentation both in the textile backdrops and on the receding tile floor. Harkening to the Brotherhood’s taste for ornate metalworks, the various positions of the Mary Altarpiece progress in the suggestion of luxury and materiality, beginning with the grisaille “Annunciation” and ending with the gold-leaf “Sacra Conversazione”. There is a deliberate contrast in the intensity of colour and texture that links not only to the theatricality of the altarpiece as performative, but also to its promotion of the Brotherhood’s wealth. The Master of the Saint Lucy Legend uses the exterior grisaille “Annunciation” of the Mary Altarpiece as an indicator that this marked the first stage of viewing, which would open to saturated, jewel-like colours layered with gold-leaf. In the context of Reval, which was receiving altarpieces from northern German painter-sculptors more so than Netherlandish counterparts, the grisaille “Annunciation” may also have played to the illusion of sculpture. While scholars assert that the Master drew inspiration from van Eyck for the figures of Christ and God the Father in the “Double Intercession”, one could contend that it is in the over-the-top emulation (as opposed to imitation) of van Eyck’s treatment of surfaces from which the Master takes inspiration. Jan van Eyck’s Ghent Altarpiece (1432), despite its visual appearance as ornate and luxurious, incorporates minimal gold leaf.75 The concentration is on creating a “simulacrum of metallic gold and gold thread simply by paint alone”.76 This is not the case with the Mary Altarpiece, which incorporates ample gold-leaf. In this vein, the Master became a visual exegete, interpreting the work of his predecessors. It is known that he visited the Ghent Altarpiece, incorporating an inscription from the altarpiece into one of his own works of the Virgin Enthroned.77 The effect of the shifts in tonality in the painted panels of the Mary Altarpiece, one could argue, would be similar to that of opening a northern German altarpiece where painted exterior panels lend themselves to polychrome sculpture. Indeed, polychrome sculptural altarpieces were being made for Revalian guilds into the sixteenth century.78

74 L. Jacobs, Early Netherlandish Carved Altarpieces: Medieval Tastes and Mass Marketing. Cambridge 1998, p. 111. Jacobs emphasizes the agency of the wings of the altarpiece. 75 D. Norman, Making Renaissance Altarpieces. In: K. Woods (ed.), Making Renaissance Art. Volume I. New Haven, CT, U. S. A., 2007, pp.  193 – 194. 76 Ibidem, pp.  193 – 94. 77 A. Roberts, The Master, p. 111, qtd. from ft. 4, Reinach (1923), refer to 15 – 16. See “­Figure 27” in Robert’s publication for an image reproduction. 78 An example of one of these altarpieces coming from a Bruges workshop is the Holy ­Kinship Altarpiece (c.1500). See M. Koppel and K. Polli (eds), Madal Taevas, pp. 22 – 23

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Marked attention is paid to facture and the handling of paint throughout the Mary Altarpiece to create a nuanced, yet high degree of painterly detail. The Master of the Saint Lucy Legend accomplishes this by using a combination of egg tempera and oil paint. Egg tempera, consisting of pigment mixed with egg yolk as the binder, dries quickly, and cannot be blended or modelled. Some Netherlandish artists, like the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, used egg tempera for the first, most opaque layers, before adding layer upon layer of oil paint. The artist would apply a first colour in a mid-tone, adding tinted glazes, either darker or lighter to create a sense of dimension.79 This degree of craft demanded a skilful handling of paint. When it came to rendering the metallic armour, fur collars, and velvet drapery of the figures in the altarpiece, the artist engaged in a skilful use of oil painting technique. The Master of the Saint Lucy Legend grounded the holy figures and members of the Brotherhood in attire that played to the materiality of drapery. One could argue that this was significant for the Brotherhood, many of whom were actively involved in the broadcloth trade.80 The use of oil paint allowed for gradation in light and shadow, something which tempera paint, in its fast-drying composition, could not produce. In the case of the Mary Altarpiece, attention to rendering texture and tactility through the use of intense pigments, gold leaf, and painterly illusionism, played to its importance as a material manifestation of the Brotherhood’s status and wealth. Not only was the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend given the opportunity to craft an altarpiece using the finest materials, but he was also asked to paint in meticulous detail valuable material goods in late medieval society, such as costly jewels and fabrics fit for holy figures. Religious figures are rendered in an ornate interior, decorated with high-fashion, costly objects. This overt materiality also labours to provoke a highly religious reaction with gold gleaming surfaces and varied textures, which create a divine, sanctified setting for a holy meeting. The irony is that as an altarpiece, it was not to be touched by lay people, thus the temptation for the senses was even greater. One consumed tactility through the eyes of one’s mind, which can be further

for image reproductions. Polychrome sculptural altarpieces were expensive manifestations of wealth and devotion. They incorporated the use of gold gilding, brocaded patterning, and punched-out designs. 79 D. Norman, Making Renaissance Altarpieces, p. 194. 80 M. Belozerskaya, Burgundian Arts, p. 272, qtd. from ft. 263, Verhaegen (1961), refer to 142 – 9 and from Friedländer, Vlb (1971), refer to 123 – 4. The Brotherhood would have sent crude woollen cloth to be finished with dye to the Netherlands.

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

connected to the notion of spiritual sight—the idea that looking at an altarpiece can be a religious experience.81 Symbolic of the cosmopolitan ambitions of the Brotherhood, Spanish tiles make up the floor of the second and third positions of the altarpiece. Identified as azulejos tiles, these were a product emerging from Valencia that incorporated Islamic influences. As noted by Ann Roberts in her 1982 dissertation, “their appearance is very appropriate here, as a Spanish taste for surface ornament… permeates this image”.82 Why Spanish taste? I would suggest that this aesthetic had connotations of the exotic, perhaps difficult to acquire (unless of course illusionistically painted!) coming from the opposite end of Europe. With the inclusion of the azulejos tiles, the result was a cosmopolitan, resolutely un-­ Baltic setting for the Mary Altarpiece’s Baltic patrons. The tiles create a sense of space with their recession into the background. They increase in ornamentation from the second to third positions of the altarpiece, serving to create a cohesive visual program and signalling a change in the level of holiness. The Spanish tiles may have also conjured associations with the Spanish court, which was flourishing as an artistic centre under the patronage of Queen Isabella I of Castille.83 Scholars have noted that between 1492 and 1494, the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend’s oeuvre seems to reflect a “Spanish flavour”, likely because 81 In the mystical reflection, De Visione Dei, Nicholas Cusanus, a fifteenth century German Cardinal (1401 – 1464), suggests that religious images can act, and moreover illustrate the “dialectical relationship between God and human beings” through the notion of vision. Cusanus’ text explicates the importance of visual contemplation, involving both the eyes of the flesh (visio) and of the mind (ratio). Images, like “human words or concepts or analogies”, while serving to provoke a sense of mystical experience, also “let us see the impotence of reason” and recognize the human instinct to search for God “who abides always beyond”. Cusanus remarks in Chapter VI of De Visione Dei, ­en­titled “Of Seeing Face to Face”: “Thy gaze causeth me to consider how this image of Thy face is thus perceptibly painted, since a face cannot be painted without colour, nor can colour exist without quantity. But I perceive, not with my fleshly eyes, which look on this icon of Thee, but with the eyes of my mind and understanding, the invisible truth of Thy face, which therein is signified, under a shadow and limitation”. See J. Hopkins, Complete Philosophical and Theological Treatises of Nicholas of Cusa. Volume 1. Minneapolis 2001, vii-ix, E. Underhill, Nicholas of Cusa. The Vision of God. New York 1978, pp. 7 – 8, 23 and C. L. Miller, Reading Cusanus. Metaphor and Dialectic in a Conjectural Universe. Washington, D. C. 2003, pp. 147 – 14, 171 – 72. 82 A. Roberts, The Master, pp. 96 – 97, qtd. from ft. 44, August Meyer, Der Cicerone (1915), refer to 67 – 68. 83 Court artists in Spain included Juan de Flandes who collaborated with Michel Sittow. Both artists were trained in Bruges.

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the artist enjoyed Spanish patronage and a possible visit to the Spanish court.84 Connections to Spanish art patronage are worth exploring further, but merit their own study outside of this paper, with some of the issues having been recently taken up by scholars.85 The Master of the Saint Lucy Legend’s particular fondness for painting bold textiles cannot be overlooked. Tapestry and its embroidered designs were seen as equivalent to metalwork in terms of luxury. The Mary Altarpiece provides a painted illusion of tapestry at a fraction of the cost.86 Floor to ceiling background ornamentation begins with the altarpiece’s second position of the “Double Intercession”, employing bright green colouring and the artist’s trademark, the use of pomegranate patterning to create the effect of damask, and continues to the third position of the “Sacred Communion”, but features illusionistic burgundy and gold embroidery. In the case of both positions, this patterned background is treated as hanging tapestry. The Master of the Saint Lucy Legend has curiously chosen to end the tapestry short of the panels and include a suggestion of a wall at either end. This deliberate border draws attention to the inclusion of illusionistic tapestry within an interior space. Furthermore, it is conceivable that the colour choice of red in the second position of the “Double Intercession” carries a symbolic meaning, alluding to Christ’s blood as a vehicle for salvation. As Ann Roberts has asserted, the Mary Altarpiece’s treatment of painting sculpture-like figures in front of golden cloths occurred in German paintings of the time, and may point to the Brotherhood’s reverence of a “regional tradition”.87 I would suggest that this surface treatment might also harken to the tradition of polychromy used in northern German altarpieces, as illusionistically painted brocaded drapery would often clothe polychrome saintly figures.

84 A. Roberts, The Master, pp. 98 – 104 & 144 – 181. Spain and Bruges participated in increased trade during the end of the fifteenth century, culminating in the art world with Philipp II’s connoisseurship of the Flemish artist Hieronymous Bosch in the sixteenth century. See Roberts for a discussion of works that reflect a Spanish taste in the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend’s oeuvre. 85 More recently, issues about Spanish connections have been taken up in: K. Palginõmm, Luxusartikel auf dem Revaler Retabel des Meisters der Lucialegende als eine Einladung in die Stadt Brügge. In: Baltic Journal of Art History 3 – 4 (2011/2012), pp. 89 – 114. 86 For more information on tapestry production during the late medieval period, see M. Belozerskaya, Burgundian Arts, pp. 239 – 255. 87 A. Roberts, The Master, p. 167. A German example following a similar compositional style in that of the Mary Altarpiece is the Munich Altarpiece by the Master of the ­Bartholomew Altar. See Stange, V, pp. 138 – 139 for image reproductions.

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While tapestry was considered one of the most labour-intensive and expensive of the luxury arts, painting an illusion of tapestry was also no easy feat.88 The third position’s pomegranate patterning was not created by the typical Flemish style of brushing strokes of gold paint to create gold threads, but rather through laying a flat layer of gold leaf and adding a painted pattern over the top.89 The effect of the brocaded tapestry background corresponds to Cennino Cennini’s illustration of the picture lucida—the use of metal foil on the surface of the panel, which is then layered with oil glazes to create lustre.90 The ­Master of the Saint Lucy Legend may have also supplemented this technique with sgraffito, the scraping away of paint to reveal layers of gold leaf. The variation in technique would create subtle differences in the reflection produced from the painted surface. This harkens to the process of polychromy, employed by northern German artists. The Master of the Saint Lucy Legend reserved the most ornate tapestry designs for the cloths of honour, which serve as backdrops for God the Father on his throne in the “Double Intercession” and the Virgin and Child in the “Sacra Conversazione”. The effect of these cloths harkens to the glistening of goldworks, which can incorporate foliage details excised into the metallic surface. The tapestry thus becomes a visual signifier of the degree of sanctity within the altarpiece’s visual program. Despite the rigidity of the figures, the sumptuous brocaded background and its shimmering reflection enliven the scene as a “stable space is replaced…with a supernatural setting”.91 The Master of the Saint Lucy Legend was playful in his depiction of naturalia. He had a penchant for painting “alive” dandelions, which were often coupled symbolically with “dead” ones.92 Dirk de Vos has made a detailed study of the

88 Painters often supplied tapestry weavers and embroiderers with designs, as noted by Max Friedländer in the case of Rogier van der Weyden. For more information see Drawings, Tapestries and Embroideries. In: M. Friedländer, Early Netherlandish Painting, Volume II: Rogier van der Weyden and the Master of Flemalle. Leyden 1967 (original publication dates from 1924), pp. 48 – 50. Ann Roberts contends that it is probable that the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend would have been involved in the design of ephemeral artworks such as courtly banners and escutcheons, especially in light of his skill and interest in brocades and ornamentation. See A. Roberts, The Master, pp. 194. 89 Ibidem, p. 96. 90 E. Panofsky, Early Netherlandish Painting. Its Origins and Character. Cambridge 1953, p. 152, qtd. from ft. 2, Cennino Cennini (15th century). 91 A. Roberts, The Master, p. 97. 92 D. Martens, Brügge Lucia legend meister., p. 24, qtd. from fts. 27 – 29, De Vos (1976), refer to 142 – 147.

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Master of the Saint Lucy Legend’s visual motifs,93 noting an interest in rendering detailed naturalia. Pervasive in the Netherlandish painting tradition, the inclusion of naturalia can demonstrate artistic verisimilitude, while also carrying symbolic meanings. For instance, artists were also able to showcase their aptitude in translating nature onto the painted surface with flowers such as roses, lilies, violets, carnations, irises, columbines, poppies, and anemones, which were often used to symbolize Mary as a heavenly, virginal figure, a body of paradise with connotations of the enclosed rose garden. One of the Master of the Saint Lucy Legend’s early works, the “Virgin of the Rose Garden”, plays to the painter’s talent in studying nature and endowing it with symbolism.94 The Master enacted his artistic agency in transforming nature into ornament. The Mary Altarpiece employs a play on illusion, artifice, and nature by including naturalia that, upon closer observation, are not meant to signify nature at all; rather, are part of an ornate, tapestry bench complete with matching red-­tasselled pillows. A closer examination of the third position of the “Sacra Conversazione” reveals that one is looking at a familiar medieval tapestry pattern called the mille-fleur, which was popularized by the tapestry industry in ­Flanders during the late medieval period. Therefore, the naturalia that one sees in the altarpiece’s “Sacra Conversazione” are, in fact, schematized and point to a play on nature and artifice. This contrasts pointedly with the inclusion of a still-life vase with lilies and irises in the foreground. The vase of flowers would have been eye level to the viewer, painted illusionistically, as if perched on the altar itself. The vase acts as a repoussoir where the viewer’s eye is drawn into the scene, providing an exaggeration of the scale of the holy figures. I would argue that the vase is painted to correspond to the viewer’s scale, as part of a transitional element into the heavenly realm of the altarpiece.

6.  Conclusion The most proactive way to address the new research questions raised in considering cross-cultural exchange alongside the established art historical canon is to reformulate the approach from centre-periphery to local-regional. A shift 93 See D. de Vos, Nieuwe toeschrijvingen aan de Meester van de Lucialegende, alias de Meester van de Rotterdamse Johannes op Patmos. In: Oud Holland, 90 (1976), pp.  137 – 158. 94 For more information on flower symbolism see R. Mutter, Early Netherlandish Painting. Kent 2008, pp. 26 – 30 or more generally, E. Panofsky, Early Netherlandish Painting.

The Tallinn Mary Altarpiece

towards notions of local-regional reminds us that shared social or artistic fabrics do not necessarily equal cultural or artistic homogeneity. The connection between wealth, the production of art, and the buying of art was not straightforward. Art objects were not exempt from the forces of the economic markets, and their production was spurred by patrons who wanted to demonstrate their wealth. Mapping art production in the Baltic Sea region originates with specific individuals and group patrons, and stems to their relationships with their localities, and finally radiates across greater regional spheres. The Hanseatic League’s own fashioning was as a mercatorium universalis, a loose economic community, rather than a centralized military power, and the League was very much in contact with various geographical spheres extending inland. The artistic patronage of the region can too be seen as participating in a sophisticated network of exchange, rather than an exclusive enclave of cultural homogeneity. The towns on the Baltic littoral are part of a porous frontier, not an artistic backwater. Not only physically speaking, but also conceptually, the Baltic Sea has both currents that unite and divide. This is much the case with notions of art production in the Baltic Sea region where the art reflects a hybridity of local and cosmopolitan influences. The Brotherhood of the Black Heads used the advantage of being part of a larger Hanseatic network to embark on a complex patronage of art, which was both facilitated and challenged by their seaside location. In this vein, the Mary Altarpiece reflects priorities that speak to its patron, the Brotherhood of the Black Heads’ home on the eastern shores of Baltic Sea. The sea was a shaping force in the production and iconography of the altarpiece—from its initial commissioning across the Baltic Sea, to its fashioning and production in Bruges, and finally, to its physical transportation to its home in Reval. Saints depicted in the altarpiece have hybrid, multi-valent functions as patron saints of the Brotherhood, the town of Reval, and sailors and travellers. The furnishings and accoutrements adorning the compositional space are emblematic of trade and regional connectivity, with the altarpiece’s location in Reval, opening onto a well-traversed maritime corridor for goods and people. The Master of the Saint Lucy Legend’s Mary Altarpiece is representative of marketing at its finest. The sheer attention paid to setting highly religious figures into an opulent and ornate interior decorated with objects such as tapestries, Persian rugs, and Spanish tiles, points to the Brotherhood’s desire to promote themselves as cosmopolitan merchants. As an indexical object to understanding notions of identity on both local and regional levels, the Mary Altarpiece reflects the ambitious and multi-faceted goals of life within the Hanseatic League. A clever mediation of artistry and subject matter, as well

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as material and spiritual desires, resulted in a commission that the members of the Brotherhood of the Black Heads, as patrons, exploited to further their lives on earth and in heaven as members of an organization with multiple identities. Was the altarpiece completely gratuitous? Certainly not. But was it highly ostentatious? Yes.

Magnus Ressel

The First German Dream of the Ocean The Project of the “Reichs-Admiralität” 1570 –15821

1.  Introduction Not much is known in detail about one of the most curious and bizarre ­political schemes of the late sixteenth-century German Empire. A German prince of minor standing, Count Palatine George John I of Veldenz-Lützelstein (1543 – 1592) was able to provoke considerable debate within the empire about the creation of a Reichs-Admiralität. From 1570 to 1582 and even beyond, this admiralty project was seriously contemplated at many levels of the empire. The resonance that the project found among the contemporaries also left traces in the historical literature on the empire.2 Especially in the decades around 1900, a number of eminent German historians examined the archival material about these plans and about George John, their main proponent.3 This research resulted in several essays and numerous diverse references in literature to aspects of George John’s personality and his various political schemes and plans, though

1 This article was written with the support of the Humboldt-Foundation, for which I would like to express my gratitude. I also wish to thank Marta Grzechnik, Heta ­Hurskainen, and an anonymous reviewer for their helpful comments and suggestions. 2 One of the first German historians to bemoan the failure of the Reichs-Admiralität was nobody less than the founding father of historism: L. von Ranke, Über die Zeiten Ferdinand’s I und Maximilian’s II. In: Historisch-Politische Zeitschrift 1 (1832), pp. 223 – 339, here: p. 339. 3 K. Höhlbaum, Die Admiralsakten von Pfalzgraf Georg Hans, Graf zu Veldenz. In: Mittheilungen aus dem Stadtarchiv von Köln 18 (1889), pp. 1 – 55; G. Wolfram, Ausgewählte Aktenstücke zur Geschichte der Gründung von Pfalzburg, mit einer Einleitung: Pfalzgraf Georg Hans von Lützelstein und seine Lebenstragödie. In: Jahrbuch der Gesellschaft für lothringische Geschichte und Altertumskunde 20 (1908), pp. 177 – 260, here: pp.  191 – 194; A. Jürgens, Zur schleswig-holsteinischen Handelsgeschichte des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts. Berlin 1914, pp. 105 – 108. This sentiment held on for a very long time, c. f. A. E. Sokol, Das habsburgische Admiralitätswerk des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts. Wien 1977, pp. 26 – 31.

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we still lack an exhaustive biography.4 The existing literature notwithstanding, his project of creating an admiralty is still rather obscure and unclear. For the most part, the Reichs-Admiralität is simply dismissed as a utopian dream that was discussed for some time and then never put into practice.5 However, at the time, the admiralty had many supporters at the highest levels of European politics. Closely connected to George John’s idea about the Reichs-­Admiralität were his plans to bring Germany into the Livonian War and destroy the Russian Empire in alliance with Poland, the Crimean Khanate, and Sweden, where his cousin ruled as king. To this end, he was also able to find the support of several rather important historical figures, a fact that stands rather at odds with the image of him as a naive utopian. German professors of east European history, Erich Donnert (born 1928) and Fritz Epstein (1898 – 1979)6 in particular, conducted thorough research on George John’s north-eastern-oriented projects and tried to uncover as many details of them as possible. Whereas Epstein was content with presenting vast lite­rature and an array of printed sources and only hints that George John was in the end thwarted by the imperial structure in executing his dreams,7 ­Donnert is much more explicit. He sees in George John the exponent of the anti-­Russian party within Germany that failed in its schemes to incite the empire to attack

4 A collection of the fragmentary literature on George John: C. Zwierlein, Discorso und Lex Dei. Die Entstehung neuer Denkrahmen im 16. Jahrhundert und die Wahrnehmung der französischen Religionskriege in Italien und Deutschland. Göttingen 2006, p. 692, Fn. 377. The most important writings on the Count Palatine: F. C. von Moser, Fragmente von dem Leben, Schicksaaeln, Abentheuren und Ende Herzog Georg H ­ ansens Pfalzgrafens zu Veldenz […]. In: Patriotisches Archiv für Deutschland 12 (1790), pp. 3 – 172; J. J. Kunz, Die Politik des Pfalzgrafen Georg Hans von Veldenz. Bonn 1912; J.-H. Heck, Georges-Jean de Veldenz, comte de la Petite-Pierre, Fondateur de Phalsbourg. Le destin d’un petit seigneur dans la tourmente du 16e siècle. In: Cahiers lorrains (1992), pp. 29 – 45. 5 It is surprising that an eminent historian of the Holy Roman Empire has dismissed an affair so closely linked to the history of its institutions in such terms: G. Schmidt, Städtehanse und Reich im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert. In: A. Grassmann (ed.), Niedergang oder Übergang. Zur Spätzeit der Hanse im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert. Köln 1998, pp.  25 – 46, here: pp.  37 – 38. 6 Epstein left Germany in 1933 and later taught for years at Harvard and Indiana. On his biography and bibliography see: A. Fischer et al. (eds.), Russland—Deutschland— Amerika. Festschrift für Fritz T. Epstein zum 80. Geburtstag. Wiesbaden 1978. 7 F. Epstein, Heinrich von Staden. Aufzeichnungen über den Moskauer Staat. Hamburg 1930, pp.  31 – 50.

The Project of the “Reichs-Admiralität” 1570 –1582

Russia.8 For him George John’s admiralty plan was but a stepping-stone for his much greater design to conquer Livonia for the empire. Epstein discussed the possibility of a connection between both projects of George John but remained cautious in his conclusions. He regarded George John as an ideologically not too rigid “diplomate-projeteur par excellence”.9 He could switch sides and constellations quickly in his relentless quest for prestige. Thus, the connections between the ideas about Russia and the creation of a German fleet are in Epstein’s eyes much weaker. In any case, neither historian has presented the project of the admiralty in detail and both concentrated instead on George John’s anti-Russian schemes. Two historians of the Wilhelmian Kaiserreich, Konstantin Höhlbaum (1849 – 1904) and Georg Wolfram (1858 – 1940), focussed their research more specifically on the admiralty and concluded that the political disunity of the empire prevented it from becoming a reality. Both see the opposition against the project as emanating especially from the more prominent princes and prince-electors who wished to prevent any growth of the Emperor’s power in the north. The desire for the admiralty is localized within the Lower Saxon, the Westphalian, and the Burgundian Kreis (the last one under Spanish rule).10 These, so the story goes, were not able to get their ideas through at the imperial deputation diet in Frankfurt in 1571. Afterwards, the project was more or less a dead letter, even though George John tried for another decade to convince the elites of the empire to create the admiralty.11 In the dissertation of Johann Jacob Kunz (1884 – 1915) from 1912 − the most detailed analysis of George John and his

8 E. Donnert, Der livländische Ordensritterstaat und Rußland. Der Livländische Krieg und die baltische Frage in der europäischen Politik 1558 – 1583. Berlin 1963, pp. 117 – 120. 9 He follows thus the judgment of the general historiography: Epstein, Heinrich von Staden, pp.  31 – 33. 10 In regards to the term ‘Kreis’ instead of ‘circle’ I follow: J. Whaley, Germany and the Holy Roman Empire: Volume I: Maximilian I to the Peace of Westphalia, 1490 – 1648. Oxford 2012, p. XI. 11 Höhlbaum promised in his source-edition that a history of the admiralty-project would follow, which never happened: Höhlbaum, Die Admiralsakten, pp. 1 – 3. Georg Wolfram more or less fulfilled Höhlbaum’s promise and published a short narrative of the admiralty-project and its failure, mostly blaming the German prince-electors: G. Wolfram, Ausgewählte Aktenstücke zur Geschichte der Gründung von Pfalzburg, mit einer Einleitung: Pfalzgraf Georg Hans von Lützelstein und seine Lebenstragödie. In: Jahrbuch der Gesellschaft für lothringische Geschichte und Altertumskunde 20 (1908), pp. 177 – 260, here: pp.  191 – 194.

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project − the idea is mostly ridiculed for its many utopian aspects.12 The only author who ever tried to contextualize the admiralty was Donnert. In his eyes, George John was working in alliance with the greater princes of the empire. These princes, however, were mostly adversaries of his plans and ambitions. Donnert is a solid historian but his desire to interpret all of his findings in a scheme of the powers of feudalism (Spain, Brandenburg, the Livonian Order) against the forces of progress (Russia, the Hanseatic cities) reduces the value of his interpretations.13 The following analysis is divided into five parts, the first three of which will provide the essential context, while the last two will focus on the actual project. First we will look at the Hanseatic League of the second half of the sixteenth century, which represents an important factor that has mostly been overlooked with regards to George John’s project. Following this, the second significant context, the reality of the empire in the north, will be highlighted. A brief foray into key aspects of the complex Livonian War will follow, since this was certainly the most important actual background for the project. After having thus contextualized the situation, the first realistic attempt of George John to install his admiralty in 1570 – 71 will be put forth. The second attempt of George John in 1581 is the topic of the last section. In the conclusion, a hypothesis on the imaginative power of the ocean as a symbol for utopian longings and escapism that had a very specific meaning in the age, and especially in a German Empire filled with “project-makers” (Projektemacher) shall be attempted.

2.  The Hansa between 1540 and 1570 With the settlements of Passau in 1552 and Augsburg in 1555, a decade of political turmoil within the empire came to an end. Especially for its northern parts, the tranquillity that followed was much welcome. Having been put under great pressure in the preceding twenty years, the Hanseatic League emerged from these years rather strengthened. In the 1540s Hamburg had, mostly due to a steady growth of its shipping to the Netherlands, started to become a potent player in its own right, now decisively outshining the former centre of the

12 Kunz, Die Politik des Pfalzgrafen, pp. 19 – 33. 13 Erich Donnert came from the German Democratic Republic and therefore somehow had to find a pattern that fits the continual struggle between feudalism and progress.

The Project of the “Reichs-Admiralität” 1570 –1582

League, Lübeck.14 Beneficial for the League was the state of war between the Spanish Netherlands and France, lasting from 1552 to 1559, which not only furthered Hanseatic shipping but also strengthened the traffic by land on the road between Hamburg and Lübeck, the vital axis of the League.15 The intense use of this route aligned the interests of the region’s easternmost cities like Riga and Danzig with the westernmost cities like Cologne or the Hanseatic towns in the Netherlands.16 This had been the most basic root of strength of the Hansa from its early beginning and the crossing the Sound by ships of any flag (also from members of the League) had always weakened the connecting forces of the structure.17 The years 1551 – 1559 saw a strong usage of the land route between Hamburg and Lübeck.18 This can also be indirectly deduced from the revenues of the pound-toll that Lübeck imposed upon the shipping from and to its city in the years of general warfare when the city mostly guarded its neutrality (Diagram 1).19

14 In the 1540s intensive shipping from Hamburg to the Netherlands can be observed: E. Wiskemann, Hamburg und die Welthandelspolitik. Von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart. Hamburg 1929, pp. 56 – 61. See also: R. Ehrenberg, Hamburger Handel und Handelspolitik im 16. Jahrhundert. In: K. Koppmann (ed.), Aus Hamburgs Vergangenheit. Kulturhistorische Bilder aus verschiedenen Jahrhunderten. Hamburg 1885, pp. 281 – 321, here: pp.  294 – 295; R. Ehrenberg, Hamburg und England im Zeitalter der Königin Elisabeth. Jena 1896, pp. 51 – 52. 15 G. A. Kiesselbach, Die wirtschaft­lichen Grundlagen der deutschen Hanse und die Handelsstellung Hamburgs bis in die zweite Hälfte des 14. Jahrhunderts. Berlin 1907, pp.  46 – 48. 16 R. Häpke, Der Untergang der hansischen Vormachtstellung in der Ostsee (1531 – 1544). In: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 18 (1912), pp. 84 – 120, here: pp. 87 – 89; R. Häpke, Die Regierung Karls V. und der europäische Norden. Lübeck 1914, pp. 20 – 32. 17 C. F. Wurm, Eine deutsche Colonie und deren Abfall. Teil 1. In: Allgemeine Zeitschrift für Geschichte 5, 1846, pp. 201 – 271, here: pp. 236 – 260; E. Daenell, Holland und die Hanse im 15. Jahrhundert. In: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 31 (1903), pp. 3 – 41; D. Seifert, Kompagnons und Konkurrenten. Holland und die Hanse im späten Mittelalter. Köln 1997, pp.  238 – 239. 18 Jürgens, Zur schleswig-holsteinischen Handelsgeschichte, pp. 110 – 112. On the impact of the French corsairs in this most bitter struggle of the sixteenth century between Spain and France c. f. B. Hagedorn, Ostfrieslands Handel und Schiffahrt im 16. Jahrhundert. Berlin 1910, pp. 100 – 115. 19 Archiv der Hansestadt Lübeck (AHL), Nachlaß Hagedorn, 15 do. 3, Stecknitzfahrt und Salzhandel I, Pfundzollrechnung 1546 ff.

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7000 6500 6000 5500 5000 4500 4000 3500

Diagram 1 

56 15

55 15

54 15

53 15

52 15

51 15

50 15

49 15

48 15

47 15

46

3000

15

90

Pound-toll revenues of Lübeck in 1546 – 1556 in Mark Lübisch.

At least for these years we have to reassess the common perception of the League as one in continuous decline from the late fifteenth century onwards. The enhanced cohesion of the Hansa is also visible in the stronger political ties among its members. Even though the confessional fissures became more dividing,20 important reforms were now possible. In 1554 a common fee was instituted 21 and in 1556 the League appointed its first Syndic, the jurist Heinrich Sudermann (1520 – 1591).22 In 1557 the League even gave itself a form of constitution with the “Konföderationsnotel”.23 Endowed with a substantial land- and thus also sea-borne trade, and a renewed institutional package, the League 20 J. L. Schipmann, Osnabrück und die Hanse im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert. In: Mitteilungen des Vereins für Geschichte und Landeskunde Osnabrücks 109 (2004), pp. 87 – 106, here: pp.  95 – 96. 21 P. Dollinger, Die Hanse. Stuttgart 1998, pp. 430 – 431. 22 There are some substantial articles but still lack of scholarly adequate biography, c. f. L. Ennen, Der hansische Syndikus Heinrich Sudermann aus Köln. In: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 6 (1876), pp. 1 – 58; K. Friedland, Der Plan des Dr. Heinrich Sudermann zur Wiederherstellung der Hanse. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der hansisch-englischen Beziehungen im 16. Jahrhundert. In: A. Grassmann et. al. (eds.), Mensch und Seefahrt zur Hansezeit. Köln 1995, pp. 37 – 102. 23 P. Simson, Die Organisation der Hanse in ihrem letzten Jahrhundert. In: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 13 (1907), pp. 207 – 244, 381 – 438, here: pp. 225, 400 – 410. Critical against this view: R. Postel, Späte Hanse und Altes Reich. In: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 129 (2011), pp. 153 – 169, here: p. 157.

The Project of the “Reichs-Admiralität” 1570 –1582

seemed to be on a good way to regaining at least some of its former potency. At this time Sudermann was able to convince the Hanseatic League, the S­ panish King, and the city of Antwerp, to agree upon the removal of the Bruges k­ ontor to Antwerp.24 Such a major investment into a new and costly building has to be regarded as one of the strongest possible symbols of a renewed sense of unity. In 1560 the cities were able to obtain from Denmark − with the Recess of Odense 25 − good treatment in the Sound.26 With a rather strong Hanseatic League, 1560 may be regarded as one of the last years that still resembled the old structure from centuries past. As long as the land route between Hamburg and Lübeck was competitive with the sea-borne trade to and from the Baltic, the League remained vigorous. With the peace of 1559 the northern waters were suddenly pacified again. Therefore, only months later Dutch shipping surged and undermined the Hanseatic structure. In 1562 the Hanseatics were again dwarfed in the Sound trade, when 1192 (60 per cent of the total) Dutch and only 480 (16.4 per cent of the total) Hanseatic ships passed eastwards through the straits.27 Worse was to come: in 1563 the expansionist king of Sweden attacked the artery of Lübeck’s Baltic trade, the Narva fleet. For the city it was clear that this was a direct menace of the “Brunnenquell” of its wealth. Having just aligned himself with Lübeck in the Recess of Odense, the King of Denmark was able to enlist the city as an ally in the Nordic War that the two Scandinavian monarchies fought for dominance in the Baltic. Yet, Lübeck did not succeed in convincing the League to join the conflict. At a time when the Dutch easily sailed into the Baltic, no Hanseatic city saw any reason to come to the aid of Lübeck.28 Dutch shipping through the Sound had a high time in 1566, the same year that the revenues of the general tax in Lübeck, the Schoß, diminished considerably (Diagram 2).29 24 W. Evers, Das hansische Kontor in Antwerpen. Kiel 1915, pp. 19 – 34. 25 On this recess, which was to form the base of the Hanseatic-Danish relations for decades to follow: J. Schreiner, Hanseatene og Norge i det 16. Århundre, Oslo 1941, pp. 263 – 295. 26 H. Scherer, Der Sundzoll. Seine Geschichte, sein jetziger Bestand und seine staatsrecht­ lich-politische Lösung. Berlin 1845, pp. 10 – 15; K.-P. Zoellner, Zu den hansisch-­dänischnorwegischen Beziehungen am Ausgang des Mittelalters (1500 – 1600). In: Nordeuropa 2 (1967), pp. 115 – 127, here: pp. 121 – 123. 27 J. Israel, Dutch Primacy in World Trade. Oxford 1989, p. 20. 28 J. Paul, Lübeck und die Wasa im 16. Jahrhundert. Beiträge zur Geschichte des Unterganges hansischer Herrschaft in Schweden. Lübeck 1920, pp. 21 – 38. 29 R. Hammel-Kiesow, Schoßeinnahmen in Lübeck (1424 – 1811) und Hamburg (1461 – 1650). Überlegungen zur Interpretation vorindustrieller Zeitreihen. In: M. Hundt und R. Hammel-Kiesow (ed.), Das Gedächtnis der Hansestadt Lübeck. Festschrift für

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100000 90000 80000 70000 60000 50000

Diagram 2 

71

70

15

69

15

68

15

67

15

66

15

65

15

64

15

15

63 15

62 15

61 15

60 15

59

40000

15

92

Revenues of the Lübeck Schoß in Mark Lübisch.

The weakening of Lübeck’s entropôt-position facilitated Hamburg’s decision to invite the English Merchant Adventurers in 1567 into its walls, a step that substantially undermined the cohesion of the League.30 When considerable unrest broke out in the Netherlands in 1568, this greatly helped Hanseatic shipping, while at the same time it caused losses to the kontor at Antwerp and diminished the Rhine traffic of the Westphalian Hansa towns.31 In 1569 a surge in piracy in the North Sea, led by the famous Sea Beggars—the Dutch corsairs under the nominal command of William I, Prince of Orange (1533 – 1584)—clashed with an intensified German shipping in the northern waters and resulted in the capture of Hanseatic merchant ships.32 The situation, however, did improve for the Wendish towns in 1570. The Treaty of Stettin was a rather convenient exit for Lübeck out of the Nordic War. Lübeck’s trade with Sweden was reopened at the same time that the Narva route became useable again. The greatest boon for Lübeck’s shipping and land-borne Antjekathrin Grassmann zum 65. Geburtstag, Lübeck 2005, p. 301 – 312. I wish to thank Rolf Hammel-Kiesow for sharing this data with me. 30 Ehrenberg, Hamburg und England, pp. 84 – 100. 31 H. Laufenberg, Hamburg und sein Proletariat im achtzehnten Jahrhundert. Eine wirtschaftshistorische Vorstudie zur Geschichte der modernen Arbeiterbewegung im niederelbischen Städtegebiet. Hamburg 1910, p. 7; W. Evers, Das hansische Kontor, pp.  110 – 136; Dollinger, Die Hanse, pp. 439 – 440. 32 Hagedorn, Ostfrieslands Handel, pp. 276 – 315.

The Project of the “Reichs-Admiralität” 1570 –1582

trade was the wretched situation in the Netherlands. Thus, a strong presence of the Hanseatics in the Sound can be observed in these years.33 Together with the enhanced prestige of Lübeck after the peace of 1570, the general growth of sea-borne trade in all directions ensured that the Wendish quarter of the Hanseatic League regained some coherence in this year. Yet, its strong trade towards Narva was resented by many Hanseatic towns along the Baltic, a fact that was to become important for the project of the Reichs-Admiralität.

3.  The Empire and the northern affairs Emperor Maximilian II (1527 – 1576) has been and still is underestimated by many historians.34 Only Maximilian Lanzinner put forth a balanced judgment on him when he, after a thorough study of his policy, posited that his politics both held the empire together and stabilized it.35 Explicitly following this line, it should be added that it was mainly the Emperor who finally brought the northern parts of Germany into the imperial constitutional structures. While many Habsburgs on the imperial throne looked much more towards southern, western, and eastern Europe, Maximilian’s politics had at times an interesting orientation to the north.36 Having been at the beginning of his reign loosely aligned with Protestant princes and personally rather tolerant, the figure of Emperor Maximilian II deserves a closer look. Having ascended to the crown in 1564, Maximilian II was facing a dire situ­ ation from the beginning of his reign onwards. The renewed threat from the Turks and the Hungarians coupled with too few revenues from the Habsburg hereditary lands made him to a rather large degree dependent on the imperial 33 Israel, Dutch Primacy, p. 20 34 See e. g. “By virtually all standards … Emperor Maximilian II (1527 – 1576) was a failure”, see: P. S. Fichtner, Emperor Maximilian the Second. New Haven 2001, p. 1. 35 M. Lanzinner, Friedenssicherung und politische Einheit des Reiches unter Kaiser Maximilian II.: (1564 – 1576). Göttingen 1993, p. 527. 36 On this aspect in Maximilian’s policy c. f. R. Häpke, Reichswirtschaftspolitik und Hanse nach den Wiener Reichsakten des 16. Jahrhunderts. In: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 30 (1925), pp.  164 – 209; here: pp.  193 – 198; Whaley, Germany and the Holy Roman Empire, pp. 373 – 380. It is interesting to note that Maximilian II was one of the very few Habsburg emperors to have travelled into northern Germany: M. Koch, Quellen zur Geschichte des Kaisers Maximilian II. Band I. Leipzig 1857, pp. 1 – 8; A. Edel, Der Kaiser und die Kurpfalz. Eine Studie zu den Grundelementen politischen Handelns bei Maximilian II. (1564 – 1576). Göttingen 1997, pp. 355 – 362.

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constitutional structures. This resulted in a compromise-seeking policy from Maximillian’s side that was, on the whole, not unsuccessful.37 When he asked the imperial estates for money to defend Royal Hungary, he obtained a rather large sum, but this did not strengthen his authority within the empire. In 1566 the diet of Augsburg gave substantial revenues to Maximilian to defend ­Hungary against the prince of Transylvania, Johann Sigismund Zápolya, but at this diet the Protestant estates under Saxon leadership were also able to bar any imperial attempt to curb the growth of Calvinism within Germany.38 It is in this general vein that Maximilian even exhibited a compromise-seeking attitude towards Bremen, where he secured a re-accession of the Calvinist-turned city to the Hanseatic League with a policy of tolerance and mitigation.39 The overall result of such a policy was a stronger push of the northern estates towards the empire under Maximilian’s reign. Whereas the northern and especially the Hanseatic cities had opposed the Emperor in the 1540s, the empire now became the institutional horizon towards which the individual political actors turned.40 The Reichskammergericht in particular was to become an attractive imperial institution in the north.41 Yet, in general, the Hansa towns remained cautious towards the empire for a bit longer than their immediate princely or territorial neighbours. Only in the last two decades of the sixteenth century we can observe a stronger push of the members of the League towards the empire, while in the 1560s the cities still kept some distance.42 The territorial rulers were faster in inviting the empire northwards. The Peace of Augsburg in

37 Fichtner, Emperor Maximilian, pp.  66 – 72, 125 – 126, 137 – 145. 38 M. Lanzinner and D. Heil, Der Reichstag zu Augsburg 1566 (Deutsche Reichstagsakten, Reichsversammlungen 1556 – 1662). München 2002, pp. 95 – 116. 39 J. L. Schipmann, Eskalations- und Deeskalationsstrategien im Alten Reich. Kaiser, Reich, Stände und die Bremer Händel (1555 – 1576). In: R. Asch et al. (eds.), Die frühneuzeit­ liche Monarchie und ihr Erbe. Festschrift für Heinz Duchhardt zum 60. Geburtstag. Berlin 2003, pp. 13 – 36. 40 Schmidt, Städtehanse und Reich, pp. 26 – 34. 41 G. Sartorius, Geschichte des Hanseatischen Bundes. Dritter Theil. Göttingen 1808, pp. 20 – 27; W. Fleischfresser, Die politische Stellung Hamburgs in der Zeit des dreißigjährigen Krieges I. 1618 – 1626 (1883), p. 2; T. Freitag and N. Jörn, Zur Inanspruchnahme der obersten Reichsgerichte im süd­lichen Ostseeraum 1495 – 1806. In: N. Jörn and M. North (eds.), Die Integration des süd­lichen Ostseeraums in das Alte Reich. Köln 2000, pp.  39 – 141, here: pp.  78 – 103. 42 N. Jörn, Die Hanse vor den obersten Reichsgerichten in Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit. In: A. Cordes (ed.), Hansisches und hansestädtisches Recht. Trier 2008, pp.  69 – 90.

The Project of the “Reichs-Admiralität” 1570 –1582

1555 had confirmed the power of the princes; in turn, they looked benevolently upon the imperial constitution.43 The strengthening of the imperial constitution in northern Germany conflicted with a tradition of those strongly independent-minded communities that had not obtained the title of Free Imperial City. Emden, Hamburg, Bremen, Münster, Brunswick, Goslar, and many other cities were civitates mixtae, meaning that they were largely autonomous, yet officially belonged to their respective territorial ruler.44 Their autonomous status was not accounted for in the imperial constitution, yet this status was a profound reality in the German north. For these cities, the increasing density of imperial structures was quickly becoming a fundamental threat. The promise of a certain degree of protection from the aspirations of their territorially based neighbours kept the Hanseatic League attractive for some more time.45 This was especially true for the coastal cities. Emden, Bremen, Hamburg, Lübeck, Wismar, Rostock, Stralsund, Greifs­wald, Stettin, and Danzig (not part of the empire but in our case certainly comparable) all held in theory varying degrees of legal titles of autonomy, but in reality were − in the years around 1570 − all de facto independent entities. In each case, the essential pillars of independence were strong city defences and a geographical location that made any attack from the land border difficult. The marshy lands of northern Germany and northern Poland made operations of large armies in this area more complicated than in other parts of the continent.46 The open line towards the sea ensured that any attacking party would face a protracted and difficult siege. Examples of failed sieges in this area are Danzig in 1577 and 1626 – 1628, Stralsund in 1628, and Bremen in 1547, 1654, and 1666. In general, the princes and kings of Northern Europe therefore abstained from sieges of harbour towns and cities. This is why the northern port cities of the empire (Danzig’s case within the Polish-Lithuanian 43 C. f. B. Diestelkamp, Recht und Gericht im Heiligen Römischen Reich. Frankfurt a. M. 1999, p. 397; M. North, Reich und Reichstag im 16. Jahrhundert—der Blick aus der angeb­lichen Reichsferne?. In: M. Lanzinner and A. Strohmeyer (eds.), Der Reichstag (1486 – 1613): Kommunikation—Wahrnehmung—Öffent­lichkeiten. Göttingen 2006, pp.  221 – 236. 44 This concept still deserves more research, for the moment see: J. Rath, „alß gliedere eines politischen leibes trew­lich meinen“. Die Hansestädte und die Konflikte Braunschweigs mit den Welfen im 17. Jahrhundert. Münster 2001, pp. 14 – 20. 45 I. A. Iwanov, Die Hanse um 1600. Handlungsspielräume der politischen Kommunikation im Wandel (Manuskript of forthcoming dissertation). Göttingen 2008, pp. 31 – 100. 46 Häpke, Die Regierung Karls V., pp. 252 – 261; W. Vogel, Geschichte der deutschen Seeschiffahrt. Von der Urzeit bis zum Ende des XV. Jahrhunderts. Berlin 1915, pp. 11 – 13.

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commonwealth is comparable) only accepted the growth of imperial structures in areas that suited them. When the empire stood for help against England or the local overlord, or when it acted in support of the Iberian trade, it was accepted.47 The imperial court at Speyer was also welcomed as a surrogate for the increasingly dysfunctional Hanseatic arbitration. When, however, the empire demanded high taxes for the war against the Ottomans or showed signs of supporting the local nobility, it encountered stiff opposition from the cities.48

4.  The Hansa, Livonia, and the empire The Livonian confederation was a complex and fragmented political conglomerate that roughly encompassed present-day Estonia and Latvia. A class of German-speaking nobles and ecclesiastics possessed and ruled the rural areas, while the cities mostly maintained a substantial degree of independence. The majority of the Estonians and Latvians were subjugated in feudal tenure. The three major cities of Riga, Reval, and Dorpat, while members of the Hansa, had no strong voice within the League, due to their status in latent semi-colonial dependency of the Wendish core cities. During the 1530s multiple conflicts profoundly alienated the Livonian cities from the core of the Hansa. Lübeck had tried in vain to enforce its Travestapel by prohibiting the Livonians from freely trading with the Dutch or English.49 The Livonian cities not only disregarded this, but even countered with a strict guest policy, meaning that only their merchants could conduct trade between Russia and the Livonian coast. While this led to an economic flourishing of Livonia in the first half of the sixteenth century, it also incurred political isolation. The Russians and the Wendish Hansa cities now saw the Livonians as an obstacle to their aspirations of direct trade. The Wendish cities in the mid-1540s thus began to consider trading directly

47 L. Beutin, Hanse und Reich im handelspolitischen Endkampf gegen England. Berlin 1929; I. Bog, Der Reichsmerkantilismus. Studien zur Wirtschaftspolitik des Heiligen Römischen Reiches im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert. Stuttgart 1959, p. 64; G. Schmidt, Hanse, Hanseaten und Reich in der Frühen Neuzeit. In: I. Richefort and B. Schmidt (eds.), Les relations entre la France et les villes hanséatiques de Hambourg, Brême et Lübeck. Moyen-Âge—XIXe siècle. Bruxelles 2006, pp. 229 – 259. 48 J.-L. Schipmann, Politische Kommunikation in der Hanse. Köln 2004, pp. 71 – 72; Rath, „alß gliedere”, pp. 83 – 93. 49 C. F. Wurm, Eine deutsche Colonie und deren Abfall. Teil 2. In: Allgemeine Zeitschrift für Geschichte 6, 1846, pp. 97 – 175, 385 – 432, here: pp. 146 – 155.

The Project of the “Reichs-Admiralität” 1570 –1582

with Narva—a city that was not a member of the Hansa. The reaction from the Livonian Hansa cities was a veto against the admission of Narva to the Hansa. When, after the fall of the city to the Russians in 1558, the Lübeckers sent forth their ships in large numbers, this brought the Wends and the Livonians even closer to violent conflict on the seas.50 Feeling abandoned by the Hansa, the representatives of the Livonian confede­ ration tried to re-align themselves with their German cousins of central Europe when the Russian threat began to loom ever larger. The Livonian knights began to regularly frequent the imperial diets in the 1550s, urging the empire to take care of its distant outpost.51 Tumult within the empire hindered it from active intervention, though the calls for aid did not fall on deaf ears.52 After 1555 the warnings about the threat of Russian Czar Ivan IV (1530 – 1584) became louder than ever. The elites and, to go even further, the emerging public opinion of Germany, were increasingly occupied with this topic. In particular, deputies from Mecklenburg, Pomerania, and Brandenburg, and to a lesser degree those of Saxony and Brunswick-Luneburg, regularly lobbied the diets for help for the Livonian confederation.53

50 Wurm, Eine deutsche Colonie Teil 2, pp. 399 – 300, 419 – 421; A. Dreyer, Die lübischl­ivländischen Beziehungen zur Zeit des Unterganges livländischer Selbstandigkeit 1551 – 1563: Eine Vorgeschichte des nordischen siebenjahrigen Krieges. Lübeck 1912, pp. 5 – 25; P. Johansen, Die Bedeutung der Hanse für Livland. In: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 65/66 (1940/41), pp. 1 – 55, here: pp. 50 – 53; W. Kirchner, Die Bedeutung Narvas im 16. Jahrhundert. In: Historische Zeitschrift 172/2 (1951), pp. 265 – 284, here: pp. 267 – 281; K.-F. Olechnowitz, Handel und Seeschiffahrt der späten Hanse. Weimar 1965, pp.  154 – 157. 51 The connection of Livland to the empire in its form after 1495 deserves some research, for the moment c. f.: Wurm, Eine deutsche Colonie Teil 2, pp. 406 – 409; M. Sach, Hochmeister und Großfürst: die Beziehungen zwischen dem Deutschen Orden in Preußen und dem Moskauer Staat um die Wende zur Neuzeit. Stuttgart 2002, pp. 108 – 109; A. Rosemarie and S. Schweinzer-Burian, Habsburgische und reichsständische Präsenz auf den Reichstagen Kaiser Karls V. (1521 – 1555) im Spiegel der Reichsmatrikel von 1521. Eine prosopographische Erfassung. In: F. Hederer et al. (eds.), Handlungsräume: Facetten politischer Kommunikation in der frühen Neuzeit. München 2011, pp. 109 – 164. 52 R. Stupperich, Melanchthon und Hermann Wittekind über den livländischen Krieg. In: Zeitschrift für die Geschichte des Oberrheins 103 (1955), pp. 275 – 281. 53 T. Schiemann, Russland, Polen und Livland bis ins 17. Jahrhundert. Erster Band. Berlin 1886, pp.  295 – 299; Donnert, Der livländische Ordensritterstaat, pp. 103 – 113; J. Leeb, Der Kurfürstentag zu Frankfurt 1558 und der Reichstag zu Augsburg 1559. Göttingen 1999, pp. 267, 1447 – 1478.

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When the Russian attack against Livonia commenced in 1558, it caused a considerable stir within Germany. Many illustrated newspapers, called “Zeytung”, were published in Germany’s south. Herein, the Russians were accused of perpetrating atrocities and exhibiting murderous behaviour against the civilians.54 The entire northeast of the empire not only intensely lobbied the imperial diets for intervention, some estates even proactively sent out auxiliary troops on their own to help the Livonian knights in their battles against the Russians.55 In most imperial diets from 1555 onwards until 1583 the subject of Livonia was intensely discussed. This soon became a central issue for emerging public opinion within Germany. When the grand master of the Livonian Order, Gotthard Kettler (1517 – 1587), brought the Livonian confederation under Polish protection in 1561, the interest of the empire faded for nearly a decade. Only with the peace of Stettin in 1570 did this change again for some time. Sweden’s promise to defend Livonia for the empire, if it were to procure substantial aid, found the diplomatic support of several imperial estates.56 The renewed assaults of the Russians against Livonia met a receptive public opinion in Germany. The end of the Northern Seven Years’ War (1563 – 1570) made it possible for the pro-Swedish party within the empire to recommend this kingdom as partner for the defence of Livonia. This possibility was not lost on George John.

