Cotton in Context: Manufacturing, Marketing, and Consuming Textiles in the German-speaking World (1500 – 1900) [1 ed.] 9783412515126, 9783412515102

Citation preview

Cotton in Context Manufacturing, Marketing, and Consuming Textiles in the German-speaking World (1500–1900)

Kim Siebenhüner, John Jordan, Gabi Schopf (Ed.)

DING, MATERIALITÄT, GESCHICHTE herausgegeben von Lucas Burkart, Mark Häberlein, Monica Juneja und Kim Siebenhüner

Band 4

Edited by Kim Siebenhüner, John Jordan, Gabi Schopf

Cotton in Context Manufacturing, Marketing, and Consuming Textiles in the German-speaking World (1500–1900)

Böhlau Verlag Wien Köln Weimar

Gedruckt mit freundlicher Unterstützung der Fritz Thyssen Stiftung für W ­ issenschaftsförderung, Köln

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.de abrufbar. © 2019 by Böhlau Verlag GmbH & Cie, Lindenstraße 14, D-50674 Köln Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Das Werk und seine Teile sind urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung in anderen als den gesetzlich zugelassenen Fällen bedarf der vorherigen schriftlichen Einwilligung des Verlages. Umschlagabbildung: Baumwolle, bemalt, im Reserveverfahren gefärbt, zehnfarbig Florales Rankenwerk mit Tieren, Indien, Koromandelküste, Mitte 18. Jahrhundert, MISE 989.48.2, collection Claude Zuber Einbandgestaltung: Michael Haderer, Wien Satz: SchwabScantechnik, Göttingen Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Verlage | www.vandenhoeck-ruprecht-verlage.com ISBN 978-3-412-51512-6

Inhalt

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Introduction: Swiss Cotton – A Fabric and its Research Debates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Kim Siebenhüner

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing: Textile Innovation in early modern Europe . . . . . . . . 35 John Styles

Indian Block Printing: Technology, Entrepreneurship, and Innovation Across Time and Place . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Eiluned Edwards

PART 1 – The Production of Textiles: Manufacturing and Colouring Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg: at the Crossroads of Local and Global Histories of Industry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland and its Forgotten B(l)oom around 1800 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 Ernest Menolfi

The Art of Making Indienne: Knowing How to Dye in Eighteenth-Century Switzerland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Kim Siebenhüner

An Apron’s Tale: Innovative Colours and Fashionable Dress between India and the Swiss Cantons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171 Claudia Ravazzolo

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin: The Königliches Lagerhaus and the Globalisation of Prussia through Colouring Materials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195 Jutta Wimmler

6

Inhalt

PART 2 – The Business of Textiles: Marketing and Product Innovation Portuguese Product Development in Bengal: A Case Study from the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 Barbara Karl

Selling through Samples? The Role of Objects in Merchant Communication . . . . . . . 245 Gabi Schopf

Swiss Silks for New York: Diaries and Pattern Books of the Zurich Silk Industry, 1847–1861 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 Alexis Schwarzenbach

Marketing avant la lettre: The Swiss Embroidery Industry 1850–1912 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291 Eric Häusler

PART 3 – The Consumption of Textiles: Clothes and Fabrics The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe: Imports, Consumption and the Influence of Indian Cottons on Denmark 1660–1806 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317 Vibe Maria Martens

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research: Supply and Consumption of Silk and Cotton Textiles in Western Prussia in the second Half of the Eighteenth Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 335 Isa Fleischmann-Heck

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes, 1783–1823 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 357 Aris Kafantogias

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric: The Consumption, Chronology, and Use of Cotton in early modern Bern . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 385 John Jordan

Notes on Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 411 Index of Names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415 Index of Places . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419

Preface

There is a saying that cotton changed the world: a fabric that for centuries had been imported predominantly from India first revolutionised the European textile industry, then the erstwhile polycentric world order. The engagement with cotton has also altered historiography, albeit in a slightly less radical way. For some time now, it has positioned the history of textiles at the intersection of global history, the history of material culture and the history of consumption and shopping, thus remapping a field of research which it shares with art historians and museologists. This volume aims to contribute to the remapping of the field. To do so, it firstly seeks to draw attention to the German-speaking world and, secondly, to engage the German-speaking world in current debates in this field. The volume is based on a conference held at the University of Bern between 14 and 16 April 2016. We wish to take this opportunity to once more thank all the participants for the enriching, interdisciplinary dialogue – alongside the authors in this volume, this includes Birgitt Borkopp-Restle, Karolina Hutkova, Ulrich Pfister, Burkhard Pöttler and Meha Priyadarshini. Our special thanks to the authors for agreeing to revise their contributions to the volume. Their work is joined by a contribution by Claudia Ravazzolo, who was a member of the project team from the outset. The fact that we were able to hold the conference in the first place is thanks to a number of donors. Here, we must first thank the Swiss National Science Foundation and the Fritz Thyssen Foundation as well as the Burgerbibliothek of Bern. We are very grateful to these institutions for their financial support. The conference volume is part of the larger research project “Textiles and Material Culture in Transition: Consumption, Innovation and Global Interaction in the Early Modern Period”, which was conducted between 2013 and 2018 at the University of Bern’s Institute of History under the direction of Kim Siebenhüner. We are once again grateful to the Swiss National Fund for financing this project and the accompanying research professorship. It gave us the freedom for an intense period of research, the results of which in part inform this volume. Bern provided us with the perfect environment for our work. At the Institute of History, we benefited from our affiliation to the division of Early Modern History and the collaboration with Christian Windler and his team. We can look back on stimulating joint lunches and colloquia which proved that even historians interested in diplomatic history and those

8

Preface

suddenly interested in textiles can learn from one another! André Holenstein has been an enthusiastic supporter of our project from the very beginning. He saved us from the pitfalls of Swiss history on several occasions. It goes without saying that any reference in this volume to Switzerland as a single entity, rather than the Swiss cantons, is entirely our fault. Stephan Scheuzger influenced our work to an extent he is perhaps unaware of. We are indebted to him for encouraging us to define the extent to which our project, which is predominantly based on sources and objects held in Swiss archives, can claim to add to a global historical perspective. Thankfully, this claim does not result solely from our adventures in Indian textile workshops! We had wonderful collaboration partners on site, not least in the person of Joachim Eibach and the team from the “Doing house” project. We are very grateful to him as well as to Nadine Amsler, Sarah Baumgarten, Michael Hirt, Meike Knittel, Michael Offermann and Sarah Rindlisbacher for the joint discussions and teaching events, critique and feedback. Along with the Bern University of the Arts (HKB), the Abegg Foundation in Riggisberg and the Bern Historical Museum, the other advantages of our Bern location included the presence of the professorships in Early Modern Art History and History of the Textile Arts. From the very beginning, we found a co-champion for the history of material culture in Christine Göttler. We are indebted to Birgitt Borkopp-Restle for everything she taught us about textiles and the applied arts in the early modern period, from the simple difference between plain weave and satin weave to an understanding of the materiality of production techniques. We thank her not just for putting us in touch with curators but also for the joint visits to collections, which broadened our horizons. Since April 2016, the work on our research project, the dissertation projects and the conference volume went hand in hand. John Jordan has taken on the task of copy-editing the contributions by predominantly German native-speakers for an English-language academic audience; Kim Siebenhüner has finalised the manuscript; and in Jena, Hannah Gratz, Anna Bundt and Frances Höllein have thankfully created the index. It is thanks to the ever-empathetic and capable Dorothee Rheker-Wunsch and the team at Böhlau that the manuscript has been transformed into a book. For this, we extend our sincere gratitude. Jena/Bern, September 2018

Kim Siebenhüner, John Jordan and Gabi Schopf

Introduction: Swiss Cotton – A Fabric and its Research Debates Kim Siebenhüner

In 1806, Jacob Laurenz Custer – a merchant of Rheineck and, since 1803, Grand Councillor of St. Gallen – penned an astonishing judgment. In his Contemporary Observations on the Swiss Cotton Trade, he opined that the Old Swiss Confederacy’s trading and manufacturing industries were on shaky ground. Switzerland, he wrote, possessed neither an advantageous position near the sea, nor a thriving agricultural industry to meet the people’s needs for foodstuffs and raw materials. The cotton trade, he continued, was dependent on the “whims of fashion,” the “arbitrariness of foreign governments,” and the “competition against rivals more richly imbued with inventiveness.”1 Custer was driving at the trade war between England and France that had been raging since 1805, at protectionist measures introduced by the Old Swiss Confederacy’s neighbouring countries, and at the British inventions of the 1770s and 1780s that had mechanised the cotton-spinning process. He was critical of the shifts in consumer habits that resulted from the excessive expansion of the cotton industry. The “frugal, modest, undemanding character of our people” had suffered, wrote Custer; the clothing of day labourers was now as costly as that of the landed gentry, and “the female sex” tried to outdo one another with their “unseemly finery.”2 Custer championed greater economic self-sufficiency. He felt that the economy should no longer be dependent on products that had been made in factories and were intended for the export market, but should instead be based on ostensibly “more reliable forms of commerce” and greater internal trade.3 Custer’s diagnosis of his times is astonishing for several reasons. For one thing, the author (1755–1828) was himself a textile merchant who made his living from the export trade.4 Jacob Laurenz Custer, Zeitbeobachtungen über das schweizerische Baumwollgewerb, dessen Folgen und Aussichten (Switzerland, 1806), 17. 2 “Wahrlich, es ist hohe Zeit, unsre eigne Ehre, unser höchstes Interesse fordern uns dazu auf, einmal auf etwas zu denken, das nicht so ganz von der Laune der Mode, von der Willkühr auswärtiger Regierungen, und von der Konkurrenz reicherer mit einem vorzüglichen Erfindungsgeist und allgemein beliebten Kunst­fleiß ausgerüsteter Nebenbuhler abhängt.” Custer, Zeitbeobachtungen, 17. 3 “Wer darf leugnen, daß der frugale, bescheidene, genügsame Charakter unsers Volks, durch die übermässige Ausdehnung dieser Gewerbe einen gewaltigen Stoß erlitten? […] Nahrung und Kleidung derjenigen, die von der Hand ins Maul lebten, waren kostbarer, als die begüteterter Landleute. […] Das weibliche Geschlecht wetteiferte in einem übertriebenen, unschicklichen Putz.” Custer, Zeitbeobachtungen, 12–13. 4 On Custer, see also Wolfgang Göldi, “Custer, Jacob Laurenz,” Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz (HLS), http:// www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D18262.php. Accessed 21 August 2018; Peter Schaps, “Jacob Laurenz Custer

1

10

Kim Siebenhüner

Since 1775, he had served as the head of the Heer trading house, which was headquartered in Rheineck and had an office in Verona.5 Secondly, the author completely misrepresented the importance that the Swiss cotton industry had achieved during the previous century. Since the end of the seventeenth century, it had been responsible for proto-industrial growth in many cantons and provided numerous men and women with a living. Custer had forgotten that economic activity within Switzerland had been export-oriented for centuries. The late-medieval linen industry of eastern Switzerland had already been geared towards producing cloth for the export market. In demanding a return to a more self-sufficient form of economy and living, Custer was above all drawing on the stereotype of the pious, modest citizen of the Old Swiss Confederacy.6 The growing prevalence of voguish goods such as coffee, tobacco, porcelain, and cotton textiles, too, was as little in keeping with this ideal as the fact that “eighteenth-century Switzerland was one of the most heavily industrialised countries on the European continent.”7 Custer was also ultimately to be proven wrong by future developments. Despite many bankruptcies along the way, the Swiss cotton, silk, and embroidery industries achieved new heights in the nineteenth century. In contrast to Custer, historians were quick to recognise the importance of Switzerland’s textile industry. Its history has been studied since the nineteenth and twentieth century; initially from a more traditional, chronological perspective, and later in terms of social, economic, and company-specific foci.8 More recently, English-speaking researchers, in (1755–1828): Politiker, Geschäftsmann und Wohltäter,” Unser Rheintal 61 (2004): 217–26; and Jakob Bösch, Jacob Laurenz Custer 1755–1828 (Berneck: Rheineck, 1928). 5 Rheineck, the former capital of the Old Swiss Confederacy Landvogtei of the same name, is located near the mouth of the River Rhine on Lake Constance. 6 André Holenstein, Mitten in Europa: Verflechtung und Abgrenzung in der Schweizer Geschichte (Baden: hier + jetzt, 2014), 173–74. 7 Holenstein, Mitten, 92. 8 See Adolf Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie des Kantons Glarus,” Jahrbuch des Historischen Vereins des Kantons Glarus 34 (1902); Werner Fetscherin, Beitrag zur Geschichte der Baumwollindustrie im alten Bern (Weinfelden: Neuenschwander, 1924); Paul Schwartz, “Les débuts de l’indiennage mulhousine (I),” Bulletin de la Société industrielle de Mulhouse 124.3 (1950): 21–44; Paul Schwartz, “Les débuts de l’indiennage mulhousien (II),” Bulletin de la Société industrielle de Mulhouse 125.1 (1951): 33–56; Walter Bodmer, Die Entwicklung der schweizerischen Textilwirtschaft im Rahmen der übrigen Industrien und Wirtschaftszweige (Zurich: Verlag Berichthaus Zurich, 1960); Anne Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke der Schweiz im 18. Jahrhundert, ihre Vorläufer, orientalische und europäische Techniken, Zeugdruck-Manufakturen, die Weiterentwicklung (Basel: Basler Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1968); Pierre Caspard, La Fabrique-Neuve de Cortaillod: entreprise et profit pendant la Révolution industrielle 1752–1854 (Paris: Sorbonne, 1979); Béatrice Veyrassat, Négociants et fabricants dans l’industrie cotonnière suisse 1760–1840: aux origines financières de l’industrialisation (Lausanne: Payot, 1982); Ulrich Pfister, Die Zürcher Fabriques: protoindustrielles Wachstum vom 16. zum 18. Jahrhundert (Zurich: Chronos, 1992); Brigitte Nicolas, and Jacqueline Jacqué, eds., Féerie indienne: des rivages de l’Inde au royaume de France (Paris: Somogy, 2008); and Isabelle Ursch-Bernier, Négoce et industrie à Mulhouse au XVIIIe siècle (1696–1798) (Toulouse: CNRS, 2009). For the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, see Reto Jäger, Baumwollgarn als Schicksalsfaden: Wirtschaftliche und gesellschaftliche Entwicklungen in einem ländlichen Industriegebiet (Zürcher Oberland) 1750 bis 1920 (Zurich: Chronos,

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

11

particular, have linked the history of textiles and cotton with new approaches to global history, consumption, and the history of material culture. The works of Beverly Lemire, Giorgio Riello, John Styles, and many others have shown how the textile trade brought forth new commercial structures, how cotton fabrics influenced clothing and fashion, and how global interconnections were essential to the rise of the European cotton industry.9 Despite the rich contributions of recent research, the field suffers from a dual deficit. The findings of Anglo-Saxon research are largely drawn from northwestern Europe. They are above all based on France, England and, occasionally, the Netherlands, Spain, and Italy; yet they largely neglect Switzerland and the German-speaking world. This is a shortcoming not only because the Swiss territories were one of the key European sites for the production of cotton fabrics in the eighteenth century and of silk fabrics and embroidery in the nineteenth century, but also because production, trade, and consumer habits in this region reveal unique characteristics that can alter or add nuance to the European context as a whole. Conversely, German research on the textile industry has not been sufficiently influenced by more recent debates in historiography. The idea of a ‘national’ industry that seemingly generated its success from within itself is in urgent need of revision.10 Research within the German-speaking world must also link the history of textiles 1986); Peter Dudzik, Innovation und Investition: Technische Entwicklung und Unternehmerentscheide in der schweizerischen Baumwollspinnerei 1800 bis 1916 (Zurich: Chronos, 1987); and Klaus Sulzer, Vom Zeugdruck zur Rotfärberei: Heinrich Sulzer (1800–1876) und die Türkischrot-Färberei Aadorf (Zurich: Chronos, 1991).   9 John Irwin and Paul Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European Textile History (Ahmedabad: Calico Museum of Textiles, 1966); Beverly Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite: The Cotton Trade and the Consumer in Britain, 1600– 1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); Beverly Lemire, Dress, Culture and Commerce: the English Clothing Trade before the Factory, 1660–1800 (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1997); John Guy, ed., Woven Cargoes: Indian Textiles in the East (London: Thames and Hudson, 1998); Rosemary Crill, Chintz: Indian Textiles for the West (London: V&A Publications, 2008); Giorgio Riello and Prasannan Parthasarathi, eds., The Spinning World: A Global History of Cotton Textiles, 1200–1850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Beverly Lemire, Cotton (Oxford: Berg, 2011); Giorgio Riello and Tirthankar Roy, eds., How India Clothed the World: The World of South Asian Textiles, 1500–1850 (Leiden: Brill, 2013); Giorgio Riello, Cotton: The Fabric That Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); Amanda Peck, ed., Interwoven Globe: The Worldwide Textile Trade, 1500–1800 (New York: Metropolitan Museum, 2014); Sven Beckert, Empire of Cotton: A Global History (New York: Knopf, 2014); Robert DuPlessis, The Material Atlantic: Clothing, Commerce, and Colonization in the Atlantic World, 1650–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016); and Eiluned Edwards, Block Printed Textiles of India: Imprints of Culture (New Delhi: Niyogi Books, 2016). 10 An important contribution to this revision has already been made in the works of Peter Firz, Niklaus Stettler, Peter Haenger, and Robert Labhardt. See Peter Fierz, Eine Basler Handelsfirma im ausgehenden 18. und zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts: Christoph Burckhardt & Co. und verwandte Firmen (Zurich: Zentralstelle der Studentenschaft, 1994); and Niklaus Stettler, Peter Haenger, and Robert Labhardt, Baumwolle, Sklaven und Kredite: die Basler Welthandelsfirma Christoph Burckhardt & Cie. in revolutionärer Zeit (1789–1815) (Basel: Christoph Merian, 2004). For the nineteenth and twentieth century, see Christof Dejung, Die Fäden des globalen Marktes: Eine Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte des Welthandels am Beispiel der Handelsfirma Gebrüder Volkart 1851–1999 (Cologne: Böhlau, 2013).

12

Kim Siebenhüner

with global history, with questions concerning consumer habits and shopping, and with approaches gleaned from object-based research. This volume seeks to address this dual deficit. Its geographic focus will be on Switzerland and the German-speaking world. Twelve of the fifteen contributions are dedicated to the production, marketing, and consumption of textiles in Thurgau, St. Gallen, Basel, Bern, Zurich, Augsburg, Vienna, Berlin, and the Lower Rhine region. However, our aim is not to reactivate a nation-centred approach, albeit with some fresh perspectives; instead, we seek to explore the German-speaking world within its European context and global links. This is why the focus not only includes neighbouring countries such as Denmark, but also Portugal, India, and the transatlantic area. In terms of historic period, the contributions focus on the early modern era, and especially the eighteenth century. At the same time, the eighteenth and nineteenth century are inextricably linked when it comes to the history of the textile industry. Many developments – technical innovations, new advertising, and marketing practices and the shift of the global economic balance in Europe’s favour – can only be understood in the context of the eighteenth and nineteenth century.11 This is why two contributions are dedicated to the silk and embroidery industry in nineteenth-century Switzerland. In thematic terms, this volume aims to embed the history of printed cotton textiles in the German-speaking world within the broader context of the history of textiles and link it to more recent debates of global, economic, and cultural history.12 Printed cotton 11 The shift in global balance in around 1800 has been prominently discussed under the key term of the ‘Great Divergence.’ See Kenneth Pomeranz, The Great Divergence: China, Europa, and the Making of the Modern World Economy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000); Prasannan Parthasarathi, Why Europe Grew Rich and Asia did not: Global Economic Divergence, 1600–1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Peer Vries, Escaping Poverty: The Origins of Modern Economic Growth (Göttingen: Unipress, 2013); and Matthias Middell und Philipp Robinson Rössner, eds., “The Great Divergence Debate Revisited,” Comparativ: Zeitschrift für Globalgeschichte und Vergleichende Gesellschaftsforschung 26.3 (2016). 12 The volume shares this aim with a series of current projects re-engaging with the history of Swiss textiles such as the projects directed by Alexis Schwarzenbach on the Swiss silk industry. See Silk History since 1800, https://www.hslu.ch/de-ch/hochschule-luzern/forschung/projekte/detail/?pid=124. Accessed 11 September 2018; Silk Memory, https://www.hslu.ch/de-ch/hochschule-luzern/forschung/projekte/detail/?pid=1098. Accessed 11 September 2018; and Silk Images, https://www.hslu.ch/de-ch/hochschule-luzern/forschung/projekte/detail/?pid=2225. Accessed 11 September 2018. See also Chonja Lee’s project on indienne, The Exotic?, http://theexotic.ch/. Accessed 23 August 2018; and Lisa Laurenti’s doctoral project on the creation, commercialisation, and consumption of indienne in eighteenth and nineteenth-century Switzerland. Most recently, an exhibition at the Swiss National Museum in Château de Prangins prominently addressed the topic of indienne, see Indiennes: Bedruckte Baumwollstoffe erobern die Welt, https:// www.nationalmuseum.ch/d/microsites/2018/Prangins/Indiennes.php. Accessed 11 September 2018; and the accompanying publication, Helen Bieri-Thomson, Bernard Jacqué, Jacqueline Bacqué, Liliane Mottu, Xavier Petitcol, Margret Ribert, and Patrick Verley, eds., Indiennes: un tissu révolutionne le monde! (Prangins: La bibliothèque des arts, 2018). Other projects outside of Switzerland working on similar topics include Anka Steffen’s research on linen weaving and social change in Silesia at Viadrina European University. See Linen Weaving and Social Change in Silesia – a World Wide Integrated Proto-Industry in Eastern Central

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

13

fabrics – often also referred to as indiennes in the Swiss context – form the focus in the majority of the contributions. In addition, we also explore linen, silk fabrics, embroidered goods, and woollen cloth. This is a conscious decision, as it shows that cotton was by no means the ‘revolutionary product’ often claimed in research.13 We are interested in what it meant to produce, sell, and consume textiles in the German-speaking world. What skills and knowledge did producers require in order to be successful? Where did the art of manufacturing lie? What did it mean to ‘market’ a product in the early modern period? Who bought and used the fabrics, and how did consumer habits change? Instead of a traditional history of production, we are, therefore, rather focusing on aspects of distribution and knowledge, shifting our attention away from the classic history of trade in favour of communication and consumption. A key objective of many contributions is to explore global interconnections and concentrate on the objects themselves. This volume thereby firstly seeks to make clear that the Central European textile industry was dependent on global processes of exchange. Secondly, it aims to champion a form of research that treats objects as sources.14 In all three thematic fields addressed in this volume – manufacturing, marketing, and consumption – engagement with the materiality of the fabrics has yielded new insights and provoked thematic shifts. The volume is primarily dedicated to a historical approach – yet one which transcends the boundaries of the discipline. The contributions have been written by historians as well as art historians, cultural scholars, and museologists. Using the textiles as their starting point, they discuss how the world of goods proliferated from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century; how new sales practices emerged; how craftsmanship and the culture of expertise merged together; and how European industries participated ever more strongly in the global circulation of people, goods, and ideas. Overall, this volume seeks to contribute to a cultural history of commerce which brings together the processes of manufacturing, selling, and consuming with aspects of materiality, aesthetics, and knowledge.15

Europe, https://www.kuwi.europa-uni.de/de/lehrstuhl/kg/wisogeschi/forschung/Globalized-Periphery/ Teilprojekte/Projekt-A/index.html. Accessed 11 September 2018. 13 Beverly Lemire and Giorgio Riello, “East and West: Textiles and Fashion in Early Modern Europe,” Journal of Social History 41 (2008): 887–916, here 887. 14 See most recently, Thomas Ertl and Barbara Karl, eds., Inventories of Textiles – Textiles in Inventories. Studies on Late Medieval and Early Modern Material Culture (Vienna: Vienna University Press, 2017). 15 For a programmatic engagement with the links between economic and cultural history, see Hartmut Berghoff and Jakob Vogel, eds., Wirtschaftsgeschichte als Kulturgeschichte: Dimensionen eines Perspektivenwechsels (Frankfurt: Campus, 2004); Susanne Hilger and Achim Landwehr, eds., Wirtschaft – Kultur – Geschichte: Positionen und Perspektiven (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2013); and Christof Dejung, Monika Dommann, and Daniel Speich Chassé, eds., Auf der Suche nach der Ökonomie: Historische Annäherungen (Tübingen: Siebeck, 2014).

14

Kim Siebenhüner

The remaining part of this introduction seeks to explain in more detail the focus of this volume. It will briefly reflect on what it means in the context of this volume to pursue an object-oriented approach to the history of textiles (1). Then it illuminates how the ‘case’ of the Swiss indienne industry may be interpreted within the European context. In these sections, the intention is not merely to incorporate a supposed ‘hinterland’ within global economic cycles, but also to highlight the particular characteristics in the manufacturing, consumption, and reception of printed cotton fabrics in the Old Swiss Confederacy (2–3). These explanations are ultimately also intended to help correct a narrative that generalises the history of cotton in favour of northwestern European findings. In the subsequent sections, it outlines the contributions to this volume (4–6).

1. Objects as Sources The examination of objects as sources of historical research is a relatively recent development, at least in the German-speaking world, and one which presents challenges.16 Historians are trained to analyse texts; they are rarely trained to analyse objects. This is not really surprising, given that working with objects often requires a transdisciplinary approach. Determining the materiality, style, and provenance of an object requires the skills of museologists, art historians, materials experts, and sometimes, even natural scientists. On the other hand, the history of objects can often only be told when there are also visual and written sources to provide us with information about the objects’ circulation, uses, and owners. Textiles are an excellent example in terms of the demands of cross-disciplinary analysis: a trained sense of touch can distinguish between muslin and batiste; a seasoned eye can determine the density of a fabric. Yet only a scientific analysis can determine what chemicals were used to dye a certain material. Historians are often reliant on the expertise 16 Annette Cremer and Martin Mulsow, eds., Objekte als Quellen der historischen Kulturwissenschaften: Stand und Perspektiven der Forschung (Cologne: Böhlau, 2017); Stefanie Samida, Manfred Eggert, and Hans Peter Hahn, eds., Handbuch Materielle Kultur (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2014); Kim Siebenhüner, “Things that Matter: Zur Geschichte der materiellen Kultur in der Frühneuzeitforschung,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 42 (2015): 373–409; and Marian Füssel, “Die Materialität der Frühen Neuzeit: Neuere Forschungen zur Geschichte der materiellen Kultur,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 42 (2015): 433–63. Object-based research has been established for some time within the Anglo-Saxon context. See Steven Lubar and David Kingery, eds., History From Things: Essays on Material Culture (Washington: Smithsonian, 1993); Karen Harvey, ed., History and Material Culture: a Student’s Guide to Approaching Alternative Sources (London: Routledge, 2009); Paula Findlen, ed., Early Modern Things: Objects and Their Histories, 1500–1800 (London: Routledge, 2013); Anne Gerritsen and Giorgio Riello, eds., Writing Material Culture History (London: Bloomsbury, 2015); Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, Sarah Anne Carter, Ivan Gaskell, Sara Schechner, and Samantha van Gerbig, Tangible Things: Making History Through Objects (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); and Catherine Richardson, Tara Hamling, and David Gaimster, eds., The Routledge Handbook of Material Culture in Early Modern Europe (London: Routledge, 2017).

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

15

of their art-historian colleagues when it comes to establishing the date, cut, and design of an item of clothing. For their part, historians can productively use inventories, personal testimonies, company ledgers, dress codes, recipe books, and other written sources for the history of textiles. There is no strict separation of the disciplines; instead, collaboration between them can result in a truly transdisciplinary field of object-based research. A focus on objects leads to changes in how historians conduct their research. Along with archives and libraries, historians’ workplaces now include museums and their collections as well as occasionally workshops. The surplus generated by engaging with objects takes the form of new research questions. Objects provide information about the hierarchy of materials in a world in which social order and differences in status were created through material possessions.17 An object’s condition gives insight into how things were treated. The stitching on an item of clothing provides information about any alteration work and lets us draw conclusions about the early modern economy of re-utilisation.18 For instance, the collections of the Swiss National Museum contain a stomacher – a decorative panel on a lady’s dress – that was sewn out of several remnants of printed cotton fabric (fig. 1). Even simple textiles were valuable, and so every last remnant was re-used and re-purposed. Moreover, the materiality of objects necessitates a fresh engagement with the topic of manufacturing. How was it possible to produce a fabric that met the price and quality expectations of manufacturers and customers? How was a popular design created? What skills did an artisan need to possess? A visit to a workshop where traditional craftsmanship is still used, the re-enactment of historic techniques, or the re-creation of historic items of clothing is here just another possible step towards a better understanding of work processes, methods, and materials.19 17 Kim Siebenhüner, Die Spur der Juwelen: Materielle Kultur und transkontinentale Verbindungen zwischen Indien und Europa in der Frühen Neuzeit (Cologne: Böhlau, 2018), 289–360. 18 On the trade in second-hand goods, see Laurence Fontaine, ed., Alternative Exchanges: Second-hand Circulations from the Sixteenth Century to the Present (New York: Berghahn, 2008); Georg Stöger, Sekundäre Märkte? Zum Wiener und Salzburger Gebrauchtwarenhandel im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Cologne: Böhlau, 2011); Bruno Blondé and Natacha Coquery, eds., Retailers and Consumer Changes in Early Modern Europe: England, France, Italy and the Low Countries (Tours: Presses universitaires François Rabelais, 2005); and Brundo Blondé, Peter Stabel, Jon Stobart, and Ilja Van Damme, eds., Buyers and Sellers: Retail Circuits and Practices in Mediaeval and Early Modern Europe (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006). 19 One of the most impressive workshops using historic looms is today located in Venice. See Luigi Bevilacqua, https://www.luigi-bevilacqua.com. Accessed 13 September 2018. For the different approaches to reconstruction and re-creation, see Joseph Corn, “Object Lessons/Object Myths? What Historians of Technology Learn from Things,” in Learning from Things: Method and Theory of Material Culture Studies, ed. David Kingery (Washington: Smithsonian, 1996); Nicole Minder and Helen Bieri-Thomson, eds., Noblesse oblige! Leben auf dem Schloss im 18. Jahrhundert (Milan: 5 Continents, 2013) and The First Book of Fashion, https://www.cam.ac.uk/research/features/the-first-book-of-fashion. Accessed 13 September 2018. See also Pernilla Rasmussen, “Recycling a fashionable wardrobe in the long eighteenth century in Sweden,” History of Retailing and Consumption 2 (2016), 193–222.

16

Kim Siebenhüner

A range of such ‘field studies’ has also influenced this volume. Some of the authors spent many years working in museums, or still do so; others have intensively collaborated with workshops that still produce printed cotton fabrics using traditional craftsmanship; while others have learned to weave in order to decipher sample books. The authors in this volume have engaged with textiles as objects to varying degrees of intensity, using a variety of methods and approaches to do so. Alongside traditional iconographic analysis, scanning electron microscopy has been utilised in order to determine the dye used on a fabric and thus be able to trace its origins (Karl, Ravazzolo). Many authors Fig. 1: Stomacher, made of different pieces of printbring together texts and objects, using a ed cotton. Swiss National Museum, Inv. LM 1420. cross-checking process to freshly decode written and textile-based sources (Schwar­ zenbach, Schopf, Martens, Fleischmann-Heck). This is particularly fruitful when engaging with samples and sample books, because these objects prove to be enigmatic sources. It is only the accompanying correspondence, treatises, and personal testimonies that render them ‘readable.’ Conversely, an engagement with objects reveals the added value physical sources bring to historical research, as samples in particular make tangible something that is often only inadequately described in letters and other texts. The work with textiles leads researchers to museums, as this is where the greatest collections of historic textiles are kept today. As far as Switzerland and its printed cotton fabrics are concerned, the most important collections are today housed in the Swiss National Museum and its offshoots, in the St. Gallen Textile Museum, the Musée de l’impression sur étoffes in Mulhouse – the latter an associate town of the Old Swiss Confederacy – and in a series of cantonal history museums in Basel, Bern, Geneva, Glarus, and Neuchatel.20

20 Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke; Jacqué and Nicolas, Féerie indienne; Marie-Louise Nabholz-Kartaschoff, ed., Golden Sprays and Scarlet Flowers: Traditional Indian Textiles from the Museum of Ethnography Basel, Switzerland (Kyoto: Shikosha, 1986); Magret Ribbert, Stoffdruck in Basel um 1800: Das Stoffmusterbuch der Handelsfirma Christoph Burckhardt und Comp. (Basel: Historisches Museum, 1997); and Bieri-Thomson et al., Indiennes.

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

17

What, then, characterises the indiennes found there, their manufacture and consumption, within the European context?

2. The Swiss Indienne Industry in the European Context In the Middle Ages, the Old Swiss Confederacy was already incorporated into a fustianand linen-producing textile industry stretching from east Swabia via Lake Constance into Switzerland. In some instances, pure cotton cloth had been produced as early as the fifteenth century.21 Yet it was only around the mid-seventeenth century that the cotton trade began to increasingly expand. Cotton was spun and woven in the canton of Zurich from the middle of this century; cotton-spinning was introduced in Lucerne in 1677; and in the canton of Bern and other regions, the production of cotton thread and cotton cloth increased rapidly from the 1690s onward (map 1).22 Over the course of the eighteenth century, the cotton-processing industry grew to be the biggest textile-exporting business. In the 1780s and 1790s, as Albert Tanner noted, the Swiss cotton industry was second only to Lancashire in Britain as Europe’s biggest cotton-processing region.23 Along with spinning and weaving, Swiss indienne production grew to be one of Europe’s leading industries. The production figures alone make this clear: in 1981, Stanley Chapman and Serge Chassagne calculated that in 1785, French firms produced around 800,000 pieces of indienne; British firms manufactured only around 385,000 pieces in 1784.24 During the same period in Barcelona, Spain’s most important indienne production site, around 3 million metres of printed cotton fabric was manufactured, equivalent to approximately

21 Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft. 22 Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft, 151–52, 161–63, 181–85. 23 See Albert Tanner, “Baumwolle,” HLS, http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D13961.php. Accessed 13 September 2018; Veyrassat, Négociants et fabricants, 17; and Albert Tanner, “Die Baumwollindustrie in der Ostschweiz 1750–1914: Von der Protoindustrie zur Fabrik- und Hausindustrie,” in Von der Heimarbeit in die Fabrik: Industrialisierung und Arbeiterschaft in Leinen- und Baumwollregionen Westeuropas während des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts, ed. Karl Ditt and Sidney Pollard (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1992), 162–91. 24 See Stanley Chapman and Serge Chassagne, European Textile Printers in the Eighteenth Century: A Study of Peel and Oberkampf (London: Heinemann Educational, 1981), 8, 58. Chapman and Chassagne define the relationship between yard and piece: “The English piece measured twenty-eight yards long in the lower price brackets and thirty yards in the higher price ranges; averages 28.8 yards. The continental piece averaged 20 aunes = 24 m = 26.3 yards.” (Ibid., 213). This information gives rise to the figure of 385,000 pieces. However, the consumption of calico in England was considerably higher than the production figures might suggest. According to the authors, 910,000 pieces were bought in 1797, see European Textile Printers, 90–91. For the 1720s, see ­Alfred Wads­worth and Julia de Lacy Mann, The Cotton Trade and Industrial Lancashire, 1600–1780, 2nd ed. (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1965), 136–39.

18

Kim Siebenhüner

117,000 pieces according to the English unit of measurement.25 The production figures for the Swiss cantons were certainly comparable to these quantities. In the principality of Neuchatel alone, around 160,000 pieces were printed in 1797.26 In the city and republic of Bern, which also encompassed Aargau, 130,000 pieces of indienne were produced annually between 1781 and 1785.27 In the associate town of Mulhouse, 200,000 pieces were manufactured in 1786.28 If we add to this the production figures for Geneva, Basel, Zurich, Glarus, and eastern Switzerland, which cannot be more closely quantified, indienne production in the Old Swiss Confederacy clearly exceeded half a million pieces per annum.29 In quantitative terms alone, the Old Swiss Confederacy was therefore an important European site for the manufacturing of indienne in the eighteenth century. Yet in qualitative terms, too, the Swiss indienne industry is an interesting case, because its history differs in key aspects from that of the English and French calico-printing industry. It is well established that the import, manufacture, and consumption of printed cotton fabrics was banned in France and England in 1686, 1692, and 1721 (Prussia did the same in 1722).30 The arguments were similar everywhere: critics feared that the printed cotton fabrics imported from India and their domestic imitations would ruin the traditional silk, wool, and linen industries, and that the fashion for the new fabrics would blur social hierarchies. Although conditions were similar in the Old Swiss Confederacy – an existing textile trade came under pressure from the new cotton industry – developments took a different course. Aside from some initial resistance in a few places, the indienne manufactories developed largely unimpeded.31 Following the foundation of the first workshop in Geneva in 1691, by the mid-eighteenth century, indienne-printing manufactories had 25 James Thomson, A Distinctive Industrialization: Cotton in Barcelona, 1728–1832 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). Thomson indicates the production figures for 1784 in metres. He states that one piece was 10 canas (1 canas = 1.55 metres) long – considerably longer than the English pieces. Overall, all the figures indicated should be viewed as approximations. Owing to the different units of measurement, an exact comparison of European production remains difficult. 26 Pierre Caspard, “Manufacture and Trade in Calico Printing at Neuchâtel: the Example of Cortaillod (1752– 1854),” Textile History 8 (1977), 150. 27 Erika Flückiger and Anne Radeff, “Globale Ökonomie im alten Staate Bern am Ende des Ancien Régime: eine aussergewöhnliche Quelle,” Berner Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Heimatkunde 62 (2000), 21–22. 28 Ursch-Bernier, Négoce et industrie, 364. 29 According to the estimations by Adolf Jenny-Trümpy, who in the early twentieth century authored a description of the calico-printing industry in Switzerland that remains relevant to this day, annual production of indiennes in the Old Swiss Confederacy during the final quarter of the eighteenth century reached as high as 1 million pieces at approx. 15 aunes. The length of the French ell (aune) varied in Switzerland but was most commonly between around 1 and 1.2 metres. See Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie,” 134. This figure can also be regarded only as a quantitative approximation. 30 Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite, 12–42; Philippe Haudrère, “La Compagnie des Indes et le commerce des toiles indiennes,” in Féerie indienne, 13–22; and Riello, Cotton, 121–23. 31 There were individual resistance movements in St. Gallen, for example; see Albert Tanner, Spulen-Weben-­ Sticken: Die Industrialisierung in Appenzell Ausserrhoden (Zurich: Eigenverlag, 1982), 15.

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

19

been established in Zurich (1701), Bern (1706), Neuchatel (1715), Basel (1716), Hauptwil (1720), Herisau (1735), Glarus (1740), and Mulhouse (1746).32 Overall, the cotton industry was perceived not as a threat but rather as an economic opportunity at a time of substantial population growth. It created new fields of activity for craftsmen and merchants and, with the expansion of the putting out system, secured the daily existence of thousands of landless or land-poor men and women.33 The cantons all pursued their own economic policy; yet in many places, the authorities put measures in place to support the new industry. Bern, for instance, banned the import of foreign printed cloth into its territories in order to boost the local manufactories. Lucerne protected its cotton spinners against attacks by linen weavers, and in many places the authorities facilitated the foundation of indienne workshops by granting them privileges and cheap credit.34 Unlike in France and England, the state authorities were, on the whole, well-disposed to the new industry. In contrast to England, where – especially in the lead-up to the ban of 1721 – the spread of printed cotton fabrics had generated heated debate, the rise of the cotton industry was also accepted by the Swiss public without any great excitement.35 There were no political campaigns against the new fabrics, nor was there any moralising over their consumption. Although there was certainly a critical discourse surrounding fashion and luxury, it was not ignited by cotton fabrics.36 In the context of Enlightenment-era debates, Swiss intellectuals concerned themselves with state, trade, and luxurious consumption.37 Pastors 32 See Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie,” 85–144; Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke, 40–47; Caspard, La Fabrique-Neuve, 29; Fetscherin, Beitrag, 27–36; Peter Witschi, “Die textile Welt,” in Herisau: Geschichte der Gemeinde Herisau, ed. Thomas Fuchs (Herisau: Appenzeller Verlag, 1999), 124–31; Ursch-Bernier, Négoce et industrie, 101–49; Ernest Menolfi, Hauptwil-Gottshaus (Frauenfeld: Verlag Huber, 2011), 71–79, 110–17, 123–24; and Rolf von Arx, Jürg Davatz, and August Rohr, Industriekultur im Kanton Glarus: Streifzüge durch 250 Jahre Geschichte und Architektur (Zurich: Südostschweiz, 2005), 13–15, 363. 33 See Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft, 185, 187; Pfister, Die Zürcher Fabriques, 82–87; Rudolf Braun, Industrialisierung und Volksleben: Veränderungen der Lebensformen unter Einwirkung der verlagsindustriellen Heimarbeit in einem ländlichen Industriegebiet (Zürcher Oberland) vor 1800 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1979), 35; and Kim Siebenhüner, “Zwischen Imitation und Innovation: Die schweizerische Indienne-Industrie im 18. Jahrhundert,” Werkstatt Geschichte 25 (2017): 7–27. 34 See Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft, 181–82. 35 Kim Siebenhüner, “Calico Craze? Zum geschlechtsspezifischen Konsum bedruckter Baumwollstoffe im 18. Jahrhundert: Ein Blick von England zur Alten Eidgenossenschaft,” L’homme: Zeitschrift für feministische Geschichtswissenschaft 27 (2016): 33–52. 36 On this debate, see Simon Wernly, “‘Im Strohm der Weichlichkeit und der Pracht’: Luxusdebatte und Konsummoral in den Basler, Berner und Zürcher Unterhaltungsschriften des 18. Jahrhunderts” (lic., University of Bern, 2005); Daniel Tröhler, Republikanismus und Pädagogik: Pestalozzi im historischen Kontext (Bad Heilbrunn: Julius Klinkhardt, 2006), 335–74; and Braun, Industrialisierung, 95, 100–105. 37 Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi, “Abhandlung über die Frage in wie weit ist es schicklich in einem kleinen Staat dessen Wohlstand auf der Handelschaft beruhet, dem Aufwand des Bürgers Schranken zu setzen?,” in Pestalozzi: Sämtliche Werke, ed. Artur Buchenau, Eduard Spranger, and Hans Stettbacher (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1927), 1:303–28.

20

Kim Siebenhüner

and publishers of moralising weekly periodicals lamented the dissolution of social ranks, apparent extravagance and women’s obsession with fashion, in particular. Jacob Laurenz Custer’s Contemporary Observations quoted in the opening paragraph were a later echo of these laments. However, there was no great cause on the part of the authorities to limit or even ban the consumption of cotton fabrics. Dress codes did make occasional mention of cotton fabrics. Yet in comparison to many other regulations on embroidery, furs, silk textiles, and all manner of precious accessories, cotton fabrics played only a marginal role in sumptuary laws. They were not offensive in and of themselves, but only when they came from foreign territories, cost above a certain amount or were of particularly good quality, and should therefore not be worn by common folk.38 In terms of the materiality of the fabrics, too, the indiennes have their own history. The name was a powerful allusion to the first origins of the cotton fabrics.39 Yet over the course of the eighteenth century, this geographical link became ever more diluted. Indiennes were no longer exclusively the painted or printed cotton fabrics with floral designs imported from India, but also included Swiss imitations. In order to manufacture these, Swiss calico printers used white cloths, some of which were woven in India and some in Switzerland. All kinds of hybrid products were therefore being produced. The imitations differed from the originals in many ways. Indiennes were neither always made of cotton, nor did they always feature a floral pattern. Occasionally, mixed fabrics of cotton and linen or silk are described as indienne.40 Over time, a vast diversity of patterns developed. Along with floral patterns that imitated the ‘exotic’ flowers, leaves, and vines of the Indian fabrics, the Swiss calico printers produced a huge number of chequered, dotted, and scattered-flower patterns (fig. 2). If we take into account the manufactories founded by Swiss migrants in Jouy, Nantes, or Rouen, the diversity of patterns is further expanded with a wealth of motifs taken from European mythology, politics, and daily life.41

38 See Kim Siebenhüner, “Calico Craze?,”; as well as Jordan’s contribution in this volume. 39 Regarding terminology, see John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Fictive Descriptions? Words, Textiles, and Inventories in Early Modern Switzerland,” in Inventories of Textiles, 219–38; and John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Global Goods in Local Languages: Naming Indian Cottons in the Swiss Cantons,” in Names and Naming in Early Modern Germany, ed. Joel Harrington and Beth Plummer (New York: Berghahn, forthcoming). 40 Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Fictive Descriptions?,” 228. 41 Bieri-Thomson et al., Indiennes. See also Beverly Lemire, “Domesticating the Exotic: Floral Culture and the East India Calico Trade with England, c. 1600–1800,” Textile 1 (2003): 64–85; and Alicia Weisberg-­Roberts, “Surprising Oddness and Beauty: Textile Design and Natural History between London and Philadelphia in the eighteenth century,” in Knowing Nature: Art and Science in Philadelphia, 1740–1840, ed. Amy Meyers and Lisa Ford (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 160–79.

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

Fig. 2: Order book of the company Wagner & Cie, 1803–1807. Swiss Economic Archive Basel, H 239, G.

21

Fig. 3: Printed cotton, manufactured in Switzer­land. Mid-eighteenth century. Plain weave, 11 threads/cm, reserve print with printing blocks, indigo bath. Textile Museum St. Gallen, Inv. 25644.

In the Old Swiss Confederacy, the term ‘indienne’ therefore came to cover a broad spectrum of fabrics of varying quality and designs over the course of the eighteenth century.42 Whereas the white cloth imported from India was generally of a fine weft, the cloth woven in the Swiss cantons tended to be coarser and cheaper. For example, the Laué & Co. manufactory – a medium-sized calico-printing business in the canton of Bern – purchased cloth from Toggenburg in eastern Switzerland.43 In the 1760s, the renowned Fabrique Neuve in Cortaillod sourced around two-thirds of its fabrics from St. Gallen, Herisau, Glarus, Toggenburg, Winterthur, and Zurich. It imported another third from India via Amsterdam, London, and Lorient.44 The Augsburg-based Schüle company took a similar approach. Alongside Salemporis, it also printed ‘ordinary’ and ‘finer’ domestic calico.45 When examined closely, the difference in the density, fineness, and regularity of the fabrics can be seen with the naked eye (fig. 3). The different quality of the cloths was also reflected for consumers in the price. In 1760, for instance, the manufactories of Mulhouse sold the fine printed fabrics described as Calancas for forty livres per sixteen ells, 42 Siebenhüner, “Zwischen Imitation und Innovation.” 43 Gabi Schopf, “From Local Production to Global Trade: the Distribution of Swiss Printed Cottons in the early modern World,” Textile History (forthcoming). Johann Ryhiner’s manufactory in Basel also sourced cloth from Toggenburg. See Johann Ryhiner, “Traité de la fabrication et le commerce des toiles peintes (1766),” in Materiaux pour la coloration des etoffes, ed. Daniel Dollfus-Ausset (Paris: F. Savy, 1865), 18–19. Bern-based indienneurs sourced much of their plain cloth from Lucerne. See Fetscherin, Beitrag, 59–63; and Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie,” 101. 44 Caspard, La Fabrique-Neuve, 46. 45 Claus-Peter Clasen, Textilherstellung in Augsburg in der frühen Neuzeit, 2 vols. (Augsburg: Wißner, 1995), 2:444–48; and Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie,” 67.

22

Kim Siebenhüner

whereas the Indiennes ordinaire, which were printed on coarser cloth using fewer colours, cost between twenty and twenty-­four livres.46 Overall, Switzerland also deviates from established patterns in terms of its history of consumption. Beverly Lemire argues that the popularity of Indian fabrics had been growing in Europe since the sixteenth century. However, it is disputed whether Asian products truly flooded European markets and whether Oriental textiles did indeed corrupt the female populace.47 In Paris, it took until the end of the eighteenth century for just under forty percent of servants, wage-earners, and tradesmen to own cotton textiles.48 In the case of London, John Styles has demonstrated that cotton clothing only gradually grew in popularity over the course of the eighteenth century.49 In this volume, too, he argues that printed cotton fabrics were by no means ‘revolutionary’ goods. The trend towards lighter, cheaper materials had already begun in the fifteenth and sixteenth century. The spread of printed cotton fabrics was therefore embedded within a long-lasting change that was above all characterised by diversification within the world of textiles. When late eighteenth-century consumers were choosing between a wealth of different materials and designs, they were benefiting from developments that had already started in the late Middle Ages.50 The notion that consumers were inundated with Asian goods or that a ‘hype’ arose around cotton is certainly not applicable to the Old Swiss Confederacy. Swiss merchants did not have direct access to the great ports of Europe, where Asian goods were unloaded, auctioned, and sold on. Although they did, as previously mentioned, import white cloth from India, printed cotton fabrics never reached the Old Swiss Confederacy in any great quantities. Swiss consumers became familiar with printed cotton fabrics predominantly as domestic products, and even then, only to a moderate extent, as the majority of indiennes were produced for export. Throughout the eighteenth century, France was the key export market, followed by Italy and Germany. A small proportion of the indiennes entered the transatlantic trade via Amsterdam, Copenhagen, or France’s Atlantic ports.51 Only the 46 Ursch-Bernier, Négoce et industrie, 119. 47 See Beverly Lemire, “Fashioning Cottons: Asian Trade, Domestic Industry, and Consumer Demand, 1660– 1780,” in The Cambridge History of Western Textiles, ed. David Jenkins, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 2:493–512. Accordingly to Lemire, “Asian products flooded European markets in the late seventeenth century” (493), and “fashion for these fabrics swept Europe,” “corrupting in particular the female populace” (502). 48 Daniel Roche, La culture des apparences: Une histoire du vêtement (XVIIe–XVIIIe siècle) (Paris: Fayard, 1989), 137. 49 Styles, Dress, 109–32. 50 Negley Harte, ed., The New Draperies in the Low Countries and England, 1300–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 51 Michael Kwass, Contraband: Louis Mandrin and the Making of a Global Underground (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 65–69. On the exports of the Fabrique neuve, see Caspard, La Fabrique-Neuve, 69; and on the Burckardt company, see Stettler et al., Baumwolle, 46–47.

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

23

remnants were distributed at fairs, markets, shops, and other channels in the Old Swiss Confederacy.52 For this reason, cotton remained just one of many fabrics to be found in numerous Swiss households, as John Jordan demonstrates in this volume. The example of the city of Bern shows that the presence of cotton fabrics did gradually grow in the Old Swiss Confederacy over the course of the eighteenth century. In the 1680s, possession of cotton textiles was still extremely rare. Forty years later, cotton fabrics were already present either as interior decorations or clothing in forty percent of inventoried households; by the 1740s, that figure had risen to above fifty percent.53 Yet cotton did not become the dominant textile. Linen, wool, and silk fabrics continued to be used for clothing and domestic furnishings. Cotton fabrics neither broke down social distinctions, nor did they fundamentally change how men and women dressed or decorated their living spaces.

3. Global Cotton Cycles The research in this field has emphasised the transformational impact that Asian goods had on European society in the eighteenth century.54 In the Old Swiss Confederacy, too, the rise of the indienne industry was contingent on global networks. Yet the Swiss example makes clear how the effects of global links differed at the local level. Even without colonial territories and direct access to maritime trading centres, Swiss calico printers, manufacturers, and merchants benefited from the global cotton cycles. Their involvement in global trade encompassed not only the fundamental process of knowledge and technology transfer, but also the procurement of raw materials from overseas, the purchase of white cloth and the sale of cotton fabrics in the Atlantic area, and later also in southern and eastern Asia.

52 See also Gabi Schopf ’s dissertation project at the University of Bern, “Kaufen und Verkaufen – Zirkulation und lokale Aneignung von globalen Gütern in der Frühen Neuzeit am Beispiel der Indiennes in der alten Schweiz.” 53 See the contribution by John Jordan in this volume. 54 Maxine Berg, “From Imitation to Invention: Creating Commodities in eighteenth-century Britain,” Economic History Review 55 (2002): 1–30; Maxine Berg, “In Pursuit of Luxury: Global History and British Consumer Goods in the Eighteenth Century,” Past and Present 182 (2004): 85–142; and Maxine Berg, ed., Goods from the East, 1600–1800: Trading Eurasia (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015).

24

Kim Siebenhüner

The raw cotton spun and woven in the Old Swiss Confederacy predominantly came from Smyrna, Thessaloniki, and the Near and Middle East, and was imported via Vienna, Venice, Trieste, Livorno, and Marseilles.55 Many of the raw materials needed for the dyeing process, such as indigo, cochineal, and gum Arabic, were imported, often via France’s Atlantic ports but also via Amsterdam, Hamburg, and other Central European trading centres. Reconstructing these supply chains has only been possible in some individual cases. Yet even these examples show just how varied was the reach of global networks. The Schaffhausen-based trading firm Amman, for instance, sourced its dyes from a direct importer of colonial goods in Nantes and entered into a shareholders’ agreement with a similar company in Bordeaux, but did not itself participate in the overseas indigo trade.56 Amman acted as a traditional supplier to the cotton industry: around a fifth of the purchased raw materials and dyes were sold to the cotton-processing centres of Mulhouse, Zurich, St. Gallen, Glarus, Lenzburg, Hauptwil, and Augsburg. Another point of contact with global trade was the aforementioned purchase of Indian white cloth. Here, too, Swiss producers were engaged at various points along the supply chains. The company Laué & Co. sent its commercial agents to Amsterdam and Copenhagen, where the imports of the Dutch and Danish East India companies were sold and auctioned.57 Fabrique Neuve in Cortaillod received its white cloth from the Pourtalès & Co. trading company, for whom they manufactured the indiennes. Pourtalès & Co. purchased the cloth in London from another trading company in which they owned shares. From the mid-1770s onwards, the company even endeavoured to participate directly in transcontinental trading. A supercargo was dispatched to India in order to supervise the loading of Indian fabrics in Bengal and on the Coromandel Coast.58 The varying extents of global engagement ultimately become clear in the export of indiennes. In the eighteenth century, smaller companies were generally not directly involved in transatlantic trade. Instead, they sold their products in the European hubs of global trade. From there, the fabrics were shipped on via other trading companies to Africa and America. When smaller companies did dare to export directly to America, their endeavours often failed owing to a lack of contacts and established networks.59 In contrast, larger trading companies, such as Burckhardt & Cie. in Basel, were successfully engaged in global trading. 55 In the latter part of the eighteenth century, there was also cotton from South America. See Flückiger and Radeff, “Globale Ökonomie,” 21; and Markus Denzel, “Die Geschäftsbeziehungen des Schaffhauser Handels- und Bankhauses Amman 1748–1779: Ein mikroökonomisches Fallbeispiel,” Vierteljahrschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte 89 (2002), 26. 56 Denzel, “Die Geschäftsbeziehungen,” 13–20. 57 Schopf, “From Local Production.” 58 Louis Bergeron, “‘Pourtalès & Cie’ (1753–1801): Apogée et déclin d’un capitalisme,” Annales: Histoire, Sciences Sociales 25 (1970), 505. 59 Schopf, “From Local Production.”

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

25

Niklaus Stettler and others have shown that this went hand in hand with an involvement in the transatlantic slave trade.60 From the 1770s onward, the company recorded shares in ships that sailed from France’s Mediterranean and Atlantic ports to China, East India, West Africa, and the Caribbean. The shares entitled the company to provide the respective shipowner with textiles from the company’s warehouses to carry on board and to purchase return cargo, including raw cotton, at advantageous rates.61 The company had a dual interest in the departing ships. Firstly, Burckhardt & Cie. exported large quantities of printed cotton fabrics for the West African market. It thereby benefited from the dramatic reconfiguration of the global cotton networks in around 1800.62 Secondly, barter trading was conducted on the West African coast: a large proportion of the indiennes were exchanged for slaves, who in America harvested the very cotton that was spun, woven, and printed in Europe. Even an apparently peripheral region such as the Old Swiss Confederacy was therefore involved in global cotton networks. Various stakeholders in the Swiss indienne industry were beneficiaries and co-creators of a transformation that turned polycentric cotton networks into a cycle dominated by Europe. The contributions in this volume contextualise the global involvement of Swiss calico printers by illuminating various forms of, and moments within, the global network. They use the example of textiles to demonstrate how transcontinental links at various times during the early modern period and the nineteenth century were shaped by trade, knowledge transfer, and communication regarding aesthetics and tastes. The contributions focus on those nations that research has hitherto tended to ignore – in addition to Germany and Switzerland, these also include Portugal and Denmark. For instance, Barbara Karl shows that the cotton fabrics produced and embroidered in Bengal for export to Europe had been adapted to European tastes in the sixteenth century. Vibe Maria Martens makes clear the impact that Indian cotton fabrics had on Danish society in the eighteenth century. When measured against the Danish population, the Asiatisk Kompagni was one of Europe’s largest importers. Jutta Wimmler analyses how the Royal Prussian Storehouse (Königlich-preußisches Lagerhaus) – which was effectively a manufactory for the dyeing of woollen fabrics – was involved in global trading streams through its purchasing of dyes. Procuring dyes from overseas did not in any way necessitate the operators of the storehouse to forge their own global links. The connection to global trade enjoyed by continental European regions had grown so close by the eighteenth century that global goods had become available even from local individual merchants in Berlin, Frankfurt (Oder), and in the smaller harbour towns of Colberg and Szczecin. 60 Stettler et al., Baumwolle, 37. 61 Stettler et al., Baumwolle, 39. 62 Riello, Cotton, 34.

26

Kim Siebenhüner

It was not only the circulation of dyes but also the art of dyeing itself that fostered global networking processes. The European indienne industry was based on a transcultural knowledge and technology transfer, via which European calico printers adopted from Indian artisans the combined technology of printing, mordanting, and dyeing to produce fabrics with colourful patterns. In this transfer process, the history of indienne differs from that of silk, which, although it did originally make its way to Europe from the Far East, had long since become a domestic industry by the eighteenth century.63 Unlike calico printing, the silk industry did not owe its ascendency to the mass presence of Asian goods in the early modern period. Yet as Alexis Schwarzenbach shows, the success of the Zurich silk industry in the nineteenth century did in many ways draw on the global network of the earlier textile export trade. Globalism has become the lasting hallmark of the textile trade. In the sixteenth century, Indian producers exported their fabrics to a great variety of the world’s regions. Their dominant position collapsed in the late eighteenth century. Over the course of the nineteenth century, many Indian producers experienced the decline of their centuries-old craft. It is thanks to India’s policy implementation since the 1950s that crafts using traditional techniques have been revived. Although these products have not achieved the same popularity as the Indian calicos of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, as Eiluned Edwards demonstrates, they have managed to establish a niche for themselves on the global market. In touch with designers and individual retailers throughout the world, contemporary Indian block printers today once more combine traditional craftsmanship with global marketing and communication regarding fashion. The techniques they use to make their wares have barely changed from those of the early modern period.

4. The Production of Textiles: Manufacturing and Dyeing When engaging with the topic of manufacturing, economic history generally focuses on production. It examines what quantities were produced by which company, who invested what capital, and in what ways the work was organised. In addition to these areas of interest, cultural historians, for example, study the related themes of manufacturing practices, communication, and media. The recent interest of historians in material culture has created another intersection with economic history, where ‘manufacturing’ can be conceived of in new ways. That is because the production of artefacts has always been a material process, for which materials had to be procured and processed and which required artisanal skill

63 Luca Mola, The Silk Industry of Renaissance Venice (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003).

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

27

and technical knowledge.64 An object-based approach can therefore enrich the history of production with insights into the history of knowledge and technology. Using the example of indiennes and wool, the contributions grouped together in the section “The Production of Textiles” explore this intersection of economic and cultural history and the history of knowledge and technology in production. The first two contributions focus on the as-yet unfamiliar history of indienne businesses in Augsburg and eastern Switzerland. The company Schöppler & Hartmann, studied by Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil, developed into one of the most important printers in Augsburg in the late eighteenth century. When purchasing its raw materials and selling its printed cloths, the company combined local with transregional and transnational spheres of activity. Its success was also the result of its entrepreneurial strategies. From 1748 onwards, the company focused on commission-based printing for a few major customers. In addition, it invested a lot of time and effort into developing new designs. The fact that calico-printing nevertheless remained a high-risk enterprise was due to the prevailing economic conditions at the time: communication by letter and using samples was prone to misunderstandings; the complex production processes involved in calico-printing were the source of conflicts; and there was a lack of standardised units for dimensions, quantities, and samples. The history of Schöppler & Hartmann shares a few commonalities with that of companies based in eastern Switzerland. They too had networks stretching across Europe. They too were vulnerable to global influences and bankruptcy. They were under constant pressure to bring new designs to market, and yet still risked not satisfying their customers. However, Ernest Menolfi also highlights the specifically local conditions governing the rise of the calico-printing industry in eastern Switzerland. Presumably because it only experienced a temporary boom and was overshadowed by the embroidery industry of the nineteenth century, it has never been as comparatively well researched as the indienne industry in Geneva, Neuchatel, Basel, or Glarus. The fact that the calico-printing industry was able to establish itself in a rural location such as Hauptwil or a town like St. Gallen in the 1720s and 1730s was largely the result of pre-existing infrastructures of textile production and the manageable financial requirements for founding a workshop. The small to medium size of the companies involved was also typical for eastern Switzerland.65

64 Pamela Smith, Amy Meyers, and Harold Cook, eds., Ways of Making and Knowing: The Material Culture of Empirical Knowledge (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2014); and Emma C. Spary and Ursula Klein, eds., Materials and Expertise in Early Modern Europe: Between Market and Laboratory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010). 65 The Gonzenbach manufactory featured 10 to 12 printing presses. I thank Ernest Menolfi for this information. By contrast, Johann Ryhiner’s workshop in Basel used 48 printing presses, and the Fabrique Neuve in Neuchatel even had 172 printing presses. See Caspard, La Fabrique-Neuve, 84; and Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie,” 107.

28

Kim Siebenhüner

The production of textiles is closely intertwined with the history of dyeing.66 In general, the eighteenth century witnessed an expansion in the knowledge of materials and dyeing processes. Calico printers, wool dyers, and other textile producers played a significant role in this by experimenting with new dyeing techniques, developing new recipes, and testing out new chemical reactions. Calico printers here faced the particular challenge of adopting the printing and dyeing techniques perfected by their Indian colleagues and adapting them to local conditions. In this context, the contributions by Kim Siebenhüner and Claudia Ravazzolo explore which techniques were transferred between India and Europe, and what it meant for a European calico printer to bridge the gap between ‘theoretical’ knowledge and technical skill. Mobile experts ensured the spread of indiennage in the German-speaking world. From the very beginning, they navigated the tensions of keeping their knowledge secret, exchanging it, and commercialising it. They also engaged in a protracted learning process that created a variety of transitions between implicit and explicit, technical and academic knowledge. Researchers have hitherto assumed that so-called pencil blue was a European ‘invention’ that made it possible to apply indigo blue directly to fabrics instead of having to dye them in an indigo bath. Using an eighteenth-century skirt, Claudia Ravazzolo proves that Indian artisans were familiar with the paintable and printable indigo blue, but that they only began to improve and increasingly use it owing to specific European demand for fabrics with a predominantly white background. The fickle nature of transcultural transfer processes is thus made apparent. The analysis of the history of consumption also underpins social differences. Women of different social classes owned and wore indiennes of different price and quality levels. Dye workshops were laboratories of knowledge in the eighteenth century, for indienneurs as well as wool-dyers. This becomes clear in the example of the ‘Royal Prussian Storehouse’, which Jutta Wimmler examines in the concluding contribution of this section. The storehouse’s operators sourced a great variety of dyes of European and non-­European origin, which they used for different purposes. Depending on the recipe or the desired shade or quality of colour, blue and red tones were achieved using indigo and/or woad, brazilwood or red sandalwood, and cochineal or madder. The choice of dye depended not only on price, but first and foremost on the chemical and technical expertise available. Analysis of the art of dyeing therefore shows that the production of textiles in the

66 See Robert Fox and Agustí Nieto-Galan, eds., Natural Dyestuffs and Industrial Culture in Europe, 1750– 1880 (Canton, MA.: Watson, 1999); Agustí Nieto-Galan, Colouring Textiles: A History of Natural Dystuffs in Industrial Europe (Dordrecht: Springer, 2011); Maurice Evard, Périple au pays des indiennes: cochenille, garance et vitriol (Chézard-Saint-Martin: Editions de la Chatière, 2002); and Judith Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past: Origins, Chemistry and Identification of Natural Dyestuffs (Riggisberg: Abegg-Stiftung, 2004).

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

29

eighteenth century was embedded in an increasingly complex, global, economic, technical, and aesthetic culture of production.67

5. The Business of Textiles: Marketing and Product Innovation Product innovations and marketing strategies in the eighteenth century were an important topic not just for the indienne industry. It had already become apparent over the course of the early modern period that ‘new’ goods did not sell themselves. In order for them to prevail, such goods had to be publicised, marketed, and adapted to customers’ needs.68 In the 1960s, the pioneers of consumption research already determined that the porcelain produced by Wedgewood & Bentley was so successful in large part because Wedgewood implemented a specific marketing strategy, emphasising different market segments, royal patronage, and the creation of fashion trends.69 However, these early studies of the history of advertising and marketing as well as more recent work on the history of shopping have received little interest within German-speaking research.70 Overall, ever more textiles of differing quality, prices, and designs became available over the course of the early modern period. Furthermore, early modern textiles were 67 See Liliane Hilaire-Pérez, L’invention technique au siècle des Lumières (Paris: Michel, 2000); Joel Mokyr, The Gifts of Athena: Historical Origins of the Knowledge Economy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011); and Joel Mokyr, The Enlightened Economy: An Economic History of Britain, 1700–1850 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009). 68 John Styles, “Product Innovation in Early Modern London,” Past & Present 168 (2000): 124–69. 69 Neil McKendrick, “Josiah Wedgwood and the commercialization of the potteries,” in The Birth of a Consumer Society, ed. Neil McKendrick, John Brewer, and J.H. Plumb (London: Hutchinson, 1982), 100–45, as well as Neil McKendrick, “Josiah Wedgwood: An Eighteenth-Century Entrepreneur in Salesmanship and Marketing Techniques,” Economic History Review 12 (1960): 408–33. 70 For a few exceptions, see Heidrun Homburg, “Warenanzeigen und Kundenwerbung in den ‘Leipziger Zeitungen’ 1750–1800: Aspekte der inneren Marktbildung und der Kommerzialisierung des Alltagslebens,” in Zur Geschichte der Ökonomik der Privathaushalte, ed. Dietmar Petzina and Klaus Hesse (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1991), 109–31; Michaela Fenske, Marktkultur in der Frühen Neuzeit: Wirtschaft, Macht und Unterhaltung auf einem städtischen Jahr- und Viehmarkt (Cologne: Böhlau, 2006); and Sheilagh Ogilvie, Markus Küpker, and Janine Maegraith, “Krämer und ihre Waren im ländlichen Württemberg zwischen 1600 und 1740,” Zeitschrift für Agrargeschichte und Agrarsoziologie 59 (2011): 54–75. On English-language literature, see Clemens Wischermann and Elliott Shore, eds., Advertising and the European City: Historical Perspectives (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000); Evelyn Welch, Shopping in the Renaissance: Consumer Cultures in Italy, 1400–1600 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005); John Benson and Laura Ugolini, eds., Cultures of Selling: Perspectives on Consumption and Society since 1700 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006); Jon Stobart, Andrew Hann, and Victoria Morgan, eds., Spaces of Consumption: Leisure and Shopping in the English Town, c.1680–1830 (New York: Routledge, 2007); Bruno Blondé, Natacha Coquery, Jon Stobart, and Ilja Van Damme, eds., Fashioning Old and New: Changing Consumer Preferences in Europe (Seventeenth-Nineteenth Centuries) (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009); and Bert DeMunk and Lyna Dries, eds., Concepts of Value in European Material Culture, 1500–1900 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015).

30

Kim Siebenhüner

increasingly publicised and marketed using adverts, shop signs, trade cards, and other media. Yet what does ‘marketing’ mean in an era that was unfamiliar with this term? The modern definition of marketing stems from the twentieth century; yet the techniques of marketing are much older, as the contributions in this volume demonstrate.71 Even to pre-modern merchants, marketing their wares meant more than just bringing them to the marketplace. It meant developing the product and tailoring it towards an audience to increase sales. Even pre-modern traders and entrepreneurs conveyed knowledge between producers and consumers by gathering information on customer wishes, competitors, and fashions, and adopting their products accordingly. The colchas – silk-embroidered cotton fabrics produced in Bengal – examined by Barbara Karl represent an early example of these practices. Portuguese merchants had been bringing them to Europe since the 1580s, initially as gifts and then increasingly as goods. For this purpose, the size, material, and colour were not much altered, but the patterns were produced based on European print templates. The result was hybrid textiles that were both alien and familiar to Europeans. The differences between the level of Portuguese-Bengali product development around 1600 and the marketing practices of the Sattelzeit as the early modern gave way to the modern were, above all, gradual in nature. The contributions by John Styles, Gabi Schopf, Alexis Schwarzenbach, and Eric Häusler show that by the eighteenth and nineteenth century, marketing was no longer limited to sporadic interventions but was becoming a systematically applied business strategy. In the textile trade, samples developed into an important tool. Medieval merchants had already been in the habit of sending each other samples by letter. But it was only in the early eighteenth century that samples were regularly used for product innovation and sales. Lyonnaise silk manufacturers were the first to adopt a new sales method, in which pre-manufactured samples of new designs were sent to customers and only produced in larger quantities once they received an order.72 This facilitated not only order-based production but also made it easier to pirate the designs. Using the example of the Aargau-based company Laué & Co., Gabi Schopf illustrates how samples were used as a marketing tool and an object imbued with information and trust. They were sent to customers by letter or presented by travelling salesmen; allowing potential customers to check the material, colour, and design of a fabric they were 71 For a discussion on ‘marketing’ as a research term, see Eric Häusler’s contribution to this volume. 72 Carlo Poni, “Fashion as Flexible Production: the Strategies of the Lyons Silk Merchants in the Eighteenth Century,” in World of Possibilities: Flexibility and Mass Production in Western Industrialization, ed. Charles Sabel and Jonathan Zeitlin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 51. See also Lesley Miller, “Innovation and Industrial Espionage in Eighteenth-Century France: An Investigation of the Selling of Silks through Samples,” Journal of Design History 12 (1999): 271–92.

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

31

planning to order; and providing material proof that a manufactory was able to produce a certain level of quality. Market research and product development were closely intertwined, as Alexis Schwarzenbach demonstrates with the example of the Zurich silk industry in the nineteenth century. Merchants were very well-informed about export markets and the latest trends, thanks to the reports they received from commercial agents. Four sample books from the years 1847 to 1875, containing over 30,000 silk samples, demonstrate the success of these business strategies. It was not only the number of Zurich firms that kept growing, but also the range of products on offer. The key to success was colour. Unlike the silk products of Lyon and Krefeld, which had become renowned for their elaborate Jacquard designs and luxurious velvets, Zurich silks – which were fashioned on relatively simple manual looms – secured their place on the global market thanks to their extraordinary diversity of colours. After the mid-nineteenth century, machine-based embroidery became the most important Swiss export industry. Eric Häusler discusses the extent to which the modern concept of marketing can be applied to this industry and shows how Swiss embroidery managed to establish itself as a global brand. The industry pioneers did everything they could to continuously create new designs, maintain customer relationships, and advertise. They invented appealing packaging and catchy slogans, and presented their products at world expositions and trade fairs. Many of these strategies were a continuation of older practices. Nevertheless, a new era of marketing had dawned, as Häusler makes clear: compared to the eighteenth century, customer-centred production had become more sophisticated and systematic, and had new tools at its disposal. In the eighteenth century, ‘Swiss Indiennes’ were not yet a brand – however, the Swiss embroideries of the nineteenth century most definitely were.

6. The Consumption of Textiles: Clothes and Fabrics The third section of this volume switches the focus from manufacturing and marketing to consumption. German consumer research has a certain deficit to make up: unlike Anglo-American research, it does not have a body of research established over thirty years to draw on. Yet the gaps have begun to be plugged in recent years. For certain regions, inventories have been evaluated, consumption patterns questioned, and distribution infrastructures illuminated.73 The contributions in this section draw on these findings while expanding on and differentiating between them. 73 For more information, see Siebenhüner, “Things that Matter.” Among the more recent publications, see Frank Trentmann, Empire of Things: How We Became a World of Consumers, from the Fifteenth Century to

32

Kim Siebenhüner

Owing to its geographical location and the activities of the Asiatisk Kompagni, Denmark was far more greatly influenced by Asian goods than the Old Swiss Confederacy or the Habsburg Empire. By the end of the eighteenth century, for instance, foreign cloth was being imported to Denmark at a rate of one piece for every citizen per annum – more than in England, France, or the Netherlands. Yet only a percentage of these were for Danish consumption. Using the example of the gentleman merchant Pierre Peschier, Vibe Martens firstly illuminates the networks via which the imported cloth was sold on in Europe and, secondly, how cotton curtains, cushions, and bedspreads began to influence the interiors of Danish houses. According to Martens’ calculations, around thirty percent of the textiles specified in Copenhagen’s inventories in the eighteenth century were made of cotton – a volume which, local variations aside, is comparable to the findings from Viennese and Bernese inventories established by Aris Kafantogias and John Jordan. In the second chapter in the section, Isa Fleischmann-Heck evaluates a type of source that has hitherto received little attention in textile research. Drawing on the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel – an advertising and news sheet from the province of West-Prussia – she shows that a great variety of textiles was also available in rural areas. The consumption of new goods was by no means the exclusive preserve of Europe’s major cities. Reports of stolen and lost property in the Intelligenz-Zettel show that ordinary people in the Lower Rhine region also owned and wore cotton fabrics. However, the possession of clothing continued to be governed by social status. Amongst the lower orders, wool clothing continued to dominate, whereas the village elite primarily wore high-quality silk textiles, elaborate embroidery, and fashionable cotton clothing. Yet in the Lower Rhine region too, there was nothing one could term a boom in cotton: the adverts continued to show a quantitative balance between the four key materials of linen, wool, silk, and cotton.

the Twenty-First (London: Allen Lane, 2016); recently translated as Herrschaft der Dinge: Die Geschichte des Konsums vom 15. Jahrhundert bis heute, trans. Klaus-Dieter Schmidt and Stephan Gebauer-Lippert (Munich: Anstalt, 2017); Ertl and Karl, Inventories of Textiles; Sigrid Hirbodian, Sheilagh Ogilvie, and J­ ohanna Regnath, eds., Revolution des Fleißes, Revolution des Konsums: Leben und Wirtschaften im ländlichen Württemberg von 1650 bis 1800, (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2015); Julia Schmidt-Funke, “Haben und Sein: Materielle Kultur und Konsum im frühneuzeitlichen Frankfurt am Main,” (habilitation thesis, University of Jena, 2016); Reinhold Reith, ed., Das Verlassenschaftsinventar des Salzburger Tuch- und Seidenhändlers Franz Anton Spängler von 1784: Einführung und kommentierte Edition (Salzburg: Stadtarchiv und Statistik der Stadt Salzburg, 2015); and Reinhold Reith, Luisa Pichler-Baumgartner, Georg Stöger, and Andreas Zechner, eds., Haushalten und Konsumieren: Die Ausgabenbücher der Salzburger Kaufmannsfamilie Spängler von 1733 bis 1785 (Salzburg: Stadtarchiv und Statistik der Stadt Salzburg, 2016).

Introduction: Swiss Cotton

33

The contributions by Aris Kafantogias and John Jordan draw closely on these findings. Using inventories from Vienna and Bern, respectively, they analyse the changes in the clothing people owned and the materials these were made of in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century. In the late eighteenth century, Vienna was transformed from a baroque imperial seat to an administrative and commercial centre of the Habsburg Empire. Expanding sales channels and the presence of fashionable goods created new consumer incentives. Interestingly, however, the inventories studied by Kafantogias do not reflect any increase in spending on textiles. Based on the inventories from 1783 to 1823, there was instead a seeming trend towards saving money or investing it in things other than clothing. The expensive clothing that was to be found in the inventories was above all made up of outerwear – trousers, waistcoats, skirts, and dresses. Cotton fabrics were more frequently owned by women than men; however, it was not a popular material among either sex. John Jordan studies the changes in textile possessions in the city of Bern over the course of 130 years, from 1660 to 1789. Although cotton first made inroads into Bern in the late seventeenth century, it was not until the 1740s that printed cottons started to be frequently used for clothes – a period in which local and regional production increased. However, the growth of local industry alone did not guarantee that a good would be widely consumed: for Bern, the consumption of cotton remained largely the preserve of the wealthy. In this regard, it is hard to see it as having been symbolic of a consumer revolution or a period of increased consumption by non-elites. In terms of allegedly excessive consumption, too, to loop back to him one final time, Jakob Laurenz Custer was therefore wrong. 

Translated by David Mossop

Map 1: The Old Swiss Confederacy in the eighteenth century

34 Kim Siebenhüner

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing: Textile Innovation in early modern Europe John Styles

Between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries, Europe witnessed a tide of novelty in textiles. There were two principal trends. First, a shift towards lighter, more colourful and highly patterned fabrics, used both for clothing and for furnishings. Second, the dissemination of textiles employing new or unfamiliar techniques, such as knitting, lacemaking, printing, and the use of New World dyestuffs. Innovation and diversification can be observed across the whole range of textile fibres, including wool, linen, silk, and cotton. Their effects were felt at every level of the market, from the finest patterned silks worn by monarchs and their courtiers, to the cheap ribbons made from spun waste silk that decorated the caps of housemaids. These forms of product innovation were intimately linked to innovation in technology, fashion, and marketing. They were associated with the invention, dissemination, and refinement of new machines. They went hand-in-hand with an intensification and systematisation of fashion, culminating in the emergence of an annual fashion cycle for silks, at least, during the later seventeenth century. At the same time they spawned novel kinds of marketing, in particular selling by sample and the use of pattern books. These changes were rooted in new forms of industrial and commercial organisation, in the expansion of European trade and colonies, and in the revolution in communications associated with letterpress printing and improvements in postal services.1 It is, however, the materiality of innovation that is the focus of this chapter – the materials from which textiles were made, the tools and machines used to make them, the frequency with which their material characteristics changed, and the physical means employed to disseminate information about them. The chapter begins by assessing product innovation in western European textiles between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries. It then proceeds to consider how innovation was related to changes in technology, in fashion, and, finally, in marketing. * The author would like to thank Susan Brown, David Celetti, Alice Dolan, Lesley Miller, the late John ­Munro, Chris Nierstrasz, Giorgio Riello, Michael Sonenscher, Philip Sykas, Corinne Thépaut-Cabasset, and the editors of this volume for references and suggestions. The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Research Council under the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP/2007–2013)/ERC Grant Agreement n. 249512. 1 Wolfgang Behringer, “Communications Revolutions: A Historiographical Concept,” German History 24 (2006): 333–74.

36

John Styles

1. Product Innovation in Textiles During the period from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries, existing types of woven fabrics tended to become lighter. Patterned silks, produced principally in Italy, but widely exported, were the most costly and high-status textiles in sixteenth-century Europe. Between the mid-fifteenth century and the early seventeenth century, their weave density fell by a third, reflecting a shift to lighter, thinner cloths.2 The trend continued into the eighteenth century, as use of the richest and heaviest silks became increasingly restricted to formal court dressing.3 An equivalent change can be observed in fine woollen broadcloths, which could be almost as expensive as silks. Between the 1630s and the 1680s, the weight of a typical coloured broadcloth made in Wiltshire, in the west of England, fell by a third.4 Similarly, the revitalisation of the famous woollen laken industry in seventeenth-century Leiden was based on a new version of the laken, made from Spanish merino wool, which weighed less than its late medieval predecessor of the same name. The Venetian authorities complained in 1673 “it is well known … that Dutch woollens have displaced ours: being pleasant, light, and inexpensive, they have infected the mind of the Turks, so that … the latter no longer appreciate our draperies, which are heavy both to buy and to wear.”5 A century later, the most significant product innovation in the British short-staple woollen industry was the cassimere, introduced in 1769 in the west of England, a lighter cloth employing yarn three times as fine as a typical Wiltshire broadcloth.6 The reduction in the weight of established fabrics was accompanied by the dramatic success of a variety of light woven fabrics. Most prominent were those made from combed, long-staple wool. They succeeded at the expense of heavier and less attractive competitors. Light woollen fabrics, such as says and serges, made either entirely from combed, long-staple wool or mixed with short, carded wools, had long been produced in Europe.7 Nevertheless, the expansion of European commerce during the late fifteenth and sixteenth 2 Luca Mola, The Silk Industry of Renaissance Venice (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 88, 146–52. 3 Natalie Rothenstein, “Silk in the Early Modern Period, c.1500–1780,” in The Cambridge History of Western Textiles, ed. David Jenkins, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 1:549. 4 Julia de Lacy Mann, The Cloth Industry in the West of England from 1640 to 1880 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1971), 14, 312–15. 5 Domenico Sella, “The Rise and Fall of the Venetian Woollen Industry,” in Crisis and Change in the Venetian Economy, ed. Brian Pullan (London: Methuen, 1968), 120. 6 Kenneth G. Ponting, “The Structure of the Wiltshire-Somerset Border Woollen Industry, 1816–40,” in Textile History and Economic History: Essays in Honour of Julia de Lacy Mann, ed. Negley Harte and Kenneth G. Ponting (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1973), 163. 7 John Munro, “Medieval Woollens: Textiles, Textile Technology and Industrial Organisation, c. 800–1500,” in Western Textiles, 1:181–227; and John Munro, “Medieval Woollens: the Western European Woollen Industries and their Struggles for International Markets, c.1000–1500,” in Western Textiles, 1:228–324.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

37

centuries saw huge increases in their production in key centres, initially in Flanders, but extending in the course of the next two centuries to Holland, England, France, Italy, and beyond.8 This growth was accompanied by a proliferation of new light fabrics, often manufactured in the same localities. Some were made entirely from combed, long-staple wool. Others combined combed, long-staple wool with silk or other fibres. Those mixed with silk copied a wide range of costly silk piece goods – satins, damasks, velvets, and taffetas – but at a much lower price.9 Collectively they were known in English as worsted stuffs.10 By the later seventeenth century they too were facing competition in key markets from another type of light-weight woven textile that was new to Europe: all-cotton fabrics such as calico, imported from India, initially by the Portuguese in the late sixteenth century, and on an ever larger scale by the English and Dutch East India companies after 1600.11 Both cotton and the long-staple wools employed in worsted stuffs tended to produce fabrics intrinsically lighter and finer than the carded wool used in heavily napped medieval broadcloths. The shift to lighter weight fabrics for outer garments was accompanied, from the fifteenth century onwards, by a mass diffusion of linen underwear. It was associated with a major expansion in the production of coarse linen and hemp fabrics in the late medieval countryside, both for local consumption and for international trade.12 The proliferation of linen underwear reflected the spread of new conceptions of cleanliness.13 At the same

  8 Herman van der Wee, “The Western European Woollen Industries, 1500–1750,” in Western Textiles, 1:397– 472; and Negley Harte, ed., The New Draperies in the Low Countries and England, 1300–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997).   9 Patrick Chorley, “The ‘Draperies légères’ of Lille, Arras, Tournai, Valenciennes: New Materials for New Markets?” in La Draperie Ancienne des Pays-Bas: débouchés et stratégies de survie (14e–16e siècles), ed. Marc Boone and Walter Prevenier (Leuven: Garant, 1993), 151–66; Robert DuPlessis, Lille and the Dutch Revolt: Urban Stability in an Era of Revolution, 1500–1582 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 85– 96; and Jeroen Puttevils, “Trading Silks and Tapestries in Sixteenth-Century Antwerp,” in Europe’s Rich Fabric: The Consumption, Commercialisation, and Production of Luxury Textiles in Italy, the Low Countries and Neighbouring Territories (Fourteenth-Sixteenth Centuries), ed. Bart Lambert and Katherine A. Wilson (Abingdon: Routledge, 2016), 131–57. 10 For the displacement of heavier, traditional worsted fabrics in Norwich, the principal production centre of the new light worsted stuffs, see Luc Martin, “Textile manufactures in Norwich and Norfolk, 1550–1622” (PhD diss., University of Cambridge, 1991), 7, 60. 11 Giorgio Riello, Cotton: the Fabric that Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 89–91; and Maria João Ferreira, “Asian Textiles in the Carreira da India: Portuguese Trade, Consumption and Taste, 1500–1700,” Textile History 46 (2015): 147–68. 12 Stephan R. Epstein, “The late medieval crisis as an ‘integration crisis,’” in Early Modern Capitalism: Economic and Social Change in Europe 1400–1800, ed. Maarten Praak (Aldershot: Routledge, 2001), 41; and Angela Ling Huang, “Hanseatic Textile Production in 15th Century Long Distance Trade,” in Textiles and the Medieval Economy: Production, Trade and Consumption of Textiles, 8th–16th Centuries, ed. Angela Ling Huang and Carsten Jahnke (Oxford: Oxbow, 2015), 204–15. 13 Georges Vigarello, Concepts of Cleanliness: Changing Attitudes in France since the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), chapter 4.

38

John Styles

time, it contributed to the multi-layering of dress associated with wearing outer garments that were thinner and lighter, providing reduced thermal insulation. Textiles were not just becoming lighter in weight. The new fabrics were cheaper. The new, light silks – grosgrains, sarcenets, satins, and damasks – cost only half to three-quarters of the price of the traditional heavy brocaded velvets they superseded.14 But these new fabrics were also less durable. The Venetian ambassador to the French court complained in 1546 that the satins and damasks made by the Tuscans and the Genoese were “cloths that cost little and last even less.”15 In 1606 it was claimed, perhaps with some exaggeration, that the old Norwich worsteds of the mid-sixteenth century would have lasted six times longer than the new Norwich stuffs.16 A century later, the English author Daniel Defoe famously dismissed Indian calico as “ordinary, mean, low-priz’d, and soon in rags.”17 Cheaper, less durable fabrics facilitated more frequent purchases of a wider array of items, aligned with a heightened sensitivity among consumers to novelty and variety. The Tuscan and Genoese silks criticized as cheap and flimsy by the Venetian ambassador in 1546 were made to “suit the desires and tastes of the French.” They were “exactly what that nation wants, because it would get bored if a garment lasted too long.”18 An emphasis on design innovation was a corollary of the acceleration in turnover. Almost all the new fabrics were distinguished by the speed with which their patterns and colours were changed.19 Norwich was one of the main English centres for the new, light fabrics made from combed wool (known there as stuffs). In 1611, Norwich stuffs were already being described as being “of infinite variety of sorts, figures, colours, and prices.” The need for new patterns was constantly stressed. “Our trade is most benefitted by our new inventions and the varying of our stuffes which is contynually profitable.”20 Manufacturers responded to the need for change, although often their innovations were minor – adding or omitting a motif, altering its size or shading, modifying the weave, or varying the pattern of the background. It was said of Norwich worsted stuffs in the seventeenth century that it was hard to “reckon up their several names, because daily increasing, and many of them are binominous,

14 Elizabeth Currie, “Diversity and design in the Florentine tailoring trade, 1560–1620,” in The Material Renaissance, ed. Michelle O’Malley and Evelyn S Welch (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2008), 160. 15 Quoted in Mola, Silk Industry, 96. 16 Martin, “Textile manufactures in Norwich,” 7. 17 D. Defoe, A Brief Deduction of the Original, Progress, and Immense Greatness of the British Woollen Manufacture (London: J. Roberts and A. Dodd, 1727), 50. 18 Quoted in Mola, Silk Industry, 96. 19 Innovation in colour was, of course, encouraged by the availability of new dyestuffs from the Americas. 20 Quoted in Ursula Priestley, “Norwich Stuffs, 1600–1700,” in Harte, New Draperies, 278.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

39

as which, when they begin to tire in sale, are quickened with a new name.”21 Where imitation and adaptation were common, the relationship between a textile’s name and its materiality became increasingly fluid.22 The name of a successful fabric could be appropriated to describe one copying it in another combination of materials, such as the fustian made in Flanders and at Leiden in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which combined a linen warp with a woollen weft, in contrast to the cotton weft of the more familiar Italian and south German fustians.23 Alternatively, the same fabric could be endowed with different names for different markets, like the linen chelloes made in Lancashire and shipped to West Africa in the mid-eighteenth century, which probably differed very little from the Lancashire-made fabric sold under the name linen check in colonial British America.24 The shift to lighter weight fabrics was associated with a proliferation of new textiles made from mixed materials. They included union fabrics, in which the fibre of the warp yarn differed from the fibre of the weft yarn, as well as blended or union yarns, in which the yarns themselves combined different fibres. Mixed-fibre fabrics were not, of course, new. Archaeological survivals from medieval London include half-silk velvets, combining linen weft and silk warps, and tiretaines, combining linen and woollen yarns.25 Fustians with linen warps and cotton wefts were produced on a large scale in northern Italy from the twelfth century and subsequently in southern Germany.26 Yet despite these medieval precursors, the proliferation of new kinds of mixed fibre textiles that accompanied the European shift to lighter textiles from the sixteenth century onwards was unparalleled. Like medieval half-silks, the new mixed fabrics often mimicked more expensive textiles made from a single type of fibre, but at a lower price. As the new, cheaper, light-weight Italian silks swept western Europe in the later sixteenth century, their patterning, colours, and sheen were evoked for less affluent consumers by cheaper textiles combining expensive silk yarns with cheaper yarns made from combed wool, mohair, cotton, or linen. By the early eighteenth century, merchants in British America were importing camblets and poplins combining silk warps with worsted wefts, and crapes and camblets with warps composed of silk and worsted yarns twisted together.27 21 Thomas Fuller, The History of the Worthies of England, 3 vols. (London: Tegg, 1840), 2:488. 22 Nancy Cox, The Complete Tradesman: A Study of Retailing, 1550–1820 (Aldershot: Routledge, 2000), 198– 202. 23 Van der Wee, “Western European Woollen Industries,” 434–35. 24 Keele University Library, Papers of William Davenport and Co., 1745–1797, Invoice of merchandise shipped on the snow Plumper, 1762; Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Jones Family Papers, vol. 8: Jones and Wister Invoice Book, 1759–62. 25 Elisabeth Crowfoot, Frances Pritchard, and Kay Staniland, Textiles and Clothing, c.1150–c.1450 (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1992), 127–29. 26 Maureen Fennell Mazzaoui, The Italian Cotton Industry in the later Middle Ages, 1100–1600 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). 27 New York Historical Society, Alexander Papers, 10.5: Mary Alexander, Fabric Samples, 1730.

40

John Styles

Equally, the expensive new broadcloths made with Spanish wool were imitated in fabrics like serge and baize, which combined warp yarns made from combed wool with weft yarns made from carded wool. In the major textile centres of western Europe, this diversification of materials was linked to a process of ever more precise sorting and differentiation of textile fibres. Silk, wool, flax and cotton were all subject to increasingly careful grading by quality and price. During the Middle Ages, sheep fleeces had been differentiated from each other for sale according to quality, but they do not appear to have been then split apart to take account of variations in the nature of the wool across the body of the animal. Wool sorting of this kind was an early modern innovation, as was blending of different fleece types. By the seventeenth century, wool sorting had come to be regarded as crucial to the manufacture of high quality cloth.28 Differences in quality between materials were sometimes identified by specific attributes of the fibre, as in the ten grades of fineness which formed the basis for sorting English short-staple wools in the eighteenth century.29 More commonly, materials were graded according to place of origin, like the different types of cotton wool on sale in London in 1691, listed as white Barbados, yellow Barbados, Jamaica, Smyrna, Acre, and Cyprus.30 Each grade of fibre had a different use and commanded a different price. Precise grading of materials facilitated an expansion of product ranges, each range differentiated by quality, and each quality targeted at different price points in different markets. Grading extended to the waste products generated as materials were processed. The differentiation between legitimate materials and waste was especially stark for silk, the most expensive textile raw material. Most silk yarn was not spun. Yarn was made by winding the silk fibre, which could be up to a kilometre in length, off the cocoon and then twisting multiple strands of fibre into various grades of thread. However, at each stage in the process, short-fibre silk waste was created which could be transformed into inferior quality yarn only by spinning. In mid-sixteenth-century Venice, it was estimated that about a quarter of the material derived from silk cocoons ended up as waste silk that required spinning, if it was to be woven or knitted.31 Spun silk was used as weft in cheaper silk fabrics, or in mixed fabrics like the burates made at Nîmes in France in the eighteenth century, using

28 M.L. Ryder, “Fleece Grading and Wool Sorting: The Historical Perspective,” Textile History 26 (1995), 15– 16. 29 John Luccock, The Nature and Properties of Wool (Leeds: Edward Raines, 1805), 142–43. 30 Whiston’s Merchants Weekly Remembrancer, 26 January 1691. 31 Mola, Silk Industry, 234. For the eighteenth century, see Carlo Poni, “Standards, Trust and Civil Discourse: Measuring the Thickness of Quality of Silk Thread,” History of Technology 23 (2001), 8–9.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

41

spun silk warps and woollen wefts.32 Different grades of spun silk were also employed for haberdashery, trimmings, and stockings.33 Indeed, it is important to emphasize that early modern innovation in textile piece goods was accompanied by a transformation in the character, range, and volume of textile trimmings and clothing accessories. Ribbons and tapes have ancient origins, knitted goods were known in medieval Europe, and needle and bobbin lace had medieval precursors. Nevertheless, all three saw a remarkable elaboration and proliferation after 1500. Ribbons, the cheaper varieties made from inferior or even waste silks, became key decorative elements in European dress, even among the poor. So too did needle lace and, especially, the cheaper bobbin lace. Stockings, knitted in combed wool, linen thread, or silk, almost entirely replaced medieval hose made from woven woollen cloth in the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.34 Textile innovation was not, of course, confined to clothing. Textiles had long been used in Europe to furnish interiors, both secular and ecclesiastical, with wall hangings, bed curtains, cushion covers, table napkins, coverlets, bed sheets, pillow cases, and the like. The fabrics employed for at least some of these uses saw the same trend towards lighter weights that can be observed in clothing textiles. Thus in the houses of London’s commercial elite during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, short-staple, carded woollen cloth used for bed curtains and wall hangings was superseded by light worsted stuffs as well as printed cottons and linens. Only tapestry, a hugely successful innovation of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, bucked the trend.35 Equally significant was the early modern rise of upholstered seating furniture, which provided a major new outlet for light- to medium-weight patterned textiles. At the same time, industrial and commercial uses of textiles multiplied. The expansion of navies and maritime trade, employing new, larger ships, required ever more sails and rigging, made largely from hemp or flax. Commercial expansion of all kinds required sacks, wrappers, and twine, again made mainly from hemp or flax. 32 Line Teisseyre-Sallmann, L’industrie de la soie en Bas-Languedoc: XVIIe-XVIIIe siècles (Paris: Ecole Nationale des Chartes, 1995), 90–91, 245. 33 For ribbons and trimmings, see Jacques Savary des Bruslons, Dictionnaire Universel de Commerce, 3 vols. (Paris, 1741), 3:664–65, 1308; and for stockings, see R. March, A Treatise on Silk, Wool, Worsted, Cotton, and Thread (London, 1779), 38. 34 Andrea Caracausi, “Textiles Manufacturing, Product Innovations and Transfers of Technology in Padua and Venice between the Sixteenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in Innovation and Creativity in Late Medieval and Early Modern European Cities, ed. Karel Davids and Bert de Munck (Abingdon: Routledge, 2014), 131–60; Santina M. Levey, “Lace in the Early Modern Period, c.1500–1780,” in Western Textiles, 1:585–96; and Carlo Marco Belfanti, “Fashion and Innovation: The Origins of the Italian Hosiery Industry in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” Textile History 27 (1996): 132–47. 35 David Mitchell, “‘My purple will be too sad for that melancholy room’: Furnishings for Interiors in London and Paris, 1660–1735,” Textile History 40 (2009): 3–28.

42

John Styles

This tide of novelty in early modern European textiles, characterized by a shift towards lighter fabrics, was driven by changes in fashion, lifestyle, and economic circumstances. Three developments were especially significant. First, a change in elite taste in late medieval and sixteenth-century Europe, what Patrick Chorley described as a Europe-wide “shift away from woollen broad cloth to silk that characterized this whole period up to the seventeenth century.”36 It saw a decline in demand for the heavily napped woollen broadcloths and silk velvets that had dominated the high-prestige textile market since the arrival of the horizontal loom in the twelfth century. As we have seen, they were outpaced by lighter, smoother, colour-patterned fabrics, often with a distinct sheen. Silks led the trend, but were quickly followed by textiles made to mimic patterned silks in wool, in mixed materials, and eventually in cotton and linen. The cheapness of these lighter fabrics, including the new lighter silks, and their fashionability secured them far wider markets than their heavy medieval predecessors, extending deep into the middle and eventually lower ranks of western European society. Second, the expansion of trade within Europe. As John Munro argued, the changing pattern of trade in Europe at the end of the Middle Ages saw the re-emergence of trans-European trade in medium and low quality woollen fabrics, which had contracted during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, as well as a reinvigorated trade in textile raw materials.37 The result was the emergence of a relatively small number of major manufacturing centres, dominating the production of traded light-weight textiles. These centres were located in western Europe’s most economically advanced regions, initially in the sixteenth century in Flanders, Italy, and Picardy, and subsequently in Holland, England, and other parts of France. They supplied markets across Europe and beyond. Third, the opening of intercontinental maritime trade to south and east Asia and to the Americas from the end of the fifteenth century. For textiles, the consequences included new or previously unfamiliar dyestuffs (indigo, cochineal, logwood), new techniques, especially for decorating fabric with colour (colour-fast painting and printing), new sources of textile raw materials (American long-staple varieties of cotton, Chinese and Indian raw silks), and new markets with distinctive tastes and unfamiliar competitors (initially especially in West Africa, but subsequently in the Americas). It was, of course, the opening of intercontinental maritime trade to south Asia that brought large quantities of Indian all-cotton textiles to Europe for the first time. Yet the chronology of their import – instigated by the Portuguese in the second half of the sixteenth century and expanded by the English and Dutch East India Companies in the seventeenth century, peaking in the so-called calico craze of the 1680s and 1690s – does not 36 Chorley, “Draperies légères,” 163. 37 Munro, “Western European Woollen Industries,” 296–98.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

43

suggest Indian cottons initiated, or even drove, the European trend towards lighter, decorated fabrics. Indeed, a large proportion of the Indian cottons imported to Europe in the early modern period were destined for African markets, where they were indispensable for the purchase of slaves. Nevertheless, India could offer an enormous variety of cotton and cotton-silk mixed fabrics, lightweight and colourful in ways that matched existing trends in European textiles and reinforced them. Cottons enjoyed the advantage that their Indian manufacturers could dye, paint, or print them in bright colours that were washable and permanent, unlike the colours in European woollens and silks. Indian cottons also offered European consumers a fashionable dash of extra-European exoticism. However, the most striking feature of the Indian cotton fabrics sold in Europe and by Europeans in Africa was their makers’ capacity to vary specifications to meet European requirements. The European trading companies that purchased Indian cottons did not operate speculatively. By the mid-seventeenth century they started to specify the types of fabric they required and often sent designs from Europe to be painted or printed in India.38 As a consequence, many of the Indian cottons ordered for the European market evoked the patterning and colours found on more expensive European silk textiles, in the same way as the European-made worsted stuffs and mixed fabrics with which they competed, although it is important to stress that the Indian cotton fabrics were not necessarily cheaper. Europeans found it hard to compete. They struggled for much of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries to match Indian colouring techniques, although by the mid-eighteenth century they had developed new methods unknown in India, such as the cold vat process for indigo dyeing and the use of copper plates to print large, pictorial designs in fast colours.39 Attempts to manufacture all-cotton fabrics in Europe proved especially challenging, as a result of the high relative cost of raw cotton fibre and the low relative cost of Indian labour. The shortness of cotton fibre made it awkward, time-consuming, and, therefore, expensive to spin. It was especially difficult to insert the degree of twist necessary to bear the tension warp yarns sustain in a loom. The available technologies – hand spinning wheels and hand spindles – were similar in Europe and India, yet in Europe cotton yarn remained inordinately expensive compared to linen yarn. Its excessive cost was partly a reflection of the high cost of raw cotton, which had to be imported from the eastern Mediterranean or the West Indies. Nevertheless, it is most unlikely that spinning cotton warps could possibly have been economic at the relatively high wage rates for hand spinning that prevailed in the cotton manufacturing areas of England and northern France in the eighteenth century. It is striking that in Switzerland, around Bern, Zurich, 38 John Styles, “Product Innovation in Early-Modern London,” Past and Present no. 168 (2000), 132–36. 39 Riello, Cotton, 177, 179–81.

44

John Styles

and St. Gallen – one of the few areas in western Europe where cotton warp yarn was hand spun in quantity in the mid-eighteenth century – wages for spinning were especially low.40 The Swiss produced siamoises and indiennes with a cotton weft and a linen warp, but they also made all-cotton muslins and some all-cotton calicoes.41 In India, by contrast, nominal spinning wages were low and cotton was grown in many parts of the subcontinent.42 In major markets like France, Britain, and Spain, European governments responded to this predicament with prohibitions on the import and use of many, if not all Indian cottons, while encouraging the manufacture of cheap copies of Indian cottons in other materials. The fibre composition of these new, light mixed cotton fabrics echoed the heavy fustians produced in Europe since the Middle Ages. Like fustians, these new fabrics – siamoise, check, dimity, bombazijn – were mixtures of cheap linen warp yarns and expensive cotton weft yarns. Yet they were rarely described as fustians, because they were new and very different in look, feel, and weight. Made with linen warps, and therefore inferior in colouring to equivalent Indian all-cotton textiles, these new light fabrics sold as substitutes for Indian fabrics in European and Atlantic colonial markets, but at a lower price. It is important to emphasize that Indian all-cotton fabrics were generally more expensive in the African and American markets where they sold freely than the European linen-cotton textiles that copied them. Nevertheless, customers knew the difference and were willing to pay if necessary. In 1774 Henry Fleming, a merchant at Norfolk, Virginia, complained to his suppliers in Whitehaven, England, that: “the calicoes charged by Mr. Potter [a draper at Whitehaven] per the [ship] James are nothing but high priced printed cottons [ie. prints on mixed linen-cotton fabric], wretched dull patterns beyond the limits of our order and never likely to fetch first cost.”43

40 Anon [Jacob N. Moreau], Examen des Effets que doivent produire dans le commerce de France, l’usage et la fabrication des Toiles Peintes (Geneva: La veuve Delaguette, 1759), 113–22. 41 See John Styles, “Fashion, Textiles and the Origins of Industrial Revolution,” The East Asian Journal of British History 5 (2016): 161–89. 42 High transport costs made the English East India Company reluctant to import large quantities of cotton yarn from India into Europe, although the Dutch East India Company did maintain a regular, but relatively small import trade in cotton yarns from southern India and Java during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. See Alfred P. Wadsworth and Julia de Lacy Mann, The Cotton Trade and Industrial Lancashire, 1600–1780 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1965), 172; and J.A. Boot, “Aziatische
katoenen ­garens en de 18e eeuwse Achterhoek,” Textielhistorische Bijdragen 4 (1963), 32. 43 Cumbria Record Office Carlisle, D/ Lons/W/ 22/Fleming [Box 1841]): Henry Fleming Letterbook, April 1772–October 1775, April 1783–October 1788, Henry Fleming, Norfolk, Virginia to Fisher and Bragg, Whitehaven, England, 29 July 1774.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

45

2. Technology Historians have insisted that between the late fifteenth and mid-eighteenth centuries technological innovation in textiles was limited, eclipsed by what came before and what followed.44 It is certainly true that, during the Middle Ages, innovations in three key processes – the spinning wheel for yarn making, the horizontal loom for weaving, and the fulling mill for finishing – had a transformational impact on the manufacture of textiles. Similarly, the Industrial Revolution of the century after 1750 saw the application of inanimate power remodel almost all the processes of textile manufacture. Nevertheless, it would be wrong to underestimate the extent of technical innovation between the late fifteenth and the mid-eighteenth centuries, prompted by the tide of novelty that swept through European textiles. Product and process innovation were interdependent. Significant innovations can be identified across the whole range of textile materials and processes, reflecting their increasing diversity. Some innovations transformed an emerging category of textiles by applying a new, hand-driven machine to a key process, such as William Lee’s stocking frame of 1589, or the engine loom introduced in Holland in the early seventeenth century for weaving multiple ribbons. Others were radical enhancements to existing machinery, such as the use of perforated paper or cards to partially automate pattern selection in the draw looms used for weaving elaborate figured silks. Developed at Lyon in the 1720s by Basile Bouchon and Jean-Baptiste Falcon, this embryonic form of machine programming was the first implementation of a principle later applied in the Jacquard loom. Much inventive effort was focused on mimicking key characteristics of luxury fabrics in cheaper materials. Hot presses for textiles were first introduced in England in the mid-sixteenth century, but during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries new rolling and calendaring processes were developed to give fabrics made from long-staple combed wool the silk-like sheen that dominated early modern European taste in textiles.45 They were one element in a host of innovations in textile finishing, designed to match the requirements of ever more diverse and demanding markets in Europe and beyond, notably in the long European struggle to master Indian colour-fast printing techniques. The relationship between product innovation and technical innovation can be plotted in early modern yarn making. The shift to lighter fabrics required changes in the character of yarn. Yarns became finer. They also became more uniform, because in the new, lighter 44 Munro, “Textiles, Textile Technology and Industrial Organisation,” 191. 45 Eric Kerridge, Textile Manufactures in Early Modern England (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1985), 54, 173; and Philip A. Sykas, “Hot press printing of worsted cloth: a precursor of roller printing,” in Les Archives de l’Invention: écrits, objets et images de l’activité inventive, ed. Marie-Sophie Corcy, Christiane Demeulenaere-Douyère, and Liliane Hilaire-Pérez (Toulouse: Editions Médiriennes, 2006): 101–12.

46

John Styles

weight fabrics the yarn tended to be more visible than in the heavily napped broadcloths and silk velvets that preceded them. Most yarns continued to be spun by hand, but we should not underestimate the extent of technical change in hand spinning between the fifteenth and the eighteenth centuries. The simple spindle spinning wheel had been introduced into Europe from Asia in the Middle Ages, providing a gain in productivity over the hand spindle (sometimes called the rock in English) of two to three times.46 Nevertheless, it replaced the hand spindle only slowly and unevenly, especially outside the orbit of the core textile manufacturing areas which dominated inter-regional trade. The hand spindle was cheap, it could be used while walking, and in the spinning of coarse yarns its productivity was not markedly inferior to wheel spinning. In parts of central and southern Europe, well as in the Highlands of Scotland, it remained in use for spinning flax and coarser woollen yarns long into the eighteenth century.47 The hand spindle also excelled at spinning very fine, high twist yarns, albeit slowly. In the eighteenth-century Swiss Alps, ultra-fine cotton yarn for muslins – known as Löthli yarn – was spun on a hand spindle for a higher rate of pay than wheelspun yarn. In England, the hand spindle went on being used to spin the finest Norwich worsted yarns until the second half of the eighteenth century.48 Meanwhile, spinning wheels themselves underwent significant refinement and elaboration. The major innovation was the substitution of a flyer for the simple spindle, first undertaken sometime in the late fifteenth century and probably adapted from the flyers employed in Italian silk throwing machines.49 It was more expensive, but it increased the spinner’s productivity because it removed the need for winding on the yarn, making spinning a continuous process. It could also be adapted so the wheel was turned by means of a foot pedal, thereby allowing the spinner to use two hands to draft the fibre, or even to spin two yarns at the same time, one with each hand, on a double wheel (fig. 4).50 Foot pedal wheels were largely confined to spinning flax, however, because they were not well suited to short fibres such as cotton, or short-staple wool. As an eighteenth-century German commentator noted, “cotton, like the short wool used in cloth-making, can barely

46 Walter Endrei, L’Évolution des techniques du filage et du tissage du moyen âge à la révolution industrielle (Paris: Mouton, 1968), 85–87. 47 For Languedoc, see Archives Nationales (Paris), F12 677A: Mémoire sur le commerce et les manufactures de la Provence, 1781; for Saxony, Dr Anton, “Spinning in Lusatia,” Annals of Agriculture 10 (1788), 313; and for Scotland, Thomas Pennant, A Tour in Scotland, 1769 (London: White, 1776), 105. 48 Rudolf Braun, Industrialisation and Everyday Life, trans. Sarah Hanbury Tenison (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 140; and Norfolk Chronicle, 18 March 1786. 49 Endrei, L’Évolution, 98–107. 50 For double spinning wheels, see Walter Endrei and Rachel P. Maines, “On Two-Handed Spinning,” in European Women and Preindustrial Craft, ed. Daryl M. Hafter (London: Wiley, 1995), 31–41.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

47

Fig. 4: William Hincks, ‘Spinning, reeling with the clock reel, and boiling the yarn’, Ireland, 1791. In this cottage in County Down, the women on the left and centre right are spinning flax on foot-pedalled flyer spinning wheels, while the woman on the far right is reeling yarn on a circular clock reel. Library of Congress, Washington, DC, Prints and Photographs Division, Reproduction Number LC-USZC4–11219.

be spun on a foot spinning wheel, being too short and weak to bear the vigorous movement of this wheel.”51 At the same time, the simple spindle wheel underwent a process of adaptation for different fibres, involving different sizes of wheel, and different spindles and drives. Cotton was usually spun on a small spindle wheel, at which the spinner sat, turning the wheel with one hand. Wool, by contrast, was normally spun on a much larger spindle wheel, known in English as the great wheel. It was also called the ‘walking wheel,’ because “in order to twist the woollen thread, they run out the rolls of carded wool to a great distance from the 51 Johann Carl Gottfried Jacobsson, Johann Karl Gottfried Jacobsons technologisches Wörterbuch (Berlin: Bey Friedrich Nicolai, 1784), 4:224.

48

John Styles

wheel, pacing backwards and forwards 20 or 30 miles in the course of a day’s works” (fig. 5).52 The Dutch version of the great wheel, developed to spin yarn from expensive short-staple Spanish Merino wool for the new, light lakens woven at Leiden in the seventeenth century, was distinguished by its sloping platform and wooden spindle, which produced a softer and less twisted yarn.53 It was copied all over Europe. This process of differentiation led to a proliferation of specialized spinning wheels for different fibres. For example, in England by the eighteenth century it was possible to distinguish between wool wheels, worsted wheels, jersey wheels, cotton wheels, flax wheels, line wheels, and tow wheels, as well as great wheels, long and small wheels, Dutch and Saxon wheels, and double and single wheels.

Fig. 5: Detail from Thomas Rowlandson, ‘A Village Scene with Girls Spinning’, England, n.d. (late-eigh­ teenth century). Spinning wool outdoors on a great or walking wheel. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection, B1975.3.138.

Fig. 6: Cutaway drawing of the Zijdebalen silk mill, Utrecht, the Netherlands, 1694. On the lower floor is a water-powered silk throwing machine. On the upper floor are machines for winding skeins of silk from swifts on to bobbins. The Royal Library, Stockholm (Kungliga Biblioteket, KB)
, L 70:54:2: Samuel ­Bu­schenfelt, Den äldre fadren Buschenfelts marchscheider Relation 1694. tilhörige Ritningar,
Tab: VII. Fig: 13.

52 William Fullarton, General View of the Agriculture of the County of Ayr, with Observations on the Means of Its Improvement, (Edinburgh: Paterson, 1793), 78. 53 Archives Nationales (Paris), F12 677A: Lettre de l’inspecteur des manufactures à Rouen sur le mérite comparitif de la filature de la laine au rouet ou à la quenouille, 1762.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

49

The trend towards textiles made from thinner, more visible yarns also encouraged the use of devices for measuring the fineness and uniformity of yarn. After yarn was spun, it was customarily reeled into skeins or hanks. Simple reel staffs – wooden rods equipped with cross bars at each end to hold the yarn – had been widely used for this purpose in the Middle Ages. In the early modern period, circular reels, mounted on an axle, became increasingly common, speeding up the process. Where yarn was measured and sold simply by weight, reeling was a way of arranging it into convenient bundles. Where establishing the precise fineness of yarn was a priority, reels could also be used as instruments for measuring quality and paying the spinner accordingly. If the circular reels used in a particular branch of textile manufacture were of a standard circumference, and skeins were a standard number of revolutions of that reel, then the number of skeins per unit of weight provided a measure of the yarn’s fineness. Reels were adapted to enhance this process. Snap reels made a sound after a certain number of revolutions, while clock reels had a clock-like face with a pointer indicating the number of revolutions (fig. 4). The use of reels to measure and pay for quality in this way was widely adopted in the manufacture of the new light fabrics made from long-staple combed wool.54 Differentiation between yarns was important here, because much of their decorative effect derived from the interplay of different yarns. The bay and say makers from the Low Countries who settled in Colchester in England during the later sixteenth century were already using a standard reel to measure their spinners’ work by 1575.55 Yet in the production of yarn for short-staple woollens, cottons, and coarser linens, use of the reel as a measuring device was less common, although becoming more so. For instance, in the 1750s it became a key element in French attempts to imitate English cotton velvets, although in other branches of the French cotton textile industry, in Normandy, the Beaujolais, and Troyes, cotton yarn was still being “reeled irregularly into skeins of indeterminate dimensions, and often of mixed quality” in the 1780s.56 Indeed, official efforts to improve yarn quality by standardising reeling were sometimes resisted both by manufacturers and spinners.57 It was in the production and distribution of silk yarns that the use of the reel for measuring fineness

54 John Styles, “Spinners and the Law: Regulating Yarn Standards in the English Worsted Industries, 1550– 1800,” Textile History 44 (2013): 145–70. 55 John E. Pilgrim, “The Cloth Industry in Essex and Suffolk, 1558–1640” (master’s thesis, University of London, 1938), 157. 56 John Raymond Harris, Industrial Espionage and Technology Transfer: Britain and France in the Eighteenth Century (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), 55–56; and Roland de la Platière, Encyclopédie Méthodique (Paris: C.J. Panckoucke, 1785), 1:212. 57 For resistance to the imposition of standard reels for yarn for baize and ratines at Castres in southwestern France, see Archives Nationales (Paris), F12 1341: Report of DeLagenière, Inspector of Manufactures, 1779.

50

John Styles

was at its most sophisticated, extending to the use of a specialized yarn testing reel by silk merchants in eighteenth-century Italy.58 Silk (other than silk waste) was not, of course, spun. Instead, several filaments of silk fibre were unwound simultaneously from a set of cocoons, combined and reeled. The reeled silk was then twisted, and sometimes doubled and twisted again, to produce various grades of multi-filament yarn. In Italy, Europe’s primary silk manufacturing centre before 1700, the process of twisting, known as silk throwing in English, was mechanized during the Middle Ages by means of the circular silk-throwing mill. These circular mills were initially driven by hand, but water-power was applied in Bologna as early as 1341. In Italy the machinery employed in these mills went on being refined and enlarged over the next three centuries.59 For silks, the trend towards ever finer yarns culminated, during the later seventeenth century, in Piedmont in north-west Italy, where 125 huge, multi-story, silk-throwing mills had been built by the start of the eighteenth century. These mills housed arrays of water-powered throwing machines, each with about 500 spindles, and employed on average over fifty workers.60 The principal purpose of the throwing machines was to produce organzine – silk warp – which, like most warps, required a much higher twist to give it strength. From the mid-seventeenth to the mid-nineteenth centuries, Piedmontese organzine was the best in Europe, an indispensable raw material for weaving the finest silk piece goods at Lyon and Spitalfields. Silk piece goods, however, were not the only textiles to be made from multi-ply, twisted yarns. Many of the other new, light textiles that proliferated in early modern Europe also incorporated such yarns, like mixed-fibre worsted stuffs, silk ribbons, and worsted stockings. So did sewing thread. Often these yarns did not need twisting to the same high specification as Piedmontese organzine, so less elaborate machines could be employed. They too could be large and water-powered, like the circular silk throwing machines, each with about 160 spindles, installed in 1681 at the Zijdebalen mill outside Utrecht in the Netherlands by the Amsterdam Mennonite silk merchant Jacob Mollem, and later copied in England and elsewhere (fig. 6).61 Cheaper and more widespread were smaller, handturned, multi-spindle twisting machines, like the twisting mills equipped with between

58 Poni, “Standards, Trust and Civil Discourse,” 1–16. 59 Carlo Poni, “The Circular Silk Mill: A Factory before the Industrial Revolution in Early Modern Europe,” History of Technology 21 (1999): 65–85. 60 Giuseppe Prato, La Vita Economica in Piemonte a Mezzo il Secolo XVIII (Turin: Societa Tipografico-­Editrice Nazionale, 1908), 218. 61 Karel Davids, The Rise and Decline of Dutch Technological Leadership: Technology, Economy and Culture in the Netherlands, 1350–1800 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 1:53; and Eric de Jong, Nature and Art: Dutch Garden and Landscape Architecture (Philadelphia: Philadelphia University Press, 1995), 101–104.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

51

twelve and forty-eight spindles used at Paisley in Scotland in the eighteenth century to twist multi-ply linen sewing thread.62 Silks were the pinnacle of early modern European elite fashion, the epitome of luxury. It is striking that they were also a principal focus of capital-intensive mechanical innovation. This was true not only of yarn making, but also of other stages of production. Engine looms for weaving silk ribbons, stocking frames for knitting silk hosiery, draw looms for weaving patterned silk piece goods: all demonstrate how, in the early modern period, inventive effort in textiles was invested disproportionately in the machinery of silk manufacture, driven by mercantilist competition between states in this most fashionable of products. The focus of capital-intensive technical innovation in early modern Europe was very different from the mass-production, mass-market innovations we associate with nineteenth-century industrialisation.

3. Fashion Much of the impetus driving both product and technical innovation in early modern textiles originated in the workings of the European fashion cycle.63 Insofar as we can trace the genealogy of that cycle, it leads back to the fine silks that began to be made in Italy in the later Middle Ages under the influence of imports from the Byzantine empire and the Muslim Mediterranean. Italian-made silks came to be characterized by a cycle of ever-changing innovation in pattern and design. Change may have been slower before the mid-sixteenth century move to lighter silk fabrics, but it was already well-entrenched. These changing fashions were driven by bitter rivalry over export markets between the different silk-manufacturing city states – Lucca, Florence, Genoa, and Venice. By the mid-fifteenth century, proto-mercantilism had become the norm. Competitive import substitution was encouraged by city governments in order to free the state from dependence on foreign textiles and to provide export opportunities.64 Here, in the city states of fifteenth-century Italy, we have in prototype the kind of interstate competition in fashion that would become a distinctive element of the western European state system as a whole in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, in conjunction 62 Stuart Nisbet, “The Development of the Cotton Industry in Paisley,” Renfrewshire Local History Forum Journal 15 (2009), 4–5. 63 See John Styles, “Fashion and Innovation in Early-Modern Europe,” in Fashioning the Early Modern: Creativity and Innovation in Europe, 1500–1800, ed. Evelyn Welch (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 33–55. 64 Luca Mola, “States and crafts: relocating technical skills in Renaissance Italy,” in The Material Renaissance, 133–53.

52

John Styles

with the parallel decline in the weight of silk fabrics. The most significant refinement in inter-state competition came in the 1660s and 1670s. It was in these decades that the French systematized the accelerated turnover of fashions associated with the new, lighter textiles, by introducing annual changes in the design of woven silks made at Lyon.65 Why did the annualisation of the fashion cycle emerge in France in the late seventeenth century? Three developments were especially important. The first was the mercantilist economic policy adopted by Louis XIV’s finance minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert in the 1660s and 1670s.66 In patterned silks, the objective was for Lyon to supplant Italy in the design and manufacture of the dominant western European fashion fabric. In fashion markets where early entrants commanded a positional rent, timing was crucial for the relationship between quality and price. At the start of the fashion cycle, the latest goods enjoyed a huge competitive advantage and a correspondingly high price. Towards its end, prices could be slashed in order to offload goods in marginal markets, while, at the same time, underselling competitors. As silks became lighter, cheaper and less durable, their market expanding across sensitive social boundaries into the middling ranks of western European society, an annual fashion cycle allowed this sequence to be managed with more precision and predictability. It was a variant of the Colbertian programme of quality enhancement, but one in which quality, and social distinction, became crucially a matter of timing. The second development that shaped the new fashion cycle concerned the ceremonial politics of the French royal court. The idea that, under Louis XIV, the royal court acted as a kind of showcase for French luxury products is a familiar one. However, regulation of appearance at court was much more than simply an exercise in mercantilist marketing, promoting Parisian taste. It was deeply political – an exercise in the systematic projection of royal power. Just as French manufacturing was remodelled during the first two decades of Louis’ personal rule after 1661, so too was court dress and its management. Louis transformed his and his queen’s formal dressing (levée) and undressing (coucher) into daily state rituals. Officials were made responsible for ordering fabrics and clothing for the king and the queen according an annual cycle. The royal wardrobes underwent an annual réforme, at which new sets of clothes for the coming winter and summer replaced the previous year’s garments. The same officials removed the discarded items and then exercised their

65 Peter Thornton, Baroque and Rococo Silks (London: Faber, 1965), 20–21; Carlo Poni, “Fashion as Flexible Production: the Strategies of the Lyon Silk Merchants in the Eighteenth Century,” in World of Possibilities: Flexibility and Mass Production in Western Industrialization, ed. Charles Sabel and Jonathan Zeitlin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 69–70. 66 Poni, “Fashion as flexible production,” especially 69–71.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

53

privilege of selling most of them for their own profit.67 Courtiers were expected to follow the annual pattern set by the king and queen. The shift to an annual fashion cycle was rooted, therefore, in two of the core preoccu­ pations of late seventeenth-century French absolutism – a mercantilist political economy and the ceremonial projection of royal power. Yet fashion was not the only practice to undergo a regularisation of innovation at this time. The same process applied to news, not only in France but across western Europe. In what John Sommerville has termed ‘the news revolution,’ the newspaper and periodical press re-organized the circulation of news according to new, regular periodicities – annual, monthly, weekly, and ultimately, by the mid-seventeenth century, daily.68 It was an aspect of a wider revolution in communications, underpinned by new, publicly accessible postal networks.69 The previously irregular circulation of political information by correspondence and messenger began to be replaced, from the end of the sixteenth century, by printed periodicals published at fixed intervals, transforming news into a product. It is no co-incidence that for both fashion and news, this regularisation of novelty happened in the course of the seventeenth century. The two parallel changes were linked. Before the seventeenth century, information about clothes and fashion had long been communicated in words, whether printed, written, or spoken, but the rise of the periodical press provided a new vehicle for intervening in the temporal relationship between production of fashion and its consumption. Fashion news, like all the other kinds of news, could be subjected to a periodic routine. This was the third development that underpinned the new fashion cycle. The shift to an annual pattern of fashion innovation in Lyon silks in the 1660s or 1670s coincided with the appearance in Paris of the first periodical to devote substantial space to fashion, the Mercure Galant.70 It regularly featured fashion as news. Fashion news in the Mercure was organized around a two-season cycle, with a substantial article on new fashions usually appearing twice a year, in spring and autumn, although in textiles the difference between the winter and the summer fashions might amount to little more than the thickness of the fabric.71 Great emphasis was placed on what was worn at court, and details were provided about each season’s new patterned silks, along 67 Corinne Thépaut-Cabasset, “Le service de la Garde-robe: une création de Louis XIV,” in Fastes de cour et cérémonies royales: Le costume de cour en Europe (1650–1800), ed. Pierre Arizzoli-Clémentel and Pascale Ballesteros (Paris: Réunion des musées nationaux, 2009), 28–33. 68 John Sommerville, The News Revolution in England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). The first daily newspaper in Europe was the Einkommende Zeitungen, published at Leipzig in 1650. 69 Behringer, “Communications Revolutions,” passim. 70 Corinne Thépaut-Cabasset, ed., L’Esprit des modes au Grand Siècle (Paris: Comité des travaux historiques et scientifiques, 2010); and Reed Benhamou, “Fashion in the ‘Mercure’: From Human Foible to Female Failing,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 31 (1997): 27–43. 71 Thépaut-Cabasset, L’Esprit des modes, 25.

54

John Styles

with information about the Parisian retailers who supplied the silks and other goods mentioned in the articles. For a brief period in 1678 the Mercure even carried engraved fashion plates, which included images of the silk piece goods fashionable for the current year, cross-referenced to textual descriptions of the fabrics concerned. What we observe in embryo in the annual fashion cycle established in silks in the second half of the seventeenth century is the kind of pre-programmed, routine innovation cycle that still shapes fashion more broadly today. It set the timetable for design. It set the timetable for marketing, enabling the forthcoming season’s designs to be sold in advance as a collection, by circulating samples among distant customers.72 And it shaped the complicated scheduling necessary for weaving silk fabrics ordered in advance. We should not exaggerate the extent of the change represented by the shift to annual fashion. The range of textiles subject to a strict annual design cycle remained narrow. As late as 1761, patterned silks were the only products cited as examples of annual design change in an extended article on fashion in the internationally-circulated Journal de Commerce, published at Brussels, although the article did point out that lace merchants at Brussels closely followed the Lyon and Tours silk manufacturers.73 Nevertheless, France’s international competitors in the markets for patterned silks had little choice but to adopt the same tactic. And although the strict annual fashion cycle did not apply to cottons – in the 1780s the French queen, Marie Antoinette, did not discard her ultra-fashionable muslin gowns at the end of each year, in the way she was obliged to discard and replace those made from silk – nevertheless, the production, sale, and acquisition of cottons and other fashion fabrics were increasingly shaped by an annualised timetable.

4. Marketing Fashion news became increasingly familiar in the European periodical press during the eighteenth century, but it was just one of a number of ways in which the early modern communications revolution shaped textile marketing. Equally significant was the development of printed advertising, whether in periodicals and newspapers, or as handbills. During the eighteenth century, the number of newspaper advertisements published in Britain alone ran into millions. Many were placed by retailers advertising their stocks of textiles – drapers and mercers, tailors, and haberdashers. Historians have emphasized the precocious sophistication of eighteenth-century advertisements, their use of promotional 72 Lesley Miller, “Innovation and Industrial Espionage in Eighteenth-Century France: An Investigation of the Selling of Silks through Samples,” Journal of Design History 12 (1999): 271–92. 73 “Fabrique des Modes,” Journal de Commerce (October 1761), 140.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

55

techniques such as endorsements, testimonials, special offers, and guarantees.74 However, the use of such techniques was confined to a narrow range of goods, notably medicines. Advertisements for textiles were pedestrian by comparison. Generally they simply listed the goods available by name, colour, and decorative technique. They might also assert their quality, cheapness, novelty, fashionability, or metropolitan origin, while flattering customers by referring to them as gentlemen or ladies.75 In a Europe where the supply of goods was often precarious and material scarcity all too familiar, printed lists of names and colours could exercise a powerful allure. They offered a promise of plenitude, variety, and assortment, a chance to savour vicariously the increasing diversity and accelerated turnover of early modern textiles. Nevertheless, words printed on paper in black and white, however alluring, were not the ideal way to market textiles whose aesthetic appeal turned on colour, pattern, texture, and drape.76 Yet it was prohibitively expensive to paste textile swatches on to the pages of a periodical. Consequently, the practice remained very unusual, although it did become a feature of Rudolph Ackermann’s costly Repository of Arts, Literature, Commerce, Manufactures, Fashions, and Politics, published in London between 1809 and 1829. Even the regular inclusion of engraved fashion plates, printed in black and white and hand coloured, proved too expensive for all but a handful of specialist periodicals. It was in wholesale marketing to merchants and retailers, not selling to retail customers, that textile swatches were principally employed as marketing tools. Medieval wholesale dealers had exchanged textile samples by letter.77 However, the use of samples was radically reformulated during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries by the introduction of pattern cards and pattern books. In a Europe where fabrics were lighter, turnover faster, product ranges more diverse, and fashionable novelty in colour and design commanded a premium, there were considerable benefits to be gained from selling portfolios of textiles by samples, assembled in what we would today call a collection. For manufacturers and merchants, wholesale marketing using groups of samples allowed complicated production schedules to be set up on the basis of orders, rather than speculation. Advance orders based 74 Neil McKendrick, “George Packwood and the Commercialisation of Shaving. The Art of Eighteenth-Century Advertising,” in The Birth of a Consumer Society, ed. Neil McKendrick, John Brewer, and J.H. Plumb (London: Hutchinson, 1982), especially 182–83. 75 John Stobart, “Taste and Textiles. Selling Fashion in Eighteenth-Century Provincial England,” in Selling Textiles in the Long Eighteenth Century: Comparative Perspectives from Western Europe, ed. John Stobart and Bruno Blondé (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2014), 165–67. 76 Lesley Miller, “Material Marketing: How Lyonnais Silk Manufacturers sold Silks, 1660–1789,” in Selling Textiles, 85. 77 Riina Rammo, “Searching for Broadcloth in Tartu (14th–15th century),” in The Medieval Broadcloth: Changing Trends in Fashions, Manufacturing and Consumption, ed. Kathrine Vestergard Pedersen and Marie-Louise Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow, 2009), 100. For the sixteenth century, see Puttevils, “Trading Silks and Tapestries in Sixteenth-Century Antwerp,” 170.

56

John Styles

on samples also enabled them to gauge the market for different patterns and adjust their product ranges accordingly. In other words, the use of pattern cards and pattern books helped regularize product innovation. Against these benefits had to be weighed the disadvantage that circulating patterns facilitated piracy, a problem that was especially worrying for the Lyon manufacturers of patterned silks, locked into their annual product cycle.78 Pattern cards and books also simplified the task of wholesale purchasers – merchants and shopkeepers – who could order by code or number, or, if required, ask for specific adjustments to a pattern by reference to its code or number. Hence the appeal in 1787 from the Philadelphia merchants, Francis and John West, to their Leeds (Yorkshire) suppliers of woollen and worsted fabrics, “in the sale of the cloth much depends on the choice of colour, which is almost impossible to point out so clearly as is absolutely necessary without the assistance of patterns. We therefore particularly beg you will furnish us with a complete pattern card of coarse and fine broad cloths, keeping a counterpart thereof that we may select patterns from it and point them out by number in our orders. … In this manner we have given our orders to London.”79 Andreas Nemnich, visiting England from Germany in 1799, noted that “[t]here are several persons in Manchester whose only business is the manufacture of pattern cards and they make a good living. Each page of the pattern card is divided into squares, into which the samples are glued … enclosed with delicate [printed] borders. … Once the samples are attached, a paper star is stuck on to each of them, and a number written on it.” (fig. 7).80 There were risks, however. Chaos could result if purchasers supplied with differently numbered pattern books then shared them. In 1773 a Philadelphia agent acting for merchants in Manchester (England) had to explain laboriously to a firm in New York, “if you have omitted to put down the numbers of the paterns which you meant to refer to in my book, please to cancell that order, and make one out by the patern book I left with Mr Sears, which is Messrs Walter Franklin and Co’s book, and please to inform B and J Bowers that you have made your order by their Wm Franklins and Co’s book.”81 Such episodes apart, as international and intercontinental trade grew, and the speed and intensity of communication accelerated, pattern books facilitated both impersonal marketing via correspondence, and selling in person by commercial travellers. In the 1780s and 1790s, the Leeds firm Horner and Turner employed a salesman who criss-crossed continental Europe, from 78 Miller, “Innovation and Industrial Espionage,” passim. 79 Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Mss.1741: West family, Business records: Francis & John West of Philadelphia, Letter book, vol. 2, 1786–88: letter to Sheepshanks & Co. Leeds, 24 November 1787. 80 P.A. Nemnich, Beschreibung einer im Sommer 1799 von Hamburg nach und durch England Geschehenen Reise (Tübingen, 1800), 311. 81 Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Am.125: William Pollard letter book, 1772–74, William Pollard, Philadelphia, to Samuel Franklin, New York, 18 November 1773.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

57

Fig. 7: Two pages of printed cotton velverets from an accordion-fold salesman’s sample or pattern book, Manchester, England, 1784. Paper stars with numbers are attached to each sample. Cooper Hewitt, Smith­ sonian Design Museum, Museum purchase through gift of Mrs. Samuel W. Bridgham, 1950–91–1. Photo: Matt Flynn © Smithsonian Institution.

St. Petersburg in the north to Seville in the south, to sell their woollen and worsted textiles. He carried with him a pattern book containing over a thousand patterns. As he travelled, they were regularly updated by post with the firm’s latest designs.82 It is not clear exactly when the use of textile pattern books and pattern cards to sell by sample started. Around 1700, the Leiden artist Willem Van Mieris painted the portrait of a woollen cloth merchant holding a letter accompanied by standard-sized textile samples, mounted and numbered on a sheet of paper, suggesting patterns of this kind were already 82 J. Smail, Merchants, Markets and Manufacturers: the English Wool Textile Industry in the Eighteenth Century (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 1999), 117–19.

58

John Styles

Fig. 8: Willem Van Mieris (1662–1747), ‘The Cloth Merchant’, c. 1700. In the foreground, leaning against a ledger, is a folded sheet of standard-sized, numbered textile samples, which evidently accompanied the business letter the merchant holds in his hand. Gemäldegalerie, Dresden, Gal.-Nr. 1752. bpk | Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden | Hans-Peter Klut.

Fibres, Fashion and Marketing

59

a recognized emblem of the textile merchant’s business (fig. 8). In France, standardized samples of silks and woollens pasted on pattern cards survive from the early decades of the eighteenth century.83 This chronology suggests the use of textile pattern cards for marketing emerged soon after the establishment of the annual fashion cycle in Lyon silks, for which the possibility of advance sales was crucial. In Britain, the introduction of pattern cards and pattern books for marketing is more obscure. It was only after 1730 that Manchester dealers “rode out for orders, carrying with them patterns in their bags,” but by 1753 textile pattern cards were familiar enough for an Act of Parliament to fix postage rates for “patterns of cloth, silk, or stuff.”84 Substantial numbers of pattern books for British worsteds, woollens, cottons, and silks survive from the three decades after 1750. It is important to note, however, that wholesale selling of textiles by sample did not become universal. Alongside it, other methods of marketing continued to flourish during the eighteenth century. In the West African slave trade, for instance, textile cargoes were simply assembled by merchants and ships’ captains, drawing on their prior experience, and dispatched. Some sold, some did not.85 In the British North American colonies, too, cheap textiles were sometimes marketed speculatively, shipped in bulk across the Atlantic and sold off at vendue sales or auctions on arrival.86 Pattern cards and pattern books were appropriate for sales of large batches of coloured or patterned fabric to distant wholesale customers, especially when the fabric came from design ranges which changed often, but with some regularity. Not all textiles fitted that description.

Conclusion “Our manufactory is divided into fifty distinct occupations, … supposed upon a moderate computation to employ 100,000 hands,” explained the representative of the merchants and manufacturers of Norwich, the principal English centre for worsted stuffs, in 1785. Yet he found it difficult to specify how much value those occupations added, “each 83 Miller, “Innovation and Industrial Espionage,” 274. 84 J. Aiken, A Description of the Country form Thirty to Forty Miles round Manchester (London, 1795), 184; Act of Parliament 26 Geo. II, c. 13 (1753). 85 The Liverpool slave trader William Davenport sent his ships’ captains to buy textiles in London and Manchester on the basis of their direct experience of the West African market; see Stephen Behrendt, A. J. H. Latham; David Northrup, eds., The Diary of Antera Duke: An Eighteenth-Century African Slave Trader (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 56. 86 T.H. Breen, The Marketplace of Revolution: How Consumer Politics shaped American Independence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 140–43. The Philadelphia merchant William Pollard believed that cheap checks were woven in Lancashire specifically to be sold at vendue sales in colonial America. See Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Am.125: William Pollard letter book, 1772–74, William Pollard, Philadelphia, to Benjamin and John Bowers, Manchester, England, 27 September 1773.

60

John Styles

process of the manufactory being so infinitely varied according to the fineness, colour, or other circumstances of the material.”87 His difficulty arose because the defining material characteristic of product innovation in western European textiles between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries was diversification. Its roots lay in the shift medieval western Europe experienced from a two-fibre textile culture, with production and consumption monopolised by wool and flax, to a four-fibre textile culture, with woollens and linens supplemented by fabrics made from silk and from cotton. Introduced initially from the eastern Mediterranean, silks and cottons were becoming thoroughly domesticated in parts of western Europe by the end of the Middle Ages. During the next three centuries, their manufacture and consumption underwent massive expansion, both geographically and socially. That expansion helped propel the broad trend, across all four fibres, towards lighter, finer, and colourfully patterned fabrics, ever more precisely tailored to consumers’ preferences. Diversification, differentiation, and specialisation characterized not just the fibres from which textiles were made, but the ever more precise ways they were measured and sorted, their combination into a huge variety of mixed fabrics, the equipment with which they were processed and finished, the frequency with which they changed, and the techniques employed to sell them across the globe. It was through these different forms of diversification that European textile manufacturers responded to the shifts in taste, the revolution in communications, and the expansion of markets that transformed early modern Europe and its relationship with the wider world.

87 British Library, Add. Mss. 37873, Windham Mss., vol. 32, 1782–93, ff. 113–14: Robert Partridge, chairman of the general meeting of the merchants and manufacturers of Norwich, to William Pitt, 16 January 1785.

Indian Block Printing: Technology, Entrepreneurship, and Innovation Across Time and Place Eiluned Edwards

Indian cottons decorated by dyeing, painting, and block printing were staples of international trade for many centuries, circulating in the medieval period to the Arab world, and Southeast and East Asia via the maritime routes of the Indian Ocean. Essential to the intra-Asian exchange mechanisms of the spice trade in Southeast Asia, they were bartered for pepper, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and other aromatics. They first reached Europe as ballast in the spice cargoes of the East India Companies in the early seventeenth century. From this unremarkable introduction, they went on to become embedded not only in the material culture of Europe, but also that of Africa, America, and the Caribbean through colonisation. Kalamkaris, or painted cottons from the Coromandel Coast (known in Europe as chintz, calicoes, and indiennes), block printed cottons from western India, and a multitude of plain fabrics were consumed as furnishings and fashions by a global clientele.1 Although the techniques of painting, dyeing, and block printing require different tools, they are all underpinned by a common technology: mordants. Archaeological evidence indicates that the use of mordants was in place by the late phase of Harappan Culture (c. 1700 BCE).2 This knowledge was passed down from one generation to the next and skills *

I would like to thank all the block printers across India who have helped me over many years with the research that underpins this chapter. In addition to which, I am grateful to the many entrepreneurs, designers, NGOs, and other agencies who have taken the time to discuss with me their work in the craft sector. My research on block printing has been funded by the Leverhulme Trust (Research Fellowship 2012–14), the Pasold Research Fund (Large Research Grant 2011), and the British Academy (Small Research Grant 2005–07). Finally, my thanks to Kim Siebenheuner and her colleagues at Bern University for inviting me to take part in the ‘Early Modern Textiles and Material Culture: Consumption, Distribution and Global Interaction’ conference, and for their thoughtful editing of my contribution. 1 The term kalamkari is derived from Persian and means ‘pen work’. It is now applied to both the block printed textiles produced in Machilipatnam and environs in northern Andhra Pradesh, and the painted and drawn temple cloths of southern Andhra. The term chintz also requires some explanation. Today it means any printed furnishing fabric printed with a floral design but in the eighteenth century it came to refer chiefly to the mordant- and resist-dyed, painted cotton textiles made in India for export to Europe. It is derived from the north Indian word chint, meaning ‘to sprinkle or spray.’ The finest painted chintz came from the Coromandel coast although it was also produced in Sironj and Burhanpur (both now in Madhya Pradesh); Ahmedabad in Gujarat was the main cotton printing centre. See Eiluned Edwards, Block Printed Textiles of India: Imprints of Culture (New Delhi: Niyogi Books, 2016), 59–60. 2 Ruth Barnes, Indian Block-Printed Textiles in Egypt: The Newberry Collection in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 1:21.

62

Eiluned Edwards

developed in the workshop through oral transmission enabled Indian artisans to produce a great variety of colourfast cottons, painted and block printed with multi-hued patterns. For Europeans, these textiles were astonishing. Compared to the sedately-coloured linens and wools consumed by most people at the time in Europe, they not only offered novelty and bright colours, they were colourfast and had the advantage of being far easier to launder than native fabrics. They came in a range of qualities and prices that made them accessible across the social spectrum, so much so that husbands are reported to have complained that “it became difficult to know their wives from their chambermaids.”3 After a somewhat ignominious entry to Europe – as ballast in ships laden with spices – Indian cottons went on to change the fashions of the day and demand in Britain, France, the Netherlands, and neighbouring countries which saw textile exports from the subcontinent flourish between the seventeenth and late eighteenth centuries. They would also act as a catalyst to the industrialisation of textile production in Europe as these countries sought ways to match Indian handmade products through import substitution. The mechanisation of cotton processing and cloth production in Europe, and the development of, firstly, copperplate then roller printing (devised in 1783 by Thomas Bell) saw the rise of cotton printing in Manchester (and other parts of Lancashire) as well as in other European centres. Identifying the pivotal role of cotton in these technological developments, John Styles has commented that “cotton was the fibre of the industrial revolution.”4 As these industries expanded, the popularity of Indian painted and printed cottons in Europe diminished and had all but petered out by the end of the next century. India not only lost its status as global leader in the production and export of cotton and cotton fabrics but by the nineteenth century had also become a net importer of cotton textiles manufactured in Britain. European textile exports targeted the vast Indian market and in order to enable their success, manufacturers were supplied with detailed design intelligence by government officials. A significant example of this is to be found in the work of John Forbes Watson, reporter for the Products of India, who published The Textile Manufactures of India in 1866, comprising eighteen bound collections of fabric samples. He described them as ‘portable industrial museums,’ and sets of the books were dispatched to thirteen key textile manufacturing areas in Britain (and seven in South Asia).5 But India was not the only market 3 Beverly Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite: The Cotton Trade and the Consumer in Britain, 1600–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 16. 4 John Styles, The Dress of the People: Everyday Fashion in eighteenth-century England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 109. 5 John Forbes Watson, The Textile Manufactures and the Costumes of the People of India (London: Eyre & Spottis­woode, 1866). This sample book also served as the inspiration for an exhibition (“Global Threads: Asian Textiles & Fashion Today”) at the Harris Museum & Art Gallery in 2011–12.

Indian Block Printing

63

for European copies of Indian textiles, they also penetrated markets in other regions; for example, ersatz tie-dyes printed in Lancashire were absorbed into the everyday dress of women in western Africa and there was a good market for ‘Manchester prints’ in southern Africa, too.6 The nineteenth century also marked the mechanisation of textile production in India. A factory system based on the lines of the Lancashire industry was introduced to Mumbai (then known as Bombay) by Parsi merchants with the establishment of India’s first cotton mill in 1854. As the industry expanded other centres developed: in terms of scale, Ahmedabad in Gujarat was second only to Bombay, and was given the sobriquet ‘the Manchester of the East.’7 Developments in the processing and manufacture of cotton textiles were paralleled by the introduction of roller-printing, the latter made viable by the development of synthetic dyes, another industry that emerged in the nineteenth century.8 As a consequence of these innovations, Indian consumers experienced a considerable increase in choice as the domestic market offered foreign imports as well as home-produced industrial goods, and patterns of consumption were permanently changed.9 The demand for handlooms, block prints, and textiles made with natural dyes – products with an ancient heritage – began to dwindle as Indian consumers bought the new goods on offer, attracted by design innovations and price. Bearing this brief history in mind, it is surprising, therefore, that the production of block prints has survived and is even thriving in the twenty-first century. Considering the global impact of the Industrial Revolution which transformed all aspects of textile production (and consumption), as well as more recent advances in digital technologies, this might seem unlikely. But the craft persists and busy clusters of block printers and dyers are to be found across the subcontinent with centres of note in Jaipur and environs in Rajasthan, the Kachchh district in Gujarat, Bagh in Madhya Pradesh, and the Machilipatnam area of Andhra Pradesh. There has even been a resurgence in the use of natural dyes since the 1970s, and the production of textiles dyed and printed with indigo, mad6 John Gillow, African Textiles: Colour and Creativity Across a Continent (London: Thames and Hudson, 2003), 13. 7 Douglas Farnie, “The Role of Cotton Textiles in the Economic development of India, 1600–1900,” in The Fibre that Changed the World: the Cotton Industry in International Perspective, 1600–1990s, ed. Douglas Farnie and David Jeremy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 395–430. 8 In 1856, the British chemist, William Perkin, while seeking a treatment for malaria, distilled mauve from aniline. When tested on silk, the new colour neither faded with washing nor exposure to light. His discovery would lay the foundations of the modern, global dye industry, subsequently developed by companies including Badische Anilin Soda Fabrik (BASF), AGFA, Bayer, and Dupont. See Simon Garfield, Mauve: How One Man Invented a Colour that Changed the World (London: Faber & Faber, 2000). 9 Tirthankar Roy, “Consumption and Craftsmanship in India, 1870–1940,” in Towards a History of Consumption in South Asia, ed. Douglas E. Haynes, Abigail McGowan, Tirthankar Roy, and Haruka Yanagisawa (New Delhi: Oxford University Press India, 2010), 268–97.

64

Eiluned Edwards

der, and other plant dyes is flourishing, maintaining a continuity of practice that dates back to the Harappan period. What do twenty-first-century block prints have in common with the chintzes and calicoes of the eighteenth century? What circumstances have enabled their survival into the digital age? Does block printing at Ahmedabad in Gujarat, mentioned in a key seventeenth-century manuscript, survive? This chapter explores the resonances and differences between the production of textiles at Ahmedabad which in the early modern period was the leading centre in western India, and their contemporary manufacture in Kachchh – the centre of block printing in Gujarat since the late twentieth century. Its historical content is drawn from the accounts of early European travellers in India, a Mughal source, and the work of Paul Schwartz, a noted historian of dye chemistry, who analysed several key documents on Indian cotton painting and printing compiled in the seventeenth and eigh­ teenth centuries.10 Reviewing developments in the handmade textiles sector in post-colonial era, it considers how a product that uses an ancient technology has been harnessed to the cultural renaissance and economic regeneration of India – a country that since it achieved independence in 1947, has embraced a dynamic, modernising, and industrialising agenda. It concludes by assessing whether Indian block printed textiles trade have re-captured their former global reach (map 2 and 3).

1. Ancient Technologies: Mordants, Resists and Natural Dyes By the time Europeans first started to trade in textiles from the subcontinent, the ability of Indian dyers and printers to produce colourfast cottons with attractive, multi-coloured patterns had long confounded other foreign visitors and merchants. We now know that their mastery of colour and pattern relied on the interplay of mordants and resists allied with an extensive palette of dye colours derived from plant and mineral sources. Mordants or ‘metallic salts’ are chemicals that fix the colourant permanently to fibre and those in common use in the early modern period included copper sulphate, alum, potassium dichromate, tin chloride, and iron acetate. The manipulation of mordants, resists and dyes – knowledge that had been passed down in the workshop by generations of artisans in India – eluded Europeans. Drawn to the region by its commercial promise (notably in 10 Early European sources include François Bernier, Daniel Havart, and the Indian Office Archives (Letter Book IX). For Bernier, see John Irwin and Margaret Hall, Indian Painted and Printed Fabrics (Ahmedabad: Calico Museum of Textiles, 1971), 23; and for Havart and the Indian Office Archives, see John Irwin, “Indian textile trade in the seventeenth century: II. Coromandel Coast,” Journal of Indian Textile History 2 (1956), 30.

Indian Block Printing

65

the highly lucrative spice trade in which cotton textiles were a vital medium of exchange), for Europeans it was not just the textiles themselves that were commercially significant but also the technology that underpinned them. Thus, the drive to secure these popular commodities for clients in Europe was matched by the quest for accurate information about how they were produced. These early European travellers in India, many of whom were affiliated to, if not employed by the East India Companies, understood the considerable commercial potential such information offered to manufacturers at home. Until the mid-nineteenth century when chemists started to develop reliable, synthetic colours, all dyes were derived from flora, fauna, and mineral sources. Using different mordants on a single length of cloth, Indian artisans could produce multi-coloured patterns on the finished textile. Mordants – the earliest written report comes from Pliny the Elder who witnessed their use in Egypt (c. first century CE) – were used in conjunction with resists; media such as a lime and gum paste, wax and mud, as well as the tied and clamped resists associated with bandhani (Gujarati: ‘tie-dye’) and shibori (Japanese: shaped resist-dyeing).11 Long a characteristic of Indian textile production, a resist or reserve is used to create a barrier between the cloth and the dye so that areas treated with it remain the base colour of the fabric (usually white). The resist is applied to the substrate (commonly cotton) either smeared or swabbed on by hand, or using some sort of tool. Regional variations developed but techniques include painting and drawing using a pen-like tool known as a kalam (Persian for ‘pen’), and stamping with an engraved block. Blocks were made by specialist carvers who used local hard woods such as rosewood (sisam), teak or Indian oak (sagun), and garjan as well as imported teak from Burma (now Myanmar). The requisite designs were engraved on to the smoothed face of the block using chisels and dies, often hand-made by the block carvers themselves, or by local smiths.12 There is evidence to show that these various methods of decorating cloth were combined and employed at diverse centres – for example, many of the medieval Indo-Egyptian cotton fragments retrieved from Fustat and other Red Sea sites, combine painting and block

11 The earliest reference to mordants in use is in The Natural History (c.77–79 CE), where Pliny the Elder notes that “in Egypt, too, they employ a very remarkable process for the colouring of tissues … the dye pan … is here made to yield several colours from a single dye.” See Pliny the Elder, The Natural History of Pliny, trans. Henry Riley and John Bostock (London: Henry G. Bohn, 1857), 6:282–83. Mattiebelle Gittinger convincingly argues that the technology had travelled from India, transferred through the textiles trade. See her Master Dyers to the World: Technique and Trade in early Indian Dyed Cotton Textiles (Washington: The Textile Museum, 1983), 31–32. Shibori comes from the verb shiboru meaning “to wring, squeeze, press.” See Yoshiko Iwamoto Wada, Memory on Cloth: Shibori Now (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 2012), 8. 12 For a discussion of regional printing specialisms and the manufacture of printing blocks, see Edwards, Block.

66

Eiluned Edwards

Map 2: India and Gujarat showing block printing centres

Indian Block Printing

67

printing.13 This is still the case today with textiles such as mata-ni-pachedi (‘cloth of the mother goddess’) produced by the Chitara community at Vasna in Ahmedabad. Some of the block prints made by the Khatris in Kachchh also combine a printed pattern element (resist and/or mordant) with a ground colour that is achieved by either brushing or smearing the mordant paste (either alum or iron) with a rag on to the substrate.14 But in the seventeenth century as the popuMap 3: Gujarat showing block printing places larity of Indian cottons in Europe was rising, it was the painted textiles produced at centres on the Coromandel Coast of southern India (modern Andhra Pradesh) such as Petaboli and Palakollu near Machilipatnam (formerly Masulipatam), as well as Pulicat and St. Thomé near Chennai (formerly Madras) that attracted particular attention.15 It is worth noting that a majority of the textiles exported from India were plain dyed, striped, or checked and that, in contrast to the scale of its impact, chintz constituted a relatively small part of the trade. Despite references to the “fine paintings of [Machilipatnam],” Machilipatnam was the main port from which chintz was exported to Europe rather than a production centre.16 It is, therefore, interesting to note the rise of Machilipatnam in the modern era as a centre of kalamkari printing.17

13 See Gittinger, Master Dyers, 26–29; Ruth Barnes, Indian Block-Printed Cotton Fragments in the Kelsey Museum, the University of Michigan (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1993); and Barnes, Printed Textiles. 14 See Edwards, Block, 140–41. 15 Production at other centres such as Burhanpur and Sironj in central India are also mentioned. See Rosemary Crill, Chintz: Indian Textiles for the West (London: V&A Publications, 2008), 10. 16 On the paintings of Machilipatnam, see William Snelling Hadaway, Cotton Painting and Printing in the Madras Presidency (Madras: Government Press, 1917), 2. On chintz being exported to Europe, see Crill, Chintz, 10. 17 See Edwards, Block, 93–109.

68

Eiluned Edwards

2. Glimpses of Cotton Painting and Block Printing in the early modern Period What do we actually know of production in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries? Apart from gleaning what we can from surviving textiles of the period, our understanding of historical practices relies on a few first-hand reports of dyeing, painting, and printing cotton in India compiled by non-specialists. For the most part, these accounts were written by foreign visitors to the subcontinent, usually with some association with the European East India Companies, if not actually in their employ. From an Indian source, Abul Faz’l Allāmi, court chronicler to Akbar the Great (r. 1556–1605), we gain insight into the organisation of craft production under the Mughals and find mention of Ahmedabad, whose importance in the textile industry (craft and mechanised) is evoked by later authors. A system of ateliers known as karhkanas brought the finest artisans under imperial patronage and leading craftspeople were brought from Persia and central Asia to introduce new techniques and to refine existing production. As Abul Faz’l notes, “[s]kilful masters and workmen have settled in this country to teach people an improved system of manufacture. The imperial workshops in the towns of Lahore, Fathepur, Ahmedabad, [and] Gujarat, turn out many masterpieces of workmanship.”18 A good deal of the finest production was consumed by the Mughals themselves. An impression of the sheer volume of chintz (and other textiles) used in a court setting, albeit a travelling one, is evoked by one of the earlier European commentators – the French traveller, François Bernier. Bernier, who visited the encampment of the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb in 1665 as he toured his dominions, described the scene thus: the Grand Quartermaster … marks out a square, each side of which is more than 300 ordinary paces in length … They surround the whole of this large square with qanats or screens of seven or eight feet in height … These qanats are of strong cloth which is lined with chittes (chintz) or cloths painted with portages (mihrab arches) with a great vase of flowers … the Royal Entrance, which is large and magnificent and the chittes of which … are much more beautiful and rich than the others.19 Apart from their role in Mughal displays of power, embodied in the ostentatious consumption of fine fabrics and in the gifting of khilats, or ‘robes of honour,’ by the emperor

18 Abul-Faz’l Allami, The Ain-i-Akbari, ed. Douglas Craven Phillott, trans. Henry Blochmann, 2nd ed. (­Delhi: Low Price Publications, 1989), 1:93. 19 Irwin and Hall, Indian Painted, 22–23.

Indian Block Printing

69

to visiting dignitaries, textiles were also important commodities.20 They were distributed widely in terms of both export and the country trade, and as such, were an important source of revenue for the imperial coffers. The proximity of Ahmedabad to the ports of Khambat (formerly Cambay) and Surat facilitated the distribution of local production as well as goods from other parts of India that were traded by the city’s merchants. At the heart of the expansive hinterland serving the ports on the Gulf of Cambay, Ahmedabad’s position as a leading production centre was allied to its status as a significant trading hub, supported by the concentration of merchants in the city and the availability of finance. Cambay, the leading Indian port in medieval Indian Ocean trade, was supplanted by Surat in the early seventeenth century and subsequently, Ahmedabadi textiles (including textiles produced elsewhere but traded by Ahmedabadi merchants) were channelled through Surat’s wharves. The city became the pre-eminent port in India’s maritime trade, its status resting on its pivotal role not only in overseas commerce but also in internal export.21 Its multilateral trading connections within and without the subcontinent influenced the British East India Company’s decision to site its first factory at Surat which was established in 1613.22 Evidence of its standing at the heart of a network of production, trade, and distribution is provided by the anonymous author of a memorandum on the country trade writing from Fort St. George (now in Chennai), who observes that: Surat, the most ancient Presidency and Emporium of the Northern parts of India, is a city extraordinary well situated for trade, not improperly termed ‘the Moguls Chamber,’ and sea port to Agra, Lahore, Brampore [Burhanpur], Ahmedabad, and other inland marts. It can both take off and furnish a cargo for any part in India whatsoever … The Moors drive great trade from hence to Persia, Bussora, Aden, Mocha, and Judda [Jedda] where they dispose of those goods which from thence are carried throughout the Grand Segnior’s Dominions.23 These various accounts have helped to identify the organisation of labour as well as the leading areas of production for not only block prints but also the technically-related textile known as chintz which is painted rather than block printed. Centres on the Coromandel coast of southern India dominated chintz manufacture but the painted cottons of Sironj 20 Extravagant khilats transmitted the authority of the emperor in a very literal way; conversely, they represented the subservient position of the recipient. See Bernard Cohn, “Cloth, Clothes and Colonialism in India: India in the Nineteenth Century,” in Cloth and Human Experience, ed. Annette Weiner and Jane Schneider (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989), 315–21. 21 Indigo and textiles from Sarkhej (just outside Ahmedabad) were significant in this trade as well. 22 See K. N. Chaudhuri, The Trading World of Asia and the English East India Company, 1660–1760 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 46–50. 23 Quoted in Chaudhuri, The Trading World, 197.

70

Eiluned Edwards

in Rajputana (now Rajasthan) and Burhanpur in Khandesh (now Madhya Pradesh) in western India were also well-regarded with those of Sironj being classed as “next in goodness to those of [Machilipatnam].”24 Machilipatnam was the main point for the export of chintz to Europe, and also Persia; trade with the latter continued until the early twentieth century. Western India, including the region of modern Rajasthan and Gujarat, especially Ahmedabad, was better known for plain dyed fabrics and block prints which as we have seen were traded through Surat. A number of the European commentaries give insights into the laborious nature of the painting, printing, and dyeing processes. The Dutch physician, Daniel Havart, reveals the tedious nature of the work in an account of cotton painting at Pallakollu on the Coromandel coast, published in 1693, noting that, “the painting of chintzes goes on very slowly, like snails which creep on and appear not to advance. Yes, he who would depict Patience would need no other object than such a painter of Palicol.”25 Havart’s comment, although ambiguous (is he questioning the work ethic of the artisans?), may also give a clue as to why the volume of chintz in East India Company cargoes was comparatively small: it simply took a long time to produce. By the 1680s, the scale of production was a matter of some concern to the British East India Company as demand for chintz in Britain had started to escalate. John Irwin’s seminal essay on the Indian textile trade in the seventeenth century describes the strategies employed by the Company to increase manufacture by centralising production in Madras (now Chennai). Its ‘factors’ (agents) were instructed to seek out the best Coromandel chintz painters and to encourage them to relocate, “[w]e desire you by all the means you can contrive to find out the place of their present residence, and invite them to inhabit in our society of Madras, giving for their encouragement assurances of a constant employment …”26 A notable and contemporary British source with a focus on the south of India is the book, Plants of the Coromandel Coast, by the eminent English botanist William Roxburgh. Published in 1795, Roxburgh’s illustrated three-volume botanical study includes a detailed description of the dyeing process employed in the area of Machilipatnam. Its particular merit, according to Paul Schwartz who analysed it and other French sources, is that it is the “first by a trained scientific mind” and thus offers more robust information on the technical practices of the day.27 It is worth pointing out that some of the techniques 24 Peter Mundy (1630) quoted in John Irwin, “Indian textile trade in the seventeenth century: I. Western India,” Journal of Indian Textile History 1 (1955), 13. 25 Havart quoted in Irwin, “II. Coromandel Coast,” 31. 26 India Office Archives, Letter Book IX, 307 quoted in Irwin, “II. Coromandel Coast,” 32–33. 27 In terms of information on the environmental resources required, and the material and technical processes employed in India for both block printing and chintz in the early modern period, there are numerous French documents, such as Georges Roques’s manuscript, describing production in western India as well as on the Coromandel Coast. See Paul Schwartz, “The Roxburgh Account of Indian Cotton Painting:

Indian Block Printing

71

described by Roxburgh and earlier French commentators resonate with methods used in western India at the time as well as today; the French documents also indicate the greater context in which these practices were being recorded as well as the commercial purpose of such documentation. Although France did not establish an Asiatic trading company until 1664, over half a century after the British (1600), Dutch (1602), and Danish (1616), it was employees or associates of the French Compagnie des Indes that obtained detailed technical information about the dyeing methods used by Indian artisans for dissemination to the European textile industries. Among these was Gaston Coeurdoux, a Jesuit missionary serving in Pondicherry (modern Puducherry, Tamil Nadu). In a letter written in 1747 to an unnamed father of the Company of Jesus, Coeurdoux makes this intention clear: “I do not know whether the letter I wrote in 1742 on painted cottons in India can prove of any assistance in perfecting the art of dyeing in Europe: that at least was the aim I had in mind.”28 Likely as a reflection of the commercial importance of the regional chintz trade, textile production on the Coromandel Coast of southern India received the most attention. Coeurdoux’s account written in 1742, was preceded by a report of cotton painting at Pondicherry compiled by Antoine Georges Nicolas de Beaulieu, a naval officer in the employ of the French Compagnie which includes eleven step-by-step fabric samples and was published in 1734. For the subsequent regional focus of this essay on western India, however, it is the earliest of the French documents, “Printing on Cotton at Ahmedabad, India in 1678” by Georges Roques that is especially relevant. Its attention to block printing, as opposed to painting, helps to illuminate the importance of the printing industry in the western region, and points to the status of Ahmedabad at that time. Bearing in mind that the report was written as guidance for the chief agent of the Compagnie des Indes at Surat (to whom Roques addressed it), we can assume that the interest in Ahmedabad was commercial: in this respect, the account makes apparent the significance of the city as a centre of trade as well as production.

1795,” Journal of Indian Textile History 4 (1959), 48. A published version of Roques’s text can be found in Paul Schwartz, Printing on Cotton at Ahmedabad, India in 1678: from an unedited manuscript in the “Bibliothèque Nationale,” (Ahmedabad: Calico Museum of Textiles, 1969). 28 Gaston Coeurdoux quoted in Paul Schwartz, “French documents on Indian cotton painting (Part II): New light on old material,” Journal of Indian Textile History 3 (1957), 17.

72

Eiluned Edwards

3. ‘Printing on Cotton at Ahmedabad’ At the time of Roques’s report, Ahmedabad was “an illustrious city of the Mughal Empire, second only to the Mughal capital Agra and Fatehpur Sikri.”29 The most prominent city in Gujarat, it was a provincial capital in the Mughal Empire, under the rule of the Emperor Aurangzeb (r. 1658–1707). Gujarat had been annexed in 1572–73 by the Emperor Akbar (r. 1556–1605) which brought to an end the Gujarat Sultanate (1407–1572). Founded in 1411 by Ahmed Shah, Ahmedabad was strategically positioned with good connections to the ancient ports of Bharuch (formerly Broach) and Khambat which were nearby, and subsequently Surat which by the early seventeenth century had become the chief entrepôt of western India. Ahmedabad’s proximity to the Gujarati ports linked the city to the vast trading network of the Indian Ocean which allied to its strong manufacturing sector – notably textiles but also indigo (at nearby Sarkhej) and saltpetre (at Malpur) – underpinned the region’s prosperity, contributing as well to Mughal coffers. Although the city’s political status had waned with the end of the Gujarat Sultanate, its economic role had expanded: trade flourished under Mughal rule with the introduction of new systems of revenue and credit, and a standardized currency throughout Mughal domains.30 Ahmedabad’s position as a leading centre of textile production, although well-established during the Sultanate and Mughal periods, enjoyed a renaissance in the mid-nineteenth century as the city’s entrepreneurs invested in mechanisation, marking a new phase in its economy. Cotton mills and printing units started to proliferate along the banks of the river Sabarmati and the city skyline changed as “factory chimneys replaced the minarets.”31 As the industry expanded beyond the city boundaries, factories began to colonise agricultural land and the population rose exponentially, reaching 262,346 by 1901.32 People migrated from villages throughout Gujarat (and beyond) to take up work in the mills.33 During the age of industrialisation, the city supported a highly diverse industry; alongside its cotton mills and roller printing factories, clusters of hereditary block printers were 29 Roques’s report was written in Ahmedabad between 1678–80, although it was not published until 1698. On Ahmedabad, see Achyut Yagnik and Suchitra Sheth, Ahmedabad: From Royal City to Megacity (New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 2011), 46. 30 Yagnik and Sheth, Ahmedabad, 164. 31 Yagnik and Sheth, Ahmedabad, 46. 32 See Directorate of Economics and Statistics, General Administration Department (Planning Division), Government of Gujarat, http://www.gujecostat.gujarat.gov.in. Accessed 9 June 2017. Ahmedabad is now a ‘megacity’ with an estimated population of over seven million, with over eight million people living in the metropolitan area. See World Population Review, http://worldpopulationreview.com. Accessed 9 June 2017. 33 Caste played a significant role in recruitment which was organised by mukadams (‘jobbers’ or ‘masters’) who recruited men from their own caste and village. Similarly, caste was a formative influence on the management and ownership of the entreprises – a majority of which were owned by Hindu Vaishnav Vaniyas.

Indian Block Printing

73

active, including Chhipas and Rangrez (Muslim dyers who specialised in indigo-dyeing). Within living memory, artisans pursued hand production in areas such as Jamalpur, Shahpur, Dani Limda, and Astodia serving an essentially local market, providing items of caste dress for the multitude of communities living in Ahmedabad and its agricultural hinterland. Chhipas and a few Bhavsar families at nearby Pethapur also made saudagiri prints (from the Persian saudar for ‘trade goods’) for export to Thailand. Aimed at a mass market, the trade in these prints flourished from the mid-nineteenth century until the outbreak of World War II which effectively brought it to an end. As the leading trading hub for western India, Ahmedabad’s catchment was vast and in terms of block prints extended to the printing centres of Deesa (northern Gujarat), Kachchh (western Gujarat), and Rajasthan. From these areas came the small floral motifs (butis) of Jaipur, dabu (mud resist) prints from Pipad and Bagru, and syahi begar textiles (printed with alum and iron mordants) from Sanganer, as well as the madder-dyed resist prints of Madhya Pradesh (to the east of Gujarat).34 Until the late twentieth century, all types of prints were to be found in the city’s bazaars, prominent amongst which was the cloth market at Manek Chowk in the heart of the old, walled city where merchants operated (and still do) out of small booths serving a clientele that was drawn predominantly from the city’s rural hinterland. As Ahmedbhai Shaikh, a well-known merchant observed, “in 1955, we started [a] tiny shop … [and] our total business was with village communities … Rabaris, Bharwads, and Patels” (fig. 9).35 Writing in 1969, John Irwin presents a similar view of the market for hand prints in Ahmedabad; he also provides a snapshot of the city that identifies the place of textiles in its economic and physical landscape: Today, Ahmedabad is a great industrial city dependent upon textile manufacture as its main trade. Despite the competition of the great cotton mills and of small workshops engaged on screen printing, hand block printing still survives in Ahmedabad for the printing of saris worn by the local countrywomen, and other traditional cloths for local use. The cotton printers still bring their cloths to the river Sabarmati to be washed. The river runs through a broad sandy bed, where the cloths are laid out to dry in the sun as soon as they are taken from the water.36

34 For discussion of the sheer variety of prints made in Ahmedabad between the nineteenth and mid-twentieth centuries, see Aditi Ranjan, “The Legend of Sabarmati’s Hand Block Printed Textiles,” in Ahmedabad 600: Portraits of a City, ed. Suchitra Balasubrahmanyan and Sharmila Sagara (Mumbai: Marg Publications, 2011), 106–23. 35 Ahmedbhai Shaikh (partner, Gamthiwala Cloth Emporium in Manek Chowk), personal communication with the author, 18 October 2012. 36 These observations were made by John Irwin in his Preface to Schwartz’s publication on the Roques manuscript. See Irwin, “Preface,” in Printing on Cotton, i.

74

Eiluned Edwards

Fig. 9: Gamthiwala Cloth Store: traditional cloth merchant at Manek Chowk, Ahmedabad, specialising in block prints from western India. 2010. Photograph: author.

Irwin goes on to remark how little the features of the work have changed in the intervening three hundred years. But it is evident from other sources that by the mid-nineteenth century, block printers were struggling to make a living from their hereditary craft. This was due in part to the depredation of Indian textile markets by foreign products: by the mid-nineteenth century the influx of goods from the Lancashire mills had transformed India into a net importer of cotton textiles.37 Apart from the damage wrought on indigenous industries by the economic policies of the British Raj, craft production was adversely affected by other factors including, the industrialisation of domestic textile production from the mid-nineteenth century onward, and the end of Mughal rule following the Indian Uprising in 1857, after which the British Crown assumed control of India.38 The gradual dissolution of the Mughal Empire had begun in the early eighteenth century, due in large part to its expansion into the Deccan in an attempt to wrest control of strategic foreign trade routes and major ports from the 37 See Prasannan Parthasarathi and Ian Wendt, “Decline in Three Keys: Indian Cotton Manufacturing from the Late Eighteenth Century,” The Spinning World: A Global History of Cotton Textiles, 1200–1850, ed. Giorgio Riello and Prasannan Parthasarathi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 397. 38 The British Crown assumed rule of India in 1858 under the Government of India Act.

Indian Block Printing

75

Deccani Sultanates. The years of continuous conflict that resulted rendered the Empire “unmanageable.”39 Imperial patronage of the arts, crafts, and architecture which had flourished during the golden age of the ‘Great Mughals’ slide into decline and the royal ateliers established in the Empire’s leading cities, including Ahmedabad, dispersed.40 Some artisans found work in the regional courts (many of which tried to emulate Mughal style), including those of Gujarat and Rajasthan, or they found patrons among the rich, merchant castes of western India, such as the Bhatias of Kachchh, for whom they produced devotional cloths known as pichhvais. Others moved from craft to industry, taking jobs in the textile mills and printing factories of Ahmedabad and Bombay. By the mid-twentieth century the number of block printers working in Ahmedabad was in rapid decline. Jain and Kapadia report that the numbers had fallen from 8,000 in 1953 to 2,500 in 1957 – half of whom were women.41 Indeed, by the 1970s block printing (not just in Ahmedabad) had become a casualty of the rising polyester industry as cheaper mill-made, screen printed polyester fabrics started to replace cotton textiles in people’s wardrobes. The demise of the local market for block prints was a catalyst in them transitioning from rustic wear to fashionable soft furnishings and apparel (discussed more fully later in this essay with regard to Kachchhi prints). Although contemporary Ahmedabad remains a commercial powerhouse, important for the sale of block prints sourced from Gujarat, Rajasthan, and Madhya Pradesh, there are now few active block printing units in the city itself, and the centre of production in Gujarat has shifted westward to Kachchh (fig. 13).42 This circumstance and the closure of the mills from the 1980s onwards due to lack of investment “in modern technology and more efficient management” has meant that textiles no longer define the city’s industrial landscape.43 And in the early twenty-first century, the dyers, printers, and dhobis, who had for centuries thronged the banks of the river Sabarmati were finally displaced by the river front development scheme, instigated by the Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation in 2005 (fig. 10).44 39 Susan Stronge, “Sultanates of the Deccan,” in Arts of India: 1500–1900, ed. John Guy and Deborah Swallow (London: V&A Museum, 1990), 123. 40 The start of the golden age of arts and architecture under the ‘Great Mughals’ is attributed to the Emperor Akbar (r. 1556–1605) and continued until the reign of Aurangzeb (1658–1707) after which the empire ‘was devastated by war and famine in the south and riven by regional quarrels in the north.’ See Susan Stronge, “Age of the Mughals,” in Arts of India, 57–106. 41 L.C. Jain and Rita Kapadia, “Hand printing is dying: Impact of indiscriminate mechanisation,” Economic and Political Weekly 19 (1984), 459. 42 These rustic prints have gone upmarket and consumers now tend to be members of the urban elite. They are beyond the means of many of the people who formerly wore them as caste dress. See Edwards, Block, 146–70. 43 Jan Breman and Parthiv Shah, Working in the Mill No More (New Delhi: Oxford University Press India, 2004), 57. 44 Textile workers on the banks of the Sabarmati were famously captured in the photographs of Henri Cartier-­ Bresson and Gujarati artist Dashrath Patel, whom he introduced to the medium of photography, in 1966.

76

Eiluned Edwards

Cotton printing is captured at its pinnacle in Ahmedabad by Roques. Of the commentators on cotton textile production in the seventeenth century, he alone focuses on western India, and more significantly on printing rather than painting. There is admittedly a level of confusion in his reference to chittes, a term commonly applied at the time to painted cloths, but the processes he describes refer to stamping a pattern on cloth using wooden blocks.45 While the two methods of decoration are technically related by their use of mordants, resists, and natural dyes, there is a difference in the end product: painting, a slow process as we have gleaned from Havart’s comments, is not governed by a module, or pattern repeat. Moreover, it is evident from surviving textiles of the period that designs Fig. 10: Dhobis (washer men) at work on the could be painted to fit the contours of the banks of the river Sabarmati, Ahmedabad. Sunrise, body, or the dimensions of a room, or a 25.12.94. Photograph: author. piece of furniture in the case of furnishing chintz, without ever repeating the design. By contrast, block prints rely on the stamping of a pattern module on to cloth aligned time and again by the artisan to create the design. Undoubtedly requiring great skill, block printing is, nevertheless, a faster process than fabric painting and allows for a greater volume of cloth to be produced in a working day, which implies a cheaper and less exclusive product. As an employee of the Compagnie des Indes, Roques was motivated by the same commercial interests that later drove his counterparts, Coeurdoux and Beaulieu, to document chintz production in southern India.46 In a meticulous essay accompanying Roques’s account, Schwartz clarifies (where possible) the terminology and sheds light on the historical processes alluded to. In so doing, he helped to establish a continuity of practice among block printers that extends to the present-day in certain parts of India. He also 45 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 4. 46 The Roques manuscript (written in French) was discovered by John Irwin (then keeper of the Indian section at the Victoria and Albert Museum). Working in collaboration with the Calico Museum of Textiles, he played a leading role in developing the Museum’s publications programme, initiating the Historic Textiles of India series and the Journal of Indian Textile History – key sources for later scholars.

Indian Block Printing

77

identified a number of ‘firsts.’ For example, Roques’s description of ‘oiling’ cloth in preparation for printing is the earliest reference to the process known so far.47 It resonates with contemporary practices among Khatri printers in the Kachchh district (which is discussed more fully later). Thus, Schwartz’s careful scholarship provides us with a vivid account of textile production in the pre-industrial age, providing a source that allows us to glean some understanding of the historical processes of block printing and dyeing in western India – although he warns us that Roques “does not seem to have been a good observer.”48 Nonetheless, Roques’s account does add to our appreciation of how a particular technology allied to a dynamic entrepreneurial environment helped to forge Ahmedabad’s reputation for textiles and trade, bestowing us with a context for subsequent developments in textile production and changes to the city’s profile.

4. Continuity, Innovation, and Challenges: Kachchh Ascendant Roques reports on the heyday of block printing in Ahmedabad. As previously discussed, the craft gradually declined and has all but vanished now from the city with which it was once so closely associated. But block printing continues to be important in the material culture of western India, especially that of Gujarat. Since the 1970s, Kachchh, a border district in the west of the state, has emerged as the foremost centre of the craft in the region (and arguably, in India). Unlike Jaipur and environs, Rajasthan’s textiles hub, which embraced screen printing in the 1960s (a technology that has overshadowed local block printing), Kachchhi craftsmen continue to use blocks and many textiles are dyed with natural colours. Consequently, ‘heritage’ prints, such as double-sided ajrakh, are now renowned in India and appreciated by cognoscenti around the globe.49 They are produced by the Khatris, a hereditary caste of block printers and dyers whose forbearers migrated from Sindh (now in Pakistan) at the behest of Bharmalji I, the rao of Kachchh (r. 1585–1631), in the late sixteenth century, according to oral history.50 47 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 16. 48 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 12. To be fair to Roques, the processes of printing and dyeing in this context are complex, especially if one is not a specialist in textiles, dyeing, botany, or chemistry. 49 Ajrakh is a resist- and mordant-printed textile that is block printed on both sides of the cloth. It was traditionally dyed with madder and indigo. The term is probably derived from azrak, the Arabic for ‘blue,’ bearing in mind the well-documented medieval textile trade between Gujarat and the Arab world. See Barnes, Printed Cotton; and Barnes, Printed Textiles. Ajrakh is made by Khatri dyers and printers in Kachchh district (Gujarat), in the Thar region (Rajasthan), and in the Sindh province (Pakistan). Maiwa’s website has an informed appreciation of contemporary ajrakh prints. See Maiwa, https://maiwa.com/pages/natural-dyes. Accessed 22 October 2017. 50 According to British colonial sources, the Khatris were better known as a merchant caste in the Punjab. See George Campbell, “Ethnology in India,” special issue, Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal 35 (1866): S1–

78

Eiluned Edwards

It is no coincidence that the migration of the Khatris, and other artisanal castes, occurred during this period. Bharmalji’s predecessor, Rao Khengarji I (r. 1548–1585), a Jadeja Rajput, had established a dynasty that would rule Kachchh until Indian independence in 1947, and contrary to the noted disdain of Rajputs for trade, he founded a state that embraced both trade and entrepreneurs.51 The raos of Kachchh, recognising that revenues from agriculture would never be significant (much of the district is a salt desert (rann)), looked for revenue from commerce, and under Bharmalji I, the encouragement of trade became state policy.52 Kachchhi textiles (and other products), which were in demand on domestic markets, became part of the material culture of Africa and the Arab world through trade. Commercial activity between Kachchh (via the port of Mandvi), Muscat and Zanzibar persisted until the late nineteenth century when it fell into steep decline because of socio-political changes in each country and an increased colonial presence.53 In Kachchh, the twentieth century was marked by changing patterns of consumption. Industrial products, roller-printed textiles from Ahmedabad and Bombay as well as synthetic dyes, penetrated the district’s bazaars and it seemed that handmade textiles were moribund.54 The Khatris identify the arrival of synthetic fabrics in the 1970s as the nadir for block printing. Polyester prints, eagerly adopted by local consumers, were cheaper than handcrafted textiles, easier to maintain and came in a great variety of designs and colours.55 Broadly speaking, craft production in Kachchh benefitted from the cultural and economic policies introduced by the government of Jawarharlal Nehru after independence in 1947. Craft production was perceived as something quintessentially Indian that would also provide employment, especially in the vast rural areas of the country, and through

51

52 53 54 55

152; and William Crooke, The Tribes and Castes of the Northwestern India (1896, repr., New Delhi: Cosmo Publications, 1975). But in Kachchh their hereditary occupation is printing and dyeing and many Khatri families can trace their lineage back ten and eleven generations. There are both Hindu and Muslim Khatris in the district, although the craft of printing and dyeing is dominated by Muslim Khatris. Their background is discussed further in Eiluned Edwards, “Contemporary Production and Transmission of Resist Dyed and Block Printed Textiles in Kachchh District, Gujarat,” Textile 3 (2005): 166–89. In the caste hierarchy which is shaped by hereditary occupation and notions of ritual purity, Rajputs are a martial race of warriors and kings. Trade, a less revered occupation, is the province of Banias (merchants). There are many studies of caste, among which Dumont’s Homo Hierachicus (1980) is well-known but contested – as is the concept itself. See Louis Dumont, Homo Hierarchicus: The Caste System and Its Implications. Complete Revised English Edition, trans. Louis Dumont, Mark Sainsbury, and Basia Gulati, 2nd ed. (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1980). See Chhaya Goswami, Globalization Before Its Time: The Gujarati Merchants from Kachchh (Gurgaon: Portfolio, 2016). See Chhaya Goswami, The Call of the Sea: Kachchhi Traders in Muscat and Zanzibar, c.1800–1880 (New Delhi: Orient Black Swan, 2011), 295–303. Synthetic dyes became available in India in the late nineteenth/early twentieth century. Reliable and easy to use, their uptake among printers and dyers stemmed the transmission of dyers’ hereditary skills and knowledge. See Edwards, Block, 312–22. Khatri Mohammad Siddik, personal communication with the author, 14 September 1997.

Indian Block Printing

79

exports, would contribute vital revenue to the state coffers. From the 1950s onward, Nehru set up a variety of key agencies that supported craft revival, including the All India Handicrafts Board (established 1953), the National Crafts Museum (1956), and the National Institute of Design at Ahmedabad, Gujarat (1961).56 But it was the establishment of the Gujarat State Handicrafts and Handlooms Development Corporation (GSHHDC) in the mid-1970s, by Brij Bhasin, that created viable and enduring opportunities for the Khatris and other artisans. He launched a nation-wide programme of exhibition-cum-sales that introduced handmade goods from Gujarat to consumers among the urban elite – a key demographic for the Khatris’ sales – and initiated designer-artisan collaborations. The latter have taken Kachchhi block prints from caste dress to the catwalk in the last two decades.57 Reflecting on this initiative in 2013, Bhasin identified the location of India’s first design school in Ahmedabad (established in 1961), as another factor that helped with craft revival: “My task was to discover as many new craftsmen as possible and I was very lucky because the National Institute of Design (NID) was in Ahmedabad.”58 Archana Shah, at the time a budding NID designer, was chosen to carry out a project with Khatri Mohammad Siddik in the village of Dhamadka, and recalled the circumstances thus: “… [b]y the mid-­ seventies, many communities had begun to give up using local fabrics … For the craft to survive, the artisan needed to look for a new market, a market he did not understand or relate to. This is where collaboration with a designer became fruitful.”59 With the support of GSHHDC and input from India’s emerging design professionals, combined with the expertise of artisans such as Khatri Mohammad Siddik, a return to dyeing with natural colours became commercially viable, and enabled the revival of a technology that had fallen into disuse with the advent of synthetic dyes in India.60 Since that period, Kachchh

56 For discussion of India as a ‘craft nation,’ see Paul Greenough, “Nation, Economy, and Tradition Displayed: The Indian Crafts Museum, New Delhi,” in Consuming Modernity: Public Culture in a South Asian World, ed. Carol Appadurai Breckenridge (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995), 216–48. 57 Discussed in Eiluned Edwards, “Ajrakh: From Caste Dress to Catwalk,” Textile History 47 (2016): 146–70. 58 Brij Bhasin (former Managing Director, Gujarat State Handicraft and Handlooms Development Corporation), personal communication with the author, 12 March 2013. The National Institute of Design (NID) at Ahmedabad was established based on the recommendations of the India Report produced by Charles and Ray Eames in 1958. 59 See Archana Shah, Shifting Sands: Kutch: A Land in Transition (Ahmedabad: Bandhej Books, 2013), 247. Archana Shah founded the design company Bandhej in 1986 – India’s first ‘lifestyle’ chain. 60 The revival of natural dyes in Kachchh, also India is widely attributed to the late Khatri Mohammad Siddik of Dhamadka. In the 1970s, reflecting on his heritage as a printer and dyer, he determined to teach his three sons about natural dyes as they joined him in the workshop. In an interview with the author, his son, Abduljabbar M. Khatri recalled his father’s comments on synthetic dyes: “This is our traditional craft but not our traditional colours,” and went on to add, “so he started working with natural colours again … and taught me and my brothers, Abdulrazzak and Ismail, how to use them.” Abduljabbar M. Khatri (workshop owner), personal communication with the author, 12 April 2013.

80

Fig. 11: Saaj: the preparation of cloth prior to commencing printing and dyeing whereby it is steeped in a solution of camel dung, soda ash and castor oil.

Eiluned Edwards

Fig. 12: The first stage of ajrakh printing (known as kiriana) is the resist, made from a paste of lime and gum. Dhamadka, 2010. Photographs: author.

has emerged as a bastion of organic dyes, exemplified in the production of ajrakh and related block prints, made by Khatri artisans. Traditionally worn as caste dress by Muslim animal herders in Kachchh (also in Thar and Sindh), ajrakh dyed with indigo and madder is now the signature textile of the Khatris of Dhamadka and Ajrakhpur.61 Production entails fourteen to sixteen different stages of resist- and mordant-printing, and dyeing in indigo and madder root. Preparation of the cloth determines the success of the finished textile. Thus, printing and dyeing is preceded by washing and a prolonged de-sizing and softening known locally as saaj whereby the cloth is steeped in a mixture of castor oil, soda ash, and animal dung (fig. 11). The treatment is similar to, if not identical to Roques’s ‘oiling’ and produces the softness of substrate essential for the best printing, aligning with his advice to the Compagnie to use 61 Ajrakh is also made in Khavda village in Banni, northern Kachchh. In Khavda, the Khatris produce both block- and screen-printed ajrakh and work only with synthetic dyes. See Eiluned Edwards, “Cloth and community: the local trade in resist-dyed and block-printed textiles in Kachchh district, Gujarat,” Textile History 38 (2007): 179–97.

Indian Block Printing

81

“chittes … [that are] soft and above all of good cotton yarn.”62 In contemporary Kachchh, the saaj-treated cloth is washed in plain water and dried in the sun, after which it undergoes pre-mordanting with harde or myrobalan which stains it pale yellow or ‘a pale deadleaf tint’ according to Roques who witnessed the same process at Ahmedabad. It is then ready for printing and dyeing. Ajrakh requires precision on the part of the printer. Firstly, he (the craft is a male reserve) stamps fine resist lines on to the cloth using a resist paste of lime and gum (fig. 12).63 Traditionally cotton was the substrate of choice but since India’s burgeoning fashion industry has discovered ajrakh, silks, wools, and mixed cotton-silk fabrics such as maheshwari and chanderi have become popular. Next fine black outlines are printed using an iron (ferrous acetate) mordant paste thickened with tree gum. The recipe is akin to that described in the Roques manuscript which refers to a paste of myrobalan and “wheaten flour soaked in water until it has become thoroughly sour” that is boiled with iron rust and gum.64 Following this stage, the areas that will be red in the finished design are printed with an alum (aluminium potassium sulphate or potash alum) mordant thickened with either tamarind seed powder or tree gum, clay, and millet flour (the type of paste used depends on the scale of the pattern to be printed) (fig. 13 and 14). According to Schwartz, Roques’s manuscript establishes that Indian artisans were the first to thicken mordants into pastes which enabled them to be printed using wooden blocks. He comments that, “[w]e must concede to India a priority beyond all dispute.”65 Thus, engraved wooden blocks are not only the means of imprinting the pattern but are also the vehicle for transferring the mordants, resists and dyes to the fabric, giving the finished textile its characteristic look. Roques evinces the sequence of blocks used by the Ahmedabadi printer to build up the pattern, noting that: He makes a row along the left side, and continues with others in the same way until the width is filled. Having thus used the first block, he takes another of the same size which covers this one completely, and has the same pattern, but differently worked;

62 Khatris formerly used camel dung in the saaj treatment but now use cow or water buffalo dung. The change is a result of the sedentarisation of Rabari nomads since the 1960s. As camel breeders and shepherds, Rabaris’ migration routes through Kachchh took them past Khatri enclaves: in exchange for animal dung, they received wheat, barley, or other comestibles. See Edwards, “Contemporary Production,” 166–89. On chittes, see Schwartz 1969: 4. 63 In 26 years of working in Kachchh, I have yet to meet a female printer. At other centres, such as Bagru and Sanganer in Rajasthan, and Machilipatnam in Andhra Pradesh, women do ‘journeyman’ printing, taking jobs vacated by men who have found better-paid work. See Edwards, Block, 99. 64 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 7. 65 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 1.

82

Eiluned Edwards

for in the places where the first had raised outlines, those of the second are hollow.66

Fig. 13: Printing alum paste known as pa at Dhamadka village, Kachchh. 2013.

Fig. 14: Gach: an alum mordant paste thickened with tree gum, clay and millet flour is printed on larger areas of ajrakh. These will be red in the final design after dyeing in alizarin or madder. Dhamadka, 2011. Photographs: author.

66 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 7. 67 See Edwards, Block, 277–81.

Not much has changed in this respect in the past three and a half centuries: each design element requires a set of blocks that includes an outline block known as rekh (Gujarati/Hindi), a motif fill block known as datla (complex designs require two or more datla blocks), and a background block known as gadh. As a very approximate rule of thumb, the number of blocks required to print a design is determined by how many colours it includes: at least one block per colour (which will be printed with a mordant paste) and one for each area of resist. For example, ajrakh, possibly the most complex block print in regular production today, which includes an intricate centre panel as well as several different border designs, requires a set of approximately twenty-four different pattern blocks. The Khatris commission sets of blocks from specialist engravers at Pethapur which adjoins the state capital, Gandhinagar, and is only thirty-seven kilometres from Ahmedabad.67 There are one or two block engravers remaining in Ahmedabad today but they are unfamiliar with the specialised work of ajrakh. Roques’s view of the city’s block-makers of yore is as exacting as his opinion of the printers. He remarks that, “there are only three of

Indian Block Printing

83

these block-carvers in Ahmedabad, of whom two are quite good; the other makes nothing of merit.”68 With ajrakh, once the cloth has progressed through multiple stages of resist- and mordant-printing, washing and calendering, and drying in the sun, – which assists the colour to develop as Roques also notes, “as much as the sun gives heat, so also the colour becomes beautiful,” it is ready for dyeing in indigo which colours the cloth blue – where it has not been printed with a resist.69 It is subsequently boiled in madder which dyes the alum-treated areas of the cloth a rich red. In this respect, contemporary practice in Kachchh differs from that of seventeenth-­century Ahmedabad where Roques reported the use of saranguy, more commonly known as al. The ajrakh printers use madder for small batch production, and synthetic alizarin for large orders.70 Any excess dye and remnants of printing paste are removed from the completed textile by the washermen (dhobis) in a washing process known as at pani (literally ‘eight waters’) that also aligns and smooths the textile fibres (fig. 15). Finally, the cloth is laid flat to dry in the sun which bleaches the white accents, sharpening the contrast between the black outlines and areas of red and deep blue. A constant flow of running water is a defining factor in the success and scale of block print production and its chemical composition is crucial. Roques was alert to this and remarked of the river Sabarmati, on whose banks the Ahmedabadi textile industry developed, that, “[t]he water has this faculty of contributing much to it, and it was known from experience that the river at Ahmedabad had that virtue above other waters.”71 Similarly in the Kachchh district, the site of Dhamadka village was chosen for the ‘sweet water’ of the river Saran by the founding Khatris who settled there in the late sixteenth or early seventeenth century. The construction of a dam upstream in the village of Tapper in 1989, however, reduced the river’s flow to a trickle and by 1991 it had disappeared entirely. In order to sustain production, the Khatris sank tube wells, powered by electricity, to draw water up from the aquifer. But the lack of flowing water has forced them to build ghats, a system of concrete tanks supplied by a tube well that creates an artificial cascade of water (see fig. 15). Further difficulties ensued after the Gujarat earthquake of 2001 which affected local water quality, saddening the dyed colours: the Khatris were compelled to adjust their dyeing pro-

68 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 6. 69 See Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 8. 70 Their counterparts at other printing centres such as Bagru and Sanganer in Rajasthan do the same. Alizarin is the active colourant in madder root. Synthetic alizarin is commercially produced by Rockstone Industries in Udaipur, Rajasthan. See Edwards, Block, 312–22. 71 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 8.

84

Eiluned Edwards

Fig. 15: Dhobis at work at Dhamadka. An electric-powered tube well supplies the artificial cascade of water that courses through the tanks of the ghat system, 2012. Photograph: author.

cesses to counteract the dulling effect.72 But problems with water supply remain a threat to the sustainability of the craft long term and have led the Khatris at Ajrakhpur to construct a central effluent treatment plant with integrated water recycling which is part-funded by the European Commission SUSTEX programme (fig. 16).73 Ajrakh is a testament not only to the printer’s skill but also to the careful oversight of the senior Khatris. The complexity of the designs is mirrored in the numerous stages of production. Keeping on top of the printing-dyeing sequence, ensuring quality control as well as the flow of work, requires deft management on the part of the Khatris. Most workshops are family-run; small enterprises may rely solely on the family for labour, and are 72 Dr. Ismail Mohammad Khatri (president of the Ajrakhpur Handicrafts Development Association (AHDA)), personal communication with the author, 9 July 2002. 73 The work is being co-ordinated by Dr Ismail Mohammad Khatri in his capacity as President of the AHDA. The SUSTEX (Sustainable Textiles) project is funded by the European Commission SWITCH Asia Project through the Government of India’s Scheme for Integrated Textile Parks. For further details see, The All India Artisans and Craftworkers Welfare Association, http://www.aiacaonline.org. Accessed 28 September 2017.

Indian Block Printing

85

therefore, staffed entirely by Khatris. The larger workshops employ printers and day labourers from other castes nearby to carry out journeyman work as well as washing and calendering. The hired printers (also dhobis) are generally paid by the day, or by the piece, but there are instances of printers whose skill level, reliability, and loyalty has brought them a greater measure of job security and better pay.74 Nonetheless, block printers, like other craft workers operate in the ‘unorganised or informal sector’ which constitutes more than ninety per cent of the workforce in India, with no formal pay structure, social security protection, or health benefits.75 Roques does not relay a clear idea of the organisation of labour in seventeenth-century Ahmedabad (and Schwartz’s essay Fig. 16: Common Effluent Treatment Plant at does not tackle the subject). Roques refers Ajrakh­pur, Dec. 2016. Photograph: author. only to sending for “the leader of a group of painters; for within each of the settlements there is one who has precedence over the others, and with whom you agree upon the price.”76 Having described the printers as ‘pitiable wretches,’ he goes on to express dismay at the lack of quality control exercised by commissioning agents, remarking that, “I am surprised that those who traffic in this merchandise supervise it so little.”77 As discussed earlier, other sources indicate that block printers were employed in the Mughal karkhanas or ateliers, but many worked in improvised workshops that were part of the family home.78 Enclaves of Chippa block printers (rather than Khatris) are clustered near the river Sabarmati in Jamalpur, Astodia, and Dani Limda.79 They often worked for a par74 Abduljabbar M. Khatri (workshop owner), personal communication with the author, 4 March 2015. 75 For analysis of the unorganised sector, see Muna Kalyani, “Unorganised Workers: A Core Strength of Indian Labour Force: An Analysis,” International Journal of Research in Business Studies and Management 2.12 (2015): 44–56. For discussion of the craft sector specifically, see the website of the All India Artisans and Craftworkers Welfare Association (AIACA): www.aicaonline.org. 76 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 6. 77 Schwartz, Printing on Cotton, 8. 78 Allami, The Ain-i-Akbari, 1:93. 79 Ranjan, “The Legend,” 106–23.

86

Eiluned Edwards

ticular merchant who would provide them with fabric and other raw materials (costs that were subsequently deducted from their payment), who might well insist on a monopoly of their production, leaving them vulnerable to exploitation and the vagaries of the market. In common with their modern counterparts, they were part of the vast informal sector with few rights or benefits, reliant on the goodwill of their employers and patrons. Despite the lack of formal pay structures and benefits, today those Khatris who employ ‘outside labour’ have a vested interest in looking after their staff. They advance loans for engagements, marriages, and family crises, and also help with health care and funeral costs. Without the reassurance of this type of paternalism, and in the absence of statutory rights, developing a reliable work force (it can take several months to train a dhobi and up to two years to train a printer), business would suffer.80 In tandem with their careful scrutiny of every stage of production, the attention paid to the business overall (the acumen of the Khatris was noted by the British Raj) has helped not only to establish Kachchh’s renown for textiles but also to sustain it.81 ‘Made with natural dyes’ has become the unique selling point (USP) of the district’s ajrakh printers, and contemporary block prints from Kachchh have found a place in modern, urban living, becoming part of the (global) fashion industry. The considerable commercial success of the Khatris, as well as the social capital it has brought them, has not only created jobs in a rural area where employment options are limited, but has seen their use of natural dyes emulated by block printing enterprises at other centres in Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, and Andhra Pradesh.82 Concern about the loss of cultural heritage which in the 1970s triggered Khatri Mohammad Siddik to reclaim the caste’s traditional skills and knowledge, has aligned with a growing concern among consumers about the environmental and cultural impact of the global fashion industry, expressed in the emergence of the ‘slow fashion’ movement.83 Thus the historical processes delineated by Roques which have a good deal in common with current practice in Kachchh, yet only sixty or seventy years ago would have had little resonance as most dyers used synthetic colour. These glimpses of historical and current practice reveal what influenced the fortunes of Ahmedabad and Kachchh, and also illustrate technical continuities across time. Comparison between early modern Ahmedabad and contemporary Kachchh not only makes clear the circumstances in which a dynamic market supports block printing but also demon80 Abduljabbar M. Khatri (workshop owner), personal communication with the author, 4 March 2015. 81 Campbell, “Ethnology,”; and Crooke, The Tribes. 82 An India-wide revival of natural dyes seems to be happening. See Edwards, Block. See also the AsiaINCH Encyclopedia of Intangible Cultural Heritage, www.craftrevival.org/journal. Accessed 28 September 2017. 83 ‘Slow fashion’ is discussed in several of the essays in Sandy Black, ed., The Sustainable Fashion Handbook (New York: Thames & Hudson, 2012).

Indian Block Printing

87

strates that like their forebears in seventeenth-century Ahmedabad, block printers in contemporary Kachchh have the ability to respond creatively to changing market demand.

Conclusion The history of block printing reveals the technical supremacy of Indian artisans who were able to produce textiles with multi-coloured patterns that were, crucially, colourfast, calibrating production in response to demand from a highly-segmented domestic market as well as a diversified overseas market. Merchants and foreign visitors alike were confounded by Indian painted and printed textiles, and in the early modern period, Europeans were prompted by commercial imperatives to try and discover the secrets of their production.84 The first-hand accounts of agents of the East India Companies provide the earliest written reports of textile manufacture and identify the geography of the craft on the subcontinent. But as the technological innovations of the Industrial Revolution transformed textile production, India’s position as the world’s leading producer of painted, printed, and dyed cottons was surpassed by Europe, notably Britain. Traditional craft producers faced further challenges as India itself introduced factory production in the mid-nineteenth century which saw the emergence of industrial hubs such as Bombay and Ahmedabad (already well-known for a variety of handmade textiles, including block prints); both are now megacities. Moribund by the twentieth century, block printing was resuscitated in the post-colonial era by policies introduced from the 1950s onward by Nehru’s government and the establishment of several key institutions. In the early post-colonial era, craft was seen as central to national identity, and the projection of India abroad has been summarised as “a craft nation – a global cultural reserve where vital traditions of folk arts and crafts, music, and dance are maintained.”85 Today, as a result of state and other interventions and flourishing entrepreneurship, block prints from Kachchh (and other centres) have been revived, adapted, and refined for fashion and soft furnishings, and are reaching a global audience. While modern block prints cannot compare with the impact of chintz and calico in Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, they have found a niche in global markets. Through the relationships established between the block printers and designer-entrepreneurs and retailers in India and overseas, they are part of the contemporary fashion discourse, and couture versions of block prints on silk or pashmina have recaptured their earlier attention-grabbing status. 84 See Kim Siebenhüner’s contribution to this volume. 85 Greenough, “Nation,” 241.

  PART 1



The Production of Textiles: Manufacturing and Colouring

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg: at the Crossroads of Local and Global Histories of Industry Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

In the second half of the eighteenth century, Augsburg developed to become the most significant centre of the lucrative calico printing industry in southern Germany. This technique of textile finishing had only found its way from India via Holland and England to the free imperial city seventy-five years earlier.1 During the time of proto-industrialisation, the ‘Calico King,’ Johann Heinrich Schüle, was particularly notable among the Augsburg entrepreneurs of the time, going on to become a textile printer of European importance from 1761 onwards.2 Under his aegis, Augsburg chintzes, which were produced by around ten calico printing companies in the city, rose to become a widely recognised symbol of quality.3 In the slipstream of Schüle’s success, a new calico printshop called Schöppler & Hartmann formed in 1781. The firm was founded by Johann Michael Schöppler (1754–1839), (fig. 17) a merchant from Nuremberg, and his brother-in-law Johann Gottfried Hartmann (d. 1824), the offspring of an Augsburg calico printing and clerical family. They were granted a printing license by the long-established Apfel family.4 Shortly thereafter, they 1

On the Augsburg Neuhofer brothers who acquired through espionage the technology of dyeing with madder and of calico printing in Holland and England towards the end of the seventeenth century, see Peter Fassl, Konfession, Wirtschaft und Politik: Von der Reichsstadt zur Industriestadt, Augsburg 1750–1850 (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1988), 144–53; for the broader context, see Giorgio Riello, “Asian Knowledge and the Development of Calico Printing in Europe in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” Journal of Global History 5 (2010): 1–18. 2 The ‘Calico King’ (Kattunkönig), has received a great deal of scholarly attention. See Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Vom Feudalismus des Alten Reiches bis zur Defensiven Modernisierung der Reformära 1700–1815, vol. 1, Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte (Munich: Beck, 1987), 109. Albeit slightly dated, Jacques Whitfield’s mongraph is still relevant, see his Der Augsburger Johann Heinrich von Schüle: ein Pionier der Textilwirtschaft im 18. Jahrhundert (Leipzig: Deichert, 1929). 3 Augsburg Chintzes is a translation of Augsburger Zitze. All translations, unless otherwise noted, are our own. On Schüle and calico printing in Augsburg, see Johannes Erichsen and Claus Grimm, eds., Führer durch die Ausstellung zur Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte Bayerns von 1750–1850 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1985), 44; and Michaela Schmölz-Häberlein and Wolfram Baer, “Schüle,” in Augsburger Stadtlexikon, ed. Günther Grünsteudel, Günter Hägele, and Rudolf Frankenberger, 2nd ed. (Augsburg: Perlach Verlag, 1998), 802. 4 The Apfel family was struggling economically at this time, perhaps explaining why they were willing to let new competitors into the field. Nevertheless, they were initially part of Schöppler & Hartmann and quite generous in providing expertise at the start. That Schöppler & Hartmann had backgrounds as merchants, rather than craftsmen, was another factor towards their early success. See Wolfgang Zorn, Handels- und

92

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

began production in 1783 and soon expanded to employ around 300 workers after just a few years.5 With its entrepreneurial strategies, Schöppler & Hartmann soon developed into serious competition for Schüle, before going on to become easily the largest finishing business in the city in the nineteenth century. What were these entrepreneurial strategies that laid the foundations for the establishment of Schöppler & Hartmann? How did diverse networks of not only local, regional, and national, but also transnational and global, markets fit into their rapid rise? How did they acquire the essential raw materials and dyestuffs for the textile printing? Which fashion trends did Schöppler & Hartmann cater to with their cotton printing? What value did Schöppler & Hartmann place on communication and commercial ethos? Addressing these questions requires the historian to engage not in a traditional company history, but rather to use the approach of more recent historical research. This focuses on the dynamics of socio-economic networks, on the often transnational interaction of producers, distributors, and consumers, on chains of raw materials and goods, on product innovations, on methods of communication, and on value systems.6 The existence of rich source materials allows us to provide some initial, albeit differentiated answers to these questions.7 In the collection of the State Textile and Industry Museum Augsburg (Tim), two ‘copy books’ (Kopierbücher) are preserved which contain more than 2,000 letters sent from Schöppler & Hartmann to various business partners between December 1783 and July 1793.8 The museum also possesses a hand-written journal from virtually the same time period (January 1783 to March 1792) which documents

5

6

7

8

Industriegeschichte Bayerisch-Schwabens 1648–1870 (Augsburg: Schwäbische Forschungsgemeinschaft, 1961), 64–66; Fassl, Konfession, 148–49; Claus-Peter Clasen, Textilherstellung in Augsburg in der Frühen Neuzeit, 2 vols. (Augsburg: Wißner, 1995), 2:377, 2:427, 2:445–53, 2:469, 2:473, 2:495. For example, Neuve in Neuchatel (Switzerland) employed more than 300 workers in the late 1750s, Baron, Sallé & Cie. in Beauvais (France) more than 800 in 1778, and Dollfus & Cie. in Alsace more than 700 in 1788. See Giorgio Riello, Cotton: The Fabric that Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 173. See for example, Riello, Cotton; and Sven Beckert, Empire of Cotton: A Global History (New York: Vintage Box, 2015). On value systems, see Partha Dasgupta, “Trust as a commodity,” in Trust: Making and Breaking Cooperative Relations, ed. Diego Gambetta (New York: Blackwell, 1988), 49–72; and Francesca Tri­vellato, The Familiarity of Strangers: the Sephardic Diaspora, Livorno, and Cross-Cultural Trade in the Early Modern Period (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009). On ‘modern’ globalisation, see Jürgen Osterhammel and Niels P. Peterson, Globalization: A Short History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005); Kevin H. O’Rourke and Jeffrey G. Williamson, “When did Globalisation Begin?,” European Review of Economic History 6 (2002): 23–50; Antony G. Hopkins, ed., Globalisation in World History (London: Pimlico, 2002); and Christopher Bayly, The Birth of the Modern World, 1780–1914 (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 23–83. Most of these copied letters are in German, some of them are in French. See Textile and Industry Museum Augsburg (hereafter, Tim), Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, vol. 1, 3 December 1783–29 August 1788; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, vol. 2, 1 September 1788–27 July 1793.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

93

the entire accounting records, covering eleven accounts over more than 700 pages.9 Finally, a pattern book from 1792 supplements the written sources previously mentioned with visual aspects.10 Taken together, these primary sources create a picture of the Augsburg textile printing industry in the late eighteenth century of unprecedented depth and focus. This picture will be illuminated in five sections. The first two examine the various interaction spaces in which the Augsburg business was active amongst local, (supra)regional, and global networks. The first looks more at the purchasing of goods and raw materials, while Fig. 17: Johann Michael Schöppler (1754–1839). the second assesses with whom they did Source: Tim, [K.A. Metzger], Chronik Neue Augsburger Kattunfabrik, Augsburg 1960, after p. 45. business. The third explores fashion and the development of designs. The fourth investigates the specific requirements of communication for a company operating under the uncertainties of an early modern, transnational economy. Finally, the fifth probes the moral value system on which the day-to-day economic activities of a business such as Schöppler & Hartmann were based. Embedded in the subsequent history of the local proto-industrialisation and by illuminating much of the inner workings of a textile printing company, the present study also intends to establish Augsburg on the map of European textile printing in the early modern age as an important industrial centre.11

  9 Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, January 1783–March 1792. 10 Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Musterbuch, 1792. Some of the designs date even to the 1780s. 11 Augsburg gets only passing mention in the seminal studies of Giorgio Riello. See Riello, Cotton, 172; and Giorgio Riello and Prasannan Parthasarathi, eds., The Spinning World: A Global History of Cotton Textiles, 1200–1850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). Stanley Chapman and Serge Chassagne also mention Schüle. See their European Textile Printers in the eighteenth century: A study of Peel and Oberkampf (London: Heinemann Educational, 1981), passim.

94

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

1. Spaces of Interaction: The Purchasing of Raw Materials, Goods, and Services The first important space was the city of Augsburg itself. With a population of around 35,000 inhabitants, it was one of the region’s larger cities near the end of the eighteenth century and was well-connected to regional and global markets as well as the broader European calico industry. On account of its renowned banking system, it offered a solid financial foundation. Moreover, Augsburg also had a centuries-long tradition of commercial textile production. This meant, there was a technically well-trained workforce as well as numerous spinning and weaving workshops. For services that Schöppler & Hartmann could not do themselves, such as the artistic and craft work necessary for the production of patterns carried out by draftsmen, model engravers, and copper engravers, Augsburg thus offered numerous possibilities for outsourcing.12 Other local external services the company made use of included the whetting of the rubbing stones, the milling of cloth, delivery men, waggoners, notaries, and bankers. In Augsburg itself, there were also numerous merchants and trading houses that provided connections to a more regional economy that supplied many of the goods necessary for a printing company. For example, through these channels, the company was able to acquire the oak and birch necessary for the production of printing blocks. For the design of patterns and the engraving of blocks, however, Schöppler & Hartmann outsourced the work to specialists from further afield, for example from Isny (Allgäu) or Hamburg.13 The network of traders and producers based in Augsburg also provided Schöppler & Hartmann unfailingly with mordanting agents like beer vinegar, wine vinegar, lead acetate, aqua fortis, saltpetre, sal ammoniac, and oxidized iron. The materials for bleaching, such as potash, oil, lights, bran, and brushes, were also able to be obtained in Augsburg itself, along with cow manure which was necessary for the cleansing of rubber and starch

12 Other processes, such as dyeing, mangling, printing, bleaching, colouring, or rubbing, were carried out exclusively by the company’s own employees. 13 The extension and technical improvement of the factory equipment was one of Schöppler & Hartmann’s first tasks. The initial investments of the company included the purchase of an English manually operated copper plate printing machine, in order to be able to engage in the more economical and variable technique of textile printing with copper plates (which Schüle had introduced to Augsburg in 1771). In addition to this, Schöppler & Hartmann banked on the more traditional block printing, which usually worked with wooden printing blocks. See Tim, [Karl August Metzger], Chronik Neue Augsburger Kattunfabrik, Augsburg 1960, 32–33; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, January 1783, 5–6. As described by Chapman and Chassagne, the English copper plate machine, “was a manually operated machine that conveyed the cloth from a roll, pressed it on to the flat copper plate and spread the colour ready for the next repeat of the design.” See their European Textile Printers, 20.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

95

from the textiles printed with corrosives before the madder bath. Local merchants also stocked the copper plates necessary for modern copper printing.14 Many of the dyes Schöppler & Hartmann purchased from local Augsburg merchants. For example, red and blue wood were frequently obtained from their Augsburg competitor, the calico printer Georg Friedrich Zackelmayer.15 The verdigris used for dying things green was purchased from Augsburg trading houses such as Johann Carl Krug or Leonhard Jakob Mahler & Co.16 Schöppler & Hartmann turned almost exclusively to Augsburg traders for gall nuts (used above all to dye textiles black) and local merchants such as Gwinner & Vincens or Matthäus Schropp for yellow berries.17 And the Roman alum, used for the application of mordants within the dyeing process, unless purchased directly in Livorno, was commonly purchased through intermediaries in Augsburg.18 Beyond Augsburg, a broad region that can be summarised using the term ‘upper Germany’ was another sphere of activity. This region included the imperial cities of Nuremberg and Regensburg to the northeast as well as the Alsace region to the west, and the northern cantons of German-speaking Switzerland to the south. From within this region, Schöppler & Hartmann obtained, for example, aqua fortis from Obergünzburg, yellow 14 See for example, Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, January 1786, 209; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, March 1786, 220; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, May 1876, 239; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, October 1786, 272. 15 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1784, 117; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, March 1785, 139; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, August 1785, 180; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, May 1787, 316; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, March 1788, 362; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, November 1788, 408; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, January 1792, 709. 16 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, June 1783, 18; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, August 1783, 25; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1783, 49; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, February 1784, 53; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, May 1784, 69; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, August 1784, 90; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, February 1785, 131; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1785, 199, Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, August 1786, 258; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1786, 283; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, September 1791, 667. 17 For yellow berries, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, October 1788, 403; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, January 1790, 477; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, May 1790, 515; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, May 1790, 522; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, May 1791, 616; Tim, Schöpp­ler & Hartmann, Journal, January 1792, 704; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, February 1792, 725. For gall nuts, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1785, 203; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, August 1787, 331; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, November 1787, 349; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1787, 350; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, September 1788, 396; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1789, 475; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, January 1790, 477; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, February 1792, 725. 18 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, August 1783, 25; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, July 1784, 87; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, August 1784, 90; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, May 1788, 378; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, September 1788, 401; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, April 1790, 504; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, September 1791, 667; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, February 1792, 725.