5.  The first attempt for a Reichs-Admiralität in 1570 It may be that the nomination of Gaspar de Coligny (1519 – 1572), a nobleman hailing from central France several hundreds of kilometres away from any coast, for admiral of France in 1552, was the most basic root cause of all Admiralty projects in Germany in the following decades. Coligny had seized Metz, Toul, and Verdun from the empire in that year and soon afterwards rose to become the most popular champion of the Huguenot cause in France. For the Protestant 54 E. Weller, Die ersten deutschen Zeitungen, Tübingen 1872, pp. 169 – 170; H. Laakmann, Die Eroberung Pernaus durch die Russen 1575. In: Sitzungsberichte der altertumforschenden Gesellschaft zu Pernau 9 (1930), pp. 3 – 23; A. Kappeler, Ivan Groznyj im Spiegel der ausländischen Druckschriften seiner Zeit. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des west­lichen Russlandbildes. Frankfurt a. M. 1972, pp. 29 – 32. 55 With some errors, but a useful overview: Donnert, Der livländische Ordensritterstaat, pp.  151 – 158. 56 Paul, Lübeck und die Wasa, pp. 85 – 90.

The Project of the “Reichs-Admiralität” 1570 –1582

German nobility of the west, he may have been regarded as a shining example of what small princes could still achieve. Possessing mostly small territories, belonging to the minority confession and yet overambitious in the quest for titles and prestige, the success of such a figure must have been an inspiration for the West German Protestant nobility to follow. Count Palatine George John was a model of this type of a German petit prince. He had read Machiavelli and tried to follow his political maxims in most regards.57 When he came of age, his first actions in the political sphere showed a decidedly anti-French attitude. After having had to contend with the fact that an anti-French policy would not win any majority among the estates of the empire, he tried to work for several years for the French King. Opportunistic to the extreme, his ambitions mostly followed the goal of enhancing his reputation in the political game. In 1563 he accomplished his greatest feat. His marriage to Anna Maria (1545 – 1610), the daughter of the Swedish King Gustav Vasa (1496 – 1560), enhanced his reputation on the international scene. He thus became the brother-in-law of the Swedish Kings Erik XIV (1533 – 1577), John III (1537 – 1592), and Stephen Báthory (1533 – 1586), who ruled Poland from 1575 onwards.58 These international connections of the prince in the west of the empire make many of his ideas and schemes more understandable.59 After having spent several years engaged in rather fruitless local politics in the west of the empire, George John may have begun to hatch plans of an admiralty when he again became interested in Baltic affairs due to the signing of the Treaty of Stettin, where he was mentioned as arbiter.60 The advent of the imperial diet in Speyer in 1570, convened under the impression of the wars in the Netherlands and Livonia, gave him the occasion to put forward his proposal. In September 1570 he presented his project to the estates. Here, George John bemoaned the reduction of and infractions on the empire’s rights on its two seaboards. Germany had once been powerful here and its merchants had enjoyed many privileges in foreign countries. Now the opposite was true, which led to the loss of several tons of gold every year. Foreign countries were able to burden the harbour cities ever more. This led to the advantage of the “unchristen,

57 Zwierlein, Discorso und Lex, p. 694. 58 Báthory’s wife, Queen Anna Jagiellonica (1523 – 1596) was the sister of Katharina Jagiellonica (1526 – 1583), the wife of King John III of Sweden, whose sister Anna Maria married George John. 59 Epstein, Heinrich von Staden, p. 33. 60 D. Schäfer, Geschichte von Dänemark. Gotha 1902, p. 195.

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alß moscaviter” and damaged all of Christianity.61 When the diet discussed the advances of the Russians in Livonia, the admiralty also received due attention. Problematically, at the same diet the Emperor had tried to convince the estates to agree upon a military constitution based upon the imperial Kreise. This had been rejected and many of the estates may have regarded George John’s idea of a Reichs-Admiralität as suspiciously close to this project.62 However, George John received help from an unknown author, presumably the Polish ambassador, who handed in a memorandum in which he painted the danger stemming from the Russian’s advance in the bleakest colours. Danes and Lübeckers were accused of actively helping the Russians and as such their Narva trade should be prohibited. This may have been the reason for a stern anti-Russian resolution of the council of the princes.63 However, on the same day that the anti-Russian memorandum was presented (29 October), the council of the prince-electors expressly decided that the Russians and their ally Duke Magnus of Holstein (1540 – 1583)64 were not enemies of the empire and a delegation should be sent to both to negotiate.65 It seems that two factions now effectively neutralized each other, loosely clustered along the line princes versus prince-electors.66 Before the high point of the debates at the end of October, George John had already come up with a new trump card that was meant to assure the consent of the diet. He gave the assurance that his admiralty would not cost the estates anything. The admiral was to be financed by imposing fines upon the perpetrators of illegal acts against the rights of the empire, its estates, and its merchants. One quarter of the fines would be left to the admiral, while three quarters would go to the Imperial Chamber Court.67 The idea was patently absurd. Without any means 61 M. Lanzinner, Der Reichstag zu Speyer 1570. Göttingen 1988, p. 860. 62 More on this project and its main proponent, Lazarus von Schwendi (1522 – 1583) in: Lanzinner, Friedenssicherung, pp.  294 – 311, 343 – 350. 63 Lanzinner, Der Reichstag, pp. 863 – 871. 64 The brother of the Danish King Frederik II (1534 – 1588) and from 1570 – 1577 by the mercy of Czar Ivan the puppet-King of Livonia. See: K. H. von Busse, Herzog Magnus, König von Livland. Leipzig 1871. 65 M. Koch, Quellen zur Geschichte des Kaisers Maximilians II. Band II. Leipzig 1861, pp.  75 – 76. 66 Kunz, Die Politik des Pfalzgrafen, p. 22; Lanzinner, Friedenssicherung, p. 341. On the diet George John had also intensely quarreled about his part of the palatine inheritance: F. D. Häberlin, Neueste Teutsche Reichs-Geschichte Band VIII . Halle 1779, pp.  378 – 382; 67 Höhlbaum, Die Admiralsakten, pp. 5 – 7; Kunz, Die Politik des Pfalzgrafen, pp. 20 – 21; Lanzinner, Der Reichstag, pp. 861 – 862.

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to enforce his demands, how could he ever be taken seriously in the north? We can thus be rather certain that George John first and foremost aspired at the moment to the prestigious title of admiral and was convinced that the rest could be dealt with later. The support he received from the Emperor was generous. ­Maximilian II reproached the estates for not having responded to questions about the admiralty, even though he had allegedly informed them earlier.68 This indicates that the project had been launched some months before the diet. The estates, however, were not easily lured into the Reichs-Admiralität. It was agreed that the project should be discussed at the following deputation diet in Frankfurt.69 George John prepared himself well for the event. In March 1571 he sent a list of questions about the actual situation of the cities of the seaboard to Georg Buchau, a Syndic of the city of Stralsund. Buchau answered in detail on 21 March: of the Hanseatic kontors only the ones in Bergen and Antwerp continued to be active; the one in London had been stripped of its privileges; and the one in Novgorod had been closed down long before. The hindrances in Denmark and Sweden were only few, although the Sound toll was a burden for the cities. Yet, since everybody was bearing the same burden, it was not deemed too great a problem. The most serious setbacks stemmed, according to Buchau, from the strong disaccord of the single cities. The Syndic concentrated in his last pages on the Russian advance in Livonia and the siege against Reval. His remarks on Lübeck show a fissure within the Hanseatic League: Although the Lübeckers will be a bit unwilling in regard to the Narva Trade, since they have always looked more towards their own advantage than for the general good, they can be brought with some serious mandates to the same conduct that 70 the other cities are subjected to.

These points have been hitherto overlooked. Around the year 1570 Stralsund was already a latent ally of Sweden, with which it enjoyed a considerable trade.71 Lübeck remained close to Denmark and jealously guarded the open line towards the Narva. George John did not know it, but at the time he was trying to convince the League of his good intentions, the cities themselves were at each other’s throats. The Prussian quarter and Danzig especially were close to declaring 68 Koch, Quellen zur Geschichte II, p. 76. 69 Ibidem; Lanzinner, Friedenssicherung, pp. 377 – 378. 70 Höhlbaum, Die Admiralsakten, pp. 8 – 12. 71 Paul, Lübeck und die Wasa, pp. 120 – 121.

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war on Lübeck, in which they saw a latent alliance with their enemy, Russia. Stralsund and the Pomeranian cities were rather pro-Swedish and thus also in some regard anti-Lübeckian. The western members of the Hansa rather abstained from these quarrels. The answer from Stralsund thus represented just one out of several possible opinions on the state of the Hansa. In the meantime, unforeseen by George John, something happened that would cause the failure of his project. Since the problems of the Spanish with the Sea Beggars became very pressing in early 1571, the Emperor demanded, after having received requests from the Duke of Alba (1507 – 1582), a meeting of representatives from the Upper and Lower Saxon Kreis, in order to collect information on the problems of the empire at its seaboards and to propose solutions.72 At the end of March and in the beginning of April 1571, the Emperor sent out letters to the highest princes of the Westphalian and Lower Saxon Kreis.73 They were to form a commission on behalf of all sorts of sea rovers and to formulate an explicit advice for the next deputation diet. The meeting would be organized by the “Obrists”, the representatives for the affairs of the Kreise. These were Victor Knipping (1508 – 1573)74 for the Westphalian Kreis, the Duke of Alba 75 as governor of the Burgundian Kreis, and Count Adolf I of Holstein-Gottorf (1526 – 1586)76 for the Lower Saxon Kreis. Envisaged was that the single Kreise would first form their own opinion and then instruct the deputies for the general meeting. In May 1571 Lübeck received the request from Count Adolf for the preparatory convention of the Lower Saxon estates in the city itself on 11 June.77 The meeting place of Lübeck was presumably chosen with the intention to make the participation of the Hanseatic League in the project more likely. The Lower 72 A. Schneider, Der Niederrheinisch-Westfälische Kreis im 16. Jahrhundert. Geschichte, Struktur und Funktion eines Verfassungsorgans des Alten Reiches. Düsseldorf 1985, pp.  189 – 190. 73 A record of the proceedings can be found in: AHL, ASA Interna 1.1 Seesachen, Nr. 28072. It is interesting that Maximilian did also send out a warning to the Hansa towns on 29 March 1571 admonishing them not to give refuge or in any way assist the Sea Beggars: Ibidem and Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 111 – 1 Senat Cl. VII Lit. Ca Nr.3 Vol.9a. 74 On Victor Knipping: M. Lentz, Konflikt, Ehre, Ordnung: Untersuchungen zu den Schmähbriefen und Schandbildern des späten Mittelalters und der frühen Neuzeit (ca. 1350 bis 1600): mit einem illustrierten Katalog der Überlieferung. Hanover 2004, p. 129. 75 Literature on Alba is abundant, recently: H. Kamen, The Duke of Alba. New Haven 2004. 76 On Count Adolf: H. Kellenbenz, Adolf I. In: Neue Deutsche Biographie 1. Berlin 1953, p. 86. 77 AHL, ASA Interna 1.1 Seesachen, Nr. 28072, letter of the 30.5.1571, received the 4.6.1571.

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Saxon Kreis was by far the most important pillar of the project, since it contained the most relevant harbour cities. Count Adolf was at the time working in close cooperation with the Duke of Alba, and we can be rather certain that either he or Alba aspired to obtain the post of admiral of the empire. The participation of both ensured that the focus of the proposed admiralty now turned towards the Netherlands and away from the Baltic region. Hamburg and Bremen, however, were hotspots for Dutch refugees and stood on rather good terms with England. Moreover, Hamburg had very tenuous relations with Holstein. Both refused to send delegates to the convention.78 Lübeck’s senators could not refuse to attend an assembly within their own walls, yet they ensured that the admiralty could only fail. Its senators shared a very specific opinion of the project. According to them, the pirates in the North Sea had roughly 50 ships and were building 20 more in France. A fleet to counter them would need to be at least 50 ships strong. Together with equipment and sailors, the costs would therefore be astronomical: many hundred thousand florin (= guilders) were stated in a long analysis, to which a calculation of the costs of a single warship was attached. The Lübeckers further argued that open warfare against the sea rovers would be very difficult since the latter had many harbours in England, France, Ireland, Scotland, and Norway open to them. Within the great western sea it would also be nearly impossible for an admiral to chase down these enemies. Many months of searching would be expensive and in all likelihood futile. Lübeck also considered the threat of the rovers overestimated. The Spanish fleet in the Netherlands was in their eyes sufficient to hinder the Sea Beggars from land incursions. The memorandum further argued the Baltic had become rather pacified now that the Russians and Poles no longer supported privateers. This had also been the reason why no estates of the Upper Saxon Kreis intended on partaking in the admiralty. The easiest means to deal with the menace would be to convince the potentates of England, France, and Denmark to close the harbours in Scotland, Norway, and especially La Rochelle to the privateers. At the end of the memorandum we find its key phrases. If the King of Spain could be moved to reconcile himself with the Prince of Orange, the looting would end and the empire would be spared the waste of much money. The example to follow was France, where the Huguenots and the King stood on good terms.79

78 R. Häpke, Niederländische Akten und Urkunden zur Geschichte der Hanse und zur deutschen Seegeschichte. Lübeck 1923, p. 278 – 279, No. 696 & 697. 79 Ibidem, pp. 279 – 282, No. 698.

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This memorandum was sent out with modifications in the form of several letters to Count Adolf and Duke Julius of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel (1528 – 1589).80 In these modified letters, Russia even was exonerated, as its ships had tried to safeguard the Baltic Sea. An interesting geographical argument appeared here for the first time. Since Germany had two completely separate coasts, it would need two fleets. These would not be able to join, since the Danish King could easily close the Sound. Finally, and most importantly, the scheme was suspected to be a plan of the Spanish to crush the rebellion in the Netherlands. In short: Lübeck campaigned intensely against the project of an admiralty that was directed against the Sea Beggars. In this regard, the city acted in concordance with Hamburg and Bremen. The stance of the Hansa against the admiralty in its conception in the west (anti-Dutch, pro-Catholic) or the east (anti-Russian) was profound. George John erroneously foresaw the greatest opposition against his plans as coming from the prince-electors. He therefore travelled to the convention of the Rhenanian Prince-Bishops in Bingen in May 1571 and tried to convince them of his sincere intentions.81 While, or shortly after George John met the ­Rhenanian electors, representatives of the three western imperial Kreise were meeting on 24 June in Groningen. Caspar de Robles (1527 – 1585)82 led the Burgundian, Viktor Knipping the Westphalian, and Adam Tratziger (1523 – 1584)83 the Lower Saxon delegation. At the meeting, the Lower Saxon delegates proved themselves to be evasive. They demanded that the Reichs-Admiralität should not only be responsible for safeguarding the North Sea but also for keeping order in the Baltic. Not only should the entire empire pay for it, but the Emperor should also convince the monarchs of France and England to close the harbours of Dover and La Rochelle to the Sea Beggars.84 Their arguments clearly mirror the doubts 80 To Julius of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel in: AHL, ASA Interna 1.1 Seesachen, Nr. 28072, undated letter; to Adolf of Holstein: Jürgens, Zur schleswig-holsteinischen Handelsgeschichte, pp.  105 – 106. 81 Kunz, Die Politik des Pfalzgrafen, p. 23. 82 On him see: J. Sevenster, De stenen man. Caspar de Robles, Stadhouder van Friesland, Groningen en Ommelanden van 1572 – 1576. Leeuwarden 1985. 83 W. Becker, Tratziger, Adam. In: Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie 38. Leipzig 1894, pp.  501 – 504. 84 This meeting in Groningen has not received the attention that it deserves. Its importance, however, is noted, c. f. Schmidt, Städtehanse und Reich, p. 38. The best analysis of this meeting can be found in: Schneider, Der Niederrheinisch-Westfälische Kreis, pp. 184 – 194. The list of all delegates is not known, the participants from the Westfalian Kreis can be found in: Ibidem, p. 266.

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that Lübeck had put forward some weeks before. Despite this opposition, the assembly was able to reach an accord. It seems that the Duke of Alba used the occasion to win over Count Adolf I and several other members of the western parts of the empire for a policy against the Sea Beggars by offering Adolf the post of Reichs-Admiral.85 In the final report of the assembly, it was stated that the Kreise should close their harbours to the pirates, stop selling equipment to them, and that the empire should nominate several commissaries in the northern cities to supervise this embargo. The cities of Hamburg, Bremen, Lübeck, Wismar, and Rostock should construct and equip seven warships. The costs would be borne by the empire. An admiral should be nominated and help the thirteen warships of the Burgundian Kreis with these seven vessels. The admiral should be a prince whose lands bordered on the northern waters. The report was completed on 21 August, just in time for the deputation diet in Frankfurt, which had begun on 14 August and would continue until 1 October.86 This proposal was unacceptable to the Hansa cities as well as to most of the Protestant estates. An enlistment of the empire into a policy of open warfare against the Prince of Orange was unthinkable. It was also far removed from anything that George John had ever envisaged. Instead of an anti-Russian stance, the project had now been transformed into an instrument to serve Spanish interests in the west. Instead of George John, a prince with lands boarding the oceans was to be nominated, most likely Count Adolf I of Holstein. When the report arrived in Frankfurt, the effects were unsurprising. Many estates had been well prepared by Lübeck and the Hanseatic cities and they now found their fears confirmed. A desperate George John tried to salvage what was possible from the unfolding disaster. He wrote to the deputies explicitly: We had to learn that our ingenuous and well-meant proposal had not only been spread out ignominiously but we ourselves had been brought into disrespect among religious and other relatives, even though we hold by our highest honours, that this affair is neither to the well or woe for any religion but we have always only sought and still 87 do seek the highest well-being of the Holy Roman Empire, the general fatherland.

He assured all parties that his original proposal had not been directed against the privateers in the North Sea. The admiralty was intended to reassert the rights

85 Jürgens, Zur schleswig-holsteinischen Handelsgeschichte, p. 107. 86 The report is printed in its entirety in: Höhlbaum, Die Admiralsakten, pp. 15 – 23. 87 Ibidem, p. 26.

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and privileges of the empire in its northern waters. It would thus become a renewed source of income, which could be used to safeguard the empire, especially from the Muscovites and the Turks. He also shrewdly pointed out that only he should become the admiral, and not Count Adolf I of Holstein, who was a relative of the Danish King. The Danes were the ones who had weakened the rights of the Hansa cities in the Sound and maintained now a cordial neutrality towards the Russians. George John, however, was a relative of the Swedish King. He would be able to acquire Livonia from Sweden and protect it for the empire.88 Together with Sweden he would also be able to reassert the rights of the harbour towns in the Sound. George John’s admiralty was thus an undertaking with a clear direction against Denmark and Russia and in partnership with Sweden. In the above lines we can identify in sharpest detail the fundamental reasoning of George John. Unfortunately for George John, his project was now labelled as being anti-Protestant and pro-Spanish, an impression that he could not counter effectively without distancing himself too much from the Emperor. The princes therefore decided that the admiralty would be too expensive, that it had never previously existed in the German Empire, that all estates with connections to the oceans should be heard, that it may be dangerous for the German nation to stir up the potentates in the North Sea, and that it would be unwise to give one person so much power. The Emperor was reminded that calming down the disturbances in the Netherlands would immediately cause a decisive reduction of piracy there. The little piracy that remained could easily be dealt with by Lübeck and Hamburg. According to George John, his greatest enemy in Frankfurt had been “Hessia”, most likely meaning that the four princes of Hessia, who were all brothers of the wife of Count Adolf I of Gottorf, Christine of Hessia (1543 – 1604), had united in favour of their brother-in-law.89 Brandenburg even asked the Emperor to protect the empire from such projects in the future.90 Thus the admiralty was rejected. The distrust of the Hansa cities and many Protestant estates of any imperial move against the rebellious Dutch had been the most decisive reason for this. Yet, even if the admiralty had been presented in the form envisaged by George John, i. e. with an anti-Russian and anti-Danish stance, its implementation would have been difficult. Lübeck and 88 Kunz, Die Politik des Pfalzgrafen, pp. 32 – 33. 89 G. Wolfram, Ein Aktenstück des Pfalzgrafen Georg-Hans von Veldenz Lützelstein zur Gründung einer deutschen Flotte. In: Jahrbuch für Geschichte, Sprache und Literatur Elsaß-Lothringens 26 (1910), pp. 217 – 224, here: p. 221. 90 Wolfram, Ausgewählte Aktenstücke, p. 193.

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some Wendish cities formed a loose faction that opposed anti-Russian and anti-Danish moves. The Hansa cities of the Baltic were all by varying degrees antipathetic towards Russia and thus frequently clashed with Lübeck in the diets.91 In this regard they mostly held the same opinion as Sweden, Poland, and the north-eastern parts of the empire. Since some southern parts of the empire were latently pro-Russian, thanks to their potential as ally against the Turks,92 Lübeck was not alone in its pro-Russian stance. Therefore, even an attempt to create just the anti-Russian admiralty of George John’s dreams would have met substantial opposition. We may remind ourselves that the early modern empire never invaded any neighbour and is today considered by historians as “structurally not having been capable of attacking” (strukturell nichtangriffsfähig).93 This is certainly true, though it may mask too strongly the many cases of intense longing for a war to overcome internal fissures and complexities. George John certainly harboured such a longing for a “unifying” war.

6.  The second attempt 1581 – 1582 George John was much sobered by his failure in 1571. His efforts having resulted in so much wasted time and even distrust directed at him, he abstained for some time from championing his project anew. In the 1570s he tried to succeed with several other undertakings, among others an imperial attack on either France or Russia, which did not come close to winning any relevant consent in any political forum.94 George John kept a correspondence going about the Reichs-Admiralität but made no further progress. On a visit to Vienna in 1574, he tried to convince the Emperor of his ideas. At the imperial diet of Regensburg in 1576, he again promoted his project, and again in vain. The failure caused his lasting resentment against the assemblies of the empire.95 The ­fundamental rifts

91 P. Simson, Geschichte der Stadt Danzig bis 1626 1517 – 1626. Danzig 1918, p. 251, Paul, Lübeck und die Wasa, pp. 78, 92. 92 Donnert, Der livländische Ordensritterstaat, pp. 126 – 143, 151. 93 C. Dipper, Deutsche Geschichte 1648 – 1789. Frankfurt a. M. 1991, p. 299. 94 In the 1570s Georg Hans proposed either a war of the empire against France or against Russia: T. Schiemann, Des Pfalzgrafen Georg Hans Anschlag auf Livland. Actenstücke aus dem geheimen Staatsarchiv zu Berlin, aus den Jahren 1578 und 1579. In: Mitteilungen aus dem Gebiete der Geschichte Liv-, Est- und Kurslands 15 (1893), pp. 117 – 155; Zwierlein, Discorso und Lex, pp. 700 – 708. 95 Höhlbaum, Die Admiralsakten, pp. 45 – 48; Kunz, Die Politik des Pfalzgrafen, pp. 25 – 29.

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remained. Within the Hansa, Lübeck and the Baltic cities were in open conflict. The sympathies of northern Germany towards the rebellious Dutch remained an immovable obstacle, while the new Emperor Rudolph II (1552 – 1612) was more pro-Spanish than his predecessor. Yet, slowly, another possibility emerged in the north. A process of alienation of Denmark from Lübeck set in during the 1570s, when the kingdom began to cut back Hanseatic prerogatives in the Sound.96 When Hamburg expelled the Merchant Adventurers in 1578 it strengthened the League even further.97 The surge of trade of all coastal Hanseatic cities towards Iberia also helped to realign the interests of the greater cities that participated in this emerging area of trade.98 Danzig had to endure a siege by its Polish King in 1577 – 78, which reminded the magistrate of the value of membership in the Hanseatic League.99 In 1578 the Polish-Swedish offensive against Russia gained momentum and soon reduced the fear of the Russians; with it also the issue of the Narva trade waned in importance. After 1579 we hear of no more complaints of Lübeck’s trade towards Narva. Thus, in the late 1570s, the fissures within the Hansa partly disappeared. The League now assumed a distinct anti-Danish and anti-English stance. The complexities of the Russian trade receded into the background. Even the Dutch affairs calmed down between 1578 and 1581 when Archduke Matthias (1557 – 1619) was able to briefly reduce the intensity of the conflict.100 In the late 1570s, George John tried to bring together an alliance of several partners, in particular from the empire, for a war against Russia. At several imperial diets and via other communicative channels he tried his utmost to enlist as many European partners as possible to attempt a full-scale war of Europe against Russia.101 According to one source, he even went to Lübeck in 96 Paul, Lübeck und die Wasa, pp. 113 – 118. 97 The merchant adventurers were a group of royally privileged English merchants in the wool trade that had removed their continental staple from Antwerp to Emden (1563) and later to Hamburg (1567). On their expulsion from Hamburg c. f.: Ehrenberg, Hamburg und England, pp. 137 – 141. 98 M. Ressel, Von der Hanse zur hanseatischen Gemeinschaft. Die Entstehung der Konsulatsgemeinschaft von Bremen, Hamburg und Lübeck. In: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 130 (2012), pp. 127 – 174. 99 Simson, Geschichte der Stadt Danzig, pp. 278 – 321. 100 J. Israel, The Dutch Republic: Its Rise, Greatness, and Fall 1477 – 1806. New York 1995, pp.  190 – 205. 101 The details are summarized by: Kunz, Die Politik des Pfalzgrafen, pp. 29 – 32 and Donnert, Der livländische Ordensritterstaat, pp. 120 – 124. It is interesting to note that Russian historians are very much aware of these plans of Georg Hans and include them

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1579 to convince the Hanseatic diet of his plans to launch a great offensive to recapture Livonia for the empire.102 This, however, is highly unlikely. We have edited sources on this Hanseatic diet, and George John is not mentioned in any. Evidence of this alleged visit to the diet does not appear in any of his later correspondence with the Hanseatic cities after 1581; instead all aspects of the correspondence point to a contact that had only been formed in 1581. We can thus be certain that George John did not visit Lübeck in 1579.103 George John had now concluded that any attempt to attain his admiralty within the constitutional fabric of the empire was doomed to fail. He now openly despised and ridiculed the imperial institutions.104 The only organization that could henceforth be capable of acting on the water was the Hanseatic League. This League was engaged in serious conflicts with foreign powers, and thus in the late 1570s actively sought help from the empire. George John knew very well how this would end for the Hansa, namely, in protracted and endless institutional quarrels without any resolution. At the same time, leading politicians of the League became convinced that only a nobleman should become the protector or leader of the entire organization.105 In a world where nobility and ancestry mattered much more than erudition, some Hansa politicians had begun to see the sense of a noble as representative of the Hansa. From 1556 until 1577 Danzig and some cities of the Prussian quarter had tried occasionally and without much effort to convince its western partners to take the Polish King as protector of the Hansa.106 However, in October 1580, Danzig officially informed

in most works on Ivan IV, c. f. A. Filjushkin, Ivan the Terrible. A Military History. London 1988, pp. 254 – 255. 102 F. von Bezold, Briefe des Pfalzgrafen Johann Casimir. Erster Band 1576 – 1582. Munich 1882, p. 335, No. 154. 103 The fact that this information was dispersed from Vienna speaks to an intrigue of imperial councillors who now had become wary of Georg Hans’ manoeuvres, c. f. Kunz, Die Politik des Pfalzgrafen, p. 28. 104 Ehrenberg, Hamburg und England, pp. 163 – 165; Höhlbaum, Die Admiralsakten, pp.  50 – 52. 105 The idea originated already in the fifteenth century: Wurm, Eine deutsche Colonie. Teil 1, pp. 233 – 236. 106 Simson, Die Organisation der Hanse, p. 422; Simson, Geschichte der Stadt Danzig, p. 141; K. Górski, König­lich-Preußen, Polen und die Hanse. Ein Beitrag zu ihrer Geschichte um die Wende des 15. und 16. Jahrhunderts. In: K. Fritze et al. (eds.), Neue Hansische Studien. Berlin 1970, pp. 359 – 365; H. Duchhardt, Die Hanse und das europäische Mächtesystem. In: A. Grassmann (ed.), Niedergang oder Übergang. Zur Spätzeit der Hanse im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert. Köln 1998, pp. 11 – 24, here: p. 16.

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Lübeck that this idea was not fitting for King Báthory, who was considered too power hungry, and thus dangerous for the autonomy of the city.107 The time thus seemed as ripe as it would ever be. If George John could convince the Hansa to accept the help he offered, his admiralty would become a reality. The cities seemed to lack just one unifying personality, a leader who carried with him the prestige of nobility. In April 1581, George John sent ­Sudermann two barrels of Palatine wine together with a letter in which he promised to soon send all documents that pertained to the project of the admiralty. On 7 June Sudermann responded with a letter in which he thanked George John profusely for the unexpected gift and lamented about the difficulties of the German Hansa cities with the foreign powers and the deplorable state of trade.108 Thus, a direct communication between the Count Palatine and the Hansa was opened for the first time. Lübeck had clearly been the greatest adversary of the Reichs-Admiralität in 1570 – 71, but this attitude had not been directed against George John, of whom the city in all likelihood had not heard too much in these years. Its opposition had been directed against a project hijacked by the Spanish, and one with an anti-Dutch bias. Thus, both partners could attempt a fresh start. On 25 July George John sent a folder of papers to Sudermann. He included all papers about the admiralty: memoranda and other documents of the last twelve years. In the enclosed letter he expressed the hope that the Syndic would read all the documents and thus see the incessant, strenuous, and selfless efforts the Count Palatine had made in the last decade on behalf of the Hansa cities. With these documents, the Hansa politicians would certainly realize the necessity and beneficial effects of the nomination of a prince (Fursten) as speaker for their League, without whom the maritime cities could not accomplish anything substantial. And who else could handle the imperial institutions as well as he, George John, who had participated in imperial and deputation diets since 1559? If the Hansa cities were to summon a diet on behalf of this subject and

107 After the reconciliation of the city with the ruler, Danzig proposed again in 1584 to nominate the Polish King defender of the Hanse: P. Simson, Danziger Inventar 1531 – 1591. München 1913, pp. 916, 940. 108 K. Höhlbaum, Kölner Inventar. Zweiter Band 1572 – 1591, p. 219, No. 1882. This assertion is remarkable if we consider that the Hanseatic cities at the sea experienced a strong boom in the 1580s. Suderman’s remark may reflect the voice of Cologne, which certainly suffered from the breakdown of its traditional trade towards the Netherlands, c. f. D. J. Harreld, High Germans in the Low Countries. German Merchants and Commerce in Golden Age Antwerp. Leiden 2004, pp. 178 – 183.

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deliberate with him on this occasion, he was sure that they would all easily agree upon means and ways to escape the “vor den augen stehenden undergang”.109 However, Sudermann may not have been the best person to address with such material. Sudermann’s position within the League resembled the one George John had in mind for himself. Even though Sudermann spoke on George John’s behalf in the Hansa diet of October 1581 in Lübeck, he seems to have done so only half-heartedly. He left the documents in Cologne and when he came back, he could only write to George John that the diet had decided to put all its grievances before the imperial diet in Augsburg in 1582. The actual decision of the diet had been even more evasive; Sudermann had been instructed to act in this matter as it pleased him (seiner Discretion nach).110 Obviously George John had not been taken seriously. George John could not know that in these months the Hansa had become again severely fissured along the Lübeck/Hamburg line. The conflict of the Hansa with Elisabeth I (1533 – 1603) had escalated, and Hamburg was constantly pressing for a more tolerant policy towards England.111 The step of the League to present its grievance before the imperial diet was not to the least regard an attempt to overcome the impasse. The empire was to guide the cities that had been unable to come to any solution. George John’s proposal had therefore come perhaps one or two years too late. More esteemed by the League was a long letter from Francis, the Duke of Anjou and Alençon (1555 – 1584), brother of the French King, who offered to mediate between the Hansa and England.112 The Hansa had decided to appeal to the imperial authorities and had thus made a remarkable move towards the empire. They planned not only to complain about England but also about the recent rise of the Sound toll and a new Licent in Brabant. In a world where the trade routes extended to far-away regions, where the merchants encountered organized states, the League needed more support and international standing to be able to maintain its position. Still, the relentless 38-year-old George John did not give up. He was by that time already

1 09 Höhlbaum, Die Admiralsakten, p. 4. 110 Ibidem, p. 48. 111 Ehrenberg, Hamburg und England, pp. 162 – 163. 112 There is not much information on the plans of the Duke of Anjou to become protector of the Hansa, for the moment c. f.: H. Keussen, Der päpst­liche Diplomat Minucci und die Hanse. In: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 23 (1895) pp. 103 – 133. It seems not unlikely that Georg Hans had heard of Anjou’s offer to help the Hansa, c. f. the contemporaneity of both offers: Höhlbaum, Kölner Inventar, p. 227, No. 1963; J. Leeb, Der Reichstag zu Augsburg 1582. Munich 2007, pp. 884 – 894, No. 228, 231.

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well acquainted with imperial procedures, and thus he could offer something substantial to the cities. He decided to write a long memorandum, entitled Methodus, to the most important Hansa cities and to Sudermann, in which he offered his help. To Sudermann he enclosed a letter in which he explicitly offered his services to the League. If they were to elect a prince as their leader and give him the chance, he would be ready for it.113 In his Methodus, he availed himself of every argument imaginable to convince the Hansa cites. In the first section he described at length how the imperial institutions worked. The chancellery of the elector of Mayence 114 first had to look favourably on the petition, and then it had to be discussed and voted on in different benches. One tactic of adversaries of any proposal was to be absent during the discussion. Thus a person with great knowledge of the procedures was needed to find and make use of the most opportune moment. George John assured the cities that much money would be necessary to bribe the key-figures. At least 20,000 florin would be necessary in addition to the promise to give much more in the future. Yet, this was not much if one took into consideration the annual loss of six times this sum in the Sound or due to the many other vexations of German shipping. Without a prince to speak on their behalf, the proposal of the cities stood no chance of success. The kind of prince they should choose was the question for the second section of the Methodus. If they left this up to the empire, somebody could be appointed who might not share the interests of the cities. Also, due to the empire’s limited power, this way they could only write letters, appoint commissions, relegate issues to the diet, send out agents to the foreign powers, etc. This would go on without end and in the meantime foreign powers would become ever more powerful, continue to suck away the riches of the cities, and laugh about such deeds (werden derselbigen Action spotten). Were they to choose someone on their own, nobody could hinder them. If the person came from the region, this could also be problematic, since this person would follow his own particular interests (an obvious allusion to Adolf of Holstein). In the third section, George John wrote at length about the problems of the League in its present state. Their disaccords had only brought problems upon them. He discussed in detail the problems with England, Denmark, and Brabant, and the chances and possibilities of these adversaries. He 113 Höhlbaum, Die Admiralsakten, pp. 48 – 55. 114 The Prince-Bishop and Elector of Mayence was also the arch-chancellor of the empire and thus had a strong influence on and within the formal procedures of any imperial diet, cf. K. O. von Aretin, Das Alte Reich Band 1: Föderalistische oder hierarchische Ordnung (1648 – 1684). Stuttgart 1993, pp. 118 – 119.

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saw it as a great error to complain to the empire about all three problems at the same time. The little Licentengelt in Brabant should be no problem: with a short embargo of freight towards this region, this could be easily dealt with. In concordance with the Burgundian Kreis and other partners of the empire, a much stronger embargo could also bring the English to their knees. The greatest problem, however, was Denmark. Against this adversary George John clearly proposed measures that would only result in war. The Sound toll was the greatest problem and it had to be abolished or at least greatly reduced. George John listed all the weaknesses of Denmark, which possessed only a small fleet and whose fortresses were in poor repair. Hamburg and Lübeck together were much stronger and could always bar the isthmus between Schleswig-Holstein and the empire. Since Copenhagen and both fortresses of the Sound lay on the water, they were very vulnerable to fleet manoeuvres. If the cities had too many doubts about their potential for victory in a war on land, they could easily find a partner in Sweden. If the cities decided to nominate an executor and head, he would keep them unified and lead them to a rich future. The costs this might incur would be repaid ten times by the commercial liberties won in this way. He himself had by now tried for twelve years, mostly without their knowledge, to help the cities within the imperial institutions. He was upright, honest, and courageous in his desire to do so. Without a leader, the unfavourable present state of strong discrimination against German shipping could only continue and ultimately result in the total abolition of the liberty of the maritime cities. On 5 July 1582 Lübeck answered very politely to George John, stating that his offer was generous and that it would be considered. He was thanked for his efforts for the League and encouraged to continue. He was explicitly asked to support the Hanseatic demands at the coming imperial diet of Augsburg with his vote (Stim) in the session of the princes. This would be to the honour of the entire German fatherland and would further development and growth (Vfnehmen und Wachsthumb). Yet, to George John’s proposal of nominating him leader of the Hansa, no concrete answer was given.115 The magistrate had decided to send a polite “no” to the Count Palatine. We may speculate that behind this “no” also stood a distrust regarding George John’s connections to Sweden: Sweden had taken nearly two dozen ships from Lübeck and refused

115 The request of Georg Hans and Lübeck’s answer are in: AHL, ASA Externa, Deutsche Territorien, Nr. 7248. The “methodus” is not in the archive, nevertheless it was certainly attached to the original letter since Georg Hans explicitly mentioned it in the original letter “wie Ir aus der Copei zu sehen”.

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to give them back.116 Thus, George John’s offer of allying with Sweden could only be regarded in Lübeck as proof of his ignorance of the reality of northern politics. It is an irony that the Hansa did indeed have a prince who spoke on its behalf at the imperial diet of 1582 in Augsburg. It was not George John, but Duke Julius of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, the same prince to whom Lübeck had sent in 1571 a long memorandum against an admiralty.117 Even at this time George John did not fully accept his failure. Yet, his later remarks on the project never again came close to the full-fledged commitment he had shown in the early 1570s and 1580s. In August 1582 he sent his proposal to the imperial diet in Augsburg, and in September 1582 he sent a long letter to Emperor Rudolph II in which he explained once more how very important the admiralty would be for the empire and what great sums the latter could thereby gain to defend itself against the Turks. He urged the Emperor again to form the admiralty; otherwise he feared that the coastal towns would be drawn away towards other protectors.118 Yet Rudolph showed no clear interest and began to negotiate directly with the Hansa cities about their grievances with England.119 The admiralty plans of George John thus came to an end. He never overcame the failure of this great chimerical dream and was still regretting his failures in the late 1580s.120 In the 1580s the idea of the admiralty was still intensely debated but no longer with substantial participation from George John. Count Caspar von Schönberg (1540 – 1599) and Count Edzard II of East Frisia (1532 – 1599) each tried in the mid-1580s to become admiral of the empire. Yet the chances were for both very slim since Emperor Rudolph showed only slight interest in the idea, and the Hansa cities despised Edzard. In the late 1580s any such project became increasingly unrealistic with the intensifying confessional rift within the empire.121 116 Paul, Lübeck und die Wasa, pp. 101 – 113. 117 Leeb, Der Reichstag, pp. 170 – 171, No. 7. 118 Wolfram, Ein Aktenstück. This letter may also have been presented in a modified version on the imperial diet of Augsburg in August 1582: Leeb, Der Reichstag, p. 1447, Fn. 74. 119 Beutin, Hanse und Reich, pp. 4 – 5. 120 F. von Bezold, Briefe des Pfalzgrafen Johann Casimir. Dritter Band 1587 – 1592. Munich 1903, p. 156, No. 162; T. Fröschl, Der Reichsdeputationstag zu Worms 1586 (Deutsche Reichstagsakten, Reichsversammlungen 1556 – 1662). Göttingen 1994, p. 92. 121 There is not much information on these proposals, yet they all seem to have had a decisively anti-Dutch stance and were thus unacceptable for the Protestant estates or the Hansa. See: E. van Meteren, Historien der Nederlanden En haar Naburen Oorlogen

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7.  Conclusion Between 1570 and 1582 a minor prince in the vast Holy Roman Empire tried in vain to bring about a Reichs-Admiralität. In the north, these twelve years were marked by the bitter litigation of the Hanseatic against the English merchants, the Livonian War, and the rebellion of the Dutch. In the background but also important was the rise of the Danish toll charges in the Sound and an increasingly strong anti-Lübeckian policy of the Kingdom of Sweden. Due to all this turmoil, twice during these twelve years the chances of bringing the empire or the Hansa towards the creation of an admiralty seemed rather good, and both times George John tried intensely to see the proposal through. The project was not completely unrealistic. It enjoyed some popularity among many concerned groups. The benefits of imperial protection for German shipping were always obvious, and Hamburg’s foundation of a proper admiralty in 1623,122 as well as the attempts of the Hanseatic League to intensify its organization in the early seventeenth century,123 reflect this. The fundamental problems of George John’s project lay in the structures of the Hanseatic League and the empire. Both had undergone a process of institutionalization in the first two thirds of the sixteenth century, yet both remained in many regards internally disunited. The wars in the Netherlands and Livonia exposed many of the fissures within Germany, which therefore did not take action in either area. Yet, the admiralty was not missed. The coastal cities of the German north experienced an economic boom in 1570 – 1610 due to the problems of the Dutch. The shipping industries and the economies of Lübeck and Hamburg, and to a lesser degree also those of Bremen and Wismar, show a strong and sustained surge after 1570.124

tot het Iaar 1612. Amsterdam 1663, fol. 461v-462r; O. Klopp, Geschichte Ostfrieslands 1570 – 1751. Hannover 1856, pp. 29 – 34, 611. 122 H. Kellenbenz, Unternehmerkräfte im Hamburger Portugal- und Spanienhandel, 1590 – 1625. Hamburg 1954, p. 40; M. Ressel, Zwischen Sklavenkassen und Türkenpässen. Nordeuropa und die Barbaresken in der Frühen Neuzeit. Berlin 2012, pp. 110 – 112. 123 Simson, Die Organisation der Hanse; Dollinger, Die Hanse, pp. 426 – 478; Ressel, Von der Hanse zur hanseatischen Gemeinschaft. 124 J. Israel, Spain, the Spanish Embargoes, and the Struggle for Mastery of World Trade, 1585 – 1660. In: J. Israel (ed.), Empires and entrepots. The Dutch, the Spanish monarchy and the Jews, 1585 – 1713. London 1990, pp. 189 – 212, here: pp. 191 – 193; Hammel-Kiesow, Schoßeinnahmen.

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This paradox leads to the essence of the project of the “Reichs-Admiralität”. Its goal was never really an economic one; rather, it was meant to overcome the lost unity of the empire on the water, where the dominant rift would be henceforth only “Germans” against (or occasionally in alliances with) “others”. The northern ocean was thus laden with a dream of uniting the empire. The sea became for many patriots of the fractured empire the route towards this longed-for unity. And was George John not the ideal candidate to realize such a dream? Filled with the highest ambitions but politically marginal, the northern oceans became for him an object of escapism. Not being able to pay his debts, and unsuccessful in the quarrels with his neighbours in a small territory far away from the sea, it seems to us not by chance that the ocean exerted on this personality, and with him many other Germans contemporaries, a unique fascination that far transcended its real potential. The utopian nature of Germany’s historical relation to its two seaboards and the oceans beyond finds in George John and his plan of a Reichs-Admiralität a fitting first example.

Tilman Plath

Naval Strength and Mercantile Weakness Russia and the struggle for participation in the Baltic Navigation during the eighteenth century

1.  Introduction The history of Russia in the eighteenth century is a history of political upsurge of extraordinary proportions, starting in the time of Czar Peter the Great and reaching its peak with the victory over Napoleon Bonaparte.1 And what is more important: Russia successfully completed the transition from a continental to a naval power. The access to the sea was without doubt a precondition for navigating international relations and for becoming a great power. Russia’s political expansion was only made possible due to the financial and material boom coupled with the influx of cultural and technological knowledge from abroad. To this end Czar Peter I (the Great) focused his interests on the Baltic Sea region during the Great Northern War and eventually obtained what he hoped to achieve; in later times this became known as the “window on Europe”.2 This chapter intends to examine Russia’s relations with the sea in general, but especially with the Baltic Sea, during the eighteenth century as a means of contact with the West.3 While there has been previous research regarding the enormous progress and changes in Russia during this period and the special role played by St. Petersburg in this process, including the motives for the founding of that city, little if anything has been said about the Baltic Sea as a barrier and bridge for Russia to the West within this context. To understand Russian goals and interests with regard to the Baltic Sea, it is worth taking a closer look at the city of St. Petersburg, since this port city can be perceived as a symbol of the Russian drive towards the littoral. The interconnection between the Russian motives for founding a major port on the Baltic coast and the actual outcome 1 A. B. Kamenskij, The Russian empire in the eighteenth century. Searching for a place in the world. Armonk NY 1997. 2 J. Kusber, Kleine Geschichte St. Petersburgs. Regensburg 2009, p. 32. 3 W. Mediger, Rußland und die Ostsee im 18. Jahrhundert. In: Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas No. 16 (1968), pp. 85 – 103.

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or function of that port in terms of Russian participation in navigation on the Baltic Sea is the central issue of the following considerations and observations.

2.  Foreign trade with Russia until the eighteenth century It goes without saying that Russian participation in Baltic trade certainly predated the eighteenth century. Historically, Russian trade generally moved along a north-south axis. Among the most important characteristics were the trade of the Kievan Rus’ with the Byzantine Empire in the south,4 and Novgorod serving as a place of contact for western Europe and also especially for the Hanseatic League in the north.5 It was not until the late sixteenth century that fundamental changes started, with far-reaching repercussions. Two developments are particularly significant in this context. First, the Grand Duchy of Moscow started to extend into the vast lands of Siberia, and with this expansion also obtained direct access to the natural resources of this region. The fur trade proved to be of paramount significance in this context. Second, Arkhangelsk was founded as a Russian port with direct contact with English merchants. In the seventeenth century the trade volume of Arkhangelsk alone grew four-fold, if not more.6 These two developments laid the foundations for Russia to assume a crucial role as a transit hub for the growing international East-West trade, a role that Russia maintained well for the next few centuries. In addition to the direct trade with Western Europe through Arkhangelsk, one should also point out the trading networks across the Baltic Sea, where in particular the then Swedish port of Narva was a sort of forerunner to St. Petersburg 7. Already during the seventeenth century, Russia by and large had become dependent on imported specie, the so-called efimki

4 K. Heller, Russische Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte. Darmstadt 1987, pp. 43 – 67. 5 N. Angermann, Novgorod. Markt und Kontor der Hanse. Köln 2002. 6 J. Kotilaine, Russia’s foreign trade and economic expansion in the seventeenth century. Windows on the world. Leiden, Boston 2005, p. 281. 7 S. Troebst, Narva, Libau oder Danzig? Die Kaspi-Volga-Ostseeroute im Außenhandel des frühneuzeit­lichen Ostmitteleuropa. In: N. Angermann (ed.), Fernhandel und Handelspolitik der baltischen Städte in der Hansezeit. Lüneburg 2001, pp. 339 – 353; E. Harder-Gersdorff, Avoiding Sound traffic and Sound toll: Russian Leather and Tallow going West via Archangel and Narva-Lübeck (1650 – 1710). In: W. G. Heeres (ed.), From Dunkirk to Danzig. Hilversum 1988, pp. 237 – 261.

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(a corruption of the term Joachimstaler 8). This dependence became crucially apparent at the end of the seventeenth century and in the context of the Great Northern War at the beginning of the eighteenth century.9 Taken together, these developments show how the significance of the navi­ gation on the Baltic and the White Sea as a transit hub with the West had risen by the end of the seventeenth century. While there was no naval fleet to speak of at this time, seaborne trade was certainly flourishing, first through the harbour of Arkhangelsk in the north and also somewhat later via the B ­ altic Sea trade, though only indirectly since the Swedes prevented the Russians from getting direct access to the western markets via the Baltic Sea. Although it is often claimed that there was almost a constant Russian drive towards the Baltic littoral as a longue durée long before Peter I,10 it is justified to question such allegations as they were usually based on assumptions that tend to read history backwards.11

3.  The founding of and significance of St. Petersburg “St. Petersburg—that is a window from which Russia may observe Europe”.12 With this remark from 1739, the Italian Francesco Algarotti laid the cornerstone for the metaphor of St. Petersburg as Russia’s “window on Europe”, later taken up and immortalised by Pushkin.13 The image has made an undisputed historical contribution both to the perception of the city, and, in a far wider context, to Russia’s relations with the West—and indeed Russia’s relations with the world as a whole. 8 The Joachimstaler was a silver coin in Bohemia during the sixteenth century. Not only do the Russian efimki derive their name from, it, but also the American dollar. 9 L. B. Šejnjn, Peterburg i rossijskij merkantilizm. Ėpocha Petra I. Moskva 1997, p. 29. For Russian dependency on Baltic trade in the seventeenth century see also: Kotilaine, Russia’s foreign trade, pp. 294 – 353; Troebst, Narva, Libau oder Danzig?, pp. 339 – 353. 10 For example: D. Kirby, Peter the Great and the Baltic. In: L. Hughes (ed.), Peter the Great and the West. New perspectives. Basingstoke 2001, pp. 177 – 188, here: p. 177. 11 For a sceptical approach towards the alleged striving of Ivan IV to get access to the Baltic littoral as the main motive to start the Livonian war see: N. Angermann, Studien zur Livlandpolitik Ivan Groznyjs. Marburg 1972, pp. 1 – 24. 12 Quoted in: Šejnjn, Peterburg i rossijskij merkantilizm, pp. 7. 13 M. Di Salvo, What did Francesco Algarotti See in Russia?. In: R. P. Bartlett (ed.), Russian society and culture and the long eighteenth century. Essays in honour of Anthony G. Cross. Münster 2004, pp. 72 – 81.

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Without doubt, the window metaphor indicates that the port city of St. Petersburg was thought of as a contact zone between Russia and the West or between land and sea. St. Petersburg as a cultural contact zone between Russia and the West is a well-established topic of research. But what were the original aims to found a port city, and how do they relate to the actual outcome of the Russian use of the port city in terms of participation in the navigation on the Baltic Sea? As a matter of fact, as a result of the Treaty of Nystad in 1721, which ended the long-lasting and arduous Great Northern War satisfactorily from the Russian perspective by adding the Baltic provinces to the Russian Empire, Peter I gained more than just one harbour town on the Baltic coast, where he could promote the Russian drive for participation in Baltic navigation. The special role of St. Petersburg within Peter’s political goals is well reflected by the fact that Peter, on the occasion of numerous peace offers, accepted giving up everything but St. Petersburg, as well as by the enormous support which followed the foundation of the city in comparison to other major port cities, like Riga, Reval, or Arkhangelsk.14 The competition of these cities with one another over the course of the eighteenth century with special attention to the various actors involved in this struggle is a topic that deserves more research. However, St. Petersburg without doubt played a crucial role in this context and was favoured by Peter I and his successors, and therefore serves as the prime example of Russian maritime politics of the eighteenth century. In particular, because in contrast to the old traditional harbour cities of the Baltic provinces neither the city nor any maritime traditions existed before the founding of St. Petersburg, it is the most appropriate place to observe Russian objectives in maritime politics. 3.1.  The role of St. Petersburg as a “window on Europe”—factual level

In addressing the role of St. Petersburg at a factual level, four aspects need to be taken into consideration: the military, the political, the cultural, and the economic context. Turning to the first, the foundation of the city was strongly linked to the element of military exigency during a crucial phase of the war against Sweden, and without doubt military priorities influenced the early

14 For the development of trade in Riga and the competition of St. Petersburg and Arkhangelsk during the eighteenth century see: U. Handrack, Der Handel der Stadt Riga im 18. Jahrhundert. Jena 1932; N. N. Repin, Vnešnjaja torgovlja i social‘no-ekonomičeskoe razvitie rossii v XVIII v. (Archangelogorodskij i peterburgskij porty). Omsk 1989.

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stages of the city’s development.15 Thus the first building erected there was the Peter and Paul Fortress, which was soon followed on the opposite bank of the Neva by the Admiralty building—yet another facility ostensibly constructed for military purposes. Nor should one forget in this context the construction of the fortress Kronschlot on the island of Kotlin.16 All three examples were directly located on the shores of the Neva, respectively the Baltic Sea, which underlines the significance and the conjunction of maritime warfare with the foundation of the city of St. Petersburg. It was not until the turning point of the Great Northern War at the Battle of Poltava in 1709 that the political aspects of the city’s founding became clearer. After 1712, St. Petersburg served as the administrative capital and royal residence of the Russian Empire. The decision to relocate the capital from Moscow caused an influx of officials, clerks, and members of the nobility, and in turn necessitated the construction of administrative buildings and palaces. This, in turn, created an economic boom and paved the way for more intensive trade relations, which satisfied the burgeoning demands for raw materials as well as for luxury goods.17 However, admittedly, the trade volume of the harbour of St. Petersburg began to rise considerably only after the end of the Great Northern War due to the ending of the Swedish blockade and to measures such as a favourable tariff policy and the improvement of the canal system in the Russian hinterland.18 In consequence of these economic developments, as well as the adoption or adaptation of foreign administrative institutions and methods (again, all closely linked to the war effort) the city gradually assumed its role as a “window”—even in cultural terms. To be concise, it is possible to list these developments in the following chronological order: the military domi­ nation and control paved the way for the city’s political significance; this in

15 For more detailed information about the early stages of the foundation see: P. A. Krotov, Osudareva doroga 1702 goda: prolog osnovanija Sankt-Peterburga. Sankt-Peterburg 2012; K. Zernack, Zu den Orts- und Regionalgeschicht­lichen Voraussetzungen der Anfänge Petersburgs. In: K. Zernack (ed.), Nordosteuropa. Skizzen und Beiträge zu einer Geschichte der Ostseeländer. Lüneburg 1993, pp. 257 – 276, here pp. 268, 269. 16 O. Griese, Der Weg in die Ostsee: Die Stadt und ihr Hafen. In: K. Schlögel (ed.), Sankt Petersburg: Schauplätze einer Stadtgeschichte. Frankfurt/Main 2007, pp. 125 – 138. 17 On construction works in the early period of St. Petersburg see: E. Anisimov, Peterburg vremen Petra Velikogo. Sankt Peterburg 2010, pp. 99 – 144. 18 N. N. Repin, Vnešnaja torgovlja i socialno ekonomičeskoe razvitie Rossii v XVIII v. Omsk 1989, pp.  14 – 22; R. E. JONES, Getting the Goods to St. Petersburg. Water transport from the Interior 1703 – 1811. In: Slavic Review No. 43 (1984), pp. 413 – 433.

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turn triggered an economic boom which spilled into the cultural “window on Europe” that was St. Petersburg. 3.2.  The Role of St. Petersburg as a “window on Europe”—objectives

Up until this point it has been explained how St. Petersburg, as a “window on Europe”, actually evolved from its military, political, economic, and cultural dimensions. But the actual course of events does not necessarily mean that this sequence was intended in that way. Concerning the intentions of Peter the Great to establish a port at the estuary of the Neva it is possible to find a quite simple explanation, though admittedly, much ink has been spilt over the motives—real or alleged—underlying Peter the Great’s reforms and his founding of St. Petersburg as a political and cultural centre of the Russian Empire, which is a much more complicated issue.19 For sure, Peter envisioned progress on all four fronts—i. e. the military,20 political, economic, and cultural—but to achieve the Czar’s specific goals a pragmatic policy was required. It is beyond doubt that heightened trade volume on the Baltic Sea was already compelling for Russia during the seventeenth century,21 and for this reason economic and financial goals were given top priority. The special conjunction of the priority of commercial interests with maritime aspects is clearly expressed in the observation of a friend of Peter I, Franz Lefort, in 1689: “Your territory is adjacent to five seas, but in none of these seas you own a fleet or a small number of ordinary ships. Your merchants were limited to your territory, so they do not enrich the state or increase your income”.22 At the same time, political reforms and militarization appeared and offered the means to achieve the Czar’s economic objectives. But, admittedly, militarization drew heavily on the public purse, and to stem the drain additional economic efforts had to be undertaken. As for the cultural impact, this appears to be the fortuitous outcome of the other developments.

19 R. E. Jones, Why St. Petersburg. In: Hughes, pp.  189 – 205; K. Zernack, Die Gründung St. Petersbugrs und ihre Logik. In: H. Hubel (ed.), Ein europäisches Rußland oder Rußland in Europa?—300 Jahre St. Petersburg. Baden-Baden 2004, pp. 99 – 108. 20 For the significance of the Baltic Sea in the strategic thinking see: D. Kirby, Peter the Great and the Baltic, pp. 179 – 182. 21 Kotilaine, Russia’s foreign trade, pp. 345 – 353. 22 Quoted in: Šejnjn, Peterburg i rossijskij merkantilizm, p. 18.

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4.  Russian navigation After shedding some light on the circumstances of the foundation of St. Petersburg and the motives in doing so, it is worthwhile to examine what the Russians actually did on the Baltic waters after founding this harbour city. For this reason we must take note of the measures that had to be taken in order to successfully participate in navigation on the Baltic Sea. Since it has been made clear that the military sequentially preceded the economic development, it is reasonable to first turn attention to the build-up of the Russian navy before examining the development of the merchant marine. 4.1.  The emergence of a Russian Navy

It is not surprising that the build-up of the Russian navy during the eighteenth century offers a success story that runs parallel to Russia’s success on the foreign-policy front, and made Russia an important player in the struggle for domination of the Baltic Sea region during the early modern times.23 Yet this success story also had its fair share of hurdles and setbacks. The origin of the Russian Baltic fleet can be traced to Peter the Great’s Asov campaign in 1695 – 1696, whose main aim of establishing the first Russian sea port at the Black Sea ultimately failed. At the very least this episode serves as an instructive comparative case since Peter envisioned founding a city here—not accidently—to be called Petropolis.24 As an enduring result of this campaign, Russia learnt its first lessons in how to construct war ships and how to navigate, and this in turn served as a solid foundation for building the battleships of the Baltic fleet, with the frigate Shtandart as its first famous battleship.25 Originally, the Swedish navy far surpassed that of the Russians, but by the time Russia achieved its first victories at sea,26 most notably in 1714

23 This question is closely linked to the topic of the so called dominium Maris Baltici and Russia as a participant of this struggle. For this concept see: K. Zernack, Das Zeitalter der Nordischen Kriege als frühneuzeit­liche Geschichtsepoche. In: Zeitschrift für historische Forschung No. 1 (1974), pp. 54 – 79. 24 See: F. Veselago, Kratkaja istorija russkogo flota. Moskva 2011, pp. 27 – 36; E. Ė. Keller and A. E. Keller, Peterburg. Morskaja stolica Rossii. 300-letie Sankt-Peterburga. Sankt-Peterburg 2003, pp. 16. 25 Veselago, Kratkaja istorija, p. 39; A modern replica of this frigate has been built in 1999. 26 See e. g. the conquest of Viborg and the participation of the young Russian Fleet: M. Vasilev, Osada i vzjatie Vyborga russkimi vojskami i flotom v 1710 g. Moskva 1953.

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near Gangut (Hangö),27 it had become clear just how far knowledge in the field of naval shipbuilding and warfare had progressed. Extreme measures had been called for, and despite lack of experience or know-how, the Russian fleet quickly grew to a formidable size, spurred by the construction program as well as the large-scale purchase of modern English warships; and it soon became the largest and most modern to sail the Baltic Sea.28 After the victory over Sweden, the extraordinary burdens of war, and finally the death of Czar Peter I, the understanding of the benefits of maintaining a fleet evaporated in Russian politics, resulting in a decline in the quality of the Russian fleet. Although a Swedish campaign for vengeance was halted in 1741 – 43,29 it was only under the reign of Catherine II that the fleet was again actively promoted and began to recover.30 While the Danish naval fleet may have been comparable in size over the course of the century, the Swedes lost even more ground following their defeat against Russia in 1790. By 1790 the Russian fleet had become the fourth largest navy in Europe—and arguably in the world—and disposed over 51 greater warships; conversely, its Swedish counterpart had at this time a paltry sixteen.31 Taking into account the fact that Czarina Catherine considered Denmark an ally, it is safe to conclude that by the end of the eighteenth century Russia had beyond doubt emerged as the dominant maritime power in the Baltic Sea. By this time Russia’s new role as a global sea power is evidenced by the founding in 1780 of the League of Armed Neutrality by Catherine during the American War of Independence. Also, the Baltic Fleet had already won some battles at sea outside the Baltic region, inter alia in the Mediterranean (the Battle of Chesme, 1770).32

27 Veselago, Kratkaja istorija, pp. 49 – 51. 28 R. Warner, British Merchants and Russian Men-of-War: the Rise of the Russian Baltic Fleet. In: Hughes, pp.  105 – 117. 29 See: M. A. Murav’ev, Russkij flot v vojne so šveciej 1741 – 1743 godov. L’vov 2000. 30 Keller and Keller, Peterburg, pp. 23 – 25. 31 H. Bagger, Die Bedeutung des Ostseeraumes für die russische Aussenpolitik. In: E. Hübner (ed.), Russland zur Zeit Katharinas II. Absolutismus, Aufklärung, Pragmatismus. Köln 1998, pp. 361 – 390, here p. 390; J. Glete, Navies and Nations. navies and state building in Europe and America, 1500 – 1860. Vol. 1. Stockholm 1993, pp. 298, 309. 32 Veselago, Kratkaja istorija, p.145.

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4.2.  The failure to build up a Russian merchant fleet

While it is clear that on the one hand the first Russian maritime contact with the Baltic Sea was determined mainly by military needs, on the other hand it is important to keep in mind that economic needs had been the original underlying reasons for engaging in the Baltic Sea region. While the progress in building a Russian navy had been a success broadly speaking, the same cannot be said of the Russian civil navigation, which was subject to a very different development. This is not to suggest that the aim of economic development through trade was neglected or missing. But closer scrutiny reveals that a large chunk of this seaborne trade was firmly left in the hands of merchants from England, the Netherlands, and Northern Germany.33 Peter himself felt ambiguous about this: on the one hand he had invited foreign merchants to come to Russia to help stimulate economic development, especially in his beloved new port town St. Petersburg.34 The warm welcome of the first ship from Holland in St. Petersburg in 1703 serves as an example. The skipper of this ship Jan Hilbrandt got some 500 efimki as a reward.35 But on the other hand, Peter simultaneously tried to expel these foreigners from the Russian trade market almost from the very start. His aim was to build a Russian merchant fleet.36 However, Peter, and especially his successors, quickly came to appreciate that there were compelling reasons for luring foreign capital to finance Russian trade. As a result of the above-mentioned obstacles, the build-up of a Russian merchant fleet failed, despite measures to entice Russian merchants to participate in international trade with Russian ships. For this purpose, Peter had already started to establish a network of Russian consulates that were meant to promote and to 33 See: V. N. Zakharov, Zapadnoevropejskie kupcy v rossijskom torgovle XVIII veka. Moskva 2005, pp. 40 – 61; J. Hartley, War and the Merchants: The Great Northern War (1700 – 1721). In: R. P. Bartlett, G. Lehmann-Carli (eds), Eighteenth-century Russia. Society, culture, economy: papers from the VII International Conference of the Study Group on Eighteenth-Century Russia. Berlin, London 2007, pp. 485 – 498. 34 E. V. Spiridonova, Ėkonomičeskaja politika i ėkonomičeskie vzgljady Petra I. Moskva 1952. p. 217. 35 Pis’ma i bumagi imperatora Petra Velokogo. tom 2. Sankt Peterburg 1889, p. 563; See also: P. A. Krotov, Peterburgskij Port pri Petre I. In: J. N. Bespjatych (ed.), Fenomen Peterburga. Trudy Vtoroj Meždunarodnoj konferencii, sostojavšejsja 27 – 30 nojabrja 2000 goda vo Vserossijskom Muzee A. S. Puškina. Sankt-Peterburg 2001, pp. 423 – 433, here p. 424. 36 A. Kahan, The plow, the hammer, and the knout. An economic history of eighteenth-­ century Russia. Chicago 1985, pp.166.

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defend Russian interests abroad, but as the course of time would show, these efforts came to naught.37 Also the attempts to promote trade on Russian ships by tax incentives proved to be a clear failure.38 When casting an eye on the success of the Russian naval fleet, it is manifest that the reasons for failure cannot be linked to the lack of know-how in shipbuilding or even to maritime technology, broadly speaking. The Russian shipyards adapted quickly. While technical standards were quickly acquired, the lack of business know-how and inadequate command of foreign languages appear to be the culprits. Admittedly, however, these were not the most important reasons. Two other reasons loom far larger. First, a scrutiny of Russian politics during the eighteenth century reveals a lack of development in social matters. Despite progress in the development of Russian society in several fields, society itself was unquestioning and static, and this acted as the chief impediment to the rise of an independent merchant class capable of competing with the foreign traders and companies.39 Second, the dominance of foreign capital could not be easily overcome by the Russian government, which, as mentioned above, remained dependent on the influx of foreign funds. Also, tariff policy was a comfortable way of reaping the benefits of trade without taking on too much risk.40

5.  Conclusions Access to the Baltic Sea played a crucial role in the Russian success story of the eighteenth century. While St. Petersburg was clearly a child of different developments and influences from the West on Russian history along military, political, economic, and cultural lines, it is important to emphasize that this was made possible by the fact that St. Petersburg was a “window on Europe” i. e. a harbour city. Furthermore, it is worthwhile to pay attention to the fact that notwithstanding the above-mentioned significance of St. Petersburg as a harbour city and the importance of the Baltic Sea for the development of Russia 37 G. A. Nekrasov, Vnešnjaja torgovlja Rossii čerez Revel’skij port v 1721 – 1756 gg. Moskva 1984, p. 57. 38 The respective ukaz in: Polnoe sobranie zakonov rossijskoj imperii (PSZ), VI, No. 3672. 39 For a scrutiny of the social composition of the Russian merchants see: D. L. Ransel, Russian Merchants: Citizinship and Identity. In: R. P. Bartlett, G. Lehmann-Carli, pp.  417 – 428. 40 Kahan, The plow, the hammer, p. 236.

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via St. Petersburg, this city later somewhat lost its maritime culture and identity, which was overshadowed by other political and especially cultural aspects. The harbour is hardly present in current images of the city.41 Nevertheless, at the beginning of the eighteenth century the significance of St. Petersburg as a harbour city was definitely a pivotal point in Russia’s attempt to catch up with other European countries. An important part of this struggle was the attempt to control the navigation on the Baltic Sea. Here the Russian success in the eighteenth century was debatable. It is important to bear in mind that the failure to build up a merchant fleet has its distinct roots in social developments, or rather, the lack thereof. Further research is needed to delve more deeply into the inconsistent policy positions espoused by Czar Peter the Great and his successors towards the phenomenon of the West as an instigation and impediment for the development of Russian navigation on the Baltic Sea. Finally, it is worthwhile mentioning that in the economic sphere, which dominated Peter’s original thinking, the goals were halfway reached, since the dominance of foreign capital could not be overcome. In the military sphere, which served as a means to reach the economic goals, the success was considerable, while the cultural impact of the sea on Russian history, which unfolded rather unintentionally, the outcome had a long-lasting effect, and the sea and its navigation became an integral part of Russian culture. The outstanding role of the Baltic fleet for the Russian identity, and especially for the identity of the city of St. Petersburg, is one important example, in addition to the emergence of seascapes in Russian art during the nineteenth century. Returning to the assumption that Russian interests did not stop at the coast, we may conclude with the observation that in this case the sea fulfilled a rather ambitious function for Russia, as it was a means of commercial and later cultural contact with Western Europe. At the same time, the largest success from Russia’s point of view was reached in the realm of confrontation, i. e. the construction of a navy, whereas in the realm of peaceful commercial contact with the West, the Russian encroachment was limited, and in this sense the sea played the role of boundary for Russian expansionism.

41 Griese, Der Weg in die Ostsee, p. 127.

Marta Grzechnik

From moat to connecting link Sweden and the Baltic Sea in the twentieth century

1.  Introduction In the post-1989 enthusiasm for building connections and common narratives in the Baltic Sea Region, this “Mediterranean” sea of northern Europe has on some occasions been presented with the use of a dual image: a connecting link, on the one hand, and a moat or trench, on the other. The former represents most of the Baltic Sea’s history, when its shores were connected by economic, military, and political links: trade connections, dynastic ties, alliances, wars, and migrations of peoples. The latter symbolises the one exception in this history of connections: the time of the Cold War, when the sea was transformed into a moat by the rivalry of the two power blocks, the border between which—the Iron Curtain—ran exactly across the sea. The existence of the moat is, according to this imagery, something unnatural, a break or parenthesis in the longue durée of the sea’s history. Only after the Cold War was over and the Iron Curtain lifted, was it possible to return to the sea’s “natural” state. The moat could again become a connecting link. This dual image appeared in the Swedish historiography related to the Baltic Sea and Central and Eastern Europe. Apart from being a neat historical meta­ phor, it had the advantage of shifting the responsibility for the construction of the moat on the realities of big power politics—the global conflict between the capitalist and the communist worlds—on which neutral countries such as Sweden had little influence. At the same time, it ignored that the construction of the moat was at least to some extent also the result of a choice, of turning one’s back on the Baltic Sea and what lay beyond it. Furthermore, this perception of the Baltic Sea was a post-factum construction that fitted into the optimism of the immediate post-Cold War time, when a strong belief in the potential role of historians as region-builders and historical narratives as integrating factors was expressed by some historians.1 In many respects, however,

1 See e. g.: M. Grzechnik, Making Use of the Past: The Role of Historians in Baltic Sea Region Building. In: Journal of Baltic Studies Vol. 43 No. 3 (2012), pp. 329 – 343.

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the interwar period was not a time of exceptionally intensive connections, nor did the Cold War represent a complete break, as the dichotomy of the moat-­ connecting link suggests—especially if one takes into consideration the attitude and interest for the connections across the sea of the historians themselves. The aim of this chapter is to present how and when the moat was constructed, and to what extent it was later filled in; in other words: how and when during the twentieth century the sea acquired more of the quality of a barrier dividing from what lay beyond the sea than a means of connection, cooperation, and transfer. Special focus will be placed on the way the countries across the sea were perceived in Swedish historiography, and how this perception followed from the context of the current political situation.

2.  Before 1939. The construction of the moat: political factors The roots of the Swedish attitude towards the Baltic Sea in the twentieth century go back to the beginning of the previous one, the times of the Napoleonic wars. In 1809, after a war with Russia, Sweden lost almost half of its territory, the half lying east of the sea: Finland. It was the last stage in the sequence of territorial losses that meant Sweden’s withdrawal from the eastern shores of the Baltic Sea and at the same time the loss, piece by piece, of its empire that had once embraced almost the whole sea. Not quite a century before, in 1720/21, Sweden had been forced to give up, also to Russia, its territories south of the Gulf of Finland. Once it became clear that the empire was irreversibly lost, revanchist voices gave way to a drive for internal consolidation, through which the nation was supposed to “reconquer Finland within Sweden’s borders”, as the national poet Esaias Tegnér wrote in the patriotic poem “Svea” (1811). This time also marked the beginning of the Swedish neutrality policy, to which the country would remain faithful throughout the next two centuries. Taking control of Norway in 1814 contributed further to diminishing the Baltic Sea orientation of the Swedish policy. The beginning of the twentieth century brought about changes that required some modifications to this attitude. First came the loss of Norway in 1905, which left Sweden with a sense of bitterness towards its former union partner. The First World War brought further transformations, foremost the independence of Finland in 1917, and so it was time to turn attention to the neighbour beyond the Gulf of Bothnia. Of course, it was not just any neighbour but a former part of Sweden: “It is the old Sweden that stands up again”, wrote the eminent historian Harald Hjärne in 1919, “divided, but reawakened to new life. From now

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on there are, we can with all justification say, two Swedish states on both sides of the Bothnian Sea: Finland and the contemporary Kingdom of Sweden”.2 The Swedish relationship to Finland was therefore bound to be a special one— especially on the part of those, who were, to use historian Sverker Oredsson’s expression, “marked by the romantic ideas of the great power era” (and mostly right wing)3—even though it began with a dispute between the countries over the Åland Islands. This archipelago had since the Treaty of Paris (1856) been a neutral and demilitarised zone; however, the powers’ manoeuvres during the war—especially its fortification by Russia in 1915—had reminded Sweden of its important strategic position: it lay on the Baltic Sea between Finland and Sweden, close to major cities in both countries (including Stockholm).4 In the course of the dispute, not only arguments of self-determination of nations were put forward (the islands’ population expressed their intention of joining ­Sweden in a plebiscite in June 1919), but also historical ones, such as their administrative division and ethnic composition in the past.5 However, in 1921, the dispute was already settled in favour of Finland by the League of Nations and not taken up again until just before the outbreak of the Second World War, at which time Sweden and Finland worked together to try to prevent the archipelago from falling into the hands of the great powers and thus becoming a direct threat to both countries. The relations to Norway and Finland were not the only issues to be dealt with after the end of the First World War. In fact, Sweden’s immediate vicinity transformed completely, as both the war and the October Revolution in Russia brought further changes: the Russian Empire fell, replaced by the USSR, and a number of new countries appeared (or reappeared): Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. This radical rearrangement of the region’s political arena caused all of its countries to reorient their foreign policies. The unique—in a longterm historical perspective—situation in the region, that is, the emergence

2 H. Hjärne, Östersjöfrågor. Föreningen Heimdals folkskrifter. Ny serie, no. 3. Stockholm 1919, p. 15. 3 S. Oredsson, Svensk rädsla. Offentlig fruktan i Sverige under 1900-talets första hälft. Lund 2001, p. 131. 4 G. Rystad, The Åland Question and the Balance of Power in the Baltic during the First World War. In: G. Rystad, K. R. Böhme and W. M. Carlgren (eds.), In Quest of Trade and Security. The Baltic in Power Politics 1500 – 1990, vol. 2. Lund 1995, pp. 51 – 105. 5 D. Nordman, Historiker kämpar om Åland. Om de svenska och finländska historikernas argumentering i Ålandsfrågan 1917 – 21, In: S. Jungar and N. E. Villstrand (eds), Väster om skiftet. Uppsatser ur Ålands historia. Åbo 1986, pp. 139 – 158.

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of a number of independent actors and no clear dominating power, created favourable conditions for setting up a network of regional connections. The newly independent—and therefore feeling rather insecure—countries of the south-eastern shores of the Baltic Sea saw the usefulness of regional cooperation, and it was there that projects and initiatives to cross the sea and unite its two shores originated in the first decades of the twentieth century. Before the end of the First World War, the representatives of the Baltic States 6 presented a number of initiatives of all-Baltic Sea Region cooperation, and in subsequent years the project of a Baltic League was put forward, which was to unite the Baltic and Scandinavian states and involve political, military, and economic cooperation. About 40 Baltic conferences were organised in the years 1919 – 26: the meetings of foreign ministers, but also postal and railway officials, experts on banking, military, and legal issues, and many others. The Scandinavian countries were invited to participate; however, they never showed any interest in doing so.7 Eventually, the project of the Baltic League was first limited to looser forms of cooperation and then dropped completely. One important reason for its f­ ailure was the lack of unity within the group of the Baltic States (due mainly to the Polish-Lithuanian conflict over Vilnius), but there was also another reason: the complete lack of interest on the part of the Scandinavian countries.8 This certainly had to do, at least in Sweden, with its traditional neutrality policy and the strongly pronounced willingness not to enter into any alliances that would involve the country or its close neighbours in the European power play, although the distance did not remain the same throughout the whole interwar period. It can be mentioned here that the political elite of Sweden had two visions of how relations to the rest of Europe, including the neighbours across the Baltic Sea, should be shaped. The Left, led by politicians of internationalist

6 It should be kept in mind that the term “Baltic States” was at the beginning of the interwar period not yet fixed to its today’s understanding: it often included Finland and sometimes even Poland. In this paper, however, it is used in the modern meaning—i. e. referring to Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. 7 For example, the response towards the invitation to a conference to be held in Bulduri in August and September 1920 was a refusal: “…the Swedish foreign minister, Erik Palmstierna, regarded the idea as ridiculous. Finally, the Swedish, Danish and Norwegian foreign ministers rejected the invitation at their meeting in Kristiania (Oslo) in May 1920.” M. Lehti, A Baltic League as a Construct of the New Europe. Frankfurt am Main, New York 1999, p. 263. 8 Ibidem, pp.  545 – 546.

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outlook (Hjalmar Branting,9 Rickard Sandler) and displaying a certain optimism following the downfall of the great empires of Europe as the result of the war, believed in the international security system of the League of Nations and saw Sweden as actively engaging in the functioning of this system. The Conser­ vatives, on the other hand, preferred to build Sweden’s defence on the basis of bilateral military alliances and a strong army, in addition to maintaining strict neutrality. The former attitude prevailed in Sweden’s policies in the first decade of the interwar period, as manifested by the unconditioned acceptance of the League of Nation’s verdict in the dispute over the Åland Islands and active involvement in the functioning of the League. However, with the development of the increasingly threatening international situation in the 1930s (the instability of democratic governments in most of the new Baltic Sea Region states which resulted in the coming to power of autocratic regimes, the recovery of both regional powers—Germany and the USSR—as well as the visible weakness of the League of Nations), even the Social Democrats’ belief in the possibilities of international cooperation decreased. With this, the attitude towards the countries on the other side of the Baltic Sea also became less and less open.

3.  Before 1939. The construction of the moat: cultural and historical factors The political calculation of chances and risks was, however, not the sole basis for maintaining distance between the northern and south-eastern shores of the Baltic Sea. There was also a combination of a number of cultural and historical factors, which can be made more clear when we look at the works of some contemporary historians and other scholars. First of all, there was a strong feeling of Nordic unity—most strongly pronounced in the two traditionally dominant Nordic countries, Sweden and Denmark. Its roots lay in the pan-Scandinavism movement of the previous century, which, in turn, was based on the interest in old Norse culture and— in ­Sweden—the ideas of Gothicism, attempting to alleviate the sense of defeat caused by the territorial losses of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. While the idea had both political and economic aspects,10 it was the i­ deological 9 Hjalmar Branting died in 1925 and therefore his influence on Swedish politics is limited to the early interwar period. 10 E. g. a monetary union started 1873 and some support offered by Sweden to Denmark during its first war with Prussia over Schlesvig (1848 – 51); lack of such support during the second war (1864) showed the failure of the Scandinavist idea as a political project.

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dimension that remained the strongest: despite the belligerent past of the Nordic neighbours, it was possible to create a common, Nordic identity. 11 The identity was constructed in a positive sense—by promoting shared values and a common cultural heritage—but also in a negative one—by marking the distance from what was not Nordic. Values attributed to the Nordic societies— democracy, Protestantism, progress, and equality—were set against the ones that ­supposedly characterised the rest of Europe: Catholicism, conservatism, and capitalism.12 In historical research the Nordic unity manifested itself by cooperation, for example in the form of the meetings of Nordic historians, first organised in 1905 and still active. The cultural association Föreningen Norden (Nordic Association) was established in 1919 to promote the unity of Nordic countries. Finland joined as a member in 1924, being recognised as a Nordic country—however, when Estonia and Latvia later tried to follow in its footsteps, they were rejected due to a Norwegian veto.13 The Nordic aspirations of the Baltic States—especially Estonia and to a lesser extent Latvia—were not without historical grounds, and also in Sweden these grounds were not completely forgotten. The traditional historiography of the Swedish Great Power Era (the time of the country’s greatest expansion and military successes, between 1611 and 1721) focused on the time when the Kingdom of Sweden extended to vast territories around the Baltic Sea, almost making it Sweden’s inland sea. Not only Finland, but also territories of contemporary Estonia and Latvia used to be parts of the Swedish Kingdom. One example of recognising the importance of such past links for the present-day region building was an idea put forward by the Swedish geographer Stan de Geer: he combined the Scandinavian countries with Finland, Estonia, and Latvia into one geopolitical region under the name of Baltoscandia.14 His concept was based on a set of geographical, cultural, historical, and linguistic criteria such

11 U. Østergård, The Geopolitics of Nordic Identity—From Composite States to NationStates. In: B. Stråth and Ø. Sørensen (eds), The Cultural Construction of Norden. Oslo 1997, pp. 25 – 71, here: 21 – 22. 12 B. Stråth and Ø. Sørensen, Introduction: The Cultural Construction of Norden. Idem, pp.  1 – 24, here: 4 – 5. 13 J. Hackmann, From ‘Object’ to ‘Subject’: The Contribution of Small Nations to Region-building in North Eastern Europe. In: Journal of Baltic Studies Vol. 33 No. 4 (2002), pp. 412 – 430, here: 420. 14 The origin of this concept can be found in the earlier idea of Fennoscandia of the Finnish geologist Wilhelm Ramsay. His concept, however, ignored culture and history, and only took into consideration the natural environment and landscape.

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as the primary rock foundation of Fennoscandia, the area of the Fennoscandic post-glacial rebound, the two Fennoscandic language groups (the Scandinavian languages and Finnish with the related languages Estonian and Sami), the area of Protestantism, the contemporary Scandinavian states (in which de Geer included Estonia and Latvia), as well as the greatest range of the two “thousand year old” Nordic states, Sweden and Denmark.15 However, in most cases—like the above-mentioned Nordic Association membership—it turned out to be easier for Finland to be accepted in the Nordic unity than for the countries south of the Gulf of Finland. The reasons were historical, cultural, geographical, and political. Finland’s “special” relationship to Sweden has already been mentioned—this specialness rested on the memory of its former status as part of the Swedish Empire and therefore sharing more of its culture than Estonia and Latvia, which stayed under Swedish rule for a shorter period. But Finland was also Sweden’s direct buffer against the USSR; this was the main reason why Sweden looked unfavourably on Finnish connections to its southern—and much more vulnerable to a possible Soviet attack—neighbours and the perspective of joining Baltic Sea Region cooperation. The rejection of the Baltic League project by the Eduskunta (the Finnish parliament) in 1922 and consequently Finland choosing a Nordic orientation rather than a Baltic one was seen as much more advantageous. The legacy of the Swedish Great Power Era was thus another factor influencing the country’s attitude towards the opposite shore of the Baltic Sea, one which, contrary to the idea of Nordic unity, directed the Swedish attention towards that shore by invoking the country’s past involvement there and recalling links formed in the previous centuries. One example of such a link is the Swedish cooperation with the university in Dorpat (Tartu), founded by king Gustav II Adolf as one of the Swedish Empire’s first universities, which remained a meeting place for scholars from both northern and south-eastern shores of the Baltic Sea. However, this was an exception rather than a rule. The Great Power Era lessened in popularity as a theme in Swedish historiography throughout the interwar period, as the so-called Uppsala school lost the dominant position in the Swedish scholarship that it had enjoyed since the previous century. It was a rather nationalistic-­conservative school of thought represented by scholars from the academic centres in Uppsala and Stockholm and traditionally interested in topics of the history of the S­ wedish Empire, most often seen as the history of kings and leaders. The rival school of

15 S. de Geer, Das geologische Fennoskandia und das geographische Baltoskandia. Stockholm 1928, pp. 121 – 134.

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historiography—the Lund school—was, on the other hand, interested more in Middle Ages and themes of economic and social history. The proponents of this school, the brothers Lauritz and Curt Weibull, were more interested in links between the Scandinavian countries in the Sound region, which was reflected in their journal Scandia, established in 1928, and their cooperation with Danish and Norwegian historians (e. g. Erik Arup, Halvdan Koht). It was in the interwar period that the approach of the Lund school was introduced more widely into Swedish historical scholarship and gradually became dominant, and with it the interest in the links formed during the Great Power Era faded.16 On the other hand, the traditions of the Great Power Era did not also mean complete openness towards the opposite shores of the Baltic Sea, since they contained elements that demanded caution towards them. One of them was a distrust towards Catholicism, related to the traditional view of Gustav Adolf as the champion of Protestantism and the Swedish involvement in the Thirty Year War as crucial in defending Protestantism in Europe,17 visible also in the above-mentioned juxtaposition of Nordic versus continental values. Another, more prominent and lasting influence was the so-called rysskräck—the fear of the Russians. Sverker Oredsson argues in his books about the “Swedish fear” that it was the most pronounced and constant fear that dominated Swedish public and political life throughout the twentieth century, which in the interwar period even overshadowed the threat posed by Nazi Germany.18 It was Russia who had been Sweden’s main enemy in the last decades of the imperial period, and who, in the end, deprived it of the empire and was seen as a more or less threatening neighbour ever since. But the fear was fuelled also by other factors, first of all the influence of ideas and intellectual trends developed in Germany since the second half of the nineteenth century. Remaining under considerable influence of German intellectual life, Sweden imported many of the trends developed there, including the idea of the inevitable clash between the German

16 R. Björk, The Swedish Baltic Empire in Modern Swedish Historiography. In: F. Handler and M. Mesenhöller (eds), Vergangene Größe und Ohnmacht in Ostmitteleuropa: Repräsentationen imperialer Erfahrung in der Historiographie seit 1918. Leipzig 2007, pp.  35 – 61, here: 40 – 42, 50 – 51; B. Stråth, Curt Weibull. Källkritisk vägröjare med syntetisk ambition. In: R. Björk and A. W. Johansson (eds), Svenska historiker från medeltid till våra dagar. Stockholm 2009, pp. 423 – 448, here: p. 430; R. Torstendahl, I svensk tappning—svenska historiker under utländsk påverkan. In: ibidem, p. 39. 17 S. Oredsson, Gustav Adolf, Sverige och Trettioåriga kriget: Historieskrivning och kult. Lund 1992, p. 249. 18 Oredsson, Svensk rädsla, p. 360.

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and the Slavic races. It underlined fundamental differences between the biggest Slavic nation—the Russians—and the European civilisation, represented by the Germanic nations such as the Germans and the Swedes. Historical analyses were put forward, for example by Harald Hjärne (one of the main representatives of Uppsala school), in which Russia was presented as a country whose civilisation and culture was fundamentally alien to European ones: Russia was “the Other”, who could not live peacefully side by side with Europe, and presented a constant threat. In the past, Hjärne wrote, this threat had been—with varying degrees of success—kept at bay, for example thanks to the Swedish heroic warrior-king Karl XII , but in its new incarnation, the Soviet Union, it once again threatened European peace and even European civilisation in general. This argument was presented in the same, already-quoted text in which Hjärne wrote about Finland as part of the “old Sweden”. Finland’s independence too was put into the context of the Russian threat: the Swedish historian thought it necessary not to allow any disputes between Sweden and Finland to hinder the cooperation between them, as together they must ensure that Russia is held beyond the Finnish border, in Sweden’s vital interest.19 Further influence of German propaganda and political thought was reflected for example in the Swedish intellectuals’ sympathy for the German postulates of revising the Versailles Treaty,20 from which followed the arguments about the need to incorporate the so-called Polish Corridor into Germany and about Poland as a “seasonal state”, i. e. one that would not survive long, and certainly not a maritime—Baltic—one.21 As a side note it might be added that the arguments of historical and cultural nature were backed by racial arguments of eugenics, in which the superior, Nordic type was set against the “east Baltic” type. The “science” of eugenics was very clearly anti-Slavic and anti-Semitic, and one of its aims was to hinder persons of these racial backgrounds to settle in Sweden and mix with the Swedish population.22

19 Hjärne, Östersjöfrågor, p. 19. 20 Oredsson, Gustav Adolf, p. 179. 21 Most knowledge about Poland in Sweden came through German sources, which, given the extremely strained relations between Poland and Germany, meant that it was rather biased. Poland, with its centres of power and culture far from the sea coast, in Warsaw and Cracow, was anyway not considered a truly “Baltic” country in Sweden. K. Gerner, Sverige, Polen och den nya politiska ordningen vid Östersjön efter första världskriget. In: H. Runblom and A. N. Uggla (eds), Polen & Sverige 1919 – 1999. Uppsala 2005, pp.  63 – 82, here: 71 – 72. 22 Oredsson, Svensk rädsla, pp. 161 – 162.

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These ideas formed the basis of prejudices and preconceptions, which pene­ trated into perceptions even of intellectuals otherwise positively disposed to the neighbours from across the sea. Historian Carl-Fredrik Palmstierna took part in the Baltic Historians’ Congress in Riga in August 1937. In his report from the visit he described his impressions from “the neighbour’s land” (as the text is called), including his amazement at the good organisation of the congress and accompanying activities, as well as the fact that the host country turned out to be clean and its inhabitants hard working. “This is something one usually associates with Holland but hardly with Eastern Europe”, he comments.23 Writer Per Josef Enström shared his impressions from a visit to the Baltic States (including for example Tallinn) in the 1930s, seeing there, on the one hand, past German and Scandinavian influences and, on the other, contemporary “Oriental” ones, by which he meant the presence of Russians and other “various oriental races”.24 There is yet another important factor that contributed to the deepening of the divide between the shores of the Baltic Sea, which twines well with some of the ideas mentioned above, and which surfaces in the quoted reflections from visits to the Baltic States. Larry Wolff, in his book about inventing Eastern Europe, argues that the division of Europe into East and West is much older than the Cold War: it was drawn during the period of Enlightenment, a conscious construction by Western European intellectuals, who needed an “Other”, a second half in opposition to which the West could build its own identity—and superiority.25 It turned out to be a convenient and very long-lived construct, providing Western Europeans with ready-made ways of thinking about the other side of the divide: such as Palmstierna’s expectations of disorder in Latvia and Enström’s of the Orient in Russia. Their and numerous other texts were written from the positions of Western Europeans looking at, and judging, Eastern Europe—or representatives of the Germanic nation looking at the Slavic and Baltic nations for that matter—with a sense of superiority (even if it is benevolent superiority, as in Palmstierna’s case). But the construct of Eastern Europe does not only represent a second, inferior half of the continent, but also, following Wolff ’s argument, a place hidden in the shadow, not to be looked at too 23 C. F. Palmstierna, Vår grannes åker: intryck från den första baltiska historikerkongressen. In: Baltisk revy. En årsbok utgiven av de sammanslutningar, som verka för Sveriges förbindelser med de Baltiska staterna. Lund 1938, pp. 86 – 100, here: 86 – 87. 24 P. J. Enström, Östersjön: kring ett hav och dess historia. Visby 1939, p. 35. 25 L. Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford 1994.

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closely.26 This is reflected in the vagueness as to what and who can be found on the other shore: Latvians and Estonians, or Russians, Orientals, or Slavs—the categories are unclear. In the above-mentioned ideology of the clash between the Slavonic and Germanic races, for example in Harald Hjärne’s version, the relation between Russians and other Slavonic nations is not completely clear either: on which side of the cultural divide do the latter stand? The Poles, for instance, seem to be included in the bulwark of the European civilisation against the Russian threat, despite being a Slavic, not a Germanic nation.27 The distance created on Sweden’s mental maps between itself and continental Europe was, therefore, composed of several interlinked geopolitical, historical, and cultural factors: the policy of neutrality and avoiding involvement in any potentially risky cooperation, a strong feeling of Nordic unity, fear of Russia and the political instability it could cause in Sweden’s immediate vicinity, as well as the overlapping ideas of fundamental differences between the Germanics and the Slavs, and between Western and Eastern Europe. Of course, the influence of these factors was not the same throughout the whole period: in the years following the First World War, for example, the openness towards the outside world was greater than during the decade leading to the outbreak of the S­ econd World War, when European politics started heading in an increasingly threatening direction. However, to look at the interwar period as a time of flourishing cooperation and region-building around the Baltic Sea is an optimistic exaggeration: the sea was already more of a moat than a connecting link.

4.  The Cold War period. The deepening of the moat The moat was, therefore, not only the product of the Cold War—although it did, of course, do nothing to help fill it. The moat continued to deepen during the course of the Cold War, despite a number of refugees from the Baltic States and Poland who reached Swedish shores during and after the Second World 26 Ibidem, pp.  1 – 3. 27 H. Hjärne, Karl XII från europeisk synpunkt. Föredrag vid Karolinska förbundets minnesfest 30 november 1918. Föreningen Heimdals folkskrifter. Ny serie, no. 4. Stockholm 1919, pp. 12 – 13. It seems that the divide might in fact fit more one based on the difference between Latin and Orthodox Christendom, as presented for example in Samuel Huntington’s idea of the clash of civilisations (S. P. Huntington, The Clash of Civilisations and the Remaking of World Order. New York 2002) and shows that rysskräck, even in the context of the Great Power Era, was stronger than anti-Catholic sentiments.

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War. The Swedish stance while the war was still ongoing is symptomatic of the ways in which the country related to its neighbours on the Baltic Sea. On the one hand, there was support of Finland, in its fights with the USSR—the Winter War (from November 1939 to March 1940) and the Continuation War following it (from June 1941 to September 1944). On the other, there was de facto recognition of the Soviet annexation of the Baltic States in 1940, followed by the handing over to the USSR of Estonian and Lithuanian gold deposited in Sweden.28 The Nordic and the Baltic—or continental—neighbours were, therefore, treated differently, a logical consequence of Sweden prioritising the Nordic cooperation over other forms of international cooperation and Nordic identity over a wider European one. Another factor was, of course, avoiding the risk of invasion from either of the regional powers, which made Sweden additionally cautious in shaping and manifesting its relations to the countries involved in the war, and also left them prepared to compromise to the extent which later commentators often deemed unnecessary.29 An especially painful issue—both to Swedish public opinion and to the citizens of the Baltic States—was the so-called baltutlämningen: the handing over of the military personnel from the Baltic States interned in Sweden. In 1945, the Soviet Union demanded that Sweden hand over members of the German military personnel interned in this country who had escaped there after the signing of German capitulation on 8 May 1945 in the hopes of getting to the West. The Swedish government not only accepted the request but also included persons who had arrived to Sweden before the capitulation. This applied to over 2000 German soldiers, whose extradition did not cause public debate. The issue that raised controversy was the fact that among the military personnel were about 150 nationals of the Baltic States. In spite of some protests, they were handed over to the Soviets, along with the Germans, on 25 January 1946. What this case also shows, however, is the fact that the Swedish public opinion’s sentiments towards the Baltic neighbours were perhaps more friendly than official policies indicate; it could be argued that it was only controversial because some affiliation with them was felt at all. Furthermore, throughout 28 See e. g. L. F. Stöcker, Bridging the Baltic Sea: Networks of resistance and opposition during the Cold War era. Unpublished PhD thesis manuscript. Florence 2012, p. 38. 29 E. g. U. Zander, Minnen av krig vid Fredens hav: Konflikter och historiska symboler i Östersjöområdet. In: K. G. Karlsson and U. Zander (eds), Östersjö eller Västerhav? Föreställningar om tid och rum i Östersjöområdet. Karlskrona 2000, p. 122; H. Järv, Östersjöstaterna under andra världskriget. In: Alla Östersjöns stränder. Kalmar 1994, pp. 153 – 190, here: 176.

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the war, Sweden took in a considerable number of refugees both from Poland and the Baltic States (as well as the warring Nordic countries), starting with the so-called estlandssvenskar (members of the Swedish-speaking minority in Estonia, mainly inhabiting its north-western regions and its Baltic Sea islands). The number of refugees increased towards the end of the war, when Sweden’s immigration policy became less strict.30 Nevertheless, the decades of the Cold War, with the threat posed by the USSR looming on the other side of the Baltic Sea and contact made difficult by the rivalry between the political blocks, did nothing to bring the opposite shore closer. In historiography, memories of the past links (as well as, for example, dynastic ties with Poland) were allowed to die out, as the topic of the Great Power Era became less studied by historians. It was replaced by the history of industrialization, the emergence of the working class, the Social Democrat movement and its building of the welfare state, as well as the Social Democrat idea of progress; looking to the future rather than remembering the past. Another Social Democrat idea was that of folkhem—home of the people. Its development had started in the interwar period; one of its important elements was the already familiar distinction inherited from the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Nordism: the distinction between a modern, Social Democrat, Protestant Sweden, and a conservative, capital-oriented, Catholic Europe.31 Europe, on the other side of the sea, was thus transformed into the “Other”, a move that was, as historian Bo Stråth has suggested, a way of coping with the threat in Sweden’s immediate vicinity without speaking about it explicitly.32 The sense of threat posed by the Soviet Union, besides being a real political and military one, fed also on the traditional rysskräck ideology. In the late 1950s, the Soviet Union undertook an attempt to promote an idea of the “Sea of Peace”. It was supposed to be—or it was presented as—an idea of a neutralised, demilitarised Baltic Sea, an area of peaceful cooperation and trade, the access to which was to be limited to its littoral countries. It was directed first of all towards the Nordic countries, with their tradition of peace-making and mediation—its authors’ hope was that the phrasing of the idea with references to peace, neutrality, and demilitarisation would gain their approval. Moreover, 30 Oredsson, Svensk rädsla, p. 258. 31 M. af Malmborg, Sverige i Norden och Europa. Från Kalmarunionen till EU-integrationen. In: S. Tägil (ed.), Europa—historiens återkomst. Hedemora 1998, pp. 539 – 573, here: 561. 32 B. Stråth, The Swedish image of Europe as the Other. In: B. Stråth (ed.), Europe and the Other and Europe as the Other. Brussels 2000, pp. 359 – 383, here: 367.

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it contained an aspect that pointed in another direction, also on the Baltic Sea shores: the German Democratic Republic. In the years 1958 – 75 an annual festival called “The Baltic Sea Weeks” (Ostseewoche) took place in Rostock—set firmly in the “Sea of Peace” ideology. One of its main aims was to promote the GDR in the Nordic countries—especially Sweden—as a peace-loving, modern, socialist country.33 These initiatives, however, were ultimately unsuccessful: the Nordic countries showed little interest in the GDR’s self-promoting efforts, and the “Sea of Peace”, rather than a peace initiative unifying the two shores divided by the political line, as which it was presented, was seen as a Soviet Union smoke screen, used to hide its ambitions of dominating the Baltic Sea and gaining the neutral countries’ approval for its policies in the region.34 Although the idea of “Sea of Peace” was never realised, it left traces in the Swedish scholarship.35 The Cold War was also the time when Sweden developed its involvement in the humanitarian and mediating efforts in the Third World. Seeing itself as a neutral, peace-loving country, keeping equal distance from the two political blocks of world conflict, Sweden could perfectly complete this image by helping the countries that were also not involved in the Cold War. These countries had the additional advantage that, unlike those across the sea, they were far away, and therefore involvement there was less risky. The image of the neutral, peace-loving and peace-making country was thus built by extending a helping hand to the distant countries, but not across the moat—or at least, not directly or openly. What complicates the picture formed by the moat-connecting link metaphor is the fact that the movement of refugees from the south and east of the Baltic Sea (especially Estonia) to Sweden transpired throughout the Cold War, as people continued to be driven out of the countries ruled by communist totalitarian regimes on both political and economic grounds. Once settled on the Nordic shores, they often formed communities whose aim was both to promote cooperation between their native and receiving countries within the limits of official policies and to help the underground opposition movements back home. For example, in 1970, in Stockholm, the Baltic Institute was established 33 A. Linderoth, DDR:s utrikespolitik gentemot Sverige 1945 – 1972: En kamp för erkännande. In: T. W. Friis and A. Linderoth (eds), DDR og Norden. Østtysk-nordiske relationer 1949 – 1989. Odense 2005, pp. 235 – 262, here: 251 – 262. 34 Seeing that the Nordic countries did not respond to the idea, the Soviet Union then turned to Western Germany for support—also here without success. 35 E. g. in titles such as “Minnen av krig vid Fredens hav”—“Memories of war by the Sea of Peace” (an essay by Ulf Zander in: Karlsson and Zander (eds), Östersjö eller Västerhav?, pp.  99 – 139.

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by exile intellectuals from former Baltic States, aiming to promote in Sweden research on Baltic topics. Initially they worked in close association with the émigré anti-communist activists, but they soon also started cooperation with Soviet institutions, as they wanted to establish professional networks linking them to the home countries.36 Taking into consideration the intensity of the migration and the nature of the immigrant communities formed in Sweden, an argument can be made—as Lars Fredrik Stöcker does in his thesis—that the Cold War did not represent a complete break in contact across the Baltic Sea after all, and in any case not much more of a break than during the interwar period, which is conventionally hailed as the time of networks and contacts.37

5.  Post Cold-War period. The disappearance of the moat? The end of the Cold War meant a complete change of the situation in ­Sweden’s vicinity. The disappearance of the direct threat in the form of the Soviet Union and the opening of political borders between the formerly opposing blocks made it easier—and safer—to engage with the other side of the Baltic Sea. The ­German initiative of the New Hansa and various projects of cooperation emerged, fuelled by the neo-liberal ideology, with the hope of creating a free and common market in the region. The new situation led to increased interest in the lands, peoples, and resources once cut off by the Iron Curtain, and this sense of initial enthusiasm gave birth to the dual imagery of the Baltic Sea as a link or moat: it explained both the lack of interest before and its appearance now. For example, Klas-Göran Karlsson and Ulf Zander wrote about “a precipitous moat between East and West” that had cut the sea in half after the Second World War.38 Others 39 also wrote about the Cold War as an “abnormal” break in the history of the network of contacts that existed on the Baltic Sea and its shores. As mentioned above, the metaphor of the moat as an unnatural, temporal state in the history of the Baltic Sea was convenient in the sense that it put the responsibility for its creation on the politics of the world superpowers. Only 36 Stöcker, Bridging the Baltic Sea, p. 179. 37 Ibidem, pp.  29 – 46. 38 K. G. Karlsson and U. Zander, Inledning. In: Karlsson and Zander (eds), Östersjö eller Västerhav?, pp. 7 – 9, here: 7. 39 E. g. K. Gerner, Centraleuropas återkomst, Stockholm 1991, p. 37; K. Gerner, Vid valgraven och i navet: Öland och Östersjön. In: Alla Österjöns stränder, pp. 107 – 138.

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rarely was Sweden’s own responsibility acknowledged. An important example of this was the speech that Swedish Prime Minister Carl Bildt gave at the Institute of International Affairs in Stockholm on 17 November 1993, in which he referred to the painful and controversial issues between Sweden and the Baltic States, extending an apology for the baltutlämningen, the handing over to the USSR of Estonian and Lithuanian gold in July 1940, and the silence about the Baltic States that Sweden kept during the time of the Cold War.40 The goal of this step was to clear the atmosphere between the countries, but also to give Sweden the grounds to expect that the Baltic States sort out their relations with Russia. An important factor in establishing contacts was the general turning towards Europe of the Swedish political elite. At the beginning of the 1990s, many in the Swedish political arena had started to feel that the previous isolationism and declared strict neutrality was probably not the best policy for the future. The framework of Nordic unity, which functioned well within the realities of conflicts in continental Europe—whether “hot”, as both world wars, or “cold”, as the period that followed—would not be as useful after the Cold War, as the possibility of European integration spread to greater parts of the continent. In this new situation it could mean isolation, being left out of the important processes occurring in Europe. Also the folkhem ideology lost some of its appeal when economic problems appeared. One expression of this new outlook was the decision to apply for membership in the European Community (although not universally backed by the Swedish citizens, as the balanced results of the membership referendum of 13 November 1994 show: 52.3 per cent in favour and 46.8 per cent against, with the turnout of 83 per cent 41). Another example is the reformulation of the neutrality policy in April 1992: from the traditional Cold War understanding as non-alignment in peace and neutrality in war to military non-alignment and a possibility to remain neutral in case of war in Sweden’s vicinity.42 The newfound interest in the opposite shore of the Baltic Sea, and in particular the Baltic States, was one of the expressions of this Europeanization. On the one hand, it meant seeing oneself as part of the region, and influenced by processes taking place within it; on the other hand, it meant actively influencing the processes, by serving as an intermediary between the post-communist countries and Western Europe, or as an adviser in introducing democracy and 40 L. P. Fredén, Återkomster. Svensk säkerhetspolitik och de baltiska ländernas första år i självständighet 1991 – 1994. Stockholm 2006, p. 220. 41 http://www.sweden.gov.se/sb/d/3470/a/20685 (19.09.2012.). 42 Fredén, Återkomster, p. 223.