96

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

weed from Memmingen and Nuremberg, and furs for sifting from Crailsheim.19 They also acquired much of their indigo from a specialist trader (Jakob Friedrich Schill) in Calw (Württemberg), and less frequently from the Swiss trading firm Amman & Frey in Schaffhausen.20 Hieronymus Bernoulli & Sohn in Basel was another significant provider of raw materials such as gall nuts, madder, and vitriol oil (sulphuric acid).21 Verdigris was also acquired from Johann Martin Papelier in Strasbourg or Amman & Fey in Schaffhausen.22 Much of their red dyes were also obtained from this more regional market. Bimas redwood, for instance, was obtained for the most part from the Nuremberg trader Gottfried Lang.23 Every now and then Schöppler & Hartmann made efforts to acquire cochineal, a red dye made from a particular species of scale insect that is more vibrant but less durable than madder red, via Basel as well as from Amsterdam.24 Amsterdam’s presence points to the importance of major trading cities and maritime areas in the supply chain. For example, Schöppler & Hartmann mostly acquired madder from wholesale traders such as Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. in Frankfurt (who, in turn, most likely obtained the dyestuffs from the Netherlands).25 In the course of the expansion and consolidation of their business, Schöppler & Hartmann increasingly bypassed 19 For aqua fortis, Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Franz Joseph Rader (Obergünzburg), 28 May 1784, 1:114;Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Franz Joseph Rader (Obergünz­ burg), 26 October 1792, 2:373; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Franz Joseph Rader (Obergünzburg), 25 January 1793, 2:415. For yellow weed, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Johann Jacob Brandmüller (Memmingen), 21 November 1792, 2:380; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Johann Jacob Brandmüller (Memmingen), 5 December, 2:390; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Georg Paul Forster (Nuremberg), 3 December 1792, 2:389; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Georg Paul Forster (Nuremberg), 10 December 1792, 2:391; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Georg Paul Forster (Nuremberg), 19 December 1792, 2:400; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Georg Paul Forster (Nuremberg), 1 April 1793, 2:443; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Georg Paul Forster (Nuremberg), 15 April 1793, 2:450; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Georg Paul Forster (Nuremberg), 16 April 1793, 2:455; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Georg Paul Forster (Nuremberg), 12 June 1793, 2:469; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Georg Paul Forster (Nuremberg), 3 July 1793, 2:481. For furs, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to H. J. D. Rieger (Crailsheim), 10 May 1793, 2:461. 20 They also got some of their indigo from local traders in Augsburg. 21 Buchholz in Saxony was another source of vitriol oil. 22 They occasionally even used direct contacts in France, for example in Montpellier, when searching for their verdigris requirements. 23 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, March 1788, 367; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, May 1788, 377; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, November 1788, 408. 24 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1784, 118; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Albert Johann Cramer (Amsterdam), 15 October 1792 2:369; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Albert Johann Cramer (Amsterdam), 29 October 1792, 2:373. See Giulia Tarantola, “Cochenille et indigo en Méso-Amérique (1770–1870),” Études Rurales 151–52 (1999): 43–49. 25 For Lehmann Isaac Hanau & Co., the madder was often used as one product in the reciprocal trading for printed cottons with Schöppler & Hartmann.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

97

Hanau and purchased madder directly from the Netherlands, where they were in contact with several suppliers. Port cities also played a key role in the acquisition of materials. For example, Schöppler & Hartmann obtained yellow berries from Senegal through Johann Albert Cramer in Amsterdam.26 Schöppler & Hartmann also frequently ordered cotton from merchants such as Peter Jacob Stuppano & Co. in Trieste.27 In general, for their material requirements, Schöppler & Hartmann were able to call on a European network of more than fifty traders. Around sixty percent of these were resident in Augsburg itself, with the remaining forty percent located in cities such as Nuremberg, Calw, Frankfurt, Berlin, Vienna, Strasbourg, Trogen, and Basel. Schöppler & Hartmann had direct contacts with merchants in port cities, such as Trieste, Genoa, Livorno, Marseille, Amsterdam, and Rotterdam. As seen in the above discussion, with many of the products, such as indigo, dyewoods, and yellow berries, they had multiple options from which they could purchase these goods, some of whom were local and based in Augsburg, and others who were not. While the majority of merchants and traders with whom Schöppler & Hartmann did business were based in Europe, the products came from across the globe.28 The Ottoman Empire was one of the main areas they turned to for supplies such as gall nuts, alum, and vitriol oil.29 But more so than products for the dying process, the Ottoman Empire was the source of much of the cotton for Schöppler & Hartmann. Smyrna, Acre (today: Akkon), Palestine, Cyprus, and the southern Balkans (Macedonia and Salona) were all likely suppliers of the Levantine cotton that Schöppler & Hartmann used.30 Schöppler & Hartmann also 26 For reasons of quality, however, the Augsburg calico printers expressly avoided French berries, also known as ‘Avignon berries’ (Graines d’Avignon), instead successfully keeping an eye out for the higher-quality – and hence more expensive – Persian berries. The purchase of orpiment, also used for the production of yellow dye and best obtained from Persia and China, only appears twice in the journal of Schöppler & Hartmann. See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, February 1783, 8; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, March 1792, 725. 27 Sometimes the orders in Trieste were conducted via Livorno. 28 Jutta Wimmler’s contribution to this volume also reveals a vast European network that connected the Prussian Lagerhaus to global suppliers. The investigation of the purchases of various dyes by Schöppler & Hartmann reveals a far greater extent of their network on the international and indeed global market than has been seen previously. See Susan Fairlie, “Dyestuffs in the Eighteenth Century,” Economic History Review 18 (1965): 488–510; Robert Fox and Agustí Nieto-Galan, eds., Natural Dyestuffs and Industrial Culture in Europe, 1750–1880 (Canton, MA.: Watson, 1999); and Alexander Engel, Farben der Globalisierung: Die Entstehung moderner Märkte für Farbstoffe 1500–1900 (Frankfurt: Campus, 2009). 29 The Sorian galls originated from Syria, while with the Aleppo galls, the provenance was likely Persia or India. The alum came primarily from Smyrna (today: Izmir) and the vitriol oil occasionally from Cyprus. On Aleppo, see Bruce Masters, “Aleppo: the Ottoman Empire’s caravan city,” in Edham Eldem, Daniel Goffmann, and Bruce Masters, The Ottoman City between East and West: Aleppo, Izmir, and Istanbul (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 17–78. 30 For example, for Smyrna, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1783, 41; for Macedonia, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1783, 43; for Palestine, see Tim, Schöppler & Hart-

98

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

acquired smaller amounts of raw cotton from the Dutch colony of Surinam in South America.31 India played a role in supplying Schöppler & Hartmann with plain cottons as they processed around 24,500 pieces imported from Southeast Asia between 1785 and 1792.32 India’s as well as Surinam’s presence speaks to the importance of European colonies in Africa, and Central and South America. In contrast to the Ottoman Empire, however, European colonies were a major supplier of dyestuffs. For example, much of the gum arabic came from Senegal. Schöppler & Hartmann purchased around 8,700 pounds of this gum annually between 1783 and 1791, for which the company paid approximately 4,850 flormann, Journal, January 1784, 49; for Acre, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, April 1784, 66; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, April 1785, 160; and for Cyprus, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, January 1786, 206. With these entries, it is difficult to know whether the geographical marker referred to where the cotton was grown or traded. On the difficulty of geographical labels in textile terms, see John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Global Goods in Local Languages: Naming Indian Cottons in the Swiss Cantons” in Names and Naming in Early Modern Germany, ed. Joel Harrington and Beth Plummer (New York: Berghahn Books, forthcoming). On Smyrna, see Elena Frangakis-Syrett, “The Trade of Cotton and Cloth in Izmir: from the Second Half of the Eighteenth Century to the Early Nineteenth Century,” in Landholding and Commercial Agriculture in the Middle East, ed. Çağlar Keyder and Faruk Tabak (Albany: State University of New York, 1991), 98–111; Daniel Goffman, “Izmir: from village to colonial port city,” in The Ottoman City between East and West: Aleppo, Izmir, and Istanbul, ed. Edham Eldem, Daniel Goffmann, and Bruce Masters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 79–134; Daniel Goffman, Izmir and the Levantine World, 1550–1650 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1990); on Acre, see Thomas Philipp, Acre: The Rise and Fall of a Palestinian City, 1730–1831 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001); on Palestine, see Beshara Doumani, Rediscovering Palestine: Merchants and Peasants in Jabal Nablus, 1700–1900 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 95–130; on Cyprus, see Erica Ianiro, “Notes on Venetian Commerce on Cyprus in the 18th Century,” in Ottoman Cyprus: A Collection of Studies on the History and Culture, ed. Michalis N. Michael, Matthias Kappler, and Eftihios Gavriel (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009), 181–96. 31 Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, June 1784, 79; Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, October 1784, 102; October 1784, 108; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, January 1785, 128. The cotton from Surinam was much more expensive than the cotton from the Levant as the former cost between 90 and 125 florins per centner, while the latter cost between 44 and 74 florins per centner. In total, Schöppler & Hartmann acquired almost 20,000 pounds of cotton for less than 13,000 florins from December 1783 to April 1787. See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, December 1783–June 1785 (Woll Conto), 41–166; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, November 1785–October 1786 (Spinnerey Conto), 194–274. The prices paid for the various qualities of cotton were in accordance with the prices common at the time in southern Germany. See Clasen, Textilherstellung in Augsburg 1:155, 1:163–64. For cotton prices in northern Germany, see Hans-Jürgen Gerhard and Karl Heinrich Kaufhold, eds., Preise im vor- und frühindustriellen Deutschland: Nahrungsmittel, Getränke, Gewürze, Rohstoffe und Gewerbeprodukte (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2001), 270–73. 32 In comparison, Schüle was much more active in this trade as he bought nearly 93,500 pieces for his own requirements, far surpassing Schöppler & Hartmann. See Clasen, Textilherstellung in Augsburg, 2:452–53. On the trade of cottons from India to Europe, see Giorgio Riello, “The Indian Apprenticeship,” 309–46; and Vibe Maria Martens’s contribution to this volume. The Indian import wares processed by Schöppler & Hartmann included baftas, guinées, and casses, with the names providing information about both the provenance and the quality of the respective fabrics. See Rosemary Crill, ed., Textiles from India: the Global Trade (Calcutta: Seagull, 2005).

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

99

ins per year (fig. 18).33 The indigo used by Schöppler & Hartmann as a blue dye originated not from Asia, but from Central and South America, primarily Guatemala, Santo Domingo (Dominican Republic), Caracas (Venezuela), and Brazil.34 Towards the end of 1792, Schöppler & Hartmann made efforts to acquire cochineal which was predominantly imported from Mexico.35

Fig. 18: Schöppler & Hartmann: Purchase of madder and gum arabic between 1783 and 1791 in florins. Source: Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal (January 1783 – March 1792).

For the production of various shades of red and blue, dyewoods were essential. The red dye woods, Pernambuco wood and bimas redwood (also known as sapanwood), were imported from South America, in particular from Brazil, and from the Dutch colony of Java respectively.36 The commodity mostly referred to simply as ‘redwood’ was almost certainly a colonial import as well. Blue wood or campeche dyewood, on the other hand, grew on the mainland of Central America and in the West Indies. 33 This product, used for the thickening of paints and stainer, is generally named in our sources as Barbar. Gummi (short for Gummi Barbaricum, Arabic barbary gum) and sometimes also as Senegal Gummi (for Gummi Senegalese, Senegal gum). In the eighteenth century, the adjective ‘Arabic’ generally referred not to the provenance of an imported product, but to the trade route which it took. We are greatly indebted to Jutta Wimmler (European University Viadrina) who shared with us her unpublished article, “From Senegal to Augsburg: Gum Arabic and the Central European Textile Industry in the 18th century.” See also her contribution to this volume. 34 On Indigo, see Jenny Balfour-Paul, Indigo (London: British Museum, 1998). 35 See Tarantola, “Cochenille et indigo.” 36 See George Bryan Souza, “Dyeing Red: Southeast Asian Sappanwood in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth centuries,” O Oriente 8 (2004): 40–58.

100

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

Finally, not all of the raw materials had a global provenance. Many came from Europe, such as madder from the Netherlands or verdigris from France. From England, Schöpp­ ler & Hartmann acquired alum, vitriol oil, and for red dyes, ‘English tin.’ Saxony supplied some cottons but mostly vitriol oil from Buchholz, while muslins were purchased in the Swiss cantons. How did all these global goods reach Augsburg? Essentially two large international trade routes can be discerned. The goods from the Levant and Asia made their way to southern Germany via the Mediterranean ports of Trieste, Livorno, and, less frequently, Genoa and Marseille.37 The goods from the Americas, and most probably the Senegalese gum arabic and yellow berries, found their way to the south of Germany via Amsterdam and Rotterdam (both of which housed branches of the Dutch East India Company). London only appears once in the records as a source of plain Indian cottons, which came to Augsburg via Hamburg.38 37 While the majority of the Levantine wares in these years came to Europe via the French port of Marseille, Schöppler & Hartmann obtained a portion of their Levantine cotton directly from the more advantageously situated Austrian transshipment points of Vienna and Trieste. The Levantine cotton made its way there on several trading routes before moving on to southern Germany. On the overland route, the raw material usually travelled from the Ottoman city of Thessaloniki northwards to Niš, also under Ottoman control, and from there on to Zemun (then part of the Habsburg Empire, today a suburb of Belgrade), where the cotton was loaded on to barges for water transport to bring it to Vienna. The alternative route for importing Levantine cotton via Austria was by sea via the free port of Trieste (which was particularly prominent in Levantine trade in the second half of the eighteenth century). See Erich Landsteiner, “Strukturelle Determinanten der Stellung Wiens im interregionalen Handel,” in Die frühneuzeitliche Residenz (16. bis 18. Jahrhundert), vol. 2, Wien: Geschichte einer Stadt, ed. Karl Vocelka and Anita Traninger (Cologne: Böhlau, 2003), 196; Herbert Hassinger, “Der Außenhandel der Habsburgermonarchie in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts,” in Die wirtschaftliche Situation in Deutschland und Österreich um die Wende vom 18. zum 19. Jahrhundert: Bericht über die Erste Arbeitstagung der Gesellschaft für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte, ed. Friedrich Lüdtke (Stuttgart: Fischer, 1964), 92–95; Wilhelm Kaltenstadler, “Der österreichi­sche Seehandel über Triest im 18. Jahrhundert,” Vierteljahrschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte 56 (1969): 1–104; and Marianne von Herzfeld, “Zur Orienthandelspolitik Österreichs unter Maria Theresia in der Zeit von 1740–1771,” Archiv für österreichische Geschichte 108 (1920): 218–344. On the French Levantine trade, see for example Daniel Panzac, “L’escale de Chio: un observatoire privilégié de l’activité maritime en mer Egée au XVIIIe siècle,” Histoire, économie et société 4 (1985): 541–61. On the Genoa trade, see Kate Fleet, European and Islamic Trade in the Early Ottoman State: the Merchants of Genoa and Turkey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). On Aleppo, see Bruce Masters, “Aleppo: the Ottoman Empire’s caravan city,” 17–78. When the Trieste channels of the Augsburg merchants dried up, however, the calico printers searched for alternatives of their own accord, for example by inquiring directly about Levantine goods with traders in Marseille. See Katsumi, Fukasawa, Toilerie et commerce du Levant, d’Alep à Marseille (Paris: Editions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1987). 38 Some Indian cotton was acquired via Amsterdam. The transport occurred on waterways via the Rhine and Main rivers, and from Würzburg using horse and cart. On Amsterdam’s trade with Germany, see Ulrich Pfister, “The Quantitative Development of Germany’s International Trade During the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries,” Revue de L’Observatoire français des conjonctures économiques (OFCE) 140 (2015): 175–221.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

101

2. Business Partners and Clients: the Purchasers of the Products While the previous section examined the spheres of activity of Schöppler & Hartmann based on their purchasing of goods, raw materials, and services, the following turns its attention to the interaction spaces of the Augsburg company on the turnover and distribution side of the business. Only when the two spheres are combined, which happened with a number of business partners, can a complete picture of the action radius of Schöpp­ ler & Hartmann be provided. When one examines the development of the business, the business strategy of the initial years was based on a notable degree of flexibility. On the one hand Schöppler & Hartmann built its business on several pillars, on the other hand it used great manoeuvrability and careful calculation to make use of the opportunities offered by the market. The business areas consisted initially of their own production, contract printing, contract finishing, and active trade. Later, an investment was made for several years in a spinning and weaving mill using the putting-out system in Pappenheim (Franconia).39 Particularly interesting for the formative phase during the initial years of the company’s existence was the development of the client base. Even though Schöppler & Hartmann were able to take over clients from the previous owners of their factories, the new company still needed to build up and solidify a clearly expanded group of clients. In their first year of business (1783), the number of merchants who could be supplied with the company’s own production was around thirty percent higher than the number of clients who required contract service providers. It seems that the sale of goods from their own production provided the chance to gain new clients. Yet, these new clients also needed to be convinced of the quality and prices of Schöppler & Hartmann’s products. Nearly all long-term clients began their patronage of Schöppler & Hartmann in this manner: first by purchasing items made by Schöppler & Hartmann themselves, and second by placing large orders for contract printing. Beyond this transition from their own product to contract orders, there were a number of other ways, Schöppler & Hartmann sought to grow their business. One of these was to sell goods on consignment. Another frequent strategy for gaining new business was ‘counter trade’ whereby Schöppler & Hartmann exchanged their printed cottons for goods produced by clients.40 In other cases, they attempted to find new clients by purchasing 39 See Fassl, Konfession, 161, footnote 157. 40 Schöppler & Hartmann sometimes included consumer goods in this process, some were used as gifts for business partners, and some were resold. These goods included wine (Markgräfler wine, Rheinwein, and Burgunder), cherry brandy, and tobacco from Leutkirch, Lindau, and Strasbourg. Further consumer goods, such as Maroni, Limburg cheese, coffee, English swanboy (Schwanenboy, a mixed cotton-flannel fabric), and silk stockings were obtained from further afield in Innsbruck, Frankfurt, and Hamburg. The swanboy

102

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

plain cottons and hoping for future printing orders, as they did with the renowned Swiss merchant dynasty of the Zellwegers in Trogen (Appenzell Ausserrhoden). The Augsburg firm also offered their services through a new circular note that was sent to potential clients in late 1783 and early 1784.41 Going beyond towns and cities (Kempten, ­Memmingen, Kaufbeuren, Munich, and Nuremberg) in their own region, Schöppler & Hartmann soon put out feelers to Frankfurt, Leipzig, Berlin, the Swiss cantons, Trieste, Milan, and Genoa. Pattern and product samples as well as price ranges were sent, hoping to induce potential clients. Over the years Schöppler & Hartmann dealt with more than fifty clients purchasing printed cottons. It was one market in particular, however, that the new entrepreneurs from Augsburg were careful not to neglect, and which indeed turned out to be extremely fruitful: the local market in their immediate vicinity. The Augsburg trading firm Mahler & Co. was one of their first clients, and went on to become Schöppler & Hartmann’s second largest buyer of printed fabrics. Mahler also functioned as an important trading partner, with Schöppler & Hartmann purchasing numerous dyestuffs from them. Another significant business partner in the direct vicinity was the banker and wholesale trading firm Jacob Hillenbrand seel. Erben.42 While turnover from their own production was still greater than that gained from contract printing in 1783, the direction that the calico printing firm was to take in the future had become clear by 1784. From this time onwards, Schöppler & Hartmann placed increasing emphasis on contract printing, for which they attempted to find, not a large number of small clients, but rather large wholesale buyers. Contract printing, whereby clients sent their self-acquired plain cottons along with their pattern requests to Schöpp­ came to Augsburg via London and Frankfurt and also served as a means of sending hidden currency (as did the coffee more frequently ordered in Frankfurt). 41 On circular notes (Circular) in the context of business correspondence, see G. E. A. Wahlert, Kaufmännischer Briefsteller in deutscher, französischer, englischer und italienischer Sprache für Handlungsschulen und junge Leute, die sich, ohne Lehrer, die kaufmännische Correspondenz in diesen Sprachen aneignen wollen (Lippstadt: Lange, 1841), 1–4, 386. 42 A family connection seems to have emerged between the firms as Johann Friedrich Heinle, an acquisition agent for Schöppler & Hartmann, married the daughter of Johann David von Hillenbrand. In the relevant copy book, a series of letters can be found for the year 1784 in which the new Augsburg calico printing company refers to the initiation of business and the conclusion of trading agreements reached by Heinle. Heinle, who had been in Hillenbrand’s service before engaging in freelance work, thus seems to have been responsible for the contact with the important Frankfurt firm Löw Götz Haas, whom he was able to acquire successfully as a wholesale buyer for Schöppler & Hartmann. However, it can only be guessed as to whether the connection with Heinle, who ran a cotton spinning mill in Augsburg in the 1780s, was the genesis of the idea for Schöppler & Hartmann to initiate their own spinning and weaving mill using a putting-out system in Pappenheim in 1786. See Zorn, Handels- und Industriegeschichte, 66; and Paul von Stetten d.J., Die Aufzeichnungen zu den Jahren 1731–1792, vol. 1, Selbstbiographie: Die Lebensbeschreibung des Patriziers und Stadtpflegers der Reichsstadt Augsburg (1731–1808) (Augsburg: Wißner, 2009), 238–39.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

103

ler & Hartmann, proved to be less capital-intensive than production at their own risk. In times of intensified competition, the contract printers who could adapt to the wishes of their clients carried less risk and thus maintained more flexibility as a company for their economic activities. The year 1785 marked the turning point in the development of Schöppler & Hartmann. The expansion of the business can be seen in the purchase of madder alone for this year, almost doubling from 44,762 pounds in 1784 to around 82,001 pounds in 1785 (fig. 17). From 1784 to 1785, they were able to increase revenue from contract printing from 66,236 florins to 103,107 florins, and further to 118,870 florins in 1786 (fig. 19). The sales figures for their own production, in contrast, dropped dramatically: while they increased from 12,180 to 19,360 florins from 1783 to 1784, they dropped sharply to around 5,460 florins for 1786. From 1787 onwards, the firm’s own production played a virtually non-existent role in their overall revenue.43

Fig. 19: Schöppler & Hartmann: Turnover for contract printing, production for own account and Isaak Lehmann Hanau (Frankfurt am Main) in florins. Source: Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal (January 1783– March 1792).

The reason for this is most probably that the ambitious Augsburg entrepreneurs were able to land a significant coup at that time. They managed to secure the large Frankfurt trading house Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co., who had excellent contacts to Amsterdam and also imported from London, as a contractual wholesale client. Moreover, they successfully won Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. over from their competition, and Augsburg mar-

43 This is likely one of the reason’s that imports of Indian plain cottons did not play a significant role in the company finances.

104

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

Löw Götz Haas Frankfurt am Main 1783

Martin Schranz Augsburg

Mahler & Co. Augsburg

Lehmann Isaak Hanau Frankfurt am Main

1.141,30

4.600,86

612,3

Total

9.704,78

1784

844,79

9.226,65

7.242,03

24.777,34

66.236,16

1785

7.481,35

13.192,10

9.935,40

47.072,53

103.107,67

1786

10.127,46

7.245,65

11.931,51

66.231,23

118.878,14

1787

4.389,42

12.025,08

16.145,19

86.907,33

121.376,28

1788

1.756,69

7.600,11

98.366,31

114.570,31

1789

3.699,08

12.069,62

73.603,16

110.325,11

1790

4.334,31

8.107,04

75.524,49

101.166,86

1791

770,89

16.509,97

85.279,04

114.182,99

Fig. 20: Schöppler & Hartmann: Turnover for the major contract printing customers in florins. Source: Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal (January 1783–March 1792).

ket leader, Schüle. Through Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. in Frankfurt, Schöppler & Hartmann gained access to Germany’s central markets for printed cottons. A key role in the business relationship between Schöppler & Hartmann and Hanau was played by the Frankfurt merchant Amschel Isaak Goldschmidt who had established a branch in Kriegshaber outside the gates of the city of Augsburg. Goldschmidt, who was related to the Hanau family, ran several companies as a stakeholder with the Hanaus which specialised in textile trading. From 1770 onwards, as a merchant as well as a middle man, he dominated the Augsburg market.44 Between 1769 and 1774 alone, his revenue in goods delivered to Augsburg, including cotton and dyestuffs, totalled more than 225,000 florins. His competitive price policy earned him many enemies, as well as the accusation of being responsible for the ruin of several local calico printing companies. Schöppler & Hartmann, however, who recorded their first deliveries to Lehmann Isaac Hanau & Co. in November 1783, managed to profit substantially from the business partnership with Goldschmidt-Hanau. As early as 1784, Hanau advanced to become the most important buyer among the young Augsburg company’s clients. In 1787, Schöppler & Hartmann achieved their highest annual turnover to date of nearly 121,280 florins, with Hanau alone being responsible for more than seventy percent of this figure. One year later, Hanau’s contribution rose to account for more than eighty-five percent of the total volume of sales. From 1789 to 1791, Schöppler & Hartmann’s share of sales to Hanau fluctuated between around sixty-seven and seventy-five percent of total annual turnover (fig. 20). 44 See Zorn, Handels- und Industriegeschichte, 58, 63–65; and Fassl, Konfession, 161.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

105

The business partnership with Hanau, however, included the reciprocal purchase of dyestuffs from the Frankfurt wholesale trader. On average a quarter of the value of the printed fabrics delivered was returned to Augsburg in the form of dyestuffs. From 1784 to 1790, Schöppler & Hartmann purchased an annual average of around 15,700 florins worth of madder, gum Arabic, and other dyestuffs. In 1785, the sum of the reciprocal trades was as high as 22,000 florins.45 However, the negotiations on the new contract with Hanau, which was due to expire in autumn 1791, revealed clear tension in the relationship between Schöppler & Hartmann and the Frankfurt merchants.46 The Augsburg calico printers demanded price increases for their products, since they had conducted the preparation of the plain cottons for printing at their own expense for years. They insisted that the price increases were necessary primarily because the quality of the dyes delivered by Hanau had been decreasing over the years, especially that of the essential madder. The low-quality madder, they claimed, had had an extremely negative effect on the complexion of the printed cottons. This fact had forced Schöppler & Hartmann to obtain the desired quality of madder from Holland at their own expense. The accounts of the trade journal support this position, showing how actively Schöppler & Hartmann acquired Dutch madder. Moreover, for the year 1791, there is indeed an astonishing decrease in the deliveries of dyes from Hanau, which dropped from nearly 15,350 florins in 1790 to just 3,574 florins one year later.47

45 Unfortunately, there has not yet been research into the question of where and to whom Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. sold the printed cottons received from Schöppler & Hartmann. It is to be suspected, however, that the trading house Hanau, who held a subsidiary in Amsterdam by the name of Hanau Junior & Co., moved a significant portion of the printed cottons purchased in Augsburg via this Dutch city that was so important for overseas trade. An Augsburg assessment from 1790 ascertained – not without anti-Semitic overtones – that “in Amsterdam, only the Hanau Jews and others belonging to their kind of riff-raff […] are able to conduct trade.” A letter from Schöppler & Hartmann dated 14 November 1791 indeed confirms the assumption that the men of Isaak Lehmann Hanau & Co. sold consignment goods from Augsburg in Amsterdam. Quoted in Fassl, Konfession, 163. 46 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. (Frankfurt), 24 October 1791, 2:255–60. 47 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, May 1791, 616; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, November 1791, 685. For context, from 1783 to 1791, Schöppler & Hartmann imported an average of 74,700 pounds of madder every year at a price of nearly 20,600 florins per annum (Figure 1). Age was an important sign of quality, with only a three-year-old madder attaining the best maturity. Even though it came pulverised, the purity of the root was a key marker of quality, as was the purity of the root, which tended to come in pulverised form. More expensive than the so-called ‘onberoofde’ madder, which was partially cleansed from the husk and still contained the less valuable husk of the root, was the so-called ‘fine’ madder, which was cleansed from the husk. While the former cost between twenty-four and fifty-two florins per centner during the period of our investigation, the latter oscillated between forty-one and fifty-­ three florins per centner. Generally, see Robert Chenciner, Madder Red: a History of Luxury and Trade: Plant Dyes and Pigments in World Commerce and Art (Richmond, VA: Curzon, 2000).

106

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

The disagreement between Schöppler & Hartmann and the Hanau trading house, which came to a head in November 1791, is in no small part a testimony to the growing self-confidence of the Augsburg calico printing firm, which was willing and able to detach itself from its most important wholesale buyer – a wholesale buyer who, through Goldschmidt, was used simply to dictating prices in Augsburg. At the same time, the argument revealed the growing market competence of the calico printers, who had built up their business network on an international scale and were becoming increasingly confident in their dealings within this network. Despite the independent ambitions of Schöppler & Hartmann, the business partnership with Lehmann Isaac Hanau & Co. remained active for nearly ten more years until 1800.

3. Product and Design Development Turning to the history of fashion and consumer taste, Schöppler & Hartmann soon showed themselves to be in a position to produce sophisticated quality products which could compete with the product quality of the renowned Schüle. It is thus of little surprise that Schöppler & Hartmann repeatedly referred to Schüle when attempting to underline the quality of their own products. In December 1784, they wrote: “[we have] the satisfaction of having equalled Mr Heinrich von Schüle in this field.”48 In August 1792, they wrote confidently to Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co., “that we have produced something especially designed for you, of which even … Schüle would be jealous.”49 In order to obtain a more accurate impression of the quality of the printed cottons in question, it is worth taking a look at the oldest pattern book in the collection of Schöpp­ ler & Hartmann.50 This pattern book from 1792 contains around 500 pattern drawings, outline designs, and test prints from blocks on paper, all of which were later implemented using madder dyeing (fig. 21). Unfortunately, the pattern book does not allow us to assign pattern designations precisely for the early years of the company’s history, since fundamen-

48 “[D]ie Genugthuung es in diesem Fach dem H. Heinrich von Schüle gleichgebracht zu haben.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Löw & Gumpert Isaac Elias (Frankfurt), 6 December 1784, 1:223. 49 “[D]as selbst ein Herr von Schühle müt neidischen Augen an sehen muß.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. (Frankfurt), 14 August 1792, 2:346. 50 On Tim’s pattern book collection, see Andrea Kluge, Der Stoff aus dem die Mode ist …: Die Stoffmustersammlung der Neuen Augsburger Kattunfabrik (Rosenheim: Rosenheimer, 1991); and Monika Fahn, “Die Musterbücher der Neuen Augsburger Kattunfabrik (NAK),” in Die süddeutsche Textillandschaft: Geschichte und Erinnerung von der Frühen Neuzeit bis in die Gegenwart, ed. Karl Borromäus Murr, Wolfgang Wüst, Werner K. Blessing, and Peter Fassl (Augsburg: Wißner, 2010), 413–46.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

107

tal data, such as dates, are often missing.51 Nevertheless, the written sources from the same period provide pattern categories which enable us to put together a broad description. We thus find patterns on a white background, divided into wooden block and copper prints. Categories such as ‘painted,’ ‘medium-finely painted,’ ‘finely painted,’ and ‘very finely painted’ – a decorative painting that was done by hand – point to the possibilities of further refining the patterns. Another variation consisted Fig. 21: Pattern drawing, Augsburg 1792. Source: of white-based patterns with coloured Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, pattern book, 1792, stripes. The most complicated production Inv. Nr. 004001, not paginated. process was required for those patterns which were based on a coloured background. The designation “in ground-layer, finely painted” refers to the mostly black or dark base colours with floral, printed, or painted pattern elements (fig. 3 and 4).52 The contemporary trading journal explicitly names additional base colours such as yellow, blue, pink, or pers (light violet or peach-coloured). Further designations include Sables and fond mille point, which refer to various grades of painting. Prior to the shift to contractual printing, Schöppler & Hartmann made great efforts to meet the tastes of their clients Fig. 22: Block imprint on paper, Augsburg 1792. with new patterns. Since the development Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, pattern book, 1792, and implementation of a new pattern was Inv. Nr. 004001. not paginated. complicated, it was necessary to carefully consider which fashion trend to gamble on. The payroll costs alone for the production of a complete series of printing blocks or the engraving of a copper plate, when external engrav51 One pattern drawing refers clearly to the year 1783. 52 “[I]n Boden fein geschildert.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Christian Hartmann (Frankfurt), 10 April 1789, 2:27.

108

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

ers or block-makers were used, came to between eight and forty florins per pattern.53 The completion of the print media for a fine bonnet pattern with a coloured base took between six and eight weeks.54 The production costs of such a pattern, including wood, were between forty and forty-three florins. An unrefined copper plate had a value of fifty florins, a newly engraved plate one hundred florins. This figure includes the polishing of the copper plate (ten florins) and the wages of a Fig. 23: Block printed cotton, Augsburg 1792. copper engraver for the engraving of the Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, pattern book, 1792, plate of up to forty florins.55 As early as Inv. Nr. 004001, not paginated. March 1784, the Augsburg firm even hired a ‘drawing master’ (Zeichen Meister) in Hamburg to produce new pattern designs on a weekly basis.56 The monthly costs for external craftsmen almost always exceeded the payroll costs of the company’s own design and engraving department, which were around 150 florins per month on average. The company’s own block carvers and engravers in 1784 received the respectable weekly wage of four florins and thirty kreutzer.57 In light of the costs outlined here, Schöppler & Hartmann considered very carefully before investing in a new pattern. Only upon requests from potentially lucrative clients, such as Löw Götz Haas in Frankfurt, did Schöppler & Hartmann produce new pattern drawings and have the corresponding printing blocks or copper printing plates made. More research is needed to suss out the origin of the various designs, but initial analyses point to a considerable influence of French and English patterns.58 The aim of draw53 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Löw Götz Haas (Frankfurt), 27 November 1789, 2:77. 54 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Löw Götz Haas (Frankfurt), 10 November 1789, 2:71. 55 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, Model Conto, November 1785, 195. 56 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Löw Götz Haas (Frankfurt), 15 March 1784, 1:49. 57 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, Model Conto, July 1785, 167. In the same period, an Augsburg bricklayer or carpenter earned around three florins per week, while the average weekly wage of workers in the Augsburg calico factories in 1794 was only two florins and eighteen kreutzer (one florin equaled sixty kreutzer). A kilogram of wheat cost around five kreutzer in Augsburg in 1785. See Moritz J. Elsas, Umriß einer Geschichte der Preise und Löhne in Deutschland vom ausgehenden Mittelalter bis zum Beginn des neun­zehnten Jahrhunderts (Leiden: A.W. Sijthoff, 1936), 598, 733, 736. For the average wage of a calico factory worker, see Clasen, Textilherstellung in Augsburg, 2:492. 58 See Giorgio Riello, “The Globalization of Cotton Textiles: Indian Cottons, Europe, and the Atlantic World,” 1600–1850, in The Spinning World, 261–87; Wendy Hefford, The Victoria & Albert Museum’s Textile Collec-

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

109

ing conclusions about the fashion consumption of the printed fabrics from Augsburg is faced with the hindrance that the journey of the products from the place of production to the consumer is virtually untraceable. Nevertheless, the written sources provide a series of orientation points as to how the printed cottons of Schöppler & Hartmann followed the fashion of the period. Printed fabrics for bonnets were as much a part of the standard program of Schöppler & Hartmann as fabrics with the common pattern designation of Peruvienne.59 According to the contemporary encyclopaedist Johann Georg Krünitz, Peruvienne was one of the calico patterns worked into men’s clothing which had black as a base colour and only three to four further colours.60 Upon suggestion by the Frankfurt banker and business partner Gontard, Schöppler & Hartmann developed special printed fabrics at the beginning of the 1790s for gilets, a type of men’s waistcoats.61 The descriptions in the correspondence point to a semi-­finished product.62 The patterns were generally adapted straight to the form of the front of the vest, along with specially designed pockets and button motifs. The tailors who worked with these printed fabrics aligned their cuts and the further processing with the patterns. In the typical fashion of the aristocracy at the time, coloured fabrics were often chosen for the vests, which could be combined with suits in contrasting colours. For the first time on 28 March 1792, Schöppler & Hartmann sent twelve dozen printed waistcoats to Jacob Friedrich Gont­hard & Söhne in Frankfurt for a price of ten florins per dozen.63 Schöpp­ ler & Hartmann also offered the vest material to Swiss trading houses such as the Zellwegers in Trogen and their affiliates J. Walser & Comp. in Herisau (Appenzell Ausserrhoden). The Augsburg firm even provided the Zellwegers with specific suggestions as to the possible further working of the fabric, writing, “for the summer, we have applied

59

60 61 62

63

tion: Design for Printed Textiles in England from 1750 to 1850 (London: V&A Publishing 1992); and Lesley Miller, Selling Silks: A Merchant’s Sample Book 1764 (London: V&A Publishing 2014). On bonnets of printed cotton for women, see Gudrun Hildebrandt, “‘Aus Eins mach Zehn …’: Vergleichende Analyse von Schnittform, Materialverwendung und Verarbeitung an ‘Trachtenhauben’,” in Trachten in der Lüneburger Heide und im Wendland, ed. Karen Ellwanger, Andrea Hauser, and Jochen Meiners (Münster: Waxmann, 2015), 126–34. On the use of printed cottons for the lining of children’s bonnets, see Isa Fleisch­ mann-Heck, “Seidene Säuglingskleidung des 18. Jahrhunderts: Neue Überlegungen zu ihrer Verwendung und Funktion,” in Das Bild vom Kind im Spiegel seiner Kleidung: Von prähistorischer Zeit bis zur Gegenwart, ed. Annette Paetz gen. Schieck and Uta-Christiane Bergemann (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner 2015), 120–35. Johann Georg Krünitz, “Peruvienne,” Oekonomische Encyklopädie oder allgemeines System der Staats- StadtHaus- und Landwirthschaft, http://kruenitz1.uni-trier.de. Accessed 27 September 2017. See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Jacob Friedrich Gontard & Söhne (Frankfurt), 30  September 1791, 2:247. On the consumption of gilets at this time in Vienna, see Aris Kafantogias’s contribution to this volume; and on the fabrics of men’s waistcoats in Bern, see John Jordan’s contribution to this volume. Such a model was also common in contemporary silk embroidery. See Bianca M. du Mortier, Costume & Fashion (Amsterdam: Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, 2016), 108–11; and Jutta Zander-Seidel, Kleiderwechsel: Frauen-, Männer- und Kinderkleidung des 18. bis 20. Jahrhunderts (Nuremberg: Verlag des Germanischen Nationalmuseums, 2002), 42–43. See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Journal, March 1792, 723.

110

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

English muslins according to the attached quality, and for the winter, English Manchester would serve best.”64 In other cases, the modern zeitgeist was directly reflected in the designs of Schöppler & Hartmann. Nine months after the French Montgolfier brothers had presented their airship to an astonished public on 4 June 1783, Schöppler & Hartmann ordered a new pattern intended to display the novel ‘air machines’ (Luft Maschinen).65 In the middle of July 1784, the first deliveries of this design were sent to the trading house Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. in Frankfurt in a white-based variation of Indian baftas. These few examples provide first glimpses of a history of fashion and consumer taste of Augsburg calico printing. A comparative analysis of pattern books, however, is only just beginning.66 But one thing has already become clear: the national and international connections of the Augsburg textile printing industry were reflected in the great variety of fashion and consumer influences.67

4. Conflicts and Communication in an Uncertain Transnational Economy In the investigation of early modern calico printing, anybody who studies the various flows of goods, may well overlook a critical prerequisite for business activity of this kind: communication – something which always contained the potential for misunderstandings. As a result, communication was at the core of Schöppler & Hartmann: they were always inquir64 “[D]ürften für den Sommer die Mousuliens ahngefuhr nach anliegenden Abschnied, so wie für den Winter Manschester dazu an besten dienen.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Walser & Co., Herisau, 22 March 1792, 2:299. 65 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Löw Götz Haas (Frankfurt), 7 June 1784, 2:119. 66 The following institutions have been developing an interdisciplinary research project on textile pattern books: Staatliches Textil- und Industriemuseum Augsburg, HTW Berlin, FB 5 (Gestaltung und Kultur), Museumskunde, LWL-Industriemuseum, TextilWerk Bocholt, and LVR-Industriemuseum Standort: Textil­ fabrik Cromford. 67 Häberlein and Schmölz-Häberlein have shown how the contemporary Augsburg firm Obwexer was able to meet the constantly changing pattern wishes of the Dutch Caribbean island, Curaçao, from which other markets in the Americas were served. See Mark Häberlein and Michaela Schmölz-Häberlein, Die Erben der Welser: Der Karibikhandel der Augsburger Firma Obwexer im Zeitalter der Revolutionen (Augsburg: Wißner, 1995). In the case of Schöppler & Hartmann, the hope of gaining promising insights is connected with the more in-depth research into the participating trading houses, such as Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co., Löw Götz Haas, and Zellweger, which obtained their supplies of printed cottons from calico printers such as Schöppler & Hartmann. Initial scholarly conclusions have only recently been produced for the Zellwegers from Switzerland. See Ulrich Pfister, “Der Textilhandel der Familie Zellweger in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts: Protoindustrialisierung – kommerzielle Revolution – Konsumrevolution,” in Europa in der Schweiz: Grenzüberschreitender Kulturaustausch im 18. Jahrhundert, ed. Heidi Eisenhut, ­Anett Lütteken, and Carsten Zelle (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2013), 25–40. We are indepted to Maya Zell­ weger who provided us with copies of the Zellweger correspondence with Schöppler & Hartmann.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

111

ing as to market and price movements, placing orders, initiating or concluding business dealings, engaging in disputes, or tending to business relationships and friendships. The sheer number of letters preserved gives a lively impression of the communicative efforts made over great geographical distances, for example when negotiating mutual agreement on a new pattern to be developed. Letters were often sent back and forth with the aim of lowering, maintaining, or raising the previously agreed upon prices. Perhaps in the first decade of their existence as newcomers to the printed cottons market, it was a particular challenge for Schöppler & Hartmann to establish precise written linguistic terminology with their business partners. It certainly seemed simpler and advantageous for both Schöppler & Hartmann and their clients to discuss things in person in Augsburg. Clients could peruse samples of patterns and printed cottons at the Schöppler & Hartmann factory and could articulate their specific wishes. Unfortunately, such conversations are not the type of event to leave written records. Some of them undoubtedly led to business deals that would likely have been written down, but no records of such deals survive. While local clients could peruse the existing pattern samples on site, the orders for more distant clients were considerably more complicated. The more external clients Schöpp­ ler & Hartmann gained, the more important it became to make precise agreements on the patterns ordered – agreements which, in line with the communication possibilities of the time, could only be made by post. The Augsburg firm, therefore, increasingly sent out fabric samples to interested clients with the request to send back the desired design.68 But using this method meant it was not possible to send all the pattern variations offered by the company. In the expectation of more extensive orders, the Augsburg calico printers were thus even prepared to send out the company’s own pattern books for perusal, which contained not only the patterns available, but also numerous colour combinations. In these instances, the company urged for a swift return of the pattern books, which they needed as a reference for their own production. Long-term clients, such as the Frankfurt trading house Löw Götz Haas, therefore, created parallel pattern books identical to those of Schöppler & Hartmann – pattern books that they continued to update. When there was a concordance of material on both sides, producer and client needed only to refer to the respective pattern designation – via number or letter – in order to place an order. While agreements could be made more quickly with clients who were content with designs for which printing blocks or copper plates already existed, it was much more difficult to agree upon a new design. A lively postal exchange of drawings, paper prints, pattern cards, fabric samples, and patterns of other origins was necessary to achieve this, 68 Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Thomas Höninger (Nuremberg), 26 December 1783, 1:10.

112

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

with the finished print results then still sometimes being subject to critical discussions with the more or less satisfied client.69 Since the harmonisation and normalisation of raw materials, goods, production processes, and products were not fully developed by the end of the eighteenth century, companies such as Schöppler & Hartmann were constantly required to cope with a diversity of measurements, weight units, packaging units, and currencies, along with uncertainty as to the quality of raw materials, fabrics, and other goods. It was necessary when sending or receiving raw materials or products to check precisely, to count, to weigh (gross, tare, and net), to measure, to check visually, to ensure quality, to undertake practical tests with dyestuffs delivered, and to record all the lofty details pertaining to the supplier or client. For example, for some deliveries from Livorno and Trieste, Schöppler & Hartmann attempted to counter the uncertainty with their own insurance, for it was necessary to create a mutual understanding, primarily in order to ensure that the agreed-upon costs would be paid.70 Postal communication at this time could add to the uncertainty. Over particularly long distances, it often took letters weeks to arrive – if at all. Schöppler & Hartmann were thus forced to send multiple copies of their letters on many occasions. The constant need for reassurance about processes, goods, and words reveals a substantial uncertainty on the structural level of the transnational economy in particular, which constantly suffered from a lack of information. The complex production process of textile printing, which – in line with the technology level of the period – was also prone to uncertainty. For one, the quality of the cotton yarn and fabric that the individual clients sent, some of which were already bleached, as well as the density of the woven fabric or the width of the material all had an effect on the result. Plain Indian cottons, for example, reacted differently to printing than Swiss muslins. It was also not easy to calculate how the bleaching already undertaken on the unprinted cotton fabric would affect the chemically complex dyeing process. Colours thus 69 The latter situation, however, points less to a lack of professionalism on the part of the Augsburg calico printers and more to the structural challenge of the period’s transnational transport network for commercial goods which lacked the standardisation, homogenisation, and pervasive juridifications (such as commercial law), which were to become so typical of the progress made during subsequent economic globalisation. The comparison standard set out here of a modernisation theory does not, however, imply a moral devaluation of the early modern economy, but serves in an epistemological sense merely to determine more precisely the specific challenges of the economy of this era, the meeting of which was aided in no small part by postal correspondence. See Sebastian Conrad, Globalisierung und Nation im Deutschen Kaiserreich, 2nd ed. (Munich: Beck, 2010), 54–57; and Rudolf Meyer, Bona fides und lex mercatoria in der europäischen Rechtstradition (Göttingen: Wallstein, 1994). For a critique of modernity, see Zygmunt Baumann, Modernity and Ambivalence (Cambridge: Blackwell Publishers, 1991); and Alain Touraine, Critique de la modernité (Paris: Fayard, 1992). On communication change, see Wolfgang Behringer, “Communications Revolutions: A Historiographical Concept,” German History 24 (2006): 333–74. 70 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Otto Franck & Co. (Livorno), 20 August 1789, 2:53.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

113

sometimes appeared in the final product which the client had not ordered, but which the calico printers, either for technical or financial reasons, could not or did not want to correct. In one such case, Schöppler & Hartmann, after absolving themselves of all responsibility for the unexpected change in colour, recommended to the complainant Löw Götz Haas that they simply sell the strongly bleached goods under a different name “as a new colour.”71 In another case, Schöppler & Hartmann blamed the faulty printed cotton on the Frankfurt trading house Löw & Isaak Elias Gumperz on the madder supplied by the latter.72 Weather could also wreak havoc. With grass-bleaching, Schöppler & Hartmann remained dependent on the weather for sufficient sunshine, which often led to week-long delays in times of ice and snow in winter. In a series of other cases, disagreements arose from a lack of standardisation in the language used. In correspondence with the trading house of the Heinzelmann brothers in Kaufbeuren, it was necessary to clarify a certain design using an example sent by post. In their answer, Schöppler & Hartmann thus noted “[f]rom the […] pattern sent to us, we now realise what you mean by Dutch print.”73 In the initial business phase of Schöppler & Hartmann with the trading house Zellweger in particular, linguistic misunderstandings were commonplace and needed to be cleared up. The participating parties, for example, held discussions on the applicable colour designation for brown, since the expression ‘ fond brun’ had a different meaning in Augsburg than in Trogen.74 There were also differences of opinion concerning the colour green as ordered by Zellweger, which several Swiss factories seemed to achieve more accurately, and further differences became obvious regarding aesthetic and technical designations such as Anglais fond Double and ‘English finish.’75 Schöppler & Hartmann accepted such misunderstandings prudently, which in their experience always occurred with new clients, and reassured Zellweger: “you will

71 “[F]ür eine neue Farbe.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Löw Götz Haas (­Frankfurt), 15 March 1784, 1:48. Such events also resulted in a sharp increase in communication aimed at resolving the situation. 72 Schöppler & Hartmann likely had a compelling argument as madder could indeed react in very different ways depending on its age and quality. See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Löw & Isaak Elias Gumperz (Frankfurt), 30 June 1786, 1:457. 73 “Aus dem […] übersendten Muster ersehen was Sie unter Holland. Druck verstehen.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Gebrüder Heinzelmann (Kaufbeuren), 19 July 1793, 2:486. 74 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Zellweger & Co. (Trogen), 19 September 1792, 2:361. 75 On Swiss factories achieving the right shade of green, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Zellweger & Co. (Trogen), 26 January 1793, 2:417; and Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Zellweger & Co. (Trogen), 9 May 1793, 2:461. On anglais fond double, see Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Zellweger & Co. (Trogen), 6 June 1793, 2:468. With ‘English finish,’ the original term is ‘Eng. Appret.’ See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Zellweger & Co. (Trogen), 9 May 1793, 2:461.

114

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

subsequently be able to express your wishes more specifically, thus easing our good will to fully meet your tastes in all ways possible.”76 The same strict standards that clients expected of Schöppler & Hartmann were applied by the Augsburg calico printers themselves when judging the raw materials or dyes ordered from merchants.77 In another case, when the calico printers realised that the raw cotton delivered to them from Acre via Trieste “contained such rotten goods,” they insisted that Peter Jacob Stuppano take back the defective wares.78 To underline their complaint, they supplied a judgement from an Augsburg assessor supporting their position. However, five further letters from Schöppler & Hartmann to Trieste were required before the conflict could be resolved. In contrast, the Amsterdam merchant Johann Wilhelm Lange quickly proved willing to accept back a barrel of gum arabic which had not only become moist, but also contained too much tree gum and rubbish.79 In a further case, when the Augsburg calico printers had high-quality Roman alum delivered from Livorno based upon the quality that they had previously received from there, they discovered to their “great displeasure” that the “goods were not only very different from the previous delivery, but also […] absolutely unusable.”80 Another inspection of the goods indeed confirmed the poor quality of the alum in question. Schöppler & Hartmann initially agreed to sell the alum onwards – but without success. The Augsburg firm eventually accepted these goods, but for a greatly reduced price. Even the samples constantly sent from trading houses, which always came with a certain charge, did not guarantee that the actual delivery of the raw materials would match the samples previously sent.

5. Conflict Resolution: Credit, Trust, and Honour When conflicts arose, how did Schöppler & Hartmann proceed? In the earlier years of the company, they tended to give in. They did so even if they considered the criticism to be unjust and meant a financial loss, as the loss of business reputation, particularly for a 76 “In der Folge, werden Sie sich bei denen Bestellungen bestimminder ausdrucken können, und uns dadurch natürlich den guten Willen erleichtern, Ihrem Geschmack auf alle Weiße vollkomen zu entsprechen.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Zellweger & Co. (Trogen), 19 September 1792, 2:361. 77 Such problems were also commonplace in the trade of dyes. See Jutta Wimmler’s contribution to this volume. 78 “[E]in solch mistiges Gut.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Peter Jacob Stuppano & Co. (Trieste), 8 March 1784, 1:42. 79 See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Johann Wilhelm Lange (Amsterdam), 15 June 1792, 2:320, 2:335. 80 “[G]rößten vertruß […] die Waare nicht nur von der vorigen Sendung gänzlich zerschieden, sondern auch für uns durchaus unbrauchbar.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Otto Franck & Comp. (Livorno), 22 October 1789, 2:66.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

115

newcomer to the field, was much more serious than the economic damage. For Schöpp­ ler & Hartmann, business credit, which can also be considered as trust, commitment, or reliability, represented both the moral and the social cement which held together their far-reaching business network across national borders and beyond.81 In accordance with this principle, the two entrepreneurs wrote in one letter that “the reputation of our factory is of greater value to us than its use.”82 When orders were piling in in just their second year, the two entrepreneurs were therefore able to announce proudly the successful establishment of their honour in just their second year: “Our efforts have succeeded in providing our goods with a generally good reputation.”83 Going forward, Schöppler and Hartmann also continued to make considerable efforts to protect their reputation as honourable traders and businessmen. They saw this vulnerable reputation threatened when they produced goods that were of poor quality (even if the reasons were beyond their control). The defective madder delivered by Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co., for example, led to such a poor product that Schöppler & Hartmann feared “nothing less than the fall of our reputation.”84 When faced with such inadequate results, the entrepreneurs confessed: “[we cannot] remain indifferent to the honour of our factory.”85 In another case, Schöppler & Hartmann vehemently defended the suggested price of their calico prints against criticism from Lehmann Isaac Hanau & Co., insisting, that they felt “too nobly about issues of honour and conscience,” and should not back down when “there has been an obvious mistreatment.”86 81 A concept of honour, which linked the financial credit reliability with the professional reputation in a moral sense, was the most important capital of an early modern entrepreneur. Symbolic capital (Pierre Bourdieu) and economic capital combined here to form one entity. ‘To have credit’ means not only to guarantee credit, but also to have faith and trust in one’s business partner. See Stefan Gorißen, “Der Preis des Vertrauens: Unsicherheit, Institutionen und Rationalität im vorindustriellen Fernhandel,” in Vertrauen: Historische Annäherungen, ed. Ute Frevert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 90–118; Sibylle Backmann, Hans-Jörg Künast, B. Ann Tlusty, and Sabine Ullmann, eds., Ehrkonzepte in der frühen Neuzeit: Identitäten und Abgrenzungen (Berlin: Akademie, 1998); Christoph Lütge and Christoph Strosetzki, eds., Zwischen Bescheidenheit und Risiko: Der Ehrbare Kaufmann im Fokus der Kulturen (Wiesbaden: Springer, 2017); and Pierre Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” in Handbook of Theory and Research for the S­ ociology of Education, ed. John G. Richardson (New York: Greenwood, 1986), 46–58. On trust, see Dasgupta, “Trust as a commodity’, 49–72; and Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers. 82 “[D]er Credit unserer Fabrique mehr als der Nuzen am Herzen liegt.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Löw Götz Haas (Frankfurt), 19 February 1784, 1:30. 83 “Unserer Anstrengung ist es gelungen unsere Waare in einen allgemein guten Credit zu bringen, und wir werden von allen Seiten mit Bestellungen überhäuft.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Löw Götz Haas (Frankfurt), 15 March 1784, 1:49. 84 “[N]ichts weniger als den Verfall unsers Credits.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. (Frankfurt), 24 October 1791, 2:255. 85 “[D]ie Ehre unserer Fabrig wegen, doch […] gleich geltig dabey bleiben.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. (Frankfurt), 24 October 1791, 2:258. 86 “[Z]u Edel auf Ehre und Gewißen [..] wo eine offenbare Mißhandlung zum Grunde liegt.” See Tim, Schöpp­ ler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Lehmann Isaak Hanau & Co. (Frankfurt), 24 October 1791, 2:347.

116

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

The most reliable guarantee for a credible and honourable relationship for the early modern businessman was a family connection, or at least a trusting friendship with a business partner. This was another factor ensuring that Augsburg was the centre of the business cosmos of Schöppler & Hartmann. Family relations bound the two entrepreneurs to one another: Johann Gottfried Hartmann was married to a sister of Johann Michael Schöppler. Furthermore, Christian Hartmann, the brother of Johann Gottfried Hartmann, had established himself in Augsburg in 1787 as a trader and was economically bound to Schöppler & Hartmann. He also made himself available to them as a business partner, advertising their products on trips to Frankfurt and Milan. Further family connections of Schöppler & Hartmann stretched from Augsburg to Nuremberg with the merchant Georg Paul Fors­ ter, who was married to another sister of Johann Michael Schöppler. “Our good friend Mr Forster,” as Schöppler and Hartmann referred to him, traded their products for many years, providing his relations in return with dyestuffs such as madder, dyewoods, and dyer’s weed, as well as considerable information on prices and market movements.87 There was also a family relationship with the Augsburg calico printer Georg Friedrich Zackelmayer (with whom Schöppler & Hartmann did a great deal of business).88 Alongside the group of related business partners, there was a much wider circle of friends of the company. The term ‘friend,’ however, did not necessarily designate a close personal relationship, but was rather used to refer to any business partner whom Schöpp­ ler & Hartmann considered to be bound to them through a trusting relationship in the sense of a moral reliability.89 This trust had to be earned. In order to build up such trust with entirely unknown potential business partners, the Augsburg calico printers gathered information from existing business friends about the possible new clients. “We like to do business and make new acquaintances, but we prefer to do so with the greatest caution.”90 Personal contact was important in helping cement these feelings of trust. This kind of 87 “Unser guter Freund Herr Forster.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to L. H. Schrader (Kaufbeuren), 8 October 1790, 2:170. 88 “Wir machen gerne Geschäfte und Bekanndschaften, wir wollen aber gerne mit aller mögl. Vorsicht zu wercke gehen.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Schöppler & Hartmann an Löw Götz Haas, 18 June 1790, 2;136. 89 The Augsburg sources make a distinction among new relationships between friends, valued friends, good friends, and intimate friends. See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Johann Gottfried Lang (Nuremberg), 5 March 1784, 1:1. On friendship within a business context, see Mark Häberlein, Brüder, Freun­ de und Betrüger: Soziale Bindungen, Normen und Konflikte in der Augsburger Kaufmannschaft um die Mitte des 16. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Akademie, 1998). See also Ronald G. Asch, “Freundschaft und Patronage zwi­ schen alteuropäischer Tradition und Moderne: Frühneuzeitliche Fragestellungen und Befunde,” in Varieties of Friendship: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Social Relationships, ed. Bernadette Descharmes, Eric Anton Heuser, Caroline Krüger, and Thomas Loy (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 265–86. See also Eric Häusler’s contribution to this volume for further examples of ‘friendship’ within a business context. 90 Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Johann Gottfried Lang (Nuremberg), 5 December 1783, 1:1.

Textile Printing in early modern Augsburg

117

contact was also maintained in order to preserve the friendly relationships in a business world that was that was threatened on all sides by contingency.

Conclusion In looking at the rise of Schöppler & Hartmann, one of the first things that stands out is the importance of Augsburg. With its ten calico printing firms, it provided numerous location advantages for this industry. But Schöppler & Hartmann was not just a local Augsburg company. This can be seen both in the purchasing of raw materials and in the turnover of the firm’s own products. In just one decade, Schöppler & Hartmann managed to establish and extend an extremely effective network of European-wide business contacts which, through their agents, stretched as far as Asia, Africa, and the Americas. One cornerstone of the economic success consisted of the fundamental flexibility that allowed the company to base itself on several different pillars, with the company’s own printing and contract printing initially being of equal value. Trade primarily with textile wares such as cotton and dyestuffs played an independent role for a number of years. The attempts made from 1784 onwards to spin and weave themselves, however, were not met with lasting success. From 1785, the turnover from contract printing began to overshadow that of the printed cottons from their own production. The large number of small clients began to drop in favour of a series of much more potent buyers, who eventually guaranteed the economic rise and success of the company. Along their path to success, Schöppler & Hartmann maintained their desire to produce wares of the highest quality which could compete with those of the renowned Schüle. In this sense, the reference to Augsburg as a manufacturing location meant both a structural advantage and a responsibility to maintain quality at the same time. When developing new fashionable patterns, the Augsburg calico printers acted with as much initiative as pragmatism, for every new design, which they often created in cooperation with their clients, required financial investment which needed to pay off economically. Altogether, the design development moved within the tradition of French and English fashionable patterns in correspondence with consumer taste. The present study has also shown how Schöppler & Hartmann coped with a structural dimension of the early modern economy, for the company’s success occurred during a period in which the economy and proto-industrial production were marred by a diverse range of uncertainty. One way Schöppler & Hartmann attempted to counter these fundamental uncertainties was with frequent communication, which helped to secure the far-reaching flows of goods, money, and products. A further strategy for staying on top of structural uncertainties consisted of the cultivation of business morals and resorting to family connections and so-called friendships.

118

Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil

Going forward, the first decade of the successful rise of the company was followed by a period of stagnation and a drop in business in the second half of the 1790s. The significant and continuing increase in imports of English printed fabrics from the 1790s placed growing pressure on the German competition. Further, from autumn 1792 onwards, the progress of the French Revolution caused increasing disruption to trade routes, especially those to and from the Netherlands. This hindered the export of printed cottons to Holland, as well as the import of plain Indian cottons and dyestuffs (all of which made their way to Augsburg via Amsterdam and Rotterdam). Under French occupation, transport on the Rhine was more difficult and hence more expensive. As a consequence, Schöppler & Hartmann searched ardently for alternative sources of the desperately needed madder, beginning for example in 1792 with madder from Breslau.91 The general state of war, which affected the European colonies as providers of raw materials, had an increasingly negative effect on the economic life of Augsburg. In 1795, France declared the Batavian Republic in the Netherlands, and Napoleon’s protectionism implemented during the further course of the French Wars hindered the economy even more by restricting exports. For all these various reasons, Augsburg’s calico production dropped sharply by 1805–06. In addition to the external crisis affecting the company, an internal crisis had also arisen, with the company founders Johann Michael Schöppler and Johann Gottfried Hartmann finding themselves at odds with one another. It seems that even the family ties could not prevent this from happening, with Schöppler withdrawing entirely from the business around 1800–01. However, other family connections proved to be effective from another direction during these precarious times, for when Schöppler withdrew, his brother-inlaw from Nuremberg, the previously mentioned Georg Paul Forster, joined the company as a stakeholder and contributed to its continued existence. This occurred during a difficult time in which other German calico printers ceased to exist, including the famous company of Schüle. Georg Paul’s son, Karl Ludwig Forster, who married a daughter of Johann Gottfried Hartmann, then went on with great success to industrialise Schöppler & Hartmann during the dawning nineteenth century in accordance with the Arkwright factory system. The calico printing of the eighteenth century thus opened the door to the industrialisation of the following century, in Augsburg as in other places as well. Schöpp­ ler & Hartmann’s rise to become the most important calico printers in southern Germany in this new era, however, is another story.

91 “Breslauer Röthe.” See Tim, Schöppler & Hartmann, Kopierbuch, Letter to Eichhorn & Co. (Breslau), 29 December 1792, 1:405.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland and its Forgotten B(l)oom around 1800 Ernest Menolfi

As the great number of studies reflect, textile printing in Switzerland is usually associated with the regions around Geneva, Neuchatel, Biel, Basel, and later in the nineteenth century, with the canton of Glarus.1 There were also dozens of printing firms in eastern Switzerland (in the cantons of St. Gallen, Appenzell Ausserrhoden, and Thurgau) which are often overlooked and thus not part of our historical understandings. There are different reasons for that neglect. In the eastern regions, textile printing was carried out on a comparatively modest level, and was a temporary phenomenon, which was soon overshadowed by embroidery, and large spinning and weaving factories. In many cases the businesses only existed for a short time and did not leave easily discernable archival traces. Not surprisingly, historians are faced with a number of problems when working in this field. As a result many have treated textile printing as an erraticism or ignored it altogether. Walter Bodmer, who wrote the recognized reference books about industrialisation in eastern Switzerland, only dedicated short passages to textile printing.2 Other historians See Dorette Berthoud, Les indiennes neuchateloises (Boudry: A la Baconnière, 1951); Walter Bodmer, Die Ent­ wicklung der schweizerischen Textilwirtschaft im Rahmen der übrigen Industrien und Wirtschaftszweige (Zurich: Verlag Berichthaus Zurich, 1960), 181–88, 233–35, 300–2; Ralf Dahler, “Die Bieler Indiennenindustrie von den Anfängen bis zum Ende der französischen Zeit,” Bieler Jahrbuch 1988: 68–133; Ingrid Ehrensper­ ger, “François Verdan und die Indienne–Manufakturen von Greng und Biel im 18. und frühen 19. Jahrhundert,” Freiburger Geschichtsblätter 78 (2001): 125–40; Maurice Evard, Toiles peintes neuchâteloises: Techniques, commerce et délocalisation, Nouvelle Revue neuchâteloise (2006), 89–90; id., Odyssée aux confins de l’indiennage de la cuisine des couleurs au négoce (Chézard-Saint-Martin: Editions de la Chatière, 2013); id., Périple au pays des indiennes. Cochenille, garance et vitriol (Chézard-Saint-Martin: Editions de la Chatière, 2002); Robert Forrer, Die Kunst des Zeugdrucks vom Mittelalter bis zur Empirezeit (Strassburg: Verlag Schle­ sier und Schweikhardt, 1898), 57–61; Robert Haller, “Über den Ursprung der Zeugdruckerei in der Schweiz,” Textil-Rundschau 7 (1951): 299–315; Anne Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke der Schweiz im 18. Jahrhundert, ihre Vorläufer, orientalische und europäische Techniken, Zeugdruck-Manufakturen, die Weiterentwicklung (Basel: Basler Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1968); Richard Traupel, “Schweizerische Zeugdruckereien im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert,” Ciba-Rundschau 97 (1951): 3552–82. On printing in the canton of Glarus: U. Ferdinand Blumer, Anfang und frühe Entwicklung des Zeugdrucks in der Schweiz unter besonderer Berücksichtigung des Kantons Glarus (Schwanden: Selbstverlag, 1957); Adolf Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie des Kantons Glarus,” Jahrbuch des Historischen Vereins des Kantons Glarus 34 (1902); Andréa Kaufmann, Spinnen, Weben, Drucken. Pioniere des Glarnerlandes (Zurich: Verein für wirtschaftshistorische Studien, 2014). Antoinette Rast-Eicher, Zeugdrucke der Firma Bartholome Jenny & Co. in Ennenda (Haslen: Daniel Jenny & Cie, 2009). 2 Walter Bodmer, Textilgewerbe und Textilhandel in Appenzell Ausserrhoden vor 1800 (Trogen: Meili, 1960), and id., Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft.

1

120

Ernest Menolfi

Map 4: Eastern Switzerland and places with early textile printing

content themselves with quoting eighteenth-century chroniclers such as Johann Gottfried Ebel, Johann Conrad Fäsi, Gabriel Walser, and Graf Karl von Zinzendorf.3 The following study does not and cannot fill in all these gaps. Instead, it surveys some particularities of 3 Johann Gottfried Ebel, Schilderung der Gebirgsvölker der Schweiz, vol. 1 (Leipzig: in der Pet. Phil. Wolfi­ schen Buchhandlung, 1798); Johann Conrad Fäsi, Staats- und Erdbeschreibung der Helvetischen Eidgenossenschaft, vol. 3 (Zurich: Bey Orell, Gessner und Compagnie, 1766); Gabriel Walser, Der Appenzeller Chronik dritter Teil (Trogen: Meyer und Zuberbühler, 1829); Otto Erich Deutsch (ed.), “Bericht des Grafen Karl von Zinzendorf über seine handelspolitische Studienreise durch die Schweiz 1764,” Basler Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Altertumskunde 35 (1936), 200–29.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

121

textile printing in the area to lay the groundwork for future research. The most important fact is that there the production of linen cloths and the trade with them had been the backbone of economic life since the late Middle Ages. By that it differs fundamentally from western Switzerland, where there had been no significant textile production before printing was introduced. With the help of two contrasting examples, the following study will describe how early textile printing found its place in a territory which was already ‘occupied’ by traditional textile production. The comparatively rich historical material of the first example (the village of Hauptwil) allows an insight into early printing in a rural area with a certain freedom of trade. The second example (the city of St. Gallen), which to date has been fully ignored as far as printing is concerned, demonstrates how the traditional guilds tried to interfere with innovation (map 4). The study will then focus on the period of greater expansion around 1800, but does not include questions of production and technical details. Finally there will be some comment on the role of textile printing within the entire development of the textile industry there.

1. Hauptwil The village of Hauptwil in the canton of Thurgau lies northwest of St. Gallen. Over the centuries, it has housed several pioneers in the field of textile production, whose extra­ ordinary achievements have not received scholarly recognition.One of the most prominent of these is the Gonzenbach family, a merchant family who began their rise in St. Gallen in the middle of the seventeenth century. Then in 1665, the two brothers, Hans Jacob and Barthlome, moved to the hamlet of Hauptwil, where they possessed land, a mill, a saw mill, an inn, and three ponds. They privately financed the construction of a workshop with forty buildings (fig. 24). This manufactory, however, was not constructed in an already existing larger settlement, but rather out in no-man’s land. Thus it foreshadowed the industrial sites of the nineteenth-century factories by 150 years and was the first of its kind in eastern Switzerland.4 The two brothers were the driving force to break up the monopoly of the linen trade of the city of St. Gallen. They supported places like Herisau, Trogen, or Bischofszell in

4

When it was completed in 1670 the owners engaged the famous cartographist Daniel Beich from Ravensburg to paint a picture of the whole plant. It is one of earliest and best representations of a manufactory of that time, not least because of its almost photographical accuracy. It is now in possession of the Staatsarchiv des Kantons Thurgau (StATG) in Frauenfeld.

122

Ernest Menolfi

Fig. 24: Town map-view of Hauptwil. The Gonzenbach manufactory at Hauptwil, established in 1665/1666. This view is designed by the famous Ravensburg cartographist Daniel Beich in 1670. The white buildings are the new ones; the few brown are older than that. From up to down: the upper dying workshop, the area of the New Castle, the fake „town gate“, the calendering mill, the blacksmith, the inn (marked with a pole), the lower dyeing-workshop (left, down); the large Kaufhaus (centre, down), the restored Old Castle, the mill; outside the village the various bleaching-fields; the pond for the water supply (above, on the right). Staatsarchiv des Kantons Thurgau, Frauenfeld.

their endeavours to revive their former position as minor regional textile centres.5 In one case the Rietmann family copied the Gonzenbach paradigm, acquired the bleacharies of Bischofszell and henceforth ran them privately.6 In 1693, during a long period of famine and unfavourable weather, the plant and all other village buildings were split up between the two branches of the Gonzenbach family. In the northern part of Hauptwil four generations – all patriarchs named Hans Jacob Gonzenbach – kept up the linen trade and textile finishing for almost another century. The southern part, however, experienced a less stable period. This branch of the Gonzenbach family initially failed to establish a permanent manufactory. Much of the basic infrastructure, however, was in place, which made it ideal for innovation. It was the textile printer Peter Schaltegger who first profited from those extraordinary circumstances.

5 Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft, 140–42. On the history of the Gonzenbach Family and of Hauptwil see Ernest Menolfi, Hauptwil-Gottshaus (Frauenfeld: Verlag Huber, 2011), 66–127. 6 Menolfi, Hauptwil, 80.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

123

Peter Schaltegger was born in 1683 at Teufen, Appenzell Ausserrhoden, and started his professional career with Römer & Kitt, the first Zurich printers.7 After a stay with a printer at Nidau (near Biel), which seemed to have had a turbulent and quick end, he returned to the Zurich area and took on a job with a certain master Abegg at Wollishofen. But that engagement, too, soon ended in a quarrel. The young Peter Schaltegger was accused of stirring uproar among the staff and consequently was dismissed. He then got into contact with the haulier and postmaster (Schaffhauser Bote) Heinrich Rordorf, who ran the transportation business between Zurich and Schaffhausen. From Rordorf he received a loan of 600 gulden to start his own printing business. There cannot have been an immediate success as Rordorf became afraid of losing his money. When Schaltegger started courting Rordorf ’s daughter Elisabeth and was intent on marrying her, Rordorf tried in vain to prevent it by appealing to the Zurich marriage court.8 In 1720 Schaltegger, now aged 37, and his wife moved to Hauptwil, where he opened a printing workshop, presumably the first in eastern Switzerland. As mentioned above, at that time that place was particularly attractive for him. Apart from the favourable infrastructure with a sufficient water supply, and already existing bleaching fields and workshops, the owners of that territory, the Gonzenbach family, were in a position to offer him an extraordinary freedom of trade as they had not only acquired the essential right to open a market, but were also in possession of a lower legal jurisdiction (which meant they also administered the local court). Several Zurich merchants (David Esslinger, David Stadler, Hans Jacob Fäsi, Heinrich Rordorf), whom the Zurich authorities forbade to print textiles, stealthily sent their goods to Schaltegger at Hauptwil.9 In Zurich it was mainly the members of the guild of the 7 On early printing in Zurich see Adolf Bürkli, “Zürich’s Jndienne-Manufaktur und Türkischroth-Färberei in früherer Zeit,” Zürcher Taschenbuch auf das Jahr 1881, 197–98. Schaltegger’s name indicates that his family originally came from the canton of Thurgau, presumably from the parish of Bussnang. Whereas we do not know anything about his father’s profession, his mother, Magdalena Högger, came from a prominent St. Gallen family. Also his godfather, Junker (Squire) Peter Fels, and his godmother, Anna Leutmann, undoubtedly belonged to the St. Gallen high society (cf. reformed church registers, Teufen AR). 8 For biographical details about Schaltegger see Staatsarchiv Zurich (StAZH), Ehegerichtsprotokoll 1720, YY1, 211, f. 197–98, 221–23. 9 Heinrich Rordorf, born in 1656 and originally a haulier, meanwhile seems to have started trading with textiles himself. The name Rordorf subsequently became a famous name in the Zurich textile industry. See Deutsch, Zinzendorf, 284. Hans Caspar Rordorf (1741–1804) was a dyer and indienne printer “behind the minster”; Salomon Rordorf was a merchant and Kattunfabrikant; another Rordorf was a succussful colorist with Oberkampf at Jouy. See Kurt Buenzli (ed.), Johann Heinrich Mayr. Meine Lebenswanderung (Frauenfeld: Verlag Huber, 2010), 3:709. There are also several marriage relations of the Rordorfs with other Zurich merchants: for example Heinrich Rordorf ’s wife was Regula Esslinger (1679–1719). For family information about Rordorf see StadtAZH, Sammlung Wilhelm Hofmeister. Genealogische Tabellen der Stadtbürgerschaft 1780–1814. The example of the Rordorf family also shows the important role hauliers started to play; some of them became quite wealthy and were ready to invest their money into textile enterprises.

124

Ernest Menolfi

dyers who did not accept interference with their trade and asked for support from the city authorities. When the Zurich business partners of Schaltegger were taken to court they unanimously praised the extraordinary quality of the Schaltegger products and their lower price.10 Schaltegger remained at Hauptwil until 1735. In that year his workshop zur Rondelle behind the Old Castle was burnt down by accident. Soon, after Schaltegger had left Hauptwil, Anton Gonzenbach, the then owner of the premises in the southern part of the village, started textile printing himself. He renovated and added some workshops and, after a serious quarrel with the co-owners in the other part of Hauptwil, settled the question of the water supply as the printing business required cleaner water and more careful milling as well. From the few surviving documents about Anton Gonzenbach’s activities, it appears the founding of his printing business took place more or less simultaneously with the first attempts at textile printing in Appenzell Ausserrhoden and Glarus.11 In the 1740s he ordered colorants from the trading company Amman in Schaffhausen.12 During the same period he also established close business relations with some Zurich textile firms such as Escher and Kramer.13 That branch of the Gonzenbach family ran the printing business for four generations until the early nineteenth century. The most successful of them all was Anton’s grandson, Anton III. He entered the trade in 1770. In the same year he married Ursula Gonzenbach from the other family branch. As the wedding contract reveals Anton had a personal wealth of about 3,000 gulden, and his wife brought a dowry of 10,000 gulden.14 Even when these sums were added together Anton could not really be called a wealthy man at that time. But particularly after the death of his father, Georg Leonhard, he gradually expanded his business, which flourished more and more. In 1780 he had a new workshop built. The building still exists as a bijou of early industrial architecture in late Baroque style. (fig. 25 and 26). In 1783 the family moved from the rather narrow Old Castle into the huge Kauf­haus after having restored it and turned it into a residential home with forty rooms.15 10 StAZH, A 77.12, Zurich, Stadt und Landschaft. Verschiedene Handwerke 1336–1794, Mappe Färber, Nr. 207-9. See also Bürkli, Zürich’s Jndienne, 197–98. 11 In Appenzell Ausserrhoden it was around 1735. See Thomas Fuchs, Herisau. Geschichte der Gemeinde Heri­ sau (Herisau: Appenzeller Verlag, 1999), 130. In Glarus, it was in 1740. See Blumer, Zeugdruck, 21. 12 Stadtarchiv Schaffhausen (StadtASH), Nachlass Frey, Archiv des Handelshauses Amman, e. g. Kopierbuch 13, 270, 372, 481; Kopierbuch 14, 355, 356, 647, 648 etc.; and Alexander Engel, “Der Warenverkauf des Handelshauses Amman in Schaffhausen 1748–1779: Methoden und Entwicklungslinien” (Staatsexamens­ arbeit, University of Göttingen, 2000), 47. 13 Museum Bischofszell, Gonzenbach-Archiv (GoA) 18, 1742. 14 GoA 43a, marriage contract of 20 October 1770. 15 In an interesting twist, the famous German poet Friedrich Hölderlin had a short engagement there as a tutor for the Gonzenbach girls. Because almost all the buildings of that late eighteenth century plant still

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

125

Fig. 25: The printing workshop of Anton Gonzenbach at Hauptwil, built in 1780. In the centre the part with the printing tables (blue); on the right the wooden tower for drying. Painted by H. Zingg, around 1800. Historisches Museum Thurgau, Frauenfeld.

Fig. 26: The historic building of the Gonzenbach printing workshop today. Photograph: author.

Anton Gonzenbach’s main customers and business partners seem to have been French and Italian merchants. He obviously used to meet some of the latter at the Zurzach fair, where they placed their orders with him. But the outbreak of the French Revolution caused difficulties as they were reluctant to do business or did not turn up at the Zurzach fair anymore.16 Hauptwil was also the starting-point for two outstanding constructors of early textile machinery and equipment. Like the other craftsmen working in the same new

exist today, including the row of wash-houses and the building with the former dyeing kitchen, Hauptwil today is a kind of living open-air museum of the early textile industry. See Menolfi, Hauptwil, 121–23. 16 GoA 112, Letters by Anton Gonzenbach from Zurzach: 30 August 1790: “… j’ai vu les Italiens, mais je n’ai rien fait avec eux …”; 15 June 1791: “… il n’y a point d’Italiens ici ….”

126

Ernest Menolfi

technical field they were then called technicians (Mechaniker). A certain Mesmer, who presumably was an offspring of a Thurgau carpenter’s or joiner’s family, later became the main constructor of Guillaume Louis Ternaux, the son-in-law of Anton Gonzenbach and so-called ‘Henry Ford of the French woollen industry of the nineteenth century’.17 The other one, Johann Georg Bodmer (1786–1864), attended the art school (Kunstschule) in Zurich, where he was taught technical design, the basics of mechanics, such as hydrostatics or the construction and use of leverage, gear mechanism, waterwheels, block and tackle, and so forth. In 1803 he started his three-year-apprenticeship at Hauptwil. He later became a highly reputed engineer and inventor with activities all over Europe (including Britain).18 What Mesmers’s and Bodmer’s professional activities at Hauptwil exactly were is unknown. They may have experimented with copper-plate printing or cylinder printing, the mass production of pins, and they may have prepared the equipment for the new chlorine bleach, which was established at Hauptwil early in the nineteenth century. They may also have installed the lightning conductor at the Kaufhaus, which was one of the earliest in the Thurgau. Early in the nineteenth century the firm fell into financial trouble, not least due to an adventurous political engagement of Anton’s brother-in-law, Hans Jacob IV.19 The business was taken over by three sons-in-law from Zurich, Esslinger, Kramer, and Landolt, but soon closed down altogether. (fig. 27). The history of printing at Hauptwil reveals some elementary facts: it was only possible because the Gonzenbach family had a degree of political power and economic freedom within ancient Thurgau. Because Hauptwil was a place with existing textile production, most of the infrastructure, including a sufficient supply of water, was already present. Further, in the countryside, it was easy to find workers who were adept at bleaching and used to handling textiles, and, above all, were ready to work for low wages. In other words, opening a workshop was possible with limited financial means. 17 The profession of a Mechaniker came into being in a period of transition from wooden to metal appliances and machinery, for example milling, fulling, and calendering. That is why some of the mechanics had a family background of carpenters or joiners. For Mesmer, who cannot be identified any further, see Louis Marie Lomüller, Guillaume Ternaux 1763–1833, créateur de la première intégration industrielle française (Paris: Ed. de la Cabro d’or, 1978). There are also many references to this professional occupation in St.Gallen at that time. See for instance Peter Ehrenzeller, Jahrbücher der Stadt St.Gallen 2.1 (1828), 77: “Die von einem hiesigen Mechaniker Kunz erbaute erste Maschine lieferte Waare, die jener von den von englischen Künstlern in Rheinek gefertigten Maschinen nichts nachgab.” 18 Norbert Lang, Johann Georg Bodmer. Maschinenbauer und Erfinder (Zurich: Verein für wirtschaftshisto­ rische Studien Zurich, 1987). 19 He committed himself to the liberation of Thurgau, privately financed troops against the French army, supported the new constitution, became head of the new government, changed political sides in an unexpected turn by proposing a counter-revolutionary constitution, and went into exile. As a consequence his fortune, and also that of his family was confiscated. See Menolfi, Hauptwil, 124–25, 179–81.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

127

Fig. 27: Map of the printing factory in Hauptwil, 1812, with the printing workshop (Fabrick), the colour kitchen (Farbkuchi), building for the workers (Langbuh), and, between Fabrick and Farbkuchi, the row of wash-houses along a canal. On the right (number 9) the drying tower. Historisches Museum Bischofszell.

Nevertheless textile printing brought about some far-reaching changes. As it was a new branch specialists (e. g. designers, and colourists) from remote places came to the village and assumed higher positions in the work hierarchy.20 Child labour went from being an occasional occupation to an indispensible factor in the firms.21 Because the artistic element became more and more important, the education of the merchants’ offspring also underwent a change as they now were often sent to art academies abroad, for example to Torino in Italy.22 As far as production was concerned, the use of chloride shortened the time for bleaching, thus making it almost a year-round activity. Previously bleaching had been highly dependent on the weather and was primarily possible only in warmer months. After the Gonzenbach era, Hauptwil remained a regional centre first of printing, then of dyeing. With Johann Georg Mezger, Jakob Andreas Dolder, and Hans Georg B ­ runschwiler (later Brunnschweiler), three small businesses continued the tradition of printing.23 The most famous company, however, was the workshop of the Brunnschweiler family, which 20 At Hauptwil there was for example the colourist Benedikt Adam Sauter from the Markgräflerland in southwest Germany. See GoA, “Particolar Copier Buch 1779” by Anton Gonzenbach, 9 January 1781. 21 They needed above all boys as Streichkinder, i. e. they assisted the printers by applying the different liquids on the woodblocks. 22 GoA, 103, Letters by Hans Jacob Gonzenbach from France and Italy in 1776 and 1777. 23 Menolfi, Hauptwil, 223–26.

128

Ernest Menolfi

additionally dealt in cotton. They had settled at Hauptwil in 1786. One descendant of that family, who had established a firm at nearby Sorntal, expanded his activities and moved to Ennenda in the canton of Glarus. Together with a relative of his he opened the printing firm Fröhlich, Brunnschweiler & Co.24

2. Textile Printing in the City of St. Gallen Seventeenth- and eighteenth-century pictures of the city of St. Gallen invariably show a round town centre with large bleaching fields full of linen cloths outside the walls (fig. 28). Yet, that idyllic image of a flourishing economic life is misleading. The geographical, economic, and political situation of the city was quite difficult. It was totally surrounded by the territory of the prince abbot of the St. Gallen monastery and only possessed a small strip of land outside the town gates. Although in the eighteenth-century the linen trade was on the decline, the weavers and their guild managed to hold on to their traditional dominating position. They stuck to their antiquated economic and social system, which to a certain extent procured its participants regular work, steady income, and fixed wages. It also restricted the number of craftsmen, journeymen, and apprentices. The tenants of the bleaching fields had a monopoly which was guaranteed by the city council. The latter tried to achieve a social balance between the demands of the guilds and the merchants, which resulted in rules and regulations and an atmosphere that tended to be adverse towards innovation.25 It was only in the 1720s that the production of cotton cloths and mixed textiles of linen and cotton (Barchent and Mousseline) was allowed. The initiative came from the immigrant Peter Bion and the local merchant Peter Gonzenbach, a descendant of the Hauptwil family, who had returned to St.Gallen.26 It seems that the first mention of textile printing in St. Gallen dates back to the year 1736. Then Hans Jacob Ehrenzeller, a 28-year-old citizen, asked the city council for the permission to open his own printing workshop.27 He had learnt the trade in Augsburg, perhaps from Jeremias Neuhofer.28 The council agreed and helped him to find a suitable place. They put an empty mill at his disposal and organized the water supply, which was 24 Ibid., 227–244. Sigrid Barten (ed.), Kreuz und Quer der Farben. Karo- und Streifenstoffe der Schweiz für Afrika, Indonesien und die Türkei (Zurich: Museum Bellerive 1997). 25 That situation strongly contrasted with Augsburg, also a city with limited surroundings (Umland). The weavers there lost most of their influence in favour of the new printers and merchants. See Claus-Peter Clasen, Streiks und Aufstände der Augsburger Weber im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Augsburg: Verlag Schwäbische Forschungsgemeinschaft, 1993), 320–23. 26 Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft, 183. 27 Stadtarchiv St.Gallen (StadtASG), Ratsprotokoll 1736 (RP 1736), 78–79, 111, 130, 149, 300. 28 Blumer, Zeugdruck, 6.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

129

Fig. 28: The city of St. Gallen in the seventeenth century with the bleaching-fields outside the walls; view from the north. Painting by Jacob Christoph Stauder, 1675. Historisches und Völkerkundemuseum St. Gallen.

not easy as water was rare within the city with its limited space. Moreover he was given a loan of 500 gulden without interest and an additional one of 200 gulden plus interest. There is no information about Ehrenzeller’s business activities. We do not know who delivered the raw material, what he produced or who his customers were. But we do know that four years after his business had started he was bankrupt. Hoping to be able to gradually pay back his debts to the council, he promised to take on a job with another firm.29 Why did the city council finance and support a workshop of an unknown trade, especially considering its notorious reluctance to accept innovation? In the 1740s, the social situation within the city was deteriorating rapidly. Unemployment was increasing and the number of poor people was on the rise. That situation offered at least a small chance for new businesses, because both the weavers and the council realized that help was urgently needed to alleviate poverty. As a result they also allowed attempts with, for example, the knitting of stockings or silk weaving, thus following the example of Zurich.30 That situation repeated itself in the famine and economic crisis of the early 1770s, but on an even more severe level. Whereas in the country, the main problem was the growing lack of food, the council in the city saw the main problem in the unemployment and slackening economy. As a result it became more lenient towards the establishment of new firms and new business activities. Soon there was a number of new firms, among them the printers Peter Straub, the associated firm of Tobler & Fehr, Salomon Schlatter, and Othmar Glinz. Those new types of firms, however, had a lasting influence on the economic and social structure of the city. They recruited handymen on the local labour market, but also trained workers from areas where the printing industry was already established. There are refer29 StadtASG, RP 1740, 259. 30 StadtASG, Verordnetenprotokoll 1736–1739 (hereafter VP 1736–1739), 321, 355–356, 362.

130

Ernest Menolfi

ences that some of them came from Grenzach, Baden (Germany), or from the Streiff firm in the canton of Glarus.31 Those new entrepreneurs stood outside the guilds, which gave them some economic freedom. With that status, however, they gradually undermined the old guild system of the city, particularly in the second half of the eighteenth century. They strived for maximal profit and saw themselves as a kind of substitute for the poor box of the city. Consequently, they only paid minimal wages, which led to an early industrial proletariat.32 Their privately run firms were actually disconnected from the traditional wage system of the city, which came to the fore in 1779 in a case of bankruptcy. Whereas the salaries of the guild members were guaranteed, those of the workers of the printing businesses were not.33 The following decades were a period of transition. It was still unclear what branch of textile production would replace the once dominating linen trade as the new main occupation. In 1801 the first spinning factory was established in St. Gallen, which marked the beginning of ‘real’ industrialisation in the city. Soon there were further spinning and weaving factories and above all the rise of embroidery, which later was to become the landmark of the textile production of the city.34 That dominance made historians forget that the finishing and printing industry still existed and employed hundreds of people until about the middle of the nineteenth century.35

3. The Printing B(l)oom around 1800 Those two examples serve as illustrations how textile printing started and developed at two particular places and how the administrations and economic players in traditional textile areas reacted to the new businesses. As they do not contain sufficient information for a substantial summary, the following section widens the scope and makes a ‘tour d’horizon’

31 StadtASG, RP 1773, 316, “Druckergesellen” from Grenzach; RP 1779, 21–23, “Indienne-Drucker” of the Friedrich Streiff & Co. firm from Mollis, canton of Glarus. Those workers were housed in pubs and inns in and outside the city. 32 In 1738 the council accused Caspar Straub, one of the entrepreneurs outside the guild system, of keeping all the profit to himself and of paying almost no wages to his workers. See StadtASG, VP 1736–1739, 333– 336. 33 StadtASG, RP 1779, 21–23, 38–39, 59–61. What the wages were, is not indicated. A list of wages within the printing trade, however, is given by Arthur Bolliger. See his Ein Beitrag zur Entwicklung des europäischen Textildrucks (Vienna: Springer-Verlag, 1950), 79–82. 34 See Eric Häusler’s contribution to this volume. 35 In 1830 there were 417 (only non-citizens) workers employed in the finishing trade, and the lithographic firm Heim started its textile printing department only in the early 1830s. See Ehrenzeller, Jahrbücher, 2.3 (1830), 66, 98.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

131

through the other parts of eastern Switzerland. There was quite a remarkable number of printing enterprises, especially in the period between 1780 and 1830. Outside the city of St. Gallen, there were other printing workshops in the rest of the canton. Some were in the northern part, in the so-called ‘princely land’ (Fürstenland). But that again was a territory of the prince abbots of St. Gallen, who were reluctant to allow other business than the production of linen. That explains why they were mostly founded only after 1800 after the dissolution of the abbey. One was the firm of Johann Jakob Kelly at Mettendorf, today part of Gossau.36 It lies between Herisau and Hauptwil thus forming a kind of industrial belt of printing firms in that region. Others existed for example at St. Fiden (east of St. Gallen), Mörschwil, Goldach, Rorschach, Thal, and Rheineck.37 In the canton of Appenzell Ausserrhoden the political and economic situation was very favourable for all kinds of experiments in the eighteenth century. Many families had accumulated capital by spinning and weaving and as intermediary trade agents of yarn and cloths. Along with their profound knowledge of how to deal with textiles it enabled them to start their own businesses. Within Appenzell Ausserrhoden, Herisau became the uncontested centre of textile printing. The first business there was presumably established by Johann Ulrich Loppacher in 1735.38 The eighteenth-century chronicler Gabriel Walser wrote that in Herisau there were fabriques, bleachers, dyers, and printers, who produced the most beautiful indienne and sent wagons full of them to fairs.39 The fact that several finishing activities are mentioned together with printing needs an explanation. The textile industry of that canton was widely dominated by some international trading companies like the Zellweger at Trogen or the Schläpfer at Speicher.40 For their export goods, they placed their orders with the printers and finishers at Herisau and other places of the region. That means that at least part of the printing firms there were contract printers (Lohndrucker), who adapted their production according to the wishes of the customers.41 That also means that printing to a

36 Norbert Hälg, “Die Türkischrot-Druckerei im Mettendorf,” Oberberger Blätter 1988/1989 (Gossau: U. Cavelti, 1989): 3–21. 37 Bodmer, Textilgewerbe Appenzell Ausserrhoden, 36, 75; some of them were contract printers (­Lohndrucker) for merchants in Appenzell Ausserrhoden. See Blumer, Textildruck, 19. 38 Fuchs, Herisau, 130. 39 Walser, Appenzeller Chronik dritter Teil, 246: “In Herisau errichtete man Fabricken, auch Bleichenen, Farben, Druckereyen, die schönste Indienne ward allda verfertiget, und ganze Wägen voll auf die Messe verführt.” 40 Bodmer, Textilgewerbe Appenzell Ausserrhoden, 33–41. 41 Ibid., 36. Albert Tanner, Spulen-Weben-Sticken. Die Industrialisierung in Appenzell Ausserrhoden (Zurich: Eigenverlag, 1982), 23: “Um die Mitte des Jahrhunderts erfolgte in Herisau, das sich nun zu einem nicht-städtischen Gewerbezentrum entwickelte und St.Gallen als Sitz der Ausrüstindustrie ablösen sollte, die Gründung mehrerer, kleinerer Stoffdruckereien. Sie waren in der Regel reine Lohndruckereien, die nur wenig oder gar nichts auf eigene Rechnung druckten.”

132

Ernest Menolfi

certain extent belonged to the supply industry (Zulieferindustrie) just like other branches of the finishing industry.42 Around 1770 already seven printing firms existed in Herisau: Johannes Merz, Johannes Schiess & Daniel Merz, Johannes Baumann, Anton Frischknecht, Gebrüder Merz, Maximilian Scheuss, and Hans Ulrich Mittelholzer.43 After 1800 the largest printing shop was run by Laurenz Mayer.44 Undoubtedly there were several other printing workshops in the Appenzell area, but not much is known about them.45 By the way, there were also people who had their family origin at Herisau but started their careers abroad, where they had even better prospects and better chances of succeeding. The most prominent of them was Rudolf Wetter, who grew up in a wealthy and influential Herisau family. He went to France and in 1744 he opened a large manufactory in Marseille with a staff of several hundred people. He became one of the most famous printers in Europe with his ‘toile d’Orange’ and was called the ‘king of painted cloths.’46 Another area with a long tradition of textile production was the neighbouring region of Toggenburg in the canton of St. Gallen. In the eighteenth century, a large part of the population made their living by spinning and weaving cotton at home. Industrial experiments seem to have been rarer than in the Appenzell region, particularly in areas where the prince abbots of St. Gallen had some political influence and could successfully subdue new trends.47 Nevertheless, there are also hints that Toggenburg was involved in the printing trade. Some firms created mouchoirs (handkerchiefs) in the three colours of the French Revolution, which they sold to France until 1796.48 In the middle part of the 42 That fact may also explain why historians in their studies do not extensively deal with the printing industry in Appenzell Ausserrhoden. 43 Bodmer, Textilgewerbe Appenzell Ausserrhoden, 36, 75. 44 His large and famous Schwarzes Haus can still be seen today. 45 Tanner, Spulen, 23: “Um 1800 war die Zahl der Bleichereien, Färbereien, Appreturen und Stoffdruckereien im ganzen Kanton auf 30 angewachsen, wovon allein in Herisau 22 Betriebe standen.” 46 Peter Witschi, Appenzeller in aller Welt. Auswanderungsgeschichte und Lebensschicksale (Herisau: Schläpfer, 1994), 209–11. 47 Hans Büchler (ed.), Das Toggenburg. Eine Landschaft zwischen Tradition und Fortschritt (Sulgen: Verlag Niggli, 1993), 79. In the town of Wil in the vicinity of the Toggenburg they tried in vain to reactivate the outdated linen trade in the 1730s. See Ernest Menolfi, “Die wirtschaftliche Entwicklung der Marktorte Wil, Weesen und Altstätten,” in Sankt-Galler Geschichte 2003 (St.Gallen: Amt für Kultur, 2003), 3:221. 48 “Im Toggenburg waren einige kleine Indienne-Druckereien tätig, so unter andern auch der Schwiegersohn Ulrich Bräkers, Johannes Zwicky, der aus dem Glarnerland seine Kenntnisse mitbrachte und 1780 in Wattwil die Druckereien der Indienne-Fabrikanten Josua Lieberherr und Rudolf Zuber einrichtete.” See Albert Bodmer, “Die Entwicklung der Textilveredlung in der Ostschweiz mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Landschaft Toggenburg,”, Textil-Rundschau 6 (1951), 450. “Die Toggenburger kreierten mit den Mouchoirs, die nach Ausbruch der Französischen Revolution bis 1796 in den modernen Trikolorefarben vor allem nach Frankreich verkauft wurden, einen eigenen Artikel.” See Büchler, Toggenburg, 80. Another producer was Abraham Brunner at Hemberg. Yet, it seems not absolutely clear whether those were printed products.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

133

Toggenburg, spinners produced yarn for the industry in Glarus, Aargau, Neuchatel, and Alsace.49 Those destinations clearly indicate that there was a close-knit relation to regions with a flourishing printing industry as Toggenburg delivered part of the raw material. In the canton of Thurgau, Hauptwil was not the only place with textile printing firms. There were, for example, Vogel at Frauenfeld, J.J. Strauss and Kölliker at Arbon, Heinrich Hanhart, Friedrich Herrmann, and Gebrüder Deutsch at Diessenhofen, and other ones in Mattwil, Aadorf, and Bischofszell.50 We can assume that around 1800 and in the following decades there were at least attempts at textile printing in almost all places with traditional bleaching fields. Many of the firms in the region engaged in both printing and red dyeing. The dyeing firms of Sulzer at Aadorf, of Brunnschweiler at Hauptwil, and of Leumann, originally at Mattwil, then Bürglen, had also been printing workshops before they exclusively concentrated on red dyeing (Türkischrotfärberei). The printing firm of Heinrich Hanhart and his successors at Diessenhofen were red dyers and printers simultaneously.51 Of all the textile printers in Thurgau, only two have so far been really taken note of: Bernhard Greuter and Johann Heinrich Mayr. Bernhard Greuter (1745–1822) is perhaps the best-known of the early printers in eastern Switzerland (fig. 29). He was born near Wattwil in the Toggenburg valley as the son of a mercenary. He learnt his trade from the cotton printer Johann Heinrich Streiff in the canton of Glarus. But soon Streiff caught the ambitious young Greuter spying the secrets of printing, and as a result chased him away. Greuter then worked with Schiess & Merz in Herisau and experimented in the trade. In 1767 he already had a small workshop for blue printing at Kefikon, near Frauenfeld in the canton of Thurgau. Unfortunately his former master Johann Heinrich Streiff, who had dismissed him, was elected bailiff in Frauenfeld. Afraid of becoming the victim of Streiff ’s vengeance, Greuter decided to leave the country, visiting workshops abroad and particularly deepening his knowledge of the trade in the Netherlands.52 49 Ibid., 80. There was also export of cotton cloth for printing to those regions for instance by the Zellweger trading companies in Trogen in Appenzell Ausserrhoden. 50 See Johann Adam Pupikofer, Der Kanton Thurgau, historisch, geographisch, statistisch geschildert. Gemälde der Schweiz XVII. (Editons Slatkine: Geneva, 1978), 103; Christine Kolitzus-Hanhart, Rotfarb und Zeugdruck in Diessenhofen, 2nd ed. (Diessenhofen: Edition A-Z, 2017); and Klaus Sulzer, Vom Zeugdruck zur Rotfärberei (Zurich: Chronos Verlag, 1991). 51 See Sulzer, Zeugdruck; Albert Knoepfli, “Die Sulzersche Rotfarb und Kattun-Druckerei zu Aadorf,” Thurgauer Jahrbuch (1951), 24–38; Ernest Menolfi, Bürglen. Geschichte eines thurgauischen Dorfes vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart (Zurich: Chronos Verlag, 1996), 429–32; and Kolitzus, Diessenhofen, 263–65. 52 On Greuter, see Verena Rothenbühler, “Bernhard Greuter,” Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz (HLS), http:// www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D28455.php. Accessed 28 August 2017. Blumer, Textildruck, 18–19; Rudolf Hermann Kupper, Fabrikbauten in der Schweiz vor der Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts (Zurich: ADAG Administration & Druck, 1984), 63–71; Bürkli, Zürich’s Jndiennes, 200; Jürg Ganz, “Die Greuter’sche Fabrik in Islikon,” Archithese 5 (1980): 23–25; Ottavio Clavuot and Jürg Ganz, Der ‘Greuterhof ’ in Islikon: Ein Baudenkmal aus der Frühzeit der Industrialisierung (Bern: Gesellschaft für Schweizerische Kunstgeschichte, 2006) and Hans Amann, “Bernhard Greuter (1745–1822), eine Gründerpersönlichkeit der schweizerischen

134

Ernest Menolfi

After two years, Streiff ’s time in office was over and Greuter returned to Thurgau. He married an innkeeper’s daughter at nearby Islikon and opened a dyeing and printing firm for cotton there. He frequented the markets of Winterthur, Zurich, and Zurzach. His business developed an excellent reputation even abroad and the demand grew steadily. Soon he was looking for a suitable place for an extension of his business. An attempt to settle at Frauenfeld, where he would have had a much better water supply, failed because he was refused citizenship. As a result he further enlarged and modernized his business at Islikon. In 1799 he merged with the trading house Rieter in Winterthur. He had two large ponds installed, which made the Fig. 29: Bernhard Greuter (1745–1822), textile water come down with great pressure and printer at Islikon near Frauenfeld. Staatsarchiv des Kantons Thurgau, Frauenfeld. move a large wheel for his machinery.53 The other prominent Thurgau printer was Johann Heinrich Mayr (1768–1838). He was well-educated and fond of reading and travelling. His diaries, which were published in 2010, are a rich source of information about a middle-sized printing workshop. Because those four volumes of Mayr’s description of his business activities and policy as well as his reflecions on the course of industrialisation have so far not really been studied, they are examined more extensively here.54 Mayr took over the successful textile firm from his forefathers at Arbon. His lifelong experience with textiles enabled him to pursue new trends like printing. He maintained an extensive cultural and economic network. He had business friends and associated partners abroad, for example in Milan, Trieste, Leghorn/Livorno, Rome, Salerno, Naples, Genoa, and in Switzerland, such as merchants in Herisau, Huber in St. Gallen, Heer at Rheineck, and the leading Appenzell business entrepreneurs Schläpfer at Speicher, and Zellweger at

Volkswirtschaft: ein Lebensbild” Toggenburger Annalen 20 (1993): 69–75. Streiff, by the way, was initiated into the secrets of textile printing (blue printing) by the Fazy firm in Geneva. See Blumer, Textildruck, 38. 53 In the nineteenth century the firm employed several hundred people, and was for a long time, by far the largest of its kind in that area. It was closed down in 1880. 54 See footnote 9.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

135

Trogen.55 Corresponding with and visiting them was essential for business. For Mayr the main constituents of successful business contacting were routine, liveliness, serenity, and readiness to accept hardship and strain.56 Mayr was involved in various branches of textile production and finish, but printing on linen, cotton, and silk eventually became his foremost and most successful activity. He claimed to be the first to produce foulards (scarves) in Switzerland.57 Furthermore, he had such thick silk cloth produced in Lyon that he was the first to print scarves on both sides.58 He changed the way the drawings were made so that cutting was made more easily and he handled the colours in a new way so that the same effect was achieved with half the dyeing material others had to apply.59 First, he mainly supplied the French market and his early journeys were mostly to Lyon.60 In the first years after the French Revolution there was still a great demand of printed cloths so that French merchants came to Switzerland to purchase these products.61 But then, at the end of the eighteenth century with the growing import restrictions in France, not only contacts with French-speaking Switzerland were intensified, but above all, with the Italian market. In his diaries he described and commented on his trips to Italian cities and harbours, where he presented his collection of patterns.62 He imported great quantities of ‘East India stuff ’ (white raw material) from Livorno and Genoa, printed on them, and re-exported them to these port cities as handkerchiefs (fig. 30).63 Another such business activity had a religious background: merchants in Naples sent masses of linen cloths to Switzerland in order to finish them as the habits for clergymen and members of brotherhoods. But when, in Mayr’s words, the spreading influence of the age of enlightenment destroyed that business, he thought of printing other religious motifs (e. g. portraits of Madonna or of saints). Experts, however, discouraged him to do so.64 One especially interesting point in his diaries is the description of the change in attitude between merchants and customers. Business, particularly the printing business, became more and more hectic around 1800. Competition was enormous, fashions changed quickly, and there was a high demand for new patterns and cloths. Mayr wrote that when busi55 Their ‘palaces’ are still landmarks of their respective places. The Löwenhof of the Heer family at Rheineck is considered to be the largest ‘castle’ of the whole canton of St.Gallen. 56 Mayr suffered from painful and chronic adenoids in his nose, which made travelling difficult. He felt handicapped and did not marry. See Buenzli, Mayr, 3:786–87. 57 Ibid., 3:706. 58 Ibid., 3:759–60. 59 Ibid., 2:171. 60 Ibid., 3:712. 61 Ibid., 2:528. 62 For instance, see ibid., 3:788–818. 63 Ibid., 2:213. 64 Ibid., 2: 640–41.

136

Ernest Menolfi

ness was slackening, he restlessly chased after new products in his field.65 But on his journeys to foreign cities he did not risk clashes with local merchants. So instead of asking them for patterns or stealing from them, he preferred an indirect way: He went to tailors’ shops, which treated the cloth on behalf of the clients, and collected new patterns there.66 Being informed about the latest trends in fashion and technology was absolutely essential for all the producers. So exchange of knowledge, often in the shape of specific espionage, became almost indispensable and was exercised excessively. In the traditional linen trade there had only been a Fig. 30: Printed handkerchiefs (mouchoirs) made in the manufactory of Johann Heinrich Mayr at Arbon; few innovations that could be copied, for early nineteenth century. The reason for the choice example the use of tartar (Weinstein) to of the motif is unknown. They may have been deachieve whiter bleaching. But now many signed because of an interest into an exotic scenprinters sent spies to other Swiss work- ery, or perhaps with a view to export out of Europe. shops or travelled throughout the Neth- Staatsarchiv des Kantons Thurgau, Frauenfeld. erlands, England, France, and Germany in order to get information on the latest trends and techniques. Mayr, too, complained about having become the victim of spying from time to time.67 Another fact Mayr emphasized is the changing policy of business partners and customers abroad. He maintained that in the ‘good old times’ they had appreciated quality and regular deliveries, and had been reliable and ready to pay a good price. That type of business loyalty, however, seemed to have died out. With the rapidly changing demands the price of the articles became the decisive factor. If the goods were not cheap, they could not be sold. On the other hand, some printers did not hesitate to sell products that had a brilliant effect but lost their colours as soon as they were washed for the first time.68 One of Mayr’s experiences offers an insight into his stamina and eagerness to be one of the best in his field. In 1805 a guest, coming back from Augsburg, presented him with 65 Ibid., 3:705: “Wenn die Geschäfte stockten, jagte ich rastlos nach Neuem in meinem Fach.” 66 Ibid., 2:546. 67 Ibid., 2:545–46, 3:723. On the problem of espionage, see Kim Siebenhüner, “Zwischen Imitation und Innovation: Die Schweizerische Indienne-Industrie im 18. Jahrhundert,” Werkstatt Geschichte 74 (2016): 7–27. 68 Also Mayr’s products were not always washfast. See Buenzli, Mayr, 2: 583.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

137

a printed piece of cloth that totally fascinated Mayr because of its excellence. He guessed that it had been produced in England. It consisted of a dull drawing on a shiny background. Mayr wanted to copy it by all means, but his various experiments with a press were of no avail. He then engaged an engraver who founded metal calenders which could be used in a hot state. After trying for over three months, they managed to get the desired effect. Mayr proudly sent the products to the Milan market, but nobody wanted to buy them.69 They, too, lost their shiny effect as soon as a drop of water was spilt over them. Fortunately, Mayr’s stable financial background enabled him to cope with such failures and longer periods of bad sales. It even encouraged him to expand his business. But he judged the chances at Arbon as unsatisfactory, mainly due to the water supply, which was contested by the neigbouring farmers, and the fact that he could not recruit enough children for his workshop.70 So he looked for another place. He bought a mill and a saw mill with their premises at Rheineck in the canton of St. Gallen. However, he was continuously faced with all kinds of difficulties, which left him unsatisfied with this new workshop. Some time later, his business partners talked him into expanding to a much higher level, and in the early nineteenth century, he bought an industrial property in Alsace. Although he invested a large sum of money, it, too, turned out to be a failure, as he was cheated by his incompetent representatives there.71 No wonder Mayr became more and more disillusioned, gave up his business and preferred travelling in his later years. The extraordinary thing about the two thousand printed pages of Mayr’s diaries is that they offer a rare view on the printing business from inside, whereas with other entrepreneurs we mostly get information from historical travel reports and official records, for instance from decisions of councils and local administrations or from the minutes of law courts. It is true, as far as the personal situation is concerned that Mayr was not a typical printer in eastern Switzerland. Unlike many others he was not a newcomer or upstart but rather the wealthy offspring of a family with long experience in the textile business. Moreover, his observations and remarks are subjective and personal. Nevertheless they contain a wide range of information on the structure of the printing trade in general, and above all, they include the fate, the ups, and the downs of business friends and competitors. Mayr shared with them a long list of similarities: the incessant fight for new products and techniques, the growing problems with export to France, with water supply, with business expansion, with spies, with child labour, and so forth. In contrast to other entrepreneurs, about whom we get only random information, Mayr draws a consistent and lively picture 69 Ibid., 3:730. 70 Ibid., 2:365. 71 Ibid., 3:853.