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free-market economy. A number of Swedish activists engaged in the transformation processes, serving with their knowledge and expertise in the turbulent times of the political change, were in fact of Estonian or Latvian descent, originating from Second World War or Cold War political emigration.43 At the same time, the help was conditioned on accepting and implementing Nordic (or the Nordic version of Western) norms and values—an act of exercising symbolic power in Pierre Bordieu’s sense.44 Scholars, encouraged by the political and economic climate to promote the idea of the Baltic Sea Region, also had a role to play in the process of integration by constructing narratives that would present the region as a whole, for which one history could be written. At the same time, the Swedish general public’s ignorance was discovered, which was of course also the consequence of their previously having turned their backs on the Baltic Sea and what lay beyond it. Another role of scholarship, therefore, was to be that of education, bringing the opposite shore of the Baltic Sea closer to the public and spreading knowledge about the countries existing there. The lack of knowledge and the prevalence of prejudices were identified as factors hindering regional integration.45 Scholar­ ship referring to the concept of the Baltic Sea Region became quite popular in Sweden after the end of the Cold War—and certainly much more popular than at any time before. Apart from spreading knowledge about the Baltic Sea Region countries, it took upon itself the task to promote the unity of the region, making it a conceptual whole. The moat was supposed to be filled, so to speak, and transformed back into a connecting link. This fact was manifested in the numerous publications on the topic, some of which have been quoted in this article; others include, for example, Kristian Gerner’s and Klas-Göran ­Karlsson’s Nordens Medelhav. Östersjöområdet som historia, myt och projekt (The Mediterranean of the North. The Baltic Sea region as history, myth and project)46 and the two-volume In Quest of Trade and Security: The Baltic in Power

43 T. Lundén and T. Nilsson (eds), Sverige och Baltikums frigörelse. Två vittnesseminarier om storpolitik kring Östersjön 1989 – 1994. Huddinge 2006. 44 K. Musiał, Nordic public diplomacy and the construction of the Nordic-Baltic region: The case of education and research cooperation. Oral presentation at the Conference of Romanian Association for Baltic and Nordic Studies, Constanţa, Romania (25.05.2013.). 45 E. g. D. Isacson and K. Olofson, Förord. In: Alla Östersjöns stränder, pp. 6 – 8, here: 6; Y. Sandberg-Fries and P. Althini, Förord. In: Karlsson and Zander (eds), Östersjö eller Västerhav?, p. 5. 46 K. Gerner, K. G. Karlsson and A. Hammarlund, Nordens Medelhav. Östersjöområdet som historia, myt och projekt. Stockholm 2002.

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Politics, 1500 – 1990,47 not to mention the many smaller publications, articles, and academic journals. Furthermore, a number of academic programs were launched, including, for instance, Östersjöstiftelsen (The Baltic Sea Foundation, 1994), the Centre for Baltic and Eastern European Studies (established in 2005 with the foundation’s support at the Södertörns Högskola in Stockholm), as well as the Visby scholarships offered by the Swedish Institute to students and researchers from across the region. In Swedish understanding, the idea of Baltic Sea Region cooperation, although nominally supposed to include the whole region, has been in practice mostly directed towards the Baltic States. There are several reasons for this. First of all, as mentioned above, historical ties compelled the Swedes to be most interested in the countries that used to be under its rule. But another reason might be the “smallness” of these countries, the fact that they could not be considered—now or at any point in the past—regional powers, which spoke to the Swedish tradition of helping smaller countries and anti-imperialism.48 These countries were also, in many ways, not only in name but in character, more “Baltic” than others in the region—Russia, Germany, and Poland. The latters’ centres of power lay farther away from the Baltic Sea shore and their political and intellectual traditions steered their attention in other directions than the Baltic Sea: Central and Eastern Europe, cooperation on the east-west axis, relations with the European Union and NATO, etc. They were often included in the conceptualisations of the Baltic Sea Region and various projects of cooperation, but usually they were not the main focus. Once again, Russia occupied a rather special place in these projects. On the one hand, a new, revised version of rysskräck appeared. It was not as acute as in the early twentieth century: there was no talk of Russia being alien and a threat to the European civilisation; however there was concern about the Russian ability to develop a democratic form of government, civil society, and a free market economy. Arguments relating to religious differences between Western and Eastern Christianity were put forward, and the relation between the worldviews of these religious denominations and the development of civil society and market economy were analysed.49 On the other hand, however, it was precisely the Baltic Sea Region integration that was supposed to overcome 47 Rystad, Böhme and Carlgren (eds), In Quest of Trade and Security. 48 See e. g. Hackmann, From ‘Object’, pp. 412 – 430. 49 E. g.: Gerner, Vid vallgraven, p. 107; K. Gerner, Östersjöregionen—historia, nutid och framtid. In: S. Tägil, H. Å. Persson and S. Ståhl (eds), Närhet och Nätverk— regionernas återkomst. Lund 1994, pp. 51 – 62.

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these obstacles and enable Russian society’s integration with the rest of Europe. The Russian littoral territories were thus supposed to serve, once again, as in the eighteenth century, as the country’s window to the West,50 and the Baltic Sea as a connecting link replacing the previously existing moat. Still, a sense of threat remained, as evinced, for example, in the debate about the Swedish defence policy that took place in the daily newspaper Svenska Dagbladet in August 2013, triggered by reports of Russian planes violating Swedish airspace and Russian military exercises earlier that year.51 The debate has been further stimulated by Ukrainian crisis in 2014, on which occasion also the topic of the Swedish relation to and possible membership in NATO entered the discussion, as a response to the Russian military threat to Sweden and the Baltic Sea Region in general.52 It remains an open question as to whether or not the project of filling the moat by promoting regional cooperation has been successful. There are reasons to be doubtful. Despite hopes for a common region, the countries around the sea still look in different directions for partners in political alliances and economic cooperation. The fact that they have very different political and social cultures and traditions, historical experiences, as well as differing levels of economic development, does not make regional cooperation easy. But perhaps another explanation can be found in referring, once again, to Larry Wolff, and his argument about the invention of Eastern Europe. The line dividing it from Western Europe—whether we call it a moat or an Iron Curtain—had been drawn long before the Cold War started. The same can be said about all the other ideas that had shaped Sweden’s attitude towards its Baltic Sea neighbours since at least the nineteenth century. Therefore, despite enthusiastic declarations, it requires more than the end of the Cold War to erase this line and to transform 50 See for example Tilman Plath’s contribution in this volume. 51 See e. g. M. Åkerman, Försvaret ökar närvaro i luften. In: Svenska Dagbladet 14.08.2013., accessed online on http://www.svd.se/nyheter/inrikes/forsvaret-okar-narvaro-iluften_8425384.svd (15.08.2013.); J. Berggren, Verklighetsfrämmande analys av Ryssland. In: Svenska Dagbladet 15.08.2013., accessed online on http://www.svd.se/opinion/ brannpunkt/verklighetsframmande-analys-av-ryssland_8424414.svd (15.08.2013.) 52 See e. g. B. Hugemark, Sverige är Natos svaga länk i Östersjön. In: Svenska Dagbladet 19.03.2014., accessed online on http://www.svd.se/opinion/brannpunkt/sverige-ar-natossvaga-lank-i-ostersjon_3381460.svd (19.04.2014.); Ch. Friedner Parrat, Alliansfritt Sverige kan påverka mer. In: Svenska Dagbladet 22.03.2014., accessed online on http:// www.svd.se/opinion/brannpunkt/alliansfritt-sverige-kan-paverka-mer_3388714.svd (19.04.2014.); and numerous other contributions in the debate published from January 2014 until the time of writing.

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the moat into a connecting link: foremost it requires a change in the societies’ worldviews. Whether incentives to do so exist in all the societies of the Baltic Sea littoral is another question. Although the end of the Cold War did much to erase the moat, its remnants are still very visible in the region.

6.  Conclusions This chapter aimed to show how the metaphor of the Baltic Sea as a moat or trench—as opposed to a connecting link—has been reflected in the Swedish attitude towards the countries of the region, especially the ones on the south-eastern shore. Contrary to the claims of the enthusiastic propagators of the idea of the Baltic Sea Region cooperation in the post-Cold War period, it can be argued that the existence of the division across the sea was not only the result of the political rivalries of the Cold War, but can also be traced back to earlier cultural constructions and divisions. From the Swedish point of view, the moat, while deepened during the Cold War, had nevertheless already been created before the Cold War, even though, on the other hand, even at its deepest it was not impossible to cross. The sea became a barrier not only in a physical, literal sense, but more importantly, in a metaphorical one—a barrier built on a complex combination of historical, cultural, and political factors and ideas. What follows from this is that the ending of the Cold War was not enough to erase its existence: the transformation of the barrier into a means of connection is dependent on overcoming the influence of these factors.

Ole Sparenberg

Mining for Manganese Nodules The Deep Sea as a Contested Space (1960s – 1980s)

1.  Introduction In the first volume of his classic study on The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, Fernand Braudel starts with a chapter on the peninsulas, mountains, and plains, while the sea is only addressed in the second chapter and even this chapter mainly deals with coastal shipping.1 A more recent study on Mediterranean history uses the term “connectivity” to describe what is regarded as the main aspect of the sea.2 Reducing the sea to its coastline or to a two-dimensional surface for interaction between coastlines is, however, not unique to Braudel’s work from the mid-twentieth century or the history of the Mediterranean. In 2008, W. Jeffrey Bolster called for “Putting the Ocean in Atlantic History” as he considered the ocean itself strangely absent from Atlantic history.3 He argued in favour of a marine environmental history, which reflected the fact that the ocean is not a timeless space outside of history or merely an area of passage, but instead demonstrated how human societies relied on ocean products while at the same time its anthropogenic influence shaped the marine environment for centuries. Such a marine environmental history 4 is definitely desirable in understanding the interactions between human societies and the oceans. However, through no 1 F. Braudel, Das Mittelmeer und die mediterrane Welt in der Epoche Philipps II. Erster Band. Frankfurt a. M. 1990. 2 P. Horden and N. Purcell, The Corrupting Sea. A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford 2002, pp. 10, 123. 3 W. J. Bolster, Putting the Ocean in Atlantic History: Maritime Communities and Marine Ecology in the Northwest Atlantic, 1500 – 1800. In: The American Historical Review Vol. 113 No. 1(2008), pp. 19 – 47. 4 For this emerging field, see C. Roberts, The Unnatural History of the Sea. Washington, DC 2008; W. J. Bolster, Opportunities in Marine Environmental History. In: Environmental History No. 11 (2006), pp. 567 – 97; F. Zelko, Environmental History and the Oceans. In: Bulletin of the German Historical Institute No. 35 (2004), pp. 194 – 99; P. Holm, T. D. Smith and D. Starkey (eds), The Exploited Seas. New Directions for

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fault of the historians but rather due to the nature of the subject, such studies still focus predominantly on tidal waters, estuaries, and banks, because this is where most primary productivity takes place. Therefore most fish, crustaceans, marine mammals, and birds whose stocks were exploited by humans were (and are) found in these parts of the sea on the continental shelf comparatively close to the shore. Additionally, humans often relied on bases on the shore for processing the catch. The high seas far from the coastlines contained hardly any exploitable resource and indeed served mainly as a space for communication between the landmasses. This is reflected in the traditional law of the sea, with the principle of the freedom of the seas at its centre as it developed in the European world since the Age of Discovery. According to this principle associated with the name of Hugo Grotius (1583 – 1645), the sea, apart from narrow territorial waters of usually three nautical miles width, was open to all nations. In essence, the freedom of the seas derived from the freedom of commerce and was shaped by the interest of the leading maritime and commercial nations.5 At the same time, this legal order demonstrates that people perceived the high sea mainly as a space of passage. Conflicts arose over the right to navigate the high seas as this represented the predominant use of this space by human socie­ties. Exclusive property rights or rights of use only mattered when it came to the exploitation of limited resources like fish stocks or mineral resources on or below the seabed, but this was not the case prior to the twentieth century. With fisheries and drilling for oil and gas mostly limited to the relatively shallow waters over the continental shelf, manganese nodules were first to draw worldwide attention to the high seas or the deep seabed as a site of exploitable resources. Thus, for the first time, the high seas became a contested space in its own right in addition to its traditional function as a space dividing or connecting the lands on its shores. Taking up the case of manganese nodules, this chapter investigates how the perception, “social construction”,6 and legal status of the ocean is shaped not only by the actual use of marine resources, but also by anticipated uses, which in turn are influenced by factors like technological capabilities, levels of supply and demand for certain products, and political conflicts, real as well as predicted. Over the last 40 years, deep-sea mining for manganese nodules in this way had a profound impact on the oceans, although up to this day it has never Marine Environmental History. St. John’s 2001; A. McEvoy, The Fisherman’s Problem. Ecology and Law in the California Fisheries. Cambridge 1986. 5 Y. Tanaka, The International Law of the Sea. Cambridge 2012, pp. 16 – 17; W. G. Grewe, Epochen der Völkerrechtsgeschichte. Baden-Baden 1984, pp. 300 – 22. 6 P. E. Steinberg, The Social Construction of the Ocean. Cambridge 2001.

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been done on a commercial scale. It is worthwhile in this context to observe the developments in the field of maritime law because they reflect changing perceptions of the sea and political as well as economic interests. Following a short explanation of what manganese nodules are, the second part of this chapter investigates under which cultural, economic, and political conditions these minerals of the deep-sea floor became a contested resource. The third part analyses the ensuing diplomatic struggles of the 1970s and early 1980s over the deep sea and its resources that completely reshaped the way the high seas are legally and politically constructed. Why manganese nodules from the deep-sea floor did not live up to the expectations as a resource and why therefore deep-sea mining has not yet started, is explained in the fourth part.

2.  Manganese nodules turn into a valuable resource Manganese nodules, sometimes also referred to as polymetallic nodules, are mineral objects whose appearances, sizes, and colours can vary widely, though they are in most cases roughly spherical or potato-shaped with average diameters between 0.5 – 25 centimetres and generally of an earthy black colour. Apart from manganese and iron the nodules contain comparatively high amounts of nickel, cobalt, and copper. These three last metals, which are required for the production of high-quality steel alloys and electrical conductors, made manganese nodules a commercially interesting resource. The manganese itself and a number of other metals, including the rare earth elements, were also sometimes considered a by-product. Especially, but not exclusively, in the Pacific Ocean, manganese nodules are fairly abundant, lying on the seabed at depths of 4,000 – 6,000 meters, sometimes covering huge parts of the seabed. Most research and prospection has focussed on an area known as the Clarion-­ Clipperton Fracture Zone in the equatorial North Pacific.7 Scientists on board the British HMS Challenger during its oceanographic research cruise (1873 – 1876) first discovered manganese nodules when they probed the deep seabed with dredges. Subsequent oceanographers found them as well, and several nodules were acquired by museums, where they were 7 G. P. Glasby, Lessons Learned from Deep-Sea Mining. In: Science 289, No. 5479 (28.07.2000.), pp. 551 – 53; R. Fellerer, Manganknollen. In: Die Fahrten des Forschungs­ schiffes „Valdivia“ 1971 – 1978. Geowissenschaft­liche Ergebnisse (= Geologisches Jahrbuch, D 38). Hannover 1980, pp. 35 – 76; J. L. Mero, The Mineral Resources of the Sea (= Elsevier Oceanography Series, 1). Amsterdam 1965, pp. 127 – 40, 180;

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displayed as exhibits from the mysterious and ever-dark world of the abyssal plains, just as lunar rocks were put on display after 1969.8 It was only in the 1950s that American scientist John L. Mero first proposed using them as a source of metal ore. His 1965 book Mineral Resources of the Sea drew worldwide attention to manganese nodules as a resource and started a period of intensified research. The period 1972 – 1982 became the “golden era” of manganese nodule research, when many industrialized countries organized numerous research cruises and several industrial consortia for deep-sea mining were established.9 There were two reasons why manganese nodules could transform from mere mineralogical curiosities into a highly regarded resource in the post-war period: first, exploiting the deep seabed at staggering depths of 4,000 meters or more became feasible. Second, there seemed to be an increasing demand for ores even from unconventional sources. Submarine warfare during World War II led as a by-product to considerable investment and advances in oceanography and marine technology and, once the war was over, scientists and writers began to publish popular accounts on the ocean, suggesting to use it in ways that would go beyond just navigation, fishing, and warfare. Just like agriculture followed hunting on the continents, the cultivation of fish, seaweed, and plankton, or even ranching whales in the oceans, seemed possible. Furthermore, there were numerous mineral resources in the subsoil of the seabed and dissolved in the seawater. Writers and scientists imagined that people would first visit the seafloor for the extraction of resources, but ultimately permanent human habitation would follow. The oceans offered a cornucopia of raw materials and food for the growing world population, so it seemed. Around 1960, American promoters of oceanography began to characterize the underwater world as a new frontier, offering resources and challenges in the way the American West did in the nineteenth century. In this context, the oceans as “inner space” were compared to outer space, as both spaces had recently opened up due to advancing technologies, and both offered vast possibilities. The vision of conquering outer space finally over­shadowed the oceans because it represented an infinite frontier, but during the 1950s and early 1960s many writers felt the underwater world held more immediate potential in terms of raw materials, food, and living space.10 8 Fellerer, Manganknollen, pp. 39 – 41. 9 G. P. Glasby, Deep Seabed Mining: Past Failures and Future Prospects. In: Marine Georesources and Geotechnology No. 20 (2002), pp. 161 – 76; id., Lessons, p. 551. 10 H. M. Rozwadowski, Arthur C. Clarke and the Limitations of the Ocean as a Frontier. In: Environmental History No. 17 (2012), pp. 578 – 602; H. M. Rozwadowski, Engineering,

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The conquest of the underwater world figured prominently in popular ­science publications and science-fiction novels, but this vision also rested on real technological progress. In 1943, Jacques Cousteau and Émile Gagnan invented the Aqualung, the first modern underwater breathing set, and in 1962 Cousteau constructed the first underwater habitat, Conshelf I, in the Mediterranean, where it was proved that humans could survive in the ocean for one week. This started the construction of a series of experimental underwater habitats by the United States (Sealab I – III ) and other nations, which were predominantly intended for fundamental research connected to saturation diving, but were motivated by the prospect of resource extraction from the ocean in the near future. While these activities remained restricted to relatively shallow depths, the bathyscape Trieste had already reached the deepest point of the ocean at the bottom of the Marianas Trench (10,916 meter) in 1960. Additionally, the Cold War represented a strong incentive for governments worldwide to invest in submarine warfare and corresponding technologies.11 Seen against this background, the idea of mining manganese nodules from the ocean floor at depths of 4,000 to 6,000 meter did not appear utopian. Mero’s book from 1965, The Mineral Resources of the Sea, basically represented a sober and scientific analysis of present and potential marine resources and did not resemble the more visionary accounts mentioned above. For example, Mero did not expect that divers or underwater habitats would be required for the harvesting of manganese nodules. Nevertheless, Mero exhibited some of the over-optimistic perceptions of the ocean’s potential expressed by many promoters of ocean exploration in this era when he claimed the nodules would represent a virtually inexhaustible mineral resource. Even though the agglomeration of metals in the manganese nodules is a very slow geological process, the amount of nodules on the deep seabed is so vast that, according to Mero, the nodules were accumulating faster than mankind was consuming those metals.12

Imagination and Industry: Scripps Island and Dreams for Ocean Science in the 1960s. In: H. M. Rozwadowski, D. K. van Keuren (eds), The Machine in Neptune’s Garden: Historical Perspectives on Technology and the Marine Environment. Sagamore Beach, Mass. 2004, pp. 315 – 54. 11 S. Mesinovic and D. Schmiedke, Der Traum von der Besiedelung der Meere. In: I. Siggelkow (ed.), Kultur, Gedächtnis, Politik (= Berliner Kulturanalysen, 1). Berlin 2006, pp.  45 – 53; Rozwadowski, Engineering; K. Möser, Tiefenerfahrung. Zur Geschichte der Tauchtechnik. In: Technikgeschichte Vol. 59 No. 3(1992), pp. 193 – 216. 12 Mero, Mineral Resources, p. 279.

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While the enthusiasm over many of the envisioned innovative uses of the ocean had waned by the end of the 1960s,13 manganese nodules were only starting to make headlines at this time because politicians, businessmen, and scientists felt there would be soon a pressing demand for additional sources of copper, cobalt, and nickel. Due to the unparalleled growth of the world’s economy and its population, experts predicted the depletion of many landbased ore deposits and a resulting sharp increase of prices. The first report to the Club of Rome in 1972, “Limits to Growth”, might represent the best-known expression of concerns about resource depletion in this era, even though its conclusion was exactly not to expand human exploitation of natural resources to the hitherto still untouched deep-sea floor.14 Nevertheless, promoters of deep-sea mining pointed at the threat of imminent depletion of continental raw material reserves when arguing in favour of using manganese nodules.15 Mero also occasionally raised concerns about the continents’ inability to meet the mineral demand of the growing world population and its increasing material consumption. In 1968, he suggested that it would require all known copper reserves at that time if the African continent were to install a communications system equal to that of North America.16 The main argument in his influential book from 1965, however, was strategic: he considered the increasing reliance on ore deposits in foreign countries as problematic, because these mostly underdeveloped states might became politically unstable or adopt a political-­economic system that would inhibit the free trade of minerals, whereas manganese n ­ odules were easily accessible and widely distributed in the oceans.17 Reducing the reliance on raw-material exporting countries became especially important to the industrialized states after the experience of the oil-price shock in 1973 and given the fact that nickel and cobalt were mined only in a few countries, making the supply vulnerable to boycott and cartelization.18 13 Rozwadowski, Limitations of the Ocean, p. 596; id., Engineering, p. 344 14 D. H. Meadows, D. L. Meadows, J. Randers and W. W. Behrens, The Limits to Growth. A Report for the Club of Rome’s Project on the Predicament of Mankind. New York 1972. Stressing the importance of “Limits to Growth” in this context: Glasby, Deep Seabed Mining, p. 162. 15 A. Pardo, Who Will Control the Seabed?, In: Foreign Affairs Vol. 47 No. 1 (1968), pp. 123 – 37, here: 128. 16 J. L. Mero, Oceanic Mineral Resources. In: Futures. The Journal of Forecasting and Planning Vol. 1 No. 2 (1968), pp. 125 – 41, here: p. 125. 17 Mero, Mineral Resources, pp. 5, 274. 18 W. Prewo, Tiefseebergbau: Goldgrube, Weißer Elefant oder Trojanisches Pferd?. In: Die Weltwirtschaft. Vierteljahresschrift des Instituts für Weltwirtschaft an der Universität

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Furthermore, despite the very great depths, deep-sea mining, according to Mero, would be technically rather simple because the nodules could be picked up from the ocean floor’s surface without moving great amounts of overlaying earth or rocks, unlike in traditional land-based mining.19 In 1973, a German journalist imagined that extra-terrestrial visitors would be bewildered to see that up to then humans had dug mines into the earth with tremendous effort, instead of simply picking up the valuable minerals that were lying around on the sea floor.20 Finally, the political and legal situations looked advantageous for mining companies as the treasures of the deep sea were situated far outside any nation’s territorial waters at that time. Mero stressed that manganese nodules represented “politically-free and royalty-free materials”.21 Thus, deepsea mining seemed to offer to the industrialized states a security of supply at bargain prices and with virtually unlimited reserves.

3.  Who will control the seabed? Struggles over manganese nodules Under the traditional law of the sea, manganese nodules indeed represented “politically-free and royalty-free materials”, as the deep seabed was a no-man’s land outside any state’s jurisdiction and hitherto no rules existed for the exploitation of resources from this area. This situation, however, was about to change quickly, as this new and highly promising resource had started to awaken worldwide interest. There were several conceivable options on how to regulate property rights for the deep seabed. One option was the complete partition of the seabed among the coastal states, and this option would have even been in line with the recent developments in maritime law at this time. In 1945, a proclamation by U. S. President Harry S. Truman (1884 – 1972) claimed for the United States the resources of the continental shelf (roughly speaking, a part of the seafloor extending from the coastline to the depth at which there is a marked increase of slope to greater depths) and its subsoil contiguous to the U. S. coast. Motivated by the growing importance of offshore oil and gas extraction as well as wartime fears for raw-material supply, this unilateral action by the United States created a chain Kiel No. 1 (1979), pp. 183 – 97, here: p. 184. 19 Mero, Mineral Resources, p. 280. 20 H. Steinert, Metalle aus dem Meer. In: Das Neue Universum No. 90 (1973), pp. 44 – 54, here: p. 46. 21 Mero, Mineral Resources, p. 275.

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reaction, and many other states subsequently made similar claims. Finally, the First United Nations Conference on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS I) in 1958 codified this new legal regime governing the continental shelf.22 UNCLOS I, however, did not precisely define the seaward limit of the continental shelf, but stated as one criterion the depth up to which the exploitation of resources was technologically feasible. This was deemed sufficiently precise in 1958 because oil and gas extraction was limited to relatively shallow depths anyway at this time. The deep-sea floor, where the manganese nodules can be found, definitely does not form part of the continental shelf in a geological sense. Nevertheless, it could be argued that when mining the nodules became technologically feasible, the deep-sea floor could be claimed by coastal states as part of their continental shelf in a legal sense. A coastal state, therefore, would have been allowed to extend its jurisdiction over the resources of the seabed until reaching the midway point between it and the state on the opposite shore. Such a “national lake solution” that portioned the ocean like inland waters would have been a practicable solution: it would have ended controversies over the extent of the continental shelf, minimized possible disputes over resources, and mining companies could have negotiated with national governments over exploitation rights just as they do on land. Such a solution, however, also had considerable drawbacks. Most of all, it would have given a small number of states disproportionate gains through accidents of geography or history. States with long oceanic coastlines and former colonial powers, which still possessed small islands in the oceans like St. Helena or Clipperton, would have profited most, while others, especially landlocked states, would have been excluded from the resources of the deep-sea floor.23 Consequently, the majority of the international community as well as the United States did not approve such a “national lake solution”. In July 1966, on the occasion of the commissioning of a new oceanographic research ship, U. S. President Lyndon B. Johnson (1908 – 1973) declared that “a new form of colonial competition” and “a race to grab and to hold the lands under the high seas” had to be avoided, and instead he wanted to ensure “that the deep seas and the ocean bottoms are, and remain, the legacy of all human beings”.24 While 22 Tanaka, Law, pp. 132 – 3; Grewe, Völkerrechtsgeschichte, p. 802; D. C. Watt, First Step in the Enclosure of the Oceans: The Origins of Truman’s Proclamation on the Resources of the Continental Shelf, 28 September 1945. In: Marine Policy No. 3 (1979), pp. 211 – 24. 23 Pardo, Seabed, p. 134. 24 L. B. Johnson, Remarks at the Commissioning of the Research Ship Oceanographer, July 13, 1966. In: Public Papers of the Presidents of the United States. Lyndon B. Johnson.

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J­ ohnson most likely favoured a regime that kept access to the resource as open as possible, just as Mero had done, the majority of states moved towards another, superficially similar, but quite different option. The Maltese ambassador to the United Nations, Arvid Pardo (1914 – 1999),25 proposed an unprecedented regime for the ocean floor in the UN General Assembly in November 1967. According to Pardo’s proposal, the seabed should be declared the “common heritage of mankind” and should be exploited exclusively for the benefit of mankind in a way that poorer countries were to receive preferential consideration regarding any financial benefits derived from deepsea resources. Furthermore, Pardo suggested a comprehensive international treaty to establish such an international regime for the seabed.26 Though the Maltese proposal met with a positive response in the General Assembly, the exact meaning of this common-heritage principle was contro­ versial among the states. The latter adopted different positions depending on their level of economic and technological development and corresponding interests. Western industrialized nations, as major mineral consumers and potential seabed miners, were eager to exploit a new, low-cost source of supply and thus wanted to keep access to the mineral deposits on the ocean floor as open as possible. Developing states, on the other hand, were minor mineral consumers and lacked the capital and technological capability to participate in deep-sea mining. They had little to gain from deep-sea mining, but desired to prevent the industrialized states from unilaterally appropriating the resources of the deep seabed. Those developing countries, which were also land-based producers of seabed minerals such as copper, nickel, and cobalt, were especially concerned; they feared that deep-sea mining would adversely affect mineral prices, thus reducing a source of income on which some of these states crucially depended. These mineral-exporting countries, therefore, called for a regime that would give the international community the right to determine the appropriate level of manganese nodule mining.27 Through these discussions, deep-sea mining had become a part of the global North-South Conflict of the 1960s and 1970s and the developing countries’ aspiration to establish a so-called New International Economic Order. From 1966 (II), Washington, D. C. 1967, pp. 722 – 24, here: p. 724. 25 C. Q. Christol, In Memoriam: Arvid Pardo. In: PS: Political Science and Politics Vol. 32 No. 4 (1999), pp. 777 – 78. 26 Pardo, Seabed, p. 135. 27 D. M. Leipziger and J. L. Mudge, Seabed Mineral Resources and the Economic Interests of Developing Countries. Cambridge 1976, pp. 121 – 2, 131 – 41.

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their point of view, the existing structures of world trade only perpetuated underdevelopment in the global South by exposing these countries to fluctuating commodity prices and foreign currency earnings, whereas international commodity agreements and trade preferences as part of the New International Economic Order should rather stabilize commodity prices and improve access to markets in the North.28 Due to this wider context, deep-sea mining and the common-heritage principle, which would for the first time put a resource under an international regime, became interesting to activists in the civil socie­ ties of the industrialized states that supported the interests of the South. Elisabeth Mann Borgese (1918 – 2002), member of the Club of Rome and youngest daughter of novelist Thomas Mann, thus became very committed to the issue of deep-sea mining and the law of the sea.29 She considered a new law of the sea with the deep seabed as the common heritage of mankind at the centre, as Pardo had proposed it, as “potentially a model for, or nucleus of, a Constitution for the World”.30 Unlike other parts of the global commodity market, there were no existing legal structures for the new field of mining and trading deep-sea resources, and thus the issue of deep-sea mining opened a window of opportunity to establish for the first time elements of the New International Economic Order in international law. Following Pardo’s proposal, the UN General Assembly adopted a series of resolutions on the issue of the deep seabed, which culminated in Resolution 2749 (XXV) from December 1970, which to a large extent reflected the ideas of the developing states. The resolution declared that the seabed beyond the existing limits of national jurisdiction—or the “Area” as it became known in legal parlance from then on—is the “common heritage of mankind” and followed closely Pardo’s proposal with regard to the “interests and needs of the developing countries”. Furthermore, it expressed the commitment to “minimize any adverse economic effects caused by the fluctuation of prices of raw materials”.31

28 S. Kunkel, Zwischen Globalisierung, internationalen Organisationen und „global governance“. Eine kurze Geschichte des Nord-Süd-Konflikts in den 1960er und 1970er Jahren. In: Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte Vol. 60 No. 4 (2012), pp. 555 – 77. 29 J. Radkau, Die Ära der Ökologie. Eine Weltgeschichte. München 2011, pp. 334 – 36; K. Holzer, Elisabeth Mann Borgese. Ein Lebensportrait. Berlin 2002, pp. 171 – 202. 30 E. Mann Borgese, The Mines of Neptune. Amsterdam 1985, p. 136. 31 UN General Assembly Resolution 2749 (XXV). Declaration of Principles Governing the Sea-Bed and the Ocean Floor, and the Subsoil Thereof, Beyond the Limits of National Jurisdiction. In: V. Lowe and S. Talmon (eds), The Legal Order of the Oceans. Basic Documents on Law of the Sea. Oxford 2009, pp. 75 – 7.

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As General Assembly resolutions do not constitute binding international law, the issue of a regime governing the deep seabed—or the Area—became not the only, but the most controversial topic during the Third United Nations Conference on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS III), a monumental conference lasting from 1973 to 1982 that was meant to codify a new law of the sea.32 At the same time as diplomats and international lawyers were discussing the future regime for the deep seabed and its resources, the period 1972 to 1982 also became known as the “golden era” for research on manganese nodules, and saw the first activities by the industry.33 At least six international consortia were founded by private and state-owned companies between 1974 and 1982. Among them was Ocean Management Inc. (OMI), established in 1975, which comprised the U. S./Canadian nickel producer International Nickel Company (INCO), a Japanese group of metal-mining and shipbuilding companies called Deep Ocean Minerals Company (DOMCO) led by Sumitomo, the South East Drilling Company (SEDCO) from Texas, and the German Arbeitgemeinschaft meerestechnisch gewinnbare Rohstoffe (AMR ), including Preussag, Metallgesellschaft, and Deutsche Schachtbau- und Tiefbohrgesellschaft.34 In the spring of 1978, OMI undertook the first pilot mining test in the Pacific Ocean roughly between Hawaii and Mexico.35 The former drilling ship SEDCO 445 had been outfitted to lower a steel pipe string connected to a collector at its end to the ocean floor, where the nodules were picked up by the collector and lifted to the ship through the pipe string by means of either hydraulic pumps or air pressure inserted into the pipe. By recovering a total of 800 tons of manganese nodules over a period of several weeks, OMI proved that it was possible to harvest the nodules on a larger scale, but the technology still suffered from

32 Tanaka, Law, pp. 24 – 9; S. Nandan, Administering the Mineral Resources of the Deep Seabed. In: D. Freestone, R. Barnes and D. M. Ong (eds), The Law of the Sea. Progress and Prospects. Oxford 2006, pp. 75 – 92, here: p. 76. 33 Glasby, Deep Seabed Mining, p. 162. 34 J. L. Shaw, Nodule Mining—Three Miles Deep. In: Marine Georesources and Geotechnology No. 11 (1993), pp. 181 – 97, here: p. 185; J. M. Broadus, Asian Pacific Marine Minerals and Industry Structure. In: Marine Resource Economics Vol. 3 No. 1 (1986), pp.  63 – 88; Fellerer, Manganknollen, p. 37. 35 Previously in 1970, an U. S. company had already carried out a mining test in the Atlantic where the nodules lie on the seabed at a modest depth of only 900 m (compared to 4 – 6 km in the Pacific) but have a very low nickel and copper content. The test, therefore, just served as a proof of concept; H. Steinert, Der Tiefseebergbau kann beginnen. In: Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 9.09.1970., No. 208, p. 29.

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considerable teething problems.36 Furthermore, a far higher production rate would have been required for a commercial operation; production rates of 5,000 to 18,000 tons per day were estimated for a profitable deep-sea mining operation.37 At the end of the UNCLOS III negotiations in 1982, the developing countries had been able to exploit their numerical superiority and the provisions adopted by the conference in the Law of the Sea Convention (LOSC) in many ways reflected their interests. Part XI of the LOSC referred to the Area, including its resources, which were again defined as “the common heritage of mankind”, outside the sovereignty of any state (Articles 136, 137). Activities were to be carried out “for the benefit of mankind as a whole, irrespective of the geographical location of States, whether coastal or land-locked, and taking into particular consideration the interests and needs of developing states and of peoples who have not attained full independence” (Article 140). To organize and control activities in the Area, the LOSC established the International Seabed Authority (ISA), based in Jamaica (Article 156). The ISA comprised an assembly, a council, and a secretariat, as can be expected from any international organization, but the LOSC also established an operational organ, simply called the Enterprise (Articles 153, 158, 170), through which the ISA itself should have engaged in deep-sea mining. Private or state-owned mining companies were admitted, too, but they had to explore two mining sites of equal value and the ISA would choose one of them to be reserved solely for the activities of the ISA’s own Enterprise (Article 153). Otherwise, companies could elect to enter into a joint venture with the Enterprise. Furthermore, the LOSC provided for the transfer of technology and scientific knowledge from the industrialized states and their companies to the Enterprise and developing states (Article 144). To protect the interests of states whose economies depended on mining, the LOSC authorized the ISA to implement production policies, including production ceilings for deep-sea mining (­Article 151). Finally, the ISA was responsible “for the equitable sharing of financial and other economic benefits derived from activities in the area” (Article 140).38

36 Shaw, Nodule Mining, pp. 194 – 97. 37 A. F. Amos and O. A. Roels, Environmental Aspects of Manganese Nodule Mining. In: Marine Policy Vol. 1 No. 2 (1977), pp. 156 – 63, here: p. 161; Fellerer, Manganknollen, p. 72; G. Dorstewitz, Meeresbergbau auf Kobalt, Kupfer, Mangan und Nickel. Bedarfsdeckung, Betriebskosten, Wirtschaft­lichkeit (= Bergbau, Rohstoffe, Energie, 6). Essen 1971, p. 86. 38 United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea. In: V. Lowe and S. Talmon (eds), The Legal Order of the Oceans. Basic Documents on Law of the Sea. Oxford 2009, pp.  270 – 409. See also Tanaka, Law, pp.  170 – 78; Glasby, Deep Seabed Mining, p. 164.

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In many respects, the LOSC adopted in 1982 at the end of UNCLOS III reflected the ideas of Arvid Pardo and the developing states and included elements of the concept of the New International Economic Order. It turned out to be a pyrrhic victory, however. Major industrialized states considered these provisions as unacceptable as they expected no private company would be willing to invest under conditions where they had to operate under strict control of and at the same time in competition with a supranational authority. Critics in the Western industrialized countries regarded the regime established by the LOSC as dirigistic, economically ineffective, ideologically motivated, and an obstacle to the start of deep-sea mining.39 As a result, a considerable number of industrialized states voted against the LOSC or abstained at the end of the UNCLOS III negotiations. Among others the United States, who voted against, and West Germany, which abstained, explicitly referred to the provisions regarding deep-sea mining to explain their voting. In the years following 1982, no industrialized state ratified the LOSC, and apart from Iceland all state parties to the LOSC were developing states. States that did not ratify the LOSC were not bound by it and, consequently, UNCLOS III failed to produce a universally accepted new law of the sea.40

4.  Manganese nodules lose their lustre Ironically, at the beginning of the 1980s, while governments were still struggling over the legal and political frameworks for deep-sea mining, commercial interest in manganese nodules waned. Private but also public research programmes in the United States, West Germany, France, and the Soviet Union, as the key players in this field, were discontinued.41 There were a number of reasons why manganese nodules lost their lustre. The regime established by the LOSC in 1982 certainly deterred private investors, who saw no point in operating under the close supervision of and in competition with the ISA controlled by a majority of developing states. The former president of the OMI consortia gave this as the reason for their decision to step back from any substantial further investments in this field.42 Even though most companies were located in states like the USA 39 Nandan, Mineral Resources, p. 76; Shaw, Nodule Mining, p. 197; written prior to 1982, but based on drafts of the LOSC: Prewo, Tiefseebergbau. 40 Tanaka, Law, pp. 29, 178; Nandan, Mineral Resources, p. 76; Anon., Law of the Sea. In: Yearbook of the United Nations No. 36 (1982), pp. 178 – 247, here: p. 183 – 84. 41 Glasby, Deep Seabed Mining, pp. 163, 167. 42 Shaw, Nodule Mining, p. 197.

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and West Germany, which were not bound by the LOSC and instead adopted national deep-sea mining laws and concluded treaties with likeminded states,43 this national legislation and intergovernmental agreements, however, seemed to have offered potential investors only insufficient legal certainty. Apart from the political-legal framework, economic factors spoke against deep-sea mining, too. As it turned out, many of the great expectations with regard to deep-sea mining had been exaggerated. John L. Mero might have been right in 1968 when he wrote that “it would take a very clever exploration geologist to find a place outside the trenches and off the continental shelves and slopes where manganese-nickel-copper-cobalt deposits cannot be found”.44 After years of lengthy and expensive explorations it became apparent, though, that only a small percentage of the manganese nodule deposits in the Pacific could be considered potentially economical to mine due to the density of the coverage of the seabed and the metal content of the nodules.45 While the tests run in 1978 proved that pumping the nodules from a depth of 4,000 meter or more to the surface was feasible, the technological challenges were likely underestimated in the early years. A scientist close to the industry in 1980 graphically compared the task of collecting manganese nodules from the deep seabed with the harvesting of potatoes from on board an airship that is hovering 5,000 meters above the field in the middle of the night and in stormy weather.46 Probably most importantly, the predicted shortage of metals on the world market had failed to eventuate and thus metal prices remained depressed, and even the existing land-based mines were working at less than full capacity in the early 1980s, while continuing improvements in ore-processing technology made low-grade ores on the continent more competitive. The world economy in general and the demand for nickel, cobalt, and copper in particular had developed differently from what had been expected in the late 1960s.47 Ultimately, the combination of the demand for the corresponding minerals, the production costs, taxes and royalties, as well as the political and legal risks determined the fate of deep-sea mining. Although not being decisive, ecological considerations complicated matters further. In 1965, Mero recommended deep-sea mining also because it would 43 Tanaka, Law, p. 178. 44 Mero, Oceanic Mineral Resources, p. 126. 45 Glasby, Deep Seabed Mining, p. 164. 46 Fellerer, Manganknollen, p. 72. 47 Glasby, Deep Seabed Mining, p. 165; J. M. Broadus, Seabed Materials. In: Science 235, No. 4791 (20.02.1987.), pp. 853 – 60, here: p. 856

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help to reduce the areas affected by traditional mining on land, though he apparently gave no thought to the environmental impact on the deep seabed.48 By the end of the 1970s, however, there was a growing awareness of the ocean floor as a fragile habitat and not just a dark and lifeless desert. In an attempt to estimate the environmental impact of commercial mining operations in the deep sea, scientists conducted a number of studies to investigate the benthic fauna as well as to simulate and assess the effects of mining manganese nodules.49 Elisabeth Mann Borgese tried to reconcile ecology and deep-sea mining and proposed to relocate marine life on the seabed prior to mining.50 Given the technological and economic conditions this was obviously not a practical idea. During the 1980s, it became clear that there would not be any deep-sea mining on a commercial scale in the foreseeable future. At the same time, the idea of the New International Economic Order lost its attractiveness and made room for more market-oriented thinking. Thus the stumbling block that had prevented an agreement in 1982 turned out to be largely irrelevant, and it became possible to reach a compromise on the law of the sea within the international community. This compromise took the form of the Implementation Agreement of 1994 that made the LOSC acceptable to industrialized states. The agreement kept most of the provisions in place, like the common-heritage principle and the ISA, which exists to this day, though the establishment of the Enterprise was postponed and procedures were liberalized in a way that enables industrialized states to protect their interests. After this compromise had been reached, most industrialized states that had abstained, so far including Germany but excluding the USA, ratified the LOSC, which entered into force in November 1994.51 Due to rising commodity prices, recent years have seen a renewed interest in manganese nodules and other mineral resources of the deep sea like polymetallic sulphides and cobalt-rich crusts, and several states have signed exploration contracts with the ISA for areas in the Pacific.52 In 2006 Germany, too,

48 Mero, Mineral Resources, p. 277. 49 H. Thiel, G. Schriever and E. J. Foell, Polymetallic Nodule Mining, Waste Disposal, and Species Extinction at the Abyssal Seafloor. In: Marine Georesources and Geotechnology No. 23 (2005), pp. 209 – 20; H. Thiel and G. Schriever, Deep-Sea Mining, Environmental Impact and the DISCOL project. In: Ambio Vol. 19 No. 5 (1990), pp.  245 – 50; AMOS and ROELS, Environmental Aspects. 50 Mann Borgese, Mines of Neptune, p. 87. 51 Tanaka, Law, pp.  33 – 4, 178 – 83; Nandan, Mineral Resources, pp. 77 – 8. 52 Nandan, Mineral Resources, pp. 87 – 9.

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obtained the right to explore two areas (75,000 km² in total) for fifteen years.53 Nevertheless, commercial deep-sea mining for manganese nodules is unlikely to become a reality at least within the next decade.

5.  Conclusion The idea of an internationalized resource exploited for the benefit of all mankind as envisaged under the common-heritage principle might seem utopian nowadays. However, there was at least a window of opportunity as there had been no precedent use of the resources of the deep seabed and no specific legal regime governing it. Not until manganese nodules were first seen as a valuable resource, did the need for a legal order of the deep-sea floor arise. At the same time, this offered the opportunity to establish via the UN a regime that differed fundamentally from those governing land-based resources. The fact that the UN was established as the forum where much of the development of international law took place meant that the large number of small developing countries could be actors in this case. The history of deep-sea mining represents an example of the ways in which the legal order and function of a water body (or the ground below it) changes over time depending on technical progress and economic factors. In the case study explored in this chapter, history almost came full circle, as the ocean floor transformed from a widely overlooked space prior to the 1960s to a contested site of (presumably) valuable resources, and then back to relative obscurity in the 1980s, when it became apparent that deep-sea mining would not live up to the expectations. Nevertheless, as a result of the golden age of manganese-nodule research, the deep seabed nowadays represents an internationalized space subject to a unique legal regime. Even though deep-sea mining has not been conducted on a commercial scale thus far and this is unlikely to change in the next decades, it had a profound influence on the way a large part of the oceans and thus of the earth’s surface is legally organized today. Finally, this case demonstrates that questions of governance and legal status also have an impact on actual use. Even though the development of commodity prices probably had the greatest influence on the industry’s decision not to proceed with deep-sea mining, the regime established by the LOSC played a considerable role, too.

53 Anon., Manganknollen—eine Rohstoffquelle der Zukunft. In: Tätigkeitsbericht der Bundesanstalt für Geowissenschaften und Rohstoffe. 2005/2006, Hannover 2007, pp. 59 – 60.

Magdalena Schönweitz

The Öresund region Between utopia and reality

1.  Introduction Since the Middle Ages, cities have been serving as projection screens for ­people’s hopes and dreams. The prospect of liberty 1 and civil rights on the one hand and economic emancipation on the other hand were the nucleus of the good life that cities promised during that time. Today, the planners’ ideas for urban regions merely concentrate on aspects like accessibility, sustainability, and quality of life. One of the most important preconditions for this role of the city was the gradual transformation from the ancient open city to the closed city in medieval times. While the juridical scope of ancient cities included the rural population, the medieval city was a closed city, which on the one hand shared close functional ties with its hinterland, but whose autonomous administration, on the other hand, only comprised the closed area of the city and not its rural surroundings. Consequently, the city’s economic and political relations were potentially global but regulated according to the narrow interests of its citizens.2 The main characteristics of the closed city were home rule, legal sovereignty, and a progressive tax system mainly used to finance the defence of the city. In addition, the urban economy was characterized by a division of labour and specialization, so that the majority of urban citizens were craftsmen and merchants trying to escape from feudalism and hoping to find appropriate conditions for their economic living.3 Interestingly, one of the main challenges of the closed medieval city—its limited space—remains highly relevant today. While growing cities in the Middle Ages successively enlarged their city walls, the strategy of modern cities is not 1 According to Benevolo liberties in the medieval cities were no institutionalized, abstract categories but institutions designed according to specific singular needs (cf. L. Benevolo, Die Stadt in der Europäischen Geschichte. München 1993, p. 61). 2 Benevolo, Die Stadt in der Europäischen Geschichte, p. 60. 3 W. Siebel, Einleitung: Die europäische Stadt, p. 22. In: W. Siebel (ed.), Die Europäische Stadt. Frankfurt am Main 2004, pp. 11 – 48.

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merely to incorporate their immediate surroundings into their administrative structure, but to increase strategic cooperation with their neighbouring municipalities in so-called metropolitan areas.4 These arrangements particularly change the qualities of existing administrative boundaries—they make them more permeable to the flow of people, goods, money, ideas, and information.5 The intention is to cover the functional area of the city, predominately the commuting area, and to formulate a common regional economic policy that all parties gain from. Just as cities have been the driving forces of Europe’s economic development for centuries, today they belong to the most important drivers and objects of the process of economic, cultural, and political globalization, in other words, the process of the re-shaping of the nation-state-based Westphalian order of political power and culture.6 These processes of re-shaping space are far more dominated by strategic considerations and functional realities than established nation-state borders and geography.7 Initiatives to build metropolitan areas and, in the special case below, cross-border urban areas, are the result of such strategic considerations. One of the most prominent cases of cross-border urban areas in Europe has the cities of Copenhagen and Malmö at its core and is located at and named after the Öresund, the strait between the Danish island Sealand and the Swedish province Scania. The historic role of this strait has changed over the course of time. During the Middle Ages the Sound connected the different parts of the Danish kingdom while it became the demarcation between the Danish and the Swedish realm after the signing of the Treaty of Roskilde in 1658, which turned Scania into a Swedish province and saw its successive integration into the Swedish kingdom as a result. At the end of the nineteenth and particularly during the twentieth century ideas to bridge the Öresund turned the attention 4 For the importance of metropolitan areas c. f. Federal Institute for Research on Building, Urban Affairs and Spatial Development (BBSR) within the Federal Office for Building and Regional Planning (BBR), Metropolitan Areas in Europe. BBSR-Berichte KOMPAKT, (7/2010). Or: Metrex, Metropolitan Dimension—The case for recognition of a Metropolitan Dimension to European Affairs. Glasgow 2011. 5 M. Keating, A Quarter Century of the Europe of the Regions. In: Regional and Federal Studies No. 5 (2008), pp. 629 – 635. 6 E. W. Soja, Globalization, Regionalism and the Postmetropolitan Transition, p. 35. In: H. van Houtum, O. Kramsch and W. Zierhofer (eds.), B/ordering Space, Aldershot 2005, pp.  33 – 46. 7 M. Albert, Entgrenzung und Formierung neuer politischer Räume, pp. 52 – 54. In: Politische Vierteljahresschrift (PVS), Sonderheft 29 (1998), pp. 49 – 75.

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from its dividing character towards its connecting potential. In this way the prospect to bridge the Sound became the major driving force for cooperation and a source of inspiration for urban planners and architects. This chapter explores the different concepts that have been developed for the Öresund Region and examines how far they make use of utopian ideas in order to reduce the Öresund’s dividing character not only technically, but also culturally and economically. Utopian ideas have a dual function in the research on region-building, as they can show us the symbolic aspects of the process of region-building, including the sources of inspiration, the motives, and the hopes of the people involved, which can be contrasted to the given circumstances and help to identify the sources for criticism and dissatisfaction. The Öresund Region is an outstanding example in that context, as this symbolic dimension of the regional discourse is relatively strong. In order to give an overview on the symbolic dimension of region-building across the Öresund, I will refer to documents and publications that were formulated in order to give input into the region-building processes, and elaborate to what extent they make use of utopian ideas in order to convince the regional player of their proposal. Yet, before I give insight into these ideas and their impact on cross-border cooperation in practice, I will develop a theoretical background based on the exploration of the concept of utopia in an urban context.

2.  Theoretical considerations In the context of the relational turn in the social sciences, many variables that had been taken for granted before, such as regions, borders, and space, have experienced a re-formulation. The relational turn takes into account the fact that the specific categories researchers use in their analysis are formulated with a specific intention and in a specific context. According to Iver B. Neumann’s region-building approach, the central questions are: who took the decision on which background, for what reasons, and with which intentions? 8 In this way the actor, their background, and their intentions have a central position within that process. In addition to this, the Finnish geographer Anssi Paasi conceptualizes region-building as the process of the “institutionalization of regions” composed

8 I. B. Neumann, Regions in International Relations Theory: The case for a Region-Building Approach. Oslo 1992, p. 13.

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of by four inter-related aspects, namely, “the formation of territorial, symbolic and institutional shapes of a region and its establishment as an entity in the regional system and social consciousness of the society concerned”.9 Concentrating on utopian ideas, the subsequent analysis focuses on symbolic and identificatory aspects, being aware that the overall process is much broader. The use of the concept of utopia in the context of region-building processes is based on the thesis that constructivist approaches and the concept of utopia have two basic features in common, namely, the aspects of intention and construction. These two aspects provide the parenthesis connecting utopian ideas and the region-building process. In order to reveal the content and functions of the specific contributions to be analysed, I use the concept of utopia to show to what extent contributions to public discourse make use of utopian ideas in order to convince political players. Yet, before I start with the analysis, I will discuss the meaning of the concept of utopia, referring both to everyday and to scientific language. This allows me to derive five constituting elements that will guide the subsequent analysis. Utopian narrations have a long tradition; they go back to Plato and Aristotle. However, the term utopia as we use it today was initially coined by Thomas More in his novel Utopia, published in 1516. The vigour of his work manifests itself in the fact that the term utopia later turned into the name for a whole literary genre, became a commonly used term, and not least an ambiguous catchword. Thomas Schölderle gives a comprehensive overview on the etymology of the word utopia, referring to three aspects: (1) from its inception, utopia etymologically corresponds more to a semantic field than to a clearly defined term. Its edges cover both the meaning “nowhere” or “non-place” and “good place”; depending on the author’s intention, its contextual meaning is often localized somewhere in between. (2) During the eighteenth century, the aspect of time was introduced into the semantic field of utopia. Since then and until today, utopian fiction has been exclusively understood and formulated as a projection to the future. (3) During the nineteenth century the noun “utopia” and the adjective “utopian” entered into everyday language and acquired a negative connotation when stated that, for example, a utopian idea is unrealistic and as such doomed to fail due to the author’s misguided perception of the preconditions for its implementation. Its denotation today covers a fictional ideal society and a plan, concept, or vision that cannot be realized.10 9 A. Paasi, Europe as a Social Process and Discourse: Considerations of Place, Boundaries and Identity, p. 16. In: European Urban and Regional Studies 8 (1), pp. 7 – 28. 10 The presented etymology of the term utopia both with regard to everyday and academic use primarily relies on Schölderle’s comprehensive analysis in the first chapter of his

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Scientific literature also provides a wide range of conceptualizations of the term utopia. Schölderle differentiates between a (1) totalitarian, (2) socio-­ psychological, and (3) classical understanding of utopia. While Schölderle regards the totalitarian interpretation, which perceives utopia as the intellectual anticipation of future totalitarian forms of rule, as too narrow and hard to prove, the socio-psychological understanding of utopia formulated by for example Gustav Landauer, Karl Mannheim, and Ernst Bloch is of too wide a character. For them utopia is a form of consciousness or intention that may range from the Bible to daydreams or works of art. The classical understanding is somewhere in between and is grounded predominately in narratives of an ideal society or state. In this way, the heart of the wider concept of utopia includes a social-critical dimension. Classical utopian scenarios describe a fictional and isolated community on an island. Most often, a seafarer who has visited the respective society returns to Europe and describes its foreign habits, customs, and institutions. Internally the state and society have a closed order; externally the readiness to defend the order against other less harmonic forms of society dominates. The described utopian orders are stable and peaceful and do not know social change. The localization as an isolated island is of central importance, enabling mathematic calculations of causalities, for instance, how a certain education has consequences for the legal system. Thus far utopian conceptions are rational thought experiments. Their aim is to make people think about contemporary society, providing an alternative that helps to reflect reality. This pedagogical dimension and partly playful aspect of the concept of utopia have often been overlooked, leading to misinterpretations that made the authors appear as irrational visionaries or totalitarian masterminds.11 From this classical understanding of utopia I derive six constituting elements: (1) presenting alternatives to the present, the concept of utopia has a social-critical dimension with regard to the status quo, (2) it has a political intention, which (3) is aimed towards the future and is consequently of (4) a constructed character, in addition to which (5) it depends on its impetus, while its content can be more or less concrete and realistic, and finally (6) the ideas formulated may be both a negative or positive perspective for the future (eutopia and dystopia).

book on the history of utopia (cf. T. Schölderle, Geschichte der Utopie. Köln, Weimar, Wien 2012, pp. 9 – 19). 11 Ibidem, p. 14.

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As this classical understanding includes both the political intentions of the author and the constructed character of utopian ideas, it can be linked to Neumann’s approach. Neglecting the function of these ideas in a wider social process would be to reduce them to intellectual games and to underestimate their impact on practical political action. Against this background, the concept of utopia appears as an appropriate tool to investigate the function and the use of ideas and concepts. Furthermore, it helps to dismantle the methods used and to advance to their explicit and implicit meaning. The next section gives an analysis of the use of the concept of utopia in the cross-border region-building process across the Öresund. It does so by providing an overview on the historical background of region-building in the Öresund Region and analysing three graphical and one descriptive contribution to the symbolic dimension of the regional process referring to the six constituting elements of the utopia presented. Using the elements of utopia, the analysis elaborates the utopian character of the single publications, and simultaneously provides a tool to show the specificities of utopian thinking. The single cases in the following study were selected in order to cover the wide range of utopian variants that combine and/or contrast in different balances the past, the present, and the future, as well as the normative background that materializes in the symbolic aspect of the region-building discourse. The analysis is based on qualitative methods of picture and text interpretation. Finally, I present my conclusions and give some prospects for future work.

3.  The Öresund Region The idea for a fixed link across the Öresund is much older than the idea for cross-border region-building. Already by the end of the nineteenth century, a French railway consortium had developed plans to build a railway tunnel between Elsinore and Helsingborg in a way that would connect the Danish island Sealand with southern Sweden. In the context of these considerations, the first detailed propositions for a fixed Öresund link were formulated by the Swedish engineer Rudolf Lilljeqvist. In his article “Förslag till direct jernvägsforbindelse mellan de skandinaviska länderna och den europeiska kontinenten” (“Proposal for a Direct Railway Connection Between the Scandinavian Countries and the European Continent”, 1889), he proposed building a subaqueous link between the cities of Elsinore and Helsingborg. Most inte­ restingly, he also pointed to the necessity for another fixed link between the German island Fehmarn and the Danish island Lolland in order to connect

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Stockholm, Copenhagen, and Kristiania (Oslo) with Hamburg, Berlin, Paris, and eventually also London.12 In the 1930s the idea of building both a rail and a road connection across the Öresund gained traction, and the idea of connecting Malmö and Copenhagen appeared for the first time. However, discussions about a fixed link across the Öresund were broken off when a Danish-Swedish committee came to the conclusion that the then operating steam ferries provided the appropriate logistics for traffic across the Sound. Still, proposals for the construction of a fixed link appeared from time to time. Yet, during the following years, concrete planning was postponed due to the imponderabilia of World War II. In the early 1950s discussions were resumed. Already in its opening session the Nordic Council recommended the construction of a fixed link between Denmark and Sweden. In doing so the Nordic Council made the fixed link across the Öresund a topic of pan-Nordic interest and simultaneously made it more difficult for the Swedish and the Danish governments to ignore the project.13 The ideas formulated in the late 1950s and 1960s, when both cities were wealthy and their belief in a positive future was unbroken, formed the basis of today’s region-building project. During that time the picture of the Örestad,14 the “Örecity”, was coined. In the context of strong regional economic growth and intensive migration to the area around the Öresund, the idea evolved that the cities of Malmö and Copenhagen would meld sooner or later and that the whole area around the Sound would become one big city. This perspective inspired many urban planners to draw up comprehensive blueprints for this mega city. Some ideas even were spectacularly “utopian”. Ruben Rausing, the founder of Tetra Pak, proposed land reclamation by enclosure according to the Dutch example and, finally, the desiccation of the Öresund. Others planned to 12 M. Idvall, Nationen, regionen och den fasta förbindelsen: Ett hundraårigt statligt projekts betydelser i ett territoriellt perspektiv. In: S. Tägil, F. Lindström and S. Ståhl (eds.), Öresundsregionen—visioner och verklighet: från ett symposium på Lillö. Lund 1997, pp. 126 – 151, here pp. 130 – 132. 13 T. Stein, Die Öresund-Brücke: ein innerstädtisches Bauwerk? Zu Konstruktion und Realität der grenzüberschreitenden Stadtregion Kopenhagen Malmö. Berlin 2000, p. 46. 14 “The term Örestad respectively Ørestad (engl. Örecity) describes the utopia of a mega-city around the Öresund that was developed during that period of time [1950s and 1960s (M. S.)]. While the term had an ambiguous meaning in Swedish it has been reinterpreted on the Danish side. Today, Ørestad in Danish stands for a new district of the city of Copenhagen, which is built on the island Amager with tight transport connection to the Öresundbridge.” (M. Schönweitz, The Öresund Committee: Cross-border institution-building in the Baltic Sea Region. In: NORDEUROPAforum No. 2 (2008), pp. 75 – 94, here p. 81).

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build a huge plastic tent across the Öresund in order to have a pleasant climate all year round.15 These ideas, formulated in anticipation of permanent economic growth, lost their ground in the face of the economic crisis in the 1970s, and the interest in building a fixed link across the Öresund decreased as well.16 Apart from these ideas, the fixed link as such was conceptualized as a rail connection, until the Danish-Swedish Öresund Commission conceived a new idea in 1962 and proposed building a combined bridge for rail and road traffic between Elsinore and Helsingborg. This was to be completed in 1970 in order to avoid serious future traffic problems.17 Although the Swedish and Danish governments had signed an agreement to build a fixed link across the Öresund in 1972, its implementation was postponed due to the fact that the Danish parliament assigned higher priority to a fixed link across the Great Belt.18 In the aftermath, the debate on the Öresund link almost fell silent between 1978 and 1984.19 This was not least due to the structural crisis in the heavy industries and shipyards around the Öresund, which later became the basis for the new regional initiatives launched in the 1980s and 1990s.20 The experience of the crisis sharpened the focus of major Scandinavian firms on their market position. During the 1980s they determined that they had a relatively marginal position in Europe as the Cold War constrained relations towards the East, and the transport infrastructure towards Western Europe was under-developed. Under these preconditions, in 1983, the European Round Table of Industrialists (ERT) was formed, led by Per Gyllenhammer, the former director of the Swedish vehicle manufacturer Volvo. In the following year, the ERT published the report “Missing Links”, indicating the Öresund Bridge, the expansion of the Malmö-Oslo railway line, and a fixed link across the Femern 15 A. Wieslander, Att bygga Öresundsregionen: Från 1960-talets utvecklingsoptimism till 1960-talets lapptäcksregionalism. In: S. Tägil, F. Lindström and S. Ståhl, Öresundsregionen—visioner och verklighet: från ett symposium på Lillö. Lund 1997, pp. 77 – 125 here pp.  78 – 79. 16 Stein, Die Öresund-Brücke: ein innerstädtisches Bauwerk?, p. 81. 17 B. F. Stöber, Space, Mass Media and the ‘Öresund Region’: the role of mass media in a cross-border region-building project. Copenhagen 2004, p. 35. 18 Stein, Die Öresund-Brücke: ein innerstädtisches Bauwerk?, p. 53 – 54. 19 C. Tangjkær, Sound of Conversations—Creating Regional Realities. In: L. Lyck and P.-O. Berg (eds.), The Øresund Region Building. Copenhagen 1997, pp. 67 – 94, here p. 74. 20 M. Jerneck, East Meets West. Cross-border Cooperation in the Öresund—a Successful Case of Transnational Region-building? In: J. Gidlund and M. Jerneck (eds.), Local and regional governance in Europe: Evidence from Nordic regions. Cheltenham 2000, pp. 197 – 230, here p. 197.

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Belt as missing links in the European transport network.21 In 1984 a Nordic variant of the ERT , the Working Group for Closer Economic Cooperation (Arbetsgruppen för utvidgat ekonomiskt samarbete) was founded, emphasizing the necessity to reduce transport time from the Nordic countries to the European mainland.22 This goal, including the three named projects, was also on the agenda of the consortium Scandinavian Link A/S, which was founded in 1985.23 As the first attempt to build a bridge across the Öresund had failed in the 1970s, the entrepreneurs’ initiate was very important in re-establishing the Öresund link on the political agenda and in giving the project a European dimension, declaring it as an important part of the European transport infrastructure. Including both links in European transport policy also made it possible to exert influence from the European level on the national decision-makers. In this context, negotiations to build a bridge were resumed and in 1991 the Danish and Swedish governments signed a contract agreeing to the construction of a fixed link across the Öresund. This decision was a landmark that changed the preconditions for institutional cooperation, and, remarkably, the Öresund Committee replaced the hitherto existing transnational organizations Öresund Council 24 and Öresundskontakt 25. After the decision to build the fixed link had been made, a new period of shaping the region began. Moreover, the Swedish application for EU membership brought a new and powerful regional actor onto the scene. From then on, both parts of the Öresund were able to participate in the EU’s INTERREG initiative that since its foundation in 1989 until today has provided important rules and financial means to finance regional projects. Finally, in 2000, after decades of discussions, the Öresund Bridge was opened. After some initial difficulties, the economic upswing remarkably increased traffic over the bridge and brought a new dynamic into the regional processes.

21 Stein, Die Öresund-Brücke: ein innerstädtisches Bauwerk?; R. Ek, Öresundsregion— bli till! de geografiska visionernas diskursiva rytm. Lund 2003. 22 Ibidem, p. 22. 23 Stein, Die Öresund-Brücke: ein innerstädtisches Bauwerk? p. 79. 24 The Öresund Council was an inter-municipal board composed of 30 elected representatives from local and regional municipalities and municipal associations. 25 Öresundskontakt was the local office of the Öresund group, composed by local and regional civil servants from the Danish capital region and Scania. Founded and mainly financed by the Nordic Council of Ministers it was supposed to strengthen social, cultural, and economic cooperation across the Öresund (Stöber, Space, mass media and the ‘Øresund Region’, p. 42).

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4.  Utopian ideas for regional cooperation This section comprises an analysis of the different contributions that had an influence on the regional players and region-building in the Öresund area. I will refer to four examples, all of which give an idea of the variety of utopian input to the regional discourse and elaborate on how far they make use of the elements of the concept of utopia presented above. Utopian input to the discourse on region-building across the Öresund can be separated into two periods. The first period comprises mainly cartographi­cal visions of the Öresund Region published in Danish and Swedish newspapers between 1959 and 1969.26 Among the graphics I selected as divergent examples as possible in order to reflect the wide range of utopian input. The second period covers publications from the early 1990s until the turn of the millennium. Among these inputs from the second period, I chose Uffe Palludan’s Øresundsbroens muligheder—Fra vision til Øresundsregion? (Potentials of the Öresund Bridge—From Vision to Öresund Region?, 1999) as an empirical basis. Including both traditional infrastructural considerations and—albeit to a lesser extent—a bottom-up perspective, this publication is particularly interesting.27 However, I will first give an overview of the cartographic visions published between 1959 and 1977. 4.1.  Graphic utopias for the Öresund

The Öresund as an inner lake in Northern Europe’s largest city landscape (­Figure  1) was published in the Danish newspaper Politiken in October 1959. It provides an idea of what the future metropolis could look like from a planner’s perspective, and is characterized by a specific balance of basic infrastructure

26 In his publication Öresundsregion—bli till! Ek provides a wide-ranging critical view on visionary contributions to the region-building discourse in the Öresund region. Apart from an overview of cartographic visions and other forms of visualizations he also gives a critical view on existing publications. His basic critique is the literature’s simplifying perspective. I propose to read Palludan—not least in face of the dearth of references— as a non-scientific contribution. Reading it as utopian contribution to the discourse I take its simplifying tendency into account and regard it as a stylistic feature used for specific intentions. 27 I propose to read Palludan—not least in face of lacking references—as a non-scientific contribution. Reading it as utopian contribution to the discourse I take its simplifying tendency into account and regard it as a stylistic feature used for specific intentions.

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and recreational areas for the future Öresund Region. Infrastructure in this visualization means both transportation and energy supply. The dark black lines indicate the most important transport corridors. In addition to this, we see two fixed links across the Sound: between Elsinore and Helsingborg, and between Copenhagen and Malmö. The common airport for the Öresund Region is to be located on the island of Saltholm, and a nuclear power plant on the island of Ven is supposed to provide clean and modern electricity for the future mega-city. The explanatory text on the map gives an idea of the creator’s impetus for this visualization: The plan for the Öresund-city draws the picture of a new Nordic metropolis with a radically changed urban structure.—The city is organized over a larger contiguous communications network with recreational and construction areas united in a new and improved urban landscape.—This plan invites more cooperation on both sides 28 of the Sound and calls for more political audacity on the Danish side.

This explanatory text provides important background information on the motives of its designer. First of all, this map produces an idea of how modern urban planning is supposed to be accomplished. Only if one takes communications, housing, and the need for recreation into account, can a modern and progressive urban landscape be developed. Most interestingly is the fact that transport infrastructure is mentioned first. This suggests that a well-planned transport infrastructure is a main precondition to the idea’s implementation. Finally, this short note also points to specific weaknesses of the status quo. Obviously the author had identified a lack of interest and political will on the Danish side.

28 Printed in: Ek, Öresundsregion—bli till!, p. 235; and Stöber, Space, Mass Media and the ‘Öresund Region’, p. 36.

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Figure 1  The Öresund as an inner lake in Northern Europe’s largest city landscape (Poli29 tiken, 1.10.1959).

Figure 2 shows the cartoon entitled The shattered dreams, published in the ­Swedish newspaper Dagens Nyheter in 1977. The drawing confronts a rather abstract vision for the Öresund Region, when compared to Figure 1, with the historical facts of 1977, when the initiative to build a fixed link failed. The drawing takes the view from the Swedish shore over the Sound, displaying four local and regional politicians from Scania looking out over the Öresund. What they see confronts them and their unrestrained belief in the future with the deficiencies of the present. It shows an imagined Öresund link between Copenhagen and Malmö, which had just been postponed due to the Danes’ immediate preference for a fixed link across the Great Belt 30. The building on the island of Ven is far from resembling a nuclear power plant. Helicopters

29 Ibidem. 30 The Great Belt Fixed Link is composed by a suspension bridge and a tunnel, that connects the Danish islands of Zealand and Fyn. It was opened in 1997 and reduced transportation times within Denmark remarkably.

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and Concorde-like planes stand in sharp contrast to the old-fashioned urban architecture in both Copenhagen and Malmö. Moreover, the architecture of the imagined bridge, the anfractuous configu­ ration of streets and roads, and the bridges’ hinterland connections do not at all live up to the sophisticated modern infrastructure planning celebrated in former plans. It is not the materialization of a clean and modern urban area as a result of a comprehensive planning process, but a chaotic and old-­fashioned urban landscape that seems to be the result of the odds and ends of the political day-to-day routine. In this way, the drawing plays with elements of the eutopia and dystopia; it reflects the great fall that the dreams of the future experienced when it came down to political decision-making and implementation.

Figure 2 

31

The shattered dreams (Dagens nyheter, 26.03.1977).

Apart from these illustrations, there is another illustration that can give a comprehensive perspective on the Öresund Region (Figure 3). It is composed of four connected circles that are divided like yin-yang symbols harmoniously combining education and culture, industry and administration, communications (transport) and recreation. This illustration exhibits a comprehensive conclusion of what the Örestad could or should be, namely, a modern urban area inspired by research and technology, which unites all functions that compose the basis for a good life.

31 Ibidem, pp. 258 – 259.

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Figure 3 

32

The mechanic Örecity (1969).

These visualizations are of a strongly context-bound and constructed cha­racter— their implicit and explicit meanings can only be decoded in their historical context. They create a specific image of the region to come, one which mirrors and criticizes the status quo and shows the potentials of the fixed link either through a projection to the future or the direct confrontation of the lofty visions with the status quo. Thus they comprise all the different elements of the concept of utopia in very individual forms. Moreover, they help to consolidate the basic idea behind the region-building process, namely that the future can be designed in the desired way.

32 Öresundsrådet, Öresundsregionen. Nordisk utredningsserie 1969:2. Lund 1969, p. 100. (Reprinted in Ek, Öresundregion—bli till!, p. 309)

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4.2.  Uffe Palludan: Potentials of the Öresund Bridge

Other ideas came from a proposal formulated by Uffe Palludan, a Danish futurologist, called Öresundsbroens muligheder—Fra vision til Öresundsregion. The first part of the title, stands for the first part of the book and identifies the Potentials of the Öresund Bridge. This section was published in 1994; the second part—From vision to an Öresund region?—provides an evaluation of the status of the region in 1999. Concentrating on the concept of utopia, the following analysis exclusively refers to the first part of the book. According to Palludan’s own ex post assessment, the most important contribution of his book was the new positive tone it brought into a predominately negative debate about the region-building process. In contrast to most regional politicians and actors, who focused on the importance of the Öresund link as a transport axis between the Scandinavian Peninsula and the European mainland, he added a local perspective to the Öresund Bridge. In this way, Palludan generally criticized that the potentials within the region regarding a potential common labour market or a common research and education infrastructure were often overlooked in the heated public debate of the early 1990s.33 In order to identify the potentials of the Öresund Region to come, Palludan presents specific constructions of both the past and the future. In the first chapter, he begins with a description of the boundary that characterizes the Öresund, created both by general developments in transportation technology and the fact that there is a national border. His main thesis is that comprehensive investments in land traffic, foremost the on-going construction of fixed links in Denmark since the 1930s, have changed transportation patterns remarkably. While the sea used to be the main route for transportation, it has been increasingly losing its importance up until today. Road transport was faster, cheaper, and more flexible than shipping. As such, Copenhagen had lost its central position with regard to domestic transport.34 Because of this situation, Copenhagen was regarded as relatively isolated from the West, removed from its natural hinterland in Denmark. At the same time, however, the Öresund was a remarkable barrier in the east, due to the insufficient transportation system and the national border. Palludan maintains here a broad understanding of a nation state barrier, referring to both legal

33 U. Palludan, Øresundsbroens muligheder—Fra vision til Øresundsregion? Copenhagen 1999, pp. 21 – 32. 34 Ibidem, pp.  35 – 42.

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and structural but also to cultural issues.35 He constructs the potential of the future Öresund link as follows: Copenhagen will be localised within Malmö’s natural radius in many respects, while Malmö will be localised within Copenhagen’s radius. This includes a functional over36 lap. This overlap will make the Öresund link special and provide very high potential.

A joining of both cities in his view would have far-reaching consequences: social, economic, and political systems would have to adapt. This included tax systems, housing laws, labour markets, price levels, and wages. He expects a fixed link would stimulate economic growth of around five per cent in a time frame of five to seven years after the opening of the link. Moreover, he says, regarding the economic growth potential in the Öresund Region, that they would miss the chance of creating about 30,000 new jobs would the city fusion fail to be initiated.37 In order to emphasize the importance of the fixed link, he adds ten scenarios for the year 2004. Here, he consciously makes use of the utopian method in order to communicate the need for political action. Nine out of these ten examples are positive scenarios that could become reality after the opening of the bridge. Positive examples are: (1) a well functioning cooperation of universities both with regard to education and (2) research that help to strengthen the whole sector; (3) sinking consumer prices due to increased competition in the retail sector; (4) the establishment of the region as a cross-border cultural centre; (5) better recreation opportunities as good transport connections are provided to the skiing areas in Sweden; (6) a common housing market; (7) more international firms establishing their regional headquarters in Oresund; (8) and (9) increasing the attractiveness to foreign investments due to a common labour market and the high number of highly skilled workers. The only negative example Palludan gives is that of a hypothetical Swedish firm in Malmö that urgently needs a spare part for a machine. The part is available in Gothenburg (Sweden) and Glostrup (Denmark); unfortunately transportation time across the Öresund is so long due to the missing fixed link that it is more efficient 35 Ibidem, pp.  43 – 47. 36 “I mange relationer vil København ligge indenfor Malmøs naturlige radius, samtidig med Malmø kommer til at ligge inden for Københavns. Det indebærer en funktionel overlapning. Det er denne overlapning, der gør, at Øresundsforbindelsen kan komme til at vise sig som værende noget specielt, med meget store potentiale.” Ibidem, p. 24. 37 Ibidem, p. 66.

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to order the spare part in Gothenburg, though the geographical distance to Glostrup is much shorter. The essence of this example is that if the link was built, the spare part from Glostrup would have been in Malmö very quickly and the business owner would have saved a lot of money due to reduced downtime.38 In this way Palludan constructs specific cases that are easy to imagine, close to everyday life, combine elements of eutopia and dystopia, and implicitly criticize the status quo as non-sufficient. Furthermore, Palludan develops three different scenarios for the potential development of the region. Scenario one describes what would happen if Malmö and Copenhagen cooperate, scenario two if there is no cooperation, and scenario three if the city fusing and a region-building process are initiated.39 According to Palludan, a bridge is an enabling factor for regional cooperation, though he does not regard it as a matter of course that the city fusing comes into being: One can choose, whether a city-fusion turns into reality or not. It is not a matter of course that a bridge creates such a process by itself, however it makes it possible. 40 But only if one makes use of its full potential, will the project be profitable socially.

In this way, Palludan makes regional success a matter of action and evokes the impression that the political player could simply choose to be on the “right” side. In the remaining three chapters, Palludan describes San Francisco Bay as the most comparable case of a fusion of cities. The comparison is of diachronic character, as he compares the San Francisco Bay of the 1930s to the Öresund Region in the 1990s. According to his arguments, San Francisco Bay was missing important transport links during the 1930s. Their subsequent realization and impact serve as an appropriate reference point as the geographical and structural preconditions in both areas can be regarded as similar.41 However, compared to San Francisco Bay, the most distinctive features of the Öresund Region remain the nation state barrier, the missing transport infrastructure, and a lower population in the overall area. With his strong emphasis on the joining of the cities, Palludan’s work strongly invokes the utopian ideas formulated in the 1960s, though he also tries to re-formulate the utopian part of the regional 38 Ibidem, pp.  79 – 89. 39 Ibidem, p. 90. 40 “Man kan vælge, om der skal ske en byfusion eller ej. Det er ikke givet, at en bro alene skaber den, men den gør det mulig. Og det er kun, hvis potentialerne udnyttes, at broprojektet bliver samfundsmæssigt rentabelt.” Ibidem, p. 105. 41 Ibidem, pp.  121 – 135.

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discourse into a feasible project full of opportunities in order to convince the reader that one can set the course for further development. The reference to the model of San Francisco Bay has a legitimizing function that is supposed to convince the players that it is both necessary to act and possible to make a difference.

5.  Conclusions Comparing the analysed contributions to the respective region-building discourses, we can conclude that all contributions make use of the different elements of utopia. They present positive or negative alternatives or explicitly criticize the status quo. Thus, they have the political intention of changing the situation in the future, making concrete, feasible, and sometimes bold suggestions. Taken together, they also give an overview of the specific aspects of Öresund region-building, which are characterized by abstraction, disillusionment, and pragmatism. While Figures 1 and 3 predominately stand for the abstraction in the concept of utopia, Figure 2 derives its expressiveness in the juxtaposition of these abstractions with the disillusioning reality. Uffe Palludan’s contribution, by contrast, uses all three aspects. Abstraction helps him to describe the isolated location of Copenhagen, disillusionment to show the deficiencies of the present, and pragmatism to convince the audience about the feasibility of his proposals. In face of the fact that the technical construction of a fixed link across the Öresund was the historical forerunner, it is not surprising that infrastructure and regional planning have dominated the regional discourse up until today. This physical link is constructed as the primary source that feeds social and cultural change in the on-going region-building process. In retrospect, the initiative of the ERT appears to be the first public initiative that tried to connect the physical construction with social and in particular economic interests. In the 1990s the European dimension, which emphasized the elements of infrastructure, regional planning, and cohesion through the EU’s Trans-European Networks Transport (TEN-T) priority list 42 and the INTERREG 43 programme, 42 The EU’s Transeuropean Networks—Transport (TEN-T) is a policy that is supposed to enhance the implementation of the internal market through the improvement of transport infrastructure. The priority list is particularly important as it provides funding for the realization of the single projects. 43 INTERREG used to be a community initiative designed to further regional cooperation across nation-state borders within the European Union. The INTERREG programme is divided into three forms of cross-border cooperation: cross-border (INTERREG A),

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was added. In particular, funding received through the Commission’s INTERREG programme gave region-building a wider social dimension and a remarkably enhanced regional integration. With the opening of the Öresund Bridge in 2000, one of the most fundamental elements of the utopian idea presented above has been turned into reality. Now one might ask whether utopian thinking has come to an end. After a relatively tentative start during the early years after the opening of the bridge, regional integration—especially with regard to the labour and housing market—remarkably increased during the economic boom of 2003 – 2007. The establishment of governance institutions that ensure a continuous dialogue between politicians, the general agreement between decision-makers to continue working on this regional process, and the reduction of barriers for cross-border mobility has given important incentives for further regional development. The construction of the Femern Belt fixed link 44 will complete the transport corridor between the European mainland and the Scandinavian Peninsula; but as traffic across the Öresund Bridge reaches full capacity in peak hours, regional actors see the danger that the conditions on the Öresund Bridge could become one of constant bottleneck. Therefore, the second fixed link between Elsinore and Helsingborg comes into focus, at the same time as Copenhagen and Malmö are preparing plans to integrate Malmö into Copenhagen’s metro system.45 This brings us back to Neumann, who claims that the region-building process is never brought to a permanent standstill.46 The Öresund Region appears to follow this logic: while the overall idea of becoming a modern and progressive urban area seems to be rather constant, the understanding of its meaning is updated by new ideas according to the prevailing Zeitgeist. Not least in the context of the Copenhagen Climate Summit in 2009 was the Öresund Committee’s vision for 2020 formulated: “By maximising the benefits of integration and cross-border dynamics, the Öresund Region will stand out as the most attractive and climate-smart region in Europe.”47 That way, regional actors will continue to revive and redefine the content of the utopia of the Öresund Region. transnational (INTERREG B), and interregional (INTERREG C) forms of cooperation. In 2007 INTERREG became an independent instrument of European Structural policy. 44 The Femern Belt Fixed link describes a future tunnel connecting the Danish island Lolland and the German island Femern. Being a part of the Scandinavian Link, it belongs to the high priority projects of the EU’s Trans-European Transportation Networks (TEN) policy. 45 Fokus Øresund, September 2010, p. 2. 46 Neumann, Regions in International Relations Theory, p. 6. 47 Cf. http://www.oresundskomiteen.org/en/climate/ (18 February, 2013; 10:20).

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Still, the cooperation in the Öresund Region cannot be considered a total success story. Some auspicious projects like the Öresund University or the Öresund Science Region have been closed, as regional players did not perceive this form of cooperation as appropriate. The initiatives and processes started under these umbrellas are said to continue in other forms.48 However, this could also be interpreted as a process of normalization, where there is less need for external initiatives for cooperation in specific fields as the established structures are self-supporting. In conclusion, region-building appears to be a perpetual process including phases of relative stagnation, revival, and progress. Utopian ideas provide a symbolic seed for regional story-telling that regional actors can redefine and adapt. Thus, utopian ideas have the potential to supply driving impulses to regional processes, as they go beyond the obvious options for action and widen the horizon of regional actors. Despite all attempts and achievements to change its character, the Öresund still is both a barrier and a bridge.

48 Cf. http://www.uni.oresund.org/ (14 January, 2014; 10:57).

Stefan Ewert

Governance—an Analytical Concept to Study the Baltic Sea Region?1

1.  Introduction In social science analyses of the Baltic Sea Region, the term “governance” is used frequently in order to describe political and societal relationships on the regional level. One may find the term in descriptions of cross-border cooperation, transnational collaborations, and policy-making, or the analysis of the Baltic Sea regional policy within the EU politics. On the level of content, the governance of the Baltic Sea as an ecosystem and its highly vulnerable ecological status is a core of regional social science research. In terms of water as a “barrier and bridge”, the water quality of the Baltic Sea is regarded as a barrier for regional development, e. g. for the tourism industry or fisheries. On the other hand, the governance of conflicting marine uses is considered a bridge, strengthening regional cooperation and development.2 Analytically, scholars argue not only that governance is a proper term or concept for analysis of regional relations around the Baltic Sea, but moreover that the region is “a pioneer in the introduction of new modes of governance”.3 If the latter is true, then the Baltic Sea Region might be a crucial case study to examine in order to improve governance research in political science. Currently, governance is a core research field in the subject. The term is used 1 I would like to thank the editors of this volume and the external reviewer for their helpful comments on a previous version of this chapter, as well as the International Research Training Group “Baltic Borderlands” for the possibility to present my analyses based on my PhD research conducted in the predecessor training group “Mare Balticum” from 2006 to 2010. 2 Cf. the paper by Daria Gritsenko and Tim-Åke Pentz in this volume. 3 M. Joas, D. Jahn and K. Kern, Governance in the Baltic Sea Region: Balancing States, Cities and People. In: M. Joas, D. Jahn and K. Kern (eds), Governing a Common Sea. Environmental Policies in the Baltic Sea Region. London 2008, pp. 3 – 17, here: p. 6. Cf. D. Jahn and N. Werz, Einleitung: Der Ostseeraum—Eine Zukunftsregion mit ungleichen Voraussetzungen. In: D. Jahn and N. Werz (eds), Politische Systeme und Beziehungen im Ostseeraum. München 2002, pp. 7 – 17, here: p. 10.

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widely in order to analyse very different developments in public administration, cross-border cooperation, the integration of non-governmental actors into policy-making, etcetera—running the danger of becoming a catch-all term 4 or an “empty signifier”.5 Despite the great amount of research, know­ledge of the efficiency and effectiveness of different forms of governance is still scarce. Additionally, a few crucial theoretical questions remain unanswered. Both desiderata lead to an intensive discourse on the concept of governance and its pitfalls.6 In this chapter I will argue that Baltic Sea Region research using governance as an analytic framework has to properly take these debates into consideration. In this way, region-specific research is not only enabled to integrate into “mainstream” political science research more profoundly, but it could also contribute to scientific progress in governance research by defining the status of a “pioneer” (e. g. in terms of forms, efficiency, or effectiveness) and testing this status empirically in an interregional comparison. While this chapter will not fulfil this latter requirement, it will give an overview on governance research and the different concepts of governance in political science. Having accomplished this, it will then give some examples of research on the Baltic Sea Region using the term “governance” for analytical purposes. In doing so, I will connect this research with the challenges of governance research in general. One focus of this section will be the regional research on governance of the Baltic Sea as an ecosystem. Finally, I will discuss the analytical potential of the concept of governance in order to study the Baltic Sea Region and connect this discussion with empirical evidence from the field of higher education cooperation in the region. The case study of the largest regional academic network—the Baltic University Programme (BUP)—demonstrates the different dimensions of governance and discusses possibilities to analyse the capacity of governance.

2.  Governance as subject and analytical concept in political science Research on governance is at the very core of current political science, covering almost all territorial levels from “global governance” to “urban governance” as 4 G. F. Schuppert, Alles Governance oder was?, Baden-Baden 2011. 5 C. Offe, Governance: An “Empty Signifier“? In: Constellations No. 16/4 (2009), pp.  550 – 562. 6 Cf. E. Grande, Governance-Forschung in der Governance-Falle?—Eine kritische Bestandaufnahme. In: Politische Vierteljahresschrift No. 53/4 (2012), pp. 565 – 592.

Governance—an Analytical Concept to Study the Baltic Sea Region? 187

well as very different policy fields.7 Accordingly, concepts and definitions of the term vary widely. Taking an encyclopaedia article as a point of reference, one might define governance as “the pursuit of collective interests, with the state as coordinating and enabling actor”.8 One core assumption is that the state as well as all other single political actors—due to the complexity of contemporary societies—is unable to steer these societies autonomously. For example Pierre has stated: “As a result, governance is conducted through networks, partnerships, and other interactive instruments of coordination and collective action”.9 According to the political scientist Jon Pierre, one might distinguish three different “governance models”—state-centric versus liberal-democratic versus network governance 10—in order to structure governance research. Another proposal of how to structure the research field is the differentiation between seven diverse aspects of the term by Arthur Benz and Nicolai Dose. They comprise: 1 the term governance in institutional economics: governance as a mode of organization to minimize transaction costs; 2 governance as social order with a strong focus on organizations; 3 the World Bank criteria of good governance as a benchmark to improve the quality of governing in political systems; 4 governance in policy research, focusing on the integration of non-governmental actors into the policy formulation and implementation process; 5 governance in public administration as a reform concept for governing; 6 the global governance discourse with its emphasis on the role of transnational constellations, and 11 7 governance in an analytical perspective, trying to avoid normative propositions. At least some of these concepts of governance go far beyond the question of steering and the assumption of the state as coordinating actor, as emphasized by

7 For an overview see E. Grande, Governance-Forschung, pp. 565 – 592. Cf. G. F. Schuppert, Alles Governance. 8 J. Pierre, Governance. In: B. Badie, D. Berg-Schlosser and L. Morlino (eds), International encyclopedia of political science, Vol. 4, Los Angeles et al. 2011, pp. 983 – 994, here: p. 984. 9 Ibidem, p. 986. 10 Ibidem, pp.  988 – 990. 11 A. Benz and N. Dose, Governance: Modebegriff oder nütz­liches sozialwissenschaft­ liches Konzept? In: A. Benz and N. Dose (eds), Governance—Regieren in komplexen Regelsystemen. Eine Einführung. Wiesbaden 2010, pp. 13 – 36, here: pp. 17 – 25.

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Pierre in his definition. For instance, policy research using the governance concept highlights the importance of informal forms of public action. In this sense, Asbjørn Røiseland defines “soft law, networks, partnerships, coproduction, multilevel governance and the so-called open method of coordination”12 as mechanisms of coordination. Crucial for this governance approach are networks, distinguished by “an institutional framework of rules, norms, shared knowledge, and social imagination”.13 The analytical perspective is one of the prominent approaches to the study of the EU, trying to describe the creation of policy outputs and outcomes as multilevel governance. It “highlights the vertical relations between actors and institutions across various territorial levels, alongside the transforming horizontal relationships between state and nonstate actors”.14 In these concepts of governance, the state is much less able to be the centre of coordination. The term governance and the research of governance experienced its initial expansion and success in the realm of political science some twenty years ago. Today, it is visible in innumerable publications. In connection with the hetero­ geneous approaches and uses of the concept, as outlined above, critics warn that governance becomes an empty signifier. Yet, these critics mainly argue not for abandonment, but for a sharpening of the concept and the definition of “conceptual boundaries”.15 Edgar Grande defines five characteristics as the conceptual core of governance in political sciences. He distinguishes: 1 the emphasis on the non-hierarchical forms of the production of public goods; 2 the criticism of the state as exclusive producer of public goods; 3 the growing interdependencies between policy fields and the assumption of governance as a suitable way of dealing with these interdependencies; 4 the growing complexity of political action as a result of the interdependencies, but also a decline of borders; 5 the necessity for cooperation and coordination as a result of these processes, becoming key terms of governance.16

12 A. Røiseland, Informal Governance. In: B. Badie, D. Berg-Schlosser and L. Morlino (eds), International encyclopedia of political science, Vol. 4, Los Angeles et al. 2011, pp. 1018 – 1021, here: 1020. 13 Ibidem, p. 1020. Cf. A. Benz and N. Dose, Governance: Modebegriff, p. 21. 14 M. Flinders and F. Matthews, Multilevel Governance. In: B. Badie, D. Berg-Schlosser and L. Morlino (eds), International encyclopedia of political science, Vol. 4, Los Angeles et al. 2011, pp. 1021 – 1026, here: 1021. 15 Ibidem, p. 552. 16 E. Grande, Governance-Forschung, pp. 566 – 568.

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If governance research succeeds in defining core characteristics of the concept and its theoretical background,17 governance thus becomes an appropriate analytical concept to study changes in the production of public goods. Yet, essential empirical questions remain. Particularly, despite the enormous amount of research, the question of the capacity of governance (in comparison to state-­centred governing and Weberian bureaucracy) remains largely unanswered. The main reasons for this lack are—following Edgar Grande 18—methodological problems. A direct causal link between a certain mode of governance and the creation of a public good seems unreasonable to assume. Effectiveness and efficacy of governance mechanisms are highly contextual. Moreover, the few available empirical results seem to indicate that we have a growing number of governance constellations, yet a limited capacity. Grande concludes that we are in a kind of “governance trap”— whereby governance is of growing importance not only in political science but also in reality, yet of restricted potential in creating public goods.19 To sum up: governance is a core field of research in contemporary political science and its popularity is—at least partly—based on political developments away from state-centric forms of the creation of public goods. Network constellations and multi-level arrangements are replacing the state as the exclusive producer of public goods. To bring the focus on the Baltic Sea Region: since the fall of the Iron Curtain, a huge amount of regional networks have appeared.20 With the EU enlargement rounds of 1995 and 2004, the Baltic Sea is—with the exception of Russia—surrounded by EU member states. Additionally, the establishment of the Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS) and the Baltic Sea Parliamentary Conference (BSPC) in the early 1990s created a further level of political institutions. For researchers of (political) relations in the Baltic Sea Region, the concept of governance with its emphasis on networks and multilevel constellations offers a possibility to describe the development in the region in the last 25 years. Yet, due to the heterogeneity of the use of the term, it seems to be necessary to locate regional research within the “mainstream” governance discourse. In this way, the case study on governance in the Baltic Sea Region might contribute not only to the comprehensive understanding of the region, but also to the improvement of governance research. 17 For a discussion of the theoretical problems of governance, cf. E. Grande, Governance-Forschung, pp.  579 – 585. 18 Ibidem, pp.  577 – 579. 19 Ibidem, pp.  585 – 587. 20 Cf. T. Suominen, E. Antola and J. Mikkonen, Networks in the Baltic Sea Region, Turku 2001.

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3.  Governance as analytical concept in BSR social science research Indeed, governance as a term or concept to describe current forms of collective action and political processes is highly popular in the Baltic Sea Region, too. Partially, it is used to describe the developments in the pursuit of collective interests in certain states. For example, this state-centred approach is the basis of the analysis of the Baltic States’ development in the light of the process of Europeanization by Bengt Jacobsson and his colleagues.21 Yet, the governance-approach is especially important in describing the relationships and different forms of cross-border collective action in the region. Regarding the different concepts of governance in political science, the multilevel governance concept with its focus on EU policy, and the policy research approach with its emphasis on networks seem to be the two crucial understandings of this regional governance in the Baltic Sea Region research. The influence of networks is considered as a special feature of the Baltic Sea Region.22 At this point, network governance is a crucial pillar of the region-building approach as one of the leading concepts in the Baltic Sea Region to understanding and describing regional development.23 With its emphasis on the importance of informal forms of public action, the regional governance analyses in the Baltic Sea Region have a common interest with the political science research on governance in general. Yet, this regional research lacks to some extent the proper embeddedness into the “mainstream” governance discourse. I will explain this observation by analysing two special issues of the Journal of Baltic Studies, as it is one of the main scientific journals dealing with the peculiarities of the Baltic Sea Region. Governance is the topic of volume 33 (2002) issue 2, and volume 42 (2011) issue 1. The first volume includes the papers of a conference on borders in the social sciences and the humanities, and is entitled “Territoriality, multilevel governance and cross-­ border networks in the Baltic Sea region”, while the second volume includes

21 B. Jacobsson (ed.): The European Union and the Baltic States: Changing Forms of Governance, London 2010. 22 Cf. S. Ewert, Multilevel Governance im Ostseeraum? Empirische Hinweise aus dem Feld der regionalen Hochschulkooperationen. In: norrøna—Zeitschrift für Kultur, Geschichte und Politik der nordischen Länder, No. 45 (2012), pp. 69 – 74.; D. Jahn and N. Werz, Einleitung, p. 10. 23 S. Ewert, Region Building im Ostseeraum. Zur Rolle der Hochschulen im Prozess der Regionalisierung im Nordosten der Europäischen Union. Wiesbaden 2012, pp. 19 – 21.

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papers from a 2008 workshop in Vancouver, and is entitled “Transnational governance and policy-making in the Baltic Sea Region”. With “multilevel governance” as part of the title, the editors of the volume 33/2 locate their research within the analytical perspective and connect it with the EU studies (see above). In the introduction, Eiki Berg and Mette Sicard Filtenborg describe the EU cross-border and regional policy as a frame for cross-border cooperation in the Baltic Sea Region with “voluntary vertical and horizontal governance structures”.24 As a starting point, they suggest that “it has been argued that the Baltic Sea area is emerging as an international region with a distinctive agenda for territoriality, multi-level governance and cross-border cooperation”.25 Unfortunately, they fail to prove this argument systematically and to clarify the analytical background of the concept of (multi­ level) governance. Hence, aside from the fact that EU regional policy plays a role in cross-border activities in the Baltic Sea Region, the analytical benefit of the concept of governance remains vague. In my understanding, the following articles do not utilize the analytical potential of the concept either. For instance, James W. Scott describes “new governance paradigms” as an element of regional integration,26 yet he does not discuss the core characteristics of these paradigms, their theoretical backgrounds, or empirical research results. The central question of capacity of these new forms of governance remains out of the scope of the volume. The articles of the latter volume are—at least partially—much more embedded in the “mainstream” governance discourse. This is particularly true for the articles covering environmental policy in the region. The analytical benefit is comprehensible, yet the pitfalls discussed in governance research are obvious, too. In the introduction, Stefan Gänzle gives a definition of the essential term “transnational governance”, emphasizing the cooperation of public and private actors in cross-border policies.27 He distinguishes the intergovernmental cooperation during the 1970s and 1980s (mainly via the Helsinki Commission

24 E. Berg and M. S. Filtenborg, Introduction: Territoriality, multilevel governance and cross-border networks in the Baltic Sea region. In: Journal of Baltic Studies No. 33/2, pp. 129 – 136, here: p. 130. 25 E. Berg and M. S. Filtenborg, Introduction, p. 132. 26 J. W. Scott, Baltic Sea regionalism, EU geopolitics and symbolic geographies of co-operation. In: Journal of Baltic Studies No. 33/2 (2002), pp. 137 – 155, here: 138. 27 S. Gänzle, Introduction: Transnational Governance and Policy-Making in the Baltic Sea Region. In: Journal of Baltic Studies No. 42/1 (2011), pp. 1 – 7.

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HELCOM  28) from “governmental initiatives [that] have been supplemented by transnational cooperation and governance, in particular in the environmental and economic sector”.29 This analytical distinction, and the explicit definition of the essential terms that follows from it, precisely situates the articles of this volume in the framework of governance research. Yet, one can clearly discover again the methodological problems discussed by Edgar Grande (see above): while Gänzle is able to ascribe successes in the reduction of nutrient and emissions of hazardous substances into the Baltic Sea to intergovernmental ­HELCOM activities,30 it is much more complicated do so for the new, transnational organizations dealing with the protection of Baltic Sea environment. The same is true for the contribution by Kristine Kern.31 In her analysis of the water protection policy in the Baltic Sea Region, she distinguishes and discusses the several levels of political activities aimed at improving the water quality of the Baltic Sea and describes the multilevel character of this policy field. Yet, she does not oppose the capacities of state-centred environmental government and new forms of governance in an analytic way. The central research question concerning the capacities of governance remains open. Stacy VanDeveer traces this question explicitly. His starting point is the assumption of the growing role of networks: In a world where global governance has become both more diffuse and complex, networks linking state and non-state actors, where participants pursue particular policy aims in policy areas within dense patterns of institutional relationships, have become a popular conceptual and analytical tool. A common thread running through the recent scholarship is that these networks generate distinctive patterns 32 of political influence.

Concerning the regional networks in Baltic environmental cooperation, he argues:

28 The HELCOM is the governing body of the “Convention on the protection of the Marine Environment of the Baltic Sea Area”. 29 S. Gänzle, Introduction, p. 2. 30 Cf. S. D. VanDeveer, Networked Baltic Environmental Cooperation. In: Journal of Baltic Studies No. 42/1 (2011), pp. 37 – 55. 31 K. Kern, Governance For Sustainable Development in the Baltic Sea Region. In: Journal of Baltic Studies No. 42/1 (2011), pp. 21 – 35. 32 S. D. VanDeveer, Networked, p. 38.

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The mature, institutionalised networks around Baltic environmental protection issues suggest that networks may be better at driving the distribution and diffusion of material and ideational resources than they are at producing ground-level 33 implementation.

To analyse the influence of networks, VanDeveer defines different ways and distinguishes: 1 explicit policy and public advocacy aimed at all levels of formal public authority (subnational, national, and international); 2 expanding the network and institutionalizing its interactions and linkages; 34 3 diffuse and disseminate resources, norms, and procedures. This differentiation is a helpful analytical tool in researching network gover­ nance. Unlike the critical outlook of Grande’s “governance trap”, VanDeveer describes the influence of networks on the implementation of effective and efficient measurements to enhance the ecological status of the Baltic Sea as positive. He argues that this happens mainly via the intergovernmental network of HELCOM, making HELCOM into a “center of many centers”.35 These empirical results are highly fruitful for the discussion on the governance trap and possible ways out. Still, measurements of the influence of a concrete network (like the BUP,36 see below) have to be left to an educated guess. As mentioned above, scholars of the Baltic Sea Region consider the role of the networks and the forms of governance as a characteristic of the region. Kern argues that the transnational governance with its specific forms of collaboration of public and private actors … is a unique feature of the region because similar arrangements cannot be found in other comparable regions. In the Baltic Sea region we find both an active civil society and cross nationally oriented cities and regions, which can help to complement 37 traditional forms of governance.

33 Ibidem, p. 39. 34 Ibidem, p. 47. 35 Ibidem, p. 39. 36 Ibidem, p. 43. 37 K. Kern, Governance, p. 32.

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These forms of cooperation allow the Baltic Sea Region to be considered “as a pioneer in the introduction of new modes of governance”.38 There is some plausibility for this pioneer status. Stefan Gänzle discusses the “model character” of the region due to the region’s “most long-standing cooperative subregional setting in Europe”.39 Yet hitherto, an explicit interregional comparison of different forms of governance, when comparing the Baltic Sea Region with other regions, is missing.40 To sum up, the critical remarks of Grande and Offe are appropriate at least to some extent to the current governance research pertaining to the Baltic Sea Region. The governance approach also runs the danger of becoming a catchall term for regional activities producing public goods in Baltic Sea Region research. Up until now, the central question of governance research about the effectiveness and efficiency of the different forms of governance remains widely unanswered in Baltic Sea Region research. To put it in positive terms: the use of the different analytical concepts of governance research in order to analyse the Baltic Sea Region might, on the one hand, help to integrate the regional studies into the core of the discipline by dealing with the same theoretical and empirical challenges. On the other hand, the critical scientific discourse on the governance concept provides a basis for a substantial research on the relations in the Baltic Sea Region. This might be especially true for an interregional comparison of forms of governance and its intensity. If it is true that the Baltic Sea Region is a kind of “pioneer” with a long-standing tradition of transnational governance, it should be possible to examine the capacities of these arrangements as a kind of prototypical case study. Thus, the final part of this chapter proposes a way of using the analytical potential of the concept of governance by studying the different political levels and their influence by means of conducting a two-level comparison of the role of networks as actors in regional governance.

38 M. Joas, D. Jahn and K. Kern, Governance, p. 6. 39 S. Gänzle, Introduction, p. 4. 40 S. Ewert, Regional Higher Education Co-Operation: A Research Proposal to Compare the Baltic Sea and the Black Sea Regions. In: Revista Română pentru Studii Baltice şi Nordice, No. 3/2. (2011), pp. 199 – 224.