138

Ernest Menolfi

of the business life of a middle-sized workshop at that time. From his diaries we do not only learn what happened, but also why a decision was made, what the respective consequences were or why an experiment turned out a failure.

4. Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland: Possibilities and Limitations The historical information about printing in eastern Switzerland is inconsistent and full of gaps. In some areas we do not know much more than the name of a firm, and there are only few hints at the production and the business relations. A lot of these workshops only existed for a short time.72 Nevertheless some general observations can be made. Textile printing in the east started later than in the west. It developed in an area with a long and deep-rooted tradition of producing linen cloths. But not all the political authorities reacted in the same way to the steady decline of linen. Some welcomed new inventions and new types of cloths; others kept supporting the linen trade by issuing restrictions and prohibitions against new rival branches. In spite of that textile printing made its way to all the cantons mentioned. After early attempts from the 1730s onwards there was literally a boom in printing workshops in the decades before and after the turn to the nineteenth century. The long experience with linen cloths also explains why printing was often carried out on that material.73 But what pointed the way in the long run was cotton. Cotton, however, was outside the existing agricultural sector and had to be imported in great quantities. As a consequence new economic players arrived on the scene. One group of them were the hauliers, who made good money in the transport business. People like the aforementioned Rordorf invested in this new branch or started businesses themselves. The same holds true with Sulser at Azmoos in the Rhine Valley.74 In general, the regions which fostered the trade and production of cotton yarn and cloth, such as Appenzell Ausserrhoden, Thurgau, parts of the Rhine Valley, and Toggenburg, were the ones where innovation in general was more readily accepted. That meant that there, as a rule, textile printing had an earlier start and better chances of surviving. In the eighteenth century the production of cotton cloth and mixed textures increased considerably thanks to widespread home spinning and home weaving, above all in Appen72 However, the fact that many firms were closed down after few years or that they often changed their owners does not seem to be a peculiarity only of eastern Switzerland. Bodmer refers to the same phenomenon in western Switzerland. See Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft, 187. No doubt, printing was a risky business. 73 For instance about three printers in Herisau “Zu Herisau sind drey grosse Druckereyen auf Leinwand und Baumwolle,” and about the printer Merz, “Er […] druckt aber mehr auf Leinwand als auf Baumwolle.” See Deutsch, Zinzendorf, 209. 74 See footnote 9; for Sulser, see Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft, 228.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

139

zell Ausserrhoden and Toggenburg. Part of that output was exported to areas with textile printing, such as Alsace, Aargau, Glarus, and Neuchatel. Part of it was bought by regional merchants and given on a contract basis for finishing to the rising number of new firms (Appreturfirmen), which sometimes included textile printing. Once these firms were finished with the textiles, the regional merchants would then export them. Some of those printing firms were closely connected with red dyeing. They either started with printing and then changed over to red dyeing or did both simultaneously. Consistency was not common in this field as with many of these firms, the owners and the type of production could change after only few years.75 So for the time being a quantification of the respective firms is not yet possible. Neither do we know how many firms were exclusively involved in the printing trade. But one thing is certain: the temporary boom of printing in eastern Switzerland was mostly over before the middle of the nineteenth century. That fact that eastern Switzerland was a traditional textile area had both advantages and disadvantages for someone who wanted to start a printing workshop. Usually there was already infrastructure which could be adapted without great effort. For instance, there were bleaching fields, and only a slight refinement of the stamps was necessary for the milling. Some of the existing workshops could be rented, which reduced costs at least at the beginning. There was also a supply of employees who knew how to deal with textiles. On the other hand, it was often difficult to get the necessary land for new workshops. The water supply was there but was often not sufficient for additional workshops, and quarrels between the different users were inevitable. Especially in towns there were traditional economic structures with institutions (guilds) and craftsmen (weavers) who were afraid of losing longheld privileges. When the political authorities supported new businesses with loans, it made the entrepreneurs dependent on their goodwill. Printing workshops in eastern Switzerland were mostly small or middle-sized and because of that could be financed to a great extent by the families of the owners. Quite a number of them had acquired substantial assets through manifold activities in the textile trade and production and were in a position to start their businesses without large loans. An almost indispensible element, however, was the dowry of the wives, who possibly came from families in the same trade and social class and helped to establish a stable foundation.76 So, along with the advantages mentioned above, starting a new enterprise was comparatively easy. That fact may have enticed many young men to open a printing workshop without the necessary knowledge and without being aware of the many potential pitfalls. Competition was enormous, fashions short-lived, and the prices under constant pressure. So production had to be 75 Quite obviously a great number of printing shops were simultaneously involved in other activities of the finishing trade. In St.Gallen even a typographical workshop established a printing department (see footnote 35). 76 Buenzli, Mayr, 3:786; and Büchler, Toggenburg, 83–84.

140

Ernest Menolfi

constantly adapted by testing new methods of printing, and using different dyeing materials. Often enough that led to costly failures and exhausted the financial means of small businesses. Other unexpected difficulties originated in periods of bad weather, floods, epidemics, or illnesses of the workers.77 Consequently, collapses and bankruptcies were frequent. A lot of the transactions were based on credit and trust because the goods were usually only paid for after delivery. In other words, the whole financial system was rather risky. Money was lost while being transported from one place to another or through bills of exchange that could not be cashed. The new paper money (assignats) tended to lose value.78 Sometimes businesses were ruined by the bankruptcies of others or by unfair policies of business partners. When the owners were absent or had branches at different places they suffered losses due to the incompetence of their substitutes. The ruin of a local firm meant not only a catastrophy for the entrepreneur, but also for the inhabitants of a region. Many people were directly and indirectly involved in a business, for instance innkeepers, hauliers, farmers, servants, handymen, and craftsmen. Places of work were rare and there were usually no alternatives to the dominant local firm.79 When a printer was successful, the step from a small business to large business was difficult. If he wanted to stay at the original place he faced all kinds of difficulties. One of the main problems was that several parties shared the water supply and every change in ownership caused trouble. Sometimes not enough new land was available for new workshops. If he decided to start at a new place there was the problem of citizenship. At most places, only inhabitants with local citizenship were allowed to do business. The financial situation underwent a deep change as well. Had they started with low budgets and local loans, they now needed much more capital and were often forced to associate with partners. The investment was no longer a matter of some hundred gulden as before, but climbed up to several tens of thousands after the turn of the nineteenth century.80 As a result many of them were not able to take that step and failed. The ones with greater financial resources expanded to places abroad, preferrably in Alsace, but there was no guarantee for success there either.81 The workers of the printing workshops usually were of a mixed origin. Part of the staff came from the vicinity. They lived with their families in nearby places. The entrepreneurs had a fatherlike relationship with some of them. They were godfathers of their workers’ 77 Buenzli, Mayr, 3:750. 78 For remarks about French and Austrian paper money, see Buenzli, Mayr, 3:933–34; or Büchler, Toggenburg, 82: “Zu spät hatte der Prinzipal im Toggenburg gemerkt, dass französisches Papiergeld als Bezahlung für die kostbare Mousseline den denkbar schlechtesten Gegenwert darstellte.” 79 Buenzli, Mayr, 3:785. 80 Mayr was talked into buying a property in Mülhausen for 24,000 livres. See Buenzli, Mayr, 3:737. For the establishment of the printing department with the Heim firm in St.Gallen a citizen invested 127,000 gulden. See Ehrenzeller, Jahrbücher 3.1 (1833), 41–43. 81 Buenzli, Mayr, 3:881–84.

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

141

children and supported the education of the talented ones. But soon part of the labour force consisted of single migrant workers from places farther away. So the bosses, who were responsible for their food and lodging, lived in close contact with their staff. They normally owned large gardens and arable land and kept animals. Whereas the employees had formerly been an anomyous group, now the names of some of them became known, for example when they were outstanding colourists, wood cutters, or construction engineers. In spite of the daily proximity to the workers, the entrepeneurs lived in a world of their own. They had international family and business contacts and spoke several languages. As mentioned earlier their children were given a special education, often by private tutors, or were sent to boarding houses in the French-speaking part of Switzerland or France, and went to art academies abroad.82 One thing they had in common was that almost all of them were members of the Reformed Church, which they regularly attended and which they supported by means of substantial donations.83

5. Epilogue: Textile Printing as a Precursor of Modern Industrialisation The many small and middle sized printing workshops were an important intermediary link from so-called proto-industrialisation to the later industrialisation in factories.84 The new printing workshops resembled the later factories in many ways and they foreshadowed essential elements of the development in the following decades. With the exception of the raw material and semi-finished products (cotton, yarn, woven cloth), the workshop now centralized the whole process of production and finishing at one place. Power engines and elaborate machinery were still missing, but the first technicians soon started experimenting with all kinds of tools to increase output, to achieve higher and more regular 82 See footnotes 15, 22. Anton Gonzenbach’s sister married a merchant of Geneva, David-Emmanuel Develey. See Menolfi, Hauptwil, 120. See also the novel by Suzanne Deriex, Un arbre de vie (Yvonand: Bernard Campiche, 1995). 83 Büchler, Toggenburg, 84. 84 That fact was recognized in the historiography long ago. See for example Arthur Bolliger, Ein Beitrag zur Entwicklung des europäischen Textildrucks (Vienna: Springer, 1950), 18; and Dahler, Bieler Indiennen­industrie, 87–88. Also Bodmer maintains that the factory system was introduced by the printing industry but mainly refers to western Switzerland and the canton of Glarus: “Da eine Unterteilung des Fabrikationsprozesses in der Stoffdruckerei technisch und wirtschaftlich unvorteilhaft war, entstanden in diesem Zweige des Textilveredlungsgewerbes verhältnismässig rasch umfangreiche Eigenbetriebe der Unternehmen, d.h. Fabriken. Das Fabriksystem hat somit in der Zeugdruckerei früher als in der eigentlichen Textilverarbeitung Eingang gefunden.” See Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft, 186, and: “Das Fabriksystem hat also im Glarnerland nicht wie vielerorts im östlichen Teile der Schweiz vornehmlich durch die Einführung der Maschine in der Baumwollspinnerei, sondern in weitaus stärkerem Masse durch die hier noch nicht mechanisierte Zeugdruckerei Verbreitung gefunden.” See ibid., 302.

142

Ernest Menolfi

quality by using copperplate and cylinder printing, and to shorten the time of production by applying chloride bleaching. All of those developments required new equipment. The similarity to later factories is also reflected in terminology. A printing workshop was usually called fabrique.85 That French word corresponds linguistically to the later German term Fabrik (factory). Accordingly the owner of the workshop now was the Fabrikant. The word existed before, but it had meant ‘producer’ or a kind of ‘organizer of production’. In contrast, he was now both producer and merchant, just like future factory owners.86 The meaning of the term Fabrikant, however, seems to differ slightly depending on the region. In rural areas, both the old and the new meanings existed side by side. A clear distinction was not necessary. But in the city of St. Gallen the situation was different. A Fabrikant represented the new type of entrepreneur who was outside the guilds and the old economic system. The latter included stages of production which were, to a certain extent, state-controlled. Bleaching, for instance, could hardly be controlled by merchants. The new entrepreneurs, however, tried to get more independence within the city, or more frequently, to buy private land outside the city boundaries. They also endeavoured to finance their businesses without the help of the administration. Entrepreneurs followed the guidelines of early capitalism. A consequence of that was that from an early stage onwards the untrained workers in the different types of fabriques earned extremely low wages.87 As far as the staff was concerned, the situation underwent a fundamental change, too, particularly in cities. Whereas before the labour market of many trades had been more or less closed to non-citizens, the new businesses required specialists and migrant workers from other regions. It was the first time that such a great number of workers had to be housed and fed. For menial work and simple operations, however, there were still enough people in the local labour market.88 Moreover as in later spinning or weaving mills, child labour was already indispensible – long before the public discussion about schooling and child labour became a controversial topic in the 1820s and 1830s.

85 The term Manufaktur (manufactory), which was widespread in Germany and other countries, was almost non-existent in eastern Switzerland before 1800. 86 Mayr called himself a Fabrikant. That, according to him, enabled him to sell his own goods at a lower price than a merchant because of lower agent fees and because the merchant had to pay the full costs of production to others. See Buenzli, Mayr, 2:208. There was also the French term marchand-fabricant to express that double-function. See Bodmer, Schweizerische Textilwirtschaft, 235. 87 StadtASG, VP 1736–1739, 320, 333–34. See also the similar situation in Zurich, StAZH, D 29, f. 33, 35–36. 88 The German term Arbeiter (worker) was also comparatively new and apparently introduced with the new type of firms and staff. One of the early mentionings refers to the new production of stockings in 1738. See StadtASG, VP 1736–1739, 320. The traditional terms were mainly Werkleute (e. g. on a building site), Gesellen (with craftsmen), and Knechte (e. g. on the bleaching fields).

Early Textile Printing in Eastern Switzerland

143

Textile printing marked a decisive step and link in the development of the textile industry. As the linen industry was on the decline in the eighteenth century, new industries turned up in a period of transition. It was then still uncertain what direction the future development would take and what activities would replace the traditional ones. One of the possibilities was textile printing.89 Although not of the foremost importance in terms of quantity in the regions discussed, its contribution to the development of the whole textile industry was relevant. It helped to weaken the rigid guild system and diminished the power of the weavers. It also prepared the ground for the factory system of the following decades as it already contained important and typical elements of it, for instance centralisation of the working process. If the aspects mentioned are taken into consideration, the rise of modern industrialisation in eastern Switzerland seems to be less abrupt than usually described. These facts sufficiently prove that a thorough and careful study of textile printing in eastern Switzerland is urgently needed as it could add substantial new elements to the general view of industrialisation.

89 Another one was the finishing trade (Appretur), which, along with the rising embroidery industry, became one of the leading textile branches for several decades, for instance in Herisau (Appenzell Ausserrhoden), and St.Gallen. As in the areas discussed finishing was closely related to printing, much of what is said in this section also holds true with the finishing fabriques.

The Art of Making Indienne: Knowing How to Dye in Eighteenth-Century Switzerland Kim Siebenhüner

Everyday experience suggests that there is a discrepancy between knowledge and skill. Anyone who has ever wrestled with an instruction manual or a cooking recipe knows the difference between knowledge acquired through reading and the successful implementation of that knowledge. Yet this experience seems to run counter to some key insights from the history of knowledge and technology – insights which have fundamentally challenged the diametric opposition between theory and practice, between science and technology, and between academics and artisans.1 Recent research in the field of the history of knowledge in the early modern period has been particularly insistent that natural philosophy and technology, as well as scientific and technical practices, were closely intertwined and flourished in a great variety of locations – not only in academies, learned societies, and universities, but also in apothecaries, workshops, and laboratories.2 Moreover, the eighteenth century saw the emergence of a new type of individual, one who combined the skill of an artisan with the knowledge of a scholar and who transcended the boundaries between practical expertise and natural-philosophical insight into technical processes.3 In this context, artisans have also been ascribed a new importance. They

See Pamela O. Long, Openness, Secrecy, Authorship: Technical Arts and the Culture of Knowledge from Antiquity to the Renaissance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001); Pamela H. Smith, The Body of the Artisan: Art and Experience in the Scientific Revolution (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004); Lissa Roberts, Simon Schaffer, and Peter Dear, eds., The Mindful Hand: Inquiry and Invention from the late Renaissance to early Industrialisation (Amsterdam: Koninklijke Nederlandse Academie van Wetenschappen, 2007); Matteo Valleriani, Galileo Engineer (Dordrecht : Springer, 2010); Emma C. Spary and Ursula Klein, eds., Materials and Expertise in Early Modern Europe: Between Market and Laboratory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010); Pamela H. Smith, Amy Meyers, and Harold Cook, eds., Ways of Making and Knowing: The Material Culture of Empirical Knowledge (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2014); and Matteo Valleriani, ed., The Structures of Practical Knowledge (Cham, Switzerland: Springer, 2017). 2 John, Perkins, “Sites of Chemistry in the Eighteenth Century,” Ambix 60 (2013): 95–98; and Ursula Klein, “Apothecary Shops, Laboratories and Chemical Manufacture in eighteenth-century Germany,” in The Mindful Hand, 247–76. 3 Ursula Klein, “Chemical Experts at the Royal Prussian Porcelain Manufactory,” Ambix 60 (2013): 99–121.

1

146

Kim Siebenhüner

were not merely skilled, but also moved within an increasingly complex – albeit not necessarily scientific per se – technical culture of the Industrial Enlightenment.4 Part of the subtext of this recent research is the questioning of hierarchies of knowledge, as undertaken by, for example, Joel Mokyr in his distinction between propositional and prescriptive knowledge, between episteme and techne.5 In contrast, Liliane HilairePérez and other historians have assumed the existence of networked, transversal knowledge in which entrepreneurial, artisanal, and natural-philosophical knowledge and skills intersected. In this context, Hilaire-Pérez has also written of an open technique – the accessibility of techniques for an entire community, due to the multi-directional transfer of knowledge via networks, media, institutions, and the circulation of products.6 It is for a different reason that historians of knowledge working in the field of entangled history have rejected binary conceptions of knowledge: because the separation of abstract and applied knowledge is closely associated with the assumption that modern science is entirely the invention of European society. In fact, this assumption has been disproved by studies on the cross-cultural circulation of knowledge, and this article also highlights the close links between technical knowledge and transcultural exchange in the eighteenth century.7 Yet it is also a fact that the difference between theoretical and practical knowledge was an issue for calico printers – or indienneurs as they were locally called – in the eighteenth century. This is because knowing how a dyeing technique worked was one thing. To also master this technique was an entirely different matter. Yet this difference should not be prematurely ascribed to a dualism between scientific knowledge and artisanal skill. This article instead focuses on using Swiss indiennage to explore the learning gap that had always existed between the bare information on how to perform an activity and the skilled execution of that same activity, and thereby also illuminates the complex relationships between tacit and formulated as well as academic and artisanal knowledge. The article pursues the question as to how Swiss calico printers learned their craft: by what means did they acquire the dyeing knowledge necessary to manufacture indienne? In investigating these questions, particular emphasis is placed on the Swiss indienneurs in their European 4 Liliane Hilaire-Pérez, “Technology as a Public Culture in the eighteenth Century: the Artisans’ Legacy,” History of Science 45 (2007), 137. 5 Joel Mokyr, The Gifts of Athena: Historical Origins of the Knowledge Economy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011). 6 Liliane Hilaire-Pérez and Catherine Verna, “Dissemination of Technical Knowledge in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Era,” Technology and Culture 47 (2006): 536–565; Hilaire-Pérez, “Technology as a Public Culture,” and Liliane Hilaire-Pérez, L’invention technique au siècle des Lumières (Paris: Michel, 2000). 7 Kapil Raj, Relocating Modern Science: Circulation and the Construction of Knowledge in South Asia and Europe: 1650–1900 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010); Simon Schaffer, “The Asiatic Enlightenment of British Astronomy,” in The Brokered World: Go-betweens and Global Intelligence 1770–1820, ed. Simon Schaffer, Lissa Roberts, Kapil Raj, and James Delbourgo (Sagamore Beach, MA.: Science History Publications, 2009), 49–103.

The Art of Making Indienne

147

context.8 The dyeing process forms an additional focal point, because by the eighteenth century there were already differing opinions as to who played the crucial role in creating a perfect piece of indienne: the designer or the colourist.9 This article concentrates not on the design, but the colour and dyeing of indienne.10 The article examines questions from and problems of recent research into the history of knowledge and technology as they relate to the history of indienne. Unlike the existing literature on the Swiss indienne industry, it seeks to show the extent to which the indienneurs profited from the transfer of knowledge and technology between India and Europe, and the ways in which their knowledge differed from that of their Indian colleagues. The article discusses the question of open technique: where between the poles of secrecy and openness did the Swiss indienneurs operate? And instead of assuming a hierarchy of theory and practice, the article posits the existence of different aggregate states of knowledge, which found their expression in varying degrees of verbalisation, transcription, and abstraction.11 The following three sections are therefore dedicated first to the transfer of knowledge and new dyeing methods in the eighteenth century; second to the Basel-based indienne manufacturer Johannes Ryhiner, who serves as a particularly good object of study in the transitions between various forms of knowledge; and third to the learning processes of the Swiss indienneurs in the eighteenth century.

1. The Transcultural Transfer of Knowledge and New Dyeing Methods in the Eighteenth Century Fabrics have been dyed since time immemorial, both in Europe and elsewhere. In the late Middle Ages and early modern period, European textile manufacturers generally dyed yarns and whole bolts of cloth. Already for this purpose, they fell back on dyeing pro  8 See the introduction to this volume.   9 Isabelle Ursch-Bernier, Négoce et industrie à Mulhouse au XVIIIe siècle (1696–1798) (Toulouse: CNRS, 2009), 306. 10 Robert Fox and Agustí Nieto-Galan, eds., Natural Dyestuffs and Industrial Culture in Europe, 1750–1880 (Canton, MA..: Watson, 1999); Agustí Nieto-Galan, Colouring Textiles: A History of Natural Dystuffs in Industrial Europe (Dordrecht: Springer, 2011); Judith Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past: Origins, Chemistry and Identification of Natural Dyestuffs (Riggisberg: Abegg-Stiftung, 2004); Sarah Lowengard, The Creation of Color in Eighteenth-Century Europe (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008); Andrea Feeser, Maureen Daly Goggin, and Beth Fowkes Tobin, eds., The Materiality of Color: The Production, Circulation, and Application of Dyes and Pigments, 1400–1800 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012); Anja Timmermann, Indigo: Die Analyse eines ökonomischen Wissensbestandes im 18. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2014); Tawrin Baker, Sven Dupré, Sachiko Kusukawa, and Karin Leonhard, eds., Early Modern Color Worlds (Leiden: Brill, 2015). 11 Matteo Valleriani, “The Epistemology of Practical Knowledge,” in The Structures of Practical Knowledge, ed. Matteo Valleriani (Cham, Switzerland: Springer, 2017), 1–19.

148

Kim Siebenhüner

cesses that utilised mordants, as many natural dyes could only be fixed to fibres through the addition of a mordant – a metal salt, sometimes in combination with a lye.12 Printed texts about dyeing with mordants first began to circulate in the mid-sixteenth century with Gioanventura Rosetti’s Plictho de larte de tentori.13 Furthermore, numerous hand-written recipes dating from the fifteenth and sixteenth century attest to the use of alums and vitriols for the dyeing of red, yellow, and green tones.14 Although European artisans were therefore aware of mordant-based dyeing, they were not very familiar with the use of this technique for the printing and painting of fabrics. Patterned fabrics were woven or embroidered – both elaborate processes that made the textiles more expensive and valuable.15 Yet printed fabrics did exist in late medieval and early modern Europe. This is evidenced by linen and silk textiles that were used as lining materials, shrouds, and antependia, such as with the Sitten tapestry from the fourteenth century (fig. 31).16 Reserve-printing processes, too, were in use before the eighteenth century.17 With this method, a reserve paste was used to cover the areas that were to remain white, before immersing the fabric in a bath of blue dye. This created simple white patterns against a blue background. Unlike for red and yellow tones, blue dyeing did not require the use of mordants. 12 Sabine Struckmeier, Die Textilfärberei vom Spätmittelalter bis zur Frühen Neuzeit (14.–16. Jahrhundert): Eine naturwissenschaftlich-technische Analyse deutschsprachiger Quellen (Münster: Waxmann, 2011), 66–80. 13 Rosetti’s text was first published in 1548. For an English translation, see Gioanventura Rosetti, The Plictho: Instructions in the Art of the Dyers which Teaches the Dyeing of woolen Cloths, Linens, Cottons, and Silk by the Great Art as Well as by the Common, trans. Sidney M. Edelstein and Hector C. Borghetty (Cambridge, MA.: MIT Press, 1969). 14 See Struckmeier, Textilfärberei. For a comprehensive collection of hand-written art technology recipes, see Kunsttechnologische Rezeptsammlung, Technical University of Cologne, https://www.th-koeln.de/kulturwissenschaften/kunsttechnologische-rezeptsammlung_25065.php. Accessed 22 January 2018. 15 Giorgio Riello, Cotton: the Fabric that Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 162–3. 16 For more on this item, see Emil Major, “Die Tapete von Sitten,” in Du: Kulturelle Monatsschrift 3.10 (1943): 36–37; as well as “Sittener Tapete,” Historischen Museum Basel, http://www.hmb.ch/sammlung/object/sittener-tapete.html?no_cache=1&cHash=560c152c739957dbdc2cd7e0098233ea. Accessed 26 January 2018. On medieval fabric printing, see Robert Forrer, Die Kunst des Zeugdrucks vom Mittelalter bis zur Empirezeit: Nach Urkunden und Originaldrucken (Strasbourg: Schlesier und Schweikhardt, 1898), 11–20; and Gustav Schaefer, “Mittelalterlicher Zeugdruck in Europa,” in Ciba-Rundschau 24 (1938): 862–874. 17 The first reliable evidence of traditional blue prints on linen, made using fat or sap as a reserve paste, dates from the 1620s and 1660s. The higher-quality blue prints, for which wax and gum arabic were used as the reserve paste, were produced in Amsterdam from the 1670s onwards. See Ernst Homburg, “From Colour Maker to Chemist: Episodes from the Rise of the Colourist, 1670–1800,” in Natural Dyestuffs and Industrial Culture in Europe, 1750–1880, ed. Robert Fox and Agustí Nieto-Galan (Canton, MA.: Watson, 1999), 219–57, especially 222–24. On blue prints, also see Christine Bell, “Die Geschichte des Blaudrucks,” in Ein blaues Wunder: Blaudruck in Europa und Japan, ed. Hartmut Walravens (Berlin: Akademie, 1993), 53–68 and Christine Bell, “Technik des Blaudrucks in Europa,” in Ein blaues Wunder: Blaudruck in Europa und Japan, ed. Hartmut Walravens (Berlin: Akademie, 1993), 69–76.

The Art of Making Indienne

149

Fig. 31: Sitten tapestry, fabric print with wooden printing blocks on linen, dyed with carbon black and red ochre, Northern Italy, second half of the fourteenth century. The image sequence shows an idiosyncratic blend of scenes from the Oedipus myth, as well as dance and combat scenes. The fragment potentially stems from the bishop’s palace at Sitten. Basel Historical Museum, Inv. 1897.48.

The biggest problem with these European printed products was their comparatively low colour intensity, wash resistance and light resistance. If we take Cennino Cennini at his word, who in his Libro dell’arte from 1437 wrote about the practice of printing and painting fabrics, the various red, yellow, and green colours were applied directly and not created through a combination of mordanting and dyeing.18 This made the colours vulnerable to light and water. Added to this was the fact that the dye content used for the various colours was often less intense than the dye content of foreign dyes.19 This, for example, applied to the ratio of woad and indigo, as well as to various types of madder.20 The printed cotton fabrics imported from India in increasing quantities from the sixteenth century onwards were of vastly better quality than European printed goods. They stood out on account of their powerful, multiple colours, and refined, exotic patterns. They

18 Cennini, Cennino, Das Buch von der Kunst oder Tractat der Malerei des Cennino Cennini da Colle di ­Valdelsa. trans. Albert Ilg (Vienna: Braumüller, 1871), 121–24. On Cennini, see also Smith, The Body of the Artisan, 96–97, 112. 19 Struckmeier, Textilfärberei, 171–72. 20 Thus with cotton, in particular, the European madder-dyeing industry produced only dull-brown to brickred tones of limited durability. The medieval practice of dyeing with kermes and cochineal was far superior by comparison. See Klaus Sulzer, Vom Zeugdruck zur Rotfärberei: Heinrich Sulzer (1800–1876) und die Türkischrot-Färberei Aadorf (Zurich: Chronos, 1991), 46; Gustav Schaefer, “Zur Geschichte der Türkischrotfärberei,” Ciba-Rundschau 47 (1940): 1723–32 and Gustav Schaefer, “Der Anbau und die Veredelung der Krappwurzel,” Ciba-Rundschau 47 (1940), 1714–22, especially 1720, 1723. For an earlier European example of printed linen in brown tones, see “Printed linen,” Victoria and Albert Museum Online Collection, http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O148454/printed-linen. Accessed 28 March 2018.

150

Kim Siebenhüner

aroused desire among consumers and producers alike, which, as we know, led European artisans to learn how to produce printed cotton fabrics based off the Indian template.21 This learning process relied on a substantial transfer of knowledge between India and Europe. From the Indian artisans, European calico printers learned the technique of generating brightly-coloured patterns through the gradual application of reserve pastes and mordant, followed by dye baths. Such a procedure could encompass a dozen or more production steps. For example, a fabric with a white, red, blue, and purple pattern would have needed treating with a reserve paste and multiple mordants before being immersed in a cold indigo bath and subsequently dyed in a bath of hot madder (fig. 32). What was new to European calico printers was not the use of mordants per se, but the combination of

Fig. 32: Painted cotton (kalamkari), seventeenth/eighteenth century (?), plain weave, 33 threads/cm. The application of paint (instead of a print), as well as the extremely fine cotton weft, are evidence of a fabric produced in India. Textile Museum St. Gallen, Inv. 25530. Photograph: Claudia Ravazzolo 21 Riello, Cotton. On the processes of import substitution, see Maxine Berg, “From Imitation to Invention: Creating Commodities in eighteenth-century Britain,” Economic History Review 55 (2002): 1–30; Maxine Berg, “In Pursuit of Luxury: Global History and British Consumer Goods in the Eighteenth Century,” Past and Present 182 (2004): 85–142. For the Swiss calico-printing industry in this context, also see Kim Siebenhüner, “Zwischen Imitation und Innovation: Die schweizerische Indienne-Industrie im 18. Jahrhundert,” Werkstatt Geschichte 25 (2017): 7–27.

The Art of Making Indienne

151

printing, mordanting, and dyeing in order to produce multi-coloured fabric patterns, the routine use of ‘new’ dyes such as indigo, and working with cotton fabrics. Acquiring this knowledge posed the fundamental challenge for European calico printers. Thanks to the research conducted by Giorgio Riello, Olivier Raveux, and others, we now have a rather good understanding of how the transfer of knowledge between India and Europe functioned.22 What remains unclear is how that knowledge surrounding new dyeing techniques reached the Swiss cantons. The key agents in the transfer of knowledge and technology were Armenian artisans from Persia and the Ottoman Empire. As we know, the network of Armenian merchants and artisans extended across the Indian Ocean, Russia, Central Asia and the Mediterranean.23 Armenian artisans had already carried the knowledge of Indian dyeing techniques to Persia and into the Ottoman Empire; now they also helped the domestic indienne workshops in Marseilles, Genoa, Livorno, and Amsterdam to boom. In Marseilles, the local printers employed Armenian artisans for the first time in 1672 (after which Armenian merchants went on to found their own indienne workshops).24 In 1678, two Amsterdam merchants employed an artisan from ­Çelebi in order to introduce the art of dyeing Indian cotton fabrics in Amersfoort.25 A similar process occurred in Genoa and Livorno.26 From these pioneering workshops, the new techniques were further disseminated as other European colourists and printers trained here as well. Through them, the knowledge of dyeing based on the Indian method began to circulate from the end of the seventeenth century onwards. Although it seems that no Armenian artisans were involved in founding the first indienne workshops in the Swiss cantons, Swiss calico printers nevertheless benefited from Europe’s pioneering workshops. For example, Samuel Ryhiner, the father of the Basel indienneur Johannes Ryhiner, learned his craft in Amsterdam. In his Traité sur la fabrication et le commerce des toiles peintes, Johannes Ryhiner wrote of his father:

22 Giorgio Riello, “Asian Knowledge and the Development of Calico Printing in Europe in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” Journal of Global History 5 (2010): 1–18; Olivier Raveux, “‘À la façon du Levant et de Perse’: Marseille et la naissance de l’indiennage européen (1648–1689),” Rives Méditerranéennes 29 (2008): 37–51. 23 Michel Aghassian and Kéram Kévonian, “Armenian Trade in the Indian Ocean in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in Asian Merchants and Businessmen in the Indian Ocean and the China Sea, ed. Denys Lombard and Jean Aubin (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2000), 154–77; Evelyn Korsch, “The Sceriman between Venice and New Julfa: An Armenian Trading Network and its Sociocultural Impacts (Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries),” Union in Separation: Diasporic Groups and Identities in the Eastern Mediterranean (1100–1800), ed. Georg Christ, Franz-Julius Morche, Roberto Zaugg, Wolfgang Kaiser, Stefan Burckhardt, and Alexander D. Beihammer (Rome: Viella, 2015), 363–78. 24 Raveux, “Marseille et la naissance de l’indiennage européen,” 42, 45. 25 Homburg, “From Colour Maker to Chemist,” 221. 26 Riello, “Asian Knowledge,” 15.

152

Kim Siebenhüner

He found a position with the Fæsch Company [based in Basel] who commissioned the purchase and printing for many foreign trading houses. This gave my father, who was twenty years old at the time, the opportunity to be in printing workshops on daily basis and to learn the technique.27 Samuel Ryhiner is just one example of many. The brothers Neuhofer in Augsburg had also learned the new printing and dyeing techniques in the Netherlands.28 In Bremen, Martin Wilckens – one of the city’s first calico printers – hired the Dutch master Borchard de Crone in 1690. In the contract with Wilckens, de Crone obligated himself to wholly and completely teach Mons. Martin Wilckens the art of dyeing, printing, and boiling calico, and for this reason not to leave this place until Mons. Wilckens has fully comprehended the above. He also permits the spouse of Mons. Martin Wilckens to attend the instruction and learn this art, but is not obligated to her in any matter; furthermore, he will instruct the labourer Segebade in the boiling and dyeing of calico.29 De Crone did not have to start his instruction from scratch, as Martin Wilckens’ father Henrich had already been a dyer of linen. Henrich had himself mastered the reserve-printing technique outlined above, which was used to create simple white patterns on a blue background.30 The transfer of Indian dyeing techniques, therefore, became a complex process in which old and new techniques complemented one another.31 Mastery of the Indian processes – in which reserve pastes, mordants, and ‘new’ dyes from overseas were

27 “Il trouva une Place dans la Maison fæsch originaire de Basle qui faisait la commission pour achats et impressions pour beaucoup de maisons etrangeres ce qui fournit à mon Pere qui avait vingt ans alors l’occasion d’être journellement dans les ateliers d’Impression et de prendre connaissance de cet art.” Musée de l’impression sur étoffes, Ryhiner, Traité sur la fabrication et le commerce des toiles peintes (1766), 251. In 1865, Daniel Dollfus-Ausset published parts of the tractate in his Matériaux pour la coloration des étoffes. See his Materiaux pour la coloration des etoffes (Paris: F. Savy, 1865), 2:1–147. Unless otherwise indicated, all citations are to the Musée de l’impression sur étoffes manuscript. 28 Claus-Peter Clasen, Textilherstellung in Augsburg in der frühen Neuzeit, 2 vols. (Augsburg: Wißner, 1995), 2:354–55. 29 “Erstlich Verheißt und verpflichtet sich kraft dieses Meister Borchard de Crone, Mons. Martin Wilkens die Kunst des Cotton färbens, druckens und abkoches aus dem grunde und Vollenkommen zu lehren, deßwegen auch nicht ehender von hier zu scheiden, bis er die selbige vollig begriffen: will auch gerne ge­ statten, daß Mons. Martin Wilkens Eheliebste dieser unterrichtung mit beywohne und die Kunst mit lerne, ihrentwegen aber an nichts gebunden seyn: wie auch will er den Knecht Segebade im Kochen und Färben der Cottonen weiter informieren.” F. Wilckens, “Der Kattundruck in Bremen im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert,” Melliand Textilberichte 12 (1964), 1386. 30 Wilckens, “Der Kattundruck in Bremen,” 1385. 31 Homburg, “From Colour Maker to Chemist,” 221–22.

The Art of Making Indienne

153

used to produce colourful patterns on cotton fabrics or mixed fabrics – built upon existing skills. It was a cumulative, rather than a revolutionary, process. Learning in foreign workshops, as in Ryhiner’s case, and the hiring of a foreign dyer, as with Wilckens, represented two pathways for the transfer of knowledge. In and around the Swiss cantons, a string of workshops in Geneva, Aargau, and Neuchatel were founded by Huguenots, who presumably had learned their craft in this way.32 The foundation of further workshops followed –Zurich in 1701, Bern in 1706, Basel in 1716, Thurgau around 1720, Herisau in 1735, Glarus in 1740, and Mulhouse in 1746.33 From these workshops, the knowledge of indiennage spread further. Designers, engravers, printers, colourists, and various labourers were united under one roof within the workshops. These were all experts who were as mobile as they were sought-after, and who transferred knowledge. Bernhard Greuter (1745–1822), for example, who founded a calico printing business in Kefikon in Thurgau in 1765, had acquired his knowledge in the workshop of Johann Heinrich Streiff in Glarus and the printing business of Johannes Merz in Herisau. A posthumous biography written in 1833 states that he had spied out the art of reserve printing at Streiff ’s workshop and experimented with it in Merz’s manufactory, before founding his own small commercial printing business in Kefikon.34 In contrast, Schmalzer, Köchlin, and Dollfus – who set up the first indienne manufactory in Mulhouse in 1746 – were not experts in this field and therefore hired professionals. They acquired the services of an indienneur named Despland, who had previously worked in

32 Daniel Vasserot, for example, came to Geneva as a Huguenot refugee and founded an indienne manufactory in Les Eaux-Vives in 1692. See Liliane Mottu-Weber, “Daniel Vasserot,” Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz (HLS), http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D7405.php. Accessed 20 November 2017. On Aargau and Neuchatel, see Adolf Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie des Kantons Glarus,” Jahrbuch des Historischen Vereins des Kantons Glarus 34 (1902), 113–124; Anne Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke der Schweiz im 18. Jahrhundert, ihre Vorläufer, orientalische und europäische Techniken, Zeugdruck-Manufakturen, die Weiterentwicklung (Basel: Basler Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1968), 1:40–47; and Pierre Caspard, La Fabrique-Neuve de Cortaillod: Entreprise et Profit pendant la Révolution Industrielle 1752–1854 (Paris: Sorbonne, 1979). 33 Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie des Kantons Glarus,” 85–144; Werner Fetscherin, Beitrag zur Geschichte der Baumwollindustrie im alten Bern (Weinfelden: Neuenschwander, 1924), 27–36; Peter Witschi, “Die textile Welt,” in Herisau: Geschichte der Gemeinde Herisau, ed. Thomas Fuchs (Herisau: Appenzeller Verlag, 1999), 124–31; Ursch-Bernier, Négoce et industrie, 101–49; Ernest Menolfi, Hauptwil-Gottshaus (Frauenfeld: Verlag Huber, 2011), 71–79, 110–17, 123–24; and Rolf von Arx, Jürg Davatz, and August Rohr, Industriekultur im Kanton Glarus: Streifzüge durch 250 Jahre Geschichte und Architektur (Zurich: Südostschweiz, 2005), 13–15, 363. 34 Anonymous, description of the manufacturing location of Islikon and the life story of Bernhard Greuter, in: Rudolf Hanhart, “Beschreibung des Ortes Islikon und Lebensbeschreibung von Bernhard Greuter,” Thurgauisches Neujahrsblatt 10 (1833). On the calico printing industry in eastern Switzerland, see the contribution of Ernest Menolfi.

154

Kim Siebenhüner

his brothers’ workshop in Cressier in the principality of Neuchatel. In 1756, they additionally hired an engraver from Saint-Sulpice.35 When another new dyeing method was transmitted to Europe from the Near East and India in the mid-eighteenth century, knowledge of it was disseminated along a similar pattern. This was the Turkish red or Rouge d’Andrinople, which was manufactured by oiling and mordanting the yarn or cloth before dyeing it in a madder bath and steaming it with a lye after dyeing.36 In this way, a veritable colour varnish in a durable and luminous red was created. Artisans from the Ottoman Empire – from Smyrna, Thessaloniki, and Adrianople, in particular – had long been practiced this procedure, but its transfer to Europe did not occur until the eighteenth century. In 1755, an association of Greek artisans and merchants with the imperial warrant formed a Türkisch roth Garnfärberey (Turkish red-dyeing business) in Vienna and recorded the ‘arcana’ (or trade secrets) of Turkish red-dyeing.37 As early as the 1740s, French manufacturers had brought Greek dyers to Rouen and the Languedoc in order to learn the technique of Turkish red-dyeing.38 The interest in Turkish red-dyeing was so great that the French government made the recipes public knowledge in 1765.39 In the case of Turkish red, the transfer of knowledge and technology became concrete in the targeted hiring of artisans, in travels, and in the veritable selling of knowledge. Louis-Auguste Felix de Beaujour (1765–1836), the French diplomat and consul general in the Ottoman Empire, had visited the Turkish red-dyeing workshops in Thessaly, Smyrna, and elsewhere in 1787 and 1797, and dispatched samples back to France.40 In Zurich in 1784, Heinrich Zeller (1746–95) was the first person to establish a Turkish red-dyeing workshops in the Swiss cantons. He had learned the technique in the 1760s as an apprentice in Nîmes.41 At the start of the nineteenth century, the Sulzer company in Zurich also switched

35 Ursch-Bernier, Négoce et industrie, 109–11. 36 See Karl Reinking and Sabri Atayolu, “Zur Entstehung und Frühgeschichte des Türkischrots,” Melliand Textilberichte 18 (1937), 459; Sulzer, Vom Zeugdruck zur Rotfärberei, 46, 109–13; and Schaefer, “Zur Geschichte der Türkischrotfärberei.” 37 Olga Katsiardi-Hering, “The Allure of Red Cotton Yarn, and how it came to Vienna: Associations of Greek Artisans and Merchants operating between the Ottoman and Habsburg Empires,” Merchants in the Ottoman Empire, ed. Suraiya Faroqhi and Gilles Veinstein (Leuven: Peeters, 2008), 101–5, 119–23. 38 Jean-Baptiste Vitalis, Cour élémentaire de teinture sur laine, soie, lin, chauvre et coton et sur l’art d’imprimer les toiles (Paris: Bossange, 1823), 234–35; Nieto-Galan, Colouring Textiles, 19–20; Schaefer, “Zur Geschichte der Türkischrotfärberei,” 1728–29; and Reinking and Atayolu, “Zur Entstehung.” 39 See Mémoire contenant le procédé de la teinture du coton rouge-incarnat d’Andrinople, sur le coton filé (­Paris: De l’Imprimerie Royale, 1765). 40 Nieto-Galan, Colouring Textiles, 20; and Félix Beaujour, Tableau du commerce de la Grèce, formé d’après une année moyenne, depuis 1787 jusqu’en 1797 (Paris: Imprimerie de Crapelet, 1799). 41 Christian Baertschi, “Heinrich Zeller,” HLS, http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D32368.php. Accessed 20 November 2017.

The Art of Making Indienne

155

from indiennage to Turkish red-dyeing.42 Yet although the processes of Turkish red-dyeing had been practised in various locations throughout Europe since the mid-eighteenth century and had even been published, the trade in knowledge was still a good business in the 1780s. For example, in a 1781 edition of Basel’s Avisblatt newspaper, a merchant offered to sell his knowledge: A merchant of Neuchatel who spent approximately 15 years in Turkey, where he traded exclusively in Turkish yarn, knew how to acquire the secret of this colour from his dyer. After conducting repeat experiments to ensure that he had not been deceived, he now offers to reveal the same at advantageous conditions, with a solemn promise to not share it with anyone but the purchaser.43 We do not know what became of this offer. Yet it was clearly not that uncommon for people to sell the ‘secret’ of Turkish red-dyeing. Although a dedicated Turkish red-dyeing workshop had already been established in Vienna in 1755, foreign merchants and chemists were still trying to sell the recipes for Turkey red for great sums of money in that same city twenty years later.44 Armenians also continued to be important players: as late as 1783, Jean-Pierre Chambrier d’Oleyres, citizen of Neuchatel and ambassador to the King of Prussia, reported that the Armenian Isaye Clair of Parma was willing to come to Berlin “and share his secret knowledge of dyeing cotton red.”45 The mobility of highly specialised artisans and the training of regional and intraregional networks of colourists, printers, and designers ensured that the knowledge of i­ ndiennage and Turkish red-dyeing began to circulate in Europe. In the pioneering workshops of Marseilles, Amsterdam, and Genoa – and in Rouen, Aubenas, and Vienna in the case of Turkish red-dyeing – European artisans learned the new dyeing techniques and from there carried them out into the world, including to the Swiss cantons. When founding a new workshop, it was crucial to know people who had already mastered the designing of patterns, the creation of printing blocks, and the printing and dyeing of fabrics, and 42 Sulzer, Vom Zeugdruck zur Rotfärberei 43 “Ein Kaufmann von Neufchâtel, der sich ohngefehr 15 Jahre in der Türkey aufhielte, wo er sonderheitlich mit Türkengarn handelte, wußte sich von seinem Färber das Geheimniß dieser Farbe zu verschaffen, und da ihne wiederholte Versuche sicher stellen, daß er nicht hintergangen worden, so anerbietet er sich selbiges auf billige Bedingnisse zu entdecken, mit der feyerlichen Verpflichtung es niemanden, unter keinem Vorwand, als dem Käuffer mitzutheilen.” Wochentlicher Nachrichten aus dem Bericht-Haus zu Basel, 1 March 1781, 71. 44 Katsiardi-Hering, “The Allure of Red Cotton Yarn,” 105. 45 “… et y porter son secret de la teinture du coton en rouge.” Archives de Chambrier, Journal de ­Chambrier d’Oleyres, Tome 13, 21 November 1783, 346. I thank Nadja Ackermann for granting me access to this excerpt from the source material.

156

Kim Siebenhüner

who could pass on this knowledge. It was therefore essential to learn through personal instruction and working hands-on. Even published knowledge seemed to be worth little without the requisite experience; otherwise, there would have been no trade in the ‘secret.’

2. Johannes Ryhiner and the Transcription of Knowledge The dissemination of the new dyeing methods mainly occurred via mobile experts. However, simultaneously to this process, a series of manuscripts describing the Indian methods began to circulate. Alongside learning by doing, a textual transfer also took place. We know of a half-dozen manuscripts, predominantly penned by members of religious orders or employees of the East India companies, who committed their own observations to paper.46 This was therefore a transfer not of tractates or even recipes by Indian artisans or authors, but rather of what European observers had understood of the Indian dyeing techniques and subsequently written down. This fact is worth emphasising not only because it relativises the value of the manuscripts in the knowledge-transfer process, but also because it highlights a difference in the knowledge cultures in India and Europe in the eighteenth century. Dyeing techniques also entered the written corpora of knowledge in India. They were mentioned in lexicons and treatises.47 For example, the anonymous medical tractate Nuskha Khulasatul Majarrebat, written before the eighteenth century, features an entire chapter on dyeing and printing, including the requisite recipes.48 These instructions did not fundamentally differ from the recipes of European dyers, even if the substances they contained varied due to different regional availability. Nevertheless, India and Europe did vary with respect to the transcription of knowledge. Knowledge of natural history and crafts was passed on orally to a greater degree in India than in Europe. There were various reasons for this: keeping knowledge within a family increased that family’s social status; there was as yet no 46 These are the manuscripts by George Roques (1678), Hendrik Adriaan Van Rheede (1688), Antoine ­Georges Nicolas de Beaulieu (approximately 1734), and Père Coeurdoux (1742/1747). Two other manuscripts were respectively written by Chevalier de Quérelle, who used the writings of Beaulieu in his Traité sur les toiles peintes (1760), and by Johann Ryhiner, who is discussed below. For the Roques manuscript, see Paul Schwartz, Printing on Cotton at Ahmedabad, India in 1678: from an unedited manuscript in the “Bibliothèque Nationale,” (Ahmedabad: Calico Museum of Textiles, 1969). See as well, George Bryan Souza, “The French Connection: Indian Cottons and their early modern Technology,” in How India Clothed the World, ed. Giorgio Riello and Tirthankar Roy (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 347–63, and Eiluned Edwards’ contribution to this volume. On the manuscript by Van Rheede, see Hendrik Adriaan Van Rheede, “The Painting of Chintz (1688),” in Woven Cargoes: Indian Textiles in the East, ed. John Guy (London: Thames and Hudson, 1998), 34–36. On the Beaulieu manuscript, see John Irwin and Katherine B. Brett, Origins of Chintz (London : H.M.S.O, 1970). 47 Hamida Khatoon Naqvi, “Colour Making and Dyeing of Cotton Textiles in Medieval Hindustan,” Indian Journal of History of Science 15 (1980), 58–70, here 59. 48 Naqvi, “Colour Making and Dyeing”.

The Art of Making Indienne

157

established book-printing industry; and the network of knowledge-generating institutions was wide-meshed.49 This set limits to the circulation and proliferation of knowledge. To this day, historians know little about the pre-colonial knowledge cultures of Indian dyers and textile producers.50 Yet science and technology studies have shown that contemporary weavers, who have revitalised the practice of dyeing with natural colours, have developed a vocabulary that transcends the boundaries between implicit and formalised knowledge.51 We may cautiously conclude that dyers in pre-colonial times possessed highly specialised knowledge which was not, however, transferred into written and academic knowledge. It existed as tacit somatic and collective knowledge, which was achieved by imitating a master, repeating the same activity time and again, and through creative variation. In Europe, by contrast, the transcription of knowledge concerning dyes and dyeing grew rapidly during the eighteenth century. Thanks to the availability of paper and printing presses, academic institutions, and the marketability of knowledge, there existed a broad cultural context that created incentives to transcribe academic, technological, entrepreneurial, and commercial knowledge. People from all manner of different professions and disciplines were interested in the subject of dyes. Drysalters and manufacturers ensured the increase in the trading and production of dyes, natural philosophers argued over the theory of dyeing, and painters and colourists experimented in dye workshops. Thanks to commercial information, competing approaches to dyeing and new techniques, there was a boom in the literature on dyes and dyeing. Agustí Nieto-Galan has shown that learned chemists, printers, manufacturers, drysalters, colourists, and designers moved within a truly international network that was bound together by personal contacts, travel, espionage, and the circulation of texts, patents, machines, and products.52 The writing-down of knowledge was an established and common practice in this context, as the example of Johannes Ryhiner (1728–1790) makes clear. Ryhiner came from a family of merchants that had settled in Basel in the sixteenth century. His grandfather traded in linen cloth, and in 1716 his father Samuel had – as mentioned above – established the first indienne workshop in Basel. Following his appren49 Anjana Singh, “Botanical Knowledge in Early Modern Malabar and the Netherlands: A Review of Van Reede’s Hortus Malabaricus,” in Transformations of Knowledge in Dutch Expansion, ed. Susanne Friedrich, Arndt Brendecke, Stefan Ehrenpreis (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015), 193, 201–3. 50 By contrast, pre-modern textile production has been thoroughly researched. See Vijaya Ramaswamy, Textiles and Weavers in Medieval South India (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1985), and Prasannan Parthasarathi, The Transition to a Colonial Economy: Weavers, Merchants and Kings in South India 1720–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). 51 Annapurna Mamidipudi, “Towards a Theory of Innovation in Handloom Weaving in India” (PhD diss., Maastricht University, 2016), 109–59; Annapurna Mamidipudi, “Telling Color by Smell, Memory and Song: The Innovation of Traditional Dyeing Craft in South India,” (lecture, Iron Library, Schaffhausen 40th History of Technology Conference, Schaffhausen, 17–18 November 2017). See also Harry M. Collins, Tacit and Explicit Knowledge (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2010). 52 Nieto-Galan, Colouring Textiles, 123.

158

Kim Siebenhüner

ticeship at a Genevan freight-forwarding company, Johannes joined his father’s business. However, Ryhiner forged his career not just as a manufacturer, but also as a statesman (fig. 33). From 1761 onwards, he was the guild master of the Guild of Confrères (in which the money-­changers, goldsmiths, tinsmiths, and scholars were represented), and thus a member of the city of Basel’s Small Council (Kleiner Rat). Over the years, he took on countless other offices: he served as a magistrate and privy councillor, was the director of guilds from 1777 to 1789, and held the office of mayor from 1789 until his death in 1790.53 In 1766, he wrote the aforementioned Traité sur la fabrication et le commerce des Fig. 33: Johann Ryhiner. Staatsarchiv Basel, toiles peintes, but he also wrote about his PA 115a II B 5 life, travels, local history, economics, and politics. Ryhiner therefore viewed himself as a man of letters. He also owned an extensive library.54 He was initially modest in outlining his intentions in writing his Traité: Without going beyond the reach of an entrepreneur, I restrict myself to writing down my simple thoughts at the beginning of this small treatise, waiting for a more experienced writer to give more precise information.55 Ryhiner thus wrote as a manufacturer, and in this role had definite educational intentions.56 Though his Traité was not intended for the general public – this is evidenced not 53 See Samuel Schüpbach-Guggenbühl, “Johnnes Ryhiner,” HLS, http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D19276. php. Accessed 20 November 2017; Gustav Ryhiner, “Bürgermeister Johannes Ryhiner: 1728–1790,” Basler Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Altertumskunde 45 (1946): 59–85; Gustav Ryhiner, “Johann Ryhiner: Anmerkungen über das Merkwürdige, so in den Städten, die ich zu sehen Gelegenheit gehabt, wahrzunehmen, nach der ordnung, wie ich solche eine nach der anderen besucht,” Basler Jahrbuch (1936): 54–98. 54 Ryhiner, “Bürgermeister,” 59, 79–81; and Ryhiner, “Anmerkungen,” 59. 55 “Sans entrer dans des examens profonds hors de la portée d’un fabricant, je me borneray de donner a la tete de ce petit ouvrage mes simples conjectures avec les raisons qui me diterminent de les former en attendant qu’un plume plus exercée nous donne la dessus quelque chose de plus precis” Ryhiner, Traité, 2. 56 Ryhiner, Traité, 102: “Seconde partie, qui enseigne au directeur le moyen d’entretenir l’ordre et la ponctualité dans la fabrique.”

The Art of Making Indienne

159

only by the immediate immersion in the topic, but also by the fact that the manuscript was not published57 – Ryhiner nevertheless wanted to set out his comprehensive technical and commercial insights, possibly for his successors. Despite its individual character, the Traité was not exceptional. A genre at the interface between science, craftsmanship, and commerce was in keeping with the spirit of the age.58 Here, Ryhiner’s Traité can perhaps best be compared to Paul Gout’s Mémoire de teinture (after 1762), in which the author described dyes, dyeing processes, and recipes. Like Ryhiner, Gout was the director of a workshop, and as such an empirical chemist, expert colourist and entrepreneur united in one person.59 He reflected on his products in terms of both quality and profitability. And like Ryhiner, Gout was also “eager to generously share every bit of knowledge he has accumulated through his training and professional experience.”60 Ryhiner described the entire production process for indienne, from purchasing the cloth and designing the patterns, through to the printing, dyeing, and finishing stages. He provided a historical summary not only of the origins of the technique in India, but also of the early days of the calico printing industry in the Swiss cantons. He explained everything that was necessary for the proper running of a workshop; what skills the designers, printers, and dyers needed; and which tasks the manufacturer took on. Finally, Ryhiner added numerous records from day-do-day operations: recipes, short protocols of dye tests, a list of the ‘chemicals commonly used in the workshop, as well as numerous comments regarding observations and experiences in the workshop. Admittedly, his treatise is not all from the same mould. Structured into thirty-one articles, the treatise not only encompasses heterogeneous content but has also been added to by another author. Thus, Ryhiner’s statements in French are accompanied by further writings on recipes, dyeing processes, and working costs in German from a different hand.61 Ryhiner knew that the techniques of indiennage came from India, although he was incorrect in his dating of it.62 Of those half-dozen manuscripts describing the Indian dyeing methods, Ryhiner was familiar with two, namely a letter by the Jesuit Père Coeurdoux (from 1742) and the report of Antoine Georges Nicolas de Beaulieu (from approximately 57 As previously mentioned, parts of the manuscript were not published until 1865 by Dollfus-Ausset. 58 Dominique Cardon, The Dyer’s Handbook: Memoirs of an 18th Century Master Colourist (Havertown: Oxbow, 2016), 16. 59 Paul Gout directed the Manufacture royale de Bize in the Languedoc. Unlike Ryhiner’s manufactory, it produced coloured woollen fabrics, predominantly destined for export to the Levant. See Cardon, Dyer’s Handbook. 60 Cardon, Dyer’s Handbook, 20. 61 Ryhiner, Traité, 230: “Proces über samlliche Farben wie solche heuth zu tage als den Marti 1764 sowohl in der Statt als vor dem Thor gemacht werden.” 62 Ryhiner believed that Indian artisans had been printing and painting cotton fabrics since the sixteenth century, when in fact, the technology dated back to the second millennium before Christ. See Riello, Cotton, 80.

160

Kim Siebenhüner

1734).63 Coeurdoux’s letter had been published in 1743 in the Lettre édifiantes et curieuses, and Beaulieu’s manuscript was clearly circulated among experts.64 Yet what value did these descriptions of Indian dyeing techniques written by European observers truly possess? Although Ryhiner emphasised that European dyers had adopted the same system as the Indian artisans, he also made clear that many of the details of this system required extensive adaptations. Due to the higher wage costs, painting of the fabrics was often eschewed in Europe. However, printing onto the fabrics, for example, required that the mordants be thickened in order to achieve clear pattern contours. Indian artisans also had an advantage in the readier availability of certain dyes and raw materials, such as indigo and cotton cloths.65 Just how much was required in order to adopt these Indian dyeing methods becomes apparent in Ryhiner’s instructions on printing and dyeing. There was a huge gap between the knowledge of how to perform an activity in theory and the successful execution of that activity. In his tractate, Ryhiner sought to narrow this gap by writing down a variety of tips and tricks. Going beyond a basic explanation of how calico printing was done, Ryhiner warned about the pitfalls of the material and emphasised which work steps required particular attention and what skills the workers had to possess. Thus, for example, the beauty of a pattern created by the designer depended on its accurate implementation by the engraver.66 Thereafter, the printer had to ensure that the printing blocks were not blocked or bent, so that the dye could be properly applied; the printing blocks needed to be pressed onto the cloth with equal force, and the printer should not under any circumstances thin a toothick dye with water, as this would make the colours pale on the fabric.67 Ryhiner warned colourists not to vary the amounts and qualities of the ingredients, and to be scrupulously exacting in the mixing of the mordants and dyes, and in the timing and temperature of the dye bath. Before a fabric was immersed in the red dye bath, the thickening agent used in the mordant had to be completely removed; otherwise, the mordant would not properly interact with the dye. Once the fabric was then immersed in the madder bath, it had to be removed at the moment when the water began to cloud.68 Dyers and printers, Ryhiner continued, therefore had to rely on their senses – they had to feel whether the printing block was evenly applied and see when the water began to cloud. With all this information, Ryhiner made explicit the knowledge that experienced indienneurs had tacitly internalised. Through observation, instruction, and repetition, they 63 64 65 66 67 68

Ryhiner, Traité, 9–18. Irwin and Brett, Origins, 42–45. Ryhiner, Traité, 18–23, 26. Ibid., 33, 45. Ibid., 46–50. Ibid., 51–54, 56.

The Art of Making Indienne

161

had acquired the skills of their craft. Their knowledge was comprised of work steps, a tacit grasp of materials, and empirical chemistry. Ryhiner attempted to set down this knowledge in words. His explanations show how many errors could occur specifically during any of the general steps for printing and dyeing, such as preparing the cloth, mixing the dye bath, or blending the dyes. Even the smallest deviation from the correct procedure, from the tried-and-tested recipe, could negatively affect or even ruin the quality of a fabric. Ryhiner was writing as an expert on his own product. His explanations were ultimately intended to demonstrate his complete understanding and mastery of these highly specialised processes.69 His self-perception as ‘Director of the workshop’ (‘directeur de la fabrique’) was based not only on a clear staffing hierarchy, but also on an astonishing contempt for the colourists. At the apex of the artisan hierarchy stood the designer, followed by the engraver, printer and dyer, although Ryhiner claimed at different points that all four of these represented the essence of indiennage.70 Nevertheless, he had an extremely poor opinion of the native colourists: Our colourists are for the most part ignorant employees who do everything haphazardily without knowing why. They are detestable charlatans who try to hide their ignorance under a plethora of recipes that they do not understand, and with which they constantly put the entrepreneur at risk with superfluous expenses.71 Ryhiner therefore envisaged a hierarchy of knowledge: whereas the colourist was responsible for exactly following the recipe, a deeper understanding of the chemistry involved in dyeing was the exclusive preserve of the manufacturer. And so the section on the ‘directeur de la fabrique’ also contains what Ryhiner termed “a theory of colours.” He knew that when dyeing the indiennes, the metal salts of the mordants reacted with the dyes, and, therefore, that the choice of metal salts determined the colour tone.72 Even though his mechanistic conception of the actual reaction still had nothing in common with modern dye chemistry, Ryhiner contributed to the natural science debates of his time. His conception that the crystals in the metal salts settled into the ‘interstices’ of the threads in the fabric, and there combined with the dyes that had penetrated into the threads’ interior, followed the ideas of one of the leading chemists of the age, Jean Hellot, whose L’art de la teinture 69 Ibid., 49–50. 70 Ibid., 55: “Le coloriste et l’Imprimeur donne l’ame a l’impression.”; ibid., 85: “Les dessins sont l’ame de l’impression.” 71 “Nos coloristes pour la plusparts sont manoeuvres ignorants qui font tout a l’aventure sans savoir pourquoy ils sont avec cela des charlatans detestables qui cherchent a cacher leur ignorance sous le voile d’un galimatias de recettes qu’ils n’entendent pas et avec les quelles ils mettent a tout moment les fabricants en risque et en dépenses superflues.” Ibid., 51. 72 Ibid., 90–92.

162

Kim Siebenhüner

(1750) Ryhiner was familiar with and quoted from.73 He also adopted Hellot’s definition of the bon teint and petit teint.74 The rise of learned chemists was in part viewed with suspicion by dyers. Whereas the former were only inadequately able to explain the complex dyeing processes, the latter were not familiar with the characteristic academic style.75 Nevertheless, the art of indiennage and the science of chemistry were closely intertwined. As Ryhiner moved on from his own explanations of the dyeing technique to write about the theory of dyeing, so did Sigismund Friedrich Hermbstädt (1760–1833), apothecary and professor of chemistry in Berlin from 1791 onwards. Hermbstädt transitioned from the chemical principles of dyeing to the practice of dyeing (and describing one as theory and the other as practice).76 Moreover, Ryhiner created transitions not only between implicit and explicit knowledge, but also between artisanal, entrepreneurial, and academic knowledge. On the one hand, he transcribed unspoken knowledge, comprising sensory impressions, work steps, and processes. He explained knowledge that he and his employees had gained through experience and experimentation. On the other hand, he embedded his own entrepreneurial and technical expertise within the wider specialist discourses of his era. He knew and paraphrased the few reports on Indian techniques; he engaged with the treatise by Jean Hellot and acquired knowledge of the French botanist Joseph Pitton de Tournefort, in order to deepen his own knowledge of materials such as madder.77 Even though the Traité sur la fabrication et le commerce des toiles peintes is no academic treatise, it is also not an instruction manual. Instead, it is a hybrid text that makes apparent the fluid transitions between craftsmanship, entrepreneurship, and natural science in the domain of dyeing in the eighteenth century.78 73 Ibid., 90–91; and Jean Hellot, L’art de la teinture des laines e des étoffes de laine en grand et petit teint (Paris, 1750), 42–43. 74 Ryhiner, Traité, 226. 75 Ibid., 85–87. 76 On Hermbstädt, see Sigismund Hermbstädt, Grundriß der Färbekunst, oder allgemeine theoretische und praktische Anleitung zur rationellen Ausübung der Wollen-, Seiden-, Baumwollen- und Leinenfärberey, 5 vols. (Leipzig: Rottmann, 1802–13). 77 Ryhiner, Traité, 15, 207, 226. 78 In light of the international network mentioned by Nieto-Galan, one might assume that the institutional links between indienneurs and natural scientists were also strong in the Swiss cantons. Yet this does not appear to have been the case. The Naturforschende Gesellschaft in Zurich (“Society of Natural Sciences Zurich”), the oldest such society in Switzerland and founded in 1746, only became interested in the chemistry of dyeing and bleaching at a relatively late stage. It was only in the early nineteenth century that the first lectures on the topic were given – some by scholars, others by Zurich-based dyers. See Sarah Baumgartner, “Das nützliche Wissen: Akteure, Tätigkeiten, Kommunikationspraxis und Themen der Naturforschenden Gesellschaft in Zürich, 1746 bis ca. 1830” (PhD diss., University of Bern, forthcoming 2018). My sincere thanks to Sarah Baumgartner for providing me with advance access to her chapter “Chemie in der Naturforschenden Gesellschaft.”

The Art of Making Indienne

163

3. Between Secrecy and Circulation: Learning how to Dye In light of the sophisticated technique of indiennage, the quality of the products continued to pose problems. It was and remained a challenge for European calico printers to achieve the standards of Indian printers.79 Many of the Indian textiles dating from the eighteenth century had been painted, or printed and painted, with the utmost skill (fig. 32).80 By contrast, the majority of European indienne was printed. Although some Swiss workshops did manage to perfect the art of calico printing in the course of the eighteenth century – the Bernese workshop of Johann Friedrich Küpfer was famed for its ‘fine wares’ and ‘prettiest designs’81 – a large proportion of the mass-produced goods failed to achieve

Fig. 34: Printed cotton, manufactured in Switzerland, mid-eighteenth century. Plain weave, 13 threads/cm, reserve print with printing blocks, indigo bath. The textile fragment shows how patterns can “slip”: due to inexact printing, the red infill does not sit exactly within the white contours. Textile Museum St. Gallen, Inv. 25641. Photograph: author. 79 Chapman and Chassagne, European Textile Printers, 204. 80 See pictures 38, 39, 51, 52 in Amelia Peck, ed., Interwoven Globe: the Worldwide Textile Trade, 1500–1800 (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2013). 81 Karl von Zinzendorf and Otto Deutsch, “Bericht des Grafen Karl von Zinzendorf über seine handelspolitische Studienreise durch die Schweiz 1764,” in Basler Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Altertumskunde 35 (1936), 296

164

Kim Siebenhüner

this standard of quality. Items dating from this era reveal misaligned patterns and imprecise tessellation (fig. 34). Company records mention the mishaps that occurred in the trade. From one Mulhouse workshop, we hear a colourist complain “that he … had not achieved the right hue of red as he was as yet still unfamiliar with the properties of the local water.”82 This is because the dyes reacted differently when boiling the fabrics depending on the water’s mineral content. Johann Heinrich Mayr, indienneur in Arbon in Thurgau, reports frankly in his self-testimony of “an entire batch of spoiled goods” which, due to a wrongly blended dye bath, were “lacking in colour once removed from the kettle.”83 There were also numerous complaints in the correspondence of the Laué manufactory in Aargau. Customers complained of the poor execution of the prints, colours that had not come out as intended, and faulty deliveries.84 The number of defects was in some cases so great that goods needed to be auctioned off. In 1772, the company Mebold, Hartenstein & Cie., based in Sulz am Neckar in the dutchy of Württemberg, implored Duke Karl Eugen (1728–93) “to be permitted to create a lottery using some of the cotton and calico garments manufactured by the company and currently in storage, some of which are defective and others of which are out of fashion and therefore no longer saleable, as well as wares accepted in lieu of bad debts, and in this way generate revenue.”85 Complaints over the quality of the indienne are testimony to the learning gap between knowledge and ability. The mastery of new dyeing methods required that European calico printers engage in the practice of trial and error, a practice which in the Ryhiner workshop resulted in extensive collections of recipes, short protocols, and comments on experiments with dyes. The manuscripts describing the Indian dyeing methods had generally named one set of ingredients for manufacturing red, yellow, or green. Yet many workshops had several 82 “dass Ihm … die rothe farb nicht wohl ausgefallen wegen dass Ihm die Eigenschaften der hiesigen Wasser noch unbekand.” See Ursch-Bernier, Négoce et industrie, 170. 83 “Im Sommer 1795 sezte es auf einmal nicht einzelne Stüke – sondern ein ganze Parthie gefehlte Waar […] der ganze Ansaz der Farbe (200 Maß) mußte untauglich seyn, – zuspät aber entdekte man es, – Menge von Stüken waren davon verarbeitet u. erschienen aus dem Keßel gefehlt in der Farbe.” See Johann Heinrich Mayr, Meine Lebenswanderung: historisch-kritische Edition der autobiografischen Schriften von Johann Heinrich Mayr, ed. Kurt Buenzli und André Salathé, 4 vols. (Frauenfeld: Huber, 2010), 2:359. 84 For example, one customer in Antwerp complained of “the purples … which are too pale, and the poorly executed, double-red embroidery.” See Gabi Schopf,“Kaufen und Verkaufen,” (conference presentation, Doktorandenkolloquium von André Holenstein and Heinrich Richard Schmidt, University of Bern, Bern, 24 January 2015). 85 “aus einem Theil ihrer auf dem Lager habenden selbst fabricirten Cotton und Zitze, welche theils in der fabrication nicht reussirt haben, theils außer Mode gekommen und nicht mehr wohl verkäuflich seyen, nebst anderen an bösen Schulden angenommenen Waaren, eine Lotterie errichten und solche auf diese Arth absetzen zu dörffen.” See Hauptstaatsarchiv Stuttgart, A 213 Büschel 6623, “Consilium secretum” to Duke Karl Eugen von Württemberg, Stuttgart, 25 April 1772 (n.p.). My thanks to Tilman Haugg, who generously provided me with access to this source excerpt.

The Art of Making Indienne

165

recipes, either purchased or self-developed, for making a single colour. For example, in his collection of recipes, Ryhiner describes seven different red mordants alone; one from the ‘first colourist’ Matheu, one from the colourist Haberly, two created through trial and error in 1738, one from the colourist Schwartz, one dating from 1754 and used for cloths not pre-treated with oak apple (a tanning agent), and one from the “blanchisseur Iselin,” which resulted in a dark red.86 The recipes often differed only in nuances, by varying the quantity of a certain metal salt or adding an additional substance. Alum remained the basis for red mordants.87 Ryhiner’s writings make apparent that recipes were developed, collected, and tried and tested over the years (fig. 35). He often noted down on a recipe when it had been tested and deemed to be good, such as a reserve paste for dyeing in an indigo bath or a recipe for yellow recorded in 1765.88 Other experiments were conducted with cold indigo baths in 1762.89 New substances were also tested in the Ryhiner workshop. For example, Ryhiner wrote that in 1766, a man from Thuringia had offered him a substance called Japanese pea, which should be used in combination with rubber as a thickening agent: “We tested this chemical but it was of little use.”90 By contrast, the experiments with Sauerwasser (literally sour water) from that same year were satisfactory: This ‘sourwater’ was tried in the workshop in 1766, and we found that the white fabrics, treated with this water, turned out whiter from the madder bath and that the colours of the coloured fabrics were prettier.91 Once the fundamental technique of combining mordanting and printing became known, learning the art of indiennage meant accumulating one’s own experience with dyes, new ingredients, recipes, and chemical reactions as well as making mistakes, accepting losses in quality, and using observation, repetition, and variation in order to perfect one’s own craftsmanship.92

86 87 88 89 90 91

Ryhiner, Traité, 115–117. Ibid., 118, 184–185. Ibid., 138, 178. Ibid., 144: “Epreuve de la Cuve froide faitte en 1762 et trouve bonne.” “Nous avons éprouvé cette drogue mais elle n’a rendu que peux usage,” Ibid., 183. “Ce Sauerwasser … a été essayé dans la fabrique en 1766, et nous avons trouvé que les pièces blanches passées dans cette eau sortaient du garançage plus blanches et que les pièces teintes en sortant de cette eau étaient plus belles en colour.” Ryhiner, Traité, ed. Dollfus, Matériaux pour la coloration des étoffes, 107. 92 On learning through trial and error, see Sven Dupré, “Doing it Wrong: The Translation of Artisanal Knowledge and the Codification of Error,” in The Structures of Practical Knowledge, 167–87.

166

Fig. 35: Excerpt from Ryhiner’s Traité, in which he provides the ingredients and blend ratios for indiennes with a purple background, for “mordoré”, and for green, with corresponding samples pasted into the text. Musée de l’impression sur étoffes, Mulhouse, Johann Ryhiner, Traité sur la fabrication et le commerce des toiles peintes (1766), S. 179.

Kim Siebenhüner

Tried-and-tested recipes, colour tests, and the optimisation of dyeing processes nominally formed part of a workshop’s business secrets. Yet in reality, recipes were handled in a great variety of ways. On the one hand, manufacturers endeavoured to keep their art a secret. Johann Heinrich Streiff, for example, had earned himself a reputation through his blue prints. Founded in 1740, his workshop in Glarus was known for its particularly skilful execution of cold blue, dyeing in a cold indigo bath. Nevertheless, Karl von Zinzendorf (1739– 1813) wrote of his business trip to Switzerland in 1764: “Notwithstanding any secrecy on Streiff ’s part, the dyers of Herisau have learned this art from him.”93 The aforementioned Bernhard Greuter had spied on the workshop’s colourist and experimented with the technique in the printing business of Johannes Merz in Herisau.94 The fact that merchants offered to exclusively sell the ‘secret’ of Turkish red-dyeing is also evidence of the efforts made to keep technical knowledge secret. A workshop that had gained a competitive advantage through its expertise then also had to try and maintain its market lead.

93 “Die Herisauer haben, aller Geheimhaltung des Streifs ungeachtet, ihm diese Kunst abgelernt.” See Zinzendorf and Deutsch, “Bericht des Grafen Karl von Zinzendorf,”, 235. 94 On the problem of espionage, see Siebenhüner, “Zwischen Imitation und Innovation.”

The Art of Making Indienne

167

On the other hand, knowledge of recipes within the Swiss calico printing industry was not concentrated within a single person. This distinguished calico printing from the porcelain industry, which emerged in Europe at the same time. Both industries were part of a mimetic economy that imitated Asian goods and which used import substitutes to satisfy European consumer demands. Yet the knowledge of porcelain manufacturing was strictly guarded. At the Royal Porcelain Manufactory in Berlin, for example, formal arcanists were appointed who were in possession of the recipes and subject to strict conditions. They were not allowed to share their knowledge under any circumstances.95 As far as we know, such arcanists were never appointed within the Swiss calico printing industry. On the contrary, knowledge of recipes was virtually commercialised. Ryhiner’s writings reveal that many recipes had been purchased commercially. These, for example, included a recipe for russet, which had been bought from an itinerant dyemaker in 1774, or a recipe for a purple mordant and one for ‘English blue,’ both of which had been acquired from the dyemaker Anton Brünings in Bremen. English blue was a dye that could be printed or painted directly onto the fabric.96 Ryhiner (or one of his employees) had corresponded with the dyemaker concerning the purchase of this recipe: When he [Anton Brünings] was informed that one wished to purchase the English blue, he replied that he would provide instruction in the making of it for a suitable fee, which one would have to send him in advance; yet in his letter, he included this very same blue recipe, writing that if it were found to be effective, he demanded forty ducats for it.97 Researchers have puzzled over the point at which European calico printers achieved mastery of direct printing with indigo.98 When Ryhiner purchased the recipe in 1746, he was at any rate instructed to preserve a certain secrecy: on the one hand, the recipe was for sale for the princely sum of forty guilders; on the other hand, it should be treated with discretion. There continued to be tension between the circulation of knowledge and the 95 Klein, “Chemical Experts,” 104–7; and Ursula Klein, “Depersonalizing the Arcanum,” Technology and Culture 55 (2014): 591–621. 96 For the itinerant dyemaker, see Ryhiner, Traité, 316. 97 “Alß man ihm [Anton Brünings] nun gemeldet daß man das Engl[isch] Blau zu haben wünscht so meldet er er werde es um ein angemessene discrition so man ihme vorhere einsenden müsse lehren, doch leget diises blau recept seinem brief bey und forderet wenn es probat befunden 40 Dukaten dafür.” Ryhiner, Traité, 152, 153, 288 (quote).  98 Paul Schwartz, “Contribution à l’histoire de l’application du bleu d’indigo dans l’indiennage européen,” Société industrielle de Mulhouse 11 (1953) : 63–78; Peter Floud, “The Origins of English Calico Printing,” Journal of the Society of Dyers and Colourists 86 (1960): 275–81; and Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke, 1:62–67. On the problems of applied blue, also see the article by Claudia Ravazzolo in this volume.

168

Kim Siebenhüner

maintaining of secrecy surrounding said knowledge. There is no doubt, however, that there existed a market for recipes, of which other companies also availed themselves. For example, the Laué workshop in Aargau purchased a recipe for a particular shade of red from the workshop of Heinrich Schüle in Augsburg, as well as a recipe for English blue from a certain Stettler.99 Furthermore, recipes were increasingly openly publicised. Simultaneous to the commercialisation of recipes amongst experts – dye merchants, colourists, and calico printers – a public debate regarding recipes got under way. In 1771, the bookseller and printer Johann Michael Macklot of Karlsruhe published the first comprehensive, German-language treatise on calico-printing. It had been written anonymously and bore the title Völlig entdeckter Cotton- oder Indienne-Druck. In it, nearly one hundred recipes, including technical instructions, were laid bare. In the foreword, the author expressed his displeasure at the secretiveness surrounding indiennage: “In these pages, I reveal an art that has been kept secret partly out of selfishness, and partly out of jealousy and other iniquitous reasons.”100 Although the author underestimated manufacturers’ economic reasons for keeping their successful recipes a secret, he showed once more the ambivalence between the protection of knowledge and the exchange of knowledge among indienneurs. The fact that knowledge of new dyeing techniques was still touted as a ‘secret’ and offered for exclusive sale in the Confederacy and elsewhere as late as the 1780s, and that the “spying-out” of dyeing techniques led to conflicts, shows how limited access to this knowledge was. Yet at the same time, the circulation of knowledge increased in the course of the eighteenth century. At the turn of the century, only a few pioneering workshops were in possession of the new techniques. By the end of the century, the Swiss cantons had developed into one of the key European centres for the production of printed cotton fabrics. This rise was made possible through mobile experts who carried their knowledge into the workshops. Indiennage was therefore an ‘open technique’ for three reasons. Firstly, because of the mobility of designers, colourists, printers, and manufacturers: they were reliant on the exchange of knowledge in order to acquire the complicated manufacturing techniques and to establish workshops in the first place. Secondly, the commercialisation of recipes contributed to the circulation of technical knowledge. There was a market for recipes, where dye merchants, colourists, and manufacturers passed on their recipes to colleagues in exchange for money. Thirdly, the techniques of indiennage were made ever more public thanks to the growing number of manuscripts and publications in the course of the eigh­  99 Staatsarchiv Aargau, NLA-0105 Mappe 22, Rezeptbuch der Firma Laué & Cie, 37, 54. 100 “Ich mache in diesen Blättern eine Kunst bekannt, welche bisher viele theils aus Eigennutz, theils aus Missgunst und andern unächten Absichten verborgen gehalten haben.” See Völlig entdeckter Cotton- oder Indiennedruck nebst der sächsischen Schönfärberei, auf Leinen, Seide … Neue Auflage (Karlsruhe: Michael Macklot, 1771), Foreword 3r.

The Art of Making Indienne

169

teenth century. Ryhiner’s manuscript was presumably only circulated within a small circle. Yet the growing number of scholarly, technical, and commercial publications, such as the Völlig entdeckte Cotton- oder Indienne-Druck, made the new dyeing processes the subject of a broad, European-wide debate on dyes and dyeing.

Conclusion What is gained with these perspectives? In terms of entangled history and the history of knowledge, the narrative of a largely autonomous, nation-state success story has become superannuated. For a whole variety of reasons, the Swiss indienne industry, too, was globally interlinked. Its rise was due to a substantial transfer of knowledge between India and Europe in around 1700. Although it seems that Armenian artisans were not involved in founding the first calico printing businesses in the Swiss cantons, Swiss indienneurs nevertheless benefited from Europe’s pioneering workshops and mobile experts, who began to disseminate the art of indiennage. Through the targeted hiring of colourists, travel, and commercialisation, knowledge of the new dyeing techniques also began to circulate in the Swiss cantons. Yet a transcultural perspective also makes apparent important differences in the knowledge cultures of textile workers in India and Europe. Unlike in India, the institutionalisation and marketing of knowledge, as well as the writing of how-to books, had a long tradition in Europe. Thanks to the availability of ‘new’ dyes, competing theories of dyeing, and new dyeing techniques, the literature on dyes and dyeing grew exponentially during the eighteenth century. Encyclopaedic projects facilitated the concentration and integration of different corpora of knowledge. Artistic, economic, and natural-historical knowledge became increasingly interlinked. Since the late Middle Ages, artists, engineers, and alchemists had transcribed practical knowledge and created transitions to academic knowledge. Ryhiner’s Traité was written in the tradition of this literature, whose greatest challenge lay in explaining knowledge that consisted of experience and actions. In his treatise, this Basel-based manufacturer wove together technical, commercial, and academic knowledge on dyeing and the production of indiennes. He formulated sensual experiences and empirical chemistry. As becomes apparent in his writings, the art of indiennage consisted in mastery of the details: to know what it felt like to properly apply the printing block; to know that the fabric had to be removed from the madder bath once the water became cloudy; or to know that cold indigo baths produced a prettier blue compared to warm indigo baths.101 While fully aware of the shortcomings of his theory, Ryhiner presented a 101 Ryhiner, Traité, 144.

170

Kim Siebenhüner

mechanistic form of dye chemistry that imitated Jean Hellot’s L’art de la teinture and which highlighted the proximity between the art of indiennage and the science of chemistry. Ryhiner’s treatise and the numerous complaints about faulty goods stand as testimony to the learning gap that lay between ‘theoretical’ knowledge of how to perform an activity and the skilful execution of that activity. It was not enough to know the European descriptions of Indian dyeing techniques in order to manufacture printed cotton fabrics. Learning from the European pioneers of calico printing was also only a beginning. Mastering the art of indiennage required practice and years of experience. This learning process was accomplished by repeating and optimising work steps and processes; by experimenting with dyes and new substances; by trying and adapting recipes; and ultimately by making mistakes. At the end of the eighteenth century, smaller workshops in the Swiss cantons still reported failed or unsatisfactory dyeing processes, and surviving objects provide evidence of the losses in quality compared to Indian products. Indian artisans had been masters in painting and printing cotton fabrics for centuries. Understanding what this mastery consisted of and achieving it for themselves took the Swiss indienneurs more than a century.

An Apron’s Tale: Innovative Colours and Fashionable Dress between India and the Swiss Cantons Claudia Ravazzolo

Upon first glance this eighteenth-century apron from Basel appears to be a typical, yet extraordinarily beautiful example, of an Indian chintz produced for the European market (fig. 36).1 However, closer examination of the apron, raises questions concerning the history of chintz production in India and the transfer of this knowledge to Europe: were there techniques of colouring known in India, about which written sources remain silent? Or was there a transfer of knowledge about chintz-making not only from India to Europe, but also from Europe to India? Using the apron as an object to investigate these broader questions brings the historian fully into the realm of material culture. For a historical artefact like this not only presents researchers with many questions concerning the object’s material qualities, construction, and condition, it also contains the answers to many of these questions. For the longest time, historians tended to employ only written sources, leaving other sources like pictures and artefacts to art historians, archaeologists, and ethnologists. Over the last two decades this has changed as research on material culture gained more interest among historians, leading not only to a number of studies on themes like consumption, global goods, or dressing habits, but also to a broad discussion of methodical approaches and ways to integrate objects into historical narratives.2 Most recently, this has crystallised with what Giorgio 1

Schürze mit Brustlatz, first half eighteenth century, Historisches Museum Basel (HMB), Inv. Nr. 1958.168. I would like to thank Margarete Ribbert, curator of the Historisches Museum Basel (HMB) and Gesa ­Bernges, textile restorer, for their support in the apron’s examination. 2 On consumption, see Lorna Weartherill, Consumer Behaviour and Material Culture in Britain 1660–1760 (London: Routledge, 1988); Carole Shammas, The Pre-industrial Consumer in England and America (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990); and John Brewer and Roy Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods (London: Routledge, 1994). On global goods, see Giorgio Riello and Prasannan Parthasarathi, eds., The Spinning World: A Global History of Cotton Textiles, 1200–1850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Paula Findlen, ed., Early Modern Things: Objects and their Histories, 1500–1800 (London: Routledge, 2013); Giorgio Riello, Cotton: The Fabric That Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); ­Bethany Aram and Bartolomé Yun-Casalilla, eds., Global Goods and the Spanish Empire, 1492–1824: Circulation, Resistance and Diversity (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014); and Anne Gerritsen and Giorgio Riello, eds., The Global Lives of Things: The Material Culture of Connections in the Early Modern World (London: Routledge, 2016). On clothes, see John Styles, The Dress of the People: Everyday Fashion in eighteenth-century England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007); Ulinka Rublack, Dressing Up: Cultural Identity in Renaissance Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); Leora Auslander, “Beyond Words,” The American Historical Review 110 (2005):1015–45; and Giorgio Riello, “Things That Shape His-

172

Claudia Ravazzolo

Riello has termed writing a history from things – an attempt to establish a dialogue between different types of sources, in which objects are used to help ask ‘better questions,’ instead of merely serving as an example in support of an argument based off of written sources.3 To that end, this chapter starts by probing the chintz apron on two levels. In the first part, the focus lies on the apron’s fabric: its material qualities, design, and colours are analysed and compared with chintz production in India and Europe. A close stylistic as well as technical examination of the fabric not only allows the historian to answer questions concerning the fabric’s origin and dating but furthermore discloses information regarding the transfer of knowledge and techniques between India and Europe. The second part researches the apron as a garment in two separate manners. First, it looks at the apron as a

Fig. 36: Woman’s apron made from painted Indian cotton chintz, worn in Basel. First half of the eighteenth century (fabric). Basel Historical Museum, Obj. No. 1958.168. Basel Historical Museum, Photograph: N. Jansen.

3

tory: ­Material Culture and Historical Narratives” in History and Material Culture: a Student’s Guide to Approaching Alternative Sources, ed. Karen Harvey (London: Routledge, 2009), 24–47. Riello, “Things That Shape History,” 25, 29; and Annette Cremer and Martin Mulsow, ed., Objekte als Quellen der historischen Kulturwissenschaften: Stand und Perspektiven der Forschung (Cologne: Böhlau, 2017).

An Apron’s Tale

173

specific object, and seeks to ascertain what conclusions about its creation and use can be drawn from its construction and condition. Second, it explores aprons generally, researching their function and presence in early modern clothing. Here, the evaluation of a series of bankruptcy inventories from Bern from 1660 to 1790 provides insights into the wardrobes of Swiss women from diverse social backgrounds. It will show that aprons fulfilled practical as well as decorative functions and were among the first types of garments that printed cottons were used for in Bern.

1. The Fabric Although it is not known when or where the apron was produced, this type of garment was certainly made in Europe. The fabric, however, was not of European origin, but was probably produced on India’s Coromandel Coast.4 This attribution was not entirely clear when the Basel Historical Museum (HMB) added the apron to its collection in 1958. It was noted on the object’s first inventory card that the fabric was of Dutch or Indian origin and served as a “model for Basel’s Indienne industry.” It is unclear whether this information was provided to the museum by the donor or is the result of the museum’s own research. Despite the fact, that the Dutch Republic was one of the first countries in Europe to not only import chintzes from India but also to domestically produce printed cottons, it is very unlikely that the fabric’s pattern was made by Dutch cotton printers. Trees and Fantasy Flowers: Dyed or Painted in Blue? The assumption that the apron’s fabric most likely was produced on India’s Coromandel Coast is based on the high quality of the weaving as well as on the design’s style and the technique in which the pattern and the colours were applied. As was normal for handspun yarns, the thread size is not always consistent, but the structure and surface of the white plain wave cotton fabric are fine and even.5 Compared with cotton textiles from the same period produced entirely in Europe, the high quality of Indian fabrics is obvious, as European manufactures seldom produced textiles of an equal fineness in thread and weaving.6 Further, the fabric’s colour range with shades of red and blue on a white Anne Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke der Schweiz im 18. Jahrhundert, ihre Vorläufer, orientalische und europäi­ sche Techniken, Zeugdruck-Manufakturen, die Weiterentwicklung (Basel: Basler Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1968), 79. 5 Thread count per centimetre: warp: thirty-four; and weft thirty-three. 6 Kim Siebenhüner, “Zwischen Imitation und Innovation: Die schweizerische Indienne-Industrie im 18. Jahrhundert,” Werkstatt Geschichte 74 (2017), 23–26.

4

174

Claudia Ravazzolo

background is typical for chintzes produced on the Coromandel Coast for export to the West. Such a design was routinely demanded by the English East India Company (EIC) to placate the desires of British customers.7 However, as the EIC was not the only European trading company desiring chintzes for the European market, it is possible that the apron took a different path to Basel.8 The fabric’s pattern is arranged in alternating vertical columns of a flowered branch and small trees (fig. 37). The first part of the pattern consists of a winding branch with thirteen types of large and small flowers. Despite some of them resembling roses or peonies, the blossoms are a product of fantasy and not botanically determinable. On many of the flowers and leaves, especially the bigger ones, small white patterns were drawn against the coloured background. Such large fantasy flowers with fine internal patterns are a typical element of the chintzes made in India in the first half of the eighteenth century.9 Also the second element of the pattern speaks to an Indian origin of the fabric, as the trees are small versions of the tree of life motif well known from palampores (bedspreads and hangings) exported from India to the West in late seventeenth and eighteenth century.10 As John Irwin and Katherine Brett describe, the motif developed over time, as the large fantasy flowers on the tree – typical for the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century – became smaller and more naturalistic later in the century.11 The three trees on the apron’s chintz represent miniature versions of the early style. At a first glance, the chintz’ pattern looks like a print, since a pattern repeat is typical with printed fabrics. However, several observations make clear that this is not the case. In a printed pattern, marks of the fitting pins once used to correctly place the printing blocks should be detectable.12 No such marks are visible on this textile. Furthermore, the   7 John Irwin and Katherine B. Brett, Origins of Chintz (London: H.M.S.O, 1970), 4; and Rosemary Crill, Chintz: Indian Textiles for the West (London: V&A Publications, 2008), 14.   8 See also Vibe Maria Martens’ contribution to this volume on the trade of Indian cottons to Europe.   9 Irwin and Brett, Origins, 21. On European interest in flowers at this time, see Beverly Lemire, “Domesticating the Exotic: Floral Culture and the East India Calico Trade with England, c. 1600–1800,” Textile 1 (2003): 64–85; and Alicia Weisberg-Roberts, “Surprising Oddness and Beauty: Textile Design and Natural History between London and Philadelphia in the Eighteenth Century,” in Knowing Nature: Art and Science in Philadelphia, 1740–1840, ed. Amy Meyers and Lisa Ford (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 160–79. 10 Various examples of palampores with tree of life motive can be found in: Crill, Chintz, 35–68. The motif became fashionable along with the colourful embroideries from Gujarat and the painted or printed chintzes produced on the Coromandel Coast in the late seventeenth century, replacing the fashion of embroidered colchas from Bengal (which were traded by the Portuguese in the sixteenth and seventeenth century). For the colchas, see Barbara Karl’s contribution to this volume; as well as her “Marvellous Things Are Made With Needles,” Journal of the History of Collections 23.2 (2011), 301–313; and her Embroidered Histories. Indian Textiles for Portuguese Market during the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Vienna: Böhlau, 2016). 11 For the origin of the tree of life motifs, see Irwin and Brett, Origins of Chintz, 16–22. 12 Judith Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past: Origins, Chemistry and Identification of Natural Dyestuffs (Riggis­berg: Abegg-Stiftung, 2004), 361.

An Apron’s Tale

175

Fig. 37: Detail of the apron’s pattern. One repeat of the flowered branch measures about fifty centimetres, whereas the trees are each about fifteen centimetres in height. Among the thirteen types of flowers, there are six large predominantly red blossoms which appear only once within the pattern, whereas the mainly small and medium blue flowers repeat throughout. Blue leaves of different sizes complete the pattern. A comparison of the big pink flower and its leaves on the right with its counterpart on the left shows, that the motifs are the same but not identical. Basel Historical Museum, Photograph: author.

comparison of the same pattern elements on the fabric reveals that they are similar but not identical. The small differences in the outlines, the colouring, and the internal pattern between flowers and leaves of the same type, would not exist in a pattern applied by print. Instead, these differences are characteristic of patterns painted by hand.13 Likewise some of the normally coloured leaves only have the black outline drawn but not the filling, leaving the impression that in some places the painter forgot to apply the paint. If the pattern would have been printed, not only a few single leaves but entire sections would lack colour, which is not the case. The apron’s fabric, like most of the high-quality chintzes produced for export on the Coromandel Coast, was painted by hand with a special wooden brush (kalam).14 As studies on the European cotton industries showed, producers in Europe 13 In a printed pattern there may be differences caused by a misplaced printing block, uneven pressing or colour application, but the form of the pattern elements remain identical, as they were printed with the same block. Variations in details like the number or the direction of spikes on a leaf ’s serrated margin patterns would be complicated and inefficient to produce by printing, since for each alternation, a new printing block would be needed. In contrast, such alterations can be easily drawn by hand. 14 Rosemary Crill, The Fabric of India (London: V&A Publications, 2015), 43.

176

Claudia Ravazzolo

overwhelmingly printed on cottons and linens with printing blocks, using brushes only to apply some colours to specific parts of the pattern (Schildermalerei). To the best of our knowledge, entirely painted chintzes were never produced in Europe but were a typical product made on the Coromandel Coast.15 Technique and Colours of Indian Chintz The numerous stages in production of painted chintzes were described by a few Europeans who were able to observe chintz production in India in the late seventeenth and eighteenth century. Most of the descriptions deal with the dyestuffs and their preparation since it was the bright and fast colours of the Indian fabrics that triggered the interest of early modern Europeans in the first place. The knowledge and skill needed to dye cellulose fibres like cotton or linen with more permanent colours, long mastered by Indian dyers, was something their European counterparts only started to learn at the end of the seventeenth century. For this reason, chemists, dyers, and cotton printers in Europe were looking for information about the Indian method of cotton painting.16 Today, at least three Dutch, four French, and one English first-hand descriptions of Indian cotton painting or printing are known, of which the French ones are probably the most accurate ones.17 The majority of these accounts describe processes of painting and dyeing chintz as carried out at various places along the Coromandel Coast. Though some of the accounts are more detailed than others, all describe the production of coloured chintzes as a com-

15 Riello, Cotton, 160–84; and Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past, 352–64. 16 Siebenhüner, “Imitation,” 11–17. See also Kim Siebenhüner’s and Eiluned Edwards’ contributions to this volume. 17 Dutch descriptions include Peter van den Burg, Curieuze Beschryving van de Gelegenheid, Zeden en Godsdienst ewn Ommegang van verscheyden O.I. gewesten en machtige Landschappen (Rotterdam, 1677); a writing from Adriaan van Rheede from 1688, published in Pieter van Dam and Frederik Willem Stapel, eds., Beschryvinge van de Oostindische Compagnie, (s’-Gravenhage: Nijhoff, 1927), 2.2:205–10; and Daniel Havart, Op- en ondergang van Cormandel (Amsterdam, 1693), 3.3: 14–15. French accounts include the manuscripts of Georges Roques (1678–80) and Antoine de Beaulieu (1734); the letters of Father Coeurdoux (1742/1747), and a book by the Chevalier de Quérelles called Traite sur les Toiles Peintes. A published version of the Roques manuscript can be found in Paul Schwartz, Printing on Cotton at Ahmedabad, India in 1678: From an Unedited Manuscript in the “Bibliothèque Nationale,” (Ahmedabad: Calico Museum of Textiles, 1969); for the Beaulieu manuscript, see John Irwin and Paul Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European Textile History (Ahmedabad: Calico Museum of Textiles, 1966), 76–93; and for Gaston Coeurdoux, see Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 104–18. According to Schwartz, Quérelle’s Traité is a commented version of the Beaulieu Manuscript. See Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 76–77; and for the Traité, see Le Chevalier de Quérelles, Traité sur les toiles peintes, dans lequel on voit la manière dont on les fabrique aux Indes et en Europe (Paris: Barrois, 1760). For an English description from the end of the eighteenth century, see William Roxburgh, Plants of the Coromandel Coast (London: Bulmer, 1795), 2–8.

An Apron’s Tale

177

plex, multistage procedure which took several weeks to complete.18 The described processes are more or less the same despite some minor differences in the accounts in terms of the order of the various stages and the materials used. Chintz production normally began with the preparation of the fabric in a bath containing substances that should later prevent the colours from running.19 After several stages of washing, drying, and beating, the fabric was ready to be painted. With a few exceptions, the painters did not apply the colours directly on the fabric, instead they painted the pattern with resists and mordants before the textiles were placed in different dyebaths. In the first step, the pattern’s contours were transferred to the fabric with perforated paper models and coal dust. The painter later traced the coal marks with a brush (kalam), drawing the outlines of the pattern with a liquid mordant either tinted black or red, depending on the designated pattern’s colours. A first hot dyebath containing a red dyestuff like chay root, intensified and fastened the red and black coloured outlines.20 Next in three separate steps, the inner spaces of the pattern were coloured, usually starting with the blue elements. In all of the consulted sources, the described procedure is that of resist-dyeing: the cloth was covered with wax, except those parts of the pattern intended to become blue or green, then was folded, and immersed into the cold indigo vat. The indigo dye only adhered to the fibres not covered with wax, giving them a blue colour. After the fabric dried, the wax was removed by washing the fabric in hot water.21 In the next phase, the fabric was prepared for the second dyeing with a red dyestuff by which various shades of red or purple could be generated in the same dyebath by applying different mordants. Since the dye only adhered to those fibres treated with mordants, no additional resist was needed. To produce further colours, a vegetable yellow dyestuff was applied directly by hand, producing yellow when painted on white and green when painted on a blue background. Every step of dyeing was followed by washings and several treatments with manure and water, intended to bleach the fabric.22

18 For information about modern and historical methods of block printing, see Eiluned Edwards’ contribution to this volume. 19 See van Dam and Stapel, Beschryvinge, 2.2:207; Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 81, 104–106; and Roxburgh, Plants, 6. 20 See van Dam and Stapel, Beschryvinge, 2.2:208; Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 81, 106–107; and Roxburgh, Plants, 6–7. 21 See van Dam and Stapel, Beschryvinge, 2.2:209; Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 83–84, 108– 109; and Roxburgh, Plants, 8. According to van Rheede’s and Roxburgh’s descriptions, the blue was dyed after the red. 22 See van Dam and Stapel, Beschryvinge, 2.2: 208; Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 84–87, 109–112; and Roxburgh, Plants, 7–8. On some of the materials that contemporary Europeans used to dye wool and cotton, respectively, see Jutta Wimmler’s as well as Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil’s contributions to this volume.

178

Claudia Ravazzolo

This procedure seems to match perfectly with the fabric of the HMB’s chintz apron: there are the red and black outlines outlining the flowers, leaves, and trees dyed with blue and shades of red, and there are the fine, white internal patterns drawn with a resist before dyeing. However, closer examination of the fabric raises serious doubts concerning the method used to dye with indigo. If the Fig. 38: Back side of the apron. Basel Historical resist-dyeing technique, described above, ­Museum, Photograph: author. was used, two side effects of the method should be observable. First, since the fabric had to be folded to fit into the indigo vat, the wax resist tended to crack in some spots, and thus there should be fine lines of blue on the front side of the fabric (in areas where no blue should be). Second, the blue colour would appear on both sides of the fabric in comparable intensity.23 But neither of these effects are visible on the apron there are no fine lines on the surface and the blue overwhelmingly only shimmers through the fabric on the back in the same manner as the red does (fig. 38). Since the mordant for red was only applied on the front, the back almost did not receive colour. Only where the mordant soaked deep into the fabric, are traces of red also visible on the fabric’s backside. But why is that the case with the blue as well? The only reasonable explanation for that phenomenon is that the blue was not dyed in an indigo vat but painted directly on the fabric’s surface. Painted Blue? Or When the Artefact Contradicts Written Sources For Judith Hofenk de Graff, the question whether blue was painted or dyed is crucial to determe the origin of chintz fabrics, since according to her “[b]lue has never been painted directly on Indian chintz.”24 Rosemary Crill, however, has shown this statement to be in need of revision, as she has come across hand-painted chintzes, known to be produced in India with painted indigo blue.25 Hofenk de Graff probably reached her conclusion based on the historical descriptions on chintz production in India, which lack any explicit mention of a distinct method to paint or print with indigo and only describe the resist-dyeing 23 Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past, 361. 24 Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past, 359–60. According to her, painted or printed blue was a characteristic of European chintzes. 25 For examples of Indian made chintz with painted blue, see plates 1, 2, 11, 28, 46, 60, and 61 in Crill, Chintz, 28–31, 34–35, 45, 66–67, 95, 107–8.

An Apron’s Tale

179

in the indigo vat. Only Antoine de Beaulieu (1699–1764), a naval officer of the Compagnie des Indes in Pondicherry, mentioned, that he saw how liquid indigo was applied to the fabric outside of a vat: explaining that the craftsman, after he had dipped the fabric into the indigo vat, added colour “to [the] parts that in his opinion had not taken sufficiently.”26 According to Beaulieu, this procedure was a method to correct insufficient dyeing and not a systematic way of colouring. In his letter from 1742, the Jesuit Father Gaston Laurent Coeurdoux wondered why the time-consuming procedure of resist-dyeing was used also for chintzes with just a little blue in the pattern, asking a painter whether it would “not be better […] to paint these blue flowers with a brush.”27 According to Coeurdoux the painter replied that this would be possible “but blue painted [in] this way would not last and would disappear after two or three washings.”28 To grasp, why painted indigo would not dye fast, it is necessary to look at the chemical process of dyeing with indigo. In its oxidised form, indigo is a water-insoluble dye, making it especially colour-fast to water and light. In this form, however, the dyestuff cannot bond properly to the textile fibres, which is only possible when indigo is in its reduced soluble form.29 This so-called ‘leuco-indigo’ or ‘indigo white’ is the result of a fermentation process, for which in India, indigo powder was mixed with cold water, lime, and certain plants in a vat and then left for some days.30 To be dyed, fabrics need to be dipped into the vat so the leuco-indigo could bond to the fibres since the indigo, as soon as it is exposed to air, reacts with oxygen and returns to its stable blue form within minutes. When applied with a brush, the indigo, again exposed to oxygen, would insufficiently bond to the fibres, and thus the colouring would lack fastness. The same problem emerged when European entrepreneurs, starting to print on cotton in the second half of the seventeenth century, tried to print with indigo.31 The problem, that printed colours would not last on textiles, however, was not new for Europeans; it was the main obstacle they had encountered for centuries. Textile printing was practiced in Europe before the seventeenth century but the results were not very sophisticated, since most colours, when directly printed on linen without the use of a mordant, washed or bleached out easily. Cellulose fabrics with fast colours like Blaudrucke (blue26 “[I]l a appliqué de cette liqueur sur les endroits qu’il a jugé n’en avoir pas assez pris.” Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 84. For a biography of Beaulieu, see Irwin and Brett, Origins of Chintz, 37. 27 Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 107. 28 Ibid., 108. 29 See Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past, 240–41; and Peter C. Floud, “The English Contribution to the Early History of Indigo Printing,” Journal of the Society of Dyers and Colourists 76 (1960), 345. 30 Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past, 240–41; Floud, “The English Contribution,” 345; and Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 108. 31 See Anja Timmermann, Indigo: Die Analyse eines ökonomischen Wissensbestandes im 18. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2014), 290; and Floud, “The English Contribution,” 345.