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4.  Water protection in the Baltic Sea Region and the governance of higher education cooperation The improvement of the Baltic Sea’s ecological status is one of the main tasks for regional policy in order to reduce the water’s barriers for regional development. This policy field is characterized by a high level of complexity and interdependencies. An example of one such interdependency is the interrelation of regional water protection policy and higher education policy. The enhancement of regional higher education cooperation is regarded as an appropriate way to improve the ecological status of the Baltic Sea. This positive externality is expected to come about through the creation of the required knowledge on the ecology of the Baltic Sea and its influences by regional research cooperation and the dissemination of this knowledge by collaborations in teaching. These goals of higher education cooperation are developed within the regional academic discourse, adopted, and put on a political agenda by regional governmental organizations like the CBSS.41 As a result, several initiatives and projects of academic cooperation are supported by the state and the state-centric regional political organizations. Thus, higher education cooperation in the Baltic Sea Region is a policy field where the core of the concept of governance is recognizable. The characteristics of governance elaborated by Grande (see above)42 are clearly visible: 1 the public good (healthy ecological status of the Baltic Sea) should be accomplished in a non-hierarchical way (cooperation of higher education institutions); 2 the individual governments put this aim on the agenda, yet non-state actors (the [private] academies) are substantially included; 3 interdependencies (e. g. between university activities and the ecological status of the Baltic Sea) are a core assumption of this policy, as well as: 4 the growing complexity (of marine environment and its protection) as a result of the decline of borders, making a hierarchical solution by the state unlikely and undesirable; and finally, 5 cooperation and coordination are key terms in the policy field. Hence, it makes sense to use the term governance to describe this regional policy. But Grande’s critical remarks are true here, too. To avoid the danger of

41 S. Ewert, Region Building, pp. 97 – 102. 42 E. Grande, Governance-Forschung, pp. 566 – 568.

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governance becoming an “empty signifier”, we first have to show the core cha­ racteristics of the governance arrangements. On this basis, we can then discuss the effect and capacities of these structures. I will illustrate the first step with a description of the Baltic University Programme (BUP), using the concepts of multilevel and network governance. The BUP is the largest regional academic network and one of the flagship projects in the action plan of the EU strategy for the Baltic Sea Region.43 In what follows I will briefly describe the network. 4.1.  The Baltic University Programme

The network of regional universities was founded in 1991. Initiated and coordinated by the University of Uppsala (Sweden), it has focused on environmental protection and sustainable development and democratization from its very beginning. Core activities are the coordination of research and the development of joint study courses, e. g. in water management or area studies. These courses are integrated into the regular study programmes at the partaking universities.44 Nowadays, about 225 universities and other higher education institutions take part. Regarding this number of participating institutions, the network has succeeded in terms of regional distribution. With around 9,000 students taking part annually, there is some evidence that the BUP network is successful in the dissemination of knowledge. Furthermore, it is successful in the acquisition of funding, being financed inter alia by the Swedish and Finnish governments, the Nordic Council of Ministers, the INTERREG programme for interregional cooperation of the EU, in addition to the membership fees of the higher education institutions. It is, however, much more complicated to evaluate the influence of these programmes on environmental protection and the improvement of water quality of the Baltic Sea—in other words, the public good named above.

43 European Commission, Action Plan concerning the European Union Strategy for the Baltic Sea Region, Commission staff working document, Brussels, 2009, SEC (2009) 712, http://ec.europa.eu/regional_policy/sources/docoffic/official/communic/baltic/ action2009.pdf (10.07.2013) 44 S. Ewert, Region Building, pp. 173 – 174.

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4.2.  The BUP as stakeholder in multilevel governance

In describing the activities of the BUP , the multilevel governance approach provides some analytical framework. As defined above, multilevel governance highlights the relations between actors and institutions across various territorial levels, as well as the relationship between state and non-state actors on and across these levels. The activities of the BUP clearly exhibit these characteristics. The basis is the cooperation of different scholars from higher education institutions that hold at least a certain degree of academic independence. For instance, the process of defining the content of courses in water protection management occurs on this basic level. The universities are state as well as private institutions, financed—at least partly—and governed by the ministries of education of the Baltic Sea littoral states. This governmental steering occurs on national and subnational level. On regional level, the regional political organizations— the Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS), the Baltic Sea Parliamentary Conference (BSPC), and the Nordic Council of Ministers (NCM)—support the BUP and highlight it as “best practice”.45 Last but not least, the EU is an important level for BUP activities: via the EU programmes, such as ERASMUS, part of the BUP activities is financed. Additionally, the EU integrated the BUP into its strategy for the Baltic Sea Region, taking the BUP as a “flagship project”.46 It is plausible that all these different institutions from different levels had some influence on the success of the BUP. But it is certain that some input (e. g. of the state as financier of public universities) is more important than others (e. g. of the regional political organizations which highlight the BUP on their agenda). Here, governance research has to analyse these different impacts. 4.3.  The BUP and network governance

The other side of the coin of governance analysis is the question of the influence of the BUP as a network on the public good—e. g. the water quality of the Baltic Sea Region. The governance frame is the policy research approach with its emphasis on the networks. Its normative basis is the assumption that 45 S. Ewert, Higher Education Cooperation and Networks in the Baltic Sea Region: A Basis for Regionalization and Region Building? In: Journal of Baltic Studies, No. 43/1 (2012), pp.  95 – 116. 46 Cf. C. Schymik and P. Krumrey, EU -Strategie für den Ostseeraum. Kerneuropa in der nörd­lichen Peripherie? Diskussionspapier der FG 1 der Stiftung Wissenschaft und Politik, Berlin 2009.

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governments and public administrations are unable to cope with the complexity of contemporary political systems and problems, while networks of social actors are able to do so. If we take Røiseland’s characteristics (see above) as a basis, the BUP clearly fulfils these attributes. The BUP has an institutionalized framework with administrative heads and rules on how to produce and share the curricula; it clearly has norms (e. g. to improve the ecological status of the Baltic Sea) and social imaginations (to enhance life quality in Baltic Sea Region). The sharing of knowledge is at the core of BUP activities. Furthermore, it contributes to the production of public purposes, defined amongst others by the CBSS. The improvement of water quality is one main directive, but also the cooperation of the higher education institutions in the Baltic Sea Region is a collective goal defined by the regional political organizations.47 While an analysis of the BUP’s influence on the enhancement of water quality remains to be undertaken, the present chapter aims to give some empirical evidence for the latter. 4.4.  The BUP—capacity and influence

In studying the BUP, the question of capacity and influence is twofold. Firstly, it concerns the question of the influence of the different levels in the multilevel structure outlined above on the BUP activities. Secondly, it includes the question about the impact of the BUP on the implementation of the public goods, formulated by several public institutions of this multilevel structure. Between 2006 and 2009, I conducted semi-structured interviews with 36 stakeholders of higher education cooperation in the Baltic Sea Region, inter alia via the BUP. One focus was the question of the influence of the regional political organizations (CBSS, BSPC, and NCM), the public administration, and the EU on intraregional collaborations.48 The perception of the regional organizations’ influence is rather low. Initiatives like the BUP recognize the forum function of the organizations, making the regional dimension of water protection visible. Yet to a large extent they negate a strong impact on their own activities. One exception is the NCM , which is able to finance certain intraregional cross-border cooperation. The NCM is, amongst others, donator of several BUP activities. The impact of the EU is clearly stronger, mainly due to 47 S. Ewert, Region Building, pp. 53 – 72. 48 S. Ewert, Motors for Regional Development: Impact of Regional Political Organizations on the University Cooperation in the Baltic Sea Region, In: Baltic Region No. 3/5 (2010), 37 – 45.

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its programmes for financial support of higher education cooperation initiatives. It turns out that the multilevel governance approach helps to describe the activities of the regional political organizations as a kind of “additional” level between nation states and the EU. Yet, in accordance with Grande’s perception of governance research results, the capacities of these organizations (especially the CBSS and the BSPC) appear rather limited.49 It seems to be even more difficult to study the impact of the networks on the implementation of public goods. To my understanding, there is hitherto no empirical analysis of the networks’ influence on water protection in the Baltic Sea Region (see above). Yet, there is some evidence for the BUP’s influence on the second—derived—public good, the regional co-operation of the universities. The numbers of partaking institutions and students might be a first empirical indicator in this field. To study this in more detail, I developed an index of regional higher education cooperation, applied to the particular universities (see Table 1). This index measures the regional collaborations of the higher education institutions in terms of academic exchange, double- or joint-degree programmes, language courses, joint research projects, and joint publications in relation to the international collaborations overall.50 Empirically, I compared the 70 higher education institutions of Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and Mecklenburg/Western Pomerania and their embedding in the Baltic Sea Region 2007. As a result, there is a highly significant, medium strong correlation between this index of regional embedding and the membership in the BUP. The same is true for the membership in the second large academic network, the Baltic Sea Region University Network (BSRUN). Table 1: Correlation between participation in regional higher education networks and the regional embedding in teaching and research (IRN)51 Network

Correlations (Pearson’s r) with IRN

Baltic University Programme

.409**

Baltic Sea Region University Network

.557**

Source 

own calculation (** Significance at 0.01-Level)

49 For a discussion of the strategies for the regional political organizations to enhance their impact see S. Ewert, Region Building, pp. 249 – 265. 50 S. Ewert, Index regionale Vernetzung. Ein Vorschlag zur Erfassung der regionalen Kooperation von Hochschulen. In: G. Pickel and S. Pickel (eds), Indizes in der Vergleichenden Politikwissenschaft. Zeitschrift für Vergleichende Politikwissenschaft Special Issue 2 (2012), pp. 185 – 206. 51 S. Ewert, Higher Education Cooperation, pp. 95 – 116.

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Behind the empirical data, there is no evidence of causality. Yet, the data give evidence to suggest that membership in the networks gives some incentives for the universities to cooperate regionally in academic teaching and research. In terms of the governance approach in policy research, it indicates an effect of networks on public goods. Additionally, for the regional political organizations outlined above, the support for the networks seems to be an appropriate strategy. Two important empirical questions remain unanswered. Firstly, my analysis is not able to draw conclusions about the efficiency of networks. Secondly, to test the pioneer status of the Baltic Sea Region in terms of network governance, we need to expand this intraregional comparison on the level of the particular university to an interregional comparison. Such a systematic comparison would consist of three steps. First of all, the rationales behind the demand for a strong academic cooperation on regional level are to be compared concerning their role in the political and academic discourse and their regional adaption. Secondly, an analysis of the implementation in different projects would help to understand the adaption of the arguments in practice. For instance, a case comparison of the BUP and academic networks in other regions could depict the prospects and challenges of academic cooperation generating a positive externality on sustainability in the region. Thirdly, to test the pioneer status of the Baltic Sea Region in this policy field regarding its forms of governance, all higher education institutions should be included in the comparison of regions. An aggregation of indices for different kinds of higher education institutions and the comparison between different regions could then depict the background factors of regional integration and the role of the networks.52

5.  Conclusion Although the pioneer status of the Baltic Sea Region in terms of the introduction of new forms of governance can be analysed by means of an interregional comparison only, one can clearly see some typical governance constellations in individual regional case studies. As shown in the last part of this paper, higher education cooperation within the largest regional academic network, the BUP, is a typical governance constellation that helps to understand the “conceptual boundaries” of multilevel and network governance. With the cross-border character of these constellations, they are able to connect the region and its societies

52 S. Ewert, Regional Higher Education, p. 219.

Governance—an Analytical Concept to Study the Baltic Sea Region? 201

and bridge the Baltic Sea. Yet, the “load bearing capacity” of the bridge, i. e. the potential of the governance constellations to connect the societies around the Baltic Sea, depends on their effectiveness and efficiency to create public goods. With the intraregional comparison of 70 higher education institutions in the Baltic Sea Region, my research on regional academic cooperation gives some justification for the assumption that networks in the region could serve as a basis for the implementation of public goods. If the regional policy would aim to reduce the ecological barriers for regional development, and if regional academic cooperation in teaching and research is regarded as a pillar of water protection policy, the existing networks could contribute to this goal. My empirical analysis shows that membership in academic networks correlates significantly with a deeper regional collaboration of higher education institutions. This conclusion is not as trivial as it may sound. If the formal membership in the networks did not correlate with the factual regional embeddedness of the higher education institutions in teaching and research, the networks would not constitute a basis for the implementation of regional public goods—in other words, the region would be caught in the “governance trap” outlined by Edgar Grande. But, the empirical result indicates that this network as a new form of governance has an effect. With regard to other research too, there is some evidence that the policy activities in the Baltic Sea Region could have the potential to connect the region effectively. To substantially contribute to governance research, studies on Baltic Sea Region relations using the governance approach have to be connected to the current political science discourse on governance systematically. The regional governance research has to locate itself in the different concepts of governance and to integrate the main discussions and questions of this discourse. Having accomplished this, the Baltic Sea Region might be a crucial (prototypical) case study for the analysis of new forms of governance. There is some plausibility in the assumption that the region is a forerunner or pioneer of new forms of (regional) governance. Further interregional comparisons are necessary to test this thesis empirically. This comparative design could make an important contribution to governance research from an empirical and—derived from this—also from a theoretical perspective.

Tim-Åke Pentz, Daria Gritsenko

Maritime Governance in the Baltic Sea Region The EU’s Success Story?1

1.  Introduction Increasing demand for maritime resources in the course of expansion of both new and traditional maritime activities has twofold effects. On the one hand, it steps up pressure on marine ecosystems. On the other hand, it fuels conflicts between the groups of users competing for commercially and environmentally valuable marine areas. In response to this development, a growing number of coastal state governments have drafted integrated maritime strategies and passed new legislation with the aim of improving national maritime governance in coastal waters and in the Exclusive Economic Zones (EEZ ).2 Additionally, the dynamics of maritime ecosystems and the interconnectedness of marine habitats and sea basins compel the nation states to cooperate and find ways to coordinate their actions across borders.3 The

* Both authors have contributed equally to the paper and are listed in reverse alphabetical order. 1 The authors would like to thank Christer Pursiainen and an anonymous reviewer for the helpful comments. Any omissions and mistakes are, of course, ours. 2 F. Douvere, F. Maes, A. Vanhulle and J. Schrijvers, The role of marine spatial planning in sea use management: The Belgian case. In: Marine Policy Vol. 31 No. 2 (2007), pp. 182 – 191; J. Taussik, The opportunities of spatial planning for integrated coastal management. In: Marine Policy, Vol. 31 No. 5 (2007), pp. 611 – 618; W. Flannery and M. Ó Cinnéide, Marine spatial planning from the perspective of a small seaside community in Ireland. In: Marine Policy Vol. 32 No. 6 (2008), pp. 980 – 987; F. Maes, The international legal framework for marine spatial planning. In: Marine Policy Vol. 32 No. 5 (2008), pp. 797 – 810; H. Calado, K.Ng, D. Johnson, L. Sousa, M. Phillips, and F. Alves, Marine spatial planning: Lessons learned from the Portuguese debate. In: Marine Policy Vol. 34 No. 6 (2010), pp. 1341 – 1349; B. Trouillet, T. Guineberteau, M. De Cacqueray, and J. Rochette, Planning the sea: The French experience. Contribution to marine spatial planning perspectives. In: Marine Policy, Vol. 35 No. 3 (2011), pp. 324 – 334. 3 F. Douvere and C. N. Ehler, New perspectives on sea use management: Initial findings from European experience with marine spatial planning. In: Journal of Environmental

204 Tim-Åke Pentz, Daria Gritsenko

Baltic Sea Region (BSR ), one of the busiest maritime regions worldwide, is not an exception in this respect.4 This chapter explores the evolution of transboundary maritime governance in the BSR, aiming at contributing to the understanding of how collective action in maritime affairs can be improved. Evolvement of maritime governance in Europe has been investigated elsewhere.5 The role of the European Union (EU) in this process was stressed there as well.6 However, less attention has been paid to the mechanisms employed by the EU while setting up maritime gover­ nance, or to the challenges and opportunities stemming from the changing governance process. In order to investigate how EU activism may influence relations between governing actors, this chapter focuses on the introduction and development of Maritime Spatial Planning (MSP) in the BSR as a case in point. In the BSR, increasing competition for maritime resources initially led to the creation of country-specific strategies in addressing the conflicting uses of maritime spaces. However, the inherently transboundary nature of maritime practices, such as fishery or seafaring, undermined the effectiveness of sectoral problem-solving. Instead, MSP, merging ecological, administrative, and economic aspects into a planning process, is described as the cornerstone of future maritime governance in the BSR and beyond.7 The central argument in

Management, Vol. 90 No. 1 (2009), pp. 77 – 88; J. L. S. De Vivero, J. C. R. Mateos, D. F. Del Corral, Geopolitical factors of maritime policies and marine spatial planning: State, regions, and geographical planning scope. In: Marine Policy Vol. 33 No. 4 (2009), pp. 624 – 634; B. S. Halpern et al, Near-term priorities for the science, policy and practice of Coastal and Marine Spatial Planning (CMSP). In: Marine Policy Vol. 36 No. 1 (2012), pp. 198 – 205. 4 H. Backer, Transboundary maritime spatial planning: a Baltic Sea perspective. In: Journal of Coastal Conservation Vol. 15 No. 2 (2011), pp. 279 – 289. 5 L. Juda, The European Union and Ocean Use Management—The Marine Strategy and the Marine Policy. In: Ocean Development & International Law Vol. 38 No. 3 (2007), pp.  259 – 282. 6 P. Ehlers, R. Lagoni, Maritime Policy of the European Union and Law of the Sea. Hamburg 2008; A. Meiner, Integrated maritime policy for the European Union—consolidating coastal and marine information to support maritime spatial planning. In: Journal of Coastal Conservation Vol. 14 No. 1 (2010), pp. 1 – 11; E. M. De Santo, Environmental justice implications of Maritime Spatial Planning in the European Union. In: Marine Policy Vol. 35 No. 1 (2011), pp. 34 – 38. 7 F. Douvere, The importance of marine spatial planning in advancing ecosystem-based sea use management. In: Marine Policy Vol. 32 No. 5 (2008), pp. 762 – 771; N. Schaefer and V. Barale, Maritime Spatial Planning—opportunities and challenges in the

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this paper claims that the role of the EU as a platform for networking and idea diffusion (i. e. co-financing projects, promoting governance principles, prolife­ rating policy tools at operative level), as well as being an “institutional chassis”, is central to the consolidation of MSP as part of the maritime governance framework in the BSR. Even though the EU is not known as a forerunner in case of MSP, the development of the EU MSP policies under the supervision of the Commission has recently gained momentum.8 In order to provide arguments supporting the central claim, this paper aims at elaborating the following empirical research questions: 1 Which MSP key principles are promoted by the EU ? 2 Which MSP policy tools were promoted in the BaltSeaPlan project and what does the nature of these tools tell us about the possible ways maritime governance may change in the future? We built our investigation of maritime governance structures and processes on a single case, analyzing BaltSeaPlan 2009 – 2012, an EU co-financed pilot project on MSP. The information about this project was collected through both archival work and participant observations. We broadly use the official documents of the BaltSeaPlan project, including communications, minutes, and drafts plans, as well as interviews and private communication with BaltSeaPlan project participants and field notes collected in the course of field work, i. e. participation in project meetings and conferences. The methodological approach used in this study to understand the evolution of maritime governance in the BSR builds on the elaborations by Pierre Lascoumes and Patrick Le Gales.9 Following the instrumentation approach to the analysis of governance, we assume that the policy tools reveal more than a mere course of action planned to be undertaken. The in-depth analysis of tools provides an insight into the underlying interaction processes and reveals actors’ aspirations. Thus, this approach allows us to analyse the MSP policy tools in the light of the MSP principles put forward by the EU.

framework of the EU Integrated Maritime Policy. In: Journal of Coastal Conservation No. 15 (2011), pp. 237 – 245. 8 J. Zaucha, Offshore Spatial Information—Maritime Spatial Planning in Poland, In: Regional Studies, 4(46) (2012), pp. 459 – 473. 9 P. Lascoumes and P. Le Gales, Introduction: Understanding Public Policy Trough Its Instruments—From the Nature of Instruments to the Sociology of Public Policy Instrumentation. In: Governance Vol. 20 No. 1 (2007), pp. 1 – 21.

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The purpose of the empirical investigation is to provide insights into the changes in the BSR maritime governance that stem from the EU ’s growing activism in this field. However, addressing the question of how the EU activism relates to the evolution of maritime governance, this paper reaches beyond an analysis of MSP as a set of regulatory practices. It shows how the shift occurred from a sectoral to a spatial understanding of maritime policy organization, which emphasizes the interconnectedness of different practices at different ­levels, and challenges traditional forms of governance. The narrative of shared sea space as a proxy for shared responsibility has also been studied in other fields, such as sustainable development and climate change adaptation,10 cross-border cooperation,11 vessel-based pollution,12 or education 13 (see Stefan Ewert’s chapter in this volume). Thus, this contribution relates to a broader theoretical discussion on how changes occur in complex socio-ecological systems (SES).14 The chapter proceeds as following. First, it introduces the analytical framework and its implications for studying maritime governance in the BSR. Second, it presents the challenges to contemporary maritime governance and conceptualizes MSP as a response to these challenges. Third, it gives an analytical overview of the policy tools used in the project BaltSeaPlan, looking at two dimensions of governance: as a structure and as a process. Finally, the single case analysis is contextualized within the narrative of MSP development in the BSR , pointing out the EU principles directed to the development of MSP in overcoming maritime governance challenges. The chapter concludes with an analytic discussion of growing EU activism in the field of maritime governance in the BSR and suggests avenues for further research.

10 K. Kern, Governance for Sustainable Development in the Baltic Sea Region. In: Journal of Baltic Studies Vol. 42 No. 1 (2011), pp. 67 – 81. 11 J. Scott, Cross-border Governance in the Baltic Sea Region. In: Regional and Federal Studies Vol. 12 No. 4 (2002), pp. 135 – 153. 12 D. Gritsenko, The Russian Dimension of Baltic Maritime Governance. In: Journal of Baltic Studies Vol. 44 No. 4 (2013), pp. 425 – 449. 13 Cf. paper by Stefan Ewert in this volume. 14 The term socio-ecological system (SES) was proposed by Elinor Ostrom, see E. Ostrom, A General Framework for Analyzing Sustainability of Social-Ecological Systems. In: Science No. 325 (2009), pp. 419 – 422.

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2.  Analytical framework 2.1.  Maritime governance: An instrumentation approach

Whenever the term “governance” is used in the scholarship, it requires an explicit discussion of the term’s substantive meaning. Extensive use of the term “gover­ nance” in various disciplines (e. g. political science, management, organi­zational studies, economics) and its embeddedness in the political agenda beyond academia has led to a significant blurring of its substantive boun­daries.15 This paper adopts a broad understanding of governance, taking into account the existence of various ways in which governance denotes a capacity to “get things done”, drawing upon multiple actors, various rules which structure the actions of the actors, and different modes of coordination between these actors.16 For the purpose of this chapter, we define maritime governance as “the repertoire of rules, norms, and strategies that guide behaviour within a given realm of policy (maritime policy—DG) where interactions are formed, applied, interpreted, and reformed”.17 The broad definition emphasizes the complexity of the governance concept, but lacks the analytical clarity that will allow direct application of the gover­ nance concept in empirical political research. In order to compensate for this deficit and to utilize conceptual advantages of the governance theory, measurable phenomena describing governance have to be found. In the existing research, governance is “grasped” by turning to either analysis of institutions or interactions. The institutional analysis of governance emphasizes the structural build-up, but lacks the dynamic dimension of governance as a process, giving a “snapshot” description rather than a complex understanding. Instead, the study of interactions used analytical tools supplied by, for example, network analysis, (critical) discourse analysis, and game theory, to capture the processual side of governance. The instrumentation approach to the study of governance elabo­ rated by Lascoumes and Le Gales (2007) allows the study of governance as both process and structure. By focusing on policy tools as indicators of both the 15 G. Stoker, Governance as theory: five propositions. In: International Social Science Journal Vol. 50 No. 155 (1997), pp. 17 – 28; A. Benz, N. Dose, Governance—Regieren in komplexen Regelsystemen. Wiesbaden 2010. 16 J. Kooiman, Governing as Governance. London 2003. 17 M. D. Mcginnis, An Introduction to IAD and the Language of the Ostrom Workshop: A Simple Guide to a Complex Framework. In: Policy Studies Journal, Vol. 39 No. 1 (2011), pp.  169 – 183, p.171.

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“who governs” and “how governs” dimensions of governance,18 this approach allows one to account for both institutions and identify actors embedded in them.19 Different from a functionalist view of the governance instruments, the instrumentation approach seeks to understand the relationship between the (public) regulator and the regulated entity by exploring the origin, content, and power implications of (technical) policy tools. Conceptualizing the tools as policy-implementation choices, the instrumentation approach allows for the study of the emergence of new tools as an indicator for proliferation of new relations between the actors involved in the governance process. This paper, then, utilizes the instrumentation approach as an exploratory method, bene­ ficial in terms of the preliminary identification of actors and structures relevant to the maritime governance. This analysis allows for assessing the theoretical propositions derived from governance theory in empirical terms and for generating a more precise hypothesis about the role of the EU in MSP governance to guide further in-depth investigation. Thus, the instrumentation approach opens up a unique perspective for governance analysis. 2.2.  Analytical consequences of governance approach to MSP

The protection of marine environment, i. e. allocation of space in avoidance of potential use conflict, exhibits properties of public goods. One of the central claims of the conventional public goods theory is that in the international arena free-rider incentives will result in negative externalities and the undersupply of desired goods by public actors. The emergence of MSP has changed the position of actors traditionally involved in maritime governance. In particular, it changed the role of coastal states in regard to the provision of public goods. Traditionally, their activities have been limited to controlling and litigating actions within the immediate waterfront. The proliferation of conflicts between multiple sea users (e. g. shipping companies, off-shore energy produ­ cers, fishermen) has shifted the role of coastal states from one of constraint, to that of an enabling actor, involved in the planning of maritime spaces and the resolution of users’ conflicts. 18 Lascoumes and Le Gales, Introduction, p.15. 19 For discussion see C. Hood, Intellectual Obsolescence and Intellectual Makeovers: Reflections on the Tools of Government After Two Decades. In: Governance Vol. 20 No.  1 (2007), pp.  127 – 144; H. Kassim, P. Le Galès, Exploring Governance in a Multi-Level Polity: A Policy Instruments Approach. In: West European Politics Vol. 33 No. 1 (2010), pp.  1 – 21; Lascoumes and Le Gales, Introduction.

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The shift in roles and responsibilities of maritime stakeholders shifted the governance process accordingly. The MSP approach seeks to bring together multiple users of the sea to make use of marine resources in a sustainable way. Thus, it requires a co-regulatory space in which rules can be developed and reformed by engaging in a more collective decision-making process. However, any governance process is always embedded in governance structures. Maritime governance structures, for their part, range from hierarchical state systems, which involve exclusively governments, to negotiation and competition systems that consist of configurations of state and non-state actors.20 A match between governance structure and process is an essential precondition for functioning governance. Thus, the analytics of governance approach suggests that MSP can be successful by virtue of creation of governance arrangements, enabling a match between processes and corresponding structures. This chapter argues that in the BSR the EU’s active involvement can establish this match.

3.  MSP as a response to maritime governance challenges in the BSR Governance of maritime affairs in the Baltic Sea Region unfolds against the background of persistent normative conflicts within and between coastal states, such as (1) varying emphasis on maritime governance aims (e. g. environmental conservation vs. propelling economic growth), (2) varying modes of governance (e. g. expert “top-down” decision making versus plural stakeholder-oriented “bottom-up” decision making), and (3) varying understanding of risks and opportunities of maritime business identified by actors involved in maritime governance in the BSR. These conflicts impede the proliferation and consolidation of maritime governance, which seek to overcome collective action problems in the maritime domain and deliver sustainable solutions for the development of maritime activities (Table 1). The essential challenge to maritime governance in the BSR is thus intertwined with the growing interdependencies in economic, politico-administrative, and natural environments and the absence of a cross-cutting approach integrating multiple actors at these levels. Maritime spatial planning is sought to be an expedient response. Charles Ehler and Fanny Douvere define MSP as “a public process of analysing and allocating the spatial and temporal distribution of human activities

20 T. Börzel and T. Risse, Governance without a state: Can it work? In: Regulation and Governance No. 4 (2010), pp. 113 – 134.

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in marine areas to achieve ecological, economic, and social objectives that are usually specified through a political process”.21 Following this definition, MSP is understood as an integrative and cross-sectoral approach which aims at increasing compatibilities and reducing conflicts across sectors, balancing development and conservation interests, increasing institutional effectiveness and efficiency, and addressing the cumulative effects of multiple human uses of the same marine space.22 Thus, in the light of multiple stakeholder conflicts, MSP can be seen as a response to a number of maritime governance challenges. Observations

Challenges

Econo­ mics

increasing use of maritime spaces by different maritime sectors (e. g. shipping, offshore wind-power production, big scale infrastructure projects); new emerging maritime markets (e. g. aquaculture, blue pharmacy); restructuring of maritime industries (e. g. shipbuilding); economic crisis.

increasing chance of pollution (noise, harmful substances, marine litter, collisions); increasing chance of conflicts between different sectors/uses (e. g. shipping vs. offshore wind-farming vs. fisheries); loss of jobs in traditional maritime industries (e. g. shipbuilding, fisheries); threat of recession.

Politics and Adminis­ tration

vertical fragmentation of maritime governance (e. g. energy department, natural conservation department, transport department, mining department); horizontal fragmentation of maritime governance (e. g. international level, EU level, national level, subnational level, local level); some multiple use areas in the BSR cross national boarders (e. g. Pomeranian Bight); different types and cultures of governance in maritime affairs varying from country to country (e. g. centralized, federal).

complex and costly licensing procedures for both public administration and private business; complex and costly interdepartmental coordination needed to avoid contradicting decision-making; complex and costly coordination between different levels of governance needed to avoid contradicting decision-making; cross-border planning and decision-making is hampered.

21 C. Ehler and F. Douvere, Marine Spatial Planning—A step-by-step approach toward ecosystem-based management. In: Intergovernmental Oceanographic Commission, IOC Manual Guides 53 ICAM Dossier 6. Paris 2009, p. 18. 22 P. M. Gilliland, D. Laffoley, Key elements and steps in the process of developing ecosystem-based marine spatial planning. In: Marine Policy, Vol. 32 No. 5 (2008), pp. 787 – 796; UNESCO-IOC, Marine Spatial Planning (2012), http://www.unesco-ioc-marinesp.be/ marine_spatial_planning_msp?PHPSESSID=l4pfk1necr1qb4dp9vlql8ikr1 (15.06. 2012.).

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Ecology

Table 1 

Observations

Challenges

environmental status of the Baltic Sea is still impaired (e. g. increase of oxygen-free “dead zones”); loss of marine biodiversity; overfishing; interconnectedness of maritime ecosystems with regard to pollution.

loss of maritime ecosystem-services (e. g. recreation, food, pharmaceuticals).

Challenges of maritime governance in the BSR (own compilation)

The challenges indicated in Table 1 are by no means limited to the BSR alone. However, the BSR was chosen as a suitable case to investigate the proliferation of maritime governance for a number of reasons. First, recognized by all regional actors, the pressing need for an improvement of the ecological status of the Baltic Sea and its coasts provides a natural starting point. Indeed, to present date, none of the Baltic Sea basins vulnerable to anthropogenic and non-anthropogenic impacts has an acceptable environmental status.23 Some researchers fear that the Baltic Sea is so heavily polluted that the people, as well as the flora and fauna, of all countries on its shores are threatened.24 Secondly, high expectations for economic growth and financial stability are linked to the BSR maritime economy.25 Thirdly, even though the governance setting of the BSR is extremely complex, with nine coastal states and a mix of governmental, intergovernmental, and non-governmental actors spread across multiple governance levels,26 the BSR is considered to be a pioneer and a blueprint for other regions regarding transnational cooperation and the development of

23 HELCOM (2010). Ecosystem Health of the Baltic Sea HELCOM Initial Holistic Assessment. In: Baltic Sea Environmental Proceedings, 122; HELCOM (2010). Towards an ecological coherent framework of well managed Marine Protected Areas. In: Baltic Sea Environmental Proceedings, 124A [the same]. 24 L. Rydén, P. Migula and M. Andersson, Environmental Science—Understanding, Protecting and Managing the Environment in the Baltic Sea Region. Uppsala 2003. 25 C. H. M. Ketels, State of the Region Report 2011: The Top of Europe’s Quest for Resilience—A Competitive Region Facing a Fragile Global Economy. In: Baltic Development Forum, Copenhagen 2011, http://www.bdforum.org/reports-publications/state-of-theregion-reports/ (15.06. 2012.); S. Stiller and J. Wedemeier, Zukunft Ostseeraum: Potentiale und Herausforderungen, HWWI Policy Report Nr. 16, Hamburg 2011. 26 B. Löwendahl, C. Pursiainen, Multilateral cooperation and spatial development. In: BBSR Informationen zur Raumentwicklung Vol. 8 No. 9 (2009), pp. 613 – 620.

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new ways of governing common resources.27 This mix of acute environmental problems yielding for prompt solutions, and of a well-developed institutional framework and a positive record of previous cooperation offered by the BSR, proved to be a feasible constellation for testing MSP in the EU context. Eventually, this growing EU activism will make the BSR suitable for investigation into the dynamics of maritime governance in Europe. Methodologically our investigation of maritime governance structures and processes is pursued in the form of a single case study. Being aware of the limitations of the chosen research design, we consider this single case to be a valid illustration of the changes in governance process for a number of reasons. The case under scrutiny is an EU co-financed pilot project on MSP, ­BaltSeaPlan 2009 – 2012, implemented in the framework of the EU Baltic Sea Region Programme. This project was the first all-embracing MSP policy test that built upon the principles and tools elaborated by the EU with the broad involvement of MSP experts. Additionally, the BaltSeaPlan is a case well suited for the purpose of instrumentation analysis, since it is thoroughly documented, providing rich empirical data.

4.  The BaltSeaPlan project: Analysis from governance perspective 4.1.  BaltSeaPlan project 2009 – 2012

The project BaltSeaPlan was developed as a pilot and flagship project in the framework of the EU Strategy for the Baltic Sea Region (EUSBSR) Action Plan. This EU co-financed project specified objectives and tools with regard to MSP, aiming at a new level of implementing MSP in the EU. Fourteen partners including universities, public authorities, and NGO s from seven Baltic Sea coastal states (Denmark, Estonia, Germany, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, and Sweden) co-operated to provide input into the realization of the EU Maritime Policy, the Helsinki Commission’s (HELCOM) Baltic Sea Action Plan, and the Vision and Strategies around the Baltic Sea (VASAB) Gdansk Declaration. According to the project description the planning processes included i. e.:

27 M. Joas, K. Kern and S. Sandberg, Actors and Arenas in Hybrid Networks—Implications for Environmental Policymaking in the Baltic Sea Region. In: Ambio: A Journal of the Human Environment. Vol. 36 No. 2 (2007), pp. 237 – 242.

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•• documentation of the legal framework, organizational responsibilities, and competences on national, regional, and international levels for MSP; compilation of general MSP principles (from the EU but also from VASAB •• and HELCOM); •• stocktaking and compilation of relevant oceanographic data according to the EU INSPIRE directive;28 •• involvement of relevant stakeholders in the planning exercise; •• elaboration of propositions on how to solve conflicting issues such as shipping routes, offshore wind-power production, nature conservation, and fisheries; testing the decision support tool MARXAN (Marine Spatially Explicit Anneal•• ing) for MSP purposes; •• drafting common maritime spatial plans for the pilot areas.

Considering the limited scope of this paper, there is no room to discuss all project outcomes in detail. The BaltSeaPlan project partners issued 31 reports on different aspects of MSP including the draft maritime spatial plans for the pilot areas, impact assessments of sea use, reports on data exchange structures, and recommendations for legislative action regarding MSP in Europe for MSP.29 Finally the BaltSeaPlan Vision 2030 elaborates spatially relevant visions for marine spaces of the Baltic Sea Region shared by all project partners.30 In the next section we focus on three governance tools that were tested in the framework of BaltSeaPlan. 4.2.  Instrumentation analysis of three tested MSP tools

Drawing upon the instrumentation approach, we identify governance tools as concrete measures of policy implementation. We consider any tool with a potential to alter policy outcomes to be relevant for the purposes of our analysis. We provide an analysis of the three MSP tools tested in the B ­ altSeaPlan project (strategic environmental assessment, the decision support tool MARXAN,

28 Directive 2007/2/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council of 14 March 2007 establishing an Infrastructure for Spatial Information in the European Community (INSPIRE). In: Official Journal of the European Communities L108, 1 – 14, 25 April. Brussles: European Commission. 29 For an overview see A. Schultz-Zehnden and K. Gee, Findings—Experiences and Lessons from BaltSeaPlan 2013, http://www.partiseapate.eu/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/ BaltSeaPlan-Findings.pdf (15.06.2013.). 30 K. Gee, A. Kannen and B. Heinrichs, BaltSeaPlan Vision 2030 (2012), http://www. baltseaplan.eu/index.php/Reports-and-Publications;809/1#vision (15.06.2012.).

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stakeholder involvement), in order to reveal two dimensions of governance: Who governs? and How governs? The first analytical dimension, Who governs?, seeks to identify the actors, which might be (1) any governmental body, official, or authority, pointing out that governance is primarily made by the government itself, (2) any governmental body in cooperation with private stakeholders (e. g. by outsourcing or public-private partnership), pointing out that governance is orchestrated but not led solely by the government, also known as “governance-with-government”, (3) private stakeholders, also in the form of non-governmental organizations, private associations etc., which take gover­nance action without government. The second analytical dimension, How ­governs?, seeks to identify mechanisms exploited by the actors. Both questions are crucial for understanding of governance functioning. 4.2.1.  Strategic Environmental Assessment in MSP

Description: According to the Directive 2001/42/EC  31 on the assessment of the effects of certain plans and programmes on the environment, a Strategic Environmental Assessment (SEA) must be carried out during the process of MSP. Every SEA report must cover a description and assessment of the marine environment, a description of any substantial impacts on the marine environment that are caused by the implementation of an MSP, measures aiming at reducing these impacts, and a compatibility test regarding Natura2000 areas. Responsibility (Who governs?): The Directive 2001/42/EC refers to autho­rities with environmental responsibilities. Data gathering and preparation of the SEA may be outsourced. Still the responsibility of the final SEA report remains with the public authority. In Germany for example the Federal Maritime and Hydrographic Agency (BSH) has been given the mandate in the SEA process for MSP in the North Sea and the Baltic Sea with consent of the Federal Ministry of Transport, Building, and Urban Development. Implementation (How governs?): There are but few examples of SEA of a maritime spatial plan in Europe at the time of writing. The SEA for the MSP in the German EEZ is one of those examples. In Germany MSP of the exclusive economic zone started in 2005 accompanied by the SEA report. The draft MSP and the SEA documents have been made available to the public and have been 31 Directive 2001/42/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council of 27 June 2001 on the assessment of the effects of certain plans and programmes on the environment. Official Journal of the European Communities L197, 30 – 37, 21. July. Brussles: European Commission.

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sent to other agencies and NGO s for comments. Public hearings have been held to discuss the submitted comments with more than 100 representatives from NGOs and agencies. Because of the changes, another phase of public and trans-boundary participation was carried out before the legal ordinance for the maritime spatial plan was put into force by the Federal Ministry of Transport, Building, and Urban Development in 2009. Another example is the Polish case of SEA of the MSP of the western Gulf of Gdansk. Even though this example was a test run in the framework of the BaltSeaPlan project undertaken by an interdisciplinary team of specialists, two rounds of consultations for submissions of comments and two stakeholder meetings were organized. In the German and the Polish case, the original plan has been amended and improved regarding environmental knowledge and concerns.32 Comments: Experience with SEA for MSP is limited and the Treaty of Lisbon has not yet established a basis for an own EU spatial planning.33 There are no EU standards available for MSP: specific regulations or definitions for SEA in MSP matters have not yet been developed. However, the involvement of stakeholders (e. g., NGO s, sea users, and other concerned parties) is vital for public authorities responsible for the MSP in order to gather the necessary information, concerns, and amendments to guarantee a substantial MSP process. 4.2.2.  Site selection/optimization tools (e. g. MARXAN with Zones)

Description: When data and knowledge about marine areas and human use is available, site selection or optimization tools can be powerful policy instruments in coming up with solutions in multi-criteria decision-making. For example, MARXAN with Zones is a site selection and decision support tool developed by The Ecology Centre, Queensland University. Its purpose is to assign each planning unit in a study region to a particular zone in order to meet a number of ecological, social, and economic objectives at a minimum total cost and with an inter-subjectively-revisable method.34 32 N. Nolte et al., Strategic Environmental Assessment in MSP. Recommendations from the German and Polish experience, BaltSeaPlan Report 25 (2012), http://www.baltseaplan.eu/index.php/Reports-and-Publications;809/1#SEA (1506. 2012.). 33 W. Erbguth, Recommendations for legislative action regarding the maritime spatial planning in Europe, BaltSeaPlan Report 31 (2011), http://www.baltseaplan.eu/index.php/ Reports-and-Publications;809/1 (15.06. 2012.). 34 M. E. Watts, C. Steinback and C. Klein, MARXAN with Zones (V1.0.1) Conservation Zoning using spatially explicit annealing—a manual (2008),

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Responsibility (Who governs?): MARXAN is free downloadable software that can be used by anyone at any time, given that the right data is available and MARXAN skills are at hand. Whether or not it is used by the responsible planning authority depends upon existing ordinances. In any case, stakeholders, scientists, and NGOs can use MARXAN to influence planning processes by presenting different science-based planning scenarios. Implementation (How governs?): In the framework of the BaltSeaPlan project, MARXAN with Zones was used experimentally to identify suitable sites for offshore wind-power production in the pilot area Pomeranian Bight/Arkona Basin. The MARXAN specialists worked close together with the planning unit in evalu­ating areas according to their suitability for certain uses, presenting different planning scenarios, and thus generating substantial input for the final plan.35 Comments: Policy tools like MARXAN can evaluate scenarios and check revisions as proposed by stakeholders against the agreed targets and objectives. However, site selection tools or optimization tools are only as good as the data or the input available. Data usually comes from very different sources and institutions. This means that not all data is free of charge and that the data in most cases needs some kind of harmonization. All this is costly and it is likely that not everyone who wants to run a MARXAN process can afford it. Furthermore, distinctions have to be made between quantitative data, which can be measured, and political decisions based on values or targets, which sometimes blur inter-subjective decision-making in MSP . Still, even in this case, a tool like MARXAN helps to make the policy process more transparent. All political input or planning decisions, which are politically motivated, need to be clearly stated and documented while using MARXAN. 4.2.3.  Stakeholder involvement

Description: The management and involvement of stakeholders is commonly acknowledged as an important policy tool for MSP. It strives to get as many participating stakeholders as possible to acknowledge a certain kind of ownership

http://www.uq.edu.au/marxan/index.html?page=77066&p=1.1.6 (15.06.2012.). 35 C. Göke and J. Lamp, Case Study—Systematic site selection for offshore wind power with MARXAN in the pilot area Pomeranian Bight. In: BaltSeaPlan Report 29 (2012), http://www.baltseaplan.eu/index.php/Reports-and-Publications;809/1#windmarxan (15.06.2012.).

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and thus support of and compliance to a respective MSP.36 The term ‘stakeholder’ can be defined as individuals or groups, or organizations, which are (or will be) affected, involved, or interested (positively or negatively) in MSP measures or actions in various ways.37 There are, according to the Intergovernmental Oceanographic Commissions, several reasons to involve the stakeholders.38 Stakeholder involvement encourages ownership of the spatial plan, engenders trust among stakeholders and decision makers, and encourages voluntary compliance with rules and regulations. It helps to gain a better understanding of the spatial and temporal complexity of the marine areas to be managed, the human impact, the underlying and often sector-orientated desires, perceptions, and interests. Responsibility (Who governs?): In democratic societies, public authorities on different levels are bound by hard and soft law to inform and/or involve stakeholders in planning matters. Even though not always directed directly to MSP, there are several conventions and acts on different governance levels that bind the contracting parties to ensure public consultation and provide possibilities for commentary and objections on the proposed activity. On the international level, one example is the Aarhus Convention on the Access to Information, Public Participation in Decision Making, and Access to Justice in Environmental Matters ratified on 10 July 2001. On the European level the Directive on Public Participation in Environmental Procedures (2003/35/EC) or the Directive on Establishing a Framework for Community Action in the Field of Marine Environmental Policy (2008/56/EC)39 can be listed. For the EU members in the BSR this also includes corresponding laws on the national level, 36 H. Ritchie and G. Ellis, A system that works for the sea’? Exploring Stakeholder Engagement in Marine Spatial Planning, Journal of Environmental Planning and Management Vol. 53 No. 6 (2010), pp. 701 – 723; T-A. Pentz, Stakeholder Involvement in Maritime Spatial Planning, In: BaltSeaPlan Report 24 (2012), http://www.baltseaplan. eu/index.php/Reports-and-Publications;809/1#stakeholder (12.06.2012.). 37 R. Freeman, Strategic management: A Stakeholder Approach. Boston 1984; R. Mitchell, B. Agle and D. Wood, Toward a Theory of Stakeholder Identification and Salience: Defining the Principles of Who and What Really Counts. In: Academy of Management Review Vol. 22 No. 4 (1997), pp. 853 – 886. 38 C. Ehler and F. Douvere, Marine Spatial Planning—A step-by-step approach toward ecosystem-based management. In: Intergovernmental Oceanographic Commission, IOC Manual Guides 53 ICAM Dossier 6. Paris 2009. 39 Directive 2008/56/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council of 17 June 2008 establishing a framework for community action in the field of marine environmental policy (Marine Strategy Framework Directive). In: Official Journal of the European Communities L164, pp. 19 – 40, 25 June. Brussles: European Commission.

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which bind the national or sub-national authorities in this respect. In some BSR countries, for example in Sweden and Poland, management of stakeholder involvement can be outsourced to specialized companies. However, experiences have shown that in this case, the external company needs financial and informational support of authorities to guarantee an appropriate stakeholder management process (Pentz 2012). Implementation (How governs?): Stakeholder management can be run in a strict formal and minimalistic way, i. e. as a compulsory task with the aim to not constrain the planning process (basic information and limited time for objections). On the other hand, it can be run as a more comprehensive and empowering activity involving all groups, which are interested in a certain planning process. This was the case within the BaltSeaPlan project. One of the MSP principles stated that MSP should be based on sound information and scientific knowledge. Since maritime data is in short supply, all parties involved were interested in the exchange of information, ideas, and different planning scenarios. This happened, for example, in workshops using different approaches like the Café Scientifique method. The Café Scientifique is defined as a place where, for the price of a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, anyone can meet to discuss the latest ideas of science that are impacting society.40 Table 2 illustrates the sequence in stakeholder engagement within the BaltSeaPlan project in Latvia. Date and place

Activity

1 Feb. 2010, Jūrmala

Seminar on “Introducing Marine Spatial planning in Latvia”

22 Oct. 2010, Pāvilosta

2nd stakeholders’ event on Pilot MSP for the western coast of Latvia: discussion on the use potentials of the marine space in the pilot area

14 Jun. 2011, Liepāja

3rd stakeholders’ event on Pilot MSP for the western coast of Latvia: discussion on draft zoning of the pilot area

21 Oct. 2011, Riga

Seminar on scenarios for wind park and tourism development in the project pilot area

16 Nov. 2011, Ventspils Final stakeholders’ event on Pilot MSP for the western coast of Latvia 7 Dec. 2011, Riga Table 2 

Seminar on “New approaches to Maritime Governance” 41

BaltSeaPlan stakeholder involvement sequence, example: Latvia (BEF, 2012)

40 D. Dallas, Café Scientifique-Déjà Vu. In: Cell Press, Vol. 126 No. 2 (2006), pp. 227 – 229. 41 BEF, Development of Maritime spatial planning in the Baltic Sea (BaltSeaPlan), Baltic Environmental Forum 2012, http://www.bef.lv/112/784/ (15.06.2012.).

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Comments: Knieling and Othengrafen (2009)42 stress that spatial planning is strongly rooted in and restricted to the cultural contexts or traits of a society. This is also true for any MSP that includes stakeholder management. Some European countries seem to be more active in promoting the comprehensive involvement of stakeholders in decision-making and planning in the form of co-governance. Others seem to limit stakeholder management to information on websites and strict by-the-rule procedures according to the motto: “if someone wants to complain or have a say, he or she should search for the right information, we don’t carry the hounds to the hunt”. However, as the ­BaltSeaPlan project has shown, in a time of emerging conflicts between maritime uses, cumulative negative effects on maritime ecosystems, and in situations with limited access to the maritime data that is needed to manage human use of sea space, comprehensive stakeholder involvement is increasingly accepted as a central component for MSP and maritime governance in general. 4.3.  Instrumentation of the BaltSeaPlan project: an analytical summary

Table 3 presents a summary of the previous section and enables a quick look at the MSP governance tools elaborated in the BaltSeaPlan project. First, it shows that a mix of public and private actors is meant to be involved in the governance process. Second, it points out that the process is more likely to be initiated by the authorities, rather than by “bottom-up” activism. This is mirrored in the central position of the state authorities to the project implementation tools. This reveals that in the governance of maritime spaces, actors are trapped in a situation of strategic interdependence. In the first place, the strategic interdependence of public and private actors stems from the very nature of MSP. The irreversibility of natural processes and the natural scientific uncertainties create an additional pressure upon the maritime spatial plans launched by maritime stakeholders. At the same time, this strategic interdependence shows in the information asymmetries. Whereas sometimes the private stakeholders are capable of using the tools theoretically, the information required for successful implementation is held by the governmental authorities, and vice versa. Thus, the gap between the implementation capacity and the knowledge needed for its effective use has to be bridged to provide for functioning maritime governance. Finally, all three tools require mixed forms of governance for their accurate use. Still, these tools alone cannot set co-governance processes, but require a

42 J. Knieling and F. Othengrafen, Planning Cultures in Europe, Farnham 2009.

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consensus of the actors upon the governance process, as well as the governance structure capable of supporting and reinforcing this process. Maritime Spatial Planning policy tool

“Who governs?” (body in charge)

“How governs?” (top-down vs. bottom-up)

Governance mode by/with/without state

Strategic Environmental Assessment (SEA)

Governmental authorities responsible for the MSP.

Involving the public is a key feature of SEAs, still the SEA is run by the responsible authority → rather top-down with bottom-up influxes.

A mix of governance by the state (responsibility) and with the state (public hearings).

Decision support tools (e. g. MARXAN)

Open source instrument open to everyone at any time.

Public authorities are not bound to use decision support tools like MARXAN. However, if used by NGOs these tools may have an argumentative influence on the planning outcomes → rather bottom-up.

Governance with the state.

Stakeholder involvement

Governmental authorities responsible for the MSP.

Planning authorities usually have to inform or consult stakeholders in one way or another. Traditional stakeholder management is rather top-down. Stakeholder Involvement works more on a collegial basis → mix of top-down and bottom up.

Governance with the state.

Table 3 

MSP policy tools analysis (summary)

Summing up, the BaltSeaPlan project is an attempt to structure on-going conflicts and reveal the potential synergies arising in the Baltic MSP by exploiting a set of clearly defined tools. The EU ’s financial, institutional, and legislative support coming from the structural funds, the EU Directorate General Maritime Affairs (DG Mare), and the legislative effort of the EU institutions respectively, all created an environment enabling the development of the project. Therefore BaltSeaPlan can be seen as an example of the formalization of the MSP processes that gradually emerged in the BSR. Rich factual material allows in-depth investigation of interaction processes between project actors, but leaves room for interpretation as well as contextualization of the single case in question within a broader maritime governance narrative. Acknowledging

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this, in what follows we will frame the BaltSeaPlan as one of the most recent developments in the Baltic MSP and seek to explain the viability of this project.

5.  BaltSeaPlan project in a wider context The proliferation of MSP in Europe started to reach its present tempo in the beginning of the 2000s. This poses a question regarding the factors that created incentives for different actors (UNESCO-IOC, EU Commission, VASAB, HELCOM, national states) to get actively involved in the development of MSP. One explanation is a wish to tackle the challenges resulting from an increasing use of marine resources. Another explanation is the struggle to determine MSP in the light of their sovereign interests. In particular, in the BSR the content and reach of MSP is currently contested between different actors at different levels—not least by the European Commission. For the EU, the focal point in this struggle is the question as to whether the maritime governance of European seas will develop in the direction of supra-national regulation or remain state-centric. The European Commission as a protagonist of EU MSP did not start from scratch: the experiences in developing new approaches to maritime governance in the BSR had already been made by national states (Germany for example) and intergovernmental organizations (VASAB Wismar Declaration 2001). However, the European Commission boosted the development of MSP through the introduction of the EU IMP, which was taken as a basis for all maritime actions in the EUSBSR. At the same time, EU activism in developing the MSP was connected to overcoming the two main challenges: •• defining a set of principles on which all actors can agree as their common vision (in terms of subject-matter, process character, governance mechanisms, expected outcomes) and would act upon; finding the tools which will allow activation of governance mechanisms •• capable of setting the MSP process along a self-reinforcing path in alliance with its principles. These challenges were gradually addressed by the EU in the course of the proliferation of MSP in the BSR, and this process was reconstructed on the basis of the BaltSeaPlan 2009 – 2012 development. We distinguish between four different phases (Figure 1).

222 Tim-Åke Pentz, Daria Gritsenko “Blurry” phase No coherent approach to MSP in the BSR. No agreed MSP principles or process sequences.

Figure 1 

Agenda-setting phase MSP becomes part of EU IMP. Gathering of MSP information. Formulation of common basic MSP principles.

Policy-testing phase Tools are selected and tested in a EU co-financed project according to the EU MSP principles.

The dynamics of EU involvement in MSP in the BSR.

Consolidation phase EU legislation OR EU recommendations and member state specific implementation? Question: How much EU maritime governance will come through? t

“Blurry phase”. Up till the time when MSP emerged on the EU’s political agenda, the European Commission and in particular the DG Mare could draw upon experiences from institutions like VASAB (Vision and Strategies around the Baltic Sea), an intergovernmental organization on the ministerial level, as well as from experiences of single-member and non-member states (e. g. Germany, the USA, Australia), which had already elaborated Maritime Spatial Plans in their coastal waters. However, the differences between the legal status of MSP in the EU member states and a lack of co-ordination between them presented an opportunity for the European Commission to assume more influence in developing maritime governance in the BSR . For example, the management of marine data or differences in offshore licensing processes were mentioned as hampering “blue growth” in the BSR. Agenda-setting phase. A substantial breakthrough for MSP in Europe happened in the past few years, when the EU started to co-finance early projects on MSP (e. g. BALANCE or BaltCoast), eventually referring to MSP in the Blue Book on Integrated Maritime Policy as a “fundamental tool for the sustainable development of marine areas and coastal regions, and for the restoration of Europe’s seas to environmental health”.43 Further developed in the Roadmap

43 Communication 2007/575 final/COM from the Commission to the European Parliament, The Council, The European Economic and Social Committee and the Committee of the Regions of 10 October 2007 An Integrated Maritime Policy for the European Union (p. 6.).

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on Maritime Spatial Planning,44 which laid down the EU MSP key principles (Table 4), MSP really became an idea whose time had come.45 Key principle

Description

1. Using MSP according to area and type of activity

MSP should be based on the type of planned or existing activities and their impact on the environment.

2. Defining objectives to guide MSP A strategic plan for the overall management of a given sea area should include detailed objectives. 3. Developing MSP in a transparent manner

Different steps of MSP need to be easily understandable to the general public.

4. Stakeholder participation

To achieve broad acceptance, ownership, and support for the MSP implementation it is important to involve all stakeholders at the earliest possible stage of the planning process.

5. Coordination with member states—simplifying decision processes

MSP simplifies decision-making and speeds up licensing and permit procedures. Cross-cutting MSP need streamlined planning and application processes.

6. Ensuring the legal effect of national MSP

MSP should be legally binding and needs appropriate administrative frameworks in the member states.

7. Cross-border cooperation and consultation

Cooperation across borders is necessary to ensure the coherence of plans across ecosystems.

8. Incorporating monitoring and evaluation in the planning process

Transparent and regular monitoring and evaluation mechanisms should be part of MSP to react to environmental changes.

9. Achieving coherence between terrestrial planning (including coastal zones) and maritime ­spatial planning.

Land-based impacts on marine ecosystems should be incorporated in MSP.

10. Strong data and knowledge base

MSP has to be based on sound information and scientific knowledge.

Table 4 

Key principles of MSP according to COM (2008) 791 final (abridged by the authors)

Policy-testing phase. In the next step, the EU co-financed the trans-­boundary MSP pilot project BaltSeaPlan. The tools used in this project, designed to 44 Communication 2008/791 final/COM from the Commission of 25 November 2008 Roadmap for Maritime Spatial Planning—Achieving Common Principles in the EU. 45 C. Ehler, Conclusions: Benefits, lessons learned, and future challenges of marine spatial planning. In: Marine Policy No. 32 (2008), pp. 840 – 843.

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develop maritime spatial plans, embraced EU principles. Thus, the EU actively initiated the transformation of MSP from theory to praxis. Consolidation phase. The consolidation of a coherent approach to MSP in all member states appears as a logical final step for the EU in establishing its role in maritime governance. Usually, this implicates the passing of a comprehensive EU directive (as in the case of the Maritime Strategy Framework Directive). However, it has been argued that the EU is more likely to pass directives that establish rules for harmonization of member states’ MSP legislation.46 Summing up, the investigation of the four phases in the EU MSP develop­ment points out that for the time being it is too early to make any clear-cut judgment regarding the future maritime governance patterns in the BSR. Whether the consolidation phase can be reached by the means developed by the EU and whether the EU will gain the leading role in setting the arena for MSP and maritime governance in general remains to be seen. However, on the basis of our research, the challenges and opportunities emerging in the field of maritime governance due to the EU’s growing activism in this field can be assessed as indicated below.

6.  Conclusions This paper aimed at assessing the features of the maritime governance in the BSR. It investigated the on-going process of MSP development and analysed the pilot project BaltSeaPlan, conducted under the auspices of the EU. It sought to uncover the implications of the MSP promoted by the EU for the future of Baltic maritime governance, in particular the attempts of the EU to bring about changes in the maritime governance structure and process. The MSP principles elaborated by the EU indicate that the Commission favours the proliferation of the so-called “new forms of governance”. It seeks to address the current challenges in the maritime governance by the introduction of participatory, integrated, and trans-boundary tools. The analysis of EU policies in the maritime domain indicates EU aspirations in this field; however, it cannot foresee if these aspirations will be realized. In order to assess the current situation, we turned to an analysis of governance tools. The analysis of MSP tools implemented under the BaltSeaPlan project allowed us to discover the processes underlying and structures forming the governing interaction in the MSP field.

46 W. Erbguth, Recommendations for legislative action. In: BaltSeaPlan Report 31 (2011).

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The analysis presented in this paper indicates that the aspiration put forward by the EU often conflicts with the nation-state based MSP processes in the Baltic littoral states. The representative rather than participatory, and the sectoral rather than integrated character of current policy-making and shaping highlights the sensitivity of MSP issues, which are still understood as an inherent part of the state’s sovereign domain. At the same time, a justification of the need to set up trans-boundary rules is rather straightforward, since it stems from the very nature of the subject matter. The rapid proliferation of EU activism in the field of MSP shows that the Commission was quick and successful in adopting this justification and presenting the EU-led policies as a necessary condition for developing a truly integrated and common approach to maritime governance. The theory suggests that a match between a structure and process is a precondition for effective governance. In practical terms, the EU was rather successful in leading and mainstreaming the process. The BaltSeaPlan project is a good illustration of this. Even though the Maritime Spatial Plans developed in BaltSeaPlan are not legally binding, the project represented the first attempt to plan sea space and maritime uses in a cross-border manner, including a wide array of governmental and non-governmental stakeholders. It also put to the test several MSP tools. The main achievements of the project were the drafts of trans-boundary Maritime Spatial Plans, the exchange and harmonization of spatially relevant data, the assessment of different legal frameworks, the assessment of the need to establish (or to empower existing) bodies, agencies, or organizations on the national and regional level, coordinating and preparing maritime spatial plans, and, finally, the provision of experiences (good practices and practical difficulties) for future MSP processes. The results of BaltSeaPlan already had a measurable impact on national, bi-lateral, and regional maritime policies and strategies.47 BaltSeaPlan, thus, helped to pave the way to draw up trans-boundary eco-systems and stakeholder process based Maritime Spatial Plans throughout the BSR as it is envisaged by 2015.48

47 T-A. Pentz, BaltSeaPlan Project: Trans-boundary Maritime Spatial Planning in the Baltic Sea. The case of the Pomeranian Bight, ESaTDOR European Seas and Territorial Development, Opportunities and Risks, Governance Case Studies: Baltic Sea, pp. 33 – 47, http:// www.espon.eu/export/sites/default/Documents/Projects/AppliedResearch/ESaTDOR/ FR_160413/20130417_annexes/ESaTDOR_FR_Annex_10_Baltic_CS.pdf (15.06.2013.). 48 Communication 2012/128 final/COM from the Commission to the European Parliament, The Council, The European Economic and Social Committee and the Committee of

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On the other hand, the EU seems to be less successful in promoting structural changes in Baltic maritime governance. The inability of the EU to bring about a structural change is, however, explained by a lack of competence rather than by a lack of willingness. A superior legal standing of coastal states as primary actors in MSP prevents the Commission from enacting prompt interventions. Projects like BaltSeaPlan can be seen as an attempt to induce an incremental structural change by setting up new participatory processes along the way and offering and financially supporting tools with a potential to create co-governance spaces. Whether the processes launched by the EU will indeed stimulate structural changes and lessen the role of nation-states in MSP remains to be seen.49 Eventually, the success of the EU MSP can be seen in relation to prolife­ rating EU competences in this field.

the Regions of 23 March 2012 concerning the European Union Strategy for the Baltic Sea Region. 49 The latest proposal of the EU Commission, COM (2013) 133 final. 2013/0074 (COD ) Proposal for a directive of the European Parliament and of the Council of 12 March 2013 establishing a framework for maritime spatial planning and integrated coastal zone management, requires the EU Member States to establish maritime spatial plans. Since this proposal was issued after the submission of this contribution, it could not have been included in the chapter’s text; nevertheless we wanted to draw readers’ attention to it. The Directive proposal respects the Member States prerogatives to tailor the content of the plans and strategies to their specific economic, social, and environmental priorities, as well as their national sectorial policy objectives and legal traditions. However, Member States will have to draw up maritime spatial plans and will have to fulfil procedural minimum requirements with regard to the maritime spatial planning process. First informal reactions from the Member States indicate that this proposal is assessed as being ambitious in terms of a relatively short time given for the legislative procedures and the rather detailed requirements for maritime spatial planning which will have to be fulfilled by the Member States.

Jan Henrik Nilsson

Logistic Revolutions and territorial change Implications for the Baltic Sea region

1.  Introduction The “short” twentieth century (1914 – 1991) might for the Baltic Sea region be symbolically understood as the period between the Battle of Tannenberg in August 1914 and the formation of the human chain between Tallinn and ­Vilnius in August 1989; a peaceful demonstration against the forces of violence let lose 75 years earlier. During the twentieth century, the Baltic Sea region was in many respects a battlefield, a zone of conflict between regional actors, the great powers, global military alliances, and ideological systems. These conflicts broke up established territorial delimitations, patterns of habitation, networks, and relations. The last twenty years are sometimes described as a return to “normality”, which of course is not true.1 However, now that the armies are no longer the focus of our attention, other perspectives can come into view. The fall of the Iron Curtain and the subsequent opening of borders and barriers became the driving force behind a phenomenal increase in cross-border mobility in the Baltic Sea region. New possibilities emerged: for trade, commerce, investments, employment, tourism, political and scientific cooperation, and in contact between ordinary citizens. In the 1990s, new patterns of interaction emerged as others faded. Simply speaking, Poland and the three Baltic States strengthened their relations to the West at the same time as their relations with other parts of the former Soviet Union became relatively less important.2 In the beginning of the twenty-first century, these countries were formally integrated into the European political structure. The purpose of this chapter is to discuss the relation between technolo­gical and economic development on the one hand and territorial change on the other, in relation to a theoretical framework based on the concept of logistic

1 Some aspects of this question are discussed in Marta Grzechnik’s paper in this volume. 2 J. H. Nilsson, Östersjöområdet. Studier av interaktion och barriärer. Meddelanden från Lunds universitets geografiska institution, avhandlingar 152, Lund 2003.

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revolutions. Structural and periodical development of transports, infrastructure, and mobility, described in terms of logistic revolutions, will be highlighted as driving forces for territorial change. The focus on logistical revolutions, as described below, provides a long-term perspective on the historical development of territorial formations. It is argued that there is a relationship between functional aspects of territoriality, based on mobility, and the development of political territories. However, this relationship is not to be viewed as causal, nor as linear, but rather as a perspective adding additional understanding to complex historical processes. Such a perspective might also be highly relevant for an analysis of contemporary global change. The end of the Cold War has, together with globalization, inspired a rich literature in which the changing structure of the world’s political geography is discussed.3 Following Jörg Friedrichs, “the modern states system is moving in two opposite directions simultaneously, towards global integration and local fragmentation”.4 Transnational networks and organizations force global integration, whereas the increasing relative power of cities and regions may be viewed as a factor advancing fragmentation. In the 1990s, there was a lively scholarly debate about functional territorial formation in relation to the dramatic geo-political transformation of the ­Baltic Sea region.5 Since the Baltic Sea region has increasingly become a part of western European political structures, the debate seems to have become less lively, which is problematic since it is only from today that we can actually study some of the outcomes of this unique combination of geo-political transition and economic restructuring that have taken place since 1989. One of the aims of this chapter is to make a contribution to filling this gap. Mobility, in the widest sense of the word, has always been a strong driving force behind economic and political development. Patterns of structural change in the economic history of Western Europe can be conceptualized as a series of logistic revolutions. This concept goes back to the Belgian historian Henri Pirenne and his explanation of the (re-)emergence of cities in high medieval 3 See J. Agnew, K. Mitchell and G. Toal (eds), A Companion to Political Geography. Malden 2003; N Brenner, B. Jessop, M. Jones and G. Macleod (eds), State/Space, A Reader, Oxford 2003; C. Flint and P. Taylor, Political Geography. Harlow 2007. 4 J. Friedrichs, The Meaning of New Medievalism. In: European Journal of International Relations Vol. 7 (2001), p. 478. 5 See references in: J. H. Nilsson, Östersjöområdet and K. Peschel, Perspectives of regional development around the Baltic Sea, in: The Annals of Regional Science 32, 1998, pp.  299 – 320.

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Europe.6 Building on Pirenne, the Swedish economist Åke E. Andersson claims that “the sequence of revolutionary changes of the world economy over the last millennium can be explained by the changing structure of broadly conceived logistic systems. In other words: ‘The great structural changes of production, location, trade, culture, and institutions are triggered by slow but steady changes in the logistic networks’.”7 Logistics can be defined as the administration of material flows, including transportation, flows of information, and organization.8 Logistic networks could thus be viewed in terms of a combination of material and immaterial infrastructure, where the material infrastructure is understood as physical networks of transports and communication and the immaterial infrastructure as knowledge, legal systems, social organization, and institutions. Long-term changes in the structure of logistic networks influence cost structures in the whole economic system; what we call logistic revolutions (great structural changes) depended on reductions of transport costs, transaction costs, and the costs of production and distribution.9 The relative importance of individual factors of production and localization factors were changed accordingly. The literature building on Pirenne discusses three historical logistic revolutions.10 It can also be argued that we entered a fourth one in the 1970s. The first logistic revolution developed in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries as a result of safer sea routes in the Mediterranean and the coasts and rivers of the North and the Baltic Sea. Improved shipping technology, the cogs, made it possible to transport larger volumes along the coasts of medieval Europe. As a result of increasing trade, towns and cities began to grow;11 the thirteenth century was a period of rapid urban growth in Western and Central Europe. The towns, inhabited by a new class of independent burghers, became centres of urban production and commerce, and nodes in international trading

6 H. Pirenne, Economic and Social History of Medieval Europe. London 1936 (1972). 7 Å. E. Andersson, Presidential Address: The Four Logistical Revolutions. In: Papers of the Regional Science Association Vol. 59 (1986), p. 1. Original emphasis. 8 Nationalencyklopedien, Höganäs 1993. Searchword: logistik. 9 D. E. Andersson and Å. E. Andersson, Infrastructural change and secular economic development. In: Technological Forecasting & Social Change No. 75 (2008), pp. 799 – 816. 10 Å. E. Andersson and U. Strömqvist, K-samhällets framtid. 1988; C. Jönsson; S. Tägil and G. Törnqvist, Organizing European Space. London 2000. 11 See A. I. Mees, The Revival of Cities in Medieval Europe. An application of catastrophe theory. In: Regional Science and Urban Economics No. 5 (1975), pp. 403 – 425.

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networks.12 Northern Italy became the first economic heartland of Europe, followed by Flanders and the towns of the Hanseatic League, which were bridging the centres of urban production in the West with the sources of raw material in the North and East. The second logistic revolution, starting around 1600, is associated with innovations in shipping technology and navigation, and the rise of modern science. The opening of the North Atlantic trade routes had an immense economic impact on Western Europe. Larger ships, longer journeys, and larger investments made improvement in the transaction system necessary. Banks were improved and controlled by state authorities. The modern states of Western Europe started to take an active interest in economic life, i. e. the mercantilist policy associated with Louis XIV. The third revolution—the Industrial Revolution—starting in Great B ­ ritain in the late eighteenth century, was mainly driven by industrial production, generating high rates of economic growth and accumulation of capital. New technological innovations such as the steam engine and the railways, in combination with the use of fossil fuels, improved and stretched regional and global transport networks. Modern capitalism organized itself in new forms such as the joint-stock company; the western economic system became almost global in scope. The fourth, present logistic revolution, is mainly associated with information and communication technology, which has made production more efficient by allowing distant units to work integrated in real time. The Internet has improved communication between people and organization and developed into a new channel for distribution of information, culture, and services. The focus of technological innovation is today divided between the global knowledge centres of North America, Western Europe, and East Asia.13 Though a bit simplistic, it can be argued that the first logistic revolution was driven by changes in the transport system; the second by innovations in the system of financial transactions; the third by improved production technology; and the fourth by innovations in the distribution of information. Although logistics is primarily associated with transportation of goods, the pursuit of logistics builds on technological developments that are equally important to transportation of people, i. e. for travel. Advances in marine technology during the first and second logistic revolutions became a driving force for the development of long-distance commercial travel, overseas migration, 12 Pirenne, Economic and Social History. 13 D. E. Andersson and Å. E. Andersson, Infrastructural change, pp. 799 – 816; Å. E. Andersson, Presidential Address, pp. 1 – 12; P. Dicken, Global Shift. Mapping the changing contours of the World economy. 5th ed. London, 2007.

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and the slave trade. The industrial revolution resulted in dramatically reduced costs of travel that in turn drove commuting, international business travel, and tourism. Improved information and communications technology, following the fourth logistic revolution, has not become a substitute for travel. Instead, digital communications and physical travel seem to be mutually reinforcing increasing global interaction.14 It is evident from the discussion above that there is a distinct geographical dimension to the sequence of logistic revolutions. The innovations behind them were first developed in specific historical and geographical contexts, from which they spread to other parts of Europe and the world beyond. The centres of economic development moved from the small medieval trading cities and regions, via the large port cities of northwest Europe, to the industrial regions in Europe and North America during the nineteenth century. The present pattern is more geographically heterogeneous; distances and routes seem to have less impact than localized knowledge-based factors; comparative advantages have lost importance in relation to competitive advantages.15 It is nevertheless clear that structural changes in the means and structure of mobility have been an important driving force in reshaping the economic geography of Europe. In relation to the great structural changes described above, the consequences for regional development and for the restructuring of urban economies have been very much in focus. The dramatic impacts of de-industrialization witnessed in most parts of Europe and North America make such a focus inevitable.16 Issues related to territorial formation and territorial change, however, have not much come to the fore. The terms “territory” and “territoriality” come from the word terra, ‘soil’ in Latin. From their inception, these concepts have had an earth-bound, physical, meaning. Over time, a territory has come to be understood as an area with a clear delimitation, i. e. a piece of land within a

14 T. F. Golob and A. C. Regan, Impacts of information technology on personal travel and commercial vehicle operations: research challenges and opportunities. In: Transportation Research Part C: 9. (2001) pp. 87 – 121; J. Moodysson and M. Svensson-Henning, IT, affärsresor och flygtrafik. Förstudie och några empiriska resultat. Rapporter och Notiser 163. Lund 2002. 15 P. Dicken and P. E. Lloyd, Location in Space. Theoretical Perspectives in Economic Geography. New York 1990; M. E. Porter, The Competitive Advantage of Nations, London 1990; M. Storper, The resurgence of regional economies, ten years later: The region as a nexus of untraded interdependencies. In: European Urban and Regional Studies No. 2 (1995), pp. 191 – 221. 16 See: D. Harvey, The Conditions of Postmodernity. Oxford 1990.

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boundary. In more general terms, territory means a political space or a sphere of power;17 territoriality is thus related to power and spatial organization. Traditionally, territorial structures have mainly been discussed in relation to traditional politics, “matters of the state”. But territoriality can also be described as functional development on the ground, as functional territoriality. This could be expressed in terms of interaction, mobility, migration, patterns of connections, demographic development, and in practical terms as regional integration or the formation of functional urban regions. Needless to say, functional territoriality is closely related to structural economic change. In the following three sections of this chapter, the relationship between technological and economic development on the one hand and territorial change on the other is analysed in general terms. The outline follows the analytical framework based on logistic revolutions. The second section discusses the first and the second logistic revolutions, the third section the industrial revolution, and the fourth section discusses current developments, i. e. the fourth logistic revolution. The next section focuses on recent developments in the Baltic Sea region. The dynamics of recent changes in mobility patterns are illustrated with the help of a case study of the development of passenger aviation in the eastern part of the Baltic Sea region. Finally, some implications of changes in mobility patterns for the changes of functional territorial formations in the Baltic Sea region are discussed.

2.  Archipelagic systems, the territoriality of waterways In the movement of goods, waterways have historically had an advantage in that there is less physical friction of transports on water compared to those on land; long-distance trade has therefore mainly been based on water. In this section, the relation between water-based transport systems and territorial formations will be discussed, focusing on the first and second logistic revolution. For most of our history, leading trade organizations and commercial powers such as the Vikings, the Hanseatic League, the Netherlands, and the British Empire, have been centred around waterways. During the entire ­second millennium there was constant development in naval technology, making transports more efficient. In the sixteenth century, trade across the oceans was added to the coastal trade of medieval Europe, making commercial prospects even

17 G. Törnqvist, Människa, teknik och territorium, Stockholm 1997.

Implications for the Baltic Sea region 233

greater. Shipping technology improved to make longer journeys on the high seas possible; the cogs gave way to the caravels and flutes and ultimately to the oceangoing steamers. Larger and heavier cargoes could be carried. Scientific innovations in navigation and cartography were necessary prerequisites for this progress. The developments in transportation technology associated with the first and second logistical revolutions were thus mainly naval in character. This was in growing contrast to the slow developments in land transports; not much happened until the introduction of the stagecoach system in the mid-eighteenth century. Since the fall of the Roman Empire, roads had fallen into disrepair. Bands of robbers made the remaining routes unsafe, forcing merchants to travel in organized groups without the protection of any state authority. Trade on the rivers was subject to numerous penalties and local customs, acting as forceful barriers to long-distance trade.18 The disintegrated territorial structure and unclear conditions of authority typical of medieval and early modern Europe made it difficult to provide a level of security sufficient for trade to flourish. The dynamic systems of interaction related to the waters were very different to life in landlocked areas and peripheral hinterlands. On land, the friction of distance was much higher than on water. In general, the organization of ­society is based on the influence of distance; distance is so fundamental to spatial organization that it is almost taken for granted. Overcoming distance requires effort and some form of cost. In its primary form it requires physical labour for walking or for the transport of goods. There will also be direct costs involved: for fuel, means of transport, and for the infrastructure needed; if not there will be an indirect cost for the time consumed, time that could be spent doing other productive work.19 Accordingly, people will have more contact, more interaction, with people and places close to them than with places at greater distances. The effects of such basic geography were revealed by the Swedish historian Dick Harrison when discussing the development of the Swedish state.20 Until the thirteenth century, political power in what was to become the Kingdom of Sweden was mainly regional in character. The province, in Swedish land or landskap, was the basic level for political, clerical, and legal organization. However, when Sweden became a more mature political formation in the

18 Pirenne, Economic and Social History. 19 Dicken and Lloyd, Location in Space. 20 D. Harrison, Sveriges historia 600 – 1350, Stockholm 2009.

234 Jan Henrik Nilsson

thirteenth century, the waterways were to become increasingly important for the integration of the state. In fact, the Swedish realm was built around four basic lines of communication: the central Swedish lakes towards the mouth of Göta älv and the North Sea; the Gulf of Bothnia; the Gulf of Finland, and the western shores of the Baltic Sea towards Kalmar. When the function of a capital city became permanent, Stockholm’s central position in the transport system made it the obvious choice. Port cities often became the nodes that connected rural hinterlands to the outer world. In the Baltic Sea region most important cities were located at river mouths or other strategic naval locations. Gradually, as trade and the monetary economy developed, the water-based economy created a commercial network, a system of trading cities. The Hanseatic League is of course the most important example in Baltic history, but the networks of Baltic Sea ports survived the League by centuries—even into the twentieth century.21 Thus, increasing mobility created a concentration of activities to the cities. Urban trade and commerce was also promoted by the cities’ relative independence, which was much stronger in the German parts of the Baltic Sea region than in the Nordic countries. The difference between the cities and their rural hinterlands also influenced their ethnic composition. Trading peoples like the Swedes, the Germans, and later the Dutch, frequently made up substantial parts of the urban population in Baltic Sea cities outside their own homeland. Even small Nordic towns like Malmö had substantial German minorities connected to commerce and trade.22 In cities of East Central Europe (east of the Oder) the ethnic composition differed substantially from that of the surrounding rural areas until the twentieth century. For example, Riga was founded by Germans and dominated by its German population; Vilnius was mainly a Jewish and Polish city surrounded by a primarily Lithuanian countryside.23 Nineteenth-century urbanization that followed the industrialization process, together with nationalist policies, mass forced population movements, and ultimately the Holocaust, changed all this. During the period discussed in this section, two different sets of mobilities were at play. They involved different dynamics, speeds, and patterns of interaction. The first one was bound to the land, tied to agricultural production. This was a system of relatively self-contained local economies with limited 21 S. De Geer, Storstäderna vid Östersjön. In: Ymer 1912. 22 R. Bokholm, Handel och vandel, Tre generationer Suell, Stockholm 2004. 23 K. Baedeker, La Russie. Manual du voyageur. Leipzig 1893; K. Gerner, Centraleuropas historia. Stockholm 1997; Latvijas Vestures Atlantis, Riga 1998.

Implications for the Baltic Sea region 235

exchange with the outer world; most trade was short range. Only few people moved outside their immediate surroundings. These were the circumstances that inspired the German economist J. H. von Thünen in writing the classic work in economic geography, Der Isolierte Staat in Beziehung auf Landwirtschaft und Nationalökonomie from 1826.24 The second one was water based, centred on the cities as centres of monetary commerce and as nodes in far-reaching trading systems. Cities were also connecting their rural hinterlands with foreign economies. Generally, this system was characterized by overlapping territorialities, i. e. a system where more than one political actor (or set of actors) could claim authority over the same geographical place: “In medieval Europe political authority was layered and overlapping. Authority over territory was neither exclusive nor discrete, and occupants of a particular territory were subject to a multitude of authorities”.25 Even within a spatially limited region the political actors could develop complex systems of power relations. This was for instance the case in medieval Livonia, where knights, bishops, and other regional actors had different obligations not only to one another but also to outsiders like the Teutonic Order and the Danish king.26 In parallel to this basically feudal system, a series of trading networks connected vast parts of Europe and the Middle East. These networks were organized in more or less formal ways to facilitate trade and commercial relations. The networks, such as the Hanseatic League, and the cities belonging to them gained political power by their economic strength. This in turn was made possible thanks to their relative freedom in relations to the landed powers, and to the personal freedom of their burghers (city-zens). The clerical network of the Church in Rome had similar network-based power resources thanks to its spiritual influence. As we have seen in this section, systems of mobility based on the primacy of waterways tend to promote territorial formations based on networks; the nodes in such networks tend to become important commercial and political centres. The relation between the networks and land-based dynastic territories lead to a system of overlapping territorialities. However, as will be shown in the next section, the sea and the rivers were soon to lose their importance in relation to the process of territorial formation.

24 Dicken and Lloyd, Location in Space. 25 C. Jönsson; S. Tägil and G. Törnqvist, Organizing European Space, London: Sage, 2000, p. 66. 26 M. North, Geschichte der Ostsee, Handel und Kulturen. München 2011, p. 51.

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3.  Land-based territorialities Over a long period of time, numerous small territorial units merged into m ­ odern independent states. Earlier territorial units were not states in the modern sense of the word. They were rather like properties ruled by noble dynasties or territories linked to the Church in the form of bishoprics or monastic estates. An important reason behind the consolidation of the modern state was the development of military technology along with increasing quantitative dimensions of warfare, which demanded a larger material resource base for the armies: “The wars produced the state and the state fought the wars”.27 The modern state gained its legal recognition as the primary category in international politics in the seventeenth century. In the Peace of Westphalia, sovereign territorial power was given to all the different German principalities, ecclesiastical units, and free cities. This included the power over the population’s religious convictions.28 The only supreme power recognized was the Empire, which over time became increasingly insignificant. This was the beginning of the end of the system of over-lapping territorialities and the beginning of modern territorial thinking, focusing on independent territorial states. The modern states developed towards inner integration and clearer delimitations to their neighbours. The states also expanded their sphere of influence in society. The states began to develop economic policies to increase domestic prosperity; this had been unknown in medieval Europe.29 Over time, the system promoted a simplification of the territorial structure, as seen on a map. However, for real functional integration to take place, fundamental technological change was necessary. The third logistic revolution was an important factor for further strengthening the integration of the modern state. Modern modes of transport made it easier to travel between different parts of the country, to deliver messages, and for authorities to maintain control. The railways, followed by the telegraph, opened up the large inland territories for exploitation and trade, the United States being the most obvious example of this. The scale of industrial production generated growth of large manufacturing towns and cities. The railways strengthened national integration in large countries like Germany and France.30 27 G. Törnqvist, Människa, teknik och territorium, p. 22, author’s translation. 28 J. Rosén, 1500- och 1600-talens historia, Lund 1972. 29 Pirenne, Economic and Social History. 30 R. Cameron, Världens ekonomiska historia. Lund 2001; D. Dillard, Västeuropas och Förenta staternas ekonomiska historia. Malmö 1993; G. Törnqvist, Sverige i nätverkens Europa. Malmö 1996.

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The industrial means of communication were in most cases developed within national territories with the capital cities as major nodes in the systems. That way, peripheries were closely tied into to the national political and economic arenas. New means of transport and communication made new national public spheres possible. Social innovations like mass media, national school systems, and conscripted armies made up important parts of common national spaces of experience. These were means of creating a sense of internal community and loyalty to the state. Social communication within the territory is, according to Karl Deutsch, a necessary prerequisite for creating a sense of national belonging.31 Nationalism is thus a relatively late phenomenon, based on the necessary infrastructure to communicate “national belonging”. During the democratization process, politics was organized according to territorial principles. Parties, trade unions, and voluntary movements were organized nationally, and in turn, subdivided along the hierarchical regional structures of the territorial states. It is in line with the integration process of the nation-state that we may understand traditional political geography as a scientific field, being an ideological construction in the service of nationalist politics.32 During the period prior to 1914, there was a complex relationship between the integration of the territorial state, and a relatively open and liberal international economy. In the modern territorial states, national economic systems developed alongside national political systems. Cooperation between government and business interests was emerging, influencing for instance trade and customs policies. The international system was on the other hand based on free trade, large movements of capital and investments, and freedom of travel. There was also a contradiction between nationalist foreign policies and an otherwise open and non-repressive international environment. Passports were for instance regarded as uncivilized; something only Russian subjects had to put up with.33 This liberal international political and economic climate disappeared in 1914. The interwar period was characterized by nationalist agendas and protectionist trade policies in order to strengthen national integration. Border controls, racial policies, and xenophobia followed suit. The ethnic mix typical of many parts of Europe and the Mediterranean was increasingly viewed as an ano­ maly, as something other than the ideological role model for the homogeneous 31 K. Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication. Cambridge Mass. 1953. 32 J. H. Nilsson, Friedrich Ratzel och Rudolf Kjellén, två av den politiska geografins pionjärer. In: T. Lundén and S. Öberg, eds. Politisk Geografi. Forskningsrapporter från kulturgeografiska institutionen nr. 111. Uppsala 2000. 33 See: S: Zweig, Världen av igår: en europés minnen, Stockholm 1943.

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nation-state.34 In times of conflict, most importantly during the two world wars, the issue at stake was most often the territorial belonging of border regions with ethnically mixed populations. On numerous occasions, from Turkey during World War I to the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s, populations were murdered, expelled, or exiled for the purpose of creating “proper” national territories. The largest of these movements took place during and after World War Two when millions of Germans were expelled from their homes in East Central Europe. Thereafter the division of populations resembles the lines drawn on maps. Indeed, reality was changed to fit the maps. The contemporary mix of ethnicities is not seen on territorial maps of border regions, but in the mixed faces of European cityscapes. In the post-war period, the contradiction between increasing international openness and relatively strong domestic state power saw a return. There was a very strong ambition to liberalize international relations following thirty years of war and fascism. A whole series of organizations, often related to the United Nations, were founded to promote free trade, monetary stability, and economic development. But the system as such was basically built on the Westphalian principles, and thereby on relations between strong and independent states. For example, international aviation was regulated by a series of “freedoms of the air”, which in turn were managed in bi-lateral agreements between national government agencies (who did their best to protect national interests and monopolies).35 The Nordic welfare states were among the most efficient state constructions in history. Over a relatively short period of time these territorial states managed to bring ever-larger components of society into the public domain. The role of the state gained acceptance by internal solidarity and through the efficiency of the public sector. The state was even stronger in the socialist countries in East Central Europe, where economic life was state controlled, though it fell short of political legitimacy due to repression and mismanagement. Soviet communism could be regarded as the final stage in the development of the modern state. To conclude, a large degree, the territorial state was built on innovations in land-based transports, making national integration possible. In the following section it will be argued that the modern territorial state system is challenged by structural change connected to the fourth logistic revolution.

34 R. Kjellén, Stormakterna I, II. Stockholm 1911/12. 35 R. Doganis, The Airline Business, 2nd ed. London 2006.

Implications for the Baltic Sea region 239

4.  Structural change and the birth of discontinuous territoriality In Europe, the post-war period was a miracle of prosperity. Compared to previous periods, standards of living reached unexpected levels, or, as the British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan put it: “Our people have never had it so good”. In economic terms the post-war period ended with the structural crises in the mid-1970s. Basically, it could be described as a crisis within the Fordist production paradigm, i. e. within “mass production for mass consumption” (or as the end of the fourth Kondratiev cycle). In the West, the crisis resulted in de-industrialization, rising levels of unemployment, and other problems related to structural change in the production system.36 The structural crisis coincided with the beginning of the fourth logistic revolution. In fact, these developments could be described as inter-dependent, mutually re-enforcing one another. Thus far, the fourth logistic revolution has mainly been driven by innovation in information and communication technology (ICT). These innovations come from two different, but converging, scientific fields: communication technology (the transmission of information) and computer technology (the storing and processing of information). As with most kinds of technological progress, they build on a series of previous technologies. Electronic transmission of information stretches back to the invention of the telegraph in the mid-­nineteenth century. From there, it developed through telephone, radio, and TV to satel­ lites and fibre optic cables, which support mobile phones and the Internet. Computer technology builds on the scientific work of Alan Turing (1937), and transistor technology (1947), leading to the development of integrated circuits, which made it possible to process mathematical operations at a very high speed. Progress in ICT had an impact on areas other than those directly linked to ICT; most aspects of production and economic interaction were affected.37 Goods and people are moved in almost the same way now as decades ago, only the ships are bigger, the trucks larger, and the railways faster. There has been little substantial improvement of speed and capacity in civil aviation since the Boeing 747 was launched in 1968. Technological breakthrough is seen in other areas. In the logistics process, i. e. in information-based transports and storage, 36 P. Dicken, Global Shift, Mapping the changing contours of the World economy 5th ed. London 2007. 37 Ibidem; S. Graham and S. Marvin, Telecommunications and the city, electronic spaces, urban places London 1996; B. Warf, Telecommunications and the Changing Geographies of Knowledge Transmission in the Late 20th Century. In: Urban Studies No. 32 (1995), pp. 361 – 378.

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items could be tracked with the help of traceability devices. This way, transport becomes an integrated part of the line of communication between production and consumption.38 The fundamental change in personal transports concerns the connectivity within the global system, i. e. the thickness of the system. Technological improvements in transports and communications have helped to increase speed and connectivity, while at the same time prices of travel and transports have declined (especially in relation to the cost of other factors of production) resulting in a dramatic growth of global interaction. As seen in Table 1, growth in the flows of capital, goods, and people have multiplied over the last 40 years. 1970

2010

Change, in per cent

Population (billion people)

3.7

6.9

86

Gross World Product (billion US dollars)

12,317

70,160

578

Aviation (billion passenger kilometres)

385

4,800

1,247

Trade (billion US dollars, current prices)

317

15,274

4,818

1,309,001

9,808

13,346 Foreign Direct Investment (million US dollars, current prices) Table 1 

39

Global change since 1970

Change in the flows of messages could only be indicated by the spread of information and communication technology. In 2011 more than 30 per cent of the global population were Internet users. In recent years the penetration of mobile phones has increased enormously; there are twice as many mobile phones as fixed line phones in the world. In 2011 there were 86 subscriptions per 100 people globally, and the difference between the developed and the developing world is decreasing.40 Once movement of goods became much cheaper, absolute, generalized advantages became less important in determining localization of production. Transport costs even became negligible as part of the final price paid by the 38 M. Levinson, The Box. How the shipping container made the world smaller and the world economy bigger. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2006. 39 Statistisk Årsbok,1972 and 2012, Stockholm: Statistiska centralbyrån; CIA World Factbook 2012; ICAO, Annual Report of the Council 2011, at: www.icao.org (21.8.2012.); WTO, at: www.wto.org, (19.8.2012.); UNCTAD, at: http://unctadstat.unctad.org (21.8.2012.). 40 ITU, International Telecommunications Union, at: www.itu.int (19.8.2012.).

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consumer.41 With lower barriers to trade, this resulted in sharper competition and the loss of national monopolies; traditional market relations were challenged. Manufacturing became less place-bound, and production moved away from Europe to countries with lower costs, mainly in Asia. At the same time, the use of information technology in industrial operations increased productivity immensely. For example, productivity in the Swedish manufacturing industry more than doubled in the period 1993 – 2007.42 Foreign competition and improved domestic productivity gradually reduced the number of people employed in the manufacturing sector, above all the number of “ordinary” industrial workers. These processes are often discussed in terms of globalization. Globalization is the common denominator of a complex set of processes that have given rise to various new global geographies since the 1970s. Globalization could be analysed in different ways. For example, the British geographers Ash Amin and Nigel Thrift mention a series of aspects that are significant for global economic restructuring: the increasing power of global financial capital; the importance of knowledge as a factor of production; the transnationalization of technology; the rise of global oligopolies; the rise of transnational economic diplomacy and the globalization of state power; and the rise of global cultural flows.43 The American sociologist Saskia Sassen identifies two sets of dynamics that are driving globalization. The first one has to do with the emergence of global institutions and networks, and the second is related to processes on the national and regional levels that are results of adjustment to global processes, such as the creation of a magnitude of networks linking actors together in different parts of the world.44 These two attempts of analysis point to the difficulty of defining globalization. It is however important to state that globalization has effects on most parts of society, on all geographical levels. As an outcome of globalization, an increasing part of the value added to the production process comes from advanced services. The kinds of specific factors of production that are the most important for the localization of internationally competitive businesses and organizations, and thereby of employment, are mainly found in metropolitan areas; the thickness of central functions is 41 Levinson, The Box. 42 J. Larsson, Produktivitet och miljöeffektivitet i den svenska tillverkningsindustrin. Östersund: Institutet för tillväxtspolitiska studier, 2008. 43 A. Amin and N. Thrift, Living in the global. In: A. Amin and N. Thrift (eds), Globalization, Institutions, and regional development in Europe, Oxford 1994. 44 S. Sassen, Territorium, Makt, Rättigheter. Sammansättningar från medeltiden till den globala tidsåldern, Stockholm 2007.

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more important for regional dynamics than direct factor costs. Besides internal factors, urban development is also determined by the city’s position in global networks.45 In an increasingly global economy most organizations are linked to partners across international borders. Most of these networks are hierarchical in character. In such contexts, the inward and outward accessibility of an urban area becomes important for its position in international systems. ­People need to travel to meet and do business. As most international travel takes place by air, airports have become functional nodes in these international business networks.46 Airports and aviation could be thought of as representing the transactions and flows generated in the global economy. Hence there is a strong connection between transports and infrastructural development on the one side and regional development on the other. They re-enforce one another. Based on the discussion in this section, it could be concluded that the fourth logistic revolution has had and will have a strong impact on territorial formations. The territorial systems of the Industrial Age were mainly national, held together by domestic networks. The organization of infrastructure and transports promoted internal national integration; the provinces were tied together into one unit with the capital at the centre. Over the last decades we have witnessed dramatically reduced costs of transports and communication, concentration of central functions to large metropolitan areas serving as nodes in international networks, radical reductions of international barrier systems, and the increasing importance of transnational networks. Thus, the territorial systems of the industrial world are challenged. It is of course difficult to predict the exact nature of the territorial system that seems to be developing as a result of the fourth logistic revolution. However, there are some tendencies that ought to be highlighted. Firstly, the production systems and economic relations are increasingly transnational in character. Secondly, information, communications, and transports are also increasingly organized across national borders. Networks like the Internet and international aviation are truly global. Thirdly, the political system is no longer entirely based on the Westphalian principles. Nation-states are losing authority upwards, to the European Union and the United Nations, as well as downwards, to regions and cities. Taken together, this means that the emerging territorial system is likely to be characterized by overlapping political authorities, i. e. where several 45 J. R. Bryson; P. W. Daniels and B. Wharf, Service Worlds. People, Organisations, Technologies, London 2004; Dicken, Global Shift. 46 J. V. Beaverstock; B. Derudder; J. Faulconbridge and F. Witlox (eds), International Business Travel in the Global Economy. Farnham 2010.

Implications for the Baltic Sea region 243

political units have power over the same territory. Transnational networks with large metropolitan regions as their main nodes are likely to become important players in the coming territorial system. Looked at this way, there might be interesting similarities between the emerging territorial system and the old water-based system, although the concept of water needs to be extended to include the air and fibre-optic cables as well.

5.  The Baltic Sea region, current developments Thus far, this chapter has mainly focused on the general connection between economic and technological change and the restructuring of territorial systems. Following the collapse of the communist system, the Baltic Sea region was at the same time facing the restructuring of its political and economic system and the delayed influence of the fourth logistic revolution. The socialist systems in East Central Europe were essentially industrial. Their economic policy was aimed at promoting industrialization; this goes back to the strategy of post-revolutionary Russia. Politically, the working class (and its avant-garde, the Communist Party) was the backbone of the socialist regimes. Ideologically, industrialization and electrification became symbols of progress. The logic of the socialist industrial systems delayed the influence of the fourth logistic revolution. ICT was poorly developed, and its introduction encountered problems with access to western technology and with receiver capacity. Basic telephone services could not meet demand and were generally of low quality, while international connections were few. Much of this could be understood as being part of the political system: to control and restrict people’s communication was in the nature of totalitarian systems. The crisis of communism, apparent from the early 1980s, could be interpreted as an inability to manage present technological and organizational change.47 Ironically, this could be seen as a lesson of dialectical materialism: if society cannot cope with objective changes of the conditions of production, a revolutionary situation may occur. When the communist regimes imploded in 1989 – 1991 it resulted in a radical shift in the economic systems, followed by considerable turbulence. There were major differences between countries in speed and consequence of reform, but in hindsight the similarities are more important. The post-communist crisis

47 M. Castells, The Information Age. Economy, Society and Culture. Volume III, End of Millennium, Oxford 1998.

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had similarities to the previous structural crisis in the West, but it was deeper, more radical, and involved also involved a political revolution. By the middle of the 1990s, the economic and political systems of the eastern part of the Baltic Sea region had started to recover, and the worst problems connected with the transition had been overcome.48 At that time the Baltic States and Poland started their journey towards complete integration into the ­Western and European political and economic sphere. Institutionally, this process was finalized when Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and Poland became members of the European Union in 2004. Following the geopolitical transition, there has been significant increase in the amount of international trade, traffic, and other economic integration. International trade within the Baltic Sea region has grown significantly since 1991. There were in particular two periods of exceptional growth: the first one during the recovery period in the mid-1990s, and the second one following the enlargement of the European Union. During the first period there was a very strong increase in intra-Baltic trade, in particular between Germany and Poland, and between Estonia on the one hand and Sweden and Finland on the other.49 Gradually, however, the trade patterns of the former socialist countries came to resemble those of other European countries, i. e. trade became increasingly intra-European and global in character. Trade relations are only one aspect of the current integration process in the Baltic Sea region. Generally, integration could be understood as a process where two or more entities, or territories, are moved closer to one another and thus become more similar. Interaction in the form of goods, people, capital, and messages should be seen as a necessary prerequisite for integration to take place.50 The complex networks of interaction are binding the world together in the contemporary space of flows, to use the concept coined by Manuel ­Castells.51 Quantitatively, interaction can also be viewed as a measure of the connectivity of states, regions, and cities. It has been argued that cities may have become increasingly important as functional arenas for economic activity. It would thus be a natural consequence to try to measure the connectivity of city regions in order to analyse changes in functional territoriality. A major problem for measuring city connectivity is the fact that most available statistics on trade, travel, 48 M. Paldam, Udviklingen i Rusland, Polen og Baltikum. Lys forude efter ændringen af det økonomiske system. Aarhus 2002. 49 J. H. Nilsson, Utrikeshandeln i Östersjöområdet, Rapporter och Notiser 159. Lund 2000. 50 Nilsson, Östersjöområdet. 51 Castells, The Information Age.

Implications for the Baltic Sea region 245

investments, transactions, etc. are produced by state authorities and based on state territories;52 this presents an obvious data problem. In the literature analysing global city networks, most studies are based on two different sets of data.53 The first concerns the presence of offices of large international companies, mainly in advanced producer services (e. g. finance, insurance, legal, and consultancy firms). The second set of data concerns the flows of air traffic, i. e. the respective city’s connectivity by air. If used relationally, these two types of data also allow for a mapping of the directions of these connections in a network analysis. Although there are differences between studies based on the presence of international companies versus those based on aviation data, there are also obvious similarities.54 Partly, these similarities can be understood using common sense: international businesses demand international communications, both through ICT and through physical travel. Most importantly, there are also significant similarities between flows of information (messages) and traffic flows (travel). There has been an assumption that ICT could become a substitute for face-to-face contact, i. e. replace travel. This does not seem to be true; in fact these two forms of flows seem to be mutually reinforcing one another.55 Following the general reasoning in this chapter, it could be argued that the formation of global city networks may in turn have an impact on territorial change. In this context, travel by air might be viewed as an embodiment of international network formations. In a broader perspective international travel could be viewed both as an outcome of globalization and as a significant carrier of globalization in itself. Most research on the functions of global city networks have had a global scope or focused on the world’s most significant metropolitan 52 B. Derudder, N. Van Nuffel and F. Witlox, Connecting the world: analysing global city networks through airline flows. In. S. Cwerner, S. Kesselring and J. Urry, Aero­ mobilities. Abingdon 2009; 53 Ibidem; P. Taylor, World City Network. A Global Analysis. London 2004. 54 J. K. Brueckner, Airline Traffic and Urban Economic Development. In: Urban Studies No.  40 (2003), pp.  1455 – 1469; Derudder, Van Nuffel and Witlox, Connecting the world; F. Dobruszkes, M. Lennert and G. Van Hamme, An analysis of the determinants of air traffic volume for European metropolitan areas. In: Journal of Transport Geography No. 19 (2011), pp. 755 – 762; P. Taylor, World City Network. A Global Analysis. London 2004. 55 Golob and Regan, Impacts of information technology on personal travel; Moodysson and Svensson-Henning, IT, affärsresor och flygtrafik. See also: M. Storper and A. J. Venables, Buzz. Face-to-face contact and the urban economy. In: Journal of Economic Geography No. 4 (2004) pp. 351 – 370.

246 Jan Henrik Nilsson

regions, in Western Europe, North America, and East Asia.56 In the following section, this way of analysing global change in relation to the fourth logistic revolution will be illustrated with the help of a study focusing on a limited part of the Baltic Sea region. Data about the development of air traffic from a number of airports in the eastern part of the Baltic Sea region (Tallinn, Riga, Klaipeda, Kaunas, Vilnius, Kaliningrad, and Minsk) will be presented and discussed. The study is based on timetable material from which the available seat capacity (ASC) of each connection has been calculated.57 During the early 1990s traffic from the eastern Baltic airports increased rapidly, with the starting point at a very low level. In this period there is a clear change in the direction of international connections. From the Baltic States’ capitals, connections to the Nordic countries and Western Europe opened up, while traffic to the east declined.58 During the first period of independence the number of connections grew faster than the number of passengers; connectivity increased more than traffic. During the first decade of this century, air traffic increased at an exceptional rate, on average 14.9 per cent a year, compared to the average growth rate of global aviation—5 per cent a year between 1998 and 2008.59 In 2000 – 2007, the Baltic States’ economies grew at an average rate of 8.2 per cent a year. Latvia’s growth rate was a bit higher than its neighbours; on the other hand the recession there during the financial crisis was deeper. In 2009, the economies shrunk by 13.9 per cent in Estonia, 14.7 per cent in ­Lithuania, and 18 per cent in Latvia.60 Aviation in general and business aviation in particular show high-income elasticity, demand is thus sensitive to business cycles. The highly flexible nature of aviation—supply is very easily adjusted to demand—makes a good indicator of general change in interaction. Figure 1 shows the development of traffic at the different airports. The g­ ene­ral growth pattern is visible in this diagram as well. There are also a number of particularities that need to be discussed further. The most obvious point concerns

56 Taylor, World City Network.. See also B. Derudder and F. Witlox (eds), Commodity Chains and World Cities. Oxford 2010. 57 OAG Airways Guides, October issues 2000 – 2010, Dunstable. For methodology and a comprehensive account of data, see: J. H. Nilsson, Flygtrafikens utveckling i östra Östersjöområdet 2000 – 2010. Working Paper, Department of Service Management, Lund University, 2011. 58 Nilsson, Östersjöområdet. 59 Trafikanalys, Luftfart 2009. Available at: www.trafa.se/Statistik/Luftfart (21.03.2011.). 60 EUROSTAT, at: http://epp.eurostat.ec.europa.eu/portal/page/portal/eurostat/home/ (21.03 2011.).

Implications for the Baltic Sea region 247

70000 60000 Tallinn Riga Vilnius Klaipeda Kaunas Minsk Kaliningrad

50000 40000 30000 20000 10000

10

09

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Figure 1  Available Seat Capacity per week 1988 – 2010, from the examined airports. Source: OAG Airways Guides.

Riga. Until 2003 – 2004 the Latvian capital airport followed the same type of traffic development as that of Tallinn and Vilnius; these three airports had up to this point in time grown along similar lines. Since 2003 traffic from Riga has grown by 31 per cent annually; not even the financial crisis broke its expansion, it only slowed it down a bit. Riga is today the dominant airport in the Eastern Baltics. In 2010 it accounted for almost 47 per cent of the total traffic in the area. There are three main reasons for this development. Firstly, it seems that Riga has regained its “natural” position as the centre of the Baltic States; it is after all the major city in the region. Secondly, the national air company, Air Baltic, was very successful in transforming itself into a modern competitive airline with a business model combining business and low-cost profiles.61 Air Baltic has also managed to gain market shares in the neighbouring countries. Thirdly, Riga Airport has welcomed international low-cost carriers by setting 61 B. M. Flick, Air Baltic—The Dynamic Market in the Eastern Parts of the European Community. In: S. Gross and A. Schröder, eds. Handbook of Low-cost Airlines. Strategies, Business Processes and Market Environment. Berlin 2007. See also J. H. Nilsson, Low-cost aviation. In: S. Gössling and P. Upham, Climate Change and Aviation. London 2009.