180

Claudia Ravazzolo

prints) or linen fabrics with a white pattern on blue backgrounds could be produced in resist-dyeing, but they were expensive since their production was complicated. For example, resists like wax were unsuitable because the blue was dyed in a hot woad vat which meant that the resist would melt and thus cease to function during the dyeing. Compared to Indian chintzes, European blueprints were less fine and skilful. With the arrival of Indian painted and printed cottons, knowledge about fast dyeing colours using mordants or the cold indigo vat gradually reached Europe. By using indigo instead of woad, blueprints became more sophisticated, but the resist-dyeing technique was only suitable for overwhelmingly blue fabrics. For the multi-coloured and white-grounded chintzes fashionable in the eighteenth century, this technique was neither practical nor economical. As Europe’s textile printing industry progressed, entrepreneurs as well as chemists became more and more interested in developing a fast indigo dye that could be directly printed or painted and thus make the time-consuming resist application obsolete.32 Even though the first experiments can be traced back to the second half of the seventeenth century, it was not before the mid-eighteenth century that the two basic recipes for paintable or printable indigo – containing either toxic orpiment or vitriol – were known and successfully used among cotton printers in Europe.33 Both additives produced a paintable or printable blue by delaying the oxidation process and keeping the indigo in its leuco-form for longer.34 These blues were known in the German-speaking world by names like Pinselblau (pencil blue) or Englischblau (English blue).35 A fabric like the chintz of the HMB’s apron raises the question whether or not Indian painters knew of and used these or comparable paintable blues. If they did, it would be possible to detect residues of either orpiment (arsenic-sulphide) or vitriol (cupric-, f­ erricor zinc-sulphate) within the blue parts of these fabrics. For this reason, some fibres of the HMB’s chintz apron were extracted for analysis at the art technology laboratory of the Bern University of the Arts (HKB).36 Analysing the thread fragment under the microscope revealed that only the fibres on the surface of the thread were blue, making clear that indigo was painted, since dyes 32 Timmermann, Indigo, 288–90; and Floud, “The English Contribution,” 345–46. 33 Timmermann, Indigo, 344–47; Giorgio Riello, “Asian Knowledge and the Development of Calico Printing in Europe in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” Journal of Global History 5 (2010), 19–22; and Floud, “The English Contribution,” 345–46. 34 Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past, 359. The colours used for painting were not identical to those used for printing. The later ones had to be of a thicker consistence so they would adhere to the printing blocks. See as well, Paul Schwartz, Contribution à l’histoire de l’application du bleu d’ indigo dans l’iniennage européen (Mulhouse: Société industrielle de Mulhouse, 1953), 63–79; and Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke der Schweiz, 62–67. 35 Timmermann, Indigo, 307. 36 My thanks to Dr. Nadim C. Scherer of the HKB Art Technological Laboratory for the analysis and expertise. Based on its Raman spectra, the blue colour was identified as indigo.

An Apron’s Tale

181

would have soaked deeper into the thread if it was dyed. Among the chemical elements detected by using scanning electron microscopy (SEM), small concentrations of copper and sulphur were found.37 With these elements present, a possible additive used could have been bluestone (cupric sulphate) or another compound of copper, of the sort used in Europe to produce pencil blue.38 Assuming that vitriol in the form of cupric sulphate was used to produce the paintable blue for the apron’s chintz, the question arises of how Indian craftsmen knew about these recipes? Already in the seventeenth century, Indian dyers and painters may have known about the effects vitriol or orpiment could have in combination with indigo, especially since the elements needed to produce pencil blue were available locally and often already used with other colours in the dyeing process. Based on an analysis of textiles, Mattiebelle Gittinger suggested that a two stage development process in painting with indigo in India started in the seventeenth century. In these early textiles, the painted blue is of a very light shade with almost no saturation, which according to Gittinger may have occurred from a sort of pencil blue based on a mixture from indigo and orpiment known and used by Indian manuscript painters since the twelfth century to produce green.39 A second stage of development, visible in textiles with a darker more saturated blue was reached in the eighteenth century, probably under the influence of European knowledge and recipes.40 Transferring this knowledge to India, served the trading companies’ interests to influence and control the production of the goods they were trading. This was done by the EIC, not only when the company tried to improve the quality of silk by introducing Piedmontese technology and knowledge in Bengal, but also on the Coromandel Coast, where the EIC tried to centralise and optimize chintz production.41 According to Sergio Aiolfi, in the first 37 SEM-EDS-measuring on five points of one fibre: because of the low concentrations of elements, optimised measurement conditions (20kV and 1nA) and averaging time (100 seconds instead of 30 seconds) were necessary. A piece of cotton, dyed with cochineal and treated with cupric sulphate, was used to determine the optimised measurement conditions. Overall, the concentration of the elements in question was low, probably because of the frequent washing of the fabric during its production and use. The presence of the elements detected can be explained either by their purposeful use in chintz-making (potassium and aluminium are components of potash and alum, whereas copper and sulphur can be compounds of cupric-sulphate) or with them being commonly present in nature, for example in the water used for dyeing or washing (e. g. chlorine, sodium coming from salt). 38 Orpiment as an additive is unlikely since no arsenic was detected, even though it could have washed out. 39 Mattiebelle Gittinger, “Ingenious Techniques in Early Indian Dyed Cotton,” Marg 40.3 (1989), 14–15. 40 Ibid., Gittinger also mentions historical reports about Indian dyers who did their own experiments. Schwartz assumed that recipes for pencil blue were introduced to Indian painters by European East India Companies after these recipes were developed in Europe. See Irwin and Schwartz, Studies in Indo-European, 124. According to Riello, the methods developed by European printers to create a paintable or printable blue, or as a pre-stage, the cold indigo vat, were unknown in India. See Riello, “Asian Knowledge,” 21. 41 See Karolina Hutková, “The British Silk Connection: The English East India Company’s Silk Enterprise in Bengal, 1757–1812” (PhD diss., University of Warwick, 2015).

182

Claudia Ravazzolo

two decades of the eighteenth century, the EIC experimented with techniques to improve the dyeing and ornamenting of chintz at their production sites in Madras.42 In the 1770s, the company also started to export European copper plates to their production centres in India so they could print chintz with the same methods the European printers used.43 With respect to the frequent complaints in the EIC’s correspondence about the chintzes produced for the European market, including the wrong colours being produced or the backgrounds not being white enough, it would be understandable if the company would have tried to introduce the use of pencil blue to their production sites on the Coromandel Coast.44 As with Bengal silk production, European craftsmen and dye specialists were sent to India by the EIC in the second half of the seventeenth century, sometimes bringing with them dyestuffs from Europe.45 The same likely could have been done in chintz production in the eighteenth century. It is probable that some Indian dyers and painters knew recipes for paintable or printable blue long before a pencil blue was invented in Europe, but did not widely use this kind of blue, since consumers in India, Asia, and Africa preferred textiles with coloured backgrounds and more blue than Europeans. Using pencil blue only became useful and profitable when European trading companies demanded more chintzes with white backgrounds. In regards to the Basel apron, it would appear then that the apron was produced in India, despite the fact that known written sources do not mention the use of pencil blue by craftsmen on the subcontinent.

2. The Apron While the apron itself reveals much about the changing dynamics of production, global knowledge, and technology transfer that is only half of the story. The other half of the story pertains to how and by whom aprons were used. Despite the fact that aprons are among the oldest types of clothing known to mankind, this form of garment has not 42 Sergio Aiolfi, Calicos und gedrucktes Zeug: Die Entwicklung der englischen Textilveredelung und der Tuchhandel der East India Company 1650–1750 (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1987), 362. 43 Ibid., 363. 44 In 1738, EIC officials in London wrote to their employees in Fort St. Georg: “CHINTS MADRASS, Three thousand, but few Red or blue Coloured Grounds, the Patterns of those sent home this Year by the Royal Guardian are too open, for the future they must be fuller of work, to cover the Cloth more, and as many different Patterns as possible, and particular care must be taken that the Grounds are kept clear.” Complaints such as these were frequent. See “List of goods to be provided on the coast of choromandel for the ships going out in the Year 1738, London, 14th February 1738,” in Records of Fort St. George, Despatches from England 1737–1740 (Madras: Government Press, 1932), 25–26. 45 Aiolfi, Calicos, 373.

An Apron’s Tale

183

received much scholarly attention.46 One reason for this may be that aprons were used as a working garment whereas academic research has focused more on the dress and fashion of social elites. Extant source material also played a role as there is more information on the dress of nobles than of that of the working class. However, in the early modern period, as aprons were widely worn by women and men, they are deserving of scholarly attention in their own right. A Garment of Work and Fashion When looking on the history of this garment, one can ascertain two main functions of aprons. For one, they were quite important in protecting the wearer’s body and other clothes from dirt or damage during work. As a result, the materials used for these work aprons had to be robust and/or easy to clean, often making plain, strong linen or – for when the protective function was essential – leather, the material of choice. The shape of the garment varied, depending on type of work: some craftsman only covered the lower body while others, like butchers or blacksmiths used aprons that also protected the upper body.47 While work aprons were worn by both sexes, women and girls from the late sixteenth century onwards used aprons in a second manner, namely as a decorative garment. Especially in the eighteenth century, it became fashionable to wear an apron, even among noble or upper class women who did not carry out domestic work themselves.48 Since these decorative aprons were more a symbol of domesticity, than actual workwear, they were made from precious and delicate materials like silk, fine linen, lace, and gradually new fashionable cotton fabrics like mousseline as well.49 These fashionable aprons were typically marked by their often valuable material or their skilful embroidery, all of which helped to ensure these objects were preserved and found their way into the collections of museums.

46 For a short history of aprons as a garment see the two part essay by Barbara Purrucker, “Vom Körperschutz zum Kleiderschutz – Anfänge der Schürze,” Waffen- und Kostümkunde 35 (1993): 107–33; and “Vom Körperschutz zum Kleiderschutz – Zur Geschichte der Schürze (Teil 2),” Waffen- und Kostümkunde 37 (1995): 93–120. For ethnological and gender-specific research on aprons in Germany, see Elke Gaugele, Schurz und Schürze: Kleidung als Medium der Geschlechterkonstruktion (Cologne: Böhlau, 2002). 47 See Purrucker, “Anfänge der Schürze,” 124–30; and “Geschichte der Schürze (Teil 2),” 93–105, and Styles, Dress, 43. 48 Valerie Cummings, C. Willett Cunnington, and Phillis Emily Cunnington, The Dictionary of Fashion History (Oxford: Berg 2010), 7. 49 Purrucker, “Geschichte der Schürze (Teil 2),” 105, 107–11.

184

Claudia Ravazzolo

As fashion accessories, aprons displayed precious materials, but they also were a way to alter the appearance of an outfit. Moreover, as aprons required less fabric than a complete dress, it enabled women of the lower and middle classes to improve their attire without the significant financial outlay of a full dress.50 According to Elke Gaugele, the clear distinction between a work garment and a decorative accessory began to blur during the nineteenth century, as small white aprons with frills and lace became an essential part of a female servant’s work clothes. Depending whether the work carried out had a social function (for instance, serving coffee) or not (such as cleaning the floor), the servant had to put on an apron appropriate to the task, resulting in frequent changes between more decorative or more protective aprons.51 Despite the fact that cotton is an easy to care for material and thus perfectly suitable for work aprons, the Basel chintz apron, due to its delicate fabric definitely was not used as a work garment. More likely it was a fashionable garment with an exotic touch worn by a woman belonging to an upper-class Basel family. The Falkner-Geymüller family, as one of the foremost patrician families in eighteenth-century Basel, and to whom the apron once belonged, were clearly such a family.52 As was usual among Swiss patricians, members of the family not only played a major role in the town’s economy but also held some of Basel’s most important civic offices.53 With the marriage of Peter Falkner (1752–1814), a bill broker, with Ursula Geymüller (1758–1844) in 1780, the new line Falkner-Geymüller was started.54 It is not clear whether Ursula Geymüller was the original owner of the chintz apron but the garment was most likely used by a woman in that family and later passed down. With regard to the museum’s dating of the fabric to the first half of the eighteenth century (based on stylistic reasons discussed above), it is possible that the textile was already in either the Falkner or Geymüller families before the marriage of Peter and Ursula.

50 Most aprons covered only the lower body whereas a complete dress covered the lower and upper body. 51 Gaugele, Schurz, 209–12. 52 The apron was donated to the HMB in 1958 by Lucie Alioth, a descendant of the Falkner-Geymüller family. The information provided by Alioth was recorded on an inventory card by the museum in 1958. The ties between the Alioth and Falkner-Geymüller families were created by the marriage of Daniel August Alioth (1816–89) and Maria Falkner (b. 1821) in 1840. Genealogical information on the Falkner and other elite families from Basel are available on stroux.org. For the Falkner family, see Auszug Stamm Falkner, www.stroux.org/patriz_f/stQV_f/FkR_f.pdf. Accessed 6 June 2017. 53 Emanuel Falkner (1674–1760), a tradesman and manufacturer of ribbons, was mayor of Basel from 1734– 60. Some of his sons and grandsons were members of the town’s council or directors of the local house of commerce (Kaufhaus). See Niklaus Röthlin, Die Basler Handelspolitik und deren Träger in der zweiten Hälfte des 17. und im 18. Jahrhundert (Basel: Helbling & Lichtenhahn, 1986), 349. 54 See Auszug Stamm Falkner, www.stroux.org/patriz_f/stQV_f/FkR_f.pdf. Accessed 6 June 2017.

An Apron’s Tale

185

Reading the Object: the Chintz Apron’s Use and Construction Usually aprons are a simple garment, as they are only a rectangular piece of fabric, held in place by a belt or ribbon around the waist. However their form and construction evolved over time to account for different dressing habits as well as regional customs and traditions.55 The apron from Basel represents a type of apron that first appeared in female dress in late seventeenth-century France and became the typical apron worn in the eigh­teenthcentury Europe.56 The style was inspired by children’s aprons, which combined apron and bib (bavette) into one garment.57 As mentioned above, the apron was thought to have been a model for the Basel cotton printers, but traces on the garment show, that it once was worn and later repaired. Some of these marks of use show that the apron was worn in the same way as the one worn by the young embroiderer in the painting (fig. 39a and 39b). As eighteenth-century aprons had neither shoulder nor neck straps, it was common to tie the apron around the waist with ribbons and to fix its bib on the bodice with pins.58 The chintz apron’s two white linen ribbons are still attached to each side of the waistband, whereas mending on the corners and along the edges of the bib mark the spots where once pins pierced and eventually damaged the fabric (fig. 39b). Further, signs of mending can be found on a horizontal tear below the apron’s right pocket (fig. 40). Even though it is unclear when these repairs were made, the mending seems to have been made when the apron was still in use. Several, small light brown stains only visible on the bib are another sign of usage, likely caused by some kind of beverage or food rather than age. Age and chemistry clearly left their marks on the garment, mainly in the form of some small holes in the fabric. Appearing predominantly on places where the fabric’s pattern was painted black, these holes seem to be caused by the remainders of the iron mordant which was needed to produce the black colour but unfortunately also decomposes textile fibres over time.59 Besides these small damages, the apron remains in great condition 55 Purrucker, “Geschichte der Schürze (Teil 2),” 105, 107–11. 56 In its entry for Tablier (apron), Diderot and D’Alembert’s Encyclopédie describes the garment as “a piece of fine fabric […] with a waistband, & a bib […].” ([M]orceau de toile fine, baptiste ou mousseline, ourlé toutau-tour, & embelli quelquefois de dentelle, avec une ceinture en-haut, & une bavette que les dames mettent devant elles). Interestingly, the entry first describes aprons as a fashionable garment, made from fine materials and often decorated. That (lower-class) woman used aprons as workwear is only mentioned briefly in the last sentence. See Denis Diderot et al., “Tablier,” Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, par une Société de Gens de lettres, https://artflsrv03.uchicago.edu/philologic4/encyclopedie1117/navigate/15/3795/. Accessed 22 February 2018. 57 Purrucker, “Geschichte der Schürze (Teil 2),” 102. 58 Purrucker, “Geschichte der Schürze (Teil 2),” 102–5, 112. Because of the pins used, aprons in England were also called pinafores. 59 This phenomenon is well known to textile conservators, see Hofenk de Graff, The Colourful Past, 320–21.

186

Claudia Ravazzolo

Fig. 39a and 39b: Left: Jean Etienne Liotard, Jeune Fille Brodant (young embroiderer), mid-eighteenth century, Paris, Louvre museum, Cabinet des dessins, Inv. Nr. REC 128, Recto. Photograph © RMN-Grand Palais (musée du Louvre)/Michèle Bellot. Right: The apron’s mended bib, Basel Historical Museum, Photograph: author.

(fig. 5). Apparently, the garment was never worn excessively and was carefully preserved after it was out of fashion. At the first sight, the chintz apron’s cut is not very complicated: a 158 by 90 centimetre square of fabric, that is gathered with three threads to a width of 59 centimetres and sewn to the almost rectangular bib. At the ruffled top, the fabric of the apron’s skirt is folded back just once without being hemmed at its edge, whereas the sides and the hemline were neatly seamed. For more stability, the bib is entirely lined with plain white linen. A closer look however, shows that the garment’s construction is more complex. First, there are two built-in pockets made from linen, hidden in the pleats of the skirts, which can be reached through slits cut into each side where the bib ends. Pieces of the apron’s fabric were used for edging the openings as well as to cover the linen of the pockets as far as they were visible through the slits. The left pocket is still intact whereas the right’s linen was partly cut off at some point. Such built-in pockets – although present in men’s clothes since about the sixteenth century – were rarely part of female clothing before the nineteenth century, as women in the eighteenth century tended to use pockets in the form of separately made bags, bound around the waist with ribbons, and worn underneath the

An Apron’s Tale

187

clothes accessible through slits in gowns and skirts.60 For the wearer, the pockets in the apron were more comfortable, as she did not have to reach through several layers of clothing to get an object, such as a handkerchief, out. Second, a closer examination of the object reveals that the apron’s skirt was not, like the bib, cut from one piece of fabric, but was constructed out of two big and seven smaller pieces of cloth (fig. 40). Fig. 40: Sketch depicting the apron’s construction Sewn together with a small vertical seam, and mending on a scale of 1:10 (in centimetres). the two big pieces – the wider one seems The cut parts of the apron are marked in red and to correlate with the working width of blue, while mending is marked in green. The apron has a total length of 113 centimetres and measures about 105 centimetres – form the lower 158.5 centimetres at the hem. part of the apron. For the upper part, the seven medium and small size pieces form a patchwork-piece in the width of the skirt that was attached to the lower part with a horizontal seam. Whoever tailored the apron paid attention to the chintz’s pattern as the trees and flowers in the patchwork-piece were arranged to match the pattern in the apron’s lower part. Although the design does not continue seamlessly at the top of the apron, the patchwork is not obvious at first sight because of the fabrics pleating at the waist. Shortage of material rather than stylistic or technical reasons were likely responsible for the apron’s patchwork construction, because with exception of the vertical seam in the apron’s skirt and the seam at the waistline, the seams have no technical necessity.61 Most likely an older garment’s fabric was reused. Altering a garment’s form or reusing its fabric for another purpose was common practice in early modern societies, as the purchase of new fabric was expensive. So it is quite possible that the fabric of a dress predates its creation and style by decades which could be the case with this apron.62

60 Cummings et al., Dictionary, 160. 61 Pernilla Rasmussen, “Recycling a fashionable wardrobe in the long eighteenth century in Sweden,” ­History of Retailing and Consumption 2 (2016), 204–5. 62 Rasmussen, “Recycling,” 205.

188

Claudia Ravazzolo

Contextualising the Object: Indienne Aprons in the Bernese Bankruptcy Inventories Given the two functions – workwear and decorative fashion – mentioned above, aprons were an essential part of any eighteenth-century woman’s wardrobe. The reconstruction of these wardrobes, however, is difficult as remaining historical objects are rare, mainly representative of the social elite, and only in exceptional cases preserved in their original context. Written sources, particularly inventories, are one of the better remaining descriptions documenting the personal belongings of early modern men and women. For Bern, in many ways comparable with Basel in its political and social structure, a serial run of bankruptcy inventories exists from 1646 to 1797.63 Based on these inventories, I analysed the composition, quantity, and quality of the personal belongings of fifty-nine women in my master’s thesis.64 As females usually were under male protection and thus limited in their economical and legal activities, Bernese bankruptcy law partially safeguarded a woman’s wealth. A married woman’s possessions, such as those from her dowry, was administered entirely by her husband, but his right of disposal was restricted to only the half amount of this so called Weibergut. The other half neither the husband nor his creditors were allowed to claim. While women still needed their legal guardian’s permission to spend or invest their protected half part of the Weibergut, they could do as they pleased with their clothes and jewellery.65 Unfortunately for the historian, this regulation leads to the situation that not every bankruptcy inventory contains a list of (female) clothes. Usually, a women’s clothes were excluded from the assets, when her husband went bankrupt or passed away indebted. 63 The towns of Bern and Basel were both reformed and governed by a small social elite (Patriziat), excluding most of the towns and states residents from political and economic power. In Basel, however, the influence of local guilds, especially the merchant’s, was stronger than in Bern, where the nobility’s fortune was generated more by mercenaries than trade. See Daniel Schläppi, “Patriziat,” Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz (HLS), http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D16374.php. Accessed 5 Dezember 2017; Urs Martin Zahnd, “Bern (Gemeinde),” HLS, http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D209.php. Accessed 5 Dezember 2017; and Hans Berner, Niklaus Röthlin, “Basel (-Stadt),” HLS, http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D7478.php. Accessed 5 Dezember 2017. 64 As part of the SNF research project “Textilien und materielle Kultur im Wandel,” John Jordan and I created a database from these inventories based off decanal samples for the years 1660–69, 1680–1689, 1700–1709, 1720–1729, 1740–1749, 1760–1769, and 1780–1789). In total, the database contains information on 526 inventories, 1,019 people, and 69,222 objects. For further information about the database, see John Jordan’s contribution to this volume. On female bankrupts, see Claudia Ravazzolo, “Der Frauen Kleider: Hausrat und Materieller Besitz von Frauen in Berner Konkursinventaren des späten 17. und des 18. Jahrhunderts” (master’s thesis, University of Bern, 2017). To create a larger sample of female clothes, five additional inventories of women from outside the sample years were also considered. 65 Ravazzolo, “Frauen Kleider” 15–19, 21–24.

An Apron’s Tale

189

Garments were listed in the inventory when the bankruptcy was declared after a female defaulter’s death, or if a woman’s bankruptcy was caused by her own actions. From my research sample, the content of twenty-three women’s wardrobes is documented in the inventories. In all twenty-three cases, textile goods represent the most valuable part of a woman’s possessions: in eleven cases, the clothes’ total value even exceeded the total value of furnishing textiles (including beds).66 Aprons (Fürtuch/Tablier) were present in the inventoried wardrobes of twenty Bernese women, eighteen of whom owned more than one. Even among the poorest group of women in the sample, most had between six and twelve aprons. Wealthy women, such as Lisette Küpfer (1758–1776), typically owned more: despite dying at a young age, Küpfer owned forty-seven aprons.67 As with shifts, stockings, and caps, aprons were changed more frequently than gowns, skirts, and jackets, as they became soiled faster. Owning multiple aprons thus made life more comfortable, especially considering that in early modern period, washing was a complex and time consuming procedure only taking place a few times in a year.68 Both fashionable and work aprons are included in the inventories. Kitchen aprons (Kuchi Fürtücher) are the only specific type of female work aprons mentioned, appearing in three inventories.69 Only one other case cites another apron used for a specific purpose, namely mourning (Leid Fürtuch).70 If not by name, apron types can be distinguished by material. Unlike many other objects, most of the entries for aprons (66.2 percent) denote a material or fabric. Some of the fabrics mentioned, like silk taffeta and grosgrain (Gros de Tours) or cotton muslin were too delicate and precious to be used for work clothes, and

66 Beds, especially the textile parts of them, usually ranged among the most valuable goods in a household. See Shammas, The Pre-industrial Consumer, 169; and Stana Nenadic, “Middle-rank Consumers and Domestic Culture in Edinburgh and Glasgow 1720–1840,” Past and Present 145 (1994): 122–56. 67 See StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1504, Mappe K 6: Küpfer – Kurz, Case 2. The large amount of aprons and other linen goods like shifts were possibly acquired as part of Küpfer’s prospective dowry. 68 See Georges Vigarello, Concepts of Cleanliness: Changing Attitudes in France Since the Middle Ages, trans. Jean Birrell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988). On washing and caring for clothes in this period, see Daniel Roche, The Culture of Clothing: Dress and Fashion in the “Ancien Régime,” trans. Jean Birrell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 364–95; and Styles, Dress, 71–83. For a detailed description of early modern clothes washing, see Heide Wunder, “Er ist die Sonn’, sie ist der Mond”: F ­ rauen in der frühen Neuzeit (Munich: Beck, 1992), 130–34. 69 The inventories of Johanna Mader (1743) and Catharina Hartmann (1761) list two kitchen aprons each, sold as a pair for three and five Batzen, respectively. Susanna Barbier’s five kitchen aprons, all in poor condition, were sold together in 1781 for eleven Batzen. For Mader, see StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1442 (1734–44), Case 22; for Hartmann, see StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1436 (1761), Case 6; and for Barbier, see StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1455 (1779–82), Case 15. 70 Two Leid Fürtuch are listed in Louise De Thielle’s 1762 inventory. One was sold for seven, the other for three Batzen. See StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1449 (1762–64), Case 4.

190

Claudia Ravazzolo

were instead clearly worn as fashionable aprons. However, of the 234 aprons, only seven were made from silk and ten from muslin.71 This, however, was a minority of the aprons. Far more common as a material was printed cotton or chintz: 81 of the 234 were made from it. These aprons were generally labelled as ‘Indienne,’ a general term used in the Swiss cantons and France to describe printed or painted cottons, regardless whether they were produced and finished in India, Europe, or a combination thereof.72 As Indienne could describe both an Indian made hand-painted chintz as well as a more ordinary fabric, printed in a local Swiss factory, it is impossible to say whether one of the aprons listed in the Bernese inventories was comparable in quality to the one in the HMB’s collection. Although Bernese women, from the 1740s onward, also owned skirts, jackets, and gowns made from printed cotton, aprons were the type of female garment for which Indienne was used the most.73 Seventeen of the twenty-three women in the sample had at least one Indienne apron. As with clothes, generally the quantity of indienne aprons that a woman owned depended on her socioeconomic status. For instance, Catharina Hartmann, a poor servant who died in 1761, owned only one whereas the aforementioned Lisette Küpfer had thirty-four. Küpfer, of course was an exception, as she was the heiress to one of the leading Indienne-manufacturers in Bern.74 The vast number of the sixty-five Indienne garments in her wardrobe, not just the aprons but also gowns, corsets, and so forth were evidently the result of this connection.75 Considering the varying social background of the Bernese women owning Indiennes and the prices paid for Indienne aprons in good condition at the auctions, it becomes obvious, that Indienne fabrics were available in a broad range in quality and price.76 71 John Styles describes comparable findings for England. The majority of aprons in his sources were work garments, made from linen or cotton; only a few women owned more decorative aprons made from lawn, muslin, or silk. See Styles, Dress, 43. 72 On the difficulties of textile terminology, especially Indienne, see John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Global Goods in Local Languages: Naming Indian Cottons in the Swiss Cantons” in Names and Naming in Early Modern Germany, ed. Joel Harrington and Beth Plummer (New York: Berghahn, forthcoming); and John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Fictive Descriptions? Words, Textiles, and Inventories in Early Modern Switzerland” in Inventories of Textiles – Textiles in Inventories. Studies on Late Medieval and Early Modern Material Culture, ed. Thomas Ertl and Barbara Karl (Vienna: Vienna University Press, 2017), 219–38. 73 A total of 145 pieces of clothing made from Indienne are in the sample: aprons (eighty-one), skirts (twenty-­ four), jackets (seventeen), gowns (fourteen), mantelets (four), corsets (four), and a pair of sleeves (one). 74 For Hartmann, see StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1436 (1761), Case 6; and for Küpfer, see StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1504, Mappe K 6: Küpfer – Kurz, Case 2. On Bern’s cotton industry see Werner Fetscherin, Beitrag zur Geschichte der Baumwollindustrie im alten Bern (Weinfelden: Neuenschwander, 1924), 27–36. 75 Not surprisingly the two women who owned the most Indiennes had strong ties to Bern’s Indienne manufacturers. Susanna Barbier, who died in 1780 and who was much poorer than Lisette Küpfer, was the deserted wife of a designer (dessignateur) who used to work at the Indienne factory in Holligen near Bern. 76 The average price paid for a second hand Indienne apron at a bankruptcy auction was around twenty Batzen whereas two new aprons were sold for twenty-five Batzen each. These prices are comparable with those

An Apron’s Tale

191

Like other pieces of clothing, an apron – by its quality of fabric and its condition – worked as a marker of social rank and financial status. According to John Styles, servants could be distinguished by their profession and located within the domestic hierarchy by the colour and fabric of their apron.77 In eighteenth-century New England, as mentioned by Marla Miller, only a few woman of privilege wore white aprons when they went out visiting, whereas the ordinary everyday aprons, used by the majority of woman, were made from homespun checked linens.78 The results from the database suggest that women in early modern Bern could have worn Indienne aprons in a similar manner. Since the bankruptcy inventories make no difference between various qualities of ­Indienne by name, one could get the impression that these fabrics had the ability to blur the differences visible in clothing between people of different social status. In other sources like sumptuary laws, however, some printed cottons were distinguished by more specific names, such as Calanca or Persienne whereas the general term Indienne does not appear. The Bernese sumptuary laws did not prohibit the use of printed cottons, but they did restrict the use of certain qualities to specific social groups. For example in 1767, female servants were not allowed to wear Calanca or Persienne, high-quality, multi-coloured, and thus more expensive printed cottons.79 Concerning Indienne, it was mainly the quality of the fabric, the complexity of pattern, and the quantity of colours used rather than the material Indienne alone that served as a marker of social distinction. By being worn by all classes of society, and making colourful patterns affordable for a smaller budget, painted or printed cottons may indeed, like Lemire and Styles argued for England, have had the ability to blur social borders, although they did not entirely erase either them.80 Apparent better qualities of chintzes or Indienne, imported from India or made in Europe, were still limited to people of higher classes, either by price or by sumptuary laws. Unfortunately, the bankruptcy inventories remain silent about the occasions on which Bernese women wore Indienne aprons. Other sources, such as the more than 700 extant eighteenth-century portraits of women from Bern’s elite families, show that for upper-class women, aprons as a garment and Indienne as a material were not considered adequate for paid for good quality linen aprons. However, there were as well Indienne aprons, owned by the already mentioned Küpfer, which sold for more than fifty Batzen, a price that outstrips even the price paid for silk aprons. 77 Styles, Dress, 43. 78 Marla R. Miller, The Needle’s Eye: Woman and Work in the Age of Revolution (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2006), 25, 39. 79 Like Indienne, Calanca and Persienne could have been imported from India or produced in Europe. Boys under the age of fourteen and girls younger than twelve were also not allowed to be dressed in Persiennes but could wear the Calancas as long they were not servants. See Ordnung, die Kleider v. Knechten und Mägde, wie auch deren Dienst und Liedlöhn betreffend (Bern: Hochobrigkeitliche Buchdruckerey, 1767), 12, 14; Jordan and Schopf, “Fictive Descriptions,” 231; and Jordan and Schopf, “Global Goods in Local Languages.” 80 See Lemire, Fashions Favourite, 76–114, and Styles, Dress, 110–127.

192

Claudia Ravazzolo

Fig. 41: Jakob Emanuel Handmann (1718–81), portrait of Marie Wydler, née Flückiger, widowed Schüppach, widowed Dübeld (1735–?), ca. 1753, Bern Historical Museum, Porträtdok. 7794. The portrait was painted when Marie was married to her second husband Michael Schüppach (1707–81). The sitter is wearing the typical formal dress of a woman belonging to the rural elite, with an Indienne apron and stays decorated with silver hocks and black lace. Bernisches Historisches Museum, Bern. Photograph: Stefan Rebsamen.

a portrait.81 The majority of these women were depicted wearing a silk gown without an apron, since for them, this was the dress with most prestige, whereas clothes from printed cottons and accessories like aprons represented a more functional every day outfit. For women from lower social classes and the rural areas of the republic of Bern, garments 81 These portraits can be found as part of an online-database. See Burgerbibliothek Bern, Porträtdokumentation, http://katalog.burgerbib.ch/detail.aspx?ID=300887. Accessed 4 December 2017. As Jutta Zander-Seidel notes though, identifying fabrics in portraits is a difficult task. See her “Kleider und Bilder: Zur Lesbarkeit frühneuzeitlicher Kleidung,” (conference presentation, 41. Basler Renaissancekolloquiums, University of Basel, Basel, 10 November 2017).

An Apron’s Tale

193

made from Indienne like aprons were more likely part of their Sunday best, since most silk fabrics were prohibited to them or beyond their means. Period images of these garments among this group are rare, but in the few existing paintings and drawings, there are some which give an impression of how they dressed and what role Indienne aprons played within these outfits. In 1753, Marie Flückiger (b. 1735), the second wife of the then wellknown Langnau-based medical practitioner and pharmacist Michael Schüppach (1707–81), was painted dressed in the typical costume of Bernese countrywomen of the Emmental region, consisting of a deep purple jacked worn over red stays and a linen shift combined with a blue skirt, a flowered white Indienne apron, and a small straw hat (fig. 41).82 For a woman like Flückiger, who like her husband belonged to the rural elite but not Bern’s nobility, this was the appropriate dress to be painted in. With its multi-coloured flowers on a white ground, the apron’s fabric had a certain likeness to the chintz apron of the HMB, even though the design is stylistically more European, suggesting that Flückiger wore a European, maybe even Swiss made Indienne.

Conclusion This research on the Indian chintz apron from Basel began with a bunch of questions, emerging from that specific object, concerning its origin, its art of making, and its function. Most striking was the question emerging from the painted blue colour: how was it possible, that the indigo blue colour seemed to be painted not dyed, when – according to historical accounts – Indian craftsmen only knew the resist-dyeing method in an indigo vat? Here the artefact tells a story about which written sources remain silent or at least vague. The apron’s chintz fabric is not only a strong argument for the existence and usage of a paintable indigo colour in India, but moreover, its chemical analysis speaks also to a possible transfer of knowledge about pencil blue from Europe to India. References in documents from overseas trading companies, such as the EIC, show that knowledge and technologies were exchanged between Europe and India, even though explicit references for the transfer of methods for pencil blue are still missing. The environment supporting such a transfer, however, existed. As shown by the inventories from Bern, aprons made from painted or printed cottons, were a popular garment in Bernese women’s wardrobes. Whether or not one of these 82 The portrait of Marie Wydler, née Flückiger, widowed Schüppach, widowed Dübeld was painted by Jakob Emanuel Handmann and is held at the Historisches Museum Bern. See Burgerbibliothek Bern, Porträt: Wydler, Marie (b. 1735), http://katalog.burgerbib.ch/detail.aspx?ID=100929. Accessed 6 December 2017; and Urs Boschung, “Michel Schüppach” HLS, http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D14634.php. Accessed 6 December 2017.

194

Claudia Ravazzolo

women owned an apron comparable to the one from Basel, is unfortunately lost to history, since colours or patterns were mentioned only occasionally.83 All we know is that cotton fabrics were available in the Swiss cantons in a broad range of qualities – from Indian chintz to local produced prints – and worn by all sorts of women. For members of the patrician elite, Indiennes, like the one in the HMB, were a desired and exotic commodity, but they could not outdo silks, when it came to represent social rank and status by dress. However, in rural and lower classes’ representative dress, Indiennes of lesser quality than the one in the HMB played an essential role.

83 The inventory listing the possessions of the deceased Rosina Müller, written in 1791 is one of the few ones, where colours or patterns of Indienne aprons are occasionally described. Of the six Indienne aprons in her wardrobe, one was described as ‘lila’ while two others were labelled as ‘flowered’ (geblümbt). See StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX. 1512 (Mappe M 4: Müller), Case 1.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin: The Königliches Lagerhaus and the Globalisation of Prussia through Colouring Materials Jutta Wimmler

In 1756, the Lagerhauskommission, a consortium of individuals overseeing the management of Prussia’s biggest manufacturer of woollens, investigated a rumour that their blue dyer, Mr. Nöbeling, wanted to resign his position – a rumour that had occasioned an offer from a rival blue dyer named George.1 The investigation found that Nöbeling had no intention of resigning: Nöbeling only mentioned that because the blue vat required looking after regularly even at night, it sometimes happened that the dyer Menard, who lives directly above the dyehouse, or his wife, were awakened by the opening and closing of doors […]. [Menard] had not accepted Nöbelings assertion that it was entirely impossible to open and close the doors of an arched dyehouse without making any sound, leading Nöbeling to finally exclaim: if the lord would relieve me from the blue dye house, I would even thank him, if only to be rid of this constant bickering. Menard took this opportunity to propose to George that he take over the dye house, after asking Nöbeling if he was being serious. To which Nöbeling responded, in the same state in which he had said it, that he was.2 1

Research for this article was funded by the German Research Foundation (Research Grant WE 3613/2–1, “The Globalized Periphery. Atlantic Commerce, Socioeconomic and Cultural Change in Central Europe, 1680–1850”) as well as the Viadrina Center B/Orders in Motion. For the statement that the Lagerhaus was Prussia’s biggest manufacturer of woollens (or indeed textiles) see for example, Carl Hinrichs, “Das königliche Lagerhaus in Berlin,” Forschungen zur Brandenburgischen und Preußischen Geschichte 44 (1932), 62; and Hugo Rachel, Das Berliner Wirtschaftsleben im Zeitalter des Frühkapitalismus (Berlin: Rembrandt-Verlag, 1931), 123. Wilhelm Treue even proposed that the Lagerhaus was the largest manufacturer of textiles in Germany at the time, see his Wirtschafts- und Technikgeschichte Preussens (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1984), 35. 2 “[Nöbeling] hat bey Untersuchung der Sache nur geäußert, daß weil auch des Nächts einigemahl nach deren blau Küpen gesehen werden muß, sichs zu weilen getroffen, daß durch Eröffnung und Verschließung von Thüren, der über der Färberey wohnende Färber Menard, oder deßen Ehw. Frau, aus dem Schlaff erwe­ cket worden, […] [Menard hat] des Noeblings Vorstellung, daß in der Nacht ohnmöglich [sei] die Thüren einer gewölbten Färberey, sonder aller geräusche zu öffnen und zu verschließen, nicht gelten laßen wollen, [worauf] der Noebling endlich zur Antwort gegeben: Wann der herr mir von der blau färberey abhelffen kann, so will ichs ihm noch dazu verdanken, um nur nicht beständige zänkerei zu haben. Hiervon hat dann der Menard Anlaß genommen, dem George zu suppeditiren, um die blau färbe Halle anzuhalten, zuförderst aber dem Noebling selbst zu befragen: Ob das, was er gesprochen sein Ernst sey. Welches der

196

Jutta Wimmler

This amusing anecdote suggests a conflict between the two dyers that will be further explored later in this article. The report also reveals that the dyehouse was located in an arched building that also housed the dyers and their families, and informs us that blue vats were quite labour extensive – as Nöbeling correctly states, they required looking after (especially regular stirring) even at night. It is altogether rare to find detailed information about the secretive business of dyeing, which has made it difficult to substantiate general assumptions about the dyers, the dyestuffs and techniques they used, and their suppliers. The extensive records kept by the Lagerhaus, an institution intended primarily for the outfitting of the Prussian army, allow insights into all of these matters. The records include correspondence, account books, inventories, and detailed insights into personnel issues. In this article, I will explore what these documents reveal about dyeing in eighteenth-century Berlin, including the types and quantities of dyestuffs used, the routes they took to reach Berlin, the people who traded them, and how the dyers interacted with the substances. This will illustrate that Prussia became increasingly globalized in the course of the eigh­ teenth century on a material level, as dyestuffs from all around the world ended up in the woollen manufacturer’s dyehouses. I will begin by introducing the manufacturer – and the dyestuffs used by Nöbeling and Menard.

1. The Lagerhaus and its Dyestuffs In the eighteenth century, Prussia became a vital player in the Holy Roman Empire, establishing itself as the major antagonist of Habsburg Austria. An important factor in this development was the growth of Prussia’s army that had been initiated during the reign of King Frederik William I (r. 1713–40) and was continued by his son and successor Frede­ rik II, ‘the Great’ (r. 1740–86). The increased size of the military went hand in hand with an increasing demand for uniforms, for which purpose, the confusingly named Königliches Lagerhaus (roughly translated as ‘Royal Storehouse’) was established in 1713. As the name suggests, the Lagerhaus was initially intended as a storage facility for raw wool as well as a depot for woollen textiles for the army: uniforms were supposed to be available in storage to be provided as needed. Two developments changed the function of the Lagerhaus. First, the introduction of regular appointments for the outfitting of the army made a permanent storage facility unnecessary, since the production process could follow this seasonal cycle. Second, Spanish merino wool became increasingly important in the production of uniforms for the higher ranks. Since this finer wool required different processing than Noebling in dem Verstande, als er es gesprochen, bejaet.” See Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz (hereafter: GStaPK) I. HA Rep. 181, No. 145.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

197

the coarser domestic kind, the Lagerhaus had to commission foreign experts to instruct local workers on how to process it. It was easier to conduct these instructions within the walls of the Lagerhaus than to outsource it to the homes of the artisans. In combination, these two factors turned the former storage facility into a factory.3 Guaranteeing the regular production of uniforms for the growing Prussian army had only been one of the king’s goals for the Lagerhaus. Stimulating production in virtually the only industry for which the necessary raw material (wool) was abundantly available in Prussia was the other.4 Coupled with prohibitions to import foreign wool as well as to export domestic wool, the Lagerhaus was to satiate the demand for woollens within ­Prussia as a whole. Only the Lagerhaus was granted the right to import and process Spanish and Portuguese merino wool that was of higher quality than domestic wool and roughly ten times more expensive.5 The distinction between domestic woollens and the superior merino woollens was also used to mark status within the military. While the uniforms for high ranking officers were made from merino wool, the lower ranks wore uniforms made from domestic wool. The Lagerhaus had the additional function of providing work for the wives and children of soldiers, and for the soldiers themselves when off-duty.6 This practice resulted from the modalities of recruitment and employment in the Prussian army: Prussia used a type of limited conscription known as the canton system. The country was divided into recruiting areas (cantons) that regularly had to supply a certain amount of recruits, who were trained for a year or more and then granted leave for ten months per year, during which they remained under the jurisdiction of the military, albeit without pay. They thus had to work to make ends meet, but still needed to be available in case of war and crisis.7 3 See Harald Reissig, “Das Berliner Lagerhaus 1713–1816: Zum Einfluss von Regierung und Wirtschaft auf die Entwicklung einer Altpreussischen Staatsmanufaktur,” Jahrbuch für die Geschichte Mittel- und Ostdeutschlands 29 (1980), 69–70; and Hinrichs, “Das königliche Lagerhaus in Berlin,” 50. 4 This was before Silesia, one of the most important linen-producing regions in Europe, became part of Prussia around the middle of the century. 5 For this estimate see Erika Herzfeld, Preussische Manufakturen: Grossgewerbliche Fertigung von Porzellan, Seide, Gobelins, Uhren, Tapeten, Waffen, Papier u.a. im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert in und um Berlin (Berlin: Verlag der Nation, 1994), 72. In the second half of the eighteenth century, both state officials (including the king) and individual noblemen who owned most of the sheep flocks introduced merino sheep imported from the Iberian Peninsula (and possibly Saxony) into the local sheep population (peasants were not allowed to conduct sheep farming for commercial purposes). By the late eighteenth century, some farms already possessed flocks mainly or purely of merino sheep, and the Lagerhaus managed to switch over completely to the finer Spanish wool. In the middle of the century, however, the Lagerhaus still processed both. See Hans-Heinrich Müller, “Entwicklungstendenzen der Viehzucht in Brandenburg vor den Agrarreformen von 1807,” Jahrbuch für Wirtschaftsgeschichte 7.2 (1966), 161–62, 168–71. 6 Hinrichs, “Das königliche Lagerhaus in Berlin,” 49. 7 This system and its interpretation in historiography is explored critically in Peter H. Wilson, “Social Militarization in Eighteenth-Century Germany,” German History 18 (2000): 1–39.

198

Jutta Wimmler

To help facilitate this, the Lagerhaus was required to take them on.8 The Lagerhaus was thus more than a place where uniforms and other textiles were manufactured – it served a stabilizing function in the militarized Prussian state. It is important, however, to understand that the Lagerhaus did not supply the entire army with everything they needed. For one thing, soldiers were required to supply themselves with certain necessities (notably undershirts and other basics made from linen). Second, regiments further away from Berlin were supplied by more local manufacturers. Finally, the Lagerhaus outsourced parts of the work – notably the spinning and weaving of domestic wool – to home-workers.9 In fact, soldiers and their families often did their spinning at home, receiving the material from the Lagerhaus and then returning it after their work had been done. In 1723, the king bestowed the Lagerhaus to the Potsdam Orphanage for Military Children (Militärwaisenhaus) who would remain its owner until 1764.10 During this period, the Lagerhaus continued provisioning the military, but also expanded its production for the private sector considerably. According to Harald Reissig, by 1733 the revenue from the private sector already exceeded revenue from the military sector, a trend that would continue throughout the century.11 The Seven Years’ War marked a significant change in the economic history of Brandenburg-Prussia as their treasury was nearly empty when the war ended. An international financial crisis originating in Amsterdam further ontributed to the situation. The textile industry in particular experienced a series of bankruptcies that led to unemployment for many workers, with the traditional woollen industry suffering the most.12 For the Lagerhaus, coin devaluation and the resulting inflation emerged as its biggest problem.13 Since contracts with the army were made far in advance and included concrete prices, the Lagerhaus lost a great deal of money when the contracts were executed.14 As a consequence, the king decided to lease the Lagerhaus to a private entrepreneur, Heinrich Schmitz from Aachen, shortly after the war (1763–64). Although the Lagerhaus   8 Hinrichs, “Das königliche Lagerhaus in Berlin,” 49.   9 Hinrichs, “Das königliche Lagerhaus in Berlin,” 51, 59; and Reissig, “Das Berliner Lagerhaus 1713–1816,” 74. 10 The term ‘orphanage’ is misleading. The children’s parents were often still alive, their fathers serving in the military and/or working for the Lagerhaus (possibly also their mothers). The orphanage was instead a place of education and labour for the soldiers’ offspring (although it included actual orphans as well). See Hinrichs, “Das königliche Lagerhaus in Berlin,” 57. 11 Reissig, “Das Berliner Lagerhaus 1713–1816,” 73–74. 12 Wolfgang Radtke, Gewerbe und Handel in der Kurmark Brandenburg 1740 bis 1806: Zur Interdependenz von kameralistischer Staatswirtschaft und Privatwirtschaft (Berlin: Berliner Wissenschafts-Verlag, 2003), 224–25; and Rolf Straubel, Kaufleute und Manufakturunternehmer: Eine empirische Untersuchung über die sozialen Träger von Handel und Großgewerbe in den mittleren preußischen Provinzen (1763 bis 1815) (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1995), 31. 13 Horst Krüger, Zur Geschichte der Manufakturen und der Manufakturarbeiter in Preussen: Die mittleren Provinzen in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Rütten & Loening, 1958), 514–15, 522. 14 Herzfeld, Preussische Manufakturen, 84.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

199

experienced another successful phase in the 1770s, its heyday had ended with the war. By the 1780s, other manufacturers were able to produce woollens more cheaply and English woollens were flooding the continent.15 The Lagerhaus existed until the early nineteenth century, when the consequences of the Napoleonic wars and the industrial revolution finally led to its permanent closure. The Lagerhaus sources preserved in the archives in Berlin offer an interesting glimpse into the practice of dyeing, and the use and acquisition of dyestuffs. The takeover by Schmitz in particular produced a wealth of documentation that shed light on the everyday business of the woollen manufacturer, its workers, and its products. This was the case because Schmitz wanted to know about every detail of the Lagerhaus’s business and was very critical of the way it had previously been managed. The most detailed insights into the use and acquisition of dyestuffs can nevertheless be derived from some of the surviving documents from the time before this takeover. The account books (Haupt-Cassen-Rechnungen) of the Lagerhaus make it possible to investigate the factory’s monthly demand for dyestuffs, as well as its suppliers.16 They tell us how much of which dyestuff was bought from whom each month and for what price. Documentation from the year 1764 strongly indicates that these account books were compiled annually for as long as the Lagerhaus existed. It is unclear how many have survived. So far, I was able to find them for six years: 1754, 1755, and 1761–1764. The last account book from 1764 ends in August, which corresponds with Schmitz’s official takeover. Examining these account books provides thorough insight into the types of dyes that the Lagerhaus used. As illustrated in the graph, by the middle of the eighteenth century, the Lagerhaus procured a wide range of dyestuffs from all over the world. The European saw-wort (serratula tinctoria, a yellow dye) and American logwood (haematoxylum campechianum, mostly used for dyeing black) dominated in quantitative terms. Behind them were Röthe and madder, both derived from the red dye plant rubia tinctorum and especially grown in Holland at the time. They are followed by a range of other dyestuffs originating in Europe, Africa, America, and Asia. The sheer variety of dyestuffs merits some thought if we consider the state of the literature on the subject. So far, Gisela Krause is the only scholar to have made any statements about the materials used to dye Prussian uniforms in the eighteenth century, which were characterized by a combination of blue, red, and paille (straw yellow). On the basis of the available literature, she assumed that the traditional European blue dyestuff woad (isatis tinctoria) had been completely replaced by American indigo (indigofera tinctoria); that 15 Claudia Selheim, Das textile Angebot eines ländlichen Warenlagers in Süddeutschland 1778–1824, 2 vols. (Würzburg: Bayerische Blätter für Volkskunde, 1994), 1:77–78. 16 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 94–99.

Fig. 42: Imports of dyestuffs in Pfund according to the account books of the Lagerhaus in the years 1754, 1755, and 1761–1764.

200 Jutta Wimmler

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

201

the well-known American insect dyestuff cochineal (dactylopius coccus) was hardly used because it was expensive, and that weld (reseda), grown in many parts of Europe, was the primary source of yellows.17 All of these statements need to be questioned on the basis of the source material that illustrates quite clearly that the Lagerhaus employed practically every dyestuff available and used in the woollen industry at the time.18 Since the Lagerhaus was the army’s primary supplier of uniforms, Krause’s statements are clearly in need of revision. On first glance, the graph seems to support Krause’s assumption that woad had been replaced by indigo. Woad does appear in the account books, however. Since it was bought in barrels (Faß) of varying sizes and not measured according to weight, it could not be incorporated into the graph. In the course of the five and a half years covered by the account books, the Lagerhaus bought sixty-two barrels and twelve Scheffel of woad.19 Being an extremely light material whose weight could vary considerably, it would be highly speculative to translate these barrels to Pfund.20 Similarly, indigo and cochineal, both light materials, do not appear prominently in the graph. While most of the dyewoods, such as logwood and brazilwood, were heavier, the colouring powers of these light materials were often much stronger. Against this background, Krause’s insistence that cochineal was not used to dye Prussian uniforms becomes even less sustainable. It needs to be stressed that none of the three dyestuffs often described as the basis of ‘traditional’ European textile dyeing – madder (red), woad (blue), and weld (yellow) – grew on Prussian territory. To the contrary, little to no dyestuffs were cultivated in early eight17 Gisela Krause, Altpreußische Militärbekleidungswirtschaft: Materialien und Formen, Planung und Fertigung, Wirtschaft und Verwaltung (Osnabrück: Biblio-Verl., 1983), 18–22. At the time, it was difficult for researchers from the Federal Republic of Germany (like Krause) to access the Deutsches Zentralarchiv, located in the German Democratic Republic, which then housed the Lagerhaus records. At the same time, historiographical research in the GDR did not focus on the history of early modern Prussia. In combination, this produced major research gaps. See for example, Radtke, Gewerbe und Handel in der Kurmark Brandenburg, 18–19. 18 Access to overseas dyestuffs from the Americas, Asia, and to a smaller extent Africa, had already changed the practice of dyeing in early modern Europe. This process was not restricted to the western European sea powers, but reached far into the continent, well into eastern Europe. Indigo, cochineal, red sandalwood, brazilwood, logwood, curcuma, annatto, and other dyestuffs were employed regularly for example in dyehouses in eighteenth-century Poland. See Katarzyna Schmidt-Przewoźna, “Natural Dyes Used in Polish Workshops in the 17th and 18th Centuries,” Dyes in History and Archeology 21 (2008), 150. 19 Like the barrel, the Scheffel is a cubic measure whose size varied greatly. An additional 523.5 Pfund woad is listed in the account books, which complicates things – I have chosen to ignore them for the following calculations. 20 Pfund is a unit of weight, usually measuring a little less than half a kilogram. Since various types of Pfund were common in eighteenth-century Prussia, I have chosen to refrain from conversions to kilograms or other contemporary measurements, and instead simply provide the amount in Pfund as given in the source. I can say with certainty, however, that a Zentner (hundredweight) amounted to 110 Pfund, so if the source provided Zentner, I converted them to Pfund accordingly.

202

Jutta Wimmler

eenth-century Prussia, at least not on a commercial level. This was seen as highly problematic, since this meant that all of these materials had to be imported. For this reason, the state encouraged the domestic production of dyestuffs, which did not always lead to satisfactory results. For example, the Lagerhaus received samples of madder, weld, and woad in April 1733 that came from newly established plantations around Magdeburg. While the madder and the weld were judged woefully inadequate, the woad received a little more praise and was given a try.21 Madder cultivation never thrived in the region – indeed, the production of madder in Europe was practically monopolized by Holland until around 1760.22 South France, Alsace, and Silesia also furnished some, but madder produced in these regions was generally considered inferior to the Dutch variety.23 So, although Prussia’s access to madder plantations increased steadily from the 1740s onwards with the Silesian wars, Dutch madder continued to be imported. The records differentiate between two types of madder: Krapp and Röthe. The two were clearly not the same, as Röthe was always considerably cheaper than Krapp. One contemporary author noted that Röthe was produced from the plant’s whole root, while Krapp was produced by removing the root’s outer layer as well as its core, and then pulverizing the rest.24 Krapp was considered more valuable – which explains why it was also considerably more expensive than Röthe. In fact, madder is a highly complex substance. Not only its overall quality, but also the shades of colours produced from madder, depends on several factors, including its place of cultivation, its harvest, and its preparation.25 Although it is difficult to find information on the subject, it may be the case that Röthe-madder produced different shades of colours than Krapp-madder. It is also possible that the cheaper Röthe-madder was added to compositions based on other dyestuffs, or simply used in the production of inferior dyes.26 In any case, the Lagerhaus continued to employ Dutch madder in the second half of the century. A first conclusion is that the Lagerhaus used a wide variety of dyestuffs and that the American logwood and the European saw-wort dominated in quantitative terms (pro21 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 49. 22 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 120–23. 23 Christian-Heinrich Wunderlich, “Krapplack und Türkischrot: Ein Beitrag zur Chemie und Geschichte der Farblacke und Beizenfärbungen” (PhD diss., Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn, 1993), 20. 24 Johann Carl Gottfried Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen in Deutschland, 4 vols. (Berlin: August Mylius, 1773), 1:307. 25 Dominique Cardon, Natural Dyes: Sources, Tradition, Technology and Science (London: Archetype, 2007), 114. 26 One could speculate that Silesia mainly furnished Röthe, while Holland furnished Krapp-madder, based on some evidence from the 1780s. A statistic of Prussian imports and exports lists 52,404 Reichsthaler worth of Röthe-exports, but no imports of this substance whatsoever. This suggests that Röthe was a local product and not an import. See Hugo Rachel, Die Handels-, Zoll- und Akzisepolitik Preußens 1740–1786, vol. 3, bk. 2, Handels-, Zoll- und Akzisepolitik (Berlin: Paul Parey, 1928), 477.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

203

vided Krapp-madder and Röthe-madder are accounted for separately). While indigo was clearly relevant, woad was continuously present as well, which forces us to rethink Krause’s claim that indigo replaced woad completely. In all cases, the quantities only tell us part of the story. In order to interpret this information, we need to delve deeper into the dyeing process, and ask for the qualitative advantages and disadvantages, as well as the output of these dyestuffs. Why would the Lagerhaus buy expensive cochineal, if the cheaper madder was also available? Was saw-wort really more important than weld? Why did the dyers need so much logwood? And what about all the other, lesser known dyestuffs that appear in the records? The next section will offer some answers to these questions.

2. From Quantity to Quality: The Relative Value of Dyestuffs Dyeing was a complex task in the early modern period. Dyestuffs did not always produce just one colour; they reacted differently to various kinds of textiles and were usually combined to produce shades, nuances, and different kinds of quality. In this section, I will focus on the dyestuffs themselves and how they could be employed, and assess their advantages and disadvantages. While the Lagerhaus records do provide some information on this subject, I will also include the works of Johann Karl Gottfried Jacobsson (1725–89), a renowned eighteenth-century author whose deliberations about work processes in the textile industry were based on intensive research in various Prussian manufacturies. Contemporary work about natural dyes, particularly the research of Dominique Cardon and Sabine Struckmeier, helps to substantiate as well as to revise Jacobsson’s claims. With their help, it becomes apparent that the range of dyestuffs imported by the Lagerhaus attests to a wealth of technical knowledge about dyeing in eighteenth-century Berlin and the integration of Prussia into a globalized economy. Further, access to overseas dyestuffs fuelled interest in more local dyestuffs such as woad, madder, or saw-wort. So far, the relationship between woad and indigo has produced the most scholarship on the subject. Typically, countries with strong woad-industries (such as France) initially outlawed the use of indigo in order to protect the woad-industry, and later ordered the combined use of woad and indigo for the same reason. Countries without woad-industries, on the other hand, were quicker to profit from increased access to indigo.27 According to Dominique Cardon, however, adding woad to indigo vats was not purely cosmetic: rather than functioning as a colouring agent (the indigo took care of that), woad acted as a fermenting agent that allowed the indigo cakes to return to a liquid state. She explains 27 See Jutta Wimmler, The Sun King’s Atlantic: Drugs, Demons and Dyestuffs in the Atlantic World, 1640–1730 (Leiden: Brill 2017), 46.

204

Jutta Wimmler

that Europeans (especially in the woollen industry) had started to add small amounts of indigo to woad vats from the seventeenth century onwards, and that the amount of indigo increased constantly until it surpassed the amount of woad in the vat.28 Since Prussia initially had no woad industry to speak of, both woad and indigo needed to be imported. The records suggest that the Lagerhaus initially forwent the use of woad entirely. In July 1725, the Lagerhaus was unhappy with the quality of indigo and oil provided by one of their suppliers and wished to return what remained of it. They listed in detail how much of the materials had already been used and for what purpose, informing us that seventeen pieces of blue Musketiertücher had been dyed in a vat made from eighteen and a half Pfund of Curaçao Indigo, eight Pfund madder, as well as sixteen Pfund potash.29 Woad does not appear anywhere in the document – at least on paper, this was entirely an indigo vat. It appears that woad was not easily available at the time, as it was not grown domestically and Prussia apparently faced supply problems. As we have seen, however, woad is listed as a regular import in the account books by the 1750s and 1760s. In 1764, the director of the Lagerhaus, a man called Bastineller, explained that woad was now produced locally in Prussia, though the Lagerhaus primarily employed woad from Langensaltze in Saxony, which was of better quality.30 Working under the assumption that woad was not used on its own in the middle of the eigh­teenthcentury but rather mixed with indigo (which is suggested by sources and secondary literature alike), we can calculate that a vat made from forty Pfund of indigo would have contained about one-third of a barrel of woad.31 This calculation can be compared to archival records from the 1790s. In December 1791, the dyer Reich went into detail about his calculation of the blue vats’ overall worth (about 150 Reichsthaler), listing the ingredients present in the vats: forty Pfund indigo, three barrels of woad, twenty Pfund of fine madder, and twelve Pfund of potash.32 While no woad appears to have been present in the vat in 1725, approximately one-third of a barrel were combined with forty Pfund indigo by the middle of the century, which increased to three barrels of woad for the same amount of indigo by 1791. This suggests that woad actually gained, rather than lost importance 28 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 345, 371. 29 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 44, p. 135. 30 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 13, p. 49 et seq. Bastineller’s first name does not appear in the records, but he is sometimes called “Kriegsrath Bastineller” or “Kriegs- und Domainen Rath,” indicating that he held a position in the Ministry of War. 31 On woad being mixed with indigo, see for example Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:359– 61; and Cardon, Natural Dyes, 345, 371. 32 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 106, p. 109 et seq. In the inventories of dyestuffs, the last position is always reserved for the already mixed blue vats in stock, whose worth was assessed by one of the Lagerhaus’s dyers. The inventories are available from the 1760s onwards. Years surveyed: 1764–71 and 1774–1814. See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 15–19 and 102–112. The dyers: Nöbeling (until 1781), Reich (1782–91), and Nöbeling (from 1792 onwards).

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

205

in the course of the century. It also confirms current research: as Cardon and others have stressed, the woad industries of Europe had not in fact faded into obscurity by the end of eighteenth century.33 Quite to the contrary, the availability of indigo and the technical improvements that went along with this may have helped the woad industries, at least in regions such as Prussia or Saxony. A similar case can be made for madder, which also profited from the influx of overseas dyestuffs. Indeed, the prevalence of madder (Krapp as well as Röthe) in the Lagerhaus records does not automatically suggest an ‘antiquated’ dyeing process or lack of access to other red dyestuffs. According to Struckmeier’s very thorough research, brazilwood – not madder – had in fact dominated the production of reds in the Middle Ages.34 Brazilwood was then an Asian import, but reds were not widely distributed in Europe, being reserved mostly for clergy and nobility. With easier access to brazilwood and other red dyestuffs like cochineal in the early modern period, madder experienced a revival in Europe since the sixteenth century.35 This was largely the case, I would argue, because madder was usually mixed with cochineal. Gisela Krause’s assumption that cochineal was not used in the production of Prussian uniforms because it was too expensive is entirely beside the point: adding even a very small amount of cochineal to a madder-based dye significantly increased the quality of the dye. In fact, cochineal’s impact was strongest in the European woollen industry. It quickly replaced its precursor, kermes, because it was about ten times as potent, and against that background, clearly cheaper. Polish cochineal, with its weak colouring power and high price, had never been a viable alternative for the woollen industry either.36 Not only was cochineal clearly employed in the Lagerhaus, its output was much larger than that of madder: if the entire stock of cochineal and madder bought in the 1750s and early 1760s would have been used to dye wool (as yarn)37 in the simplest manner (without a mixture of several dyestuffs), the 17,194.5 Pfund of madder bought in the years investigated would have dyed only 34,389 Pfund wool, while the 4,257.63 Pfund of cochineal would have produced 68,122.08 Pfund wool – almost twice as much.38 33 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 377. 34 Sabine Struckmeier, Die Textilfärberei vom Spätmittelalter bis zur Frühen Neuzeit (14.–16. Jahrhundert): Eine naturwissenschaftlich-technische Analyse deutschsprachiger Quellen (Münster: Waxmann, 2011), 268– 89. Wunderlich had previously made a similar argument, see Wunderlich, “Krapplack und Türkischrot,” 17. 35 Wunderlich, “Krapplack und Türkischrot,” 19–21. 36 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 625, 628, 642. 37 Wool could be dyed either unwoven (in flakes), as yarn, or as a fabric, but the first two were more common. Textiles that were dyed right after washing (before spinning and weaving) were more expensive because the dyeing process was more complex and the resulting colours deeper and faster. If woollens were dyed after spinning and weaving, they did not absorb the colours as well. See Selheim, Das textile Angebot, 50. 38 If the lower-quality and cheaper Röthe-madder were included in this calculation, cochineal would be roughly on a par with madder. The calculation is based on Jacobsson, who claims that two Lot cochineal

206

Jutta Wimmler

In practice of course, the dyeing process was much more complicated. As mentioned, madder and cochineal were usually combined and other dyestuffs, such as brazilwood or curcuma were added to the mix. Cochineal also had the additional advantage that it produced a wider colour range than other red dyestuffs.39 This made textiles died with cochineal more luxurious: their colours were faster, more brilliant and more nuanced. This is why textiles dyed with cochineal tended to be reserved for the uniforms of the highest ranking officers. These uniforms were also made with the higher quality merino wool, whose fabrication was dominated by the Lagerhaus, while lower ranking soldiers could receive their uniforms from elsewhere. As a result, we cannot draw conclusions about the dominance of cochineal in the production of Prussian uniforms as a whole. It is, however, clear that the Lagerhaus employed cochineal extensively. Its quality and high output compensated for its price. A similar calculation for another major red dyestuff, brazilwood, is not possible because the Lagerhaus dyers appear to have always mixed it with other dyestuffs (especially madder) rather than employing it on its own. They likely did so because the colours produced by brazilwood are extremely sensitive to light. Madder formed the basis of the red dye, while brazilwood provided shades and brilliance (that tended to fade after a few washings).40 Although the Lagerhaus records are not explicit about this, it is likely that their dyers used brazilwood for this purpose. It should be noted that the term ‘brazilwood’ or – as it was usually called in German – Fernambuc was somewhat ambivalent in the early modern period and could refer to several types of red dyewood. As noted above, the Asian ‘brazilwood,’ today usually called sappanwood, had already been employed in the Middle Ages, and it continued to reach Europe in the early modern period. However, American brazilwood (cultivated in Brazil, Central America, and the Caribbean) arrived in Europe in significantly larger numbers and had largely replaced the Asian variety by the eighteenth century. It is thus very probable that the Fernambuc mentioned in the account books refers to American brazilwood. Like brazilwood, the Asian red sandalwood was likewise not used alone, though for a different reason: large quantities of this dyestuff attacked the wool and stiffened it considerably.41 Although both are red dyewoods, red sandalwood can be clearly differentiated can dye one Pfund of wool, for which half a Pfund of madder would be required (one Pfund equals thirty-­ two Lot). See Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:403, 1:411, 1:416. 39 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 628. 40 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 282–83; and Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:460–61. 41 Asian red sandalwood was contemporarily called Calliatur-Holz. This connection can be found in the eigh­ teenth-century reference works of both Johann Georg Krünitz and Johann Heinrich Zedler. ­Zedler claims that the term has a Dutch origin. See Johann Georg Krünitz, “Kaliatur-Holz,” Oekonomische Encyklopädie oder allgemeines System der Staats- Stadt- Haus- und Landwirthschaft, http://kruenitz1.uni-trier.de/. Accessed 2 June 2017; and Johann Heinrich Zedler, “Caliatur-Holtz,” Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexicon

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

207

from brazilwood: while all types of brazilwood are water soluble, red sandalwood is not.42 The comparatively small quantities of red sandalwood imported by the Lagerhaus support the conclusion that red sandalwood, too, tended to be an addition to, rather than the basis of, dyes. The same was most likely the case for curcuma and orchil. Asian curcuma, used in Europe only, albeit rarely, on wool, was extremely sensitive to light and thus would not have provided satisfactory results on its own.43 The Lagerhaus bought only seventy-five Pfund in 1762 and seventy-seven Pfund in 1763, attesting to moderate use. According to Jacobsson, it gave existing yellows a gold coating, and could both brighten the scarlet colour and render it more orange.44 Jacobsson saw this as a cosmetic application more than anything else – the added lustre did not last. If true, this would mean that curcuma was mostly used for marketing purposes. Orchil, on the other hand, arrived in considerably larger numbers in the 1750s (5,120 Pfund in 1754, and 2,568 Pfund in 1755), while all but disappearing during the war (368 Pfund in 1761, and six Pfund in 1763). Interestingly, orchil was alternately called orseille or lacmus, though the former designation was more common. Orchil is derived from a lichen that grows in one of two places: either as ‘sea orchils’ on the coast of tropical or subtropical regions (notably the Azores, Canary Islands, and Cape Verde, but also the coast of western Africa), or as ‘land orchils’ on the rocks of various mountainous regions in Europe, especially in the Netherlands.45 The latter was also known as lackmus or in French, tournesol. Although it may appear more plausible that the Lagerhaus imported the Dutch variety, orchil grown on islands in the Atlantic, according to Cardon, “flooded into Europe from the fifteenth to the eighteenth centuries via Antwerp.”46 In the 1770s, Jacobsson also claimed that sea orchils from the Atlantic islands (which he calls Krautorseille) were more commonly used, and of better quality, than land orchil.47 It is possible that the Lagerhaus distinguished between the Dutch lacmus and the Atlantic orseille, aller Wissenschafften und Künste, https://www.zedler-lexikon.de/index.html?c=blaettern&id=46830&bandnummer=05&seitenzahl=0140&supplement=0&dateiformat=1%27). Accessed 2 June 2017. See also Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:329. On wool’s reaction to Asian red sandalwood, see Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:425; and Cardon, Natural Dyes, 296–97. Interestingly, Cardon mentions that sandalwood was used extensively in nineteenth-century France to dye woollen cloth for the army. 42 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 274, 289. 43 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 320–21. 44 Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:463. 45 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 487, 492, 497; and Röhlk, Schiffahrt und Handel zwischen Hamburg und den Niederlanden in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. und zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts, 2 vols. (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1973), 1:104. See also Thomas Bentley Duncan, Atlantic Islands: Madeira, the Azores and the Cape Verdes in Seventeenth-Century Commerce and Navigation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972), 191–92. 46 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 502. 47 Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:333–35.

208

Jutta Wimmler

which would mean that the largest quantities of orchil used in the Lagerhaus came from the islands in the Atlantic Ocean, and possibly the west African coast. This may explain why the Lagerhaus imported practically no orchil during the Seven Years’ War: trade in the region in which sea orchils were collected suffered from a major conflict between England and France over access to Senegambian gum.48 Too little research, however, has been done on the orchil trade to draw this conclusion with confidence. In any case, orchil mainly served a nuancing and correcting function, especially for reds and blues. If an indigo dye had turned out a little greenish, or the madder-dye too orangey, the purple-­ ish orchil could return the dye to the correct tone.49 With the partial exception of cochineal, most of the dyestuffs surveyed so far supplemented comparable Asian or European versions. The case was entirely different with the American logwood, for which there was no Asian or European precursor. Logwood (usually called Blauholz (blue wood) in German) served much more than a supplementary function. As seen in the graph, it was the second most important dyestuff (after saw-wort) in quantitative terms. The Lagerhaus bought almost 40,000 Pfund of this American dyewood within the five and a half years surveyed. This dyewood, which was native to the Yucatan peninsula but introduced to the Caribbean in the course of the eighteenth century, was extremely versatile – it could produce practically every colour. However, as Jacobsson noted in the 1770s, the resulting colours were falsch, by which he means that they were not fast.50 Even mordants did not help the issue. The quantitative dominance of logwood in the statistics can only be understood if we consider logwood’s role in creating durable blacks. Logwood became the major dyestuff for blacks from the seventeenth century onwards, replacing a much more complicated process of dyeing black with woad, indigo, and madder – all of which were more expensive than logwood.51 When dyeing on wool, logwood-based black dyes often included small amounts of young fustic and red sandalwood – again, substances that were cheaper than the ones previously employed. With the help of logwood, black textiles suddenly became affordable. The Lagerhaus participated in these developments and used logwood primarily for the production of black textiles for the private sector, as will be confirmed in the last section. Finally, it is striking that quite a few yellow dyestuffs appear regularly in the books, namely old and young fustic, weld, saw-wort, yellow sandalwood, and yellow berries. Contrary to Struckmeier’s statement that German historical sources do not distinguish between the two very similar types of fustic, the Lagerhaus records clearly do.52 While the 48 Orchil re-appears in the inventories from the 1760s onwards, though not consistently. 49 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 498–99. 50 Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:389, 1:456. See also Cardon, Natural Dyes, 268. 51 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 270–71. The account books confirm these price differentials. 52 Struckmeier, Die Textilfärberei, 126.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

209

variety grown in the Mediterranean and parts of central and eastern Europe (young fustic, dyer’s sumach; Cotinus coggyria) was called Visettholz, the American variety appears simply under the name Gelbholz or yellow-wood (old fustic, Chlorophora tinctoria; Morus tinctoria). This distinction, still common today, was clearly already made in mid-eigh­teenthcentury Berlin. While the suggestion that there was only one word for both dyestuffs in German (in contrast to English) may seem minor, it also implies that central European dyers did not have the technical skill to differentiate between the two. The Lagerhaus records instead indicate that they did. This is all the more relevant, since the two fustics served different purposes in the dyeing process. The Mediterranean variety produced a wide range of yellows and was often mixed with weld or saw-wort. When combined with madder or brazilwood, oranges could be obtained. Although it has a larger output than saw-wort, the colours it produced were not fast. In the early modern period, it was consequently used primarily in combination with other dyestuffs, especially cochineal, in order to save money on the latter.53 In contrast, the American variety, present in Central and South America as well as the Caribbean, was very colourfast, even without the use of a mordant. There is evidence for its use in black dyeing, while it seems to have been less common in dyeing yellows, especially when compared to weld or saw-wort.54 It may have been used more extensively to dye greens.55 The two types of fustic thus did not serve as the basis for dyeing the kind of straw-­ yellow (paille) characteristic of Prussian uniforms, though they may have been added to the mix. The same is true for yellow berries, a member of the Rhamnus family and a substance known in French as ‘graine d’Avignon,’ pointing to an origin in Southern France. Considering the moderate amount imported annually, yellow berries probably served a supporting rather than a basic function in the dyeing process. Jacobsson claims that they produce beautiful yellows that are, however, not fast, and also mentions their use in the production of greens, in combination with logwood and verdigris.56 Contrary to what Gisela Krause postulated, the main source of yellows was clearly sawwort, and only secondly weld.57 Twentieth-century research has clarified that weld and saw-wort both contain the colouring agent luteolin, explaining the similarities of their dyeing properties that were already visible to contemporaries in the eighteenth century. The two are so similar, that Struckmeier decided to use weld as a substitute for saw-wort in 53 For this overview see Cardon, Natural Dyes, 193–94. 54 Ibid., 196–98. 55 Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:422. 56 Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:458, 1:463. 57 Krause had argued that weld was the primary source of yellows. See Krause, Altpreußische Militärbekleidungs­ wirtschaft, 18–22. According to Jacobsson, saw-wort was also used in the production of blacks. Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:325–26.

210

Jutta Wimmler

all of her experiments – also owing to the fact that the sources do not always distinguish between the two.58 The reason for the prominence of saw-wort over the better-known weld in the Lagerhaus sources seems to be quite clear: saw-wort grew in abundance on Prussian territory. It was obtained locally from Berlin, Spandau, and Brandenburg.59 Although the inventories reveal that weld was also acquired locally by the second half of the century, more substantial quantities came from France. French weld was considerably more expensive than domestic weld, which may also be an indicator for higher quality. In any case, saw-wort was less expensive than both varieties, and was probably used on a broader scale for this reason. The range of imported dyestuffs from all around the world illustrates the very global nature of dyeing in eighteenth-century Berlin. It also suggests that the Lagerhaus’s dyers knew how to process these materials and were aware of their properties. They could clearly distinguish between the different dyewoods that, although similar in appearance, served different purposes and needed different treatment. Even the two fustics, very similar in nature, could be told apart by the professionals handling the materials. The technical improvements in the dyeing industry and access to a broad range of dyestuffs also nourished production of local dyestuffs in central Europe and led to experiments with the cultivation of dyestuffs such as woad, weld, or madder on Prussian territory. For the most part, however, imports remained vital throughout the eighteenth century – accessing dyestuffs meant engaging and investing in trade. Far removed from the sea, Berlin’s Lagerhaus needed a good system that would assure a regular influx of good quality colouring materials. As we shall see presently, this system was a work in progress.

3. How Dyestuffs Reached Berlin Dyestuffs passed through many hands to reach Berlin. This section looks at the routes they took and the people who traded them. The Lagerhaus sources reveal considerable changes in the acquisition process of dyestuffs in Berlin in the first half of the eighteenth century that illustrate how the global economy reached the Prussian capital during those years. These changes become evident by comparing what the Lagerhaus records document about the acquisition of dyestuffs in the 1720s as well as the 1750s and 1760s. The most notable of them is that within only a few decades, the availability of dyestuffs in Berlin had changed drastically.

58 Struckmeier, Die Textilfärberei, 218. 59 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 13.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

211

In the 1720s with the help of agents, the Lagerhaus bought colouring materials directly in Amsterdam and Hamburg. Two Prussian state officials, Nicolas Warin (Amsterdam) and Jean Destinon (Hamburg), handled much of this business.60 The reason for this practice was simple: the materials could not be obtained locally in Berlin, as an anonymous memoire written in May 1724 illustrates: “some colouring materials are required, namely cochineal, malax zinn, and madder, which cannot be bought here but have to be commissioned from Holland every time.”61 Warin bought such materials in Amsterdam, relayed them to Destinon in Hamburg, who then sent them to Berlin via the Elbe and Havel rivers. Hamburg, however, was more than a transhipment centre for colouring materials on their way from Amsterdam to Berlin. The Hanseatic port city was also a good place to buy materials directly. In February 1725, Destinon sent a sample of cochineal to Berlin, which he had purchased in Hamburg. In the enclosed letter, he noted: “[…] colouring materials are abundant, and they are almost easier to get here than in Holland.”62 It was Severin Schindler, then the Lagerhaus’s managing director, who placed the orders with Warin and Destinon, and then received the materials in Berlin, before relaying them to the Lagerhaus and its dyers. He was also the one questioned if things did not work out. For example in May 1724, there were repeated complaints about shipping delays. When, by the end of May, the colouring materials (as well as some Spanish wool and equipment) had still not arrived from Hamburg, the Lagerhauskommission instructed the Lagerhaus’s clerk, Stähelin, to make an inquiry with Schindler. Stähelin notes that he had talked about this with Schindler in person, who had responded that the materials in question had already left Hamburg a good ten days earlier.63 There were other issues, however, besides shipment delays. The Lagerhaus’s scarlet dyer Matthias Koplin complained repeatedly about the bad quality of the dyestuffs. He requested that he be sent samples before Warin and Destinon bought the materials, so 60 For Destinon see for example, Kurt Hinze, Die Arbeiterfrage zu Beginn des modernen Kapitalismus in Brandenburg-Preussen (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1963), 99; and Joachim Whaley, Religious Toleration and Social Change in Hamburg, 1529–1819 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 127–28. Nicolas Warin had been appointed to the position of Resident in Amsterdam in 1720. See Daniel Legutke, Diplomatie als soziale Institution: Brandenburgische, sächsische und kaiserliche Gesandte in Den Haag, 1648–1720 (Müns­ ter: Waxmann, 2010), 89. 61 “Es sind einige farb Materialien nöthig, als Conchenille, Malax Zinn, Krapp, welche nicht allhir künnen gekaufft werden, sondern jedesmahl aus Holland verschrieben sind […].” See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 43. 62 “Sonsten hat man hier einen Überfluß von allerhand farb waaren und sind selbige allhir fast beßer als in holland zu bekommen.” GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 44, p. 90. 63 The requested dyestuffs were 600 Pfund curcuma (much more than the dyehouse bought annually in the 1750s or 1760s), 500 Pfund malax zinn, six barrels of fine madder, thirty centner red tartar (Rother Weinstein), twenty centner white tartar (Weißer Weinstein), twenty centner cristaly tartary, and an astonishing amount of 250 Pfund of brilliant red cochineal. An ambitious order indeed! See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 43.

212

Jutta Wimmler

he could confirm the quality of the product beforehand.64 This was a highly unrealistic request, considering the time it took for the products to reach Berlin. Had Destinon and Warin waited with their purchase, the best products would have been gone. For this very reason, the Lagerhaus stopped requesting samples of Spanish wool from Warin before purchase in April 1725.65 By the 1750s, the situation had changed completely and the Lagerhaus no longer employed its own agents in Amsterdam and Hamburg to buy dyestuffs. Instead, an agent of the Lagerhaus (a man named Johann Gottlieb Weinbeck) was in charge of buying colouring materials from local, primarily Berlin-based, merchants. As director Bastineller explained in 1764 to the new owner, Heinrich Schmitz: His Majesty has decided that all colouring materials […] needed for consumption in the house, should be bought from local merchants. The Lagerhaus has not suffered from this, since events have only recently transpired, that make it possible to buy the colouring materials […] at a cheaper price than would be possible in Holland or Hamburg […]. As a consequence, we save transportation costs.66 Apparently, there had been a major change: while it was impossible to obtain colouring materials in Berlin in the 1720s, it had become not only possible but also cheaper to do so by the middle of the century. The new system also responded to the problem of quality control so frequently discussed in the 1720s. Commis Weinbeck, Bastineller explains, was instructed to screen the materials carefully. First, he was to weigh the materials himself instead of taking the merchant’s measurements at face value. Second, he was to make sure that the materials he bought conformed to the samples the administration had been provided with. “Because unfortunately, experience has taught us that the merchants often provide samples that are better than the materials they later deliver, or mix bad with good materials […].”67 By the middle of the century, it was not only cheaper to buy dyestuffs directly in Berlin – the practice also ensured appropriate quality control on the spot. 64 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 135, p. 194. 65 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 44, p. 113. 66 “[…] So haben S. königl. Majt. beschlossen, daß die beym Hauß zur Consumption nöthigen farbe materialien, wie auch baumöle und fisch-leim, von deren hiesigen kaufleuthen genommen werden sollte; hie­ runter hat das Lagerhauß auch nicht gelitten, indem sich erstmahls solche evements ergeben haben, daß man alhier die farbe materialien baumöhl und leim, wohlfeiler erkaufft hat, als selbiges in holland und Hamburg, nach dasigen Preiß couranten hätten können erkauft werden, folglich die Transport kosten gewonnen werden.” See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 13. 67 “[…] denn die Erfahrung hat leider gewiesen, daß die kaufleuthe beßere Proben geben, als nachhero die Materialien selbst qualificiret sind, oder schlechte mit guten vermengen […].” See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 27.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

213

Further, the account books provide some information about the merchants who supplied the Lagerhaus with colouring materials, because they list the last names of the merchants from whom Weinbeck bought the dyestuffs. It is immediately striking that the Lagerhaus (or rather Commis Weinbeck) bought from a large number of merchants. During the five and a half years analysed, the Lagerhaus bought dyestuffs from no fewer than fifty-nine different people. Most of them seem to have been smaller businesses and some appear only once or twice in the records, for example a certain Kabelmann who supplied weld once in January 1762, or a certain Krämer who sold cochineal to the Lagerhaus in August of the same year.68 Others appear regularly throughout the years, supplying a very broad palette of colouring materials. In the years surveyed, a few merchants clearly handled most of the Lagerhaus’s demands: in the 1750s, the names Westphal and Eckhardt appear most frequently, followed by Rosenfeldt and Gillet. In the 1760s, the most important supplier was quite clearly a man named Nöbeling, again followed by Eckhardt. Listed only in 1763, a Hamburg-based merchant named Gräfe apparently had to pick up the slack caused by the Seven Years’ War. Though they appear prominently as sellers of dyestuffs, these bigger suppliers did not focus on these materials entirely. They also sold glues (Fischleim and Hornleim), olive oil (Baumoehl), soaps, and occasionally wool (both merino and local). Although most suppliers lived in Berlin (including the aforementioned Westphal, Nöbeling, and Gillet, but also others like Richter, Asten, Barnouin, Lange, and Schlesing), one of the Lagerhaus’s most important suppliers seems to have been based in the Prussian port city of Kolberg (today Kołobrzeg in Poland) on the Baltic Sea. Mr. Eckhardt supplied the Lagerhaus with a broad range of colouring materials, glues, oils, soaps, and lead.69 This is not the only evidence to suggest the relevance of the Baltic Sea for the Lagerhaus’s supply of dyestuffs in the 1750s and early 1760s. Since Prussia had bought Western Pomerania and the port city Stettin (today Szczecin in Poland) from the Swedish in 1720 for a sum of two million Reichsthaler, the country finally had direct access to the Baltic Sea. Products could now be traded via the Oder river system that connected Stettin to Frankfurt an der Oder, and to Berlin through a canal that linked the Oder to the Havel.70 Stettin’s impor68 A Berlin-based merchant named Johann Siegmund Krämer is mentioned for the 1770s in Straubel, Kauf­ leute und Manufakturunternehmer, 190. See also Friedrich Nicolai, Beschreibung der königlichen Residenz­ städte Berlin und Potsdam und aller daselbst befindlicher Merkwürdigkeiten (Berlin: Friedrich Nicolai, 1779), 357. 69 Eckhard’s residence is not provided in the account books themselves, but an archival reference mentions a merchant Eckhard based in Colberg, to whom the Lagerhaus still owned money in 1764. It is reasonable to assume that they are one and the same. Eckhardt’s colouring materials included cochineal, vitriol, madder, Röthe-madder, old fustic, woad, potash, logwood, orchil, christal tartary, tartar and yellow sandalwood. See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 15. 70 See for example, Nicolai, Beschreibung, 354.

214

Jutta Wimmler

tance for Prussia increased during Frederik II’s reign, when the state invested heavily in Stettin’s infrastructure, the development of the Oder River and its surroundings, and in the construction of canals. Frederik actively sought to undermine Hamburg through these and other measures – Stettin and the Oder River eventually became a viable alternative to Hamburg and the Elbe River, which had previously dominated Prussian foreign trade.71 In the case of indigo, the evidence strongly suggests the relevance of the Baltic for the Lagerhaus: on two occasions in 1754, and on two more a year later, the account books explicitly list indigo imports from Frankfurt an der Oder, including costs for transportation and tolls. One entry refers directly to Frankfurt an der Oder’s fairs, listing indigo bought at the Reminiscere fair in March 1754.72 In March 1755, the Lagerhaus sent its blue dyer Nöbeling to Frankfurt, most likely to assess the possibility of buying dyestuffs there.73 Frankfurt an der Oder, today located on the German-Polish border east of Berlin, certainly was an important trade hub for Prussia. It connected Prussia to the eastern provinces, as well as to the port city Stettin. Prussia’s policies in favour of Stettin and against the interests of Hamburg explicitly extended to colouring materials. In 1744 extremely low tariffs were introduced for dyestuffs and other goods (Färbe- und Material-Waaren) traded in Frankfurt an der Oder. This tariff lasted until the end of the eighteenth century.74 In 1750, all tolls between Stettin and Frankfurt an der Oder were lifted, reducing the journey of ships on that route from four to five days down to two.75 All of this was meant to encourage trade through Stettin at the cost of Hamburg. During the Seven Years’ War, Frankfurt’s fairs experienced an additional boost because the war reduced access to other fairs.76 The city on the Oder River remained economically vital until around 1770, when it once again lost its position to Leipzig in Saxony.77 Until then, however, Frankfurt an der Oder’s fairs were an important catalyst for dyestuffs on their way 71 See Radtke, Gewerbe und Handel, 45 and 128; Treue, Wirtschafts- und Technikgeschichte Preussens, 55, 67, 75–76; and Hugo Rachel, “Der Merkantilismus in Brandenburg-Preußen,” in Moderne Preußische Geschichte 1648–1947: Eine Anthologie, ed. Otto Busch (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1981), 965 and 971 [originally published in Forschungen zur Brandenburgischen und Preußischen Geschichte 40 (1927): 221–66]. 72 Frankfurt held three major fairs in the eighteenth century, the Reminiscere fair during Lent, the Margarethen fair in July, and the Martini fair in November. 73 The account book of 1755 lists expenses payed to the dyer Nöbeling for his travels to Frankfurt under “miscellaneous” (diverse Unkosten). The same month, Menard was paid an extra salary for supervising the dye house. 74 Carl Renati Hausen, Geschichte der Universität und Stadt Frankfurt an der Oder (Frankfurt an der Oder: Friedrich Apitz, 1800), 263–68. 75 Gerhard Köster, “Die Verkehrsentwickelung des Oderbruches,” in Das Oderbruch, ed. Peter F. Mengel (Eberswalde: Müller, 1934), 2:284. 76 Hausen, Geschichte, 263–68; and Rolf Straubel, Frankfurt (Oder) und Potsdam am Ende des Alten Reiches: Studien zur städtischen Wirtschafts- und Sozialstruktur (Potsdam: Verlag für Berlin-Brandenburg, 1995), 53. 77 Radtke, Gewerbe und Handel, 281 and 287; and Straubel, Frankfurt (Oder), 43 and 45.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

215

to Berlin from Stettin. The Lagerhaus’s supplier from Kolberg, Mr. Eckhardt, may very well have frequented the fairs and bought from Frankfurt an der Oder’s merchants. He would have been one of many Kolberg merchants to frequent the fairs – they typically brought woollens and linens for sale in return for so-called material goods (Materialwaren).78 It is also possible, however, that he skipped Frankfurt altogether and sent them directly from Stettin to Berlin through the Finow canal that connected the Oder to the Havel.79 In any case, it seems likely that he acquired the dyestuffs in the Baltic rather than in Hamburg. The Prussian state under Frederik II invested in international trade in order to support local businesses, notably in the textile industry. Considering the important role of the Prussian army at the time, its demand for uniforms was certainly important to Frederik – and this also meant guaranteeing the Lagerhaus’s supply with all sorts of dyestuffs. At the same time, Prussia wanted to free itself from its dependence on Hamburg that had previously handled this international trade and looked to the east and north, attempting to establish Stettin as its major point of access. The Lagerhaus, however, left the actual acquisition of raw materials to specialized merchants – Commis Weinbeck was in charge of picking the most reliable suppliers and screening the materials. As Hinrichs explains, people like Weinbeck were the custodians of the raw materials (in this case the dyestuffs), but not involved in the technical aspects of production, which were in the hands of the individual work masters (in this case the dyers).80 How, then, did the dyers get their hands on the raw materials – and did they have any influence on the acquisition process? In the last section, we will look at our colouring materials from their perspective.

4. The Dyers’ Lot Being a dyer in the Lagerhaus was not an easy task. In 1724, it was still unclear who would manage the dye houses and whether they would do so as employees of the Lagerhaus or independently and at their own risk.81 In June, the Lagerhaus tested a Dutch dyer whose skills in dyeing paille (straw yellow) and scarlet were judged as extremely poor, and who managed to spoil the blue vat to such an extent that it was completely impossible to use the dye, although the Lagerhaus’s blue dyers did what they could to save it. The Dutch dyer was made to pay for the corresponding damage and the waste of materials.82 By October 78 Straubel, Frankfurt (Oder) und Potsdam, 47, 51. 79 See Bürgermeister Vogel zu Wolgast, “Inwiefern gehört die Provinz Pommern zu den wichtigsten Erwerbungen des Hauses Hohenzollern,” Archiv für Landeskunde der Preußischen Monarchie 5 (1858), 261. 80 Hinrichs, “Das königliche Lagerhaus in Berlin,” 67. 81 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 135, p. 98. 82 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 43.

216

Jutta Wimmler

1724, a scarlet dyer and a blue dyer, both already employed in the dyehouses, had agreed to take on the dyehouses at their own risk for a trial period.83 The dyers, however, were anything but happy with their jobs. In a letter dated 20 October 1725, the scarlet dyer Matthias Koplin complained that he was not well paid and constantly disturbed and molested at his workplace.84 He included a lengthy list of conditions under which he would be willing to stay, attesting to a rather chaotic situation that corresponds to the acquisition problems that characterized the 1720s. Koplin complained that he received both low quality dyestuffs and low quality woollens that did not respond well to the dye. He was outraged that he was forced to dye low quality woollens, and then blamed for the bad outcome, which, in his opinion, was not his fault. The equipment, including the supply of firewood, was insufficient. He also requested more assistants and the power to fire them if they were not to his liking. He further requested that he not be held responsible for damage caused to any of the materials or the equipment, but that the people responsible for the damage were held accountable, adding: […] for example if some thievish and evil people break open the chamber in which I keep my colouring materials, or indeed the dyehouse itself; or if I am robbed by the people with whom I am forced to work and who come and go as they please, since I cannot do my work behind closed doors […].85 The scarlet dyer believed that it would only be fair if the Lagerhaus supported him in such cases and covered the losses. He also educated his superiors that colouring materials should not just be evaluated on the basis of quantity, but also of their quality. If his demands were met, the dyer promised to do his very best in dyeing scarlet, paille, black, and rose madder. His requests were denied.86 By at least the 1740s, it had become common practice that the dyers bought the colouring materials from the Lagerhaus – or rather, from Commis Weinbeck who acquired them from local merchants. This is evident in a letter dated 29 January 1740, written by the scarlet dyer Paul Gibou.87 In the letter, Gibou petitioned the Lagerhaus for more funds, arguing that he was unable to sustain himself and his family with his current salary. In order to make this argument, he listed in detail his income from the Lagerhaus and his 83 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 135, pp. 50, 99. 84 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 135, p. 134 et seq. 85 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 135, p. 135 et seq. Original German: “[…] auch wen etwa von diebischen bösen Leuthen, meine farbe materialien Cammer, oder färberey aufgebrochen, oder von denjenigen Menschen, unter welche und mit welche ich meine Arbeit verrichten muß und in der färberey ein und ausgehen, sonst bestohlen wurden […] da ich meine Arbeit nicht verschloßen thun kann […]” 86 See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 135, pp. 179–99. 87 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 143, p. 87.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

217

expenses. After the expenses (including firewood, wages for staff, and colouring materials), he claimed that not much remained. From this we can gather that the dyers received a certain amount of money from the Lagerhaus, with which they were to manage the entire dye house. The Lagerhaus controlled the purchase of colouring materials for the dyehouse, and they dyers were required to buy these materials. The quality of the dyer’s work consequently depended entirely on the Lagerhaus’s selection of materials. A 1764 document delves deeper into these issues.88 When Schmitz asked how much it cost to scarlet dye one ell of cloth, Bastineller essentially responded, though in a more diplomatic tone, that this was a naïve question. He explained how things worked in the Lagerhaus: the dyer bought the dyestuffs from the Lagerhaus. Every three months, Commis Weinbeck sat down with the dyer for a calculation of expenses. The colouring materials used, the firewood, the dyer’s salary, the daily wages of the staff, as well as fees for the wearout of tools (which belonged to the Lagerhaus) were put on the debit side of the calculation. On the credit side, Weinbeck noted the products dyed and returned to the Lagerhaus for further processing, either in pieces (whole pieces of cloth) or in pounds (unwoven wool). No distinction was made at this point between shades of colours, and for good reason: through this practice, the dyers were kept unaware of the extent to which the Lagerhaus profited from maintaining their own dyehouses instead of outsourcing the dyeing process to dyers in the city. These dyers, after all, had to organize their own colouring materials at a higher cost, buy tools and so on, and consequently asked more money for their work. Therefore, Bastineller concluded, it was impossible to answer Schmitz’ question how much it cost to dye a particular piece of cloth a certain colour. Asking the dyers to answer this question would very likely have revealed to them that they were being ripped off. While the Lagerhaus continuously bought large amounts of dyewood, such as logwood, brazilwood, red and yellow sandalwood, and young and old fustic from local merchants, it always bought whole logs that were then stored in the Lagerhaus facilities until needed. Only when the dyers needed the dyewood, were the logs sent out to be rasped.89 That rasping was not done in the dyehouses is evident from other records. For example, in 1764, Schmitz had each and every room carefully inventoried, including the dyehouses. While we find a variety of tools necessary to prepare dyestuffs (for example sieves for cochineal and indigo), there is no mention of graters or rasps.90 In addition, the Lagerhaus inventories list three storage facilities for dyestuffs: the dyehouse, the storage room (Lager), and the store (Laden). Rasped dyewood was only available in the dyehouse, while whole logs were inventoried in the storage room as well as the store, but never in the dyehouse. This 88 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 13, p. 49 et seq. 89 The 1763 account book mentions expenses payed to Commis Weinbeck “to have dyewood rasped,” suggesting that Weinbeck was in charge of this process as well. GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 98. 90 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 15, p. 134–36.

218

Jutta Wimmler

practice probably had a two-fold purpose: it was easier to identify logs than to identify rasps, and the whole logs would remain fresh longer than the rasps. Indeed, most dyewoods could be stored for years in the state of logs without deteriorating.91 Although the Lagerhaus records do not reveal where the dyewood was rasped, it is very likely that this was done in various workhouses and penitentiaries in and around Berlin, as was common practice in Europe at the time.92 In 1747, the scarlet dyer Paul Gibou died. The blue dyer Nöbeling, who had already taken care of the scarlet and paille dyehouse during Gibou’s sickness, now took control of the second dyehouse as well. The Lagerhaus saw a great advantage in doing so – instead of paying two dyers who each had to buy colouring materials and pay their workers, they would only have to pay one. In addition, the workers could then be exchanged between the dyehouses more easily, making both more efficient.93 In doing so, however, the Lagerhaus offended Pierre Menard, the scarlet dyer next in line after Gibou. This may have been the origin of a long lasting conflict between Nöbeling and Menard that escalated in 1756 with the rumour about Nöbeling’s possible resignation. This was not the first time a rivalry between Menard and Nöbeling had been documented. Already in 1751, Menard asked for a higher salary, to which his superiors responded, that Menard hardly dyed a tenth of what Nöbeling managed to dye in the same amount of time. They wanted Menard to increase his output before giving him a raise. Menard defended himself by claiming that this was entirely Nöbeling’s fault: […] most of my colours, if they should be better and durable, need to be dyed blue first, but to my own vexation, I am often held back in the bluehouse. This summer, I was unable to dye a single lot of wool for six or seven weeks because of this […] If I were supposed to [increase my output], I would constantly have reason to complain about this, especially if I do not receive more support, since the master of the bluehouse often opposes me in this, and asserts against all rules and experience, that the blue dye is unnecessary […]. Despite the fact that the merchants ask for blued black cloth and 91 Arthur M. Wilson, “The Logwood Trade in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in The Economics of Trade, vol. 2 of The Atlantic Staple Trade, ed. Susan Socolow (Aldershot: Variorum, 1996), 2:479. 92 Cardon, Natural Dyes, 280; and Struckmeier, Die Textilfärberei, 185. The penitentiary in nearby Spandau, for example, employed their inmates not only for spinning wool and reeling silk, but also for rasping dyewood. As did comparable institutions in Magdeburg, Halle, Stettin and Kolberg. Helga Eichler’s evidence suggests that raspers were paid a little better than spinners, because they needed more sustenance as a result of the physical hardship of the work. Nevertheless, the inmates still received much lower wages than regular labourers, which would explain why the Lagerhaus decided to outsource the process of rasping. See Helga Eichler, “Zucht- und Arbeitshäuser in den mittleren und östlichen Provinzen Brandenburg-Preussens: Ihr Anteil an der Vorbereitung des Kapitalismus. Eine Untersuchung für die Zeit vom Ende des 17. bis zum Ausgang des 18. Jahrhunderts,” Jahrbuch für Wirtschaftsgeschichte 10 (1970), 135–36, 142, 146–47. 93 GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 143.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

219

serge, I have thus found myself coerced to dye without blue […], which affects the reputation of the Lagerhaus negatively, and damages the clients.94 Besides the tensions, this letter is informative concerning the dyeing process for black. Menard was of the opinion that a descent black colour could only be obtained if the cloth was first dyed blue in a woad-indigo vat, for which he needed the blue-dyer Nöbeling’s help. Nöbeling on the other hand seems to have disagreed that this was necessary. We know from other sources that the use of woad-indigo grounds for black dyes was indeed a long-standing practice in early modern Europe – a process that was gradually replaced by the logwood-method that did not require this (expensive) pre-coloration.95 Old habits die hard – Menard had probably learned it this way and refused to do it any other way. Nöbeling had apparently received a different education or had simply witnessed or tried the logwood-based method, and did not see why he should waste his resources to accommodate an outdated practice. Menard’s letter also indicates that the black cloth was not intended for the army (unsurprisingly, since the uniforms did not feature black), but for the private market. Whether his clients really requested black cloth that had been dyed blue first, or whether Menard just claimed that they did in order to justify his low output, is unknown. In the course of the following years, Menard became increasingly difficult to work with, lashing out at his sub-workers and allegedly wasting firewood to an unjustifiable degree. After being suspended for a few months in an attempt to cool him down, he was replaced and lived out the remainder of his days on a pension from the Lagerhaus.96 Nöbeling, on the other hand, established a small family business. His son Carl Philipp, usually referred to in Lagerhaus records as “Nöbeling Junior”, took up his fathers’ trade and was employed in the Lagerhaus from the early 1750s, receiving much praise for his abilities. In 1762, Bast-

94 “Hiernächst sind auch die meisten meiner Couleuren, mehrern sie beßer, und dauerhafft ausfallen sollen, erst blau zu färben; ich werde aber mit der blauerey sehr oft zum eigenen höchsten Verdruß aufgehalten: Wie dann in diesem Sommer ich in Zeit von 6. bis 7. Wochen kein Loth Wolle gefärbet bekommen können […] und dürffe ich wann es stärker mit der Couleur-Färberey gehen muß, darüber unabläßig zu klagen Uhrsach haben, woferne man mich nicht beßer fordert, zumahl der Meister der blauerey mir sehr oft darin contrair ist, und gegen alle Regeln, und die Erfahrung selbst, die blauerey vor unnötig hält, und wann es ihm gefällig solche mir disputirlich machet; Weshalb obgleich sonst die kauff-leuthe schon geblaute schwartze Tücher, und Sarge verlanget, ich mich dennoch die meiste Zeit gennöthiget gefunden, ohne blau zu färben […] wodurch aber die Reputation des Lager-hauses leidet, und dem Publico geschadet wird.” See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 144, p. 52. Letter written by Menard, 27 September 1751. 95 Jacobsson still thought so, see Jacobsson, Schauplatz der Zeugmanufakturen, 1:431–32. 96 In March 1761, Bastineller wrote about Menard: “[…] hat er sich seit vielen Jahren sehr, sehr hypochondriret, und nachläßig in der Arbeit bezeugt.” See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 145; also GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 13.

220

Jutta Wimmler

ineller even referred to Carl Philipp as “almost indispensable.”97 Carl Philipp eventually took over for his father completely. There was more to the Nöbelings, however. The reader may remember a merchant named Nöbeling in the last section, who was one of the Lagerhaus’s most important suppliers of dyestuffs. As many newly established merchants involved in the trade of dyestuffs and other materials (Materialwarenhändler) in the middle of the eighteenth century had artisans as fathers, it would not be surprising if this was another son of Nöbeling senior (or at the very least, a relative).98 This son would have been able to profit from his father’s knowledge concerning the quality of colouring materials, and possibly also his contacts, when establishing his own business. He also had a reliable client in the Lagerhaus. Straubel mentions a merchant called M. F. Nöbeling who married a merchant’s widow (supposedly in the 1750s) and took over the deceased husband’s business, while Nicolai acknowledges a Johann Gottlieb Nöbeling as an important merchant in Berlin in the late 1770s – possibly M. F. Nöbeling’s son.99 While the exact family tree remains uncertain at this point, the Nöbelings seem to have established some sort of merchant dynasty based on the dyer Nöbeling the father’s employment in the Lagerhaus. Dyestuffs became the family’s livelihood in more than one way. When the rumour of Nöbeling’s possible resignation was going around, the Lagerhaus had every reason to be worried: not only could they have lost two of their most important dyers, but the Nöbelings could have taken an important supplier along with them. Luckily for the Lagerhaus, Nöbeling had no intention of resigning.

Conclusion A close investigation into the colouring materials used by this Berlin-based manufacturer reveals the ways in which Prussia was influenced by the consequences of early modern globalisation. If Prussia wanted to keep up, it needed to ensure that the textiles it produced corresponded to current standards. This meant engaging in international trade, especially since dyestuffs of any sort were anything but abundant on Prussian territory in the early eighteenth century. Contrary to previous assumptions, it has become clear that the Lagerhaus used a broad range of dyestuffs, attesting to highly complex dyeing processes. While madder, woad, and weld were certainly important, American, Asian, and possibly African dyestuffs were just as common, and the dyers used all of these materials skilfully and in knowledge of their specific properties. As we have seen, some of the dyestuffs most 97 “[…] daß er dadurch, da man selten gute färber findet, fast unentbehrlich geworden ist.” See GStaPK I. HA Rep. 181, No. 145, p. 61. 98 Straubel, Kaufleute und Manufakturunternehmer, 184–88. 99 For M. F. Nöbeling, see ibid., 189. For Johann Gottlieb Nöbeling, see Nicolai, Beschreibung, 357.

Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin

221

likely served nuancing and correcting functions, but they reached the Lagerhaus regularly nonetheless. In order to access these materials, Prussia had to invest in trade routes and trade relations, but also in increasing the domestic production of dyestuffs, notably of sawwort and woad. The investigation has also shown that the assumption that more and more indigo was used in the course of the eighteenth century to replace woad, needs to be differentiated. Access to overseas dyestuffs in fact increased interest in more local dyestuffs at the same time and may have helped the woad or madder industries in certain regions. The early system of acquiring colouring materials directly in Holland or Hamburg through agents had proven insufficient. The Lagerhaus frequently ended up with low quality dyestuffs, which the dyer’s – who had no control over the process – repeatedly complained about. By the 1750s, the Lagerhaus had switched over to a new system of buying colouring materials from merchants in Berlin and surroundings, with Eckhard (located in Kolberg) as a notable exception. This suggests major changes underway in Prussia’s trade, and especially in that of Berlin. How and why Berlin merchants were able to supply this market by the 1750s, while they had been unable to do so only thirty years earlier, remains to be explored in detail. The evidence presented in this article nevertheless suggests that Prussia was increasingly integrated into a global economy. The role played by Stettin in this process is another blind spot in historiography, as it is usually assumed that Frederik’s policies concerning the Pomeranian port and the Oder River trade proved largely unsuccessful. While this may have been true for the Silesian linen trade that retained its close connection to Hamburg, the case of dyestuffs suggests that we may have to take a closer look at this subject as well.

  PART 2



The Business of Textiles: Marketing and Product Innovation

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal: A Case Study from the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries Barbara Karl

Product development is a core concept in the world today. It is taught at different universities and lies at the core of many industries. Books on it go through multiple editions.1 Capitalist economies profit greatly from the constant innovation and improvement of products. This study, however, is not about contemporary product development, rather it explores the topic in the pre-industrial setting of sixteenth-century Bengal. Despite the time difference of several hundred years, one becomes aware of some parallels as well as the many differences when looking at this process – the foremost being the different economic framework, production methods and their obvious limits. One of the most interesting types of products to go through this process were types of hand-crafted textiles exported from India to Europe.2 At the beginning of this exchange of goods between Asia and Europe, private merchant capitalists and their ambition led the way to develop products for an internationalizing Portuguese, or rather Iberian, colonial society. Their activities in Bengal and the creation of a specific textile product represent a case study in early modern product development. What renders the specific group of embroideries – colchas – from Bengal so special is that to Europeans writing on India and to consumers owning them, colchas were sufficiently important that they not only kept them and many survive, but they also described them in their accounts and listed them in their inventories in a way – and this is crucial – that we are able to identify the surviving pieces. This broad ability to identify surviving colchas (in a wide range of documents) means that it is possible to gain detailed insight in the intercultural exchange of Indian textiles during the early modern period.3 1 The author wishes to thank Fernando Bouza Alvarez, Pedro Cardim, Joyce Denney, John Jordan, Ebba Koch, Christiane Papa-Kalantari, Pedro Pinto, Gabi Schopf, Kim Siebenhüner, and Angela Völker for their input/help/advice. See for instance, Gerhard Pahl, Wolfgang Beitz, Jörg Feldhausen, and Karl Heinrich Grote, eds., Pahl/­Beitz Konstruktionslehre. Grundlagen erfolgreicher Produktentwicklung: Methoden und Anwendung, 6th ed. (Berlin: Springer, 2005). 2 On globally circulating textiles, see Amanda Peck, ed., Interwoven Globe: The Worldwide Textile Trade, 1500–1800 (New York: Metropolitan Museum, 2014). This article grew out of the author’s book, Barbara Karl, Embroidered Histories: Indian Textiles for the Portuguese Market during the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2016). 3 See Irwin and Hall, Indian Embroideries; and Karl, Embroidered Histories.

226

Barbara Karl

The article traces the development of a specific type of textile from Bengal, from its European discovery to its adaptation for the wider colonial and European consumer. These fascinating embroideries shed light on the merchant classes within Portuguese colonial society, the changing political framework in which they operated, and the end consumers they had in mind when developing the textiles.

1. In Search of a Product Before the Portuguese, first arriving in India in 1498, could wonder about what the wider Iberian consumer market desired or who their focus group actually would be or how useful new products could be, they had to find out what the – to them – so little-known, Indian market offered. When looking at a sixteenth-century Portuguese map of India, it quickly becomes clear that the Portuguese with their capital in Goa and scattered, official and unofficial, beachheads all around the Indian Ocean did not venture deeply into the subcontinent. They knew the coastlines and had good access to certain interior areas, especially Vijayanagara (before the fall of this empire), and later Ceylon, to deal in diamonds and Iranian horses. As many travelogues of the time illustrate, most European newcomers were overwhelmed by India and everything it offered, from its religion, to politics, to artistic production, and its flora and fauna.4 It is most probable that the Portuguese first caught a direct glimpse of the rich products of India when getting in touch with locals. Diplomatic contact brought gifts, the seizure of Indian merchant vessels brought booty, both showed the newcomers what was worth trading in the region and where the goods came from. Gaspar Correia recorded one well-known early gift exchange during Vasco da Gama’s second voyage to India. Correia described the encounter between da Gama and the king of Melinde on the East African coast as follows: The king of Melinde gave each of them rich fabrics and to the captain [Vasco da Gama] a valuable necklace of jewels for the king of Portugal […] he gave the captain other rich pieces […] and a chest full of beautiful fabrics for the queen and a kind of quilt or bed

4

As Partha Mitter has shown and as many travelogues of the time illustrate, most European newcomers were overwhelmed by India and everything it offered, from its religion, to its politics, to its artistic production, and to its flora and fauna. See Partha Mitter, Much Maligned Monsters: A History of European Reaction to Indian Art (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992); and Vanni Bramanti, ed., Lettere di vari paesi 1570–1588 di Filippo Sassetti (Milan: Longanesi, 1970).

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal

227

canopy, worked [stitched] in white, the finest embroidery ever seen, which was made in Bengal, a country in which marvellous things are made with needles.5 Correia came to Goa only in 1512, ten years after the encounter between the Portuguese captain and the African king, but since he was a secretary for the first governor of Portuguese India (Estado da Índia), Afonso de Albuquerque, and lived in India for decades one can assume that he was reliable or at least that he had some knowledge of Bengali textiles. The Bengali embroidery he mentions represents the specific product type later adapted by Portuguese private merchants. These embroideries were called colchas in the Portuguese records and measured on average 2.5 by 3.2 metres.6 The diplomatic exchange between da Gama and the king of Melinde stresses the importance of textiles as diplomatic gifts within the Indo-Oceanic court milieu, and continuation of a long-standing practice.7 The fact that colchas circulated as diplomatic gifts before the arrival of the Portuguese illustrates the high estimation afforded to them; this was proba5 Gaspar Correia, Lendas da India: Livro I–IV (Lisbon: Typografia da Academia Real das Sciencias, 1858, 1858–1866), 287. 6 On Bengali colchas see for example: Marian Estabrook Moeller, “An Indo-Portuguese Embroidery from Goa,” Gazette des Beaux Arts, 6th ser., 34 (1948): 117–32; John Irwin, “Indo-Portuguese Embroideries of Bengal,” Art and Letters, The Journal of the Royal India, Pakistan & Ceylon Society, 26.2 (1952): 1–9; John Irwin, “Indian Textile Trade in the 17th Century, Part 3: Bengal,” Journal of Indian Textile History 3 (1957): 59–74; John Irwin and Margaret Hall, Indian Embroideries: Historic Textiles at the Calico Museum, 2 vols. (Ahmedabad: Calico Museum of Textiles, 1973); Maria Joao de Mendonça, “Alguns tipos de colchas Indo-­Portuguesas na Collecção do Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga,” Boletim do Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga 2.2 (1949): 1–21; Georg Garde, Portugisere og Indere: Silkebroderede billedscener fra 17. arhundrede, (Copenhagen: Arbog for Dansk Kulturhistorik Museumsforening, 1970); Teresa Alarcão and Teresa ­Pacheco-Pereira, Fábulas Bordadas: Uma colcha indo-portuguesa do século XVII (Lisbon: Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, 1988); Susana Pedroso, Uma colcha indo-portuguesa do Palácio Nacional de Sintra entre as artes decorativas nos interiors portugueses quinhentistas e seiscentistas (master’s thesis, University of Lisbon, 2003); Rosemary Crill, “Angels and Elephants,” Apollo 513 (2004): 87–91; Barbara Karl, “Flourishing Scrolls and Strict Ornamental Geometry: the Development of a Group of Embroidered Colchas Commissioned by the Portuguese in Bengal between 1580 and 1640,” Bulletin du CIETA 81 (2004), 57–65; Barbara Karl, “The Narrative Scheme of a Bengal Colcha Dating from the Early 17th Century Commissioned by the Portuguese,” Textile Narratives and Conversations, Textile Society of America Symposium Proceedings, 2006: 438–48; Barbara Karl, “Die Moden der Colcha Roxa des Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga,” Waffenund Kostümkunde (2007), 1:67–76; Barbara Karl, “The Use of Growing Architecture as Propaganda: The Bengal Colcha from the Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum,” in O Estado da Índia e os desafios europeus: Actas do seminario internacional de história indo-portuguesa, ed. Joao Paulo Oliveira e Costa and Vítor Luís Gaspar Rodrigues (Lisbon: Centro de História de Além-Mar, 2010), 255–68; Barbara Karl, “‘Marvellous things are made with needles’: Bengal Colchas in European Inventories, c. 1580–1630,” Journal of the History of Collections 23 (2011): 301–13; Karl, Embroidered Histories; Pedro Moura Carvalho, Luxury for Export, Artistic Exchange between India and Portugal around 1600 (Boston: Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum, 2008), 8–22. 7 See for instance, Linda Komaroff, ed., Gifts of the Sultan: the Arts of Giving at the Islamic Courts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011).

228

Barbara Karl

bly an important factor drawing Portuguese attention to them. The source also shows that Bengali colcha production already existed and that these textiles were traded and given as far as Africa prior to the arrival of the Portuguese in Bengal. Correia’s account also illustrates that the monochromatic colouring of the colchas – ‘worked in white’ – was not introduced by the Portuguese but rather already existed. This colour combination is striking indeed, as often the individual scenes are difficult to discern and is owed to the use of tussar silk, a naturally yellow wild silk from Bengal that, when lightened properly shines almost like gold. The affinity to the precious material – restricted by sumptuary laws in Europe – represents the most probable reason for this choice of colour combination by the European commissioners and the success of these embroideries.8 They imitated gold but cost less and probably remained largely under the radar of sumptuary laws. It is notable that only about a decade after this first documented encounter with an embroidered Bengali colcha, official relations were initiated between the Estado da Índia, established by the Portuguese, and the Bengal Sultanate.9 The first rather unsuccessful official Portuguese embassies from Goa to the then sultan of Bengal were sent out in 1518. From then on, the Estado da Índia sent out one ship per year. Further, the Portuguese were allowed to open factories in the Bengali cities of Satgaon and Chittagong. Their mercantile endeavours were accompanied by the looting of local ships, and the abduction of thousands of local people (who were subsequently sold into slavery). During the period in question, the line between legal and illegal trade was not clearly drawn. The unstable political situation in the region meant that the Portuguese were comparatively free in their activities, market research, and development until the enforcement of Mughal rule in East India during the first half of the seventeenth century.10 During the initial phase of their presence, the Portuguese bought what the local market offered, for example colchas, and left money behind in the hands of the local intermediary merchants in Satgaon. The money was as an advance for the goods to be bought by the merchants on behalf of the Portuguese (who collected the goods the following year on their return to Bengal). The Portuguese Augustinian Friar Sebastian Manrique (in India from 1629 to 1643) described this and also bamboo store houses made by the Portuguese,

  8 On sumptuary law in Philippine Portugal, see Hugo M. Crespo, “Trajar as aparências, vestir para ser: O testemunho da pragmática de 1609,” in O luxo na região do Porto ao tempo de Filipe II de Portugal, ed. Gonçalo Vasconcelos e Sousa (Porto: Universidade Católica Editora, 2012), 93–148.   9 On the History of the Portuguese in Bengal: Joaquim Joseph Campos, History of the Portuguese in Bengal (Delhi: Janaki Prakasham, 1979). 10 See for example, Campos, Portuguese in Bengal; Nitish Sengupta, History of the Bengali-speaking people (New Delhi: UBS, 2001); Richard Eaton, The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier 1204–1760 (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993).

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal

229

in which they kept their merchandise until they departed with monsoon season.11 This pattern seems to have changed only with the increasing involvement of the Portuguese casado merchants (intermarried Portuguese settlers) and the corresponding growth in private trade from around 1570.12 Apart from the concession voyages, another factor helped the development of adapted Bengali embroideries for export, the installation of a permanent settlement of Portuguese merchants from 1580 in Hugli (near Satgaon). Colchas are not only among the earliest surviving embroideries of the Indian subcontinent, they are among the very few remaining material traces of the Portuguese activities in Bengal. Further, they are crucial to understanding the later development of Indian textile production for export to Europe. These embroidered Bengali and Gujarati colchas that the Portuguese exported to Europe prepared the ground for the successive European interventions by the Dutch and the English in the field of Indian textile production.13 The embroidered colchas from Bengal survive in considerable numbers and qualities attesting to their success in the international trade of the time. However, compared to the overall Indian textile production in general, colchas occupied only a marginal space. The Portuguese exported comparatively large quantities of textiles (cotton and silk) from India, and colchas were just one among many types of textiles.14 For colchas, and other kinds of textiles, preconditions in Bengal were excellent, the raw materials, cotton and wild silk (in this case mostly tussar silk), were easy to come by. Access to the markets was good thanks to the location of the new settlement, Hugli (in the Ganges Delta region the waterways connected trade between sea and hinterland). Additionally, Satgoan and Dacca had been important centres of textile production since the Sultanate period.15

11 Sebastian Manrique, The Travels of Fray S. Manrique, trans. Charles Eckford Luard (London: Hakluyt Society, 1927), chapter four. 12 James Boyajian, Portuguese Trade in Asia under the Habsburgs (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 49. For a recent overview on Portuguese textile trade in Asia, see Maria Joao Pacheco Ferreira, “Asian Textiles in the Carreira da Índia: Portuguese Trade, Consumption and Taste, 1500–1700,” Textile History 46 (2015): 147–68. 13 Exports that helped spark massive changes to large parts of European textile production during the eigh­ teenth century. See Giorgio Riello, Cotton: the Fabric that Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 14 Pacheco Ferreira, “Asian Textiles in the Carreira da Índia.” For a cargo inventory of the shipwreck Nossa Senhora da Luz from 1615, see Arquivo Historico Ultramarino, Açores, Caixa 1, Doc. No. 14. 15 For economic matters and Indian textiles see: Boyajian, Portuguese Trade in Asia; and Om Prakash, The Dutch East India Company and the Economy of Bengal (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985).

230

Barbara Karl

2. The Adaptation of a Product In 1580 when an imperial farman granted by Akbar, the ruler of the Mughal Empire, allowed a small settlement of the Portuguese in Hugli, the situation of the Portuguese private merchants in Bengal was consolidated. It is probable that around that time they started thinking of further refashioning the colchas by transferring European forms that were deemed to sell well in Portuguese Asia and Europe onto the extant product. It is so far not traceable how exactly this cultural transfer worked. Very little is known about the European settlers of Bengal in the sixteenth century, just as little as about those professional Indians who produced the textiles, quite certainly working in family organized workshops. It is certain that the Portuguese relied heavily on local social structures for the procurement of their goods. In fact a large portion of product development had happened even before they arrived in Bengal; the surviving textiles are the most reliable sources remaining today: What becomes evident when comparing the extant product with those newly developed for and by the Portuguese is that in terms of technique, size, colour, material, and structure, the later colchas remained very similar to the original product, what changed significantly over time was the design.16 Together with Bengali embroiderers, European private merchants further developed the colchas in order to create a product that sold well not only in Portugal’s Asian colonies but also on the Iberian Peninsula (Spain and Portugal were ruled in union from 1580 to 1640) and perhaps in Brazil and Africa as well. The merchants thus encountered a fully developed product that was in the eyes of the commissioners exotic and yet easy to integrate in European consumer patterns. Large textiles had covered walls, tables, and beds before. They had but to adapt it formally to the tastes of the European consumers, a process that similarly still happens today when different products need to be adapted to different consumer markets. The Portuguese diversified the extant product by introducing usually European models, by way of prints which then circulated widely. The prints were mostly Italian, Spanish, or Dutch designs. The complex iconographic arrangement of some of the colchas was probably done by them as well roughly following the concepts from festive entries that were published.17 The merchants transferred the prints to Bengal where they were received by the local embroiderers, who in turn adapted the pre-selected motifs to the embroideries. In this process of translation and simplification (lines in chain stitch are less delicate than those 16 Karl, “Development of a Group of Embroidered Colchas.” 17 A few prints that served as models for the colchas can be identified. See Karl, “Architecture as Propaganda,”; and Moura Carvalho, Luxury for Export, 8–22.

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal

231

in a print), the forms were filtered through the traditions and techniques of the highly skilled local professionals. In transposing the motifs from one medium (paper) to the other (cotton), these local professionals hybridised the style and lost some of the content. The results were embroidered textiles with an exotic touch but familiar forms.18 Not only the forms, filtered and adapted by Bengali embroiderers working after European models, were unusual to a European consumer at the time, the materials were novel too. Pure cotton was at that time not well known in this delicately woven form in Europe. Its suppleness must have stunned consumers.19 The golden shine of tussar silk, long a mystery in Europe, was an additional factor that surely impressed consumers and is the most probable explanation for the monochromatic decoration on the colchas.20 The process of product adaptation did not happen in such an organized and systematic way as in theory it does in today’s multinational companies. It is highly unlikely that a planning team was established to carry out market research. However, just as today, the developers had the consumers in mind, their desires and needs. The resulting iconographic programme designs illustrate that the commissioners kept to ‘safe’ designs and did not take large risks, as they chose topics that were easily recognizable to, and popular with, informed Europeans. The design of the colchas around that time was still clearly inspired by Bengali Sultanate forms, featuring flat scrollwork that had its clear parallels in architecture, such as the Adina mosque in Pandua, or courtly sultanate themes like scenes of elite hunting.21 They were originally produced for a thriving Indian market and only some of them were sold to European merchants coming to Bengal’s shores once a year.22 In terms of clientele, the Europeans had mainly two groups in mind with different types of designs for each group. First, for more public use as political propaganda, there were textiles featuring political messages. Second, for the wealthy domestic furnishing market, a tamer courtly iconography was developed. The colchas for the former featured

18 On cultural transfer see for example, Michel Espagne, Les transferts culturels franco-allemands (Paris: ­Presses Univ. de France, 1999); Jürgen Osterhammel, Geschichtswissenschaft jenseits des Nationalstaats. Studien zu Beziehungsgeschichte und Zivilisationsvergleich (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck &Ruprecht, 2001); and Matthias Middell, “Von der Wechselseitigkeit der Kulturen im Austausch: Das Konzept des Kulturtransfers in verschiedenen Forschungskontexten,” in Metropolen und Kulturtransfer im 15./16. Jahrhundert, ed. Andrea Langer and Georg Michels (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2001), 15–52. 19 Musée Galliera, ed., Le coton et la mode: 1000 and d’aventures (Paris: Somogy, 2000). 20 Karl, Embroidered Histories, 74–77. 21 See Karl, “Development of a Group of Embroidered Colchas,” 58. 22 Two of these early colchas survive in the Museum für angewandte Kunst in Vienna and likely date to the second half of the sixteenth century. See Museum für angewandte Kunst (MAK), T 1079 (92 by 212 centimetres), and MAK, T 1147 (279 by 209 centimetres).

232

Barbara Karl

Fig. 43: Colcha with Pelican. Bengal/Hugli region, late sixteenth century, since 1580, early seventeenth century; Cotton, tussar silk, Chain stitch, fringes; 251 × 198 cm; Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisbon, Inv. 2282 tec.

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal

233

dense, politically charged iconography, inspired by royal festive entries and probably also printed leaflets. This closeness turned them too into carriers of dynastic propaganda.23 Examining the iconography of the colchas is an important step in understanding how the designs were catered to the wider Iberian market. Among the political designs, the earliest and most enduring European motifs were biblical, Christian, and Roman mythological themes and animal symbols. Particularly prominent was the pelican, especially one image of it opening its breast to feed its brood with its blood (fig. 43). This was a symbol for the Eucharist that was also linked to the Portuguese Avis dynasty and King John II. Not only was his personal motto, “for law and people; I sacrifice myself ” (Pola lei e pola grei), but the pelican decorates his tomb ensemble in the Capela Imperfeita in the Convent of Batalha. Further, it can also be read against the backdrop of Catholic missions in Asia, since the missionaries also sacrificed themselves to propagate their faith.24 One colcha explicitly illustrates the political restoration of Portugal: on it the pelican is shown depicted underneath the coat of arms of Portugal together with the armillary sphere associated with King Manuel I.25 The second widely used bird was the crowned double-headed eagle, in this context associated with the Habsburg dynasty that ruled over Spanish and Portuguese dominions between 1580 and 1640.26 Officially the double-headed eagle was not part of the blazon of Spanish kings after the death of Charles V in 1558 as the motif was soon replaced by the eagle of San Juan of the reyes catholicos. Despite this, Spanish queens and archduchesses continued to wear jewellery in the form of a double-headed eagle or dresses including this motif.27 In many fields of the colonial and folk arts, the double-headed eagle continued to be understood as a symbol for the Spanish Habsburgs.28 It is thus likely that most people living in the wider Iberian context at that time linked the crowned double-headed 23 On the importance of Philippine propaganda, see Fernando Bouza Álvarez, “Retórica da imagem real: Portugal e a memória figurada de Filipe II,” Penélope: revista de história e ciências sociais 4 (1989): 20–58; and Fernando Bouza Álvarez, Portugal no tempo dos Filipes (Lisbon: Edições Cosmos, 2000). 24 Engelbert Kirschbaum, Günther Bandmann, Wolfgang Braunfels et al., eds., Lexikon der christlichen Ikonographie, 3 vols. (Rom: Herder, 1968–1972), 3:390. Hereafter LCI; Hildegard Kretschmer, Lexikon der Symbole und Attribute in der Kunst (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2011), 316; and Reynaldo dos Santos, Oito séculos de arte Portuguesa: História e espírito, vol. III (Lisbon: Empresa Nacional de Publicidade, 1970), 204–9. 25 Santos, Oito séculos de arte Portuguesa, 204–09. Barbara Karl, “Allegory and Narrative: Two Bengal Colchas and the Independence of Portugal,” in Visualizing Portuguese Power: The Political Use of Images in Portugal and its Overseas Empire (16th–18th Century), ed. Urte Krass (Zurich: Diaphanes, 2017), 119–40; Moura Carvalho, Luxury for Export, 8–22; and Karl, “The Use of Growing Architecture as Propaganda,” 255–68. 26 Kretschmer, Lexikon der Symbole, 20–23. 27 See for example the portrait of Anna Queen of Spain by Antonis Mor, 1570, Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien, GG 305, Anna was the daughter of Emperor Maximilian II. 28 For Mexico, see Arturo Gómez Martinez, “El águila bicéfala y la configuración mitológica, otomí de San Pablito,” Estudios de cultura Otopame 8 (2015), 121.

234

Barbara Karl

eagle to Spanish Habsburg rule. These were scenes, symbols, and designs that were first introduced by the Portuguese commissioners and were clearly prepared for a European market, not a Bengali one (on whom these iconographic meanings would have been lost). Given the politically charged contents of Bengali colchas, it is therefore plausible to interpret, not only the pelican, but also the crowned double-headed eagle as dynastic symbols. Reading these symbols against the political background of the time and the problematic succession after the death of the King Henry in 1580, these symbols stress the rightful rule of the Habsburgs over Portugal and its Asian dominions, spreading both justice and the true faith.29 In this context the use of the crowned double-headed eagle provides a strong hint to the date of these Bengali colchas, revealing to have been made prior to 1640. As after the rise of the Bragança, using this dynastic symbol would simply not make sense even if, as Pedro Cardim has pointed out, most other elements of political iconography of the Habsburgs continued to be used by the Bragança to stress continuity.30 Apart from the birds, evoking the ruling dynasties, two themes from the Old Testament show up from early on: the Judgment of King Solomon and the story of Judith and Holofernes (fig. 44).31 The theme of the king’s wise judgement as narrated in the Book of Kings was very popular in Europe during the sixteenth century. The king’s reign was considered to be the Golden Age of Jewish dominance over Palestine. The most important trade routes between East and West led through his country. Contacts to India were already established by then. Solomon’s wisdom was proverbial and manifested in the judgement of the two women. He was a poet and musician, and his sumptuous court life was renowned. His throne was seen as a sedes sapientiae (a seat of wisdom), the king was represented as a rex iustus (a just king).32 Solomon was a model ruler in the Christian as well as the Islamic world, and as such an intercultural figure of identification. King Manuel I of Portugal was represented as Solomon the law giver in the Ordenações manuelinas, an important legal compendium.33 Most importantly in the context of colchas, Philip II of 29 See Alarcão and Pacheco-Pereira, Fábulas Bordadas; and Karl, “Narrative Scheme of a Bengal Colcha,” 438–48. This claim was not uncontested since also the Bragança family had a justified claim to the Portuguese throne and made it explicit among other things with their motto Depois de vòs, nós (After you – the Avis – come we or: it’s us). 30 See Pedro Cardim, “?Una Restauração visual? Cambio dinástico y uso politico de las imágenes en el Portugal del siglo XVII,” in La historia imaginada: Construcciones visuals del pasado e la Edad Moderna, ed. Juan L. Palos and Diana Carrió-Invernizzi (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Europa Hispánica, 2008), 185–206. 31 See Karl, Embroidered Histories, 174–202. For the role of Solomon in Mughal India see, especially, Ebba Koch, Shah Jahan and Orpheus: The Pietre Dure Decoration and the Programme of the Throne in the Hall of Public Audiences at the Red Fort of Delhi (Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1988). 32 Isidore Singer, ed., The Jewish Encyclopedia (New York: Funk and Wagnalls Company, 1905), 40, 441. 33 Joao Jose Alves Dias, Ordenações Manuelinas: livro I a V: reprodução em fac-símile da edição de Valentim Fernandes (Lisboa, 1512–1513) (Lisbon: Centro de Estudos Históricos da Universidade Nova de Lisboa, 2002).

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal

Fig. 44: Solomon Colcha. Bengal/Hugli region, first half seventeenth century; Cotton, tussar silk, Chain stitch, running stitch, knot stitch; 330 × 280 cm; Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisbon, Inv. 3692.

235

236

Barbara Karl

Spain was celebrated as and compared to Solomon throughout his life, his father being likened to King David. Bearing the title of King of Jerusalem, the most important building Philip II commissioned, the Escorial, was hailed as a new Solomonic temple.34 There is no explicit hint as to whether the Solomon on the colchas is to be identified with Philip II but it represents a striking parallel. The other biblical story present from a very early date was Judith’s, who is the heroine of the Jewish people in their fight against the evil embodied by the Babylonian general Holofernes, whom she kills with cunning; the Old Testament dedicates an entire book to Judith.35 Her story is usually placed around Solomon in four images on the colchas. A frontier myth, Judith was also seen as a model for the Virgin Mary because of her chastity and strength. With David and others, Judith is one of the saviours of Israel, and the Old Testament counterpart of Mary: Judith defeats Holofernes, Mary defeats the devil.36 The story was very popular in early modern Europe, also, to be sure, because of its erotic implications.37 In the context of colchas, Judith is the most prominently placed and most frequently used model woman (others featuring often and prominently are Mary, Penelope, Lucretia, Polyxena, Thisbe, Hero, and the goddess Diana). Beginning with Bocaccio’s De mulieribus claris, first published in 1374, biographies of women became popular. One example from the Iberian Peninsula is Alvaro de Luna’s Libro de las virtuosas e’claras mujeres, from the first half of the fifteenth century which includes the biographies of Judith, Lucretia, Diana, Polyxena, and Penelope – all seen on the colchas.38 In this context, Judith stresses the notion of a divinely sanctioned fight against an infidel and can be read against the background of the Portuguese sense of mission (who were also fighting what in their view were infidels in Asia). Read against the specific historic context, these motifs taken together stress the universal dominion of the Portuguese ruling dynasty, and their just rule under what was considered the true faith. At the same time the colchas provide models for male and female readers of the educated classes. Once the iconographic parameters were established, they did not alter much but were enhanced by new features like Roman mythological scenes, 34 Juan Rafael de la Cuadra Blanco, “King Philip of Spain as Solomon the Second: The Origins of Solomonism of the Escorial in the Netherlands,” in The Seventh Window: The King’s Window Donated by Philip II and Mary Tudor to Sint Janskerk in Gouda, ed. Wim de Groot (Hilversum: Verloren, 2005), 169–80. 35 See Guy de Tervarent, Attributs et Symboles dans l’art profane 1450–1600 (Geneva: Droz, 1958–1964), 210; and more a depth analysis, see Bettina Uppenkamp, Judith und Holofernes in der italienischen Malerei des Barock (Berlin: Reimer, 2004). 36 Kirschbaum, Bandmann, and Braunfels, LCI, 3:154–210, 3:454–58. 37 For example by Donatello, Andrea Mantegna, and Artemisia Gentileschi. 38 Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo, ed, Libro de las virtuosas e claras mugeres que fizo e compuso el condestable don Álvaro de Luna maestre de la orden de Santiago (Madrid: Sociedad de Bibliófilos Españoles, 1891), 41–48, 110–20, 232, 259, 264–66.

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal

237

the zodiac, or the four continents. The most striking iconographic parallel is found in the royal festive entries, those of Philipp II and Philipp III into Lisbon in 1581 and 1618, respectively.39 This parallel stresses the colchas role as carriers of dynastic propaganda; in them the complex programme of the entries seems to have been condensed. One might imagine them to be used in processions or during other more official occasions.40 The introduction of this dense iconographic programme dramatically sets them apart from colchas that were produced in the Sultanate context: those pieces which survive feature but flat scrollwork or elaborate hunting scenes. The propagandistic content raises the question as to how political the commissioners of the Bengali colchas were. One might assume them to be enthusiastic followers of the Habsburg dynasty. However, when looking at the programme of the colcha da restauração, explicitly celebrating the new Bragança king in the 1640s, one views the merchants as cunning tacticians rather than as followers of either dynasty.41 They were happy to engage with both sides of the market. Further, even though they probably resided in distant Bengal, it is obvious that they took interest in the goings on in Portugal. The wider Portuguese empire remained their main consumer market and they needed to be informed about new fashions and political developments in order to adapt the patterns and content of the colchas. At the same time a somewhat tamer programme was designed to please a less politically engaged clientele. It developed out of the Bengali tradition of colchas featuring hunting and courtly scenes which were Europeanised by introducing hunters wearing European fashion and muskets, and courtly scenes with couples in European dress.42 Occasionally motifs of local inspiration such as durbar scenes with men on platforms or the apotropaic motif of a peacock devouring a snake (originally a motif of Buddhist origin) were retained.43 Moreover, additional themes were introduced such as stories from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, especially the tragic love stories of Pyramus and Thisbe, Hero and Leander, and Actaeon and Diana, all recalling and warning the dangers of heedless love. Added somewhat later were the themes of Ulysses returning to Penelope and Polyxena being killed, both scenes hinting at faithful women, heroic men, and ideal models for a certain class of Portuguese society. Pieces like these were most probably sold to be used in a domestic context, and given the iconographic content, they made ideal presents to newlyweds. Similar icono39 See Ioan Baptista Lavanha, Viaje de la catholica real magestad del rei D. Filipe III. N.S. al reino de Portugal – relacion del solene recebimento que en el se le hizo (Madrid: Thomas Iunti Impressor del Rei N.S., 1622); Alfonso Guerreiro, Das festas que se fizeram na cidade de Lisboa, na entrada del Rey D. Philippe primeiro de Portugal (Lisbon: Francisco Correa, 1581); and Bouza Álvarez, “Retórica da imagem real,” 20–58. 40 Karl, Embroidered Histories, 69–74. 41 Karl, “Allegory and Narrative.” 42 Karl, “Die Moden der Colcha Roxa.” 43 See Monica Zin, Ajanta: Handbuch der Malereien. Devotionale und ornamentale Malereien (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2003), 1:86, 1:325.

238

Barbara Karl

graphic themes are found in Italian cassone paintings from the fifteenth century onwards that included the trousseau of future wives, but also on surviving lace bedcovers from the sixteenth century. The topics were supposed to remind the spouses of their duties.44 The Portuguese private merchants did not only diversify the topics included in the colchas but also the quality of the individual pieces. High quality colchas were embroidered more densely and were often larger than those of lesser quality. Different pricing permitted them to reach a wider clientele. The value of brand recognition was provided by the mostly bichrome embroidery (yellow on white cotton ground) and its distinct style: this made the colchas recognisable to an informed consumer. In contemporary records, Bengal colchas were often called colcha da montaria (with hunting scenes), as most of them were surrounded by a border featuring hunting scenes.45 While the individual pieces were recognisable as from Bengal and to a high degree customised, no colcha from this production survives that features exactly the same design as another. This was likely no coincidence: consistently repeating the same design would have been easier for both embroiderers and commissioners; constantly adapting it made the process more complex. It had its purpose, however, as it rendered each piece unique and at the same time enabled the recognition of the ‘Bengal yellow’ brand. In addition to the customised Solomon colchas, there were others, probably private commissions that differ more or less significantly from them and illustrate the large variety of designs that could be produced. Moreover, they show the adaptability of the producers to the wishes to the special commissioners. All this hints at a very well organised business structure. The mostly yellow Bengali colchas were popular until the middle of the seventeenth century. By then the political landscape in Portugal had changed as the country was ruled by the Bragança dynasty after the Restoration War and the Portuguese had lost much ground to the Dutch and the English. Further, the Bengali colchas’ complex designs apparently went out of fashion, as floral Gujarati and Chinese embroideries and painted floral cottons were received more favourably in Europe. It is likely in this period that we can date the red colchas, (also attributed to Bengal). Far less politically charged and less complex iconographically, they usually focussed on an individual symbol, a pelican or a coat of arms.46 The symbol and the motifs surrounding it were enlarged, rendering the textile easier to understand. The fact that they used red silk for the embroidery addition44 For cassone paintings, see Christelle Baskins, Cassone Painting, Humanism and Gender in Early Modern Italy, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); and Anne Kraaz, Die Kunst der Spitze (Frankfurt: Propyläen, 1989), 28–29. 45 Karl, Embroidered Histories, 48, 59. 46 The Bragança viewed themselves as rightful heirs to the Avis and continued to use the symbol of the pelican as seen on the colcha da restauração. On the continuity of political propaganda iconography, see Cardim, “?Una Restauração visual?,” 185–206.

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal

239

ally eased the colchas’ reading because of the distinctive colour contrast. As the embroidery in these pieces is less elaborate, it is probable that they were sold at a more moderate price than the densely embroidered Solomon colchas. When looking at the large group of surviving Bengali colchas and comparing the individual pieces, it becomes clear that the Portuguese commissioners began their development process with an already successful local product. Step by step, they integrated European forms by providing European printed models and combined them to a unique iconography that was understood by their Iberian consumers.

3. Consumption and Distribution In addition to content, qualities diversified too. Colchas that were further developed from the 1580s onwards and especially during the first half of the seventeenth century were increasingly produced in different qualities in order to be sold to different socioeconomic groups. The difference in value of colchas is reflected in surviving Portuguese inventories, which include pieces valued at very different prices but also in surviving pieces that show different qualities of execution.47 From the relevant surviving early documents, it emerges that in Portugal colchas were initially exotic souvenirs brought back from India and gifted within family networks.48 The crucial middle men in this process were Portuguese with colonial experience. Many sons of aristocratic (especially the second born sons) and merchant families were sent to India to learn and eventually make their fortunes there. Often they stayed for a long time and partly adopted Indian – or rather Malabari – fashion and life style. When they returned to Lisbon, their acquired living habits and fashions deeply influenced Portuguese tastes and living standards. Contemporary descriptions of Lisbon talk about the houses of rich merchants featuring formerly unknown and – for Portuguese consumers – exotic objects.49 The son of the famous Afonso, Brás de Albuquerque (1501–1581) for instance, decorated his garden house with Indian textiles that probably came from his late father’s estate.50 47 A series of Portuguese inventories was published by Bernardo Ferrão, Mobiliário português dos primórdios ao maneirismo, vol. 4 (Porto: Lello & Irmão Editores, 1990); on colchas and early modern inventories, see Karl, “Marvellous Things are Made with Needles.” 48 Karl, Embroidered Histories, 64–69. 49 Celina Bastos, “On the Utility of the Carpet: Object and Image, Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” in The Oriental Carpet in Portugal: Carpets and Paintings, 15th–18th Centuries, ed. Jessica Hallett and Teresa Pacheco Pereira (Lisbon: Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, 2007), 151–60; Peter Mason, Infelicities: Representations of the Exotic (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998). 50 Walter Crum Watson, Portuguese Architecture (London: Archibald Constable and Company, 1908), 26–27. A good example of how Indian textiles were commissioned and exchanged between India and Portugal

240

Barbara Karl

Colchas initially seem to have been quite exclusive, as one of the family networks in which they circulated was the imperial Habsburg family, closely related to the Portuguese royal family. In 1558 for instance, the Portuguese Queen Catarina de Austria received three Bengali colchas from the Casa da India, the custom house in Lisbon.51 The queen’s passion for novel rarities was well known and the arrival of especially valuable objects was reported to her. Her collecting policies and tastes influenced the collections of the Habsburg family network through the large number of gifts she made to her relatives.52 As a consequence, Bengali colchas eventually ended up in the famous Kunstkammer collections of her nephew, Ferdinand of Tyrol (at least one piece survives), and, her greatnephew, Emperor Rudolph II.53 Desire for novel and rare goods was as acute then as it is today. Slowly elite fashion trickled down the social ladder, and desire for a novel product spread. The ground for Indian embroideries from Bengal was prepared.54 The economic success of the embroidered Bengali colchas is not only reflected in the spectacular quantity of Bengali colchas that survive today — more than sixty pieces are known to the author — but also in records that proof that colchas from India were imported by the hundreds per year. An inventory illustrating the cargo of a ship on the carreira de India survives in the Arquivio Histórico Ultramarino in Lisbon. In 1615 the Portuguese ship Nossa Senhora da Luz shipwrecked on a beach on the Azores on its way back from India. It was loaded with large quantities of valuable merchandise, which were partly recovered from the beach, collected, and sent to Lisbon. An inventory was compiled of all the stranded goods, giving valuable insight into what kinds of goods were imported to Portugal from India. Among the items collected were large quantities of tex-

51 52

53

54

is illustrated in the correspondences by the merchant and pepper collector Filippo Sassetti and the Goan official Amaral de Vasconselos. See Bramanti, Lettere; and Amandino Jorge Morais Barros, ed., Cartas da India: Correspondencia privada de Jorge de Amaral e Vasconcelos (1649–1656) (Porto: Afrontamento, 2001). See also Karl, “Galanterie di cose rare.” Instituto do Arquivo Nacional/Torre do Tombo (hereafter: IAN/TT), Lisbon, NA 797, 112r–114v; quoted from Annemarie Jordan-Gschwend, “Rarities and Novelties,” in Encounters: The Meeting of Asia and Europe 1500–1800, ed. Anna Jackson and Amin Jaffer (London: V&A Publications, 2004), 39. Annemarie Jordan, “Portuguese Royal Collecting after 1521: The Choice between Flanders and Italy,” in, Cultural Links between Portugal and Italy in the Renaissance, ed. Kate Lowe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 265–93. On the queen’s collecting, see Annemarie Jordan, The Development of Catherine of Austria’s Collection in the Queens Household: its Character and Cost (PhD diss., Brown University, 1994). Wendelin Boeheim, ed., “Urkunden und Regesten aus der k.k. Hofbibliothek: Inventari über das fürstlich gsclosz Ombras sambt den rüst- und kunstcämern,” Jahrbuch der kunsthistorischen Sammlungen des allerhöchsten Kaiserhauses 7 (1888), CCCVII; and Rotraud Bauer and Herbert Haupt, eds., “Das Kunstkammerinventar Kaiser Rudolfs II. 1607–1611,” Jahrbuch der kunsthistorischen Sammlungen in Wien, 72 (1976), 30–32. See Beverly Lemire, “Plasmare la domanda, creare la moda: L’Asia, l’Europa e il commercio dei cotoni indiani,” Quaderni Storici 41 (2006): 481–507.

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal

241

tiles, at least one hundred Indian colchas, many diamonds, several ivory objects, porcelain, carpets, and the like.55 This source provides a glimpse of how many Indian colchas could reach Lisbon per year.56 Presuming all ships from India arrived in Lisbon (usually about three ships per year) and each of them had a similar quantity of colchas on board, the considerable sum of two to four hundred colchas could be brought to the Lisbon market per year. This great number of imported colchas and other textiles produced in India explicitly for export is confirmed in a book published in 1620, Livro das grandezas de Lisboa, by Nicolão de Oliveyra. He writes of four hundred pieces per large merchant ship. His description of Lisbon is very enthusiastic but quite exact when it comes to numbers (be that of inhabitants, professions, or wages of officials). In Of the Place of the Kingdom and its Fertility, he describes the imports to the port of Lisbon from many places, including India. Among many other textiles, the ships came back with “very fine colchas, all embroidered and with hunting scenes, [and] with godorins [padded coverlets] of silk, and there is no ship [nau] from India that does not bring at least four hundred, and many other carpets and very pretty coverlets of silk embroidered with gold.”57 The high quantity of Indian colchas in circulation is confirmed by their mention in numerous inventories. In another article on colchas, I evaluated the colchas’ presence in European inventories of the upper classes of the later sixteenth and seventeenth century to shed light on the consumption patterns of Indian colchas. They revealed that colchas were used variably as covers or hangings for beds, tables, or floors. In addition, they seem to have been used differently the farther they travelled from Lisbon.58 A significant series of about thirty judicial files, feitos findos, from Lisbon including inventories shed light on the demand for colchas among the Portuguese middle classes, especially during the seventeenth century.59 The documents are spread relatively evenly from the late sixteenth through the end of the seventeenth century. Many name not only the owner of the items, but also their profession, thus providing a hint on the person’s social status, or that of her husband, when the documents concerned women. Among the professions mentioned in the context of the inventories including Indian colchas were merchants, three physicians, a saddle maker, a court scribe, a cooper, and a wealthy gov-

55 The descriptions of colchas are not very elaborate and mostly indicate no more than their colour or main motifs such as hunting scenes. Lisbon: Arquivio Historico Ultramarino, Açores, Caixa 1, Doc. No. 14. 56 Chinese textiles were clearly designated as such and came in different ships. 57 Frey N. d’Oliveyra, Livro das grandezas de Lisboa (Lisbon: Iorge Rodriguez, 1620), 13. 58 Karl, “Marvellous things are made with needles,” 301–13. 59 Parts of these unpublished summarised inventories include colchas and were recently made available to the author by Pedro Pinto, a Portuguese historian. My thanks Pedro Pinto for sharing his information. The summarised records from his finds are listed in the following three footnotes.

242

Barbara Karl

ernment official from Bahia.60 Moreover there was a shoemaker, a blacksmith, a tailor, a confectioner, a higher administrator or bookkeeper (contador da contadoria geral), a captain, a candle maker, a land owner or farmer, and a mason.61 Several colchas are also mentioned in similar inventories that do not list the profession, but these people also likely came from a middle class background.62 This trove mainly of documents illustrates clearly that from the late sixteenth century on, Indian colchas of different sizes, qualities, and prices were available to a generously defined middle class in Lisbon. The most expensive colchas for which the prices have survived could cost about twenty thousand reis around 1600 – these came mostly from Bengal. The most expensive pieces from the late seventeenth century could cost more than fifty thousand reis. The use of valuable materials, such as gold threads, were probably responsible for the higher prices. The prices of the cheapest, often old colchas, remain quite constant at one thousand to two thousand reis. All through the seventeenth century, a decent colcha seems to have cost around eight thousand to ten thousand reis. It is surprising indeed that the prices for mid-range colchas did not increase significantly for a century, despite inflation and Spanish bankruptcies, suggesting that Indian colchas became cheaper over time on the Portuguese market. Whether that happened because more pieces were produced, or whether demand decreased remains uncertain. Colcha design changed but did not decrease in quality to justify the changes. 60 The official from Bahia indicates that Brazil was a market for Indian goods too. The value of all the colchas ranged from 500 to 2000 reis on the cheaper side, all the way up to 8,000 to 10,000 reis for more expensive ones. There was also one outlier for 60,000 reis belonging to the blacksmith. The author thanks Pedro Pinto for providing information on most of these documents. For the merchants, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B Maço 39 doc. 11, f.(folio) 7; and IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B Maço 40, Doc. 13, f. 18; for the three physicians, see Lisbon: Instituto do Arquivo Nacional/Torre do Tombo, Feitos Findos, Inventários Post-Mortem (hereafter: IAN/TT, FF, IPM), Letra B Maço 36 doc. 13, f. 4; IAN/TT, Tribunal do Santo Ofício, Inquisição de Lisboa, proc. 1512, f. 68; IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra V, Maço 29, Doc. 7, f. 5v; for the saddle-maker, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B Maço 39 doc. 10, f. 7v; for court scribe, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B maço 37 doc. 14, f. 6; for the copper, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra D, Maço 43, Doc. 25, f. 3v; and for the Bahian government official, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 40, Doc. 11, f. 3v. 61 For the shoemaker, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra C, Maço 48, Doc. 7 (2.º doc.), f. 5v; for the blacksmith, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra C, Maço 47, Doc. 13, f. 5v; for the tailor, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 40, Doc. 9 (2.º doc.), f. 6–6v; for the confectioner, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 40, Doc. 17, f. 4v; for the administrator/bookkeeper, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra C, Maço 52, Doc. 1, f. 7v; for the captain, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra C, Maço 48, Doc. 7, f. 5v; for the candlemaker, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 39, Doc. 9 (Doc. 2), f. 7; for the farmer, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra D, Maço 43, Doc. 17, f. 5; and for the mason, see IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 36, Doc. 5, f. 6. Except for the mason, most of these colchas were valued between 4,000 and 10,000 reis. 62 See IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 36, Doc. 5, f. 6; IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra F, Maço 117, no. 7; IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 40, Doc. 6, f. 6v.-7; IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 39, Doc. 6, f. 8; IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra A, Maço 3, no. 10, caixa 5; IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 40, Doc. 18, f. 6v; IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 39, Doc. 21, f. 6; IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra B, Maço 39, Doc. 9, f. 6; and IAN/TT, FF, IPM, Letra J, Maço 69, Doc. 1, f. 6. The value of these colchas ranged from as low as 600 reis all the way up to 20,000 reis.

Portuguese Product Development in Bengal

243

In terms of ownership, the middle classes generally owned fewer Indian colchas than the nobility and theirs were cheaper, costing about a quarter of the more expensive ones which suggests an increasing diversification of colcha production in India.63 Such results also correspond to the ownership patterns demonstrated by the surviving colchas.

Conclusion From the wide array of surviving material, we can deduce that in sixteenth- but especially in seventeenth-century Portugal and beyond, several thousands of Indian colchas circulated in the market. This illustrates the success of an Indian product whose potential was recognised by Portuguese private merchants and who developed it for a new market. Through the designs, they chose they transposed their own cultural backgrounds onto the textiles that were part of the artistic landscape of India. These designs featured objects and themes they were familiar with – designs that could be expected to sell well in Europe. Over time, they successfully diversified production creating products for different uses and tastes, and of different qualities that could be sold at different prices. By adding a new – the wider Iberian – consumer market to the original Indian market, they opened up new opportunities for the local market and turned the colchas into a means of interaction between Bengali producers and Iberian consumers, and consequently, into an internationally desired product. Colchas cut through many different layers of economic, social, and artistic exchange. Their development not only mirrors political circumstances, they visualise them by disseminating relevant contents that strengthened the respective ruling dynasties. A complex relationship of cross-cultural influences emerges as forms and techniques were exchanged between the European creators of the designs, the producers of the textiles (Gujarati and Bengali embroiderers), and European consumers. As we have seen, all these groups, plus the merchants are fundamental to the different stages of this exchange. By adapting a part of Bengali and Gujarati textile production for a new – European – market, they enabled the successful development of a high quality, customised product that corresponded to the tastes of the upper and middle strata of Iberian societies. Moreover, they stand at the beginning of direct large-scale European interventions in the commission of Indian products. In this, the Bengali as well as the Gujarati colchas were pioneering in a field that was later taken over by other European competitors. The main foundations in terms of procedure as well as formal input were brought by Portuguese ships, and set out by Portuguese private merchants.

63 Karl, “Marvellous Things are Made with Needles.”

Selling through Samples? The Role of Objects in Merchant Communication Gabi Schopf

In the picture on the next page we can see a letter with three small pieces of cloth glued to the paper (fig. 45). Looking at them, various questions arise: what were their material properties and how did they influence the use of the objects? How, where, and when were the objects produced? How, and by whom, were they used and why? What role did they play in past interactions and societies? Without even turning to written sources, the objects themselves can answer some of these questions. Each textile was printed in two to three different colours: two with simple stripes, the other with a slightly more complex pattern with small flowers. Both the coarse weaving and the designs (the limited amount of colours, the simple patterns, and the printing/application techniques) point to the samples having been produced and consumed in Europe. In contrast, Indian cottons would have had more (carefully applied) colours and been more finely woven.1 In terms of their function, the little pieces of fabric were glued to a letter, revealing that they were part of a correspondence, probably used as samples to sell textiles. When assessing the text, a letter, that accompanies the object, many of these findings are confirmed. The letter was sent in 1800 by Fitz Bonnier from Roanne, a village in central France, to Laué & Co., a textile printer in Wildegg, a Swiss village thirty kilometres west of Zurich.2 It indicates that the two correspondents were in a business relationship: Laué & Co. was the producer and Bonnier was their client. Moreover, the text confirms the European production of the textiles: Laué & Co. printed them and they were most likely woven regionally.3 1

For comparable textiles owned by poor women giving a baby to the London Foundling Hospital see, John Styles, Threads of Feeling: The London Foundling Hospital’s Textile Tokens, 1740–1770 (London: The Foundling Museum, 2010), 40, 41, 54, 55. On the differences of cotton production in India and Europe, see Giorgio Riello, Cotton: The Fabric that Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 162–69; and Claudia Ravazzolo’s contribution to this volume. 2 Staatsarchiv Aargau (hereafter: StAAg), NL.A-0105, Mappe 12, correspondence with Bonnier, letter from 29 December 1800. 3 Like most of their fellow cotton printers in the region, Laué & Co. bought most of the lower quality white textiles from weaving workshops in the eastern part of the Swiss cantons. This region included cities like Augsburg and Mulhouse that were outside of the Swiss cantons. On Laué & Co. see Gabi Schopf, “From Local Production to Global Trade: The Distribution of Swiss Printed Cottons in the Early Modern World,” Textile History (forthcoming). On other producers in the region, see for example Pierre Caspard,

246

Gabi Schopf

Fig. 45: Three textile samples glued to a letter. Send from Fitz Bonnier to Laué & Co. in 1800. StAAg, NL.A0105, Mappe 12, correspondence with Bonnier, letter from 29 December 1800. Photograph: author.

Other hypothesises which can be drawn from simply looking at the samples are muddled by the text. While it confirms that the textiles were indeed samples, the text also reveals the purpose of the exchange was not placing an order or advertising a product, but to give information about what kind of pattern did not sell in a certain region.4 As Bonnier wrote, “below, I have attached several samples that do not sell well in this environment. Please do not send any more of these.”5 La F ­ abrique-Neuve de Cortaillod: entreprise et profit pendant la Révolution industrielle, 1752–1854 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1979), 46–47 ; and Ulrich Pfister, “Der Textilhandel der Familie Zellweger in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts: Protoindustrialisierung – kommerzielle Revolution – Konsumrevolution,” in Europa in der Schweiz: Grenzüberschreitender Kulturaustausch im 18. Jahrhundert, ed. H ­ eidi Eisenhut, Anett Lütteken, and Carsten Zelle (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2013), 34. 4 Historians have described textile samples as a powerful and frequently used marketing tool. See Lesley Miller, “Material Marketing: How Lyonnais Silk Manufacturers Sold Silks, 1660–1789,” in Selling Textiles in the Long Eighteenth Century: Comparative Perspectives from Western Europe, ed. John Stobart and Bruno Blondé (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2014), 85–98; Beverly Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite: The Cotton Trade and the Consumer in Britain, 1600–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 141–43; John Smail, Merchants, Markets and Manufacture: The English Wool Textile Industry in the Eighteenth Century (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 1999), 98–99; Irmgard Schwanke, “‘… den wir haßten die unangenehme Correspondenz …’: Handelspraktiken der Brüder Castel in Ezach im Schwarzwald (1814–1843),” in Praktiken des Handels: Geschäfte und soziale Beziehungen europäischer Kaufleute in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit, ed. Mark Häberlein and Christoph Jeggle (Constance: UVK, 2010), 616–19. 5 “J’ai joins à Bas plusieurs Echantillions qui ne sont pas de Vente Dans nos Environs vous me ferier plaisir De ne pas men Envoyer Dutous.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 12, correspondence with Bonnier, letter from 29 December 1800.

Selling through Samples?

247

This brief example provides a first glimpse of the multitude of functions samples had in the early modern textile trade. Using textile samples as a test case, this chapter seeks to ascertain what can be learned about the textile trade when using a material culture approach. The next section lays the groundwork, introducing the case study, the historiography, and the methodology of material culture. Parts two to four explore the three principal ways textile samples were used in trade. In exploring them further, the essay argues that they were a powerful marketing device, carried information, and helped to establish trust in long-distance-trade.

1. Economic History, Material Culture Studies, and the Case of Laué & Co. The history of trade in the early modern era has a genuine material component. However when assessing and explaining the growing integration of the early modern world because of the intensification of trading relationships, historians have mostly overlooked this.6 Instead, they have focused on questions, such as how long-distance trade was organised, how merchants communicated and exchanged information, or created trust in an economy with weak institutions and limited access to information. To answer these questions historians have focused on the principal actors that carried out trade in the period, the networks these actors built around the globe, the institutions that governed business relationships, and the organisation of trading practices.7 Although the recent works of 6 Notable exceptions inspired by art history, include Pamela H. Smith and Paula Findlen, eds., Merchants & Marvels: Commerce, Science and Art in Early Modern Europe (New York: Routledge, 2002); Amanda Peck, ed., Interwoven Globe: The Worldwide Textile Trade, 1500–1800 (New York: Metropolitan Museum, 2014); and Sven Dupré, “Trading Luxury Glass, Picturing Collections and Consuming Objects of Knowledge in Early Seventeenth-Century Antwerp,” Intellectual History Review 20 (2010): 53–78. 7 On the actors, see David Hancock, Citizens of the World: London Merchants and the Integration of the British Atlantic Community, 1735–1785 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Klaus Weber, Deutsche Kaufleute im Atlantikhandel, 1680–1830: Unternehmen und Familien in Hamburg, Cádiz und Bordeaux (Munich: Beck, 2004); and Margrit Schulte-Beerbühl, Deutsche Kaufleute in London: Welthandel und Einbürgerung (1660–1818) (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2007). On the networks, see Mark Häberlein, Brüder, Freun­ de und Betrüger: Soziale Bindungen, Normen und Konflikte in der Augsburger Kaufmannschaft um die Mitte des 16. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Akademie, 1998); Andrea Caracausi and Christof Jeggle, eds., Commercial Networks and European Cities, 1400–1800 (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2014); Margrit Schulte Beerbühl and Jörg Vögele, eds., Spinning the Commercial Web: International Trade, Merchants, and Commercial Cities, c. 1640–1939 (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2004); Sanjay Subrahmanyam, Merchant Networks in the Early Modern World (Aldershot: Variorum, 1996); and Manuel Herrero Sánchez and Klemens Kaps, eds., Merchants and Trade Networks in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, 1550–1800: Connectors of Commercial Maritime Systems (New York: Routledge, 2017). On the institutions, see Sheilagh Ogilvie, Institutions and European Trade: Merchant Guilds, 1000–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Oscar Gelderblom, “The Governance of Early Modern Trade: The Case of Hans Thijis, 1556–1611,” Enterprise and Society 4 (2003): 606– 39; and Avner Greif, Institutions and the Path to the Modern Economy: Lessons from Medieval Trade (Cam-

248

Gabi Schopf

Maxine Berg, John Styles, Giorgio Riello, and others have shown that the objects shipped around the globe and their material properties are crucial to understanding global interconnections and economic developments, these traded objects have been surprisingly absent from traditional economic history.8 Textile samples, like the one at the start of this chapter, illustrate this absence of objects perfectly. All across Europe, tiny pieces of fabric were frequently described, examined, exchanged, collected, and organised in the form of sample books by merchants, producers, designers, and at times, even consumers. Consequently, they appear as textual descriptions, visual representations, and surviving objects in various sources connected to textile trade, production, and consumption. For example, they can be found in the portrait of a late seventeenth-century Dutch textile merchant, as an entry in Johann Heinrich Zedler’s Universal-Lexicon, or in the entry lists of a London orphanage.9 Despite their omnipresence in historical sources, samples rarely have been the focus of scholarly attention. Pattern books or other collections of samples have been analysed by historians of textiles and dress to trace the development of certain styles and innovations, as well as to assess specific production techniques or levels of consumption.10 With the exception of Carlo Poni, Lesley Miller, and John Smail, who established samples as a powerful marketing tool and discussed their influence on designing patterns and organizing production, economic historians have never addressed them as a research topic or used them as sources.11 bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). On the organisation of trading practices, see Mark Häberlein and Christof Jeggle, eds., Praktiken des Handels: Geschäfte und soziale Beziehungen europäischer Kaufleute in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit (Constance: UVK, 2010); Peter Coclanis, ed., The Atlantic Economy during the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries: Organization, Operation, Practice, and Personnel (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2005); and Francesca Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers: The Sephardic Diaspora, Livorno, and Cross-Cultural Trade in the Early Modern Period (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009).   8 Maxine Berg, “In Pursuit of Luxury: Global History and British Consumer Goods in the Eighteenth Century,” Past and Present 182 (2004): 85–142; John Styles, “Product Innovation in Early-Modern London,” Past and Present 168 (2000): 124–169; and Riello, Cotton.   9 On the portrait of the Dutch merchant, see Lesley Miller, Selling Silks: A Merchant’s Sample Book 1764 (London: V&A Publishing, 2014), 38; on Zedler, see Johann Heinrich Zedler, “Muster,” Grosses vollständi­ ges Universal-Lexicon aller Wissenschafften und Künste, https://www.zedler-lexikon.de/index.html?c=blaet­ tern&zedlerseite=ze220792&bandnummer=22&seitenzahl=0792&dateiformat=1&view=150&suppleme nt=0%27) Accessed 18 May 2018; and on the London orphanage, see Styles, Threads of Feeling. 10 See Miller, Selling Silks; Margret Ribbert, Stoffdruck in Basel um 1800: Das Stoffmusterbuch der Handelsfirma Christoph Burkardt & Comp (Basel: Baumann & Cie, 1996); John Styles, The Dress of the People: Everyday Fashion in Eighteenth-Century England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007); Susan Greene, Wearable Prints, 1760–1860: History, Materials, and Mechanics (Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 2014); and Chiara Buss, “Half-tints in Italy in 1628: An Unusual Book of Samples from the Milan State Archives,” in Inventories of Textiles – Textiles in Inventories Studies on Late Medieval and Early Modern Material Culture, ed. Thomas Ertl and Barbara Karl (Vienna: Vienna University Press, 2017), 165–200; Clare Browne, “Indiennes: Chinoiserie Silks Woven in Amsterdam,” in A Taste for the Exotic: Foreign Influences on Early Eigh­teenth-Century Silk Designs, ed. Anna Jolly (Riggisberg: Abegg-Stiftung, 2007), 127–38. 11 See Carlo Poni, “Fashion as Flexible Production: The Strategies of the Lyons Silk Merchants in the Eigh­ teenth Century,” in World of Possibilities. Flexibility and Mass Production in Western Industrialization, ed.

Selling through Samples?

249

The essay aims to fill that void by investigating the correspondence of Laué & Co., a late eighteenth-century cotton merchant and printer, comprised of a trading company in Frankfurt and a printing workshop in Wildegg.12 While not able to compete with the period’s leading companies in terms of production volume, Laué & Co. was nevertheless a successful medium-size textile producer in one of Europe’s leading regions of cotton production. This essay investigates the European cotton industry from a new perspective in two ways. First, unlike many existing studies, it probes one of the many medium-size produ­ cers instead of one of the very few exceptional pioneers.13 Second, it focuses on the Swiss cantons, a region that in the eighteenth century was home to a thriving cotton industry but is still mostly missing in the narratives of global cotton trade produced by English scholars.14 The correspondence of Laué & Co. is composed of letters from clients all over Europe, employers travelling on behalf of the company, and communication between Wildegg and Frankfurt. While pattern books do not survive, the letters frequently discussed samples that were exchanged, and sometimes, as with the example at the start of this chapter, include the objects. To analyse this mix of material and textual sources, the essay draws inspiration from material culture studies. The label material culture unites historians who expanded beyond traditional text-based historical enquiries and became more and more interested in study­ ing objects, ranging from leather and exotic feathers to porcelain dishes and rare coins.15 In recent years, scholars started to investigate things that were an integral part of people’s environments, actions, and everyday experiences. As such, these studies can help us to understand past (as well as present) societies better. While doing so, scholars asked how people interacted with things – how they shaped, used, and perceived their material environment. In researching the ‘social life of things’ scholars have also investigated how the

12 13

14 15

Charles F. Sabel and Jonathan Zeitlin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 37–74; Lesley Miller, “Innovation and Industrial Espionage in Eighteenth-Century France: An Investigation of the Selling of Silks through Samples,” Journal of Design History 12 (1999): 271–92; and Lesley Miller, “Representing Silk Design: Nicolas Joubert de l’Hiberderie and Le Dessinateur pour les étoffes d’or, d’argent et de soie (Paris, 1765),” Journal of Design History 17 (2004): 29–53; Lesley Miller, “Material Marketing”, 141–43; and Smail, Merchants, Markets and Manufacture. Heidi Neuenschwander, “Christian Friedrich Laué,” Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz (HLS), http://www. hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D29126.php. Accessed 18 May 2018. See for example, Caspard, La Fabrique-Neuve de Cortaillod; Stanley Chapman and Serge Chassagne, European Textile Printers in the Eighteenth Century: A study of Peel and Oberkampf (London: Heinemann Educational, 1981), 204; and Niklaus Stettler, Peter Haenger, and Robert Labhardt, Baumwolle, Sklaven und Kredite: Die Basler Welthandelsfirma Christoph Burckhardt & Cie. in revolutionärer Zeit (1789–1815) (Basel: Christoph Merian, 2004). See, Riello, Cotton; and Sven Beckert, Empire of Cotton: A Global History (New York: Knopf, 2014). For various examples see Anne Gerritsen and Giorgio Riello, eds., The Global Lives of Things: The Material Culture of Connections in the Early Modern World (London: Routledge, 2016).

250

Gabi Schopf

material properties of things shaped people’s actions.16 In short, they started writing ‘a history of things’ and thereby considerably reshaped amongst others historical narratives of consumption and global interconnections.17 The material culture approach also introduced historians to new kinds of, especially non-textual, sources, found outside of archives, for example in museums. In close cooperation with curators, historians learned more about the specific materiality of the objects they were studying and showed that surviving objects can reveal information not found in texts.18 But when assessing objects in museums, historians soon realised that objects and texts are not antagonists but have to be brought into conversation with each other to better understand the past. That insight came with a particular problem: it is often difficult to connect texts and objects because only one of the two survived.19 Textile samples glued to merchant letters, however, provide a unique opportunity where texts and objects survived together. As a result, they allow the historian to investigate the role(s) of objects (textile samples) in a field normally confined to written sources: communication between merchants.

2. Showing Samples and Selling Textiles In the textile industry visual and haptic qualities have always taken centre stage. The brightness of colours, the density of weaving, and the artistic execution of varying patterns are what determined a good’s value.20 These material qualities meant that actually displaying a textile was a crucial strategy in convincing potential clients. Over the course of the eighteenth century, samples that represented the actual product became a powerful marketing tool that helped merchants and producers increase sales and explore new markets. This was especially true for printed cottons. When Europeans first imported them in substantial numbers in the seventeenth century, it was the unprecedented brightness and 16 On the social life of things, see Arjun Appadurai, ed., The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986). 17 For a methodological overview, see Giorgio Riello, “Things that Shape History: Material Culture and Historical Narratives” in History and Material Culture: A Student’s Guide to Approaching Alternative Sources, ed. Karen Harvey (London: Routledge, 2009), 24–47; and on material culture and early modern history in the German-speaking world, see Kim Siebenhüner, “Things that Matter: Zur Geschichte der materiellen Kultur in der Frühneuzeitforschung,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 42 (2015): 373–409. For case studies, see Gerritsen and Riello, Global Lives of Things; and Paula Findlen, ed., Early Modern Things: Objects and their Histories, 1500–1800 (London: Routledge, 2013). 18 See Riello, “Things that Shape History,” 24–47; and Paula Findlen, “Early Modern Things: Setting Objects in Motion, 1500–1800,” in Early Modern Things: Objects and their Histories, 1500–1800, ed. Paula Findlen (London: Routledge, 2013), 3–28. 19 Leora Auslander, “Beyond Words,” The American Historical Review 110 (2005):1,015–1,045. 20 See Miller, “Material Marketing,” 85.

Selling through Samples?

251

variety of colours, the lightness of the fabric, and the quality of the execution that caught the interest of consumers. These material properties were a main reason printed cottons became one of the first global consumer goods. In addition, European merchants and consumers were enticed by the exotic novelties they had not seen before.21 In the late eighteenth century, when Laué & Co. conducted their business, printed cottons were no longer novel. For example, in the Swiss cantons people of all social orders regularly handled theses textiles as consumers, merchants, textile printers, weavers, spinners, or laundry women.22 But printed cottons were also integrated in a burgeoning fashion industry that was fuelled by ever quicker changing patterns and a demand for new colours, fabrics, and designs. So although printed cottons were an established fabric in the world of European textiles, novelty and material properties were still crucial sales points.23 As the letters of Laué & Co. show, it is impossible to fully convey these major sales arguments in a linguistic description. An order from 1799 made the following attempt: “Handkerchief size 6/4 palliacate with nice blue, fine quality cloth, well-woven, intense, bright, red, the handkerchiefs [is] nicely squared with lovely tasteful designs, different medium-sized checks and a style with only a little white and a nice border.”24 When comparing descriptions like this with an actual textile, it is obvious that no matter how detailed, a textual description will always lag behind. Even if described as ‘bright’ or ‘intense’ the text can never fully capture the visual effect of the colour red. This is even truer with regard to haptic qualities. In the realm of textiles, one can describe weaving techniques or indicate the density of a fabric by the thread count but no linguistic tool can convey the sensations one feels when touching the fabric. But by highlighting certain aspects, a text could still contribute to making a textile desirable.25 The requirement to show the actual textiles to convince potential clients is clearly visible in the distribution strategies of Laué & Co., who presented their products principally through samples. Employees of the company regularly travelled all over Europe to visit potential clients and commission orders. When preparing for one of those journeys in 1789, Guillaume Müller discussed with Laué his plan to “go back to Switzerland to pre21 See Riello, Cotton, 113–15. 22 See John Jordan’s contribution to this volume. 23 On fashion and the development of the European cotton industry see: Beverly Lemire and Giorgio Riello, “East and West: Textiles and Fashion in Early Modern Europe,” Journal of Social History 41 (2008): 887–916. 24 “Mouch. 6/4 Palliacate avec bleu belle, toile fine & bien Corsée beau Rouge vif eclatant et bien nourri, le Mouch. bien Carré dans de jolie desseins de Gout Carreaux moyens Differente et de Gout très peu de blanc belle et jolie Bordure.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 13, correspondence with Joseph Cassaing & Co. letter from 27 December 1799. 25 For a more detailed discussion of this issue, see John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Fictive Descriptions? Words, Textiles, and Inventories in Early Modern Switzerland,” in Inventories of Textiles – Textiles in Inventories Studies on Late Medieval and Early Modern Material Culture, ed. Thomas Ertl and Barbara Karl (Vienna: Vienna University Press, 2017), 219–38.

252

Gabi Schopf

pare my samples and leave again for Italy in the middle of August.”26 Preparing samples to show potential clients was a routine task for the company’s salesmen. In the archives of Laué & Co., unfortunately none of the samples prepared for the various journeys survive. But the description cartes d’Echantillons (sample card) that frequently appear in the correspondence, suggests that they were glued to several sheets of papers either carried around separately or bound together in small booklets, like the one used by a travelling salesman from the Basel company Burckhardt & Co (fig. 46).27

Fig. 46: Sample book from the company Burckhardt & Co, Basel, late eighteenth century. Historisches ­Museum Basel, Photograph: P. Emmel.

The Burckhardt booklet contains a small assortment of numbered samples presenting part of the company’s production, grouped together in different categories, and only sparsely annotated with available sizes, design numbers, and names for certain groups of printed textiles. Thus, the small booklets and sample cards were perfectly adjusted to the needs of a travelling sales agent. Thanks to their size, they could be easily carried over long distances from one client to the next and their flexibility enabled salesmen to adjust them to reflect changes in fashion or the particular needs of a given journey. In the case of Laué 26 “revenir de là en Suisse pour préparer mes Echantillon & partit de nouveau vers le milieu d’Août pour l’Italie” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 9, correspondence of Guillaume Müller, letter from 28 March 1789. 27 On cartes d’Echantillons, see StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 9, correspondence of Guillaume Müller, letter from 23 February 1789. On the sample books of the Company Burkhard & Co., see Ribbert, Stoffdruck in Basel, 26.

Selling through Samples?

253

& Co., samples sometimes were even rearranged during a journey to cater to the tastes of a specific region or demands of a specific client, or to add newly designed patterns to the salesmen’s supply. For example, on his journey through France in March 1784, Christian Friedrich Laué ordered some samples especially designed for a client in Lyon and in December 1788, Guillaume Müller received “some new designs for Ind[ienne] pattnas with samples” when he reached the Ticinese city of Lugano.28 When reporting on their activities, salesmen frequently described their efforts to convince potential clients by showing them their samples. For example on his journey to Italy in 1789, Auguste Berthoud reported, “[m]y solicitations had no other effect than to encourage the houses of this city to examine your samples, maybe because of the large number of traders living in this city, there might be someone that orders some trifle by courtesy.”29 As we have seen, the linguistic descriptions of the goods were long, not very enticing, and unable to fully grasp the visual and haptic qualities of a textile. In contrast, a card or booklet of samples that shows an array of colours and designs and allows the client to touch the fabric can more easily create desire. Although Berthoud was not successful in this particular case, what becomes clear is that he was well aware of the marketing potential of samples and used them consciously as part of his strategy to solicit clients. In doing so, he was no exception. Almost all the meetings between sales agents and clients documented in the correspondence of Laué & Co. included showing samples as part of the sales process. But the company did not rely solely on samples to market their products. It must be assumed that language – in this case the solicitations of the salesmen – was deemed equally important. While samples may have captured a potential client’s attention, it was incumbent on the sales agent to provide supplemental information, such as the price or the specific selling points of each pattern. This is also visible in the sample book of Burckhardt & Co. Having only a few annotations, it was not designed to stand alone. Without the explanations of the sales agents, crucial information, such as the price, is missing. It is the interaction of objects and verbal descriptions – sample and solicitation – that constitutes a successful marketing strategy. If the samples were missing, for example on the salesman Gündthart’s journey to Italy in 1801, this resulted in fewer

28 “[Q]uelques Nouveaux dessins pour Ind. Pattenas avec les Echantillons de ce que nous avons de cet article en Magazin.” For the journey of Guillaume Müller, see StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 9, correspondence of Guillaume Müller, letter from 10 December 1788; and for the journey of Laué, see StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 2, correspondence of C.F. Laué, letter from 9 March 1784. 29 “Mes sollicitationes ne produiront d’autres effete que ceux d’encourager les maisons de ct ville à examiner vos échantillons, put-être dans le nombre Si considerable de négoctiantet qui l’habitent s’en toubent-ilquelqu’unes que me commettront quelque bagatelles par Complaisance.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 1, correspondence of Berthoud, letter from 12 November 1789.

254

Gabi Schopf

orders. In that case the bosses in Wildegg regretted that their sales agent did not succeed in getting more commissions “due to the lack of new samples.”30 In using samples as a marketing tool, Laué & Co. adapted a sales technique that was already well established in the European textile trade. Identifying precisely when this practice became widespread is a bit tricky. Although, selling through samples in the beginning of the eighteenth century was less common, there were some notable examples who engaged in this practice, such as the Dutch woollen or the Lyonnais silk industries.31 As early as the 1730s, the practice was well known to the European public as it was described in 1739 in Zedler’s Universal-Lexicon. The article on samples (Muster) informs the reader that cloth and silk merchants compiled pattern books “from which a buyer can select a type or colour according to his preferences.”32 By the second half of the eighteenth century there were numerous manufacturers and merchants selling their products with the help of samples.33 Using samples had the additional advantage of enabling marketing through sending letters. Laué & Co. clearly took advantage of this. Several clients referred to samples they received from Laué & Co. or requested additional ones. One of them, Fitz Bonnier, asked Laué & Co. to stop sending samples of textiles he could not sell to his clients.34 Like many of their contemporaries, Laué & Co. were well aware of the marketing potential of sending samples to potential clients and actively used it to increase sales.35 When conveying a commission from one of the clients he visited in Amsterdam, Johann Christoph Rist advised the company that “it would be good to add to the delivery some samples of other qualities of cloth.”36 Used in combination with other techniques, sending samples via mail made selling textiles more flexible in two ways. First, merchants and manufacturers could adapt their sales efforts to the specific demands of their clients. Especially in long-term business rela30 “Es thut uns leid daß Sie wegen Mangel neuer Muster in Mailand nicht noch einige Bestellungen haben nehmen können.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 1, correspondence of Günthard, letter from 18 May 1801. 31 Smail, Merchants, Markets and Manufacture, 23–25; and Poni, “Fashion as Flexible Production,” 51–52. 32 “aus denen ein Käuffer nach seinem Belieben eine Sorte oder Farbe erwehlen kan” Johann Heinrich Zedler, “Muster,” Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexicon aller Wissenschafften und Künste, https://www.zedler-lexikon.de/index.html?c=blaettern&zedlerseite=ze220792&bandnummer=22&seitenzahl=0792&dateiformat=1&view=150&supplement=0%27) Accessed 18 May 2018. 33 Pfister, “Der Textilhandel der Familie Zellweger,” 37–38; Lisa Laurenti-Wyss, “Une creation sur mesure. Les indiennes de la Fabrique-Neuve de Cortaillod: creation, commerce et consummation au XVIIIe siècle,” in Sa majesté en Suisse: Neuchâtel et ses princes prussiens, ed. Elisabeth Crettaz-Stürzel and Chantal Lafontant Vallotton (Neuchatel: Editions Alphil, 2013), 26; Beverly Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite, 141; and Murr and Breil’s contribution to this volume. 34 StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 12, correspondence with Bonnier, letter from 29 December 1800. 35 See John Styles’ contribution to this volume. 36 “[I]l seroit bon de joindre a cet Envoy des Echantillions de Plusieurs autes qualites des toiles.” StAAg, NL.A0105, Mappe 3, correspondence of Rist, letter from 26 June 1782.

Selling through Samples?

255

tionships, they were able to adjust the assortments of samples to the requirements of each merchant. In the case of Laué & Co. not only did prior orders serve as a guideline for a client’s taste but merchants also requested specific types of samples. For example, after ordering some printed textiles in 1782, the company J. Clemen père & fils encouraged Laué & Co. to add a package of samples with all of their finest handkerchiefs to the delivery.37 That way sending samples via letter enabled a highly personalised and flexible marketing strategy. Second, while losing the advantage of personal solicitations, sending samples by mail enabled merchants to reach a wider range of potential clients. Other contemporary manners of sale, like visiting fairs and travelling salesmen, restricted marketing efforts to a certain region and a finite group of potential clients. By sending samples via mail, merchants could reach a much wider market, both quantitatively and geographically. But sending out samples could also be potentially dangerous. In a highly competitive industry where copyright protection of patterns was only slowly beginning to emerge, the stealing of designs was a constant threat to innovative manufacturers.38 With silk, a textile sample had all the information necessary to (re)produce a given pattern. To avoid the risk of copying, the Lyon silk weavers guild took drastic measures, including banning the distribution of samples in 1765.39 In contrast, neither Laué & Co. nor other Swiss cotton printers discussed this problem in the eighteenth century, although copying designs was an omnipresent phenomenon in this industry as well.40 One reason might be that Laué & Co. were not particularly innovative. Instead, they frequently tried to acquire samples to copy in their own workshops. In addition, risks were lower in cotton printing than in silk weaving, since a printed cotton sample did not contain all the information for a successful imitation. For example, a printer still had to figure out all the necessary chemicals and dyestuffs to achieve a certain colour. Despite the risk, samples became so crucial for making sales that producers like Laué & Co. simply took the risk: samples were too omnipresent in the textile trade to be avoided.

37 “Dans La ditte expédition vous mettres un paquet d’echantillons d’un Mouchoir de chaque sorte de vos plus fin mouchoir.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 13, correspondence with J Clemen père & fils, letter from 4 December 1782. 38 First attempts to protect patterns with patents can be found in Lyon 1712 and England in 1787, see Kim Siebenhüner, “Zwischen Imitation und Innovation: Die schweizerische Indienne-Industrie im 18. Jahrhundert,” Werkstatt Geschichte 74 (2017), 19–20. 39 Miller, “Innovation and Industrial Espionage,” 280–84; and Poni, “Fashion as Flexible Production,” 52–54. 40 Siebenhüner, “Zwischen Imitation und Innovation,” 20–21. See as well Ernest Menolfi’s contribution to this volume.

256

Gabi Schopf

3. Exchanging Samples: Conveying Information In addition to an effective marketing strategy, success in the textile trade required the exchange of diverse kinds of information, most of it directly concerning the goods traded. When merchant, client, and good were all present in the marketplace, this could easily be done through personal conversation and examination of the product in question. But when trading over long distances became increasingly important, reliable techniques to exchange information was indispensable. Samples were an integral part of that process. As already discussed, the object was crucial to conveying vital information. To acquire this information, the clients of Laué & Co. actively requested samples. For example, when writing in 1802 Jemot, a merchant from Angouleme, reminded Laué & Co., “I asked for your samples on paper. I see, [however,] that this means [additional] costs for you. Since this is inconvenient for you, send me as samples for handkerchiefs, just one piece for each design.”41 In this particular case, Jemot’s persistence illustrated how keen merchants were to examine samples before ordering. In her investigation of a local merchant in the Black Forest, who was similar to the many clients of Laué & Co.’s, Irmgard Schwanke showed the information that merchants obtained via sample was crucial to making an informed decision.42 Surviving samples from the eighteenth century are not uniform. Their size, material and organisation depended on the information they conveyed. Although only samples made of cloth survive, the letters of Laué & Co. indicate that they regularly used drawings on paper as well.43 Drawings were cheaper than textiles, could show a pattern in more detail, and as a result were often used when the pattern was the main information to convey. On the other hand, when a printer wanted to emphasize the array of colours possible, it was important to choose a sample made of cloth, since how the colours turned out depended on the material used. The same is true when the quality of the fabric was the crucial information.44

41 “Lorsque Je vous ait demendé Vos Echantillons Sur papier J’entendes Vous faire Coute des frais; Mais puisque Sella Vous Contrariers, Vous Menveres donc pour Echantillons de Mouchoir une piece Seulement des Chaque dessin.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 16, correspondence with Jemot, letter from 12 January 1802. 42 Schwanke, “die unangenehme Correspondenz,” 617–18. 43 For an example of samples on paper, see StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 16, correspondence with Jemot, letter from 12 January 1802. 44 See Ribbert, Stoffdruck in Basel.

Selling through Samples?

257

Fig. 47a and 47b: Different sizes of samples Laué & Co. recieved from their correspondents, end of the eigh­ teenth century. Left: StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 17, correspondence with De Laura, letter from 16 April 1808. Right: StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 3, correspondence with Jemot, letter from 12 January 1802. Photograph: author.

Further, depending on the textiles, the samples came in a great variety of different sizes (47a and 47b). The sample on the left of figure D measures only 1.2 by 2.1 centimetres, making it one of the smallest samples in the correspondence. Featuring a simple pattern of tiny flowers, this small piece of cloth sufficed to illustrate how the final textile looked like. The sample on the right of figure D, with a length of 13.5 centimetres and a width of 15 centimetres, is the largest surviving example. It represented a handkerchief pattern so complex that a quarter of the original was necessary to convey all the relevant information.45 The organisation of the samples in the correspondence of Laué & Co. indicates how they were used to manage information during the sales process. The picture shows several samples glued to a sheet of paper in a row with numbers and checklists next to each piece (fig. 48). Their arrangement indicates that this was not a sample card supplied by Laué & Co., but rather a collection put together by the client. The samples were part of an order sent in 1803 by Roger Heuste, a merchant from Chartres. He seems to have chosen some samples out of a larger assortment that he either received from Laué & Co. as a market45 As a general rule in terms of size, it is important that a sample had to include a full pattern repeat. See Miller, “Innovation and Industrial Espionage,” 274.

258

Gabi Schopf

ing tool or acquired elsewhere.46 By putting them together in the aforementioned list, he was able to communicate exactly what kind of textiles he wanted to order. While the samples indicated the colour, fabric, and design of the requested textiles, the numbers show the amount of pieces ordered. Conveying orders with the help of samples was common practice. While not all were as organised as Heuste’s, there are many other examples of clients doing this in the correspondence. One is the merchant De Lara who was based in a small Italian coastal town. In 1804, he ordered fifty pieces of Indienne in two Fig. 48: List of textil samples Roger Heuste o ­ rdered colours like the samples attached to the from Laué & Co in 1803. StAAg, NL.A-0105, commission.47 By communicating with Mappe 15, correspondence with Heuste, letter from the help of samples, Laué & Co. and their 17 April 1803. Photograph: author. clients used an established tool to transfer information in the eighteenth-century textile trade. For example, the transmission of information via samples was a crucial part of the global cotton trade in the early modern area. The various East India Companies sent drawings and cloth samples to India to communicate European demand to faraway producers.48 In the trade between New York and London, material lists, similar to the one Heuste compiled, were used to order printed cottons according to the taste of American consumers as early as 1726.49 After their arrival in Wildegg, the samples had additional functions to fulfil. For example, columns were added to the list Heuste sent, seemingly indicating that it was turned into a checklist during the process of production and packing. That way the list served as a simple tool to secure the correct execution of the commission in terms of patterns as well as quantity and quality of pieces. What is apparent is that the information carried by 46 StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 15, correspondence with Heuste, letter from 17 April 1803. 47 StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 17, correspondence with Laura, letter from 5 June 1804. 48 Riello, Cotton, 100; and John Styles, “Indian Cottons and European Fashion, 1400–1800,” in Global Design History, ed. Glenn Adamson, Giorgio Riello, and Sarah Teasley (London: Routledge, 2011), 42. 49 Riello, Cotton, 146. As Alexis Schwarzenbach’s contribution to this volume demonstrates, such a manner of ordering textiles continued well into the nineteenth century.

Selling through Samples?

259

samples was required in the production process as models for designers, block-makers, and printers to control the quality and accuracy in putting together the final order. The flexibility of these tiny patches of textiles that could easily be attached to and taken from a letter, rearranged and handed from one person to the other made them an ideal information carrier for the early modern textile industry. Although they are frequently mentioned in the correspondence of Laué & Co., the majority of the commissions did not include the sending of actual samples. Instead, the relevant information could be translated into design numbers and additional descriptions of the textile in question. For example, a Monsieur Dufrayer from Paris ordered “100 p[ieces] 7/4 Handkerchiefs with [a] background and border [of] double red on cloth number 40 D[esigns] 537, 570, [and] 571.”50 In cases like this, the interplay between text and object was crucial to convey the necessary information. Clients made their decisions for designs, fabrics, and colours with the help of samples. They also needed to see pattern cards or sample books to connect the number to an actual design. Auguste Berthoud described this part of the ordering process when he reported that one of the merchants he visited in Turin in 1789, “took note of your prices and numbers and promised to send you a commission if the cheaper articles he awaits from another house are not as good as yours.”51 In the late eighteenth century, a significant amount of Laué & Co.’s clients seemed not to have access to samples and instead used names to describe the patterns they ordered. By the early nineteenth century, this practice was less accepted.52 In 1832, the merchant Castell was reluctant to order from a producer that did not use design numbers, because according to him, it was not possible to accurately describe a pattern.53 When the orders placed by various clients around Europe reached the factory in Wildegg, the numbers once again had to be translated into patterns to be able to produce the requested textiles. Here, samples were once again a crucial tool. Translating design numbers back into patterns was one of the possible functions of big bound sample books, so many textile producers kept. By conveying crucial information, samples enabled mail ordering and were a key requirement for producing after orders. This helped to lower the distance between printer and client in two ways. First, these techniques bridged geographical distance by facilitating long-distance trade, and thus helped expand markets to make cottons a global commodity. Second, they increased the flexibility of production. Instead of making an edu50 “100 p 7/4 Mouchoirs a fond & bordure double rouge Sur toilles No 40 D. 537. 570. 571.” StAAg, NL.A0105, Mappe 14, correspondence with DuFrayer, letter from 12 November 1796. 51 “A pris notte de vos prix & Numéros, & m’a promis de vous envoyer sa Commission si les articles qu’il attend d’une autre maison à meilleur marché ne sont pas aussi fins que les votre.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 1, correspondence of Berthoud, letter from 12 November 1789. 52 StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 13, correspondence with Mathias Charolois, letter from 30 May 1796. 53 Schwanke, “die unangenehme Correspondenz,” 617.

260

Gabi Schopf

cated guess based on their experiences, printers produced according to the specific wishes of their clients.54 Beyond the process of ordering textiles, samples also conveyed valuable information for the development of new patterns. The samples clients sent with their commissions helped Laué & Co. to assess the demand for their products. But Laué & Co. did not just rely on information that reached them as a by-product of their sales activities, they also actively acquired it. For example on a journey to Amsterdam, Johann Christoph Rist tried to buy samples with new patterns, writing, “I already tried to obtain samples and drawings of handkerchiefs in various tastes.”55 In a fast-changing, fashion-sensitive industry like textile printing, finding novelties and monitoring demand was crucial for success. To do so, printers collected every sample they could get their hands on.56 These collections enabled a type of client-oriented product innovation that John Styles described as a key factor for the success of eighteenth-century consumer goods.57 The clients of Laué & Co. delivered also information for the development of new patterns. They commented on the samples they received from and sent to the company, exchanging detailed ideas about how a pattern was supposed to look like to make it more appealing to consumers in their regions. For example, the clients would criticise that a colour was not vivid enough or emphasised that a certain pattern was not in demand.58 In another example, when the merchant Jemot from Angloueme requested a multitude of different patterns from Laué & Co., he added, “[w]hen I order palliacates with white background[s], I think I have to forward you two quarters from handkerchiefs so you can judge better yourself. They derive from a number of samples that I do not want any more. This concerns the patterns as well as the cloth.”59 At times, such conversations could also result in a very close cooperation between merchant and producer to improve the company’s products. For example, Guillaume Danssé from Geneva regularly sent white cottons to Wildegg to get them printed. Over the course of more than three years, they formed a business relationship that included extensive communication about the development of new patterns. Laué & Co. sent trial runs of their 54 See John Styles’ contribution to this volume. 55 “J’ai deja tenté a nous procurer les Echant. et desseins tant des differents Gouts des Mouch.” StAAg, NL.A0105, Mappe 3, correspondence of Rist, letter from 26 June 1782. 56 Many of the pattern books that survive in textile collections or museums are the results of these efforts. On textile printers collecting patterns, see Miller, “Innovation and Industrial Espionage,” 275–76. 57 Styles, “Product Innovation.” 58 StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 12, correspondence with Bonnier, letter from 29 December 1800. 59 “Lorsque je vous Dezigne Les palliacat fond Blanc Je Croit devoir Vous transmettre deux corniers de Mouchoir pour que Vous puissier Mieux En juges, ils sont du Nombre des dessin que je ne Veux pas non plus que la toille.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 16, correspondence with Jemot, letter from 12 January 1802.

Selling through Samples?

261

new pattern to Geneva and received detailed feedback to further develop their products. In one instance, Danssé wrote them, “[i]n general, I am pleased to tell you, that we are satisfied with your trial run of the prints. [But] the green d’illuminage is poor and has to be changed. [It] adapts better to the bleach which results in a more vivid red.”60 Further, Danssé was involved in market research, writing “[i]t is probably in your interest as well as mine to let your colours be judged by our Italian travelling houses, one of which will leave on Sunday and [to] whom I promised samples of an article I think you would like to establish there.”61 All the examples show that the cooperation with Laué & Co. heavily depended on samples to exchange the information relevant to creating a new pattern. Conversations like these also took place in the silk industry when Lyonnais silk manufacturers sent their designers to Paris to discuss the patterns of a new season with the leading trading houses. These examples indicate that developing successful designs was not the work of an individual artist but rather an intense conversation between merchants, entrepreneurs, and designers.62 Samples as objects of information played a key role in all of these conversations. They were small and flexible enough to send to various places over long distances and they visualised design, colour, and quality of textiles that otherwise could not have been communicated. This was not only about bridging geographical distance: without samples, crucial information would also be lost when the actors met in person. That way samples enabled producers and merchants to serve the increasingly diverse and demanding markets for textiles that emerged in the early modern era.63

4. Examining Samples and Creating Trust Beyond conveying practical information textile samples also helped to establish trust between the various actors involved in the distribution and production of printed cottons. While long-distance trade in general was a risky business, textile merchants, especially eighteenth-century cotton merchants, had to deal with a very specific challenge: matching the high quality of Indian imports, both the fineness of the cloth as well as the brightness of the colours. As a consequence, ensuring sufficient quality of their products 60 “En géneral je me fais plaisir de vous dire que l’on a été content de votre éssay d’impon : il faudra changer le verd d’illuminage qui est mauvais, S’attacher a mieux blachis et donner un rouge un peu plus de vivacité.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 13, correspondence with Guillaume Dansse, letter from 18 September 1792. 61 “[I]l auroit peutetre convenu a vos intéréts autant qu’aux miens de faire juger de vos couleurs a nos maisons voyageuses en Italie, dont l’une part Dimanch et a qui jay promis des échons d’un article dont vous m’aves paru désirer l’établissement.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 13, correspondence with Guillaume Dansse, letter from 18 September 1792. 62 Poni, “Fashion as Flexible Production,” 63–66. 63 See John Styles’ contribution to this volume.

262

Gabi Schopf

was crucial for European merchants who traded printed cottons as failing to do so risked losing the client’s trust.64 Even after one century of Europeans learning and improving Indian techniques of printing and colouring textiles, the lack of quality was still one of the main sources of complaint that salesmen like Johann Christof Rist had to deal with in the 1780s when visiting clients. For example, when visiting a Madam Janssens in Antwerp in 1782, he reported, “[s] he still has a lot of our [unsold] handkerchiefs and [moreover, she] made me look at our last delivery that is still packed, complaining [that] the violets are too pale.”65 Seemingly, the textile market catered to by merchants like Janssens was sensitive to a lack of quality. Such products resulted in low sales and (potentially) serious financial loss. Producing after orders and selling over long distances turned this struggle for quality into an issue of trust. When ordering textiles, instead of buying them after personally examining them in the market square, the client had to trust the manufacturer to deliver the expected quality. In this context, samples were one way to establish trust. By sending samples of their production, companies could prove that they were able to meet certain standards. This is best illustrated by the way the merchant Jemot proceeded when ordering textiles from Laué & Co. On 12 January 1802, he sent a letter to Wildegg requesting one handkerchief of each of the designs Laué & Co. offered as samples.66 When he further specified this general order, it becomes apparent that he knew the products of Laué & Co. quite well. He was able to give instructions on sizes and cloth used and even excluded certain design numbers he was not interested in. When Jemot wrote this letter, he already had all the relevant information to place very specific orders but he still asked for samples. The aim was most likely to check the quality of colours, patterns, and fabrics. In doing so, he was not alone among Laué & Co.’s clients. The merchant Guillaume Dansse, who sent his white cottons to Wildegg for printing, specifically requested samples, “to judge if for this price, the quality is fine enough.”67 Samples served as material proof of a printer’s abilities. For example, the merchant house Zellweger from Herisau contracted printing from various workshops in the region. While smaller, less well-known manufacturers had to send samples before Zellweger would hire them, larger and more prominent companies did not. In other words, samples 64 See Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil’s contribution to this volume as well as Siebenhüner, “Zwi­ schen Imitation und Innovation,” 23–26. 65 “Elle tient encore beaucoupe nos Mouch. et ma fait voir entre autre nos derniers Envoys encore en balle, ou elle se plaint des Lilas, qui sont trop pale.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 3, correspondence with Jemot, letter from 30 July 1782. 66 “Vous Menveres donc pour Echantillons de Mouchoir une piece Seulement des Chaque dessin.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 16, correspondence with Jemot, letter from 12 January 1802. 67 “[J]uger Si a ce prix la qualité Sera asses fine.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 13, correspondence with Guillaume Dansse, letter from 13 February 1789.

Selling through Samples?

263

were how smaller or newer companies proved to Zellweger that they could be trusted to produce quality.68 This system of quality control is also described in Zedler’s Universal-­ Lexicon. Here samples are defined as a piece “taken or cut from a dry or liquid good [so that a potential customer] can discern its quality.”69 While samples helped to reduce the risk of receiving poor quality, they did not offer absolute safety. For example, in Zedler’s Universal-Lexicon, the author warns, “one should not trust the sample with every good, because it is normally chosen from the best part and the complete good can be of lesser quality.”70 Such criticisms are also found in the correspondence of Laué & Co. In one case from 1802, the merchants Bridant fréres from Besançon complained that “the textiles in general are not worth the same as the samples.”71 Eleven years earlier, Conrad Müller also referred to samples he had seen before ordering, when he made clear that he could not imagine that he had seen such bad drawings among Laué & Co.’s designs.72 On one hand, these cases show that samples at times failed to guarantee quality. But on the other hand, even when they did not succeed in ensuring quality, they were still an important point of reference for complaining when the order was delivered. Used as an argumentative strategy, samples could still secure a client a discount or enable them to return the goods and save them from financial loss.73 By the late eighteenth century, samples were clearly integrated into a wider set of tools for quality control that developed during the early modern era. Already since the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, trademarks and labels controlled by guilds and town

68 Walter Bodmer, Textilgewerbe und Textilhandel in Appenzell-Ausserrhoden vor 1800 (Trogen: Meili, 1960), 50–51. The technique of using samples as a tool to control quality was also common in the trade in dyestuffs in Prussia and in the coral trade between Livorno and India. See Jutta Wimmler’s contribution to this volume; and Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers, 231–32. 69 “was von einer trockenen oder flüßigen Waare abgeschnitten und abgenommen wird, damit derjenige, so solche zu kauffen Lust hat, ihre Qualität daraus erkennen möge.” Johann Heinrich Zedler, “Muster,” Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexicon aller Wissenschafften und Künste, https://www.zedler-lexikon.de/index. html­?c=blaettern&zedlerseite=ze220792&bandnummer=22&seitenzahl=0792&dateiformat=1&view=15 0&supplement=0%27) Accessed 18 May 2018. 70 “In jeder Waare ist nicht allezeit dem Muster zu trauen, weil selbiges gemeiniglich von dem besten auserlesen, und das gantze übrige Stück darum gleichwohl schlechter fallen kann”. Johann Heinrich Zedler, “Muster,” Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexicon aller Wissenschafften und Künste, https://www.zedler-lexikon.de/index.html?c=blaettern&zedlerseite=ze220792&bandnummer=22&seitenzahl=0792&dateiformat=1&view=150&supplement=0%27) Accessed 18 May. 71 “[L]es toilles en Général ne Valent pas celles aux Echantillans que Vous nous fites Voir.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 13, correspondence with Bridant fréres, letter from 17 February 1806. 72 “[k]ann mir zum wenigsten nicht vorstellen, unter ihren Desseins mit einer So geringen als schlechten Zeichnung, gesehen zu haben.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 13, correspondence with Conrad Müller, letter from 3 February 1781. 73 As Karl Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil demonstrate, such complaints often required many rounds of negotiation to resolve. See their contribution to this volume.

264

Gabi Schopf

councils guaranteed a minimum quality of the textile sold.74 Over the course, of the early modern period, increasingly dense merchant networks that provided information and recommendations furthered this aspect of quality control.75 When producing after orders became widespread in the seventeenth and eighteenth century, trial orders were an additional possibility to establish quality and create trust.76 Together with samples, these practices formed a system of quality control that helped to establish trust in long-distance trade, outside of fairs and market squares and, therefore, assisted in the development of permanent markets. Samples also helped to establish trust in a more general way. Taking part in long-distance trade in the early modern era meant dealing with ever more distant business partners, complicated credit relations, long periods between delivery and payment, and a lack of information. In this environment, trust between business partners was crucial to enable long-distance trade. Economic historians have mainly focused on networks built by families or diaspora groups, like Armenians, Jews, or Huguenots as well as the establishment of legal institutions to explain how trade worked in the early modern world.77 Recently, Francesca Trivellato moved beyond trade between members of the same family or diaspora group and analysed trading relations that crossed these boundaries. In explaining the creation of trust in cross-cultural trade, Trivellato argued that in the seventeenth century, a certain etiquette of letter writing was established among merchants. By following these standards, merchants could present themselves as reliable business partners.78 The same was true with the creation of samples that followed its own set of rules. Composed as a universal collection of the knowledge of its time, Zedler’s Universal-­Lexicon serves as a source for already established norms but also reinforces the published stand74 Christof Jeggle, “Labelling with Numbers? Weavers, Merchants and the Valuation of Linen in Seventeenth-Century Münster,” in Concepts of Value in European Material Culture, 1500–1900, ed. Bert DeMunk and Lyna Dries (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015), 33–55. 75 Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers, 217–18. 76 Bodmer, Textilgewerbe und Textilhandel, 49–50. 77 On institurions and trust, see Stefan Gorißen, “Der Preis des Vertrauens: Unsicherheit, Institutionen und Rationalität im vorindustriellen Fernhandel,” in Vertrauen: Historische Annäherungen, ed. Ute Frevert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 90–118. On the development and use of legal institutions more generally see Lauren Benton and Richard J. Ross, Legal Pluralism and Empires, 1500–1850 (New York: New York Univ. Press, 2013). On families and kin, see Marta V. Vicente, Clothing the Spanish Empire: Families and the Calico Trade in the Early Modern Atlantic World (New York: Palgrave Macmillian, 2006); and Jan Willem Veluwenkamp, “Kaufmännisches Verhalten und Familiennetzwerke im niederländischen Russlandhandel (1590–1750),” in: Praktiken des Handels: Geschäfte und soziale Beziehungen europäischer Kaufleute in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit, ed. Mark Häberlein and Christof Jeggle (Constance: UVK, 2010), 379–405; and Murr and Breil’s contribution to this volume. On diaspora groups, see Philip D. Curtin, Cross-Cultural Trade in World History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); and J. F. Bosher, “Huguenot Merchants and the Protestant International in the Seventeenth Century,” The William and Mary Quarterly 52 (1995): 77–102. 78 See Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers.

Selling through Samples?

265

ards. Half of the entry on samples is devoted to explaining how to correctly put together a sample book. For example, one had to “start with the strongest colour” and sort them “so that they get ever lighter or whiter.”79 Further, one had to be careful not to mix “taffeta with satin or damask with velvet […] but to glue every type […] on one page.” The individual samples themselves also had to fulfil certain requirements such as showing a full pattern repeat.80 These standards were generally known among textile merchants. For instance, the clients of Laué & Co. referred to them when requesting samples that were cut “as is customary.”81 By meeting these standards merchants and producers demonstrated their expertise in evaluating and handling textiles and showed that they were well acquainted with the norms and requirements of their trade. At the same time, not following these standards caused irritation among the business partners of Laué & Co. For example, the merchant Stanislaus De Laura from Porto Maurizio in Liguria complained, “that one cannot clearly distinguish the quality of the textiles” from the samples Laué & Co. sent.82 Continuing the letter, he made clear that insufficient samples could endanger the sale: “But I need to see and choose the samples, because when they are not pleasing, I cannot sell them.”83 In the same way, the agent August Berthoud tried to justify an unsuccessful journey to Italy in 1790: “I hardly ever could show your samples because they were in such bad condition [… that when I did show them,] I received criticism.”84 This indicates that in the textile trade, showing samples that met certain standards was an integral part of an established merchant etiquette and that following theses norms was crucial to a merchant’s success. Like letters, samples served as

79 “[D]ie Couleuren von der höchsten anfangen […] und sich nach und nach verringern oder Weißlicher werden.”. Johann Heinrich Zedler, “Muster,” Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexicon aller Wissenschafften und Künste, https://www.zedler-lexikon.de/index.html?c=blaettern&zedlerseite=ze220792&bandnummer=22&seitenzahl=0792&dateiformat=1&view=150&supplement=0%27) Accessed 18 May. 80 “[N]icht Taffent mit Atlas, Damast mit Sammet […] und dergleichen vermenge, sondern jede Sorte in dem verfertigten Muster=Buche auf ein Blat klebe.” Johann Heinrich Zedler, “Muster,” Grosses vollständiges Universal-Lexicon aller Wissenschafften und Künste, https://www.zedler-lexikon.de/index.html?c=blaettern&zedlerseite=ze220792&bandnummer=22&seitenzahl=0792&dateiformat=1&view=150&supplement=0%27) Accessed 18 May. 81 “[P]our Les indienne vous vous Borneres a Couper Des petits Echantillons a La p. comme il Est dusage.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 16, correspondence with Jemot, letter from 12 January 1802. 82 “Capisco io pure che dalle mostre non si puo perfettamente distinguere la qualita della.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 17, correspondence with Laura, letter from 5 June 1804. 83 “Cela mi ferrono pero p vedere i disegni e farne scelta p che se non incontrano iono invendibili.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 13, correspondence with Guillaume Dansse, letter from 18 September 1792. 84 “Je n’ai presque pas fait voir vos echantillons dans l’état Vénitien, ils sont si mal en ordre, […] d’ailleur, L nos amis m’on fait des reproches.” StAAg, NL.A-0105, Mappe 1, correspondence of Berthoud, letter from 20 December 1790.

266

Gabi Schopf

material representatives of the company and could mark it as a producer of good or poor quality textiles and as a reliable or an unreliable business partner.85

Conclusion This chapter has shown that samples are indispensable when textiles and their material properties are discussed. As a consequence, we encounter them in abundance when merchants and producers sell or buy cloth. In their letters samples have three main purposes. First, by showing the visual and haptic features of textiles, samples can prompt the desire to buy a specific cloth. In the end of the eighteenth century merchants were well aware of their capability to convince potential clients and consciously used them as a marketing tool. Due to their small size, light weight, and flexibility, the introduction of samples enabled the producers of textiles to reach a geographically broader market und adjust their sales efforts better to the individual requirements of their clients. Second, samples carried information, like design and colour that was inextricably linked to the object. This feature made them an integral part of ordering textiles and discussing designs. The information they carried facilitated communication between merchants and clients especially over long distances and enabled producers to serve an increasingly diverse fashion-oriented market. Third, samples showed the quality of a finished product and using them had to follow certain rules and conventions. Exchanging them was one of the many ways to build trust between merchants and their clients. They were part of a larger system of quality control, that reduced the risk of receiving inferior textiles and suffer financial loss. By using samples correctly, a merchant showed that he was aware of the established etiquette that governed early modern trade. That way he was able to present himself as a reliable business partner – a prerogative for a business deal to be made. Economic historians have come to think of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century as a period of significant change which some have named the second commercial revolution.86 In doing so, they identified a series of new trading practices that enabled the establishment of a permanent market. By creating trust, enabling communication, and permanent marketing, the use of textile samples was a crucial contributor to these changing patterns of trade.

85 On merchant etiquette, see Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers; and Sheryllynne Haggerty, The British-­ Atlantic Trading Community, 1760–1810: Men, Women, and the Distribution of Goods (Leiden: Brill, 2006). 86 Pfister, “Der Textilhandel der Familie Zellweger.”

Swiss Silks for New York: Diaries and Pattern Books of the Zurich Silk Industry, 1847–1861 Alexis Schwarzenbach

Among the host of natural fibres available to the production of textiles, silk has always been the most expensive and prestigious. And as a prime luxury good, it has been globally mobile since Antiquity.1 Consumption, distribution, and global interaction are thus key areas of inquiry for any historical study focusing on silk, in this case silk textiles produced in the Swiss canton of Zurich from 1800 onwards.2 Therefore while this article focuses on a later period than most contributions to this volume, its research questions are very similar: how did nineteenth-century Zurich manufacturers know about the taste and predilections of their customers in faraway places such as London, New York, or St. Petersburg? How did products and information travel to and from these markets and how are we to interpret material sources such as pattern books – strikingly beautiful but often frustratingly devoid of information historians are able to decipher?3 1 Sericulture was practiced in Byzantium since Late Antiquity, see Mary Schoeser, Silk (New Haven: Yale University Press 2007), 27. Chinese silks found their way into Ancient Greek tombs, and their Byzantine/ Sassanid cousins ended up in Japanese shrines. For example on Chinese bombyx mori silk in Ancient Greece, see Schoeser, Silk, 22; on Byzantine/Sassanid silks in eighth-century Japan, see Kaneo Matsumoto, Shōsōin Textiles (Kyoto: Kyoto Shoin 1993), 94. For other early examples of Byzantine silks being traded from West to East, see Anna Ierusalimskaja, Die Gräber der Moščevaja Balka: frühmittelalterliche Funde an der nordkaukasischen Seidenstrasse (Munich: Maris, 1996), especially 251–52. My thanks to Birgitt Borkopp-­Restle for this reference. On silk as a luxury good produced and traded in medieval Europe, see Peter McNeil and Giorgio Riello, Luxury: A Rich History (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2016), 51–52. 2 This article is part of a larger research project at Lucerne University on the history of the Zurich silk industry since 1800. See https://www.hslu.ch/en/lucerne-university-of-applied-sciences-and-arts/research/ projects/detail/?pid=124. Accessed 2 May 2017. For their valuable comments, I would like to thank my Lucerne colleagues Monika Burri, Denise Ruisinger, and Roman Wild. Denise Ruisinger additionally made a survey of all entries and trademarks in the Baumann-Zürrer pattern books that have been digitalized by Textilpiazza (textilpiazza.ch) in Liestal. A selection will go online at our Silk Memory webiste: www.silkmemory.ch. Further thanks go to Tina Moor and Marion Becella for introducing us to the art of weaving at Lucerne University of Applied Sciences and Arts’s textile workshop, impeccably led by Karin Müller La Belle and Julia Kolb. 3 On the challenge of pattern books as sources, see Dorothee Haffner and Katharina Hornscheidt, eds., Stoffmuster im Fokus: Renaissance und Rezeption (Berlin: Netzwerk Mode Textile, 2015); and Philip Sykas, The Secret Life of Textiles: Six Pattern Book Archives in North West England (Bolton: Bolton Museum, Art Gallery, and Aquarium, 2005). For summary accounts on the Zurich silk industry in the nineteenth century, see Walter Bodmer, Die Entwicklung der schweizerischen Textilwirtschaft im Rahmen der übrigen Industrien und Wirtschaftszweige (Zurich: Berichthaus, 1960), 304–24, 338–78; Michael Bernegger, “Die Zürcher Seidenindustrie von der Industrialisierung bis zur Gegenwart,” in Seide: Zur Geschichte eines edlen Gewebes,

268

Alexis Schwarzenbach

As Zurich silks are less well known than their cousins produced in other European silk centres such as Lyon, Krefeld, or Como, some background information may be necessary for context.4 In the Middle Ages, together with Paris, Cologne, and Regensburg, Zurich was one of the only cities north of the Alps processing silk.5 The raw material came from Italy and except for a brief interruption at the end of the fifteenth century, silk was a key product of Zurich. While at the beginning of the seventeenth century, manufacturers mainly produced yarn made from silk waste (Schappe), until the end of the eighteenth century an ever greater variety of silk textiles began to be woven in and exported from Zurich. Production took place in an increasingly efficient proto-industrial setting whereby manufacturers based in the city financed and organised spinning and weaving in the countryside.6 In contrast to the other Swiss silk centres in Basel and Appenzell, which either wove silk ribbon or silk bolting cloth (Seidenbeuteltuch), the Zurich cottage industry concentrated on the production of broad dress silks destined for clothes.7 Until the beginning of the nineteenth century, the German states were the main market for Zurich silks.8 In the 1830s, however, the creation of the German Customs Union (Zollverein) made it more difficult to export to the north. Luckily for the Swiss, simultaneously the United States of America lowered import tariffs, thus opening up a large

4

5

6 7

8

ed. Barbara E. Messerli (Zurich: Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 1985), 96–110; and Francois de Capitani, “Von Höhen und Tiefen. Die Zürcher Seidenindustrie im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert,” in Seide: Stoff für Zürcher Geschichte und Geschichten, ed. Zürcher Kantonalbank (Zurich: Zürcher Kantonalbank, 1999), 40–47. The British silk centre of Spitalfields is not referred to in this article because it went into sharp decline after 1850. On Spitalfields in the nineteenth century, see Natalie Rothenstein, “Silk: The industrial revolution and after,” in The Cambridge History of Western Textiles, ed. David Jenkins, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 2:790–808. On the medieval origins of the Zurich silk industry, see Adolf Bürkli-Meyer, Geschichte der Zürcherischen Seidenindustrie vom Schlusse des XIII. Jahrhunderts an bis in die neuere Zeit (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1884); and Bodmer, Die Entwicklung, 38–42. For an overview of all European silk industries, see Simonetta Cavaciocchi, ed., La seta in Europa sec XIII–XX (Florence: Armando Paoletti, 1993). For a comparison of the early modern Zurich silk industry with other contemporary Swiss textile industries, see Bodmer, Die Entwicklung, 93–177. On proto-industry in Zurich, see Ulrich Pfister, Die Zürcher Fabriques: protoindustrielles Wachstum vom 16. zum 18. Jahrhundert (Zurich: Chronos, 1992). On the Basel silk industry, see Fritz Grieder, Glanz und Niedergang der Baselbieter Heimposamenterei im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert: ein Beitrag zur wirtschaftlichen, sozialen, kulturellen und politischen Geschichte von Baselland (Liestal: Kantonale Schul- und Büromaterialverwaltung, 1985); Irene Amstutz and Sabine Strebel, Seiden Bande: Die Familie De Bary und die Basler Seidenbandproduktion von 1600 bis 2000 (Baden: hier & jetzt, 2002); Therese Schaltenbrand, Modeband: Seidenbänder aus Basel (Basel: Merian, 2004); on Appenzell see, Albert Tanner, Spulen, Weben, Sticken: die Industrialisierung in Appenzell Ausserrhoden (Zurich: Selbstverlag, 1982), 52–54. All Swiss luxury industries (silk, watches) were export-oriented at this time. On the watch industry, see Pierre-Yves Donzé, Histoire de l’industrie horlogère suisse: de Jacques David à Nicolas Hayek, 1850–2000 (Neuchatel: Alphil, 2009), 13–100.