248 Jan Henrik Nilsson

the landing fees at a very low level; today Ryanair has Riga as its largest base in the Baltic States. The volatile development of the Kaliningrad region also stands out in the material. Following some bad years in the beginning of the decade, traffic began to recover in 2003 – 2006. Thereafter traffic grew very quickly until 2008; since then traffic has returned to the 2006 level. The rise and fall of traffic is a result of the efforts of regional airline KD Avia to make Kaliningrad into a major hub in the Baltic Sea region. This project failed and the company went bankrupt in September 2009. This shows some similarities to the development in Vilnius. The Lithuanian national carrier went bankrupt in the spring of 2009; traffic was reduced dramatically in the crisis. Low-cost traffic to Kaunas partly replaced the reduction at Vilnius. The development in Belarus is also interesting. Minsk is the country’s only international airport and the level of traffic is very low considering the size of the country. But since 2005, the amount of traffic has grown steadily. In this period, the relative importance of the different directions of traffic has changed. The connections to Western Europe hold at a steady level but the connections to the former Soviet Union and the Middle East have been growing. In the case of Belarus, the changing pattern of traffic seems to be a good indicator of the country’s geo-political situation. Along with these observations there are signs of other interesting patterns in this material. Firstly, the patterns and development of aviation seem to reflect the changing geo-political and geo-economic situation in Europe. In the first decade of the new millennium, the European Union grew from 15 to 27 member states, incorporating most of East Central Europe from 2004, including Poland, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. This de-bordering process is most likely an important factor behind the increase in aviation in the form of business travel, not the least towards the leading economic and political centres of Europe, such as Brussels and Frankfurt. On the other hand, it seems that the barriers to countries like Russia and Belarus have become more significant in the process, especially since the enlargement of the Schengen area in 2007.62 Data from this study show three tendencies that illustrate this pattern: the connectivity by air within the Baltic Sea region has become stronger over the period, but connections to other parts of the European Union have grown 62 T. Komornicki, Flows of persons and goods across the Polish segment of the outer boundary of the European Union—results of a research project. In: S. Leszczycki (ed.), European Union External and Internal Borders—Interactions and Networks. Warszawa 2010.

Implications for the Baltic Sea region 249

even more rapidly. On the other hand, the relative importance of connections to Eastern Europe has declined. These tendencies point at stronger Baltic Sea and EU integration at the same time as the re-bordering process towards the east remains strong. The immense increase in air traffic cannot be explained by the internationalization of business and politics alone. The second major observation has to do with the internationalization of everyday mobility. The enlargement of the European Union has resulted in an expansion of the labour market. Larger numbers of people are today working abroad for shorter or longer periods of time; some people are migrating while others are commuting. The dense network of low-cost connections between the Baltic States and Western Europe, in particular Germany and Great Britain, is an indication of this. During the last decade, we have also witnessed a rapid increase in leisure travel between Western and East Central Europe. The de-regulation of aviation has played an important part in this process.63 Intensified competition, not the least in the form of low-cost aviation, has pushed prices downwards, resulting in an increasing number of people travelling. There is a series of consequences for territorial restructuring related to the fast and fluid development of aeromobility. As the data show, changes in inbound and outbound accessibility of the cities are the results of the geo-political transformation, economic development, and the fate of individual airlines. Such changes are of course vital for the connectivity of businesses and organizations in the respective regions. In this section, a longitudinal study of six cities was used to illustrate changes in the pattern of international mobility in the eastern part of the Baltic Sea region. Technological, institutional, and economic developments related to the fourth logistic revolution have proved to influence these patterns. This in turn might influence the way we view the Baltic Sea region as a territorial system.

6.  Concluding discussion: back to the archipelago? The Baltic Sea region has some specific features that are relevant in relation to recent structural changes and the fourth logistic revolution. Most importantly, it is generally a very sparsely populated area; there are few large cities and there are long distances between them. Since recent economic dynamics are strongly

63 Nilsson, Low-cost aviation.

250 Jan Henrik Nilsson

connected to urbanity, this might be problematic for future development. But it should be remembered that urbanity in this context is more connected to the density of central functions than to size; medium-sized cities might be very dynamic, whereas some large cities might not be. Some of the larger Baltic ­cities are very dynamic and internationally oriented—but far from all of them are like this. One consequence of the increasing importance of aeromobility is the tendency for travel to centralize on large cities. Other means of transport are more spread out geographically; when using ground transports it is possible to make detours and stops along the way and in this fashion cover larger parts of an area. The recent urbanization process and the concentration of central functions to metropolitan areas are visible in patterns of demographic change and in the dynamics of regional growth. For example, in Sweden, increase in population during the last decade has mainly been concentrated to the main metropolitan areas, and to university towns. In Poland, positive net migration is mainly seen around larger cities; the gross domestic product shows very large regional differences between Warsaw and a few regional centres and the rest of the country.64 Urbanization and improved connectivity are likely to strengthen agglomeration effects and thus have an effect on regional competiveness and prosperity. Dynamic cities also tend to develop dense and widespread connections to other parts of Europe. The position of a city in the international aviation networks is thus an indication of growth and dynamics. It is also likely to reflect the growth of a social class of urban professionals, representing a concentration of education and relative prosperity. Being less urbanized than most of continental Europe, the challenge for Baltic Europe is to create growing regional economies and dynamic urban places in medium-sized cities. With close to zero growth in population, a concentration of people and wealth in cities leaves the peripheries in a troublesome situation. In northern Europe, large parts of the countryside have turned into wilderness, into rural non-places. These deserted areas are often located close to political borders; border areas increasingly become peripheries in relation to economic centres. From one perspective, this resembles a pre-modern situation. The German geographer Friedrich Ratzel spoke of Grenzsäume in relation to areas between emerging state formations, gaps in between that in time were conquered and

64 Statistisk Årsbok, various issues, Stockholm: Statistiska centralbyrån; Rocznik ­statystyczny województw, Warszawa, Główny urząd statystyczny, 2011

Implications for the Baltic Sea region 251

integrated into political formations.65 In our time, it might seem that ­peripheral areas have again turned into Grenzsäume, areas of no interest to adjacent centres (other than as locations for second homes). There would of course be a risk that functional divisions between urban centres and peripheries become social divisions as well. Metaphorically speaking, the Baltic Sea region could again be viewed as an archipelagic system, where cities float like urban islands in a sea of peripheries. There are close connections between the islands, but the connections go above and beyond the territories in between. The peripheries are much less affected by the value-adding flows that connect the centres of the globalized economy. This perception would possibly be challenging for the territorial conceptualization of political power, i. e. if the functional and political aspects of territoriality are diverging. It is thus interesting to view the Baltic Sea region both as a system of territorial states in the traditional sense, and as an archipelago of cities in which functional territorialities are overlapping.66 This emerging archipelagic system does to some extent resemble the territorial system of the Baltic Sea region before the Industrial Revolution. Back then, inland territories were connected to the outer world by the ports of the Hanseatic cities. The sea itself was the connecting element. Following the fourth logistic revolution, a similar network is emerging with major cities as nodes in the system. The sea itself is no longer the connecting element; seaports have given way to airports as nodes in the system. Instead, the sea is metaphorically transformed into clouds—carrying aircraft and digital messages. But the sea is still there, beyond the clouds.

65 F. Ratzel, Politische Geographie. München, Berlin 1923. 66 See: Nilsson, Östersjöområdet.

Biographical Notes Boris Dunsch  studied Greek, Latin, Medieval and Neo-Latin, and German Philology at the University of Kiel. From 1996 to 1999, he was first an undergraduate, then postgraduate student at the University of St. Andrews, where he gained an M. A. (Hons) in Greek and Latin and a Ph. D. in Classics. He worked as Latin language instructor and then lecturer at the University of Greifswald from 1999 to 2007. At present, he is senior lecturer (Akademischer Oberrat) at the University of Marburg. Stefan Ewert  is research associate at the Department for Political and Communication Sciences at the University of Greifswald. He has studied political science and economics in Greifswald, Hamburg and Växjö (Sweden) and received his PhD degree in political sciences in 2010. His fields of study are regional policy in the Baltic Sea Region, agricultural policy and rural development, as well as politicization of constitutional courts. Alexander Filjushkin  is head of the Department of Slavonic and Balkan History at St.-Petersburg State University (Russia). He is the author of seven books about the reign of Ivan the Terrible (including Ivan the Terrible: A Military History, London 2008). His papers were published in Russia, USA, Germany, Hungary, Greece, Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, Ukraine and Belarus. Currently he is studying the history of the Baltic Wars in the sixteenth century. Marta Grzechnik  is assistant professor at the Institute of Scandinavian Studies and Applied Linguistics at the University of Gdańsk (Poland) as well as post-doctoral researcher in the International Graduate School „Baltic Borderlands: Shifting Boundaries of Mind and Culture in the Borderlands of the Baltic Sea Region” at the Historical Institute of the University of Greifs­ wald (Germany). She obtained her PhD in History and Civilization from the European University Institute, Florence, Italy, in 2010. Her research interests include history of the Baltic Sea region and Northern Europe, regional history, as well as history of historiography, conceptual and comparative history; her current research project deals with the conceptualisations of the Polish-German border after the end of the Second World War. Her publications include the book Regional histories and historical regions. The concept of the Baltic Sea region in Polish and Swedish historiography (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2012).

254 Biographical Notes

Daria Gritsenko  (Master of European Studies) is specialised in the fields of Maritime Policy and Governance, Quality Shipping, Baltic Sea Region and Corporate Social Responsibility. She studied in St. Petersburg, Hamburg, Turku and Helsinki and holds degrees in Political Science and European Studies. She worked as a junior researcher for the University of Turku in the framework of the Graduate School on Integration and Interaction in the Baltic Sea Region and has been a part of the Graduate Programme on Russian and East European Studies led by the Aleksanteri Institute at the University of Helsinki. Currently she is employed as a researcher by the Academy of Finland project CHIP — Clean Shipping Economics—Shipping under New Paradigm at the Center for Maritime Studies, University of Turku. She is aiming at the degree of Doctor of Political Sciences working on her dissertation On Governance of Quality Shipping in the Baltic Sea at the Dept. of Social Research at the University of Helsinki. In her academic work she focuses on providing interdisciplinary perspectives on the latest development in the shipping sector and maritime policy-making and governance. Lehti Mairike Keelmann  is currently a Ph. D. candidate in the History of Art at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, U. S. A. She specializes in late medieval and early modern northern European art, with a particular focus on art production and exchange in the Baltic Sea region during the time of the Hanseatic League (c. 1300 – 1600). Her research interests include local-regional artistic exchange and mediation, patronage studies, altarpiece production, and issues of materiality. Her dissertation concerns the art patronage of the Brother­hood of the Black Heads, an elite urban corporation of unmarried men in the eastern Baltic, and their artistic ambitions and links abroad. Keelmann serves on the Student Committee of the International Center of Medieval Art as the newsletter liaison. She was a visiting guest doctoral researcher at the Baltic Borderlands International Research Training Group at the University of Greifswald in March 2013, and has presented papers at conferences in Europe and North America. Jan Henrik Nilsson  holds a PhD in social and economic geography from Lund University. The title of his doctoral thesis is Östersjöområdet. Studier av interaction och barriärer (The Baltic Sea Area, Studies of interaction and barriers, Lund 2003). He is associate professor in economic geography at the Department of Service Management, Lund University. Nilsson is director of studies and responsible for the international master programme in service management. His main research interests lie within the fields of transport,

Biographical Notes 255

mobility, tourism and sustainable development. He has published a number of international journal articles and book chapters on tourism and hospitality, transport geography and urban historical geography. Nilsson has a long lasting interest in the latest decades’ development of the Baltic Sea Region. Most of his publications are related to this geographical area. Tim-Åke Pentz (Dipl.-Pol.) is specialised in the fields of maritime policy, mari­ time spatial planning, blue growth and stakeholder involvement. He studied in Berlin and Stockholm and holds degrees in Political Science and Law, and is a trained public relations officer. He worked for the Baltic Sea Region Office at the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) as a Maritime Spatial Planning Officer in the EU flagship project BaltSeaPlan—Planning the Future of the Baltic Sea. He contributed to different maritime related projects such as PartiSEApate— Multi-Level Governance in Maritime Spatial Planning throughout the Baltic Sea Region, ESaTDOR—European Seas and Territorial Development, Opportunities and Risks, CHEMSEA—Chemical Munitions Search and Assessment in the Baltic Sea and organised the HELCOM Youth Forum 2012 in Germany. Currently he is working on his PhD at the Dept. Maritime Systems and the Dept. of Politics and Administrative Sciences at the University of Rostock and as Liaison Officer in the framework of the South Baltic Programme project Generation BALT. He is a member of the Coastal & Marine Union Germany (EUCC-D), the Research Group for Northern European Politics, Humboldt University Berlin, and the Baltic Sea Region Working Group (AGOS ), University of Rostock. Tilman Plath  in the years 2004 – 2008 studied Eastern European history and philosophy in Kiel and Riga. 04/2008 – 06/2008 DAAD scholarship at the University of Daugavpils/Riga. From 2008 to 2010 he was PhD student at the Institute for contemporary and regional history of Schleswig-Holstein in Schleswig (IZRG). He was fellow of the Foundation “Remembrance, Responsibility and Future”, and conducted research in Tallinn, Riga, Vilnius, St. Petersburg and Moscow. Since October 2010 he has been scientific assistant at the Chair of East European History at the University of Greifswald. His dissertation Zwischen «Schonung» und «Menschenjagden. Die «Arbeitseinsatzpolitik» in den baltischen Generalbezirken des «Reichskommissariats Ostland» was published in 2012. He is a winner of the Deutschbaltische Studienpreis 2008 and Dietrich A. Loeber-Award 2010. His research interests include: Russian trade policy in the eighteenth century, German occupation of the Baltic states during the Second World War and history of Latvia.

256 Biographical Notes

Magnus Ressel  is assistant professor at the Chair of Early Modern History (Prof. Schorn-Schütte) at the university of Frankfurt. He finished his German-­ French PhD on the relations of Northern Europe with the Barbary Corsairs in 2011. In 2012 he received a Fellowship of the Humboldt Foundation for one research year at the University of Padua. Currently he is writing his second book about the German merchant community in eighteenth century Venice. He has published mostly on economic history, maritime history, the history of slavery and slave ransoming from Northern Africa in the Early Modern age. Magdalena Schönweitz  (Magistra Artium) studied Political Science, Scandi­ navian Studies and History at the Universities of Greifswald and Copenhagen. She is PhD Candidate in Political Science at the Department for Northern European Studies and the Department for Social Sciences, Humboldt University Berlin. Focussing on Baltic Sea Region Studies, her PhD project elaborates on cross-border cooperation of city regions in the Baltic Sea Area in a multi-level and regional governance perspective. Main areas of scientific interest are region building, regional development strategies and policies, European Regional P ­ olicy, and the south-western Baltic Sea Area including the Fehmarn Belt Region. Ole Sparenberg  is a research and teaching assistant in Economic and Environmental History at Saarland University, Saarbrücken. He studied and received his PhD at Georg-August-University, Göttingen. His dissertation on the history of fishery and whaling under the National Socialist autarky policy was published in 2012. Currently he is working on history of deep-sea mining from the 1960s to 1980s which focuses on the role of property rights and economic expectations with regard to raw material supply. His fields of research include Environmental History, natural resources, food, fisheries and whaling.

Index A Aarhus Convention  217 Achaeans 30 Adashev, Danila  50 admirality  13 f, 85 – 88, 98 – 101, 103 f, 106 f, 109 f, 114 f, 121 Adolf I, Count of Holstein-Gottorf  102, 105 f Aeneas, Aeneid  30 f, 40, 48 aeromobility  249 f Agamemnon 25 Age of Discovery  150 airports  11, 175, 242 –– eastern Baltic airports  246 – 248 –– airport for the Öresund region  251 Åland Islands  131, 133 Albinovanus Pedo  30 f Alcyone 26 Alexander II of Macedon  30 Algarotti, Francesco  119 altarpiece  53 – 84 amber  71 f American War of Independence  124 Amin, Ash  241 Andersson, Åke E. 229 Anna Maria, daughter of Gustav Vasa  99 anti-imperialism 146 antiquity  17, 31, 36 – 38, 40 Antwerp  63, 91 f, 101 Apollonius of Rhodes  19 aqualung 153 Arbeitsgemeinschaft meerestechnisch gewinnbare Rohstoffe (AMR) 159 Archangel Gabriel  67 Argo, Argonauts  19, 28 f Aristotle 168 Arkhangelsk  118 – 120 Arkona Basin  216 armies  10, 46, 95, 133, 227, 236 f Arminius 32

art  14, 22, 24, 27, 31, 33, 53 f, 59, 60, 62 f, 82 – 84, 127, 169 –– centre 60 –– commissions 62 –– consumption 63 –– market  60, 62 –– objects 62 –– patronage  61, 63, 82 –– production  54, 83 Artemis 26 artist  49 f, 60 – 63, 68, 70, 78, 80 – 82 artistic centre  61, 79 Arup, Erik  136 Asia  230, 246 Augsburg  88, 94, 111, 113 f Australia 222 Azarium 32 B Baltic Provinces  120 –– Sea Action Plan  212 –– Sea Parliamentary Conference (BSPC)  189, 197 –– Sea Region University Network (BSRUN) 199 –– States  132, 134, 138 – 141, 143 f, 146, 190, 227, 244, 246 – 249 –– trade  91, 118, 244 –– University Programme (BUP) 186, 196, 199 Baltoscandia 134 BaltSeaPlan  205 f, 212 f, 216, 218 – 221, 223 – 226 baltutlämningen (Swedish extradition of Baltic soldiers)  140, 144 Battle of Chesme (1770)  124 –– of Poltava (1709)  121 –– of Gangut (1714)  124 Baxandall, Michael  64, 76 Belarus 248

258 Index Belovodye 48 Benz, Arthur  187 Bergen 101 Berlin 171 Bible  45 – 47, 169 –– Isaiah 46 –– Jeremiah 46 –– Job 46 –– Jonah 46 –– Joshua 46 –– Mark 46 –– Moses  46, 49 –– Noah 49 Bildt, Carl  144 Black Sea  43, 50, 123 Bloch, Ernst  169 Blockmans, Wim  63 Blomendael, Hans  62 Blue Book on Integrated Maritime Policy 222 Bolster, Jeffrey W. 149 borderland 10 Bordieu, Pierre  145 Brabant  61, 111 – 113 Brandenburg  88, 106 Branting, Hjalmar  133 Braudel, Fernand  9 f, 149 Bremen  94 f, 103 – 105 Britain (island)  30 British  12, 151, 232, 239, 241 –– Empire 232 broadcloth 78 Brotherhood of the Black Heads  58 – 63, 65 – 84 Bruges  54, 59 – 63, 70, 83, 91 Brunswick  95, 97, 104, 114 Brunswick-Luneburg 97 Brussels 248 Buchau, Georg  101 burghers  14, 229, 235 Burgundian Circle (Reichskreis)  87, 102, 104 f, 113

Bynkerhoek, Cornelius de  12 Bynum, Caroline Walker  76 Byzantine Empire  118 –– Mediterranean ecumene  47 Byzantium 49 C Café Scientifique 218 Calvinism 94 Calypso  18 – 20 Campbell, Lorne  62 capitalism  134, 230 cartelization 154 cartography 233 Castells, Manuel  244 Catherine II, Czarina  124 Catholic  104, 134, 141 Catholicism 136 Cennini, Cennino  81 cenotaph 41 centre-periphery (see also periphery) 82 centres of economic development  231 Cestius Pius  25 f Ceyx 26 Christian  31, 50, 71, 74 Christine of Hessia  106 chronicles  44 – 49 –– Illuminated Chronicle of Ivan the Terrible  49 f –– Radziwill Chronicle  49 civitates mixtae  95 Clipperton  151, 156 Club of Rome  154, 158 cobalt  151, 154, 157, 162 f cog (ship)  59, 229, 233 Cold War  14, 129 f, 138 f, 141 – 145, 147 f, 153, 172, 228 Coligny, Gaspar de  98 Cologne  89, 110 f comedy, Greek and Roman  30 commuting area  166 commerce  29 – 31, 150, 227, 229, 234 f

Index 259 communism  238, 243 Conference on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS)  156, 159 – 161 connectivity  83, 149, 240, 244 – 246, 248 – 250 Conshelf I (undersea station)  153 conspicuous consumption  53, 55, 58 constitution  90, 95, 100, 158 –– Constitution of the World  158 –– German imperial constitutions  93 – 95, 100 –– Hanseatic Konföderationsnotel 90 consumer  14, 157, 180, 241 Copenhagen  113, 166, 171, 175 – 177, 179 – 183 copper  151, 154, 157, 162 corridor  83, 137, 175, 183 cosmopolitan  10 f, 58, 62, 78, 82 Council of Baltic Sea States (CBSS)  189, 195, 197 – 199 Cousteau, Jacques  153 craft  24, 63, 68, 76, 78 creatures  21, 30, 37 f Crimean Khanate  86 –– peninsula 50 cross-border  166 f, 170, 180, 185 f, 190 f, 198, 200, 206, 210, 225 –– dynamics 183 –– mobility  183, 227 cross-cultural exchange  82 cults  73, 76 cultural homogeneity  83 –– transfer 59 culture criticism  28 Cyclopes 30 D Danes  100, 106, 176 Daniel 49 Danzig (Gdańsk)  89, 95, 101, 108 f, 212, 215 death  26 f, 37, 46, 48, 63, 70, 124 –– at sea  20, 39 Deep Ocean Minerals Company (DOMCO) 159

deep sea  14, 19, 149 – 152, 154 – 158, 163 f –– mining  150 – 164 de-industrialization  231, 239 Denmark  91, 101, 103, 106, 108, 112 f, 124, 133, 135, 171, 179 f, 212 desert  20, 39, 163 determinism 10 Deutsch, Karl  237 Deutsche Schachtbau- und Tiefbohrgesellschaft 159 diptych  59 f Dnepr 43 Dominicans  68 f Dominican monastery of Saint Catherine (Reval) 58 Donnert, Erich  86, 88 Dorpat  96, 135 Dose, Nicolai  187 Dover 104 drapery  78, 80 drowning  27, 41 Dutch (see also Netherlandish)  11, 61, 91 f, 96, 103 f, 106, 108, 110, 115, 171, 234 –– corsairs 92 –– refugees 103 dystopia  171, 179, 183 E Eagle (frigate) 49 early modern  54, 58, 64, 107, 123, 233 East Asia  230, 246 East Indies  12 Eastern Europe  47, 93, 129, 138 f, 146 f, 249 economic boom  115, 121 f, 183 –– community 83 –– development  10, 121, 123, 125, 147, 166, 227, 231 f, 238, 249 –– growth  171 f, 180, 209, 211, 230 –– prosperity  62 f ecosystem  185 f, 203, 211, 219, 223 ecumene  45, 47 Eden 46

260 Index Eduskunta (Finnish Parliament)  135 Edzard II, Count of East Frisia  114 efimki (specie)  118, 125 Elisabeth I, Queen of England  111 Elsinore  170, 172, 175, 183 embargo  105, 113 embroidery  64, 80 Emden 95 emperor  32, 50, 72, 87, 93 f, 100 –10 2, 104, 106 – 108, 114 Ems (river)  32 England  96, 103 f, 111 f, 114, 125 English Merchant Adventurers  92, 108 Enström, Per Josef  138 environmental  11, 40, 149, 163, 191 – 193, 196, 203, 209, 211 – 215, 217, 220, 222 f epigram 41 Epstein, Fritz  86 f ERASMUS Programme  197 Erik XIV, King of Sweden  99 estates  94, 98 – 103, 105 f, 236 estlandssvenskar (Estonian Swedes)  141 Estonia  96, 131, 134 f, 141 f, 199, 212, 244, 246, 248 Estonian –– language 135 –– gold deposits  140, 144 –– descent 145 Estonians  96, 139 EU Commission  221 EU Directorate General Maritime Affairs (DG Mare)  220, 222 EU Strategy for the Baltic Sea Region (EUSBSR)  196, 212, 221 European Round Table of Industrialists (ERT)  172 f, 182 eutopia  169, 177, 181 exchange  11, 29 f, 61, 83, 199, 213, 218, 225, 235 Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ)  203, 214 Eyck, Jan van  68, 71, 77

F fairs 62 famine 68 fashion  70 f, 250 Femern Belt (Fehmarn)  170, 183 Fennoscandia 135 Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba  102 f, 105 feudal  96, 235 feudalism  88, 165 Finland  45, 130 f, 134 f, 137, 140, 234, 244 Finnish-Soviet Continuation War (1941 – 1944)  140 fish  21, 32, 46, 150, 152 fishermen  45 f, 208 fishery 204 Flanders  60 f, 82, 230 flax 61 fleet  26, 31 f, 35, 49, 87, 91, 103 – 105, 113, 119, 122 – 127 Flemish  70, 81 folkhem (home of the people)  141, 144 folklore 48 fortresses  43, 113 –– Kronschlot 121 –– Peter and Paul  121 –– Oleshye  43, 45 France  43, 89, 98, 103 f, 107, 161, 236 Francis, Duke of Anjou and Alençon  111 Franciscan Order  76 Frankfurt  87, 101, 105 f, 248 Frederick (galleass) 49 freedom  12, 46, 48, 150, 235, 237 f freight 113 French  44, 101, 111, 170 Friedrichs, Jörg  228 frigate 49 frontier  43, 51, 83, 152 funeral rites  48 funerary inscription  17, 38 f, 41 furs  53, 61

Index 261 G Gagnan, Émile  153 Gänzle, Stefan  191 f, 194 Gdańsk (see Danzig) Geer, Stan de  134 f George John I, Count Palatine of VeldenzLützelstein  13, 86 – 88, 98 – 102, 104 – 116 German  13 f, 59, 63 f, 68, 70, 77, 80 f, 85 – 87, 92, 95 – 99, 106, 110, 112 – 126, 136 – 138, 140, 143, 155, 159, 170, 214 f, 234 – 236, 250 –– Democratic Republic, GDR 142 –– Empire (see Holy Roman Empire) –– empires 14 –– fleet  87, 104 –– tribes 32 Germania  38 Germanicus  32 f, 35 f Germans  116, 137, 140, 234, 238 Germany  33, 66, 86, 93 – 99, 104, 108, 115, 125, 133, 136 f, 146, 161 – 163, 212, 214, 221 f, 236, 244, 249 Gerner, Kristian  145 globalization  166, 228, 241, 245 Glostrup 180 God  49, 60, 68 – 72, 77, 81 god, goddess, gods  18, 20, 22, 25 – 27, 35 f, 40 –– Athena 18 –– Hermes 18 –– Juno 30 –– Poseidon 20 –– Venus 30 –– Zeus  18 – 20 Golden Age (ancient)  28 Golden Fleece  28 Goslar 95 Göta älv (river)  234 Gothenburg  180 f gothic 64 Gothicism 134 governance  11 – 15, 164, 183, 185 – 192, 194 – 197, 199 – 201, 203 – 214, 217 – 222, 224 – 226 grain  61, 75

Grand Duchy of Moscow  118 Grande, Edgar  188 f, 192 – 195, 199, 201 Great Belt  172, 176 Great Britain  43, 230, 249 Great Guild (Reval)  58 – 60, 63, 68 Great Northern War (1700 – 1721)  117, 119 – 121 Greek  13, 17, 19, 22 – 25, 30 f, 36, 41 –– fleet 26 Greeks  25 f, 29, 44, 47 Greifswald  7, 95 Groningen 104 Grotius, Hugo  11, 150 guest policy  96 guilds  60, 74, 77 Gulf of Bothnia  130, 234 Gulf of Finland  45, 130, 135, 234 Gustav Adolf II, King of Sweden  136 Gustav I, King of Sweden  99 Gyllenhammer, Per  172 H Habsburg 93 Hamburg  65, 89, 91 f, 95, 103 – 106, 108, 111, 113, 115, 171 Hansa  62, 89 f, 92, 94, 96, 98 f, 104, 106 – 117, 145 Hanseatic  14, 53 f, 59 f, 62, 66, 73, 76, 83 f, 88 f, 91 – 96, 101 f, 105, 108 f, 113, 115, 118, 230, 232, 234 f, 251 –– cities  76, 88 f, 91, 94, 105, 108 ff, 251 –– culture 54 –– League  11, 54 f, 60 f, 64, 66, 83, 88, 91 – 96, 101 f, 108 f, 113, 115, 118, 230, 232, 234 f –– shipping  89, 92 harbour  29, 32, 95, 99, 103 – 105, 119 – 121, 123, 126 f Harrison, Dick  233 Hawaii 159 Helsingborg  170 – 172, 175, 183 Helsinki Commission (HELCOM)  191 – 193, 212 f, 221

262 Index hero  20, 26 Hesiod 27 Hessia 106 highways 44 Hilbrandt, Jan  125 Hjärne, Harald  130, 137, 139 HMS Challenger  151 Höhlbaum, Konstantin  87 Holland  125, 138 Holocaust 234 Holstein  100, 102 – 106, 112 f Holy Roman Emperor  72 Holy Roman Empire  50, 105 f, 115 Horace  22 f Horden, Peregrine  9 Huguenots  93, 103 Hungarians 93 Hungary 94 hybris  23 Hyperboreans 38

Intergovernmental Oceanographic Commission 217 International Nickel Company (INCO) 159 International Seabed Authority (ISA)  160 f, 163 Internet  230, 239 f, 242 interwar period  130, 132 f, 135 f, 139, 141, 143, 237 investment  40 f, 93, 152, 161, 179 f, 227, 230, 237, 240, 245 Iphigenia  25 f Ireland 103 iron 151 Iron Curtain  9, 129, 143, 147, 189, 227 Isabella I, Queen of Castille  79 Islamic 79 Italian  67, 119 Italy  48, 34, 230 Ithaca  18, 20 Ivan IV, Czar of Russia  49 f, 97

I Iberia  96, 108 Iberian trade  96 iconography  54, 69, 83 identity  12, 83, 127, 134, 188, 140 Igler, David  10 Igor Svyatoslavich, prince of the Rurik dynasty 47 imagery  31, 66, 69 f, 129, 143 imperial  9, 86 f, 93 – 100, 104, 106 – 115, 136, 146 Imperial Chamber Court  100 Industrial Age  242 Industrial Revolution  230 – 232, 251 industrialization  141 f, 234, 243 industrialized states  154 f, 157 f, 160 f, 163 infrastructure  172 – 175, 177, 179, 182 f, 210, 228 f, 233 inscription  17, 38 – 41, 77 institutionalization  115, 167 –– of regions  167 interconnectedness  10, 12, 203, 206, 211

J Jacobs, Lynn  76 Jacobsson, Bengt  190 Jamaica 160 Jesus Christ  60, 67 – 71, 77, 80 Johann Sigismund Zápolya, Prince of Transylvania 94 John III, King of Sweden  99 John the Baptist  59, 65, 68, 70 f Johnson, Lyndon B. 156 Julius, Duke of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel  104, 114 Juvenal 26 K Kaliningrad  246 – 248 Kalmar 234 Karl XII, King of Sweden  137 Karlsson, Klas-Göran  143, 145 Kaunas  246 – 248 Kern, Kristine  192 f

Index 263 Kettler, Gotthard, Grand Master of the Livonian Order  98 Kievan Rus’ 118 kings  50, 95, 99, 135 kinship 59 Klaipeda  246 f Knipping, Victor  102, 104 Koht, Halvdan  136 kosmos, marine  21 Kotlin (island)  121 Kristiania (see also Oslo)  171 Kunz, Johann Jacob  86 L La Rochelle  103 f labour techniques  62 –– intensive production  67 Ladoga 47 land route  89, 91 Landauer, Gustav  169 Lanzinner, Maximilian  93 lard 61 Lascoumes, Pierre  205, 207 Late Antiquity  31 late medieval  62, 78, 82 Latin  17, 23, 35, 40, 231 Latium 30 Latvia  98, 131, 134 f, 138 f, 145, 199, 212, 218, 244, 246 – 248 Latvian –– capital aiport  247 –– descent 145 Latvians  96, 139 Law of the Sea Convention (LOSC)  160 – 164 Le Gales, Patrick  205, 207 League of Armed Neutrality (American War of Independence)  124 League of Nations  131, 133 Lefort, Franz  122 Lehti, Marko  11 Libyan  31 f Lilljeqvist, Rudolf  170

Lithuania  48, 97, 131 f, 140, 144, 199, 212, 234, 244, 246, 248 Lithuanian gold deposits  138, 142 –– national airline liturgical calendar  60, 65, 67, 73 liturgical objects  64 Livius Andronicus  40 Livonia  50, 86 – 88, 96 – 101, 106, 109, 115, 235 Livonian confederation  96 – 98 –– knights  97 f –– Order  88, 98 –– War (1558 – 1583)  50, 86, 88, 115 Livonians  50, 96 f logistic revolutions  227 – 233, 236, 238 f, 242 f, 246, 249, 251 Lolland 170 London  101, 171 Louis XIV, King of France  230 Lower Saxon  87, 102, 104 –– Circle (Reichskreis)  87, 102, 104 Lübeck  54, 59 – 61, 70, 74, 89 – 97, 100 – 125 –– anti-Lübeckian  100, 115 Lübeckers  97, 100 f, 103 Lund 136 luxury  61, 71 f, 74, 77, 80 f, 121 M Machiavelli, Niccolò  99 Macmillan, Harold  239 magistrate  108, 113 Magnus, Duke of Holstein  100 Malmö  166, 171 f, 175 – 177, 180 f, 183, 234 Mänd, Anu  59, 74 manganese nodules  149 – 157, 159, 162 – 164 Mann Borgese, Elisabeth  158, 163 Mann, Thomas  158 Mannheim, Karl  169 mare nostrum  14, 38 Marianas Trench  153 marine ecosystem  203, 211, 219, 223 –– environment  149, 192, 195, 208, 214, 220, 223 –– marine transgression  61

264 Index maritime law  12, 14, 151, 155 –– space  204, 208, 210, 219 –– technology 126 Maritime Spatial Planning (MSP)  204 – 206, 208 – 210, 212 – 226 markets  63, 84, 119, 158, 180, 210 Mary of Burgundy  63 mass production  62, 239 Master Francke  65 Master of the Saint Lucy Legend  54, 59 f, 62 f, 66, 71 f, 77 – 83 Matthias, Archduke of Austria and Holy Roman Emperor  108 Maximilian I, Holy Roman Emperor  63 Maximilian II, Holy Roman Emperor  93 f, 101 Mecklenburg  99, 199 medieval  11, 13, 43 – 45, 48, 51, 58 f, 62, 64 f, 69, 76, 78, 82, 165, 228 f, 231 – 233, 235 f Mediterranean  9, 13, 17, 29, 38, 40 f, 47, 124, 129, 145, 149, 153, 229, 237 Memling, Hans  62 mentalité, mentality 17, 20, 43 – 45 merchants  10, 14, 45, 61 f, 66, 75 f, 83, 96, 99 f, 111, 115, 118, 122 f, 125 – 127, 165, 233 Mero, John L. 152, 162 metropolitan area  166, 241 f, 250 Metz 98 Mexico 159 middle class  63 Middle East  21, 235, 248 migration  129, 141, 143, 171, 230, 232, 250 military  14 f, 28, 33, 49 f, 59, 73, 75, 83, 100, 120 – 123, 125 – 127, 129, 132 – 134, 140 f, 144, 147, 227, 236 miniatures  49 f minorities  141, 234 Minsk  246 – 248 mobility  183, 227 f, 131 f, 234 f, 249 f monster  20, 35, 37, 39, 75 moral  27, 29 – 32 More, Thomas  168 Moscow  50, 118, 121

Münster 95 Muscovites 106 N Napoleon Bonaparte  44, 117 Napoleonic Wars  130 Narva  91, 97, 100 f, 108, 118 nationalism 237 NATO  146 f nature conservation  213 nauagikon (shipwreck poems)  22 navigation  27, 29 – 31, 37, 42, 46, 117 – 120, 123, 125, 127, 152, 230, 233 Netherlandish (see also Dutch)  59 – 63, 66 – 68, 77 f, 82 –– altarpieces  62, 67 –– artist  69, 79 Netherlands  61 f, 88 f, 92 f, 99, 103 f, 106, 115, 125, 232 Neumann, Iver B. 167, 170, 183 Neva  121 f New Hansa  143 New International Economic Order  157 f, 161, 163 nickel  151, 154, 157, 159, 162 nobility  96, 99, 109 f, 121 Nordic Association (Föreningen Norden)  134 f Nordic Council  171 Nordic Council of Ministers (NCM)  196 f North America  154, 230 f, 246 North Atlantic trade  230 North Sea  32, 92, 103 – 106, 214, 234 North, Michael  53 Northern Seven Years’ War (1563 – 1570)  91 f, 98 Norway  103, 130 f Notke, Bernt  60, 70, 74 Novgorod  47, 101, 119 nymph  18 f O ocean  22 f, 35, 37 f, 44, 75, 88, 105 f, 116, 149 – 157, 159, 163 f, 232

Index 265 Ocean Management Inc. (OMI)  159, 161 oceanography 152 October Revolution  131 Oder 234 Odysseus  18 – 20, 23, 32 Odyssey  17 – 20, 24, 30, 40 offshore 222 –– gas and oil extraction  155 –– wind-power production  210, 213, 216 Ogygia (island, Odyssey) 18 Örecity 171 Oredsson, Sverker  131, 136 Örestad  171, 177 Öresund  12, 14, 165 – 167, 170 f, 175 – 184 –– Bridge  172 – 174, 179, 183 –– Commission 172 –– Committee  173, 183 –– Council 173 –– -kontakt 173 –– Region  12, 167, 170, 174 – 177, 179 – 184 Ormrod, David  53 Oslo (see also Kristiania)  145 Ottomans 96 Ovid  26, 33 P Paasi, Anssi  13, 167 painting  24, 68, 78, 80 – 82 Palemon 48 Palludan, Uffe  174, 179 – 182 Palmstierna, Carl Fredrik  138 Pardo, Arvid  157 f, 161 Paris  131, 171 Passau 88 patron, patrons, patroness  30, 54 f, 59, 61 f, 65 – 67, 74 f, 83 f –– patron saint  65, 71, 74 f, 83 –– Baltic patrons  66, 79 patronage  54 f, 59, 63, 69, 79 f, 83 Peace of Augsburg (1555)  86, 92 –– of Passau (1552)  86 –– of Stettin (1570)  96 –– of Westphalia (1648)  234

Penelope 18 periphery  7, 9 f, 45, 82 Persian rugs  83 pests  75 f Peter I, Czar of Russia  117 – 124, 127 Petropolis 123 Phaeacians 20 Pierre, Jon  187 f, 205 piracy  92, 106 pirate, pirates  36, 103, 105 –– imperialist pirate  36 Pirenne, Henri  228 f Pisa 68 plague  46, 68, 70, 75 Plato  29 f, 168 Plutarch 21 poetry  13, 17, 19, 22, 41 Poland  50, 86, 95, 99, 107, 131, 137, 139, 141, 146, 212, 218, 227, 244, 248, 250 Poles  103, 139 Polish  95, 98, 100, 108 f, 132, 137, 215, 234 –– King  108 f Polish-Lithuanian 132 –– Commonwealth  95 f polymetallic nodules  151 Polyphemus 32 polyptych  59, 66 f Pomerania  97, 102, 199, 210, 216 Pomeranian cities  102 –– Bight  210, 216 poop  49 f Pope 50 port  10, 14, 50, 59, 62, 95, 117 f, 120, 122 f, 125, 231, 234, 251 portrait  60, 62, 70 Portuguese 12 Possevino, Antonio  50 post-modern 13 Preussag 159 Prince of Orange  92, 103, 105 prince, princes  85, 87 f, 92 – 95, 99 f, 103 – 106, 110, 112 – 115 prince-electors  87, 100, 104

266 Index print culture  69 Prometheus 29 Protestant  93 f, 98 f, 105 f, 141 Protestantism  134 – 136 Prussian  101, 109 public administration  186 f, 198, 210 Pushkin, Alexander Sergejevitsch  119 Q Q[uintus] Ennius  40 R raft  19 f, 23 railway  132, 170, 172, 230, 236, 239 Ratzel, Friedrich  250 Rausing, Ruben  171 raw material  61, 121, 152, 154 f, 158, 230 Recess of Odense  91 Regensburg 107 Reichs-Admiral 105 Reichs-Admiralität  85 f, 93, 98, 100 f, 104, 107, 110, 115 f Reichskammergericht (Imperial Chamber Court) 94 relational turn (social sciences)  167 Resolution  2749 (XXV) (on the issue of the deep sea bed) 158 resource  11 f, 14, 61, 118, 143, 150 – 160, 163 f, 193, 203 f, 209, 212, 221, 235 f –– exploitable resources  150 –– internationalized resource  164 Reval (see also Tallinn)  14, 58 f, 62 f, 66, 68 – 70, 73, 75 – 77, 83, 96, 101, 120, 145 Revalian guilds  77 revolution  131, 243 f Rhenanian Prince-Bishops  104 Rhine 92 Rhodian 17 Riga  74, 89, 96, 120, 138, 218, 234, 246 – 248 rite of passage  59 river  22, 32, 43 – 47, 51, 229, 233 – 235 Roberts, Ann  66, 79 f Robles, Caspar de  104

Rode, Hermen  60 Røiseland, Asbjørn  188, 198 Roman  13, 17, 22, 24, 30 – 32, 37 – 39, 41, 44 –– Empire 233 –– merchant 39 Rome  21, 25, 30 f, 40, 154, 158, 235 Rostock  95, 105, 142 Rudolph II, Holy Roman Emperor  108, 114 rural areas  96, 234 Rurik 48 Rus’ (see Kievan Rus’) Russia  43 f, 49 f, 86 – 88, 96 – 98, 100 – 104, 106 – 108, 117 – 120, 122 – 126, 130 f, 136 – 139, 144, 146, 189, 243, 248 Russian  12 – 14, 43 – 45, 47 f, 50 f, 86 f, 96 – 98, 100 f, 103 – 108, 117 – 127, 131, 137 – 139, 146 f, 237 –– fleet  123 – 127 –– Empire  86, 120 – 122, 131 –– Expansionism 127 –– anti-Russian  86 f, 100, 104 – 107 –– pro-Russian 107 rye 61 rysskräck (fear of the Russians)  136, 141, 146 S sacred  13, 17, 20, 30, 36, 39, 41, 76, 80 –– space 64 sailor  22, 27, 30, 36 f, 74, 83, 103 Saint Christopher  65 –– Francis of Assisi  60, 73, 75 f –– George of Lydda  60, 74 f –– Gertrude of Nivelles  60, 73, 75 f –– Mauritius 65 –– Nicholas  70, 75 –– Victor  60, 73 – 75 –– Virgin Mary  58 – 82 Saltholm 175 San Francisco Bay  181 f Sandler, Rickard  133 Sassen, Saskia  241 Saxony 97

Index 267 Scandinavian  91, 132 – 136, 138, 170 – 173, 179, 183 –– Peninsula  179, 183 –– states/countries  132, 134 – 136, 170 Scania  166, 176 Schengen Area  248 Schleswig-Holstein 113 Schölderle, Thomas  168 f Schönberg, Caspar von  114 Scotland 103 Scott, James W. 191 sculpture  24, 63, 67 f, 74, 77, 80 seal 65 Sealab I–III 153 Sealand (island)  166, 170 seascape  58, 127 seaside  54, 83 send-off poem  23 Seneca the Elder  25 f, 32 f, 36 shallop  43, 48 f ship building  30, 124, 126, 159, 210 –– wreck  22, 24, 26, 32, 41 shipping  88 f, 91 f, 112 f, 115, 149, 179, 208, 210, 213, 229 f, 233 Shtandart (frigate) 123 Siberia 118 smugglers 45 Sound  89, 91, 93, 101, 104, 106, 108, 111 – 113, 136, 166 f, 171, 175 f –– toll  101, 111 – 113 South East Drilling Company (SEDCO) 159 Soviet  14, 137, 140 – 143, 161, 227, 238, 248 Soviet Union  137, 140 – 143, 161, 227, 248 Spain  43, 63, 88, 103 Spanish  12, 79 f, 83, 87, 102 – 106, 108, 110 –– court  79 f –– fleet 103 –– King  91, 103 Spanish Netherlands  89 Spartan 17 Speyer  96, 99 St. Helena  156 St. Petersburg  14, 117 – 123, 125 – 127

Stephen Báthory, King of Poland  50, 99, 110 Stettin  92, 95, 98 f Stöcker, Lars Fredrik  143 Stockholm  131, 135, 142, 144, 146, 171 –– Cathedral 74 Stoic  21, 25, 36, 68 storm  20, 24 – 27, 33, 47, 162 Stralsund  95, 101 f Strategic Environmental Assessment (SEA)  213 – 215, 220 Stråth, Bo  14, 141 Sudermann, Heinrich  90 f, 110 – 112 Sweden  86, 91 f, 98, 101, 106 f, 113 – 115, 120, 124, 129 – 137, 139 – 145, 147, 170 f, 180, 196, 212, 218, 233, 244, 250 –– Kingdom of Sweden  115, 131, 134, 166, 233 Swedes  119, 124, 137, 146, 234 Swedish army  133 –– speaking minority in Estonia  141 –– Great Power Era  131, 134 – 136, 141 –– King  91, 99, 106 Synesius, bishop of Cyrene  31 f T Tacitus  32, 38 Tallinn (see also Reval)  53, 58, 64, 70, 138, 227, 246 f Tartu (see Dorpat) Tegnér, Esaias  130 Tetra Pak  171 Texas 159 thalassology  9, 13 Thermopylae 26 Thirty Years’ War  136 Thrift, Nigel  241 Thünen, Johann Heinrich von  235 Tmutarakan 45 toll  89 f, 101, 111, 115 –– pound-toll  89 f Toul 98 town council  56 trade

268 Index –– free trade  154, 237 f –– fur trade  71, 118 –– grain trade  61 –– international trade  125, 244 –– long-distance trade  232 f –– overseas trade  39 f –– protectionist trade  237 –– slave trade  231 –– transcontinental trade  43 trading port  62 –– cities  231, 234 –– town 11 –– networks  118, 235 traditional law of the sea  150, 155 Trans European Networks Transport (TEN-T) 182 transportation  41, 59, 83, 175, 179 f, 229 f, 233 Transylvania 94 Tratziger, Adam  104 travellers  10, 27, 45, 65, 74 f, 83 Treaty of Nystad (1721)  120 –– of Paris (1856)  131 –– of Roskilde (1658)  166 –– of Stettin (1570)  92, 99 –– of Versailles (1919)  137 Trieste 153 triptychs 66 Trojans  30 f troops  32, 50, 98 Troy  25 – 27, 30, 49 Truman, Harry S. 155 Turing, Alan  239 Turkey 238 Turks  50, 93, 106 f, 114 turrets  49 f U Ukrainian crisis  147 ulusi  50 underworld  21, 27, 39, 41 UNESCO-IOC (UNESCO’s Intergovernmental Oceanographic Commission) 221

United Nations  156 f, 159, 238, 242 United States of America (USA)  153, 155 f, 161, 163, 222, 236 Upper Saxon Circle (Reichskreis) 103 Uppsala  135, 137, 196 USSR  131, 133, 135, 140 f, 144 utopia  12, 14, 165, 167 – 170, 174, 178 f, 182 f V Vancouver 191 VanDeever, Stacy  192 f Varangian  43, 47 f Vatican 51 Vattel, Emmerich de  12 Ven (island)  175 f Verdun 98 Vergil  23, 30, 40 Vienna 107 Viking  47 f Vikings 232 Vilnius  132, 227, 234, 246 – 248 Visby 146 Vision and Strategies around the Baltic Sea (VASAB)  212 f, 221 f Volvo 172 Vos, Dirk de  81 W Warsaw 250 warship  103, 105, 124 wax 65 Weibull, Curt  136 Weibull, Lauritz  136 welfare state  141, 238 Wendish Hansa towns  91 f, 96, 107 Wends 97 Western Europe  118, 127, 138, 144, 147, 172, 228, 230, 246, 248 f Western Pomerania  199 Westphalian Hansa towns  92 –– Circle (Reichskreis)  87, 102, 104 –– order/principles  166, 238, 242 whale oil  65

Index 269 White Sea  45, 48, 119 William I, Prince of Orange  92 Williamson, Beth  69 wine  18, 110, 218 Winter War (1939 – 1940)  140 Wismar  95, 105, 115, 221 Wolff, Larry  138, 147 Wolfram, Georg  87 World Bank  187 World War I  130 – 132, 139, 238

World War II  131, 139, 143, 145, 152, 171 Y Yeletsky, Dmitry  50 Yugoslavia 238 Yuriev (see also Dorpat)  43 Z Zander, Ulf  143

ALEXANDER DROST, MICHAEL NORTH (HG.)

DIE NEUERFINDUNG DES RAUMES GRENZÜBERSCHREITUNGEN UND NEUORDNUNGEN

Globale Warenströme, Arbeitsmigranten und unzählige Touristen haben nicht nur zu einer Erhöhung des grenzüberschreitenden Austausches geführt, sondern beeinflussen mehr und mehr auch unsere mentalen Landkarten von Landschaften und Regionen in der Welt. Die nationalstaatlichen Grenzen bilden nicht mehr den einzigen Ordnungsrahmen für die Verortung von „Eigenem“ und „Fremden“. Vielmehr eröffnen sich auf allen Ebenen des täglichen Lebens, in Politik, Wissenschaft und Wirtschaft neue Räume, in denen wir uns zurechtzufinden suchen. Diese Räume und ihre Konstruktion nimmt der vorliegende Band in den Blick. 2013. 256 S. 6 S/W ABB, 5 TAB. BR. 155 X 230 MM. | ISBN 978-3-412-20741-0

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ARNVED NEDKVITNE

THE GERMAN HANSA AND BERGEN 1100–1600 (QUELLEN UND DARSTELLUNGEN ZUR HANSISCHEN GESCHICHTE, BAND 70)

From the 13th to the 15th century German Hansa merchants dominated North European maritime trade. The Kontor in Bergen was their largest trade settlement abroad and had ca. 1000 residents in winter, increasing to ca. 2000 in summer. Its counterpart was a Norwegian state whose authority declined in the Late Middle Ages, and an urban community of ca. 6000 Norwegian inhabitants. The book describes the resulting economic, political, judicial and military relations which were unique in Northern Europe. English customs accounts and Pfundzollbücher from Lübeck are used to argue that the great expansion in the Bergen stockfish trade took place 1250–1320, and that it declined after the Black Death. Norwegian merchants and state officials found the Kontor presence problematic, but stockfish producing households between Bergen and the Barents Sea saw the trade as a source of economic welfare and better food security. The study is an important contribution to the history of the relations between Norway and the German Hanse during the Middle Ages and it is free from national controversies that dominated former research. 2014. 785 S. 1 S/W-ABB. UND 1 KARTE AUF VS/NS. GB. 155 X 235 MM. ISBN 978-3-412-22202-4

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JÖRG DRIESNER

BÜRGERLICHE WOHNKULTUR IM OSTSEERAUM STRALSUND, KOPENHAGEN UND RIGA IN DER FRÜHEN NEUZEIT (WIRTSCHAFTS- UND SOZIALHISTORISCHE STUDIEN, BAND 18)

Der Ostseeraum mit seinen angrenzenden, oft bis tief ins Hinterland reichenden Wasserstraßen stellte über Jahrhunderte hinweg eine kulturelle Austauschzone dar. Neben Dingen des täglichen Bedarfs kamen bereits im 17. Jahrhundert Kunstgegenstände und Luxusartikel hinzu. Auf der Grundlage von Nachlassinventaren und Testamenten bürgerlicher Haushalte werden in diesem Buch Kulturströmungen und Transferwege am Beispiel der Städte Stralsund, Kopenhagen und Riga aufgezeigt. Dabei wird deutlich, dass sich gerade in der Zeit des Barocks und der Auf klärung moderne und bis zum heutigen Zeitpunkt nachwirkende Tendenzen im Bereich der Alltags- und Wohnkultur herausbildeten, die die Fundamente für einen globalen Modeund Gütertransfer bildeten. 2012. II, 213 S. 7 S/W-ABB. BR. 150 X 230 MM | ISBN 978-3-412-20559-1

böhlau verlag, ursulaplatz 1, d-50668 köln, t: + 49 221 913 90-0 [email protected], www.boehlau-verlag.com | wien köln weimar