Swiss Silks for New York

269

and expanding market.9 Combined with new political and economic rights acquired by the rural Zurich bourgeoisie after 1830, this lead to a veritable silk boom concentrated in the southern part of the canton and its silk centre, Horgen.10 Transatlantic economic ties became so important for this small village on the western shore of Lake Zurich that in 1878 an American consulate opened there, not in the canton’s capital ten miles up the lake.11 It also has to be noted that in contrast to cotton, the other fibre widely processed in nineteenth-century Zurich, the mechanisation of silk weaving was slow.12 For most of the nineteenth century, the silk industry continued to be a cottage industry operating on a putting-out system. This meant that silks were woven on handlooms by independent weavers working in their own homes. In addition, however, there was a host of other people and professions involved – from spinners and dyers to those transporting silk to and from often very remote farmhouses, the so-called Fergger.13 While it would go far beyond the scope of this article to introduce all silk professionals, it is necessary to highlight the role of the manufacturers, the so-called Fabrikanten.14 They not only provided the capital necessary to import raw silk and to provide weavers with yarn to weave cloth, they also decided on colours and patterns and took care of exporting the finished products.15 Confusingly, the Zurich textile industries were called fabriques despite the fact that with silk, large-scale, purpose-built factories replaced a very decentralised cottage industry only towards the

 9 Bodmer, Die Entwicklung, 304–8. For contemporary complaints about tariffs to the United Kingdom, see John Bowring, Report on the Commerce and Manufactures of Switzerland (London: W. Clowes & Sons, 1836). The canton of Zurich was not the only area of Switzerland to export textiles to America at this time: Eastern Switzerland was another centre of export. See Eric Häusler’s contribution to this volume. 10 On Zurich in the nineteenth century, see Niklaus Flüeler and Marianne Flüeler-Grauwiler, eds., Geschichte des Kantons Zürich, 3 vols. (Zurich: Werd, 1997), especially 3:44–52, 3:118–162; on nineteenth-century Horgen, see Paul Kläui, Geschichte der Gemeinde Horgen (Horgen: Chronikkommission Horgen, 1952), 526–36. 11 Kläui, Geschichte der Gemeinde Horgen, 529. 12 On the mechanisation of the cotton industry, see Peter Dudzik, Innovation und Investition: Technische Entwicklung und Unternehmerentscheide in der schweizerischen Baumwollspinnerei 1800 bis 1916 (Zurich: Chronos, 1987). 13 In silk spinning, mechanisation came earlier that in weaving, for details see Bodmer, Die Entwicklung, 350– 51. For contemporary terminologies and job descriptions, see Heinrich Dolder, Die Fabrikation von Seidenstoffen im Kanton Zürich: mit Abbildungen, Rissen, Formularen, Mustern und Tabellen (Zurich: Schulthess, 1851). 14 On nineteenth-century Zurich silk manufacturers as a social group, see Regula Schwarzenbach, “Das Heiratsverhalten der Horgener Unternehmer im 19. Jahrhundert” (lic. phil., University of Zurich, 1977); and Therese Bernegger, “Seidenindustrielle auf der Zürcher Landschaft von 1830 bis 1930: Zum Wandel von Unternehmerpositionen und –funktionen” (lic. phil., University of Zurich, 1988). 15 For further details, see Dolder, Die Fabrikation.

270

Alexis Schwarzenbach

end of the nineteenth century.16 While the first important mechanical silk mill was built in 1862, it was to take another generation for mechanisation to take command.17

1. Sources and Methodology Two sets of sources stand at the centre of this article, namely material and written ones. The former consist of four pattern books with silks dated from 1847 to 1875, which are today part of a small collection of pattern books owned by the Lucerne University of Applied Sciences and Arts.18 The first two are labelled livre d’assortiment, the second two livre de dessin. Together they encompass over 1,300 pages containing at least 30,000 silk samples.19 While their provenance, especially regarding the last decades of the twentieth century, is still being researched, an inscription in all four volumes states that in 1878 a federal councillor named Caspar Baumann-Zürrer donated them to the Zurich Silk Association, the trade association of the Zurich silk industry founded in 1854.20 Baumann-Zürrer (1830–96) was the son of a wealthy farmer and local politician from Stäfa on the eastern shore of Lake Zurich and was married to the daughter of a successful silk manufacturer, Jakob Zürrer from Hausen am Albis. He was an important actor of the Zurich silk industry and more broadly in Switzerland: he served on the board of key commercial associations (both on a cantonal and on a national level), was elected to the federal parliament in 1878, and was special commissioner for Switzerland’s participation in the world fairs of Vienna (1873) and Paris (1878).21 The most important written source consulted for this article is a diary written by Emil Streuli (1839–1915). He was the son of a silk entrepreneur from Horgen, Hans Caspar 16 On the early modern origins of the terminology see Pfister, Die Zürcher Fabriques. 17 On the slow beginnings of machine weaving form the 1850s onwards, see Bodmer, Die Entwicklung, 359– 360. On the Mechanische Seidenweberei Adliswil founded in 1862, see André Stöckli, Mech. Seidenstoffweberei Adliswil 1862–1935: Chronologie der MSA 1862–2012 (Adliswil: MSA, 2012). 18 Hereafter Lucerne University. 19 These estimates are based on the 3,030 individual entries of textile groups with an average of ten samples. 20 The Lucerne collection of pattern books is currently being inventoried. For the purpose of this article, the Baumann-Zürrer pattern books are referenced as follows: Musterbuch Baumann-Zürrer A, “Livre d’assortiment I,” [1846] – 28. May 1856, HSLU Library Barcode: ILUM 23 042 121, hereafter Mb BZ A, Ld’a I; Musterbuch Baumann-Zürrer B, “Livre d’assortiment II,” 5 May 1856–31 December 1859, HSLU Library Barcode: ILU M 23 035 176, hereafter Mb BZ B, Ld’a II; Musterbuch Baumann-Zürrer C, “Livre de dessin II,” 22 November 1858–28 November 1861, HSLU Library Barcode: ILU M 23 035 177, hereafter Mb BZ C, Ldd II; Musterbuch Baumann-Zürrer D, “Livre de dessin III,” 7 December 1861–4 September 1875, HSLU Library Barcode: ILU M 23 035 178, hereafter Mb BZ D, Ldd III. On the history of the Zurich Silk Association, see Theodor Niggli, Hundert Jahre Zürcherische Seidenindustrie-Gesellschaft, 1854–1954 (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1954). 21 See Silvia Scherz, “Johann Kaspar Baumann,” Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz (HLS), http://www.hls-dhsdss.ch/textes/d/D3605.php. Accessed 30 November 2016.

Swiss Silks for New York

271

Streuli-Maurer (1805–61), who had associated himself with a local partner, Hans Caspar Baumann–Hüni (1806–62), in 1839 to manufacture silks in Zurich’s traditional cottage industry.22 Their business went so well that in 1858, Hans Caspar’s son Emil was sent to New York to learn about the American market. Until his return to Switzerland in 1861, the younger Streuli kept a diary.23 While this source has been used for a family-commissioned biography in 1999 and an account of Emil Streuli’s stay in New York in 2010, the diaries have not so far been studied in a wider academic context.24 The original diaries fill ten leather-bound volumes with often very detailed, daily entries of Emil Streuli’s stay in New York, their transcripts amount to almost 500 pages of single-spaced text.25 Another key source was a small “handbook” on the Zurich silk industry published in 1851 by Heinrich Dolder, an experienced Zurich silk manufacturer.26 His aim was to describe all aspects of an industrial sector which “for the last two decades […] has risen to such prominence that a large part of our people can tell from its performance whether we are living in good times or bad.”27 The text describes every stage of the production of a silk cloth from the purchase of the raw material and the dyeing methods available at the time through the complicated stages of preparing warps and wefts to be taken out to cottage weavers to the final cleaning, packaging, and selling of the finished cloth. While this consciously educational text contains a wealth of information the diarist Emil Streuli had taken for granted, it is extremely fortunate for historians interested in material culture that Heinrich Dolder’s book not only includes detailed illustrations of machinery and tools but also textile samples of the most common silks woven in mid-nineteenth-century Zurich. Although the samples are small, often a mere 1.5 by 2.5 centimetres, together with the technical descriptions that accompany them they allow us to see what a lustrine looked like compared to a marceline, or to spot the difference between a Satin russe and a

22 On Emil Streuli, see Hans Peter Treichler, Die Löwenbraut: Familiengeschichte als Zeitspiegel der Belle Epoque (Zurich: Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 1999); and Hans Peter Treichler, Seidenhändler in New York: Das Tagebuch des Emil Streuli, 1858–1861 (Zurich: Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 2010). Biographical data of the company’s founders comes from Hans Georg Schulthes, Stammbaum der Seidenfirma Baumann Ältere, Schulthess family archive Horgen. Hans Caspar Streuli-Maurer’s business partner, Hans Caspar Baumann-Hüni (1806–1862), was no relation to Caspar Baumann-Zürrer. 23 The diary today is in the possession of a descendant of Emil Streuli, Hans Georg Schulthess. Schulthess also looks after the Schulthess family archive in Horgen and kindly gave me access to this important source. 24 See Treichler, Die Löwenbraut; and Treichler, Seidenhändler. 25 The quotes in this article are derived from the transcripts which were made in the 1990s. The diaries will hereafter be referred to as TES (Tagebuch Emil Streuli). 26 See Dolder, Die Fabrikation, i. 27 “In den letzten zwei Jahrzehnten hat die Seidenmanufaktur […] eine solche Bedeutung gewonnen, dass ein grosser Theil unseres Volkes an ihrem Gange abmisst, ob wir eine gute oder schlechte Zeit haben.” Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 1.

272

Alexis Schwarzenbach

Satin de Chine – something both Emil Streuli and Caspar Baumann-Zürrer had, of course, been able to do easily.28 The period covered by this article starts in 1846, the year Caspar Baumann-Zürrer’s pattern books begins, and ends in 1861, the year Emil Streuli returned from America. While this decision is mainly due to limitations of space, 1861 also happens to be the last year in which practically all Zurich silks were still woven by hand. One year later, the foundation of the Mechanische Seidenweberei Adliswil, a joint venture of two important silk manufacturing families from two villages south of Zurich (Thalwil and Hausen am Albis), opened up a new, mechanical chapter in the history of the Zurich silk industry whose analysis would go well beyond the scope of this article.29 Here it must suffice to note that America remained, up until the end of the long nineteenth century, the most important market for the Zurich silk industry. Once tariff barriers began to rise in the 1880s, several Zurich manufacturers opened up factories in America, among them the Stehli Silk Corporation from Obfelden. In Lancaster, Pennsylvania, this company bought land to build a factory in 1898.30 By 1914 the Stehli silk mill ran 1,090 mechanical looms and had a good claim to being the “largest silk mill in the world.”31 One final remark about methodology: while in the context of this article the use of classic written sources such as the diaries of Emil Streuli or Heinrich Dolder’s silk manual do not require further explanation, trying to use a material source such as the Baumann-Zürrer pattern books does. In order to understand the textiles contained in them, in a first step a weaving course organised by Lucerne University enabled me to identify the weaving techniques used to manufacture the samples in the pattern books.32 However, 28 The textile samples are contained in appendix III (“Zeichnungen (Risse) für Anrüster”) of Dolder, Die Fabrikation. 29 See Stöckli, Mech. Seidenstoffweberei Adliswil. 30 Robert Stehli-Zweifel, Stehli & Co., Zürich und New York. 100 Jahre Seidenindustrie 1840–1940 (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1940), 35. 31 Postcard, Lancaster, Pa., Largest Silk Mill in the World [Stehil plant], [ca. 1910], Silk Memory Inventory nr: HSLU_000004381. On the American silk industry and the important part played by Zurich companies in it, see Heinrich Meyer, Die amerikanische Seidenindustrie und die Seidenindustrie auf der Weltausstellung in Chicago 1893 (Bern: Michel & Büchler, 1894); and Jacques Huber, “Die Seiden-Industrie der Vereinigten Staaten von Nordamerika,” in Weltausstellung in Paris 1900: Seide und seidene Gewebe, ed. Robert Schwarzenbach-Zeuner and Hans Emil Streuli-Hüni (Bern: Wyss, 1900), 112–31. 32 The course took place in February 2016 and was organised along the lines of nineteenth-century silk weaving schools established in Europe’s silk capitals such as Lyon, Krefeld, or Zurich. The first (and theoretical) part was given by the head of the textile department, Professor Tina Moor. It focused on the construction of textiles and aimed at enabling the participants to understand and differentiate between the most common weaves (plain, satin, and twill). Thereafter each participant began weaving at one of the eighteen hand looms in the textile workshop of Lucerne University. Under the expert guidance of textile designer and Lucerne lecturer Marion Becella, the participants learned how difficult it is to do even the most basic plain weave on a hand loom, for each small mistake immediately shows up in the textile. On the other hand, the participants realised the great variety of possibilities to design silk textiles even without using a

Swiss Silks for New York

273

as weaving is only one aspect of a much broader design process going on in the manufacture of textiles, a second step involved trying to find out how and on the basis of what information the colours and patterns displayed on the textiles were chosen.33 Since the Baumann-Zürrer pattern books are almost totally silent on this important question, it was necessary to compare the material evidence with written sources such as the Dolder manual or the Streuli diaries. This combination of written and material evidence made it possible to answer another key question regarding Zurich silks in New York: how did they compete with the products of other European silk centres such as Lyon or Krefeld, who were all also trying to sell silks on the American market?

2. Diaries of Emil Streuli Emil Streuli had just turned nineteen when on 27 July 1858, he boarded the Arago in the French port of Le Havre to sail to America. Conscious of the fact that this journey marked the end of his youth and the beginning of his professional life as a silk merchant, he noted: I begin my diary on a highly important day for myself. […] As I am about to leave the continent in order to sail across the waves of the ocean on a rocking boat, I take leave of the carefree, safe, innocent, and happy part of my youth to begin a career on the changing waves of fortune, a journey that propitiously combines the aim for education, accomplishment, and experience with serious work. […] In a new world, in a new job I shall aim with force and dexterity at achieving respect and honour. […] I am thus happily following the call to fulfil my destiny which has reached me both from the outside and from within and which is, I believe, both the expression of Divine and human will.34 Jacquard loom. (The Jacquard loom was developed in Lyon around 1800 but only widely used in Zurich towards the end of the nineteenth century). See Niggli, Hundert Jahre, 122–23. 33 On design as a process, see among others, Kjetil Fallan, Design History: Understanding Theory and Method (Oxford: Berg, 2010). 34 “Ich beginne mein Tagebuch mit einem für mich hochwichtigen Tage. […] Gleich wie ich heute das Fest­ land verlasse, um auf schwankendem Schiffe die Wellen des Ozeans zu durchfahren, so nehme ich Abschied von dem sorglosen, sicheren & harmlos glücklichen Theil meiner Jugend, um auf den wechselnden Wogen des Schicksals eine Laufbahn anzutreten, in der sich zum Trachten nach Ausbildung, Vervollkommnung und Erfahrung nun schon das ernste Wirken gestellt. […] Es gilt in einer neuen Welt, in einer neuen Laufbahn mit Kraft und Geschicklichkeit zu wirken & dazu bedarf es einer ausdauernden Anwendung aller meiner geistigen Kräfte, um zu Anerkennung & Ehren zu gelangen. […] Ich folge daher freudig dem Rufe, der sowohl von innen als auch von aussen an mich erschallt, um meine Bestimmung, die, glaube ich, mir eben sowohl durch göttlichen als durch menschlichen Willen gegeben wurde, zu erfüllen.” See TES, 27 July 1858.

274

Alexis Schwarzenbach

This opening passage contains all the elements of a classical nineteenth-century bourgeois Weltanschauung in which the son of a Protestant entrepreneur sets out to fulfil the high hopes his family have set in him in order to succeed as a businessman.35 It has to be noted, however, that Emil Streuli took his task so seriously that apart from regularly writing long letters home – unfortunately all lost – once he had finished a volume of his diaries, he also sent this proof of his life in America home to his parents in Horgen – who duly read and commented on their son’s journal.36 So although the intimacy of this autobiographical source is somewhat limited, for questions about consumption, distribution, and global interaction of the nineteenth-century silk industry, this aspect of the text is no disadvantage. On the contrary, in order to show his parents that he was eagerly pursuing the goal of becoming a worthy heir to his father’s business, Emil Streuli carefully noted as many aspects of his working life in New York as possible – thus answering many of the key questions this article is interested in. While Switzerland has played an active role in the global exchange of goods, capital, and knowledge ever since the early modern period, in the nineteenth century this interaction entered a new phase marked by faster transport and communications, and a higher degree of global economic integration.37 Emil Streuli’s diary is a good example, not only for himself but also for many other global Swiss, of doing business in the United States. When he arrived in New York, after a comfortable thirteen-day trip across the Atlantic in first class, he had already spent time in Paris and Lyon.38 In addition to his native German he was both fluent in French and English. The latter, in fact, he spoke so well that fellow passengers on the Arago mistook him for an American.39 Emil’s diaries show that his sophistication was anything but exceptional. As soon as he arrived in New York, he was embedded in a dense network of fellow Swiss, speaking several languages and doing all sorts of business.40 First he met up with other sons of Zurich 35 On the bourgeoisie, see Jürgen Kocka and Ute Frevert, eds., Bürgertum im 19. Jahrhundert: Deutschland im europäischen Vergleich (Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch, 1988); and Franco Moretti, The Bourgeois: Between History and Literature (New York: Verso, 2013). On the bourgeoisie in nineteenth-century Switzerland, see Albert Tanner, Arbeitsame Patrioten – wohlanständige Damen: Bürgertum und Bürgerlichkeit in der Schweiz 1830–1914 (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1995). 36 On the parents’ joy when reading the diaries, see TES, 8 February 1859. 37 For global interactions of the Swiss economy since the Renaissance see the contributions to this volume as well as Paul Bairoch and Martin Körner, eds., Die Schweiz in der Weltwirtschaft (15.–20. Jh.) (Zurich: Chronos, 1990). For current research, see the recently established Swiss network on transnational history, http://www.transnationalhistory.ch/. Accessed 7 January 2017. 38 For the passage, see TES, 27 July – 8 August 1858. 39 TES, 30 July 1858. 40 A dense Swiss merchant network was not specific to the Americas. For the Middle East, see Beat Witschi, Schweizer auf imperialistischen Pfaden: Die schweizerischen Handelsbeziehungen mit der Levante 1848–1914 (Stuttgart: Steiner 1987); and Anita Müller, Schweizer in Alexandrien, 1914–1963: Zur ausländischen Präsenz in Ägypten (Stuttgart: Steiner 1992). For Asia, see Christof Dejung, Die Fäden des globalen Marktes: Eine

Swiss Silks for New York

275

silk manufacturers, joining them on Sunday outings to beer gardens or longer events like a three-day Swiss shooting festival held in Hoboken, New Jersey.41 There and elsewhere he met people from other parts of Switzerland: silk ribbon merchants from Basel, watchmakers from Neuchatel, restaurant owners from Bern, and photographers from St. Gallen. While such outings were undoubtedly fun, the networking that went with them was very much a conscious decision. After an invitation to the house of a Swiss businessman in a fashionable part of Brooklyn, Emil Streuli recorded not only the names of the people he had met but also the advantages of getting to know them: “Such a relationship is calculated less for here but rather for outside, where sooner or later it can be of very convenient service, because a closer acquaintance with the sons of extremely distinguished families makes an excellent impression.”42 By the mid-nineteenth century, the Swiss merchant network in New York was so strong that a Swiss Club held regular meetings at Delmonico’s, one of the most fashionable restaurants in town.43 Founded by two brothers from the Italian-speaking canton of Ticino in 1837, the restaurant was located near City Hall Park, on a corner of Broadway and Chambers Street.44 Emil Streuli was deeply impressed by the “magnificent” place that was “almost entirely covered with golden decorations” and illuminated beautifully with gaslights.45 The first Swiss meeting he went to in September 1858 began with a joint prayer of the approximately eighty attendants for their Swiss homeland. This patriotic opening was followed by a financial report of the Swiss Benevolent Society founded in 1832.46 Emil

41 42 43 44

45 46

Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte des Welthandels am Beispiel der Handelsfirma Gebrüder Volkart 1851–1999 (Cologne: Böhlau, 2013); Andreas Zangger, Koloniale Schweiz: Ein Stück Globalgeschichte zwischen Europa und Südostasien (1860–1930) (Berlin: transcript, 2014); and Patrick Ziltener, ed., Handbuch Schweiz-­Japan, vol. 1 (Zurich: Chronos, 2010). For the importance of merchant networks in general, see Robert Lee, ed., Commerce and Culture: nineteenth-century Business Elites (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), especially 1–35. On the linguistic skills of Swiss societies, see Norbert Furrer, Die vierzigsprachige Schweiz: Sprachkontakte und Mehrsprachigkeit in der vorindustriellen Gesellschaft (15.–19. Jahrhundert) (Zurich: Chronos, 2002). TES, 2 October 1858. Emhapsis in original. “Ein solches Verhältnis ist weniger für hier berechnet, als für draussen, wo es für früher oder später recht angenehme Dienste leisten kann, indem dort eine nähere Bekanntschaft mit den Söhnen aus so hocherhabenen Familien ein sehr gutes Aussehen gibt.” TES, 27 October 1858. TES, 24 March 1859. The restaurant still exists today, but has since changed location. On Delmonico’s, see Joe O’Connell, “History of Delmonico’s Restaurant and business operations in New York,” 25 August 2001, http://www.steakperfection.com/delmonico/History.html. Accessed 6 January 2017. See also Edwin G. Burrows and Mike Wallace, Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 436–37. “Dieser [Delmonico] hatte sein Restaurant bereits mit Gasflammen erleuchtet & auswendig damit sehr schön illuminirt. Der prachtvolle, sozusagen von Goldverziehrungen überzogene Saal war mit Leuten überfüllt” TES, 1 September 1858. On the 1832 origins of the society, see Swiss Benevolent Society of New York, ed., Souvenir of the Dedication of the New Swiss Home (New York: Swiss Benevolent Society, 1905), 17. See also, with a reference to a later foundation date, James Peter Zollinger, The Swiss Benevolent Society of New York: A Brief History of its First One Hundred Years 1846–1946 (Cambridge, MA.: Murray 1946).

276

Alexis Schwarzenbach

Streuli noted that in the course of the last twelve months almost $5,000 had been distributed among needy members of the Swiss community. The key point of the evening’s debate was whether to continue holding meetings during the $2 meal or to doing so before. In order to give poorer members of the community the possibility to attend, it was decided to change the arrangements. This shows that in addition to enabling well-to-do businessmen like Emil Streuli to acquire new contacts, the Swiss Club also worked as a safety net for less fortunate Swiss in New York (fig. 49).

Fig. 49: Emil Streuli, daguerreotype, New York, ca. 1860. Schulthess family archive, Horgen.

Apart from his Swiss Club friends, the most important person for Emil Streuli’s social and business life was his Swiss host and employer, Friedrich Theodor Aschmann (1829–67).47 Aschmann was his father’s New York agent and lived with his young family in Hoboken. From his new home in Bergen Hill, Emil Streuli was able to admire, across the Hudson, America’s rapidly expanding commercial capital – between 1850 and 1860, the New York metropolitan region almost doubled in size, from 696,000 to a staggering 1,174,000 people.48 On a clear August night two weeks after his arrival Emil Streuli noted: “We went 47 For biographical data on Aschmann, see See Ueli Zürcher, “Friedrich Theodor Aschmann,” Geneanet, http://gw.geneanet.org/uezuercher?lang=fr&pz=ulrich+ernst&nz=zurcher&ocz=0&p=friedrich+theodor&n=aschmann. Accessed 6 January 2017. 48 Kenneth T. Jackson, “The Capital of Capitalism. The New York Metropolitan Region, 1890–1940,” in Metropolis 1890–1940, ed. Anthony Sutcliffe (London: Mansell, 1984), 320.

Swiss Silks for New York

277

onto the veranda for a while to see the glowing-red full moon rise above the city of New York. From here one can see it in its true, tremendous magnitude stretching across from the northern to the eastern horizon so that both city limits constitute the remotest visible signs of the earth’s surface in these skies.”49 For Swiss silk merchants such as Friedrich Theodor Aschmann or his new trainee Emil Streuli, New York was the most convenient gateway to 31 million potential American customers.50Although American men also consumed large quantities of silk, especially the “dandies” Emil Streuli first encountered at Delmonico’s, the majority of consumers were women.51 Therefore, whenever he could, Emil closely observed how women did their shopping. His most important case study was the American wife of his host, Martha Aschmann-Davis. Countless times it was Emil Streuli’s job to accompany her to department stores in Manhattan, including America’s premier establishment of its kind, the four-storey Arnold Constable & Co. on Canal Street.52 Inside, Emil took close note not only of the way in which silks were presented, but also of the impressive architecture and the sales skills of the shop assistants: “[They] have to display impeccable patience showing the same item at least a dozen times before a woman makes a decision.”53Although changing fashion could ruin business – if a shipment from Horgen was in the wrong colour or design, it risked being auctioned off at low prices – in general American women were excellent consumers. One year after his arrival, Emil Streuli noted: “It is strange how silk is a magical word for American women. For as soon as they find out that I am a silk merchant, they begin to crave for silk dresses and make it known to their husbands that they would like to come to [our store] for some wholesale shopping.”54 This passage is also interesting with respect to distribution, for it shows that in general Emil Streuli did not sell silks directly to consumers. Instead, like most Zurich manufac49 “Wir gingen auch einen Augenblick auf die Veranda des Hauses, um den glutrothen Vollmond hinter der Stadt New York aufsteigen zu sehen, welche man von hier aus in ihrer wahren, ungeheuren Ausdehnung sehen kann, indem sie von dem nördlichen Horizonte bis zu dem östlichen hinaufreicht, so dass also beide Enden die äussersten sichtbaren Erdpunkte an diesen Himmelsgegenden sind.” TES, 25 August 1858. 50 For the 1860 US census, see United States Census Bureau, “Population of the United States in 1860: compiled from the original returns of the eighth census,” https://www.census.gov/history/www/through_the_ decades/overview/1860.html. Accessed 30 January 2017. 51 TES, 1 September 1858. 52 On New York’s department stores on Broadway, see Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 666–68; and Mona Domosh, “Shaping the Commercial City: Retail Districts in Nineteenth-Century New York and Boston,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 80 (1990): 268–84. 53 “Diese Commis müssen eine musterhafte Geduld ausüben & wenigstens ein dutzend Mal das Gleiche zeigen, ehe ein Frauenzimmer einen Entschluss fasst.” At Arnold Constable & Co, TES, 18 December 1858. 54 “Es ist merkwürdig, wie Seide ein Zauberwort ist für Amerikanerinnen. So kommt es, dass sobald diese erfahren, dass ich ein Seidenimporteur bin, sie schon lüstern werden nach Seidenkleidern und ihren Gemählern zu verstehen geben, sie möchten einmal bei uns [im Store] zu en gros Preisen einkaufen.” TES, 24 July 1859.

278

Alexis Schwarzenbach

turers, his father’s company sold their products wholesale to retailers in New York and beyond through an agent operating in the dry goods district of lower Manhattan.55 There, in the immediate vicinity of what is today Ground Zero, Friedrich Theodor Aschmann had a shop on Vesey Street.56 The store was Emil Streuli’s workplace to which he comfortably travelled every working day by ferry from Hoboken – together with numerous other commuters from New Jersey. Aschmann’s Manhattan store simultaneously served as office space, storage facility, and sales premises. From Vesey Street, it was not far to the customs house on the Hudson River, where boxes full of Horgen silks arrived by steamer and had to receive clearance before being delivered to the store. Sometimes, entire lots had been ordered in advance by major customers such as Arnold Constable & Co. More often, however, the boxes contained a selection of silks in qualities and colours Horgen thought would sell in America. And because an agent such as Aschmann usually represented several silk manufacturers, it was Emil Streuli’s job to make sure that his father’s silks were among those chosen by wholesale clients visiting the store on Vesey Street. One important way of supporting the family business was to tell Horgen what New York wanted. For this Emil Streuli not only visited department stores, he also closely analysed potential clients in fashionable places such as the opera, fancy restaurants, or elegant neighbourhoods (incidentally a technique he had first practised in Paris and Lyon).57 One of his preferred areas was Broadway, the “world street” as he called it, lined with wonderful, marble clad stores in the “most elegant architectural style[s],” beautiful banks and impressive restaurants that in Emil’s view outshone even the “most luxurious cafés” of Paris.58 On this urban stage New York’s fashionable society regularly performed “splendid spectacle[s],” and if, like Emil, you were lucky, you could even spot an international celebrity such as the Italian soprano Marietta Piccolomini (1834–99) passing by in a carriage.59 On a sunny April day, Emil Streuli agreed with the conclusion of one of his colleagues that “silk is the material with which Broadway is swept clean of dust.”60 55 Apart from New York, Philadelphia was the single most important American silk hub. Emil Streuli went on a business trip there and duly met other sons of Zurich manufacturers doing the same, see TES, 10–12 November 1858. 56 On New York’s mid-nineteenth-century commercial geography, see Domosh, “Shaping the Commercial City,”; and Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 649–1,040. 57 TES, 11 August 1858. 58 On the world street, see TES, 10 August 1858. “Wir trafen auf unserem Wege einige wunderschöne Stores an, so namentlich der von Stewart, ein wahres Colosseum von Marmor, der von Bowen Mc Namee & Co im edelsten Baustyle, ferner ein Restaurant, das an Pracht & Eleganz selbst die luxuriösesten Cafés von Paris weit zurück liess. Auch mehrere schöne Banken befinden sich links & rechts der Strasse. Endlich hielten wir bei einem grossen Kleidermagazin an, das ein ganzes Haus ausfüllte & an das noch ein anderes mit kuppelförmigem Dach angebaut wurde zur Vergrösserung des Magazins.” TES, 10 August 1858. 59 See TES, 30 April 1859 and TES, 9 November 1858. 60 “Nach dem Bonmot meines Begleiters [Mr. Burton, custom house broker at Aschmann’s store] konnte man wirklich sagen, der Broadway werde heute mit Seide gewischt & gereinigt vom Staube.” TES, 30 April 1859.

Swiss Silks for New York

279

Stealing samples at silk auctions was another important way in which Emil Streuli informed his father of the New York market. Concealing a small pair of scissors beneath the auction catalogue, he cut off samples from the end of pieces and sent them home. After an especially successful day he noted: “about twenty little samples – of practically everything with tasteful design – ended up in my pocket.”61 Unfortunately, none of these samples survive, for none of the business letters Emil Streuli sent home survive either.62 Fortunately, however, his extensive diaries describing the comings and goings of all sorts of Swiss businessmen in New York include entries for somebody called Baumann-Zürrer, the same name associated with the pattern books which constitute the material sources this article is based upon.63

3. Pattern Books of Caspar Baumann-Zürrer Biographical information about Caspar Baumann-Zürrer is difficult to come by. His entry in the Swiss Historical Lexicon focuses on his political career from the 1870s onwards, and his obituary in the Neue Zürcher Zeitung, Switzerland’s most important liberal newspaper, was disappointingly brief. It called the deceased “an important industrialist and businessman” who had been very well respected in political and economic circles. Apart from that the newspaper only mentioned a passion for mountaineering.64 At first sight it thus seems that Caspar Baumann-Zürrer had been a successful silk manufacturer along the lines of Emil Streuli’s father, and that the pattern books bearing his name recorded his company’s production. However, the fact that Caspar Baumann-Zürrer suddenly appeared in the New York diary of Emil Streuli prompted further research. A book on his father-in-law, Jakob Zürrer, and Zürrer’s children provides additional information about the American aspects of Caspar Baumann-Zürrer’s life. The text was self-published in 1962 by an amateur historian, Marion Weisbrod-Bühler. Married to a descendant of Jakob Zürrer, she undertook extensive research in both public and private

61 “[S]o wanderten etwa 20 Müsterchen – sozusagen von allem, das geschmackvolles Dessin hatte – in meine Tasche.” TES, 23 February 1859. 62 TES is full of references of Emil writing Geschäftsbriefe to his father, sometimes for entire days, see, for instance, entries on 17 and 18 January 1859. 63 TES mentions Baumann-Zürrer on 24 September and 13 November 1858. 64 See Scherz, “Baumann.” The entry does not expand upon a volume on all nineteenth-century Swiss politicians. See Erich Gruner, ed., Die Schweizerische Bundesversammlung 1848–1920, L’Assemblée fédérale suisse, 1848–1920 (Bern: Francke 1966), 49. For the obituary, see Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 16 November 1896, morning edition.

280

Alexis Schwarzenbach

archives.65 Weisbrod-Bühler notes that when Bertha Zürrer began writing love letters to Caspar Baumann in March 1857, he had been a silk merchant in New York for many years.66 The couple got married Switzerland in July 1857 and moved to New York where their first child was born one year later. According to Marion Weisbrod-Bühler, however, the young wife from rural Hausen am Albis did not like living in the megacity of New York whose “grey sea of houses” made her homesick. So, despite the fact that the New World offered “brilliant business prospects,” for her husband, the young couple returned to Zurich in 1859, establishing themselves in a home on Schanzengraben, one of the remains of the early modern military fortifications of the city.67 Thus instead of being a silk manufacturer documenting the products of his Fabrik in pattern books, it became clear that as a bachelor Caspar Baumann had been an agent in New York, representing – like Friedrich Theodor Aschmann – several Zurich manufacturers.68 This also explained why his two earlier pattern books – with entries dated from 1847 to 1859 (the time prior to Baumann-Zürrer’s return to Switzerland) – are called livre d’assortiment.69 For an agent has an assortment of products to sell, as opposed to a manufacturer who has a range of different designs on offer and usually kept sample books (Musterbücher) documenting his production.70 The fact that the latter two volumes, with entries from 1858 to 1875, are called livre de dessin, the French equivalent of the German term Musterbuch, could indicate that upon marrying the daughter of a manufacturer, Baumann-Zürrer became involved in manufacturing silks and that once he was back in Switzerland, this became his main line of business.71 This article concentrates on the earlier two livres d’assortiment whose content was almost certainly destined for the American market. The earliest date appears on page fifty-eight of the first volume. It reads, “sending for spring 1847.”72 This indicates that the silks listed 65 Marion Weisbrod-Bühler, Die Seidenwaage: Chronik der Familien Zürrer und Weisbrod (Stäfa: Selbstverlag 1962. 66 Weisbrod-Bühler, Die Seidenwaage, 139. So far we have not been able to locate the correspondence. In 1962 was privately owned by a person in St. Gallen, see ibid., 446. 67 “Obwohl sich Caspar in der Neuen Welt glänzende Geschäftsaussichten boten.” See Weisbrod-Bühler, Die Seidenwaage, 191. 68 Note to distinguish his marital status, this article refers to him as ‘Caspar Baumann’ for the time before he was married, and ‘Caspar Baumann-Zürrer’ after he was married. 69 See Mb BZ A, Ld’a I; and Mb BZ B, Ld’a II. 70 Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 63. The term Musterbuch is notoriously difficult to translate as Muster can refer to both a pattern and a sample. For a discussion of similar problems of terminology in French and English see Lesley Miller, “Innovation and Industrial Espionage in Eighteenth-century France: An investigation of the selling of silks through samples,” Journal of Design History 12 (1999): 271–92. 71 See Mb BZ C, Ldd II; Mb BZ D, Ldd III. 72 “Envois p.[our] le printemps 1847.” Mb BZ A, Ld’a I, [p. 59]. The pages in the Baumann-Zürrer pattern books are not numbered. In order to refer to individual pages, page numbers are inferred from the pages on the PDFs of the digitalised versions of the books. The formula used to arrive from a PDF page (=X)

Swiss Silks for New York

281

on this page were either shipped to New York towards the end of 1846 or at the beginning of 1847. Later on, this was demonstrably the case, as subsequent entries in Caspar Baumann’s pattern books show that textiles for the spring/summer season were shipped from Switzerland between November and January and shipments for the autumn/winter season were sent out in the summer months (June to August).73 The undated entries on the first pages of the first volume were thus probably shipped to New York in 1846, the year in which Caspar Baumann turned sixteen. As there are no records of his first trip to the America, his sixteenth birthday in May 1846 may well have coincided with his departure from Switzerland.74 Being a teenager was not at all an unusual age to enter the international textile trade: the founder of one of the most important cotton printing companies of nineteenth-century Switzerland, Peter Blumer (1771–1826) from Schwanden in the Canton of Glarus, was only fifteen when his father sent him to the Italian port city of Ancona. Two years later, at seventeen, Peter Blumer founded his first business there, a trading house importing and exporting textiles.75 As family ties remained extremely important throughout the nineteenth-century, especially for long-distance business relationships, Caspar Baumann, like Peter Blumer and Emil Streuli, probably also began working abroad with someone his parents knew.76 This could have been a relative of either of his parents or a business partner or political acquaintance of his father.77 Yet as there is no evidence that the Baumanns themselves were silk manufacturers, in contrast to Emil Streuli, Caspar Baumann appears to have started as an agent for someone else and not as the representative of a family business.78

73 74

75 76 77 78

to an even page number on the left is: 2 × X – 6. For uneven pages on the right the formula is 2 × X – 5. I would like to thank Dr. Franca Grüebler for helping me establish these formulas. See Mb BZ D, Ldd III. Caspar Baumann was born on 16 May 1830. See Scherz, “Baumann.” The earliest records of Caspar Baumann’s trips to the US date from 1855, see Hans Ulrich Pfister and Staatsarchiv des Kantons Zürich, eds., Passerteilungen in Zürich nach Amerika und Australien 1848–1870: Auswertung der Passkontrollen 1848– 1870 Staatsarchiv Zürich, PP 38.42–63 (Zurich: Staatsarchiv des Kantons Zürich, 2005), 5. As these records are not comprehensive and only set in in 1848, a first trip in 1846 is possible. See Karin Marti-Weissenbach, “Peter Blumer,” HLS, http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D30084.php. Accessed 15 January 2017. On the importance of family ties in merchant networks, see Lee, Commerce and Culture. On the father, see Scherz, “Baumann.” Although no information could so far be found on his mother, it is possible that her family was involved in the silk trade and that Caspar began working with one of his relatives based in America. Although, Baumann is a common Zurich name, Caspar Baumann-Zürrer does not appear to have been directly related to the business partner of Emil Streuli’s father’s, Hans Caspar Baumann-Hüni (1806–62), whose descendants built a large silk mill in Höngg in 1874. See Stammbaum Baumann zur Palme, no date [1990s], Schulthess family archive, Horgen.

282

Alexis Schwarzenbach

Although layout and annotations vary across both livres d’assortiment, one element does not change over time: from the beginning, the samples were glued onto the pages in groups. Each group was numbered, and often each sample within a group received a sub-number. One such group number is accompanied by the French word for box, caisse, while next to another group of textiles the following note was placed: “samples of 3 boxes which were sent in December [1847] & whose labels and numbers are unknown.”79 These two entries prove that the group numbers referred to the boxes the silks had arrived in. The Streuli diaries tell us that each box sent out from Switzerland was given a number which served all the purposes of a present-day tracking number: when a box was packed in Horgen an inventory was made and mailed in advance of the much heavier box to New York. This facilitated customs clearing, informed the agent and local buyers of what was due to arrive and played a key role in insurance matters in case something went wrong (one of the first experiences of Emil Streuli in New York was the loss of several valuable boxes due to the sinking of the SS Austria off the coast of Newfoundland in September 1858).80 Heinrich Dolder’s handbook for silk manufacturing provides us with further information about the way in which silks were exported from mid-nineteenth-century Switzerland. Once a weaver had finished a piece of silk, a process which usually took six weeks, the cloth was returned to the manufacturer’s office. There its quality was checked and the textile received a first simple label containing the weaver’s number as well as the type and the dimensions of the cloth.81 Thereafter, the textile was carefully cleaned and pleated into compact pieces measuring 5 by 22 inches (13.5 by 60 centimetres).82 These were wrapped into fine, strong and white taffeta paper and tied together at either end with red ribbons.83 The fact that this wrapping was called “chemise,” a garment for a human being rather than the covering of an object, and that in the end a more elaborate, “pleasing label, adorned with bordures” was attached to the piece shows the great care manufacturers took to pres79 For the first group, see entry No. 1460, Mb BZ A, Ld’a I, no date [pre 1847], [p. 21]. For the second group, “Muster von 3 Kisten welche im December gesandt & deren marque & N° nicht bekannt,” see, Mb BZ A, Ld’a I, no date [1847], [p. 93]. 80 TES, 23–28 September 1858. Interestingly, theft is never mentioned in the TES. For this problem in early modern times see Michael Kwass, Contraband. Louis Mandrin and the making of a global underground (Cambridge: Harvard University Press 2014). 81 Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 35. 82 See Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 36. Dolder used the Zurich ell as his basic measuring element. It was equivalent to half a French aune at 44 inches. Dolder converts this into 119 centimetres, see ibid., ii. One of Dolder’s inches was thus equivalent to 2.70 centimetres. 83 “Ist mein Stück gepresst, so lasse ich es mit einem Bogen feinem, festem und weißen Taffetpapierbogen (Chemise), der die Stückbreite hat, umschlagen und diesen Bogen mit zwei zirka 2–3‘‘‘ [Linien] breiten, rothen Bändern an dasselbe befestigen, die dann zugleich das ganze Stück festhalten müssen.” Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 36.

Swiss Silks for New York

283

ent their products.84 To Dolder, this was no small process: “The manufacturer must place special emphasis on pleasing external appearance and packaging of the piece, as the client or buyer will often judge the saleability of the piece upon this.”85 If, as in the case of transatlantic shipments, more than one piece was sent out at a time, they were placed into boxes made of simple fir wood. Internally, Heinrich Dolder tells us, the wood had to be finely polished and covered with paper in order to avoid the precious cargo being damaged. In addition to the chemise, each piece was covered with wrapping paper and bound, then all pieces were tightly placed into the box. While empty spaces were padded with straw or other stuffing, the exterior was covered with waterproof wax cloth and criss-crossed with strong ropes. If a box was especially heavy, extra safety measures were taken to stabilise it internally in order to prevent the merchandise from moving around.86 At the beginning, Caspar Baumann appears to have received parcels from one manufacturer only, for the earliest entries in his first livre d’assortiment contain no information on individual shipments bar box numbers. From page thirteen onwards, however, the way in which boxes are referred to becomes more complex. At first single capital letters appear next to box numbers, while from page twenty-one onwards, the letters either multiply or are integrated into geometrical forms such as rhombi, triangles, or hexagrams.87 These symbols were almost certainly trademarks used by individual manufacturers to label their products. Heinrich Dolder calls them “factory signs” (Fabrikzeichen) and explains that they usually consisted of the initials of the company and were placed on everything that left a manufacturer’s premises (Ragion).88 As many companies were partnerships between two or more entrepreneurs bearing different surnames, often firms had composite names such as Mahler & Hüni or Nägli, Wild & Blumer. In other cases, such as with the Pestalozzi family, several individuals of the same surname were entrepreneurs in their own right.89 While the former would explain abbreviations such as WMC or TSS in Caspar Baumann’s 84 “Zuletzt hefte ich ihm noch eine gefällige, mit einer Randverzierung ausgeschmückte Etiquette auf.” Ibid. 85 “Auf die äussere gefällige Ausrüstung und Packung des Stückes hat der Fabrikant vielen Werth zu legen, denn nach ihr taxirt der Besteller oder Käufer öfters die Verkäuflichkeit des Stückes.” Ibid. 86 Ibid. 87 Mb BZ A, Ld’a I, [p. 13, 21]. 88 “Mit den Anfangsbuchstaben der Ragion.” To make things complicated, in addition to calling a company a Fabrik, from the French fabrique, the Swiss also used the term Ragion deriving from the Italian ragione. For details see Daniel Kauz, 125 Jahre Handelsregisteramt des Kantons Zürich. 1883–2008 (Zurich: Handelsregisteramt, 2008), 6. 89 The examples stem from a 1869/70 membership list of the Zurich Silk Association. A published copy of the list can be found in Niggli, Hundert Jahre, 183–85. Then the Pestalozzis were involved in the following companies: Escher & Pestalozzi, Heinr.[ich] Pestalozzi, H[an]s. C[onra]d. Pestalozzi & Söhne, J. Pestalozzi-­ Jenny, and Ritter & Pestalozzi. On the Pestalozzi family in the nineteenth-century, see Hans Pestalozzi-Keyser, Geschichte der Familie Pestalozzi (Zurich: Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 1958), 108–15.

284

Alexis Schwarzenbach

livres d’assortiment, the prominence of the Pestalozzi family may well explain why we find the letter “P” in three versions: as a stand-alone symbol, integrated in to a rhombus, or framed by a hexagram (fig. 50).

Fig. 50: Caspar Baumann-Zürrer, Livre d’assortiment I, entries with various factory signs including warp-­ printed chinés (left) and iridescent galcés (top right), winter 1850/1851, pp. 136–37. Lucerne University, School of Art & Design.

The great variety of trademarks in Caspar Baumann’s livres d’assortiment is a good indication of how well his business developed. The first volume covers the ten-year period from 1846 to 1856. The book today encompasses 466 pages containing a total of 1,424 entries for silk shipments received.90 It includes over 140 different trademarks.91 The second livre d’assortiment covers a much shorter period of time, the three and a half years from May 1856 to December 1859. It consists of 259 pages, displays 639 groups of textiles and contains 49 different trademarks.92 In other words, between 1846 and 1859, Caspar Bau90 The earliest folios of the book are loose and one or several folios may have been lost since they became disjointed from the spine. 91 Mb BZ A, Ld’a I. 92 Mb BZ B, Ld’a II.

Swiss Silks for New York

285

mann received a total of over 2,063 boxes filled with at least ten pieces of silk each. As it took six weeks to complete a cloth, it would have taken a single weaver well over 200 years to produce this amount of silk. And while we have so far been unable to identify any of Caspar Baumann’s business partners among Zurich silk manufacturers, the three most frequent trademarks that appear in his livres d’assortiment are BPP (394 entries), MDG (267 entries), and GFC (127 entries).93 Of course, livres d’assortiment were not the only tools a silk merchant such as Caspar Baumann needed to conduct his business. From the Streuli diaries we know that intense business correspondence accompanied each shipment, and Heinrich Dolder’s handbook informs us that in addition to letters, a great variety of other books, lists, and labels were needed to keep track of a silk business. While a New York agent would probably not have kept weavers’ books, he certainly kept separate books for orders and accounting. Furthermore, he must have used labels and storage lists too in order to manage, handle, and locate the hundreds of pieces wrapped in white chemises that arrived at his store every season.94 Why none of this survives is probably due to the fact that other instruments of commerce united paper and textiles in a less permanent, efficient, and above all attractive way then a pattern book.95 For although Caspar Baumann’s livres d’assortiment may well have started as lists on simple folios, as the business grew these could be bound together into representative, cloth-covered books documenting the mercantile success of their creator – impressive due to their size and volume, dazzling due to the brilliance and diversity of the silks in them.96

93 Before the advent of a federal commercial law in 1881 there were few joint stock companies in Switzerland. Most larger enterprises were associations of two or more partners. These companies were relatively short lived, for once a partner died his capital was distributed among his heirs. If the company continued it did so under a new name. For an overview of Swiss commercial law, see Roland Ruedin “Gesellschaftsrecht,” HLS, http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D27305.php. Accessed 30 January 2017. 94 For samples of lists and books used in the silk industry see appendix I (“Tabellen”) and appendix II (“Formulare”) in Dolder, Die Fabrikation. 95 Business correspondence, for instance Emil Streuli’s letters to his parents, often included textile samples but was kept much less frequently than pattern books. For an exception to this rule, see the Laué correspondence discussed in Gabi Schopf ’s contribution to this volume. 96 The fact that the pattern books worked as lieux de mémoire is underlined by the fact that the Zurich silk weaving school, who owned the books for most of the twentieth century, still emphasised in 1950 their provenance as “Gift of Mr. Fed.[eral] Councillor Baumann-Zürrer, Zürich” (“Geschenk von Herrn Nat.Rat Baumann-Zürrer, Zürich”). See Marie Schuette and Robert Honold, Gewebesammlung der Textilfachschule Zürich (Zurich: Textilfachschule Zürich 1950), 148.

286

Alexis Schwarzenbach

Conclusion: Zurich silks for New York For most of the twentieth century, Caspar Baumann-Zürrer’s pattern books belonged to the Zurich silk weaving school founded in 1881.97 A catalogue of the school’s textile collections calls them “pattern books with striped and checked taffetas, ecossais, jaspés, ombrés. Zurich products from the years 1853–1870.”98 The definition of their content as “Zurich products” is especially noteworthy. It underlines the fact that in contrast to the elaborate Jacquard designs of Lyon and the luxurious velvets of Krefeld, plain weaves produced on relatively simple hand looms and jointly referred to as taffetas were the specialty with which nineteenth-century Zurich found success on world markets.99 The importance of taffetas is corroborated by Heinrich Dolder who in 1851 discussed neither Jacquard nor velvet looms but instead concentrated on a great variety of plain weaves – from Levantines to Rolantines, from Gros de Naples to Gros d’Orléans.100 In order to sell these relatively simple textiles, which other silk centres also produced, on the world market, two factors were of chief importance. On the one hand they had to have a competitive price, on the other hand their design had to be in line with consumer taste. In 1836, a Zurich silk manufacturer meant exactly this when he told a British author that “on the Continent and in the United States,” his home canton’s products were “consumed in very considerable quantities, recommended as they are by their lower prices and better appearance.”101 The lower prices were due to two factors. On the one hand, Zurich silk manufacturers had direct access to the raw silk markets of northern Italy and were thus in a good position to take advantage of attractive prices.102 On the other hand, production costs in a cottage industry were relatively low as there was no need for expensive factory infrastructure and wages were flexible and could be reduced in times of low demand.103  97 On the origins of the school see Niggli, Hundert Jahre, 39–45.  98 “Sechs Musterbücher mit gestreiften und karierten Taffetmustern, Ecossais, Jaspes und Ombres. Zürcher Fabrikate aus den Jahren 1853–1870.” See Schuette and Honold, Gewebesammlung, 148. As the Lucerne collection today encompasses only four pattern books, two appear to have been lost.  99 For the prominence of taffetas, see also nineteenth-century world fair reports. For instance on the Vienna world exhibition of 1873, see Caspar Baumann-Zürrer, Bericht über Gruppe V, Section IV, Seidenwaaren [der Wiener Weltausstellung] (Schaffhausen: Baader, 1874), 16. 100 Dolder, Die Fabrikation, passim. When statistics were first made according to individual articles in 1871, the most successful Zurich silks were marcelines and lustrines appretées (46,851 pieces), Gros du Rhin, 70 deniers, 3 yarns (38,000 pieces), and Rayé fond noir & grisailles (29,342 pieces), see Baumann-Zürrer, Bericht, 14. 101 Salomon Escher quoted in Bowring, Report, 71. 102 For descriptions of the direct access to the markets of northern Italy, especially Milan and Turin, see Conrad von Muralt quoted in Bowring, Report, 71–76. 103 Reliable data on the greatly fluctuating wages of the Zurich cottage industry was only compiled towards the end of the nineteenth century. For details see Fridolin Schuler, “Die sozialen Zustände in der Seiden­

Swiss Silks for New York

287

The better appearance of Zurich taffetas was not, as we have seen above, due to an elaborate weaving technique. Rather, what made them so desirable that Emil Streuli could hardly fend off American women once he told them he was a silk merchant was their design, or, more specifically, the incredibly wide range of colours, colour combinations and warp-printed patterns nineteenth-century Zurich silks were able to display. A single page of Caspar Baumann’s first livre d’assortiment contained no less than forty-four different warp-printed chinés, and sixty-four chequered ecossaises and plain taffetas in ninety-­two individual colours.104 And although a textile like an ombré, in which colours fade into one another from left to right by means of warps of slightly different shades, is anything but easy to manufacture, the key to commercial success was to get the colours right (fig. 51).

Fig. 51: Caspar Baumann-Zürrer, Livre d’assortiment I, ecossaises, summer 1851, pp. 142–43. Lucerne University, School of Art & Design.

industrie der Ostschweiz 1899”, in Ausgewählte Schriften von Fabrikinspektor Dr. Fridolin Schuler, ed. Heinrich Wegmann (Karlsruhe: Braunsche Hofbuchdruckerei, 1905), 160–201, especially 188–91. 104 See Mb BZ A, Ld’a I [pp. 10–11] (Chiné), [pp. 154–155] (Ecossais), [p. 290–291] (plain).

288

Alexis Schwarzenbach

The paramount importance of colour can be further deduced from margin notes contained in Baumann-Zürrer’s first livre d’assortiment. On page fifteen, he complained about the look of a set of ombrés because they combined colours that were too similar so that the intended design “does not display well enough in front of the background giving the pieces a very bad look.” Regarding a set of striped taffetas he complained on the same page: “sold very badly because too bright and because the red and yellow stripes don’t work at all!”105 Unfortunately such remarks are confined to the earliest sections of Baumann’s livres d’assortiment. Like Emil Streuli, whose diary gets less detailed as times goes by, Caspar Baumann probably got used to the everyday hassle of the silk business too. Furthermore, as business grew he appears to have handed over the compilation of his pattern books to office hands, which would explain the changing handwritings (fig. 52).

Fig. 52: Caspar Baumann-Zürrer, Livre d’assortiment I, samples, mainly ombrés, with negative remarks about colour combinations, no date [pre-1847], pp. 14–15. Lucerne University, School of Art & Design.

105 “zu wenig vom Fond hervortrete, was den Stücken ein sehr schlechtes Aussehen gebe,”; and “hat sich schlecht verkauft, weil zu hell & die rothen und gelben Streifen nichts taugen!” Mb BZ A, Ld’a I, [p. 15].

Swiss Silks for New York

289

The importance of choosing the right colour combinations is also corroborated by Heinrich Dolder. His handbook on the silk industry contains an entire chapter on colours. Dolder began by underlining the well-known fact that silk is able to take on and reflect colour better than any other fibre. He then emphasised the importance of “tasteful colour combinations” and explained: “their choice, their correct application and their pure, strong shine (lustre) defines the saleability of a textile, and thus any manufacturer must do his utmost to learn about colours and their effect.”106 Dolder went on to suggest that each silk entrepreneur should have twenty-five different shades, from very light to very dark, of each of the “twenty main colours” – “from myrtle green (vert de myrthe)” and “grass green (vert d’herbe)” to “iron gray (gris de fer)” and “silver gray (gris d’argent, gris fin).”107 In addition he should stock twenty different blacks, ten whites, and five shades of reddish yellow.108 Thus equipped with “quite a rich collection” of no less than 535 different colours, Dolder was convinced that any silk manufacturer would be able to “produce fitting colour combinations and shines,” especially glacés.109 This type of taffeta united warps and wefts of different colours thus creating a tantalizing iridescent effect, especially if opposite colours were combined, for instance “water green” (vert d’eau) and “fine cherry red” (cerise fin, rose).110 The evidence provided by the material and the written sources used in this article allows for the following conclusion: for two reasons, mid-nineteenth-century Zurich silk manufacturers were in good position to produce textiles for New York. One the one hand, they had direct access to the silk markets of northern Italy and could thus buy raw material at advantageous prices. On the other hand, thanks to the dense network of global Swiss, such as Emil Streuli or Caspar Baumann actively scrutinizing the American market and regularly sending written and material evidence back home, they were informed about the latest trends in consumer choice. 106 “geschmackvolle Zusammenstellung der Farben”, and “Die Wahl derselben, ihre richtige Anwendung und ihr reiner starker Glanz (lustre) bedingt die Verkäuflichkeit des Stoffes, und es soll daher jeder Fabrikant nichts unterlassen, um die Farben und deren Wirkung aufs beste kennen zu lernen.” Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 10. 107 “20 Hauptfarben … Myrthengrün (vert de myrthe) … Grasgrün (vert d’herbe) … Eisengrau (gris de fer) … Silbergrau (gris d’argent, gris fin).” See Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 11. 108 “Röthlichgelb (Vogelgelb, oiseau; Röthlichstrohgelb, chaumont).” See Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 10–11. 109 “eine […] ziemlich reichhaltige Kollektion”, “passende Farbenmischungen und Schiller (glacés, will sagen Stoffe, deren Zettel und Einschuss von ganz verschiedener Farbe ist) herauszubringen.” Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 11. Interestingly, no mention is made of colour theories which Michel-Eugène Chevreul and others were developing at the time and which were to influence the production of fashionable textiles in the second half of the nineteenth century. For details, see Charlotte Nicklas, “One essential thing to learn is colour. Harmony, science and colour theory in mid-nineteenth-century fashion advice,” Joural of Design History 27 (2014): 218–36; and Regina Lee Blaszczyk, The Color Revolution (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2012), 33–36. 110 “Wassergrün (vert d’eau) … Fein Kirschenroth (cerise fin, rose).” See Dolder, Die Fabrikation, 10–11.

290

Alexis Schwarzenbach

Among mid-nineteenth-century Americans exquisite glacés appear to have been particularly popular as this group of textiles frequently appears in Caspar Baumann-Zürrer’s pattern books. While one can imagine them having worked splendidly for crinoline dresses fashionable at the time, this type of silk was not only used by women or for clothes alone. On an autumn Sunday in 1860, Emil Streuli and a friend were invited to lunch in West Hoboken at the Wettsteins, another Swiss family established in a then fashionable New Jersey suburb of New York. Before long, heavy rain set in which threatened to destroy Streuli’s light glacé boots (Glacéstiefelchen). Luckily for the two, their hosts provided them not only with umbrellas but Emil Streuli also with a pair of more solid boots. Thus his fancy Glacéstiefelchen returned to Bergen Hill unharmed and he could wear them again, perhaps next time on Broadway.111

111 TES, 14 October 1860.

Marketing avant la lettre: The Swiss Embroidery Industry 1850–1912 Eric Häusler

In the 1850s, the emerging Swiss embroidery industry was viewed as a curiosity by contemporaries, while its new machine-made products were met with scepticism by consumers.1 Spurred by rapid mechanisation and industrialisation, the industry experienced a period of unprecedented growth from 1865 to 1912.2 Entrepreneurs like Otto Alder (1849–1933), the Iklé brothers (Leopold (1838–1922), Ernst (1848–1936), and Adolph (1852–1923)), and Charles Wetter-Rüsch (1857–1921) played an important role in turning the Swiss embroidery industry into a remarkable episode of Switzerland’s economic history.3 It is not coincidental that exporters of Swiss embroideries utilized extensive marketing practices in order to establish their mechanically produced products at a time when the scale and speed of economic activity dramatically accelerated. It became progressively harder to base relationships on personal interactions. The transformation of the American economy and its increasing openness to imports from 1870 to World War I affected the industry’s most important export market.4 These challenging times were full of new 1 This article uses the phrase ‘Swiss embroidery industry’ in reference to satin stitch machine embroidery only. This industry accounted for ninety-eight percent of the value of embroideries exported from Switzerland in 1918. See Bericht des Kaufmännischen Directoriums über Handel, Industrie und Geldverhältnisse des Kantons St. Gallen im Jahre 1918 (St. Gallen: Zollikofer, 1918), 15. On the contemporary view of the Swiss embroidery industry as a curiosity and consumers’ skepticism regarding machine-made embroideries, see Hermann Wartmann, Industrie und Handel des Kantons St. Gallen auf Ende 1866: In geschichtlicher Darstellung (St. Gallen: Kaufmännisches Directorium in St. Gallen, 1875), 559, 561. 2 This article is based on the jointly written master’s thesis by Eric Häusler and Caspar Meili. See “Swiss Embroidery: Erfolg und Krise der Schweizer Stickerei-Industrie in globaler Perspektive 1865–1929” (master’s thesis, University of Zurich, 2011). For a condensed published version, see Eric Häusler and Caspar Meili, Swiss Embroidery: Erfolg und Krise der Schweizer Stickerei-Industrie 1865–1929 (St. Gallen: Historischer Verein des Kantions St. Gallen, 2015). 3 For more information on the origins of industrial entrepreneurship in Switzerland, see Ulrich Pfister, “Entstehung des industriellen Unternehmertums in der Schweiz: 18. und 19. Jahrhundert,” Zeitschrift für Unternehmensgeschichte 40 (1997): 14–38. August Müller attributed the industry’s success to the intelligence, resilience, and entrepreneurial spirit of its leaders. See “Die st. gallische Maschinenstickerei und ihre Entwicklung,” in Der Kanton St. Gallen 1803–1903: Denkschrift zur Feier seines hundertjährigen Bestandes (St. Gallen: Regierung des Kantons St. Gallen, 1903), vi. 4 On the transformation of the American economy, see Nancy Koehn, Brand New: How Entrepreneurs Earned Consumers’ Trust from Wedgewood to Dell (Boston: Harvard Business School Press, 2001), 5, 309. Contemporaries saw the end of the American Civil War as a key catalyst as it reopened a major market. See Verwaltungsbericht des kaufmännischen Direktoriums an die kaufmännische Corporation in St. Gallen vom 1. November 1863 bis 31. October 1865 (St. Gallen: Zollikofer, 1866), 22. Demand was so great and exports

292

Eric Häusler

business opportunities that many exporters of Swiss embroideries took full advantage of. The “powerful understanding of what rapid social and economic change meant for consumers’ needs and wants” was one of their entrepreneurial strengths.5 Although Switzerland’s venture in the textile and fashion sectors is not well-known today, the situation was different at the beginning of the twentieth century when the city of St. Gallen was known as the “embroidery centre of the world.” 6 Geographically, the industry was principally based in several of Switzerland’s eastern cantons (St. Gallen, Appenzell Innerrhoden, Appenzell Ausserrhoden, and Thurgau) where it employed as many as 70,000 people (approximately sixty percent of the industrial district’s working population).7 This was an export-driven business, one that became Switzerland’s leading export industry between 1907 and 1918, reaching a historic height of 210 million Swiss francs in 1912.8 During those years, the United States of America was the most important market (accounting for forty percent of export value), followed by Great Britain, Germany, and France (fifty percent of export value came from Europe).9 The story of this export industry encountered a turning point in 1912. Nearly fifty years of cyclical success that led to impressive growth succumbed to imminent signs of a fundamental crisis before the outbreak of World War I from which the industry never fully recovered (fig. 53).10 Despite its importance, the Swiss embroidery industry has not been studied from the perspective of marketing history. This article argues that a central pillar to the success of this industry was that Swiss entrepreneurs strategically employed marketing practices. These practices can be described as marketing avant la lettre, that is before the term entered the

quickly reached such high levels that the United States established a consulate in St. Gallen in 1866. See Kaufmännisches Directorium St. Gallen: Verwaltungsbericht an die kaufmännische Corporation in St. Gallen 1924/25 1. November bis 31. Oktober (St. Gallen: Weiss, 1925), 28.  5 Koehn, Brand New, 2.   6 W. A. Graham Clark, Swiss Embroidery and Lace Industry (Washington: Department of Commerce and Labor, 1908), 7.   7 Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 11. On the characteristics of industrial districts, see Charles Sabel and Jonathan Zeitlin, “Historical Alternatives to Mass Production: Politics, Markets and Technology in Nineteenth-Century Industrialization,” Past and Present 108 (1985), 144–47. The region around Lake Zurich was another contemporary area of textile production, where manufacturers produced broad dress silks to be used in clothing. See Alexis Schwarzenbach’s contribution to this volume.   8 The value of exported embroideries superseded that of all other Swiss industries during those years. In 1912 the export of watches (174 million Swiss francs), machines (93 million), cheese (65 million), chocolate (55 million), and condensed milk (47 million) all generated less value than that of embroideries. See Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 18.   9 Another eight percent were exported to Central and South America and the remaining sales were achieved by exports to Oceania, Asia, and Africa. See Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 67–70. 10 Häusler and Meili, “Swiss Embroidery,” 5.

293

Marketing avant la lettre 250

200

150

100

50

0 1850

1860

1870

1880

1890

1900

1910

1920

1930

1940

1950

1960

1970

1980

1990

2000

Fig. 53: The development of the real value of exported Swiss embroideries 1850–1950, indexed for 1889. Source: Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 12.

mainstream business world after World War II, before marketing departments emerged, and before marketing practices became part of the curriculum of business schools.11 In recent years historians have discovered marketing as an important concept through which cultural and economic history can be combined.12 The following analysis of mar11 Christian Kleinschmidt and Florian Triebel raised the question if one could speak of ‘marketing’ before the term was established in the middle of the twentieth century or if a fundamental change occurred on the basis of the phenomenon described. See their “Plädoyer für eine (unternehmens-)historische Marketing-Forschung,” in Marketing: Historische Aspekte der Wettbewerbs- und Absatzpolitik, ed. Christian Kleinschmidt and Florian Triebel (Essen: Klartext, 2004), 11. 12 Jakob Tanner and Frank Trentmann reference the economist John Kenneth Galbraith who suggested in the 1950s that marketing can create new wants and customer demand. Trentmann goes on to depict marketing as one of the central forces shaping consumption in his encyclopaedic study of the history of consumption. See Frank Trentmann, Empire of Things: How We Became a World of Consumers, from the Fifteenth Century to the Twenty-First (London: Allen Lane, 2016), 7–8; and Jakob Tanner, “Konsumtheorien in der Wirtschaftswissenschaft,” in Die Konsumgesellschaft in Deutschland, ed. Heinz-Gerhard Haupt and Claudius Torp (Frankfurt: Campus, 2009), 350. As Ann Smart Martin pointed out, the authors of The Birth of a Consumer Society made a similar argument when stating that marketing was one of the root causes for a new desire for the latest and most fashionable consumer goods. See her “Makers, Buyers and Users: Consumerism as a Material Culture Framework,” Winterthur Portfolio 28 (1993), 148; and Neil McKendrick, John Brewer, and J. H. Plumb, The Birth of a Consumer Society: The Commercialization of Eighteenth-century England (London: Europa Publications, 1982).

294

Eric Häusler

keting practices in the Swiss embroidery industry is meant to add to the discussion of the periodisation of marketing by introducing a new case study.13 This approach is consistent with Frank Trentmann’s proposal to extend the field of research regarding the history of consumption so that the diversity of consumer societies may be better understood. To that end, instead of the retelling of another ‘Anglocentric story,’ the study depicts the marketing practices of Swiss embroidery entrepreneurs.14 To date, the majority of research on marketing has been on the theory of and the discipline generally, rather than on the historical practices. Yet as scholars have pointed out, the majority of innovations and advancements have come through new practices.15 Consequently, here the focus is on marketing practices. In order to clarify the meaning of marketing avant la lettre, the first section considers different aspects of marketing, primarily its etymology and different definitions. The second part outlines the main characteristics of the Swiss embroidery industry and highlights the significance for the economic history of Switzerland. The third part probes marketing practices detectable in the second half of the nineteenth century. Here the focus will be – in accord with the term avant la lettre – on marketing practitioners (entrepreneurs) and their practices as opposed to providing a history of marketing thought.

1. Concepts of Marketing This article proposes that practices that can be classified as marketing were employed before the concept was framed. Therefore, it is vital to explore when the term marketing actually was coined and to understand how its meaning has evolved over time.16 In 13 On the controversial periodisation of marketing, see Hartmut Berghoff, Philip Scranton, and Uwe Spiekers­ mann, eds., The Rise of Marketing and Market Research (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012); Stanley Hollander, Kathleen Rassuli, D. G. Brian Jones, and Laura Farlow Dix, “Periodization in Marketing History,” Journal of Macromarketing 25 (2005), 35; and Kleinschmidt and Triebel, “Plädoyer,” 10–11. On the benefit of country-specific studies of marketing practices, see Mark Tadajewski and D.G. Brian Jones, “The History of Marketing Practice,” in The Routledge Companion to Marketing History, ed. Mark Tadajewski and D.G. Brian Jones (New York: Routledge, 2016), 19. 14 Trentmann, Empire of Things, 9–11. 15 See Hollander et al., “Periodization in Marketing History,” 32. Mark Tadajewski called for a return to the archives for the history of marketing. See his “The Complete English Tradesman – Business Relations, Trust, and Honesty or ‘Let’s rethink the history of relationship marketing’,” Journal of Historical Research in Marketing 7 (2015), 407. 16 Even though this article examines the marketing practices of entrepreneurs in the German-speaking part of Switzerland, the English etymology of marketing is relevant since the term was adopted into German. See Heribert Meffert, Christoph Burmann, and Manfred Kirchgeorg, Marketing: Grundlagen marktorientierter Unternehmensführung: Konzepte, Instrumente, Praxisbeispiele (Wiesbaden: Springer Gabler, 2015), 7. Roy Church and Andrew Godley agree that in business history, theory should be complemented by historical and archival research. See their “The Emergence of Modern Marketing: International Dimensions,” in The Emergence of Modern Marketing, ed. Roy Church and Andrew Godley (London: Cass, 2003), 4–5.

Marketing avant la lettre

295

considering its etymology, two definitions stand out. First, the original meaning that focused on trading or exchanges between sellers and buyers at a physical marketplace. Second, a later meaning moved towards the ‘modern’ understanding of the term relating to the business of selling commodities through certain techniques such as advertising or market research. The Oxford English Dictionary defines the first as “[t]he action of buying or selling, esp[ecially] in a market,” and the second as, “[t]he action, business, or process of promoting and selling a product, etc. including market research, advertising, and distribution.”17 The change from one meaning to the other appears to have happened around the beginning of the twentieth century. In 1884, Harper’s New Monthly Magazine reported on the great importance of St. Louis as a marketplace for cotton thanks to its favourable access to the Mississippi: “[t]his marketing of supplies was the beginning, as it is the staple, of its prosperity, and is connected with its situation on the great river.”18 This quote clearly relates to the older meaning of ‘bringing goods to market’ and does not correspond to the business sense of moving goods from producer to consumer with an emphasis on advertising and sales. The change to the later meaning however seems to have occurred shortly thereafter. While some scholars point to 1887 or 1897, Heribert Meffert, Christoph Burmann, and Manfred Kirchgeorg ascribe the change to Samuel Sparling’s “Introduction to Business Organization” published in 1906.19 Sparling’s definition emphasises the distribution of commodities through “establish[ing] a meeting-place for the seller and the consumer” but refrained from mentioning the way in which “additional value” was supposed to be reached by exchange.20 These contradicting timelines are a sign of a fundamental change in terminology. The original meaning of ‘bringing goods to market’ described any trade exchange and referred to the physical marketplace as the essential meeting place of seller and buyer. It is important to note that the change in meaning that occurred at the beginning of the twentieth century towards the ‘modern’ marketing term emphasized the achievement of reconciling production and demand through a marketing savvy producer. Moving beyond the etymology, it becomes clear that substantial changes in the conceptualisation of marketing emerged. Economists and historians studying marketing use varying definitions depending on the time, place or underlying focus being consid17 The first meaning was recorded in English in the sixteenth century. See “Marketing,” Oxford English Dictionary, http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/114186?rskey=fl19wp&result=1#eid. Accessed 17 October 2017. 18 William Henry Bishop, “St. Louis,” Harper’s New Monthly Magazine 68 (1884), 506. 19 Meffert et al., Marketing, 6. For the earlier dates, including one argument that dates the rise of the second meaning to the sixteenth century, see Mark Tadajewski and D.G. Brian Jones “Historical Research in Marketing Theory and Practice: A Review Essay,” Journal of Marketing Management 30 (2014), 1260. 20 Samuel Edwin Sparling, Introduction to Business Organization (New York: Macmillan, 1906), 17–18.

296

Eric Häusler

ered. The marketing textbook by Meffert, Burmann, and Kirchgeorg, representing the present-day German-speaking mainstream of marketing theory, includes fifteen different marketing definitions which span a century and are underscored by partly rivalling conceptions.21 The continuous and fundamental changes of the definitions and the conceptual broadness of the term illustrate that marketing is a concept that cannot be easily defined, especially without considering the respective historical context. Nevertheless, for the purpose of this article, two core elements of marketing and the benefits of successful implementation can be identified. First, customer orientation is at the basis of marketing. This ensures that all corporate activities are planned, coordinated, and controlled by aiming at present or future customers.22 In this sense, marketing is first and foremost geared towards designing and selling products according to a specific demand.23 Second, it is not simply a preferential treatment of demand, rather it bridges the gap between production and consumption.24 In doing this, entrepreneurs must “[reconcile] the imperatives of production with the needs and desires of customers.”25 When these two core elements are observed, marketing helps achieve a competitive advantage so that goods produced can be sold successfully.26 Marketing adds value not only by achieving a higher market price for a given product but also by increasing and securing future demand.27

21 Meffert et al., Marketing, 11–13. The American Marketing Association’s board of directors approved the following definition in July of 2013: “Marketing is the activity, set of institutions, and processes for creating, communicating, delivering, and exchanging offerings that have value for customers, clients, partners, and society at large.” See “Definition of Marketing,” American Marketing Association, https://www.ama. org/AboutAMA/Pages/Definition-of-Marketing.aspx. Accessed 17 October 2017. 22 Heribert Meffert, introduction to Die Entwicklung der Marketingdisziplin: Wandel der marktorientierten Unternehmensführung in Wissenschaft und Praxis, by Philipp Sepehr (Wiesbaden: Springer Gabler, 2014). 23 Roman Rossfeld, Schweizer Schokolade: Industrielle Produktion und Kulturelle Konstruktion eines nationalen Symbols 1860–1920 (Baden: hier + jetzt, 2007), 22. 24 Advertising is one of the techniques available to bridge the gap between supply and demand. The participation in world fairs or the management of customer relationships are others. 25 Hartmut Berghoff, “The Origins of Marketing and Market Research: Information, Institutions, and Markets,” in The Rise of Marketing, 1–2. Berghoff defines marketing as a social technology that systematically influences human behaviour and is in opposition to spontaneous, unplanned and intuitive acting. See: Berghoff, Marketinggeschichte: Die Genese einer modernen Sozialtechnik (Frankfurt: Campus, 2006), 11–12. 26 Marketing can help achieve a competitive or differential advantage by offering a product in unique ways that create more value for the buyer than competitors’ products and thus allow a premium price to be commanded. See Meffert et al., Marketing, 286–89. 27 In describing the emergence of the consumer society in the United States, Regina Lee Blaszczyk emphasizes the importance of the dialogue between American tastes and business tactics for imagining potential consumers. See her Imagining Consumers: Design and Innovation from Wedgewood to Corning (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), 1. Establishing long-term customer relationships is an important part of this process. See Tadajewski, “The Complete English Tradesman,” 413.

Marketing avant la lettre

297

Notwithstanding the lack of research on marketing practices, the history of marketing is a relatively young but flourishing subdiscipline of research.28 The interest in the history of marketing has grown substantially over the past thirty years.29 This has not changed the fact that the periodisation of marketing is fiercely contested and disagreements arise as to when marketing practices were first employed.30 For most marketing specialists, the 1950s signal the date which “they believe … marked a radical transformation of U.S. business rather than simply being a new label for long-established practices.”31 Other, more historically-minded studies place the date much earlier.32 This article contends that marketing practices originated in the actions of entrepreneurs of the eighteenth century.33 The astoundingly diverse practices employed by Josiah Wedgewood and his partner Thomas Bentley match many elements of the marketing concept described above.34 As Regina Lee 28 Marketing history offers perspectives that are productive for a wider historiography, for example, the history of consumption, the history of consumer society, and material culture studies. By helping to lower transaction costs, marketing assisted the creation of international exchange and multinationals as much or more than technological advances have. Church and Godley, “The Emergence of Modern Marketing,” 1–2. Furthermore, marketing can influence price competition as well as the perceived substance of a product hence influencing the question of substitutability. See Berghoff, “The Origins of Marketing,” 13. Consumers often are overwhelmed by too many choices, marketing can help them deal with the burden of choice. See Trentmann, Empire of Things, 5, 548–61; and Koehn, Brand New, 316–17. The American psychologist Barry Schwartz argues that having too many choices produces psychological distress for consumers. See his The Paradox of Choice (New York: Ecco, 2004), 221. 29 Tadajewski and Jones, “The History of Marketing Practice,” 1. Research in English is ahead of German research on the history of marketing. See Roman Rossfeld, “Unternehmensgeschichte als Marketinggeschichte: Zur Erweiterung traditioneller Ansätze in der Unternehmensgeschichtsschreibung,” in Marketing: Historische Aspekte, 21. 30 See Berghoff et al., The Rise of Marketing, and Hollander et al., “Periodization in Marketing History,” 35. Another issue is that some studies focus on the evolution of marketing address the development of marketing thought and the emergence of marketing as an academic field whereas other studies are dedicated to the study of marketing practices. See Berghoff, “The Origins of Marketing,” 1–11. 31 Stanley Hollander, “The Marketing Concept: A Déjà Vu,” in Marketing Management Technology as a Social Process, ed. George Fisk (New York: Praeger, 1986), 3. 32 Dates range from the second half of the nineteenth century to the 1700s or 1800s, even as far back as Hellenistic Greece or 40,000 years ago. See Hollander et al., “Periodization in Marketing History,” 32–33; Tadajewski, “The Complete English Tradesman,” 413; Tadajewski and Jones “Historical Research,” 1,246–48; and Tadajewski and Jones, “The History of Marketing Practice,” 18. 33 The import of textiles from Bengal by Portuguese merchants in the sixteenth and seventeenth century, described by Barbara Karl in this volume, appears to have much in common with marketing. According to the definition of marketing used here, it does not qualify as marketing avant la lettre for two reasons. First, these trading companies were not led by entrepreneurs; and second, they were confronted by an entirely different market with which they interacted infrequently. 34 Neil McKendrick labels the impressive salesmanship practiced by Wedgewood as marketing techniques but does not elaborate on his understanding of the term. See his “Josiah Wedgwood: An Eighteenth-Century Entrepreneur in Salesmanship and Marketing Techniques,” The Economic History Review 12 (1960): 408–33. Wedgewood is likely the most famous entrepreneur of the eighteenth century but he was not the only one who employed marketing practices, see Gabi Schopf ’s contribution to this volume. Trentmann describes Wedgewood and his partner Bentley as “kings of marketing.” See Trentmann, Empire of Things, 69.

298

Eric Häusler

Blaszczyk notes, marketing practices went hand in hand with manufacturing innovations and flexible specialisation in explaining Wedgewood and Bentley’s remarkable success.35 The diminishing influence of mercantilism and the beginning of the Industrial Revolution around 1760 were important prerequisites.36 Regarding the periodisation of marketing, the practices of entrepreneurs in the Swiss embroidery industry have more commonalities than differences with earlier pioneering practitioners such as Wedgewood. In this sense the eighteenth and nineteenth century can be described as a transformative period (Sattelzeit) for marketing avant la lettre.

2. Entrepreneurs and The Swiss Embroidery Industry In examining the rise of the Swiss embroidery industry, it is paramount to understand the role of entrepreneurial strategies. As Nancy Koehn notes generally, it was the achievement of entrepreneurs like Wedgewood (1730–95), Henry Heinz (1844–1919), and Marshall Field (1834–1906) to change “people’s daily priorities and behaviour in small but significant ways. Their agency thus comprised a crucial part of the material and cultural shifts accompanying great economic turbulence.”37 Moreover, they pursued “new business opportunities relentlessly, without becoming deterred by the limited resources that he or she initially controlled.”38 Such a description aptly summarises the attitudes and behaviours of Alder, the Iklé brothers, Wetter-Rüsch, and other exporters of Swiss embroideries in the nineteenth century. Swiss embroidery entrepreneurs were uniquely positioned to act as innovators. Following the central tenets of marketing, they used their keen knowledge of both supply and demand to create products that not only satisfied but also anticipated buyers’ evolving preferences. On the supply side, they were able to develop new production techniques

35 Further, Wedgewood and Bentley also served as the leading examples for American potters and glassmakers who emulated the model of design, production, and marketing in the nineteenth century. See Blaszczyk, Imagining Consumers, 4–11. 36 Joel Mokyr states that entrepreneurs played an important role as “agents of economic progress” in explaining the phenomenon of economic growth in the Industrial Revolution. See his “Entrepreneurship and the Industrial Revolution in Britain,” in The Invention of Enterprise: Entrepreneurship from Ancient Mesopotamia to Modern Times, ed. David Landes, Joel Mokyr, and William Baumol (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010), 202. On the change in the meaning of consumption that accompanied the end of mercantilism, see Tanner, “Konsumtheorien,” 336–37. 37 She continues, “[w]e cannot understand the birth of consumer societies in developing nations or the evolution of modern consumerism in industrialized economies today without understanding what these entrepreneurs did.” See Koehn, Brand New, 338. 38 Koehn, Brand New, 3.

Marketing avant la lettre

299

and designs.39 On the demand side, they had to convince customers that mechanically produced embroideries could compete with traditional hand embroidery.40 Part of their success can be explained by the fact that the leading entrepreneurs in the Swiss embroidery industry were able to make better decisions than the formerly important commission agents whose place in the industry they took over.41 In doing so, they were directly involved and thus acquired knowledge that let them process information quickly and seize opportunities that had not yet been exploited which enabled them to envision new products. The diverse tasks Swiss exporters consciously executed demonstrates their strategic and discretionary competence as entrepreneurs.42 Pioneering entrepreneurs like Alder, the Iklé brothers, and Wetter-Rüsch managed to rise above the competition and set industry standards. Each of them played an important role in product innovation and the creation of new markets.43 They all were leading members of the Swiss embroidery industry and many of their characteristics and business methods can be seen as representative of the industry’s exporters in the second half of the nineteenth century. Alder is the most prominent among them. After finishing vocational training in St. Gallen, he gained valuable experience as a salesman in Singapore before founding several different export firms and pioneering production techniques and new products. In addition, he was also entrusted with guiding the industry as a member and president of the Chamber of Industry and Commerce in St. Gallen, as a member of the Swiss Chamber 39 Mark and Catherine Casson describe innovation and marketing as inextricably linked. See their The Entrepreneur in History: From Medieval Merchant to Modern Business Leader (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 27. They further note, “Entrepreneurship often depends on a synthesis of information. It is not sufficient to know that there is a potential demand for a product, it also is necessary to know that it is possible to supply it.” See ibid., 121. 40 One of the greatest challenges for entrepreneurs, according to Koehn, is the ability to translate “a few buyers’ curiosity about new products into widespread customer loyalty.” See her Brand New, 1. 41 Häusler and Meili, “Swiss Embroidery,” 59–60. 42 On discretionary competence (strategische Entscheidungskompetenz) and a distinction of entrepreneurs and managers, see Hartmut Berghoff, Englische Unternehmer: Eine Kollektivbiographie führender Wirtschaftsbürger in Birmingham, Bristol und Manchester (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 21–22. The exact number of exporters is only available from 1896 on, whereupon it increased every year until 1912 (from 140 in 1896 to almost 225 in 1912). Furthermore, during this time period, aided by relatively low capital requirements, 300 new firms entered the market, while 200 firms exited. In short, this was an increasingly dynamic market with rising competition. See Häusler and Meili, “Swiss Embroidery,” 135–37. 43 On product innovation generally, see John Styles, “Product Innovation in Early Modern London,” Past & Present 168 (2000): 124–69. For more information on Alder, see Thomas Fuchs, “Otto Alder,” Histo­ risches Lexikon der Schweiz (HLS), http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D15063.php. Accessed 17 October 2017. On the exceptional role Alder played in the Swiss embroidery industry, see Ernest Iklé, La Broderie Mécanique 1828–1930: Souvernirs et Documents (Paris: Calavas, 1931), 234; Max Lemmenmeier, “Sticke­ reiblüte und Kampf um einen sozialen Staat,” in Sankt-Galler Geschichte 2003 (St. Gallen: Amt für Kultur des Kantons St. Gallen, 2003), 6:37.

300

Eric Häusler

of Commerce, as a technical expert in trade discussions with France and Germany, and as president of the Museum for Industry and Trade.44 He went so far as to claim that the embroidery machine was limitless in its production capabilities and had the ability to satisfy all customer demands.45 For Alder, the willingness to strive towards constant product innovation was fundamental to the success of an exporter.46 The Iklé brothers came from Hamburg, gained citizenship in St. Gallen, and established Iklé Frères, one of the most successful embroidery firms in eastern Switzerland. Leopold was the first president of the Federation of Industry in St. Gallen.47 Like Alder and the Iklé brothers, Wetter-Rüsch held important offices: he was president of the Association of Schiffli Machine Owners, a member of the board of directors of the Swiss National Bank, and a member of the Chamber of Industry and Commerce in St. Gallen. Moreover, he invented a process that made imitation lace (Ätzspitze) possible.48 In adopting new technologies to produce a wide array of products, the exporters could rely on the skill and knowledge readily available in the industrial district surrounding the city of St. Gallen. W. A. Graham Clark, a special agent of the department of Commerce and Labor of the United States, wrote a detailed report on the Swiss embroidery industry in 1908. According to him one of the main advantages of the industry was the “inherited aptitude of the St. Gall people for designing and manufacturing embroideries, which is fostered and aided by the concentration of the business in one place where everybody thinks and dreams about nothing but embroidery.”49 In fact, the cottage industry surrounding the city of St. Gallen offered great possibilities for flexible specialisation. Located there too were the two largest embroidery plants in the world which used methods of mass production by the end of the nineteenth century. The Stickerei Feldmühle and Arnold B. Heine & Co. were founded in 1895 in Rorschach and in 1898 in Arbon, respectively.50 The former was part of the Loeb & Schoenfeld Co. that proudly advertised itself as “The World’s Largest Manufacturers of Embroideries” in 1912 (fig. 54).

44 The kind of young industry they all were part of often is “characterized by a large number of entrepreneurial players.” See Koehn, Brand New, 318. 45 “Die Stickmaschine kann alles.” See Otto Alder, Rückschau eines Vierundachtzigjährigen (St. Gallen: Fehr, 1933), 50. 46 Otto Alder, Bericht über Klasse 34 der Weltausstellung in Paris 1889: Stickerei (Biel: Schüler, 1890), 32. 47 Leopold’s collection of embroideries and patterns can be found in the St. Gallen Museum for Industry and Trade. For more information on the Iklé brothers see Anne Wanner, “Leopold Iklé,” HLS, http://www.hlsdhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D27732.php. Accessed 17 October 2017; and Marcel Mayer, “Iklé,” HLS, http://www. hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D24994.php. Accessed 17 October 2017. 48 For more information on Wetter-Rüsch, Peter Müller, “Charles Wetter [-Rüsch],” HLS, http://www.hlsdhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D31160.php. Accessed 17 October 2017. 49 Clark, Swiss Embroidery, 8. 50 Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 81.

Marketing avant la lettre

301

Initially almost all embroideries were produced in an industrial factory setting but the cottage industry quickly gained importance. The percentage of hand embroidery machines owned by homeworkers (Einzelsticker) rose from around ten percent in the 1870s to almost eighty percent in 1910. In the 1880s, the diffusion of the Schiffli machine, which was based on the Fig. 54: Claiming global leadership. Advertisement in The Lace and Embroidery Review 7.1 (1911/1912), 20–21. principles of the newly invented sewing machine, was introduced but remained a factory industry. In 1910, less than ten percent of Schiffli machines were owned by homeworkers.51 In this complex industrial structure, production was based on flexible specialisation as well as mass production.52 Firms used a combination of both types of production as early as the 1850s.53 At this point in time, the firm Rittmeyer & Co. owned more than 100 embroidery machines and the Actienstickerei Kronbühl produced with 210 machines in 1876.54 The entrepreneurs quickly realized that the hand embroidery machine enabled them to use nearly all types of fabrics available (silk, linen, cotton, etc.) available and they promptly made use of new colours and threads. Nonetheless, the production of ready for sale embroideries required the work of several labourers to complete the steps in the fin51 Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 31–32. The introduction of the Fabrikgesetz (Factory Act) in 1877 acted as a catalyst for the cottage industry by restricting working hours for factories with seven or more machines and thus created an incentive for small scale production. 52 Michael Piore and Charles Sabel, The Second Industrial Divide: Possibilities for Prosperity (New York: Basic Books, 1984); Sabel and Zeitlin, “Historical Alternatives.” On the compatibility of Piore, Sabel, and Zeitlin’s concept with historical analysis, see Charles Sabel and Jonathan Zeitlin, eds., World of Possibilities: Flexibility and Mass Production in Western Industrialization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); and Blaszczyk, Imagining Consumers, 9–11, 273. 53 For examples of historical analyses that support the existence of hybrid forms of flexible specialisation and mass production, see Regina Lee Blaszczyk, “‘Reign of Robots’: The Homer Laughlin China Company and Flexible Mass Production,” Technology and Culture 36 (1995), 910–11; Christian Lubinski, “Im Labyrinth der Löhne: Betriebsmanagment durch Lohngestaltung im Kontext flexibler Spezialisierung: Der Maschinenbaubetrieb der Handelsgesellschaft Jacobi, Haniel und Hyssen 1869–1872,” Vierteljahrschrift für Sozial-und Wirtschaftsgeschichte 94 (2007), 287; Philip Scranton, “‘Have a Heart for the Manufacturers!’ Production, Distribution and the Decline of the American Textile Manufacturing,” in World of Possibilities, 330; and Béatrice Veyrassat, “Manufacturing Flexibility in Nineteenth-Century Switzerland: Social and Institutional Foundations of Decline and Revival in Calico-Printing and Watchmaking,” in World of Possibilities, 202, 222. 54 Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 80.

302

Eric Häusler

ishing process. Technological advancements made it possible to produce different types of embroideries or different embroidery motifs, such as appliqué work, and tulle or imitation lace, to name only a few. These techniques had to be adapted for use with the Schiffli machine in order to produce specialty products.55 The products, more than ninety percent of which were exported, were very diverse. They included staple goods used to decorate women’s and children’s clothing and accessories like white Bandes (trims attached to the end of a fabric in the shape of a strip) and Entredeux (connective inserts between two fabric parts). Other products included a range of innovations popular with both poor and rich women, such as neckties (1874), coloured embroideries (1875), dresses (Robes, 1876), smaller adornments like embroidered collars or cuffs (1870s), Flouncings and Allovers (1880s), and trimmings for scarfs or hats and handkerchiefs (1884).56 An example of the dominance of Swiss exporters in regard to the creation of new products and effects were embroidered nets that had such phenomenal success around 1890 that to observers at the fashionable horse-races in Paris, it seemed like a worldwide uniforming of female fashion had taken place.57 Another exceedingly important source of innovation was the imitation of lace. Endless efforts to produce new types of imitation lace quickly led to the reproduction of an entire range of ‘real’ lace which at first seemed inexhaustible.58 In all these efforts, the goal of exporters relying on flexible specialisation was to produce products of such outstanding quality that the layperson could hardly comprehend that the resulting elaborate objects were machine produced.59 Even though Bandes and Entredeux made up approximately eighty percent of the value of exported embroideries, by 1870 Swiss embroideries had gained an international reputation for innovative products (Noveautés).60 The high quality of these products was the most important distinguishing feature for Swiss embroideries on the world market.

55 Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 26–27. 56 Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 97–98. 57 Hermann Wartmann, Industrie und Handel des Kantons St. Gallen 1891–1900 (St. Gallen: Kaufmännisches Directorium in St. Gallen, 1913), 99. 58 Hans Beerli, Industrie und Handel des Kantons St. Gallen 1901–1910 (St. Gallen: Kaufmännisches Directorium in St. Gallen, 1921), 112. 59 Wartmann, Industrie und Handel 1891–1900, 101. It is important to acknowledge that the Swiss exporters did not sell their famous products to final consumers. The majority of products were semi-finished goods that required additional work by couturiers. Furthermore, sales agents often were used to establish connections in markets abroad. The Swiss embroidery industry made most of its turnover through trans­actions that would qualify as business-to-business transactions that were not based on the interaction with final consumers. 60 See Häusler and Meili, “Swiss Embroidery,” 95; and Victor Nef “Untersuchungen zum Standort der schweizerischen Stickereiindustrie” (PhD diss., University of Bern, 1920), 125.

Marketing avant la lettre

303

3. Marketing Practices in the Swiss Embroidery Industry As early as 1870, Jakob Steiger (1833–1903), another prominent exporter of Swiss embroideries, was well aware of the challenge consumers’ tastes presented to a potentially successful future for the Swiss embroidery industry.61 He stated: “we cannot expect that female customers from Turkey, China, and Japan will get rid of their thousand yearlong national attire in one magical moment and suddenly turn to the luxury of fickle French fashion in order to support our industry.”62 How did Swiss entrepreneurs apply the core principles of marketing avant la lettre? How did they design products to fit specific demands and how did they seek to synchronise production, supply, and demand? In examining their practices and thereby answering these questions, four main areas stand out.63 First was the creation of new designs and products. For example, Alder endeavoured to create something new for every season by constantly being on the lookout for new embroidery materials that had never before been used with an embroidery machine.64 Good fortune sometimes helped with this process as when by chance, Alder spotted metalized paper at a stationery shop, and applied the design to his embroideries to imitate the look typically achieved with sequins.65 Adding a further step, Iklé Frères & Co., the company of the three aforementioned Iklé brothers, had machines built to their specifications in order to affix metal and glass beads onto their embroideries.66 Ernst Iklé demonstrated his creativity when during a visit to Brussels, the idea to embroider christening robes (robes de baptême) with pleins occurred to him. Shortly thereafter, a Parisian merchant he befriended showed his customers Iklé’s new product. The reaction was so positive that an order for an entire collection of summer clothes using 61 For more information on Steiger, see Thomas Fuchs, “Jakob Steiger,” HLS, http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D29662.php. Accessed 17 October 2017. 62 “Wir können nicht erwarten, dass die Türkinnen, Chinesinnen und Japanerinnen sich ihrer tausendjährigen Nationaltracht durch einen Zauberschlag entkleiden und sich unserer Industrie zu lieb plötzlich dem Luxus der wankelmütigen französischen Mode zuwenden werden.” If not stated otherwise, all translations are by the author. See Jakob Steiger, Die Appenzellische Industrie: Bericht der Industriekommission an der Versammlung der appenzellischen gemeinnützigen Gesellschaft in Appenzell, den 13. Juni 1870 (Herisau, 1870), 28. 63 Based on the work of the philosopher Theodore R. Schatzki, Arndt Brendecke defines practices as “a ‘bundle’ of activities,” “an organized nexus of actions,” and “a set of doings and sayings.” See Arndt Brendecke, “Von Postulaten zu Praktiken: Eine Einführung,” in Praktiken der Frühen Neuzeit: Akteure – Handlungen – Artefakte, ed. Arndt Brendecke (Cologne: Böhlau, 2015), 15. This understanding of practices is very conducive for the description of the acts and strategies of Swiss entrepreneurs and the respective industrial district. 64 Alder, Rückschau, 45. 65 Alder, Rückschau, 46–47. 66 Iklé, La Broderie Mécanique, 84.

304

Eric Häusler

the same technique was immediately placed with Iklé. Impressively, the type of clothes as well as the colour changed in the process. Moreover, Iklé had met the customer’s wishes and successfully launched a new product. He concluded, “I conformed to his wishes and it is curious to think about the fact that my first venture into white fonds pleins for christening dresses turned into a huge success as off-white dresses.”67 Developing new products was often a collaborative process, involving business associates, pattern designers, and others.68 For instance, Wetter-Rüsch visited museums and collections to search for usable samples and ideas which resulted in ways to meet fashion demands of the day. With the help of a designer, he replicated handmade Irish lace using his hand embroidery machines.69 In another case, Alder was able to fill an order for Spanish tulle lace requested by an American customer by drawing on the experience of a supportive merchant and a factory owner who put aside his own interests and provided assistance from some of his weavers.70 Pattern designers also played an important role in the creation of new products. Their work often induced potential customers to place orders. Thus, the saleability of goods depended on their artistic and technical ability as well as their ability to incorporate contemporary fashion trends.71 Each year, up to a million and more patterns were designed in eastern Switzerland, enabling exporters to meet the needs of fashion conscious consumers. The variation of designs or the use of different cotton fabrics made many adaptations possible.72 At times specific customer requests provided the impetus for product innovation. When a client from London wanted silk instead of cotton embroideries, the company of August Fehrlin was happy to adjust production accordingly. “Hitherto we only made cotton embroidered initials, but there is no difficulty at all to do same in silk and we beg to assure you that our work will be at least equivalent to that of your sample.”73 In some cases, a delivery delay was accepted in order to assure the quality of a product. “Your orders have 67 “Je me conformai à son désir, et il est curieux de penser que me premiers fonds pleins en blanc pour robes de baptême, ont remporté un grand succès pour les robes de dames, non pas en blanc mais en écru.” See Iklé, La Broderie Mécanique, 36. 68 The cooperation between members of the same industry is typical for a successful industrial district. See Sabel and Zeitlin, “Historical Alternatives,” 144. 69 This product was exclusively produced for the North American market and was quickly in demand resulting in massive orders. See Ernst August Steiger-Züst, Schweizerische Landesausstellung 1914: Eine Schilderung der Ausstellung verbunden mit einer Darlegung geschichtlicher Entwicklung und der gesamten Organisation der Stickereiindustrie (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1915), 37–40. 70 Alder, Rückschau, 24–25. 71 See Steiger-Züst, Schweizerische Landesausstellung 1914, 3–4; and Johannes Stauffacher, Für Musterzeichner- und Kunstgewerbeschulen: Erziehung oder Drill? (St. Gallen: Stauffacher, 1903), 15, 33. 72 Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 58. 73 See Stadtarchiv St. Gallen (hereafter StadtASG), PA, V, 9, Stickerei August Fehrlin, letter to Boyd & Co. (London), 2 November 1895.

Marketing avant la lettre

305

our best attention, but at the beginning of silk work, our workmen must go a little slowly, so to let you have good quality only.”74 Business associates were also quite helpful in the creation of designs. For example, Alder’s friendship with Mr. Barschal, the head of the firm Baumann & Co., gave him valuable insights into newly developing fashion trends. While travelling, Barschal shared information on fashion developments in his personal letters. One of these letters included two handmade samples of Richelieu embroideries. From that, Alder discerned an upcoming demand for large collars in women’s fashion.75 Turning these ideas and requests into actual designs and products, however, often required technological innovations and tremendous determination. Alder, for instance, was only able to produce the large collars based on handmade Richelieu embroideries, after he followed the Coué method.76 In another instance, Alder successfully imitated Madeira style embroideries originally produced by Portuguese craftswomen by adapting them for production for hand embroidery machines.77 In a third example, Alder anticipated a demand for plush embroideries, and after working together with a well-known mechanic for weeks, they were successful in developing the product.78 The successful imitation of lace (Ätzspitze), one of the most important product innovations in the history of the Swiss embroidery industry, was another such case of technological advancement. Here, Wetter-Rüsch’s willingness to experiment for days in his own kitchen resolved persistent technical problems which had to be overcome before production could start.79 After a long and exasperating process, Wetter-Rüsch was able to implement practical applications after years of costly and painstaking efforts.80 The examples described above mirror the process of co-creation now prevalent among companies in the twenty-first century that engages external sources, such as customers or suppliers, in the creative process to develop products and services.81 The same process characterizes Alder’s description of the distribution of roles between technically experi74 See StadtASG, PA, V, 9, Stickerei August Fehrlin, letter to Boyd & Co. (London), 16 November 1895. 75 Alder, Rückschau, 22. 76 The Coué method was introduced by Émile Coué around 1900 as a way to self-improvement through the repetition of mantra-like auto suggestive phrases. Thanks to Alder’s tireless work, several samples of the typically handmade Richelieu embroideries were sent to potential customers in the United States and the resulting demand was large enough to require forty workers to be employed. See Alder, Rückschau, 22. 77 Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 78. 78 Alder, Rückschau, 43–44. 79 Steiger-Züst, Schweizerische Landesausstellung 1914, 37–38. 80 Wartmann, Industrie und Handel 1891–1900, 97. 81 Coimbatore Krishnarao Prahalad and Venkat Ramasawamy, “Co-Creation Experiences: The Next Practice in Value Creation,” Journal of Interactive Marketing 18.3 (2004): 5–14. Practices that are similar to co-creation can be traced back to the eighteenth-century silk industry in Lyon or the English wool industry. See Carlo Poni, “Fashion as flexible production: The Strategies of the Lyons Silk Merchants in the Eighteenth Century,” in World of Possibilities, 37–74; and John Smail, Merchants, Markets and Manufacture: The Eng-

306

Eric Häusler

enced exporters from St. Gallen and fashion makers from Paris. “From this intimate collaboration which married Parisian taste with the technical aptitude of the producers from St. Gallen, novelty products that could not be found anywhere else emerged much to the amazement of customers around the world.”82 The second major way that Swiss entrepreneurs used modern marketing practices was to tailor their designs and products to specific regional markets. For example, Wetter-Rüsch exclusively sold an imitation of handmade Irish lace to the American market.83 Doing so, however, required learning more about the individual markets and what local consumers desired. Exporters used a variety of sources in order to gain this knowledge. Trips abroad, visits to the famous horse-races of Auteuil and Longchamps, information gathering tours to archives, antiquarian bookshops, and museums in Paris and other cities were common.84 Alder travelled to London at the beginning of the 1870s because he wanted to make new contacts with English importers. At first, he presented a sample collection to several interested merchants and even though it was geared towards the American market, he succeeded in not only enlisting a sales representative for his firm but also landing several orders. Alder was not content with this initial success and went on to study English tastes in detail to maintain long-term sales.85 He was aware that simply traveling to potential markets with open eyes and ears was not sufficient to gauge customer demand and remain inspired.86 Having branches, stores, or employees (including family members) stationed abroad, was another way of gaining insight into customer preferences. Firm size was an important consideration and gave large companies an advantage. For instance, the Stickerei Feldmühle and Arnold B. Heine & Co. had their own branches in New York City which enabled them to sell to customers directly. Loeb & Schoenfeld advertised their transatlantic network and praised their products with the slogan “Loeb & Schoenfeld’s Embroideries Are Supreme Wherever Fashion Reigns.” Middle-size firms like Reichenbach & Co. could also rely on branches in Paris, Luxeuil, London, New York, Berlin, and Plauen where family members were employed whenever possible.87 The production sites of William Meyer & Co., manufacturers and importers of embroideries, were located in St. Gallen lish Wool Textile Industry in the Eighteenth Century (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 1999). Nonetheless, there is a critical difference when the consumer is part of the co-creation. 82 “De cette collaboration intime, de ce mariage du goût parisien avec les aptitudes techniques du fabricant St-Gallois sortaient des nouveautés qu’on ne trouvait nullepart ailleurs, et qui faisaient l’épatemment des clients du monde entier.” See Alder, Rückschau, 57. 83 Steiger-Züst, Schweizerische Landesausstellung 1914, 37–40. 84 See Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 79; and Walter Schläpfer, Wirtschaftsgeschichte des Kantons Appenzell Ausserrhoden (Herisau: Appenzell-Ausserrhodische Kantonalbank, 1984), 304. 85 Alder, Rückschau, 17. 86 Alder, Rückschau, 17. 87 Louis Reichenbach, Die Firma Reichenbach & Co. seit ihrer Gründung (St. Gallen: Zollikofer, 1914), 9. The employment of family members in the textile trade was common. See also Alexis Schwarzenbach and Karl

Marketing avant la lettre

307

Fig. 55: Supreme, wherever Fashion reigns. Advertisement in The Lace and Embroidery Review 7.3 (1911/1912), 24–25.

and Amriswil but they also had a branch on Broadway in New York, and others in Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia, and St. Louis (fig. 55).88 The third major way was to develop close contact with customers. For example, the majority of exporters did not have access to an elaborate sales organisation with branches abroad. Instead, they relied on visits by potential customers to the Börse in St. Gallen. Such visits had many advantages: they helped foster producer-client relationships, they provided direct client feedback to producers, and they allowed producers to display and show off other goods.89 Alder excelled at building close relationships with longstanding and recurring customers. He was keenly aware of the economic value of trust-based customer relationships and deeply appreciated the fragility of such relationships.90 For example, a trip to Appenzell Borromäus Murr and Michaela Breil’s contributions to this volume. Schwarzenbach’s contribution specifically explores how Swiss competitors from the region of Zurich conducted their business in America. 88 See advertisement in The Lace and Embroidery Review: A Journal Exclusively for the Buyer of Laces, Trimmings, Embroidery, Veilings, Neckwear and Handkerchiefs 2.3 (1909), 1. 89 This kind of contact with customers was common and essential to the textile industry. See the example of Johann Heinrich Mayr in Ernest Menolfi’s contribution to this volume. 90 “Bei grosser Nachfrage liegt die Gefahr nahe, zu pfuschen, die Kontrolle lax werden zu lassen; und so wird Ware spedirt, welche zwar Dank der grossen Vogue unbeanstandet passirt, welche aber, einmal in

308

Eric Häusler

with an important garment maker from Paris resulted in the birth of a new fashion trend. While driving through the villages of Appenzell, the guest from Paris noticed decorative material draping many of the houses. Alder explained he was looking at Jupes de Dimanche. Then when shown a traditional Sunday dress, the garment maker was so impressed that he placed an order for pleated skirts with Alder and a new fashion for plissés began in Paris.91 In another case, a close American business friend who was often invited to Alder’s home expressed disappointment at not placing an order with Alder because he was only interested in filet lace on that visit. To his tremendous surprise, Alder presented him with exquisite imitation filet lace produced with the hand embroidery machine and a business deal was transacted.92 Alder also took time to entertain customers and thus got to know his customers better. To that avail, he kept significant quantities of wine in his cellar. He understood that friendships could not be measured by the size of orders.93 The border between friendships and business relationships became blurry, which could lead to a business advantage. As competition among Swiss exporters developed, every effort was made to invite customers into homes since experience indicated that this was a way to become better acquainted with potential buyers.94 The fourth major way that Swiss entrepreneurs used marketing avant la lettre was through presenting their wares at major international conferences like exhibitions and fairs.95 Such conventions were an accessible and productive form of advertising that served die Hand des Konsumenten gelangt, denselben nicht befriedigt und ihm bald eine Abneigung gegen ein unsolides und unvollkommenes Fabrikat einflösst. Wenn es einmal so weit gekommen ist, dann geht es rasch bergab, und das Vertrauen wieder zu gewinnen, hält ja bekanntlich 100 Mal schwerer, als sich dasselbe zu erhalten.” See Alder, Bericht, 32. 91 Alder, Rückschau, 25–26. 92 Alder, Rückschau, 51–54. For Alder, satisfaction came from being able to present an entirely new product, modest monetary success was, he claimed, secondary to him. See ibid., 43–44. 93 Alder, Rückschau, 25–26. Alder writing on his friendships with customers: “Es bildeten sich Freundschaften, die sich keineswegs nach der Grösse der Bestellung bemassen.” See ibid., 41. 94 “Es bestand ein Wetteifer im Bestreben, die Käufer abends zu sich einzuladen, weil die Erfahrung zeigte, dass man dadurch nicht nur dem Käufer, sondern auch dem Menschen näher trat.” See Alder, Rückschau, 41. Alder was not the only exporter from which we have reports of close relationships with customers. Johann Georges Nef, an associate of the firm Nef & Co., developed similar connections to a business partner from Milan. During a speech commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the firm in 1951, the friendship between both families that began fifty years earlier was fondly traced. See Staatsarchiv Appenzell Ausserrhoden, Pa.016, Privatarchiv J.G. Nef/Nelo AG, 15/1, Rede des Firmeninhabers Johann Georges Nef zur 50-jährigen Firmentätigkeit 1951, 1–2. 95 World fairs, such as those that took place in London (1851, 1862), Paris (1855, 1867, 1878, 1889, 1900), Vienna (1873), Philadelphia (1876), and Chicago (1893), became especially popular during the second half of the nineteenth century. See Wilhelm Meile, Die Schweiz auf den Weltausstellungen (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1914), 2. On the potential of world’s fairs for the advertisement of Swiss embroideries, see Anne Wanner-Jean Richard and Marcel Meyer, “Vom Entwurf zum Export: Produktion und Vermarktung von Sankt-Galler Stickereien 1850–1914,” in Sankt-Galler Geschichte 2003, 6:143. Nouveautés and other spe-

Marketing avant la lettre

309

two primary goals. One, they raised awareness of national industries and their products to trade professionals and the general public.96 Two, the fairs awarded medals and prizes, thus giving distinction to the best products. At the first two world fairs in 1851 and 1855, only handmade embroideries were exhibited. At the third world fair that took place in London in 1862, the Swiss embroidery industry presented hand machine embroideries for the first time. Five years later in Paris, the Swiss collection was awarded a gold medal, the only one awarded for embroideries. All eight of the individual Swiss participants exhibiting hand machine embroideries won gold medals for their novel products. This was an important achievement because it helped to establish machine-made embroideries as a qualitative substitute equivalent to handmade embroideries.97 The Swiss embroidery industry won further medals at the next three exhibitions in Vienna (1873), Philadelphia (1876), and Paris (1878). With their reputation firmly established, the Swiss embroidery industry showed less interest in participating in the fairs in the 1880s and 1990s, declining to send a collective delegation to either Paris in 1889 or Chicago in 1893.98 As Alder concluded from the world fair in Philadelphia in 1890, “luckily St. Gallen is known across the globe. Everybody involved in selling embroideries knows of St. Gallen as a renowned site of production … Moreover the Swiss embroidery industry is present in nearly all regional markets through agents or branches.”99 A commission representing the embroidery industry at the Swiss national exhibition (Schweizer Landesausstellung) in Bern in 1914 reported that industrialists were questioning the relevance of exhibitions for the promotion of sales. At the same time, the commission stated that the reason for the industry’s lack of interest in exhibitions had nothing to do with the quality of embroideries as such. On the contrary, embroidery exhibits

cialty products were overrepresented at these fairs. See Alder, Bericht, 18; and Steiger-Züst, Schweizerische Landesausstellung 1914, 9–13. 96 Companies did not only present their products individually but also as part of a collective, national delegation. Conducting business transactions was permitted but on-site sales numbers were not high enough to assure that participation in a given exhibition would be a worthwhile investment. See Häusler and Meili, “Swiss Embroidery,” 102–103. 97 Gangolf Delabar, Allgemeiner Bericht über die Pariser Weltausstellung von 1867: Mit Berücksichtigung der schweizerischen und insbesondere der st.gallischen Betheiligung (St. Gallen: Huber, 1869), 110. 98 The extraordinary effort of individual firms, especially Reichenbach & Co., ensured that the Swiss embroidery industry was represented in Paris in 1900 stands as a notable exception. See Leopold Iklé and Charles Wetter-Rüsch, Spitzen, Stickereien und Passamenterien: Bericht (Weltausstellung in Paris 1990: Klasse 84) (Neuchatel: Delachaux & Niestlé, 1901), 18–19. 99 “Glücklicherweise ist St. Gallen weltbekannt. Alles, was Stickerein führt, kennt St. Gallen als altbekann­ ten Produktionsort. … Ausserdem unterhält nicht allein der grosse Exporteur in allen Weltteilen und auf allen Märkten seine Agenten oder gar Filialen, sondern im manchen Absatzgebieten ist selbst der kleinste Fabrikant vertreten.” See Alder, Bericht, 19.

310

Eric Häusler

Fig. 56: Branding an industry: “Swiss Embroidery.” From: Anne Wanner-Jean Richard, “Maschinenstickerei: Bedeutung und Entwicklung,” in Stickerei-Zeit: Kultur und Kunst in St. Gallen 1870–1930, ed. Peter Röllin (St. Gallen: Verlagsgemeinschaft St. Gallen, 1989), 87.

were especially suited to increase the interest of perspective customers and heighten the glamour of any exhibition.100 Apart from taking part in exhibitions, exporters of embroideries from eastern Switzerland advertised their products in different ways. Alder mentioned samples as one form of advertisement. He was convinced that the industry had enough other resources to gain recognition for their products without exhibitions (fig. 56). In advertising their products, a national or industry wide brand was never formally created. Individual firms, however, prominently advertised their Swiss origin (fig. 57, 58, 59).101 The world’s two largest embroidery plants and also smaller companies adopted this practice. Oppenheimer, Alder & Co. called themselves “Makers of ‘La Suisse’.” They advertised their embroideries with the image of a woman embroidering by hand sitting in the Swiss countryside overlooking a picturesque valley with the Alps in the distance. The advertisement carried a concise message, in today’s terms, the brand promise: “La Suisse. Quality. Art. Beauty.” The advertisement Gustav Igstaedter & Co. placed in the Lace and 100 StadtASG, KA R.175, 6, 1b, Stickereiausstellungen an der Landesausstellung in Bern 1914: Staatsbeitrag: Botschaft, 1913, Nr. 1786, 1–2. 101 This was not always the case. When Swiss embroideries were first sold in America in 1853 by Samuel Henry, their origins were disguised. Tasked by a firm from New York, he imported Swiss embroideries to the North American market under the name Hamburghs. This designation was supposed to mislead the competition and keep the source secret. Although the deception was recognized as early as 1856, those products were known as Hamburghs for a while. Soon envelopes with viewing windows were used for the export of embroideries. These envelops were lavishly decorated and labelled ‘Swiss Embroidery’ to make sure consumers were aware of the products’ origin and status as being manufactured in Switzerland (see figure 56).

Marketing avant la lettre

311

Fig. 57: “Makers of La Suisse’.” Advertisement in the The Lace and Embroidery Review 7.4 (1911/1912), 10–11.

Embroidery Review shows a ‘Swiss maid’ with braided blond hair in typical traditional dress in front of a stylized drawn image of St.  Gallen with snow-covered Alps in the background.

Fig. 58 : “The brand promise: La Suisse”. Detail of an Advertisement in The Lace and Embroidery Review 2.3 (1909), 4.

312

Eric Häusler

Fig. 59: “Swiss-Maid: Using Swissness”. Advertisement in The Lace and Embroidery Review 21.4 (1920), 9.

Conclusion Efficiently managing customer relationships enabled Swiss exporters to establish two-way communication with their customers and build long-term relationships.102 The industrial district of the Swiss embroidery industry not only helped establish trust among industry members but also between exporters and customers. Furthermore, it helped exporters

102 Koehn cites reciprocal learning and the ability “to earn consumers’ trust and keep it” as preconditions for entrepreneurial success. See her Brand New, 329–32, 337.

Marketing avant la lettre

313

to ‘leverage’ their social contacts.103 Alder, Wetter-Rüsch, and other Swiss entrepreneurs routinely helped each other and benefited from the knowledge of other members of their industry. They could activate their own personal network and did not have to pay external technical experts for advice. At the start of the twentieth century, this remarkable cooperation between individual entrepreneurs was increasingly replaced by competition and a lack of industry wide coordination. This can also be attributed to the fact that the number of exporters increased markedly from approximately 150 in the 1890s to more than 350 around 1920.104 This was one of the many reasons that the success of the Swiss embroidery industry from 1850 to 1912 could not be maintained. In the years after World War I, the export value of Swiss embroideries decreased rapidly and reached a low point around 1945 with levels comparable to those of 1870.105 One reason for this change might have been that the successful marketing practices implemented by pioneering entrepreneurs could not be transferred to future generations. Instead of relying on cooperation and established marketing practices, many exporters entered into a price competition during the 1920s that was seen as ‘cannibalistic’ by a leading trade journal.106 Prior to that, there was a rich success story, one that marketing played a key role in. Essentially, Swiss embroidery entrepreneurs used the following four principles intuitively as well as strategically: 1. Align production imperatives with those on the sales side and link innovation to customer demand 2. Get to know regional markets and market segments 3. Manage customer relationships 4. Use exhibitions, advertising, and branding as tools of strategic communication While the Swiss practitioners were not aware of marketing as a concept, they seized the opportunity at the end of the American Civil War and strategically implemented these four principles. Most of the time, their practices encompassed more than one principle at once.

103 The Cassons explicitly mention the productive effect of exchanges between entrepreneurs and ‘their’ industrial district. See Casson and Casson, Entrepreneur, 48. Mokyr defines the ability to trust and cooperate with others as a necessary element of successful entrepreneurship. See his “Entrepreneurship and the Industrial Revolution,” 202. 104 Häusler and Meili, Swiss Embroidery, 88. 105 See figure 53 on the development of real value of exported Swiss embroideries. 106 See “Zur Lage der Stickerei-Industrie,” Die Stickerei-Industrie: Organ des Zentralverbandes der schweize­ rischen Handmaschinenstickerei 41.25 (1925), 2.

314

Eric Häusler

By following these principles during the second half of the nineteenth century, the leading entrepreneurs of the Swiss embroidery industry practiced marketing avant la lettre.107 By successfully creating a global image for Swiss embroideries, their efforts were instrumental for the industry’s success as a whole. All members of the Swiss embroidery industry profited from this image including the world’s two largest embroidery producers, entrepreneurs in the flexible specialisation sector, and members of the cottage industry. Alder complained about the negative aspects of being a pioneer in the Swiss embroidery industry. Competitors began to copy his innovative products and sold them at lower prices. While his customers continuously requested the creation of new embroideries, he was opposed to any kind of patent protection. Such measures certainly would have benefited his business. Because he wanted to avoid detrimental effects to the industry as a whole, according to his own words, he placed the industry’s common interest higher than his own interests.108 What conclusions can be drawn from the example of the Swiss embroidery industry for the history of marketing? Economics in general and marketing in particular often suffer from adopting an ahistorical perspective.109 In order to adequately study marketing and understand its relevance from the eighteenth century onwards, it is imperative to address this lack of historical perspective. The historical example of the Swiss embroidery industry clearly shows that aspects celebrated in twenty-first-century marketing, such as customer relationship management, should be interpreted as merely a return to the roots of typical entrepreneurial behaviour in the second half of the nineteenth century. At the same time, a deeper understanding of marketing – one that links producer and consumer – can certainly enrich historical studies of consumer society.

107 A similar shift from production orientation towards market orientation took place in the Swiss chocolate industry at the same time. See Rossfeld, Schweizer Schokolade, 465. Rossfeld correctly remarked that a listing of marketing activities in itself is not proof of a consistent market orientation of companies. See his “Unternehmensgeschichte als Marketinggeschichte,” 27. However, this note of caution does not apply to these entrepreneurs, the reported leaders of the Swiss embroidery industry, who continuously and strategically coordinated marketing practices in their undertakings. 108 “Ich kann nicht umhin, hier eine Bemerkung einzuflechten über die Undankbarkeit der Rolle eines Bahn­ brechers in der Stickerei-Industrie. Wenn wir z. B. einen neuen Effekt oder einen neuen Artikel in der nächsten Saison weiter ausbauen wollten, und dementsprechend gemustert hatten, lehnte die Kundschaft ihn oft ab mit der Begründung, diesen Artikel finde man jetzt auch in den Kollektionen einer Reihe anderer Fabrikanten, und zwar billiger; von uns aber erwarte man etwas Anderes, ‘Neues!’ … Man könnte einwenden, dass man ja hiegegen einen gesetzlichen Schutz schaffen könne. Dies wurde denn auch verschiedenen Seiten angestrebt, aber selbst von mir abgelehnt, … weil damit wohl dem Einzelnen, nicht aber dem Gesamtinteresse der Stickerei-Industrie gedient wäre.” See Alder, Rückschau, 65. 109 See Hollander, “The Marketing Concept,” 22; and Kleinschmidt and Triebel, “Plädoyer,” 12.

  PART 3



The Consumption of Textiles: Clothes and Fabrics

The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe: Imports, Consumption and the Influence of Indian Cottons on Denmark 1660–1806 Vibe Maria Martens

Historians have argued that the growth of European consumption of Indian cotton textiles paved the way for European industrialisation. Several European states were engaged in direct Asian trade through trading companies with state monopolies and support. All the trading companies imported large quantities of Indian cottons. The same European nations also wished to reduce the dependency on imported Asian textiles, and many therefore banned imports of Indian cotton textiles with the exception of white or untreated cotton textiles, which were then printed on, or otherwise decorated in Europe. Outside England, however, this strategy of banning imports of printed or loom-patterned Indian cottons allegedly to encourage national cotton printing manufactures did not work.1 This was most certainly the case in the kingdom of Denmark-Norway. The initial Danish trading company trading in India, the Ostindisk Kompagni (East India Company, 1616–1729) and the later and larger Asiatisk Kompagni (Asiatic Company, 1732–1844) hold particularly detailed archives through which it is possible to assess the legal Danish imports of Indian cotton textiles between 1672 and 1806. The so-called ‘calico craze’ for printed cottons in England has been pertinently questioned by Giorgio Riello, who has shown that the majority of Indian cotton imports were not printed calico, but rather white cotton textiles.2 The assessment of the Danish company, as well as some private, imports in the period 1672–1806 provides a similar result: it was not the printed cottons that constituted the largest share of imports into Copenhagen, but rather white or untreated Indian cotton textiles.3 1 The failure of this strategy outside of England was noted by the Danish contemporary commentator Ole Jørgen Rawert. See his Om klædemanufakturerne i Danmark (Copenhagen: Rangel, 1813), 5. 2 Giorgio Riello and Tirthankar Roy, eds., How India Clothed the World: The World of South Asian Textiles, 1500–1850 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 332. In the Danish sources, printed calico is called sirts, which is often translated as chintz. I will use the word chintz in this article to describe printed or painted cottons. 3 In order to decipher what a named cotton cloth may have looked, or how it was applied in the trade, information on textile terminology has been obtained a variety of resources. See Satyaprakasa Sangara, Indian Textiles in the Seventeenth Century (New Delhi: Reliance, 1998); Brun Juul, Naturhistorisk, økonomisk og teknologisk handels- og vareleksikon indeholdende en beskrivelse over alle de rå og forædlede produkter, fabrikater og manufakter forsaavidt de ere gjenstand for handelen, 3 vols. (Copenhagen: Soldins, 1807); Colleen Kriger, Cloth in West African History (Lanham: AltaMira, 2006); Ole Jørgen Rawert, Almindeligt Varelexicon, 2 vols. (Copenhagen: Soldenfeldt, 1831); Giorgio Riello and Prasannan Parthasarathi, eds., The Spinning World. A Global History of Cotton Textiles, 1200–1850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009);

318

Vibe Maria Martens

This article presents evidence on the volume of Danish trade in Indian cottons, as well as an examination of the most common types of cotton textiles employed in the trade compared to the trade of other European nations in the eighteenth century. To that end, the chapter discusses Danish re-export of Indian cottons and their application in printing workshops across Europe. It then pivots to a microstudy of one prolific merchant in Copenhagen and his history and involvement in trade with Indian cotton textiles. Finally, the article briefly assesses the increased consumption and use of cotton in eighteenth-century Denmark. On that basis, the article offers an overview of the Danish trade in Indian cottons in the long eighteenth century, as well as an assessment of how these textiles were consumed, for what, and by whom.

1. Danish Trade in Indian Cottons: Volume, Types, and Significance To understand more about the extent and volume of the Danish trade in Indian cotton, it is first necessary to assess it quantitatively. The archives provide the detailed return cargoes of 108 individual ships from the period 1672–1806.4 The period between 1660– Riello and Roy, How India; Chris Nierstrasz, Rivalry for Trade in Tea and Textiles: The English and Dutch East India Companies (1700–1800) (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2015); Henry Yule and A. C. Burnell, Hobson-Jobson: A Glossary of Colloquial Anglo-Indian Words and Phrases, and of Kindred Terms, Etymological, Historical, Geographical and Discursive (London: John Murray, 1886); K. N. Chaudhuri, The Trading World of Asia and the English East India Company, 1660–1760 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978); William Milburn, Oriental Commerce: Containing a Geographical Description of the Principal Places in the East Indies, China, and Japan, with their produce, manufactures, and trade (London: Black, Parry & Co., 1813); John Irwin, “Indian textile trade in the seventeenth century: I. Western India,” Journal of Indian Textile History 1 (1955): 4–33; John Irwin, “Indian textile trade in the seventeenth century: II. Coromandel Coast,” Journal of Indian Textile History 2 (1956): 24–42; John Irwin, “Indian Textile Trade in the Seventeenth Century: III. Bengal,” Journal of Indian Textile History 3 (1957): 58–74; John Irwin, “Indian Textile Trade of the Seventeenth Century: IV. Foreign Influences,” Journal of Indian Textile History 4 (1959), 57–64; Stanley A. Alpern, “What Africans Got for Their Slaves: A Master List of European Trade Goods,” History in Africa 22 (1995): 5–43; Donald C. Wellington, French East India Companies: A Historical Account and Record of Trade (Lanham: Hamilton, 2006); David Eltis and Lawrence C. Jennings, “Trade between Western Africa and the Atlantic World in the Pre-Colonial Era,” The American Historical Review 93 (1988): 936–59; Stephan Diller, Die Dänen in Indien, Südostasien und China (1620–1845) (Wiesbaden: Harrasowitz, 1999); and Johan Beckmann, Varemagazin eller Indledning til kundskab om fremmede vare (Copenhagen: Soldings, 1797). 4 The 108 cargoes are described in a number of different archives. Only the precise composition of the return cargoes of 108 ships can be found in the written sources today (of the 447 returned ships from India) of which the earliest description of a return cargo is from 1672, which is why the database covers a cargo of 1672 as the earliest. The majority of the archives that detail return cargoes are from the Asiatic Company archives, where lists of return cargo goods are detailed, typically in printed auction catalogues from when the goods were sold in Copenhagen, in which purchaser, price, and amount of pieces purchased have been noted. Other sources include printed advertisements of goods from India ships being sold as well as a number of different account books from the Asiatic Company archives. The majority sit in the Danish Na-

The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe

319

tional Archives, Rigsarkivet (hereafter RA). RA, 444 (443), Ostindisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Diverse dokumenter 1681–1839, nr. 206B; RA, 303, Rentekammeret Danske Afdeling Kammerkancelliet, Tabellariske oversigter m.v. over told, konsumption og accise 1664–1818 B 1720 – B 1799, nr. 2215–320; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Negotie-journal 1732–1840 1732 juli 31 A – 1737 marts 31, nr. 563; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Negotie-journal 1732–1840 1737 april 1 B–1739 marts 31, nr. 564; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Negotie-journal 1732– 1840 1739 april 1 C – 1741 marts 31, nr. 565; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Negotie-journal 1732–1840 1741 april 1 D – 1743 marts 31, nr. 566; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Negotie-journal 1732–1840 1743 april 1 E – 1748 marts 30, nr. 567; RA, 232, Danske Kancelli. Komm. ang. den Esmarckske arkivaflevering, A.G. Moltkes protokol solgte ladninger i Asiatisk Kompagni 1753–1757, nr. D148; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Negotieprotokol for skibet ‘Cron Prinsen’ 1760–1762, nr. 869; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Hovedbog og journal for ‘Grev Moltke’ 1763–1763, nr. 871B; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Journal og brevkopibog for ‘Cron Prinzen af Dannemarck’ 1765–1767, nr. 870; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Hovedbog for ‘Cron-Princen’ 1767–1769, nr. 872; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Negotie-journal for skibet ‘Cron Princen’ mm. 1770–1772, nr. 873–874; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Skibsprotokol for ‘Dronning Caroline Mathilde’ 1771–1773, nr. 2306; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Negotie-journal 1732–1840 1775 April 1 C–1777 Marts 31 D, nr. 575–576; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Negotie-journal 1732–1840 1777 april 1 E – 1779 marts 31 F, nr. 577–578; RA, 369, Kommercekollegiet Ostindisk sekretariat, Journalsager 1777–1797 1785 286–410, nr. 981; RA, 370, Kommercekollegiet Ostindisk Fags Secretariat, Oversigter over told af skibsladninger fra ostindien mm. 1795–1807, nr. 2052; RA, 379, Den kgl. danske manufakturhandel, Indkomne fakturabog for den ostindiske paketfart mm. 1803–1814, nr. 4048–4049; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789–1839 Bergen 1794 september 8 mm., nr. 416H-416S; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789– 1839 Cronborg 1796 august 4 mm., nr. 417M-417U; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789–1839 Cronprinsesse Marie 1796 februar 24 mm., nr. 417A-417E; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789–1839 Fredensborg 1799 september 4 mm.., nr. 419L-419Q; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789–1839 Princesse Friderica 1795 juli 15 mm.., nr. 416T-416AB; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789–1839 Providentia 1786 september 25 mm., nr. 420A-420H; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789–1839 Roeskilde m. v. 1799 marts 20 mm., nr. 419A-419K; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789–1839 Skatmester Grev Schimmelmann 1796 juni 2 mm., nr. 417F-417L; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789–1839: Norske Løve 1797 september 25 mm., nr. 418HI-418R; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer 1789–1839, Providentia 1786 september 25 mm., nr. 416–416G; RA, 444, Asiatisk Kompagni Afdelingen i København, Auktionsregnskaber over indk. ostindiske og kinesiske varer Dannebrog 1797 marts 15 mm.; nr. 418A – 418G. The Royal Library (Det Kongelige Bibliotek, KB): nr. 23–21,8o, Handels-Tidender og andre især indenlandske Efterretninger 1788–1798 (1788; 1789; 1792); KB, nr. 2820.4o, Gl. Kgl. Samling, Farrago Miscellaneorum, in qva: a) Adskilligt om Island, Norge og de Nordiske Lande samt Anmærkninger til den norske Krönike. – b) Discursus historicus om de Engellænders og Nederlænders Sejlads udi Norden, paa Dansk. – c)  De Augmundo [Øgmund Pálsson] Episcopo Skalholt. qvædam latine [partim ex Br. Sveinssson]. – d) Adskilligt om Grönland og Spitsbergen. – e) Aftegning af Castellet Dansborg i Ostindien samt H. Mads Rasmussens Reise-Beskrivelse til Ostindien 1623 etc. med Carga derfra af 1696, 1699 og 1700, samt Dori trykte

320

Vibe Maria Martens

1806, however, had 431 ships returning to Copenhagen carrying Indian goods, and thus it was necessary to aggregate the import numbers to know the full extent of the Danish import of Indian cotton piece goods. The aggregated total of imported cottons from India has been calculated on the basis of the number of ships that returned to Denmark from India, rather than yearly averages, as there were years in which no ships were engaged in this trade.5 The intervals have been set as follows: 1660–1700, 1701–50, 1751–60, 1761–74, 1775–90, 1791–95, 1796–99, and 1800–1806. These intervals have been fixed based on how the known cargo information is spread out during these years, and by considering the amount of unknown return cargoes from the different intervals. This has been done to ensure that the existing information on the composition of return cargoes are not exaggerated or skewed throughout the period. The aggregated figure for the amount of piece goods shipped from India to Denmark during the period 1660–1806 (both years included) comes to a total of 17,402,672.6 There was, however, great fluctuation in the amount of textiles being shipped in any given period. For one, there was significantly less Dano-Indian trade in the first half of the eighteenth century, than in the second half. There are two principle reasons for this (fig. 60). First, the Ostindisk Kompagni experienced several difficulties in the first half of the century, ultimately culminating in the company going bankrupt and being dissolved in the late 1720s. Second, the Great Nordic War (1700–20) significantly affected not only the Danish economy, but also the East India Company’s economic ability to trade with India, resulting in fewer ships setting sail from Copenhagen. As a result, the small numbers of imported cottons in the early decades of the century was not solely due to small or lessening demand, but rather due to an inability to supply the funds for acquiring goods in India. Commercial enterprises, particularly textile manufactures, grew in Denmark (as elsewhere across Europe in the first half of the eighteenth century) and likely added renewed vigour to Dano-Indian trade. Likewise, the balance of trade was prioritised by the Danish administration, and as the international state of the market was improving, these factors all contributed to the Danes’ ability to equip more ships to sail for India from the middle of the century onwards. Gratulationer til Christian Bielke, Berenth Andersen og Carsten Christens Richter 1672, 1675 og 1676, it. en Beskrivelse over Ostindien, og endelig Udtog af nogle Danske Ostindiske Skibs-Journaler. – f) Om de Danskes Sejlads paa Guinea og Vestindien (1674–1700). 5 I believe that the calculations of aggregate amount of piece goods imports are as precise as they can possibly be in the Danish case since they are based on the amount of known return ships rather than yearly averages. It has not been attempted to do a calculated aggregate number of imports by year, as the existing data does not allow any representational analysis. Please also note that a very small number of silk textiles and silk stockings are also included in these numbers. 6 The known number of imported cottons are the quantities found in the assessment of 108 cargoes, see footnote 4.

The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe

321

Fig. 60: The known number of imported piece goods per cargo (light grey column) and the totals of the known and aggregated imports added together by interval (dark grey column), into Copenhagen, 1660–1806.

The largest aggregate quantity of imported piece goods occurred during the so-called Florissant era, between 1775–1790, where just shy of seven million pieces were imported when aggregated (fig. 60).7 A significant drop in imports occurred following the Florissant era, during the early 1790s, and increased only incrementally by the end of the 1790s, only to decline again in the first six years of the nineteenth century. The reasons for the drop in imports are uncertain, but there was a general downturn in cotton manufacturing in Europe in the early 1790s.8 Even if Danish trade followed the general tendencies of the other European traders in Asia, there is no evidence suggesting that the Danes were a serious competitor to any of the major companies, the English East India Company (EEIC) or the Dutch Verenigde 7 This period in Danish history is called the Florissant era because of Denmark’s decision to remain neutral in international conflicts, which in turn meant they could benefit from the various trade embargoes imposed on other European nations trading in Asia and other global locales. 8 According to Stanley Chapman and Serge Cassagne, this was a Europe-wide phenomenon, and was due to a collapse of the exchange rate. See their European Textile Printers in the eighteenth century: A study of Peel and Oberkampf (London: Heinemann Educational, 1981), 159–61. Another cause for the European cotton manufacturing sector’s decline in production from 1783 allegedly was the Treaty of Versailles (1783) according to J. O. Bro-Jørgensen, Tiden 1730–1820, vol. 2 of Industriens Historie i Danmark (Copenhagen: Gad, 1943), 141.

322

Vibe Maria Martens

Oostindische Compagnie (VOC), or even for the French company (FEIC).9 The aggregated total of piece good imports into Copenhagen is dwarfed by the number of imports by the EEIC and VOC.10 Direct comparisons between the imports of the French company and the Danish is more difficult to ascertain, but the French certainly sent more ships to India than the Danes.

2. Distribution of Aggregate Imports by Comparison to Size of Population Assessing how many of the imported cottons reached Danish consumers, however, is a far more difficult task. Calculating the per capita imports is one approach. While this figure in itself shows nothing about the spread, dissimilation, or use of cottons, it can form the basis of illustrating how the trade developed over time and how this may have affected the population and their access to and consumption of the imported piece goods. In 1699 when the Danish population was about 596,000, at least 47,147 pieces of Indian textiles were imported.11 Leaving re-exports aside for the moment, this gives an average of 0.08 pieces for every man, woman, and child across the kingdom. This figure suggests that that impact was very small at the end of the seventeenth century. In 1735, there was a total of 180,465 imported pieces and a population size of approximately 680,000, which gives an average of 0.2 pieces per capita. By 1755, the imports amounted to 264,239 pieces, and population size to 751,000, for an average of 0.3 pieces per capita. By 1785, it had risen to an average of 1.5 pieces per capita, and just above 1 piece per capita by 1796.12 By 1806, the decline in   9 The Portuguese trade in Indian cottons is more difficult to assess, see Maria João Ferreira, “Asian Textiles in the Carreira da Ìndia: Portuguese Trade, Consumption and Taste, 1500–1700,” Textile History 46 (2015): 147–68. A more direct comparison between both amount of ships engaged in Indian trade and the known number of imported Indian cottons to Denmark and across Europe is included in the thesis: Vibe Maria Martens, “Indian Textiles in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Denmark: Trade and the Rise of a Global Consumer Culture” (PhD diss., European University Institute, 2017). 10 Chaudhuri, Trading World, 540–45; Huw Bowen, East India Company: Trade and Domestic Financial Statistics, 1755–1838, UK Data Service, https://discover.ukdataservice.ac.uk/catalogue?sn=5690. Accessed 19 October 2017; and Graph K in Nierstrasz, Rivalry, 129. 11 All known returned ships and their cargoes are believed to be included in this number. This means that the average number of imported piece goods for one year is calculated on the basis of average imports per ship for the relevant interval. Population size from table 3.1 and table 44.41 in Hans Chr. Johansen, Danish Population History (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2002), 44, 80. It should be noted, however, that these figures reflect only parts of the kingdom’s territories, as it was composed in the eighteenth century. The population size thus includes inhabitants of Norway and the northern territories Iceland, Greenland, the Faroe Islands as well as the ‘tropical colonies’ but not parts of southern Jutland. This is due to matters of how archives have been organised and their dissemination. 12 See table 4.1 in Johansen, Danish Population, 80. The population figures are also averages for set intervals. The same calculation method has been used in these examples of piece goods per capita as described earlier. For 1785, fourteen ships are not recorded in the archive, and five are missing for 1796.

The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe

323

the Danish trade is once again apparent when the average dropped to 0.2 pieces per capita.13 Given the amount of re-export, these numbers of pieces imported per capita are difficult to assess. However, their comparison to other European countries are revealing for how their trade must have affected the countries and the consumption by their inhabitants differently. These randomly selected years where one year’s imports can be compared to a known population size vary greatly between the different countries. The Danish figures most closely resemble the numbers for VOC imports and the Dutch population, where, for example in 1699, the VOC imported 250,000 pieces of Indian textiles, and had a population of 1.4 million at a low estimate, giving an average of 0.18 pieces per capita for 1699.14 In 1755, they also imported about 250,000 pieces but then had a population size of about 1.9 million people, and thus the Dutch population then had an average of 0.13 pieces per capita in 1755, whereas the Danes had almost three times as much (0.3 pieces per capita) for the same year. What this illustrates, although difficult to use as a representative statistic, is that the Dutch imports per capita dwindled so as to more or less match the Danish equation by the mid-century, but was somewhat larger at the onset of the eighteenth century. Turning to the behemoth that was English imports of Indian textiles, if totalling imports from Bengal, Madras, and Bombay, the EEIC imported 721,593 pieces in 1701.15 The population was 5.29 million people, which means an average of 0.13 pieces per capita.16 This figure remained the same in 1731 before declining by more than half to 0.057 per capita in 1760. This means that the English rate of pieces per capita was smaller than the Danish, by a rather large margin, and especially so after 1760.17 13 The figures of piece per capita also only represents certain selected years. This means that for all the other years not detailed here, there were other numbers of piece goods imported, but the population size only changed slightly throughout the eighteenth century. The actual size of one piece itself also meant rather different actual lengths and widths of a cloth, depending on the type of Indian cotton. 14 The Dutch import figures are from Michel Morineau. See his “The Indian Challenge: seventeenth to eigtheenth centuries,” in Merchants, Companies, and Trade: Europe and Asia in the Early Modern Era, ed. Sushil Chaudhury and Michel Morineau (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 243–75. Unfortunately, table 13.1 is rather imprecise in its visualisation for VOC piece goods imports. The population size is taken from table 21 in David B. Grigg, Population Growth and Agrarian Change: A(n) historical perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 149. 15 Chaudhuri, Trading World, 540–45. 16 See Appendix 5, including tables C.20, C.21, and C.22 in Chaudhuri, Trading World, 540–45. The total imports seemingly suggested by Nierstrasz by use of both Chaudhuri’s study and primary source material, suggests between 750,000 and 800,000 pieces of total imports in 1700 for the EEIC. See Graph K in Nierstrasz, Rivalry, 129. 17 This more or less corresponds with the estimates allegedly put forward by Riello, according to Helen Clifford. See Giorgio Riello, Cotton: The Fabric that Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 15. Quoted in Helen Clifford, “‘There is another sort of Baftas about the Qualities of these’: some thoughts on quality in relation to East India Company goods,” History of Retailing and Consumption 1 (2015): 2–7. Clifford quotes Riello that imported Indian cotton goods into England equated “less than one square yard per person per year.” However, this reference cannot be located in Riello’s work.

324

Vibe Maria Martens

French demographics had an entirely different trajectory than the other European nations mentioned here. France was far more populous in the eighteenth century, but there is no precise number of inhabitants before 1770.18 This means that there are fewer years for when such a comparison can be made. When it is made for the year 1770, the French average was, unsurprisingly, far lower than that for other European countries, at 0.002 pieces per capita.19 While the numbers of piece goods per capita do not show how the textiles were perceived, used, or consumed by the European populations, they do indicate the degree of involvement of the various trading companies, states, and merchants in the global trade of Indian cottons. The comparison shows at least that France had the smallest ratio of piece goods per capita, whereas Denmark had the highest. Both the Netherlands and England were in between and closer to the Danish numbers than the French, even if the English average dropped significantly after 1760 (and thus became closer to that of France). Naturally, these numbers do not take into account the issue of re-export, but it is important to know that in terms of population, the Danes imported the largest number of piece goods from India per capita. The issue of re-export remains a wild card, but it at least gives evidence that while the Danish imported quantitatively far less than other European companies, each Danish person had as much cotton, measured in pieces, available to them as other European citizens.

3. Most Common Imports of Piece Goods by Typology Another aspect of the trade in Indian cottons is knowing what the most typical types of cottons were, what they looked like, and what they were used for in Europe. The Danes imported cotton textiles with at least 200 different names, but the focus here will remain on those that were most common. The majority were white cottons, most of which would have been sold across Europe for further refining or re-exported to North America or Russia. Baftas, cassa, pano comprido, gorras, guzinas, salempuris and sannas were 18 See Jacques Dupaquier, “French Population in the 17 th and 18 th Centuries.” in Essays in French Economic History, ed. Rondo Cameron (Homewood, IL: R. D. Irwin, 1970), 150–169. 19 It should be noted, however, that unlike the import numbers of piece goods for the other European countries, the numbers for the French imports are neither comprehensive nor aggregate to cover the total imports of Indian cotton piece goods to France, which naturally adds to the large discrepancy in numbers. The numbers for English imports are actual totals, whereas the Danish and Dutch ones are aggregate. See Appendix 1 in Felicia Gottmann, Global Trade, Smuggling, and the Making of Economic Liberalism: Asian Textiles in France 1680–1760 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, forthcoming), 175. Gottmann quotes Donald Wellington, French East India Companies: A Historical Account and Record of Trade (Lanham, MD: Hamilton Books, 2006), 188–89.

The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe

Fig. 61: Baftas sample, 1730s (Barrington archive, Danish National Archives).

325

commonly white cottons, and they made up the majority (60 percent) of the known return cargoes. Some contemporary samples from the 1730s of these types of cottons can be seen in figures 61, 62, and 63, giving evidence that each of bafta, cassa, gorra, pano comprido, and sanna were indeed white when imported from India.20 Thirty percent of known imports were made up of variously coloured cottons: printed, painted, and some loom-patterned varieties can be found among the entries of romals (fig. 64), salempuris, and mamudies. The final ten percent are made up of several differently named cotton cloths, of which less than five percent were cattun.21 The testimonies given of their various qualities in trade dictionaries, suggests that while they were neither all coarse or only of middling quality, nor were they super fine or even supe-

20 RA, 446, Det vestindisk-guineiske kompagni Charles Barrington, C. Barrington med “Grevinden af Laurwigen” hjemførte arkiv (1725–1738: 1737–1738), nr. 219. This archive, although mostly pertinent to the Swedish East India Company, sits in the Danish National Archives because the Englishman Charles Barrington who was employed by the Swedish Company had leased a Danish ship for the return journey from India, when the Swedish one had been lost: John Furber, Rival Empires of Trade in the Orient 1600–1800 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1976), 223. 21 Cattun is a generic word for cotton that according to the auction protocols and could have been either white or coloured. Some of the other terms include molle molle, salempuris, nanquin, bandanoes, terindam, tanjebs, guinees, corrots, betilles/berilles, muslin, zirsach, nansuck, gingang, neckerchiefs, carradaries, hummuns/hammans, dosooties/desooties, addities, jamdanies, dimity, turbans, isseries/izarees, neganepaeux, cashmire, copidores, murri, pano canari camis, pano camis, pano siale, uttisal, suckerdon, elatsie/elatzie, abatzi, sastracundies, bajutapeaux, nicanees, nilly/nillas, tepays, tappy (taptenquinias?), sander cupies, longi, pano negro, habatzie, lansols, and rensicoh (list not exhaustive). On the names of Indian cotton textiles in the Swiss cantons, see John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Global Goods in Local Languages: Naming Indian Cottons in the Swiss Cantons,” in Names and Naming in Early Modern Germany: Making Words and Finding Meanings, ed. Joel Harrington and Beth Plummer (New York: Berghahn Books, forthcoming).

326

Fig. 62: Cassa (cossa) sample, 1730s. The red warp thread seen here and in the gorras sample, are lines indicating at which length the fabric should be cut, and the person taking the sample has likely not known its purpose, since they have been cut below or above the line (Barrington archive, D ­ anish ­National Archives).

Fig. 63: Gorras (gurrahs) sample, 1730s (Barrington archive, Danish National Archives).

Vibe Maria Martens

rior in terms of quality, when considering quality through the fineness of the thread and density of the weave.22 That the vast majority of imports were white cottons suggests a few conclusions on the inner workings and purpose of the Danish trade. First and foremost, the trading activities took place with the intention of being sold on to merchants and manufacturers who would utilise them for cotton printing or embroidery, either in Denmark and abroad.23 Legislation attempted to regulate this, making it illegal to import printed cottons from distributors other than the Danish East India (or Asian) company, even if it seems the Danish manufacturers were unable to meet demand.24 The small share of chintz (1.54 percent of known imports) emphasises that we cannot presume that a ‘calico craze’ for printed calicoes or chintzes occurred in Den-

22 There are several relevant sources, but the most important ones in Danish are Juul, Vareleksikon; and R ­ awert, Varelexikon. In addition to the historic works there are a number of scholarly contemporary works that include characteristics of the differently named Indian cotton textiles. See Riello and Parthasarathi, “Glossary,” in The Spinning World, 409–20; Riello and Roy, “Glosary” in How India, 437–41; and Chaudhuri, Trading World, 549–51. 23 As will be explained in the following paragraphs, several merchants in Denmark were also engaged in printing Indian cottons. Embroidery on white cottons or muslins are common in museum collections, such as in an empire dress of Indian muslin with embroidery in a flower pattern in the Designmuseum Denmark collection (museum no. D 6/19810) and several from the V & As collection as depicted in Sonia Ashmore, Muslin (London: V&A Publishing, 2012). 24 Rawert, Klædemanufakturerne, 8; and Hans Holck, De Kongelige Danske Rigers og Fyrstendømmers Statsog Handels-Spejl (Copenhagen: Avise-Contoiret, 1780), 75–80. See also Martens, “Indian Textiles,”; and Vibe Maria Martens, “Cotton Printing at the European Fringe: the Case of Denmark,” in Actes Oberkampf et la toile de imprimée XVIIIe – XIXe siècles: Production, Création, Consommation, ed. Esclarmonde Monteil (Jouy-en-Josas, France: Musée de la toile de Jouy, 2018).

The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe

327

Fig. 64: A so-called handkerchief, printed cotton, early nineteenth century (Danish National Archives).

mark. Instead, it suggests more of a slow trickle of many different typologies of cottons; a similar result to what Giorgio Riello argued for England.25

4. Re-export and Networks of Trade In order then to fully comprehend the extent and reach of the cotton piece goods imported by the Danes, it is necessary to understand how many of the imported piece goods were re-exported. Only when this is established will it be possible to consider the impact that the imported cottons had on Danish consumption and material culture.26 Considering that cotton printing was not an extensive industry in Denmark, yet most Danish imports were white cottons, a significant share of them must have been re-exported. Unfortu25 Giorgio Riello, “The Indian Apprenticeship: The Trade of Indian Textiles and the Making of European Cottons,” in How India Clothed the World, ed. Giorgio Riello and Tirthankar Roy (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 309–46. 26 There must have been a rather substantial amount of Indian cottons that were continuously placed in circulation to other European countries and across the rest of the world after its initial arrival in one of the major European ports. Neither the results presented here, nor that presented elsewhere by other scholars, is able to address this almost self-contradictory circumstance of intra-European circulation of cotton textiles. The impact of Indian cottons and cotton textiles on Danish consumption patterns and material culture is further discussed and analysed here: Martens, “Indian Textiles,”; and Benjamin Asmussen and Vibe Maria Martens, Business Encyclopedia of the Oldenburg Monarchy, www.oldenburgbusiness.net. Accessed 3 July 2017.

328

Vibe Maria Martens

nately, no records survive that describe the business dealings of the merchants and merchant houses who purchased cottons on auction in Copenhagen, so it is not possible to assess who the initial purchasers sold the cottons to (whether Danish or foreign). Only two of the initial purchasers also owned cotton-printing manufactures: Frederik Holmsted and Reinhard Iselin.27 Fortunately, it has been possible to identify some places and cotton printing manufactures across Europe who bought white Indian cottons textiles from Danish merchants. Indian cottons were sold to both the cotton printing business Laué & Co. in Wildegg and the company DeLuze & Co. in Neuchatel through the same agent in the 1780s.28 Another example was two bales (or 140 pieces) of cassa from Luckipore, India, arriving to Copenhagen in 1786, that were sold to Fazy and Henry Favre in Geneva.29 France, despite having its own East India trading company, was another destination. The permanent exhibition at the Musée de la Toile de Jouy celebrating the Oberkampf cotton-printing manufacture close to Paris, also lists Copenhagen as one of the ports from which Oberkampf purchased white cottons for use in his factory.30 Although dispatches from Copenhagen of Indian cottons for printing was likely not in great quantities, links between Copenhagen and the famed Toile de Jouy manufacture clearly existed and could have been further explored if desired by contemporaries. These links between Copenhagen, Neuchatel, Wildegg, and Jouy confirms that there were extensive networks in place, interwoven between European centres of printing and the Danish hub for import of Indian cotton textiles. Unfortunately, despite extensive research to find quantitative figures for re-export of cottons imported from India, this information is unobtainable. There are some hints in secondary sources, where some scholars claim that up to eighty percent of all goods 27 For more on these two men, merchants and entrepreneurs, see Asmussen and Martens, Business Encyclopedia. 28 Staatsarchiv Aargau (hereafter:StAAg), NL.A-0105, Mappe 3, Laué & Co. Wildegg, letters from 30 July 1782, 22 November 1785 and 25 November 1785. I would like to thank Gabi Schopf for sharing this information with me. See also her contribution to this volume. 29 I would like to thank Liliane Mottu-Weber, professor emeritus at the University of Geneva, for this reference. The 140 pieces of cassa were sold to them by a Swiss immigrant to Copenhagen, Pierre Peschier (whose story is detailed later in this chapter). This transaction is a testimony to the close ties to the Huguenot community in Switzerland to which Peschier originally belonged. Unfortunately, upon arrival of the goods to Geneva, it was discovered that they were rotten and therefore useless, making the purchase an unpopular one. See Asmussen and Martens, Business Encyclopedia. Reflective of the general decline of the European cotton imports at the end of the eighteenth century, Peschier wrote to Laué & Co. through their agent to let them know that the market for Indian cottons in Copenhagen was “consistently low” at the time and that “prices remained at an all-time low and seemed to continue to fall.” See StAAg, NL.A0105, Mappe 3, Laué & Co. Wildegg, letter from 30 July 1782. 30 This reference exists in the biography published by Oberkampf ’s nephew. See Alfred Labouchere, Oberkampf (1738–1815) (Paris: Hachette, 1874), 62–63. Labouchere also mentions that Copenhagen was one of the places to which the toiles de jouy were sold.

The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe

329

imported to Denmark from India were re-exported.31 All contemporary sources that lend some insight into the volume of re-exports, use monetary quantities and not by-the-piece numbers, and vary greatly over time: for the years 1763–70, for which there are details, between four and thirty-six percent of Indian goods were re-exported.32 Despite the very little evidence, these numbers do not support claims of re-export of Indian goods at eighty percent. In addition, the dispersal and assimilation of cottons by Danish consumers through numerous different sources likewise do not support such high rates of re-export.33 While the levels of re-export throughout the period under investigation are extremely pertinent to understand and assess the impact of the Indian cotton piece goods that actually stayed in the country, an attempt to estimate re-exports of Indian cottons from Copenhagen is a nearly impossible exercise. Nonetheless, a tentative conclusion can be made in that it seems plausible that large quantities of other Indian goods were indeed re-exported, but it seems less likely that Indian cottons were re-exported at rates as high as eighty percent. This since it appears Danish merchants were unable to resell large quantities of Indian cottons to other European merchants in successive transactions, as shown with the few transactions to the Swiss merchant houses and the limited resale to the factory in Jouy. This may have been since the quality of the imported white cottons, respective to their price were not adequate and better offers could be found elsewhere (European cotton printers could also turn to England and the Netherlands).34 The directors of the Danish companies, therefore, likely had good reason to be upset and criticize the quality of the imported cottons, which led to problems of financing of return cargoes. Without the purchasing power to secure good quality cotton textiles, the Danes were less of a competitor, both in obtaining the textiles in India as well as in the market for redistribution and re-export.35

5. The Networks, Consumption, and Purchases of Indian Cottons of the Wholesale Merchant Pierre Peschier While the major trading companies brought these new and exotic Indian and Asian goods to Europe, it was domestic merchants who were vital in coordinating and securing their further trade and consumption. Using the wholesale merchant Pierre Peschier as a case 31 Diller, Die Dänen, 111. 32 Julius Schovelin, Fra den danske Handels Empire: Forhold og Personer i det 18. Aarhundredes sidste Halvdel, 2 vols. (Copenhagen: Det Nordiske, 1899), 1:235–37. 33 Martens, “Indian Textiles.” 34 Martens, “Indian Textiles,” chapter four. 35 Martens, “Indian Textiles.”

330

Vibe Maria Martens

study, the remainder of this chapter will first present with whom merchants like Peschier traded, and second, the levels of consumption in eighteenth-century Denmark. Peschier was an active purchaser of Indian cottons in Copenhagen. In the period between 1786 and 1798, from a total of ten cargoes for which there are explicit records, Peschier bought nearly 69,000 Indian cotton piece goods.36 These 69,000 pieces were made up of twenty-two different varieties of Indian cottons, some of which were very common in the cotton imports to Europe, including romals (fig. 64 shows an example), which were used as handkerchiefs or as shawls or fichu around the shoulders. He also bought varieties of muslin called durias and molle molle; as well as chintz, blue and white gingham, baftas from the small Danish factory in Patna (in Bengal), and a number of white cottons probably intended to be printed, such as gorras, cassa, emerties, and guzinas (or guzzies, as they were called in England). Peschier was born in Geneva in 1739, and in his twenties, embarked upon his mercantile education which took him to Portugal, the Netherlands, England, and France, where he sought in particular to know more about the East India trade and its goods.37 In 1768, he came to Denmark at the request of fellow French Reformist merchant Frédéric de Coninck (1740–1811), who had become an affluent merchant in Copenhagen and Peschier subsequently worked for de Coninck for a number of years.38 Peschier is perhaps the only wholesale merchant of the eighteenth century of whom the archive divulges some details that can be assessed by historians today.39 Some records pertaining to Peschier’s merchant house have survived because his merchant house was taken over by the state around 1804, when the state required a complete overview of the financial circumstances of the business.40 Through these records it is possible to create a snapshot of Peschier’s business connections before 1804. It was a period, however, in which his business experienced a steep decline. Despite his financial troubles, Peschier had a far-reaching financial network that included debtors from across Europe, Russia, and even one in the Danish West Indies on the island of St. Croix.41 It also included business connections in Hamburg, Amsterdam, Ostende, Bordeaux, Arendal, Farsund, Stockholm, Les Halles, Altona (near Hamburg, then a Danish town), Frederiksstadt (likely Friderichstadt in Schleswig), Leipzig, Stettin, Berlin, Liège, Lille, Nantes, Frankfurt, Geneva, Basel, Oslo (then named Christiania), Gothenburg, Malmö, Kiel, Lübeck, Koblenz, Wroclaw, Moscow, Tallinn, St. Petersburg, Ahrens36 37 38 39

See footnote 4. This made him the fifth largest purchaser of Indian cotton piece goods. Asmussen and Martens, Business Encyclopedia. Asmussen and Martens, Business Encyclopedia. Records pertinent to all the other eighteenth-century merchants who made it big in Copenhagen were unfortunately discarded by the Danish national archives. 40 RA, 399, Finanskollegiet, Schimmelmannske papirer vedrørende P. Peschiers gæld 1793–1813, nr. 1067. 41 RA, 399, Finanskollegiet, Schimmelmannske papirer vedrørende P. Peschiers gæld 1793–1813, nr. 1067.

The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe

331

burg, and Antwerp. The perhaps most prestigious debtor was the duke of Württemberg himself, who had visited Denmark in 1779 and was made head of the Royal Danish Life Guards in 1785.42 The aforementioned Swiss printing company Laué & Co., purchasers of Danish imported cottons, can also be found as debtors to Peschier in 1804, although they only owed him the relatively small sum of twenty-four Rigsdaler. Another business connection of P ­ eschier’s was the Basel-based merchant house Christoph Burckhardt & Co., who were engaged in the slave trade as well as trade to North America. They owed Peschier ninety-six Rigsdaler in 1804.43 In the years 1803–13, Peschier and Burchhardt & Co. had dealings for the total amount of 99,710 livres. As cottons also formed part of the European barter trade for slaves in West Africa, Burckhardt & Co. may simply have relayed the Danish cottons to Africa in exchange for slaves that they then traded to North America.44 Peschier’s largest assets were his various properties, most notably his house on Holmens Canal in the centre of town. Other significant assets were stocks in a variety of overseas trading companies and missions. The demise of Peschier’s business was likely partly brought about by the loss of his estate on Holmens Canal as it burned in the fire of Copenhagen in 1795, and a new building had to be built.45 His own personal consumption, and that of his household, of Indian cottons and other exotic goods are represented in a snapshot of some of the things sitting in the house as it burned in June 1795. Some of the things that had been in the house as it burned can be found in a newspaper article from some weeks later, when on 28 July 1795, Peschier placed a notice in a Copenhagen newspaper in which he requested the things “… that on the 5 June were brought out of my house before the fire made it entirely impossible to remove any further things, [and which] are still missing.”46 These stolen goods could be returned, with no questions asked, in exchange for a financial reward. The forty objects detailed that had been stolen in front of the house while the furniture and other objects were being carried outside during the fire, provide a unique insight into how a Copenhagen wholesale merchant chose to decorate his house and thus of his personal consumption and that of his household. The list of objects includes several pieces of furniture made from exotic wood species, a foot stool for a Chinese ‘box’ or litter (kine42 Bent Blüdnikow, Sladder og satire. Københavnerliv i 1780’erne (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1988), 73. 43 RA, 399, Finanskollegiet, Schimmelmannske papirer vedrørende P. Peschiers gæld 1793–1813, nr. 1067. 44 Peter Fierz, Eine Basler Handelsfirma im ausgehenden 18. und zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts: Christoph Burckhardt & Co. und verwandte Firmen (Zurich: Zentralstelle der Studentenschaft, 1994), 116–17. On Danish trade in textiles to West Africa, see also Martens, “Indian Textiles,” chapter four. 45 At the time, it was house number 400. Today, it is number twelve. The building has since been extended with one additional story, and houses the main seat of the Danish Bank, Danske Bank. 46 “Iblandt mange Ting, som den 5 Junii bleve bragte ud af min Gaard No. 400 ved Holmens Kanal förend Ilden gjorde det reent umueligt at flytte mere, savnes endnu … .” See Kiøbenhavns Kongelig alene priviligerede Adresse-Contoirs Efterretninger, 28 July 1795.

332

Vibe Maria Martens

sisk æske) as well as a few objects that were made from cotton textiles which included two gingham bed hangings, of which one was ‘flamed’ or multi-coloured. The newspaper notice also included the request for four armchairs with gingham covers, as well as a sofa with an unknown cover made from “East Indian upholster.”47 The items listed thus present evidence of Peschier’s own use and consumption of cotton textiles, which he used in the interior as upholstery and bed hangings.48 Unfortunately, the newspaper notice does not list any clothing, but it can be expected that the Peschier household would have used cottons, both of Indian and European origins, in their dress as the use of cotton textiles in dress was common by the end of the eighteenth century.49 However, in the only known portrait of Pierre Peschier and his wife, Marie Suzanne Grodtschilling Peschier, they presumably both wear dark, plain silk clothes, even if Marie’s also had trimmings at the neckline of her dress and a loose mobcap which could both have been made from fine muslin or lace and Pierre’s cravat or neckerchief could also have been made from cotton.50 The wearing of plain silks was standard among the merchant class, as depicted in portraits of other prominent merchants of the eighteenth century, both in Denmark and elsewhere in Europe.51 Through this case study of Pierre Peschier and his merchant house, it is clear that for him, as for the vast majority of merchants in early modern Europe, life as a merchant was not always experienced as an upward trajectory. He went bankrupt on several occasions and died a poor man.52 Such a history was more the norm in the eighteenth century than historians generally acknowledge. It is usually only the histories of successful merchants, how much money they made, and how extensive their involvement and connections were across the globe that are recorded and retold. Peschier, on the one hand, was an example of great wealth, and a global outlook and involvement, but on the other hand, also an 47 While not analysing bed hangings and upholstered chairs and their related textiles, a new contribution has been made to better contextualise how furniture marked the social status of eighteenth-century people, how it “projected their identity, determined how they entertained and constituted a substantial portion of their property.” See Dena Goodman and Kathryn Norberg, “Introduction” in Furnishing the Eigh­ teenth Century: What Furniture can tell us about the European and American Past, ed. Dena Goodman and ­Kathryn Norberg (New York: Routledge, 2007), 1. 48 Kiøbenhavns Kongelig alene priviligerede Adresse-Contoirs Efterretninger, 28 July 1795. 49 As a merchant, Peschier also would have had direct access to the imported cottons via his own purchases. See particularly chapter six of Martens, “Indian Textiles.” 50 Gunnar Dyrberg and Kai Centervall, Holmens Kanal – fra vandvej til pengestrøm (Copenhagen: Danske Bank, 1996), 17. 51 This is the case for a the portrait of Niels Ryberg and his family by Jens Juel. See Jens Juel, Det Rybergske familiebillede, 1797, National Gallery of Denmark. There are also numerous English merchants portrayed wearing silk garments as well as Dutch merchants, such as a portrait of Isaac Parker. See Philip van Dijk, Isaac Parker (1702–55), Merchant of Middelburg, 1734, Rijksmuseum. 52 RA, Landsarkivet for Sjælland m.m. (hereafter LAS), DC-008, Hof- og Stadsretten Københavns Skiftekommission, Forseglingsprotokol 1771–1863 1812–1813 protokol 4 1–4 105, nr. 4–403, 7–12.

The Global Cotton Trade on the European Fringe

333

example of misfortune and bankruptcy. His work as merchant, however, and his share in the rise of the merchant class as a new social entity was crucial to the developments of Danish colonial trade, consumption, and the development of early modern society. Not just with Peschier and the merchant class, but throughout Danish society, the use of cottons increased during the course of the eighteenth century. They were used for upholstery, window curtains, and frequently as bed hangings in all sorts of colours and patterns in the first half of the eighteenth century. By the middle of the century, almost all types of garments made from cotton textiles were available, and by the end of the century, cotton was available to all Danish consumers.53 Throughout the century, cotton appears increasingly frequently in various sources. They are found as second-hand goods sold from one inhabitant to another at the Ribe poorhouse and from outsiders to the inhabitants of the poorhouse in the period 1748–87, as well as in hundreds of different households across almost all social spheres that were struck by the Copenhagen fire in 1795.54 An assessment of probate inventories has shown that cottons made up around thirty percent of all objects where fabric has been described throughout the eighteenth century.55 By 1776, the amount of documents that included cotton objects had increased to forty-eight percent. In the textile stock of certain merchants in Jutland in 1750, cottons also made up thirty percent of the textiles available to buyers.56 On this basis, it can be concluded that it was not only the prominent merchants in Copenhagen with direct access to imports of Indian cottons who utilised them in their homes and dress, but also consumers across the country, who came to use cotton for multiple purposes throughout the eighteenth century.

53 Martens, “Indian Textiles.” 54 Landsarkivet for Nørrejylland, RA, D-022, Ribe Rådstue Fattigvæsenet, Protokol over de fattiges bohave og klæder 1748–1787, no. 609; Københavns Stadsarkiv (KS, Copenhagen City Archives), 6–18, Kollektkommissionen, Bilag til Registerprotokoller over brandlidte i byen 1795–1799, nr. 1–600, 601–900, 901–1300, 1301–1500, 1501–1800, 1801–2100, 2101–2300, 2301–2500, 2501–2650, 2651–2800, 2801–3050,3051–3250, 3251–3442. 55 This is based off of a sample from the randomly selected years 1726, 1757 and 1776 for Copenhagen: Martens, “Indian Textiles,” chapter six; RA, LAS, DC-001, Københavns Byting Københavns Skiftekommission, Forseglingsprotokol 1709–1772 1726–1730, nr. VIII-8; RA, LAS, DC-001, Københavns Byting Københavns Skiftekommission, Forseglingsprotokol 1709–1772 1756–1759, nr. XVII-16; RA, LAS, DC-007, Hof- og Stadsretten Københavns Skiftekommission, Forseglingsprotokol 1771–1863 1771–1797 4 A 1–4 A, nr. 147; RA, LAS, DC-007, Hof- og Stadsretten Københavns Skiftekommission, Forseglingsprotokol 1771–1863 1771–1797 5 B 419–5 B, nr. 789; RA, LAS, DC-007, Hof- og Stadsretten Københavns Skiftekommission, Forseglingsprotokol 1771–1863; 1771–1797 7 A 1–7 A, nr. 394. Such results compare reasonably well with John Jordan’s results for Bern and Aris Kafantogias’s results on Vienna. See both of their contributions to this volume. 56 Martens, “Indian Textiles.”

334

Vibe Maria Martens

Conclusion Results presented in this chapter have shown that although the Danish import of Indian cottons in the eighteenth century in actual numbers was far smaller than their European counterparts, the imported piece goods per capita was in fact some of the largest. The Danish trade was mostly in white cottons imported with the intention to be used for printing in Europe, and this was similar to the English trade. On that basis, the import trade was not based on any ‘calico craze’ in the kingdom of Denmark-Norway. As to the reach of re-exports of cottons imported from India, assessments of the case of the Copenhagen-based merchant Pierre Peschier show that the volume and reach of the re-exports was extensive, and covered all of Europe and the Danish colonies. The business connections of Peschier further amplify that the reach of sales of white cottons for printing was indeed global, as Peschier’s connections themselves traded to locations across the world. The operations of merchants such as that of Peschier meant that the people living in Denmark gained increasing access to cotton textiles, which they utilised both in interior design and in dress, and did so in increasing volume throughout the century. Cottons truly became common, and found increasing uses in the hands of the Danes in the eighteenth century.

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research: Supply and Consumption of Silk and Cotton Textiles in Western Prussia in the second Half of the Eighteenth Century Isa Fleischmann-Heck

Over the course of the eighteenth century, Intelligenzblätter, also known as Intelligenz-Zettel, were published in many regions and were eventually found all over the German-speaking areas. The advertisements found within offer a tantalising, and until now underutilised, source for German-speaking regions for research into the supply and consumption of textiles. Drawing on both advertisements in the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel and extant textile specimens, this paper undertakes to investigate the consumption and distribution of textiles in the Lower Rhine region in the eighteenth century.1 The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel was published from 1727 to 1744 and from 1750 to 1805.2 Issued weekly and distributed through the post, the main object of this Prussian gazette was the development of the regional economy.3 The central content of the gazette Until now, Intelligenzblätter have been a largely overlooked source for the history of press and communication, economics, and dress. Some studies that have used them to positive effect, include Astrid Blome, “Vom Adressbüro zum Intelligenzblatt – Ein Beitrag zur Genese der Wissensgesellschaft,” Jahrbuch für Kommunikationsgeschichte 8 (2006): 3–29; Andreas Golob, “Das Zeitungskomptoir als Informationsdrehscheibe: Michael Hermann Ambras und seine Grazer Anzeigenblätter,” in Vor Google: Eine Mediengeschichte der Suchmaschine im analogen Zeitalter, ed. Thomas Brandstetter (Bielefeld: transcript, 2012) 109–50; Sylvia Bendel, Werbeanzeigen von 1622–1798: Entstehung und Entwicklung einer Textsorte (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1998); Mark Häberlein and Michaela Schmölz-Häberlein, eds., Handel, Händler und Märkte in Bamberg: Akteure, Strukturen und Entwicklungen in einer vormodernen Residenzstadt (1300–1800) (Würzburg: Ergon, 2015); and Pina Weymann, “Das Hannoversche Polizeiblatt,” in Trachten in der Lüneburger Heide und im Wendland, ed. Karen Ellwanger, Andrea Hauser, and Jochen Meiners (Münster: Waxmann, 2015), 332–38. On mainly the ninenteenth century, see Hermann Kaiser, “Steckbriefe als Quelle des ländlichen Kleidungsverhaltens,” in Mode – Tracht – Regionale Identität: Historische Kleidungsforschung heute, ed. Helmut Ottenjann (Cloppenburg: Ostendorf, 1985), 81–92; 2 “Wochentliche Duisburgische auf das Interesse der Commercien der Clevischen, Geldrischen, Meurs und Märckischen auch umliegenden Landes-Orten eingerichtete Addresse- und Intelligentz-Zettel.” Before 1776, it was called the Duisburgische Adresse- und Intelligentz-Zettel, and until 1787, the Duisburgischer Intelligenz-Zettel (hereafter abbreviated to DIZ). 3 Towards the end of the eighteenth century, this eight-page publication appeared in the format of nineteen by sixteen centimetres. The notices gave information on “Was an beweg- und unbeweglichen Gütern zu kauffen und zu verkauffen, imgleichen was für Sachen zu verleyhen, zu lehnen, zu verspielen und zu verpachten vorkommen, verloren, gefunden oder gestohlen worden, So dann Persohnen, welche Geldt lehnen oder ausleyhen wollen, Bedienung und Arbeit suchen, oder zu vergeben haben, Erfindungen in Sachen und Meynungen, neuen Bücher, Schriften und Collegien, auch andern neuen Anstalten, Citationen bey Concursen und der Creditoren, Verfolgung entwichenen und inhafftirten Persohnen und deren Verbrechen, von angekommenen Frembden, Copulierten, gebohrnen und gestorbenen, zu Cleve, Wesel und Duisburg, nebst dem Wechsel- und Species-Cours, wochentlichen Korn-Preise, Bier-, Brod- und Fleisch-Taxe,

1

336

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

consisted of advertisements and official notices, as well as reports of theft or wanted persons. Such reports were not usually aimed at the next of kin, but rather at strangers who, it was hoped, would recognize the listed household textiles and clothes and contact the police. The terminology used was general and easily understood, even though it was often based on standardised commercial expressions with precise meanings.4 My first encounter with the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel came while in search of constructive information on clothing habits of both rural and urban sections of the population while preparing an exhibition project on children’s clothing at the German Textile Museum in Krefeld in 2013.5 When it became clear that the reports of theft provided important information on the possession and distribution of textile and clothing in the Lower Rhine area (information which was not to be found in such detail in either literary sources or surviving Krefeld inventories), the decision was taken to systematically examine the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel for the period between 1750 and 1814. This article presents the results of a first assessment of notices from the years 1760 to 1767, and the year 1772, as regards entries concerning textile materials and articles of clothing. Owing to the brief time period considered, conclusions about diachronic changes regarding patterns of consumption and the circulation of different fabrics, cannot be drawn. However, deeper insights can be gained into these years.6 Generally speaking, few eighteenth-century textile items from the Rhine area have survived to the present day, so the reports in the Intelligenz-Zettel offer a means of acquiring more precise information regarding the possession of textiles, the materials on the market, and the dress customs of urban and rural inhabitants in Western Prussia.7 Unlike invenauch andere dem Publico zur nützlichen Nachricht dienende Sachen.” Bound volumes of the gazette can be viewed in the municipal archives in Duisburg and Wesel. A digital version of the issues from 1739 to 1767 is available at Universitäts- und Landesbibliothek Düsseldorf (http://digital.ub.uni-duesseldorf.de/ periodical/structure/416472). On the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel, see Werner Brauksiepe, Geschichte des Duisburger Zeitungswesens von 1727–1870 (Würzburg: Triltsch, 1937). Generally, see Johann Georg Krünitz, “Intelligenz=Anstalt,” Oekonomische Encyklopädie oder allgemeines System der Staats- Stadt- Haus- und Landwirthschaft, http://kruenitz1.uni-trier.de. Accessed 19 December 2016. 4 Kaiser, Steckbriefe, 85; for comparison with England see Beverly Lemire, “Peddling Fashion: Salesmen, Pawnbrokers, Taylor, Thieves and the Second-hand Clothes Trade in England, c.1700–1800,” Textile History 22 (1991): 67–82; and John Styles, “Clothing the North: The Supply of Non-élite Clothing in the Eigh­ teenth-Century North of England,” Textile History, 25 (1994): 139–66. 5 The exhibition “Der Kinder bunte Kleider aus eigener Sammlung,” was held from 17 March to 29 September 2013 at the German Textile Museum in Krefeld. See as well, Isa Fleischmann-Heck, “Seidene Säuglings­ kleidung des 18. Jahrhunderts: Neue Überlegungen zu ihrer Verwendung und Funktion,” in Das Bild vom Kind im Spiegel seiner Kleidung: Von prähistorischer Zeit bis zur Gegenwart, ed. Annette Paetz gen. Schieck and Uta-Christiane Bergemann (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner 2015), 120–35. 6 See Styles, “Clothing the North.” 7 The term Western Prussian territories refers to the former provinces Geldern-Kleve, Minden-Mark-­ Ravensberg, and the principality of Moers. These encompass the present-day region of the Lower Rhine, as well as parts of the Rhineland, Bergisches Land, Sauerland, and the Ruhr area. Today, the term Lower

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

337

tories, the reports and descriptions of wanted persons are generally much more expansive when it comes to describing textiles.8 This paper is an initial attempt to explore the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel for research on eighteenth-century textiles and patterns of consumption in the Rhine area. After a statistical overview, three case studies will be conducted to see what role socioeconomic status played in the ownership of different textiles. Alongside the analysis of the written sources, the collection of the German Textile Museum in Krefeld was examined as it helped in identifying the materials and items of clothing mentioned in the reports, and comparing them with the help of original specimens from the eighteenth century. The interdisciplinary cooperation between curators and conservators at the museum facilitated the precise designation of materials and classification of the selected textiles, thus enabling an academically sound comparison between text source and object. The material state of the four objects studied, a quilted cushion and three articles of clothing, confirm the main findings of this study that there was a great diversity of fabrics, including a wide range of cotton and silk in Western Prussia. Further, this wide range of fabrics was consumed by different socioeconomic groups in the 1760s.9

1. Fabrics The majority of advertisements and notices, appearing with fluctuating frequency in the weekly Intelligenz-Zettel, are concerned with reports of theft and descriptions of wanted persons, along with advertisements for auctions and sales. In the period researched, there were a total of fifty-five notices mentioning textiles. In these notices, there are 247 entries that specify the fabric of a textile (the vast majority of which came from the list of stolen goods or the descriptions of wanted persons). The stolen textiles were for the most part articles of clothing, semi-finished garments, and accessories, such as scarves and handkerchiefs. Bed and table linen, uncut lengths of cloth, and pieces of fabric were also mentioned. A total of 317 items of clothing, and twenty-­four household textiles, as well as pieces of cloth were named (not all of which

Rhine covers a region in the west of North Rhine-Westphalia, bordering the Netherlands. In the past, however, it was not a continuous historical, political, or cultural entity. The main part of the Lower Rhine area is formed by the Kreise (districts) of Kleve, Wesel, and Viersen, and the cities of Krefeld and Duisburg. It also includes Rhein-Kreis Neuss, the city of Mönchengladbach, and Kreis Heinsberg. 8 On the problems of the lack of designations of materials in seventeenth and eighteenth century inventories, see John Jordan’s contribution to this volume. 9 On the great diversity of textiles and articles of clothing in Europe in the eighteenth century, see as well the contributions by John Styles and John Jordan in this volume.

338

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

specify the fabric).10 Regarding the clothing described under the various headings in the Duisburg reports, there is a higher proportion of women’s clothing than men’s: there are 162 entries concerning items of women’s clothing, 148 of men’s, and 7 children’s. The majority are outerwear, followed by accessories, headgear, shoes, outerwear, and underwear. The evaluation of the descriptions of wanted persons and reports of theft was carried out with a view to finding answers to several questions. The first point was to examine which textiles were owned by which households in different sections of the population. This is followed by a comparison of textiles owned by urban as opposed to rural dwellers. The numerous detailed descriptions of the kinds of textiles make it possible to judge the quality of the various materials, revealing interesting findings regarding the consumption of certain fabrics, especially silk and cotton. Finally, the clothes in the advertisements are analysed to see what can be determined about fashion choices in this period. Before focussing on the investigation of the reports and their analysis, it is important to first understand the vast variety of textiles mentioned. Although most were made from wool, linen, silk, or cotton, there was a great diversity within these groups. There was also lace and a number of mixed fabrics. Kind of textile Woollen fabrics Linen fabrics Silk fabrics Cotton fabrics Mixed-fibre fabrics and others Lace Total

Entries

Type of textiles 51 50 48 47 18 33 247

8 3 12 5 12 1 41

Woollen fabrics are the most frequently mentioned textiles, as they dominated the clothing and household textiles of all segments of the population in Western Prussia in the eighteenth century. As the list of terms show (broadcloth (Tuch, twenty-one entries), calamanc (Calamanq, twelve), Lacken (five), wool (four), serge (four), sayet (Saie, Seyet, two), felt (Filz or Flüz, one), camlet (Camelott, one), and kirsay (kirsen, one), there was a wide variety of woollen textiles in circulation. Almost three-quarters of which were of high quality.11 10 The discrepancy between household textiles and clothing items is largely explained by the fact that clothing entries often featured significant quantities of items. 11 Calamanc is a woollen satin weave, see Max Heiden, Handwörterbuch der Textilkunde aller Zeiten und Völker (Stuttgart: Ferdinand Enke 1904), 278, 317. Sayet is a lightweight woollen fabric, sometimes mixed with silk, see Jutta Prieur and Wilfried Reininghaus, Wollenlaken, Trippen, Bombasinen. Die Textilzünfte in Wesel zwischen Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Kleve: Stadtarchiv Wesel 1983), 168. Camlet is a high quality woollen fabric, sometimes with proportion of camel or goat’s hair, imported, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 279; and Jutta Zander-Seidel, Textiler Hausrat. Kleidung und Haustextilien in Nürnberg von 1500–1650 (Mu-

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

339

It is striking that various silk fabrics are the third most frequently mentioned kind of textile. This confirms the availability and distribution of silks of vastly different types, even in the middle and lower classes, a point that becomes quite apparent in the case studies discussed later. Most of the silk entries do not specify a particular type of silk, but rather use the broad terms of silk or silken. Outside of these, there is an incredibly broad assortment of different kinds of silk named, including taffeta (taffent), taffeta with floating wefts (broschetten taffen), satin (satine), damask (seiden Damast), gros de Tours (Gradetur), velvet (Samt), schappe silk (Sparseide), brocaded silk (brockaden), raw silk (Rohseide), floss silk (Fleuretten), and soesjes (Susjes).12 The third group of interest was cotton. The types mentioned included chintz (Zitz, twenty-three entries), cotton (Caton, Catoun, Cattoen, or Cattun, eighteen), cotton stuff

Fig. 65: Fragment of confiscated chintz (“Zitz”), England, 1763, © Landesarchiv NRW – Abteilung Ostwestfalen-Lippe – L 86 Nr. 1317.

nich: Deutscher Kunstverlag 1990), 402. Kirsay, also called kersey, is a coarse woollen fabric, see Prieur and Reininghaus, Textilzünfte, 167; and Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 287. 12 Gros de Tours was a modified plain weave with ridged effect (Rippeneffekt). Schappe and floss silk are both low-quality waste silks, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 118; and Zander-Seidel, Textiler Hausrat, 399. Soesjes is also called soesjes or sousjes, or striped taffeta, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 384. On the manufacture of sousjes in Krefeld, see Peter Kriedte, Taufgesinnte und großes Kapital. Die niederrheinisch-bergischen Mennoniten und der Aufstieg des Krefelder Seidengewerbes (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2007), 244.

340

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

Fig. 66: Cushion (detail), cotton, linen, quilted, first half of the 18th century, © Deutsches Textilmuseum Krefeld, Inv. Nr. 15067.

(Baumwollzeug, three), batiste (two), and nankeen (Nancking, one).13 Of primary importance is the fact that chintz, and printed and glazed cotton fabrics are more frequently mentioned than plain cotton.14 This makes it clear that printed cotton was already widely available in Western Prussia around the middle of the eighteenth century, and may possibly have reached the Lower Rhine and surrounding areas via the trade routes from the Netherlands (fig. 65). While linen fabrics were plentiful, there were only three kinds of linen that were named (Leinwand, Linnen, and Cammertuch). Greater diversity was found in the wide range of 13 Nankeen is usually a yellow, plain cotton weave, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 360. 14 It is important to note that Kattun in German at this time could refer to either printed or plain cotton.

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

341

mixed fabrics, including nettle cloths (Nessel, eleven), camel hair (Camelhaar, seven), fabrics from Berlin (Berliner Stoff, three), etamine (Etamin, two), carmoisine (Carmoisin, two), siamoises (Siamois, one), Pellen (one), Drill (two), twill (Zwillich, one), Chamoise (one), Bomasin (one), Grein (one), and East-Indian handkerchiefs (ostindische Schnupftücher, one).15 In short, despite being far away from major urban centres, there was a great variety of fabrics available in this period in the Lower Rhine area. The listing of the various types of textiles leads to the further conclusion that the spread of materials was fairly even: woollen fabrics do not dominate; linen, silk, and cotton were nearly as common. The numbers also do not support the theory that in central Europe, from the beginning of the eighteenth century, cotton fabrics spread tremendously, displacing other kinds of textiles, especially silk.16 On the contrary, the entries prove the possession of silk alongside cotton even in rural areas in the western part of Prussia.

2. Case Studies and Ownership Patterns Case study I: Preachers and Pastors Early modern Europe was a highly stratified society, and thus it is important not to assume that this diverse array of textiles was spread evenly throughout society. Indeed, included in the sample were a wide range of people from dignitaries, such as judges and preachers, to people from the middle classes, such as shopkeepers and craftsmen, as well as several persons of lower social status.17 Were there any recognisable differences in the possession 15 Etamine is a fine mixed-fibre fabric made of wool, silk or cotton, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 180. Carmoisine, also called Armoisin oder Armosin, is a fine, light silk or mixed-fibre fabric, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 32; and Prieur and Reininghaus, Textilzünfte, 167. Siamoises is a mixed-fibre weave of silk, wool, and/or linen, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 48. Pellen, is possibly a term for Pelangs or Pelings, smooth silk fabrics from China, or for Pelleton, a wool fabric from Asia, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 394. Drill is a plain linen or mixed-fibre fabric with twill weave, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 163. Twill is a patterned linen or mixed-fibre fabric, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 663. Bomasin, also called Bombasine, is a mixed-fibre fabric made of linen and cotton or wool, see Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 94–95; and Prieur and Reininghaus, Textilzünfte, 167. Grein, also called Groffgrein or Grobi(g)ran, is a woollen or semi-silk fabric, see Prieur and Reininghaus, Textilzünfte, 167; and Zander-Seidel, Textiler Hausrat, 399. The East-­ Indian handkerchiefs could possibly be sousjes, see Kriedte, Taufgesinnte, 244, footnote 48. The term Zeug, also found in the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel, is a generic term for mixed-fibre fabrics made of wool, silk, semi-silk or linen, which could not be clearly identified, see Zander-Seidel, Textiler Hausrat, 403; and Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 650. 16 Aris Kafantogias and John Jordan’s contributions to this volume both record a balance of the various materials in the Viennese and Bernese inventories examined. 17 Among the persons robbed: preachers and shopkeepers or Krämer are mentioned most frequently (five mentions each), followed by judges (two), and one mention each of the following occupations: pump-mak-

342

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

of textiles, based on the social standing of the owners, or whether they lived in a town or in the country? In order to examine this subject in greater detail, the notices of theft concerning preachers and pastors were examined. Four of the five who had been robbed came from rural areas or villages. One preacher lived in Bochum on the aristocratic estate Gut Overdick. Braids and lace for men’s clothing, women’s caps and bonnets, children’s caps and women’s scarves were all among the items stolen from his household. The accessories were mostly trimmed with costly and Dutch lace. The materials of the headgear and scarves were not specified, only in one case is there mention of a “brand new heavy silk woman’s scarf.” The adjective ‘fine’ is used frequently, both in connection with lace and for describing the items of clothing, such as “many fine bonnets.”18 In contrast, it is interesting to discover that the preachers, pastors, and their families and domestic servants in rural areas were robbed of far greater quantities of valuable clothing, accessories, and other textiles than the preacher from Bochum.19 The long lists of stolen textiles mention clothing made of different kinds of silk, such as striped taffeta and damask, or of complex silk fabrics, such as multi-coloured patterned silks like “a woman’s red and green silk floral gown” or “a blue volant of gros de Tours.”20 Velvet was another material mentioned such as the entry for “a black cap of floral patterned velvet.”21 There is also mention of various types of cotton textiles: chintz, “white cotton with same quilted motif on both sides, in the centre a feather and rose,” and batiste.22 Further mention is made of lavish embroidery, such as “two richly embroidered women’s scarves” as well as pieces of unused lace like “a small piece of lace seven by seven and half an ell of white background with red and green flowers.”23 Trimming for clothes and bonnets is also described, with entries like “a lace flounce with bouquets, birds, and insects,” and “two white embroidered children’s christening caps trimmed with lace.”24

18 19 20 21 22 23 24

er, tailor, Waageschreiber, lime boatman, cotter, black-dyer, blue-dyer, miller, innkeeper, maid and, without named occupation, a widow. For the scarf (gantz neues schweres Seiden Frauen-Halstuch), see DIZ, 10 September 1765. For the use of fine (Vielerley feine Mützen), see DIZ, 10 September 1765. DIZ, 28 September 1762; 21 June 1763; 20 September 1763; and 8 January 1765. For the dress (ein roth und grün geblümtes seidenes Frauenkleid), see DIZ, 20 September 1763; for the volant (eine blaue graditurne Volante), see DIZ, 28 September 1762. For the cap (eine schwarz sammete Kappe von Blumen Samt), see DIZ, 28 September 1762. For the white cotton (weiß getipperter Catton auf beiden Seiten egal mit Schulpger gestickt, in der Mitte eine Feder und Roose), see DIZ, 21 June 1763. For the batiste, see DIZ, 11 October 1763. For the scarves (2 köstlich gestickte Frauen Halstücher), see DIZ, 28 September 1762. For the lace with red and green flowers (ein Stücksgen Spitze 7 bis 7 und eine halbe Ell weissen Grund mit roth und grünen Blumen), see DIZ, 21 June 1763. For the flounce (noch eine Spitzene Volant mit Bouquetten, Vögel und Insekten), see DIZ, 5 July 1763. For the children’s caps (2 gestickte weiße mit Spitzen ausgarnirte Kinder Taufhauben), see DIZ, 21 June 1763.

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

343

The mention of items of clothing for the domestic servants is of particular interest when assessing the possession of textiles of persons of differing social standing. The lists of stolen articles of clothing from two preacher households in the villages of Spenge and Mörmter, include clothes worn by maidservants: first a “brand new maidservant’s skirt of striped camelot, wherein a piece of cotton stuff is set into the front panel,” and second, “a pair of maid’s shoes” without further description.25 Rural preachers’ households were therefore no less likely to possess clothing made from extravagant fabrics such as cotton or silk than their urban counterparts. Owing to the greater number of merchants and markets, one would expect to find a greater variety of textiles in a town. However, there was also a great diversity of dress materials in rural areas of Western Prussia during the researched period. Included in the kinds of fabrics mentioned are various types of cottons and also different types of silks. The silk fabrics vary from simple taffetas to complex patterns. And in the rural village of Spenge, cotton is named as the material of a maid’s skirt. Case study II: Shopkeepers, Grocers, and a Tailor The second group of occupations under closer scrutiny consisted of shopkeepers and grocers who are mentioned in five reports of theft.26 The stolen textiles concerned were stocks from shops in the towns of Wesel, Xanten, and Kalkar (all approximately 100 kilometres northwest of Düsseldorf). In all five reports, calico and chintz were named, including two which mention English chintz. In the case of a shopkeeper from Wesel, not only were cotton fabrics stolen, but also silk lace and cockades along with “numerous chintzes and calico caps.”27 In the case of another shopkeeper, the thieves also stole ribbons, presumably silk ribbons.28 Apart from the textiles stolen from retailers, the fabrics and items of clothing stolen from the tailor Moritz Göller from Bochum are also noteworthy.29 The notice of theft lists a total of thirty-two different items of clothing and fabrics which were stolen. Among them are complete outfits for men and women, such as gowns, waistcoats, trousers, and half-finished goods, including a “black pinned man’s waistcoat of cloth”, along with ells of linen,

25 For the skirt (ganz neue[r] Mägden-Rock von gestreiftem Camelott worin von Baumwollen-Zeug ein Stück in die forderste Bahn gesetzet ist), see DIZ, 21 June 1763; and for the shoes (ein Paar Magdschuhe), see DIZ, 28 September 1762. 26 DIZ, 11 October 1763; 18 October 1763; 1 May 1764; 7 August 1764; and 13 November 1764. 27 For the caps (etliche Zitzen und Catoenen-Kappen), see DIZ, 7 August 1764. 28 See DIZ, 18 October 1763 (28 stück allerhand Bänder). 29 DIZ, 17 April 1764.

344

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

cotton, silk, ribbons, and raw silk, stockings, shoe buckles, and pocket-handkerchiefs.30 The articles of clothing mentioned also include used clothing, brought to the tailor’s for mending or alteration (“a black woollen cloth coat, in which there was a […] patch”). In two pairs of trousers there was money, presumably as advance payment for the tailor’s work, or possibly because the client forgot it.31 Case study III: A Lime Boatman and a Cottager Up to now, this essay has dealt with people from towns (Bochum, Wesel, Kalkar, and Xanten) and villages (Mörmter and Spenge) and analysed the textiles and items of clothing stolen from them. This final case study is concerned with persons of middle and lower class, living in rural areas on the Lower Rhine. In two reports from 1765 and 1766 regarding the theft of men’s and women’s clothing, when the material was specified, the items were mostly made of wool and linen. The striking thing about the household textiles reported as stolen from boatman Derck Leeven is the mention of seven pairs of pillow cases made of fine chintz, which are the only cotton textiles named.32 Despite being far away from an urban centre, Leeven was clearly able to take part in this burgeoning European and global trade. A further particularity is the mention of thirty-five undercaps and thirty-five overcaps, which also came from the boatman’s household. This large amount of headgear may well have belonged to not just one, but several children and female persons living in the household as on the Lower Rhine and in the neighbouring Netherlands in the eighteenth century, only children and women wore undercaps and overcaps, usually made from different materials, such as chintz and silk.33 In the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Dutch dress traditions were adopted in the rural areas on the Lower Rhine. The objects and textiles stolen by thieves from the household of cotter Wilhelm Schrooten unquestionably indicate this. Along with a silver and a copper Ohreisen (bow-shaped headgear) with engraved initials, the band of thieves stole clothing made of wool and linen and two “brown caps, undermost, and two

30 The fact that both men’s and women’s clothing is mentioned suggest that Moritz Göller probably tailored for both men and women, and possibly also sold clothes and fabrics for women’s clothing. He may also have sold new or second-hand fabrics and second-hand clothing, either with a permit or illegally. On the problem of descriptions of semi-finished goods as “finished” garments and accessories, and the interchanging of these definitions, see Styles, “Clothing the North,” 144. 31 It was not unusual for tailors to deal also in non-textile goods. See Styles, “Clothing the North,” 151. 32 DIZ, 17 December 1765. 33 Marianne Havermann-Dikstaal and Simon Honig, Aangekleed gaat uit. Streekkleding en cultuur in Noord-Holland 1750–1900 (Zwolle: Waanders 1998), 217–18.

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

345

black ones of silken cloth.”34 The mention of silk caps proves the possession of silk clothing – in this case accessories – even in the household of a cotter living in rural surroundings. Comparing theft notices from 1760–67, quickly reveals that rural households possessed many of the same textiles as urban households. Luxury cottons and silk such as English chintz or batiste were found in both rural and urban areas. Even the distant rural areas had imported chintzes by the second third of the eighteenth century.35 The origin of these luxury textiles is less clear. While the reports include four entries of English chintz, whether they really were from England, cannot be assumed.36 As can be seen in the collection of the German Textile Museum in Krefeld, Dutch calico and chintz were imported into the lower Rhine area at this time. There is proof that English chintz fabrics were smuggled into the principality of Lippe in the second half of the eighteenth century, and then confiscated (see fig. 65); a new royal decree governing dress also attempted to prevent the consumption of English chintz within the rural population, but was ultimately unsuccessful.37 Wherever the chintz was from, it is clear that it was quite a popular fabric for aprons, especially for aprons which were worn after work and often trimmed with lace. Every woman owned at least one of these ‘fancy’ aprons, the fabric of which depended on her wealth. While silk was more luxurious, cotton was less expensive and more popular. As a result in the second half of the eighteenth century members of the rural elite on the Lower Rhine – as in the neighbouring Dutch areas – wore decorative aprons made of coloured floral chintz fabrics, while maidservants would probably only have had bleached – coarse, fine, or embroidered – linen aprons as Sunday best or Communion aprons, such as were still in common use in some areas up into the twentieth century.38 34 For items (braune Mütze untersten, und 2 schwartze von seidenen Stoff ), see DIZ, 25 February 1766. 35 On the distribution of chintz fabrics in German territories, see Johannes Hugo Koch, Mit Model, Krapp und Indigo: Vom alten Handdruck auf Kattun und Leinwand (Hamburg: Christians 1984); and Gisela Jaacks, “Die Mustervorlagen der Kattundruckerei Musick & Remmers in Hamburg,” in Textilien aus Archäologie und Geschichte: Festschrift Klaus Tidow, ed. Lise Bender Jorgensen, Johanna Banck-Burgess, Klaus Tidow, and Antoinette Rast-Eicher (Neumünster: Wachholtz 2003), 245–54. For clothing made of chintz in the county of Lippe, see Manfrid Ehrenwerth, Samt und Seide heiß begehrt: Trachten in Lippe (Lemgo: Spethmann 2003), 57–60. On the history of distribution of cotton fabrics in Europe, see Giorgio Riello, Cotton: the Fabric that Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 36 Two reports note that thieves stole ‘English chintz’ from retailers in Xanten and Kalkar. See DIZ, 11 and 18 October 1763. A third mentions the theft of two aprons made of ‘English chintz’ (Fig. 65). See DIZ, 15 September 1767. 37 On the difficulty of assessing geographical terminology in textile terms, see John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Global Goods in Local Languages: Naming Indian Cottons in the Swiss Cantons,” in Names and Naming in Early Modern Germany: Making Words and Finding Meanings, ed. Joel Harrington and Beth Plummer (New York: Berghahn Books, forthcoming). On the import of English chintz into Lippe, see Ehrenwerth, Samt und Seide. Further research is needed to establish how the English chintz reached Lippe. 38 On decorative aprons see Ehrenwerth, Samt und Seide, 57–60.

346

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

In addition to the frequent naming of certain textiles and kinds of clothing, the reports also mention two types of accessories particularly often, which were used by women, but also by men and children as fashionable accessories or useful requisites: general accessories (scarves, shawls, and handkerchiefs) and headwear (hats, caps, and bonnets). Scarves and shawls were used by women, handkerchiefs by men. A total of thirty-eight entries refer to these items made of nettle-cloth, linen, cotton, or silk. Headgear is mentioned forty times. These items are made of wool, cotton and silk, and trimmed in various ways with ribbons, lace, galloons, and braids with metal threads. The frequent mention of a great number of items such as “one silken and fourteen nettle-cloth handkerchiefs,” or “sixteen little caps with lace,” or “thirty-five undercaps [and] thirty-five overcaps,” illustrate that people possessed an extremely large number of these kinds of accessories.39 Moreover, it was not the elites but rather non-elites like the boatman’s family (who were robbed of seventy caps) who also owned them.40

3. Lower Rhine Silk and Cotton Textiles from the Eighteenth Century in Krefeld Museums In the archives of the German Textile Museum and Museum Burg Linn in Krefeld, there is a considerable number of ladies’ and children’s caps and bonnets, along with children’s clothing from the second half of the eighteenth century (fig. 67, 68, 69). The origins of these goods can be traced to the Lower Rhine and the Netherlands, based on the way they were handed down and on characteristics of style. They serve as illustrative objects of comparison for the researched period, as they can be seen as representative of the previously analysed written sources. The garments come from wealthy middle-class families and, alongside the written sources in the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel, provide proof of the availability and consumption of silk and printed cotton textiles during and after the Seven Years’ War. The items of clothing shown here are infants’ bonnets and jackets, made of various silk and cotton fabrics. Some of the jackets and bonnets from Krefeld families are made of scraps of silk from other garments, re-used and stitched together to make new clothing. The first object under consideration, however, is a white cotton coverlet of Lower Rhine provenance, which can be compared with a christening coverlet from a preacher’s house39 For the handkerchiefs (ein Seiden und 14 Nesseltücher), see DIZ, 17 December 1765. For the lace caps (16 Käpgens mit Kanten), see DIZ, 20 September 1763. For the under- and overcaps (35 Untermützen, 35 Übermützen) see DIZ 17 December 1765. 40 DIZ, 17 December 1765. Whether these handkerchiefs and headgear were semi-finished or finished articles cannot be ascertained from the source. On this subject, see Styles, “Clothing the North,” 144.

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

347

Fig. 67: Christening cap, linen, white-work, 18th century, © Deutsches Textilmuseum Krefeld, Inv. Nr. 09480.

Fig. 68: Infant’s jacket, silk, printed cotton, second half of the 18th century, © Museum Burg Linn, Krefeld, Inv. Nr. 10858.

348

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

Fig. 69: Infant’s cap, printed cotton, silk, end of the 18th century, © Museum Burg Linn, Krefeld, Inv. Nr. 10847.

hold mentioned in the Duisburg notices.41 The object consists of a rectangular cushion made of cotton and decorated all over with quilting and cordwork (Fig. 66). The central motif is a basket of flowers framed by a wreath of leaves. This in turn is surrounded by fruit and flower motifs, and fantasy shapes filled with geometrical designs. The outer edge is enclosed with rows of zig-zag and trimmed with various floral motifs. Cushions, such as this, were used in the eighteenth century, especially at a baptism as a sumptuous bed for the infant before, during, and after the christening ceremony. Christening bonnets made of cotton or linen fabrics, and decorated with white-work in imitation of white quilting, were also made in the eighteenth century. Such a bonnet, which also shows a motif mentioned in the above notice of theft (“… white cotton [bonnet] with same motif on both sides, in the centre a feather and rose”), can be seen here.42 The feather motif, however, is in fact often a scroll of leaves which is sometimes misinterpreted as a feather, on account of its curling shape (Fig. 67).43 41 DIZ, 21 June 1763. 42 For the bonnet (weiß getipperten Catton auf beiden Seiten egal mit Schulpger gestickt, in der Mitte eine F ­ eder und Roose), see DIZ, 21 June 1763. 43 Celia Eddy, Die Welt der Quilts. Patchwork- und Quilttraditionen aus verschiedenen Kulturen und Epochen (Bern: Haupt 2006), 68.

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

349

A further object of reference in possession of the Museum Burg Linn is a jacket (Fig. 68), made of pink taffeta and a cotton print with a blue floral pattern on a light ground, while the printed cotton lining has a brown background with white dots and red flowers. Similar fabrics are often referred to in the notices: “a piece of blue floral calico; … some with white and brown background.”44 Finally there is a specimen of a calico cap, such as is often mentioned in the Duisburg reports of theft. It is a garment for a female infant which is made out of three pieces of printed fabric sewn together (Fig. 69). The outer material of cotton features a pattern of blue, blue-green, red and black flowers strewn on a beige background. The seams and the lower edge are concealed by green silk ribbons. Three bows, also of green silk ribbon, are arranged around the top.

4. Trade Routes and Gender Supply and Consumption of Cotton and Silk Textiles in the Lower Rhine Area For the years 1763 and 1764, the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel records five cases of theft from shops in the Lower Rhine area. Along with Xanten, the towns of Wesel and Kalkar are named as scenes of the crime. They are in rural areas and, with the exception of Kalkar, situated directly on the Rhine. The reports mention only textiles and articles of clothing as having been stolen and no other items. Among the entries mentioning fabric, there are mentions of cotton and woollen textiles, as well as lace and ribbons made of various materials, and accessories such as buckles, buttons, handkerchiefs, scarves, caps, and stockings (see the appendix). The demarcations of English chintzes, Silesian cotton, and Hamburg and Dutch calicoes indicate the sometimes very long trade routes the cotton textiles travelled before reaching their destinations on the Lower Rhine. The shopkeeper J.G. Sondermann from Wesel appears – judging by the list of stolen textiles – to have bought the bulk of his cotton and silk goods from the Netherlands, taking into consideration the chintz and calico caps which were very popular in the northern Netherlands, especially in Friesland.45 To this day it is not clear by which routes these textile commodities and garments found their way to the shopkeepers on the Lower Rhine. Dutch traders and merchants supplied the markets in towns in the Lower Rhine area, as well as retailers and shopkeepers. Itin44 For the calico (Ein Lappen blau geblümt Caeton. … einige mit braun- und weissem Grunde), see DIZ, 13 November 1764. 45 For Sondermann, see DIZ, 7 August 1764. The origin of the textiles cannot in retrospect be ascertained beyond all doubt. On chintz fashion in Friesland, see Gieneke Arnolli, Sits, exotisch textiel in Friesland, (Zwolle: Waanders 1990).

350

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

erant traders from Münsterland (Tödden) may also have made deliveries to small shops. At first, the Tödden’s range of goods was limited to linen products, but in the course of the eighteenth century, they extended their assortment to include cotton textiles and silken goods from Krefeld.46 To summarize: so far, it has been ascertained that the reports mention large quantities of textiles and clothing made of different materials, which people were able to buy in shops or from a tailor. The greater part of the stolen garments and fabrics would not have been for the thieves’ personal use, but was presumably more likely to have been destined for the black market or shadow economy.47 In the eighteenth century, national borders were not static in Western Prussia, police surveillance could not be guaranteed everywhere, and there were numerous disputes about competence between secular and ecclesiastical courts, so that during this period, bands of robbers were numerous and dreaded in the Rhine area, both in times of war and peace.48 Fashionable Consumer Goods for Every Woman – Silk and Cotton Caps and Bonnets The previously mentioned large number of entries in the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel of cotton headgear, scarves, shawls, and handkerchiefs leads to the assumption that these types of accessories were widely used by all social classes on the Lower Rhine region during the second half of the eighteenth century (as has been proved for a large number of other German speaking regions). Caps and bonnets, along with several kinds of scarves 46 On the addition of silken goods from Krefeld to the Tödden’s range of ware, see Kriedte, Taufgesinnte, 330; and Hannelore Oberpenning, Migration und Fernhandel im „Tödden-System:“ Wanderhändler aus dem nördlichen Münsterland im mittleren und nördlichen Europa des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts (Osnabrück: Rasch 1996), 221, 226, 239, 319. 47 The author is not aware of any publication on research into the second-hand trade in Prussia in the eighteenth century. The most recent papers on the second-hand textile trade were published about the Netherlands and Austria. See Ilja Van Damme, “Second-Hand Trade and Respectability: Mediating Consumer Trust in Old Textiles and Used Clothing (Low Countries, Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries),” in Selling Textiles in the Long Eighteenth Century: Comparative Perspectives from Western Europe, ed. Bruno Blondé and Jon Stobart (London: Palgrave Macmillan 2014), 193–209; and Georg Stöger, “Urban Markets for Used Textiles – Examples from eighteenth-Century Central Europe,” in Selling Textiles, 210–25. Regarding the situation in England, Beverly Lemire described the theft of clothing and second-hand trade and stressed the fundamental role played by pawnbrokers in the sale of stolen textiles. See Lemire, “Peddling Fashion,” 77–80; as well as Styles, “Clothing the North,” 150, 151, 158, 159. 48 Jörg Engelbrecht, “Bevor Napoleon kam: die ersten Jahre am Niederrhein der französischen Herrschaft am Niederrhein,” in Napoleon. Trikolore und Kaiseradler über Rhein und Weser, ed. Veit Veltzke (Cologne: Böhlau 2007), 78–79. On bands of robbers in the Rhine area in the eighteenth century, see Astrid Küntzel, “Räuber und Gauner im Rheinland 1798–1814,” Portal Rheinische Geschichte, http://www.rheinische-geschichte.lvr.de/themen/Das%20Rheinland%20im%2019.%20Jahrhundert/Seiten/RaeuberundGaunerimRheinland1798–1814.aspx. Accessed 19 December 2016.

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

351

and handkerchiefs, were the items of clothing accessories manufactured in greatest numbers and most frequently sold. They were to be found with a variety of shapes and trimmings, depending on the owner’s or customer’s purse, or following the rules of dress code of the period.49 There is evidence that bonnets, known as caps, made of printed cotton or chintz (chintz and calico caps) were particularly fashionable accessories worn by women, men, and children with clothing of the same materials from the late seventeenth century onwards, especially in the areas in the north of the Netherlands, as well as the Lower Rhine region.50 On festive occasions in some regions, several caps were worn on top of one another, some made of cotton, some of silk.51 The most widespread types of cap in the eighteenth century were the two-piece and three-piece caps, which came to prevail especially in France, the Netherlands, and German-speaking countries. The significant, long-lasting success of this special type of headgear is due to the gradual simplification of its shape, which lead to a general fall in price.52 Two-piece caps and bonnets were also popular after the French Revolution and were to be found among all social classes. For the manufacture of this headgear in the shape of caps for men and caps or bonnets for women and children, cotton or silk dress fabrics were often selected – sometimes already used fabrics – and the headgear was later trimmed with embroidery, ribbons, braid, lace, or galloons, depending on the region and on fashion.53 The manufacture of caps and bonnets lay in the hands of seamstresses as well as professional milliners or bonnet makers, who made headgear to order, as well as for stock or as semi-finished goods.54 In the course of the eighteenth century, the use of semi-finished goods increased continually. Unstitched and unhemmed caps and scarves, embroidery work and lace of metal thread, and ribbons and bows were sold not only by shopkeepers (“a white not yet hemmed embroidered woman’s scarf ”), but also by pedlars.55 The itinerant traders’ stock also included caps and bonnets, new as well as second-hand. Some sold items of headgear at fairs and markets too, and took orders for making them.56 49 Ingrid Loschek, “Geschichte der Accessoires,” in Apropos: Der Charme der Accessoires, ed. Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe, Hamburg (Heidelberg: Umschau/Braus 1999), 23–24. 50 Havermann-Dikstaal and Honig, Aangekleed gaat uit, 217–18. 51 Ibid, 230. 52 Loschek, “Geschichte der Accessoires,” 27; and Anne Wolff and Jean-Luc Neth, Quelques paillettes, un peu de soie: Coiffes d’Alsace du XVIIIe et du début du XIXe siècle (Colmar : Musée d’Unterlinden, 2009), 61–63. 53 Isa Fleischmann-Heck, “Hauben und Hüte,” in Accessoires aus zwei Jahrhunderten, ed. Deutsches Textilmuseum Krefeld (Goch: BOSS 2011), 7. 54 Hanna Koch, “Putzmacherinnen im Wandel der Zeit – Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der weiblichen Erwerbstätigkeit,” Waffen- und Kostümkunde 53 (2011), 157. 55 For the scarf (ein weiß noch nicht gesäumten brodirten Frauenzimmer Halstuch), see DIZ, 21 June 1763. On pedlars, also see Laurence Fontaine, History of Pedlars in Europe, trans. Vicki Whittaker (Durham: Duke University Press, 1996). 56 Ehrenwert, Samt und Seide, 76. On half-finished clothing, see Bernward Deneke, “Bemerkungen zur Geschichte vorgefertigter Kleidung,” Waffen- und Kostümkunde 29 (1987), 68–73.

352

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

Conclusion The evaluation of 244 entries in fifty-five reports in the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel shows that people of different social backgrounds in rural and urban regions possessed a large quantity of textiles and garments made of various kinds of fabric. Both every day and festive clothing are referred to in the descriptions of wanted persons, as well as in the reports of theft. Everyday clothing includes the actual clothing worn by thieves on the run, as well as the garments and accessories of people of various walks of life. A separate group of reports is formed by the entries regarding textiles stolen from retailers and a tailor’s workshop. The majority of textiles mentioned were made of the most commonly found kinds of fabrics. It is striking that silk fabrics are mentioned almost as frequently as wool, cotton, and linen. This proves that in Western Prussia, during the period in question, silk fabrics can scarcely by seen as exclusive luxury fabrics, especially as they were also in the possession of, and worn by, people in the lower classes. The entries in the reports mention a large number of fabrics, including, alongside various types of each individual kind of textile, a large number of lightweight, mixed-fibre fabrics made of various materials, which were to increasingly take the place of heavy woollen and silk fabrics in many parts of Europe in the course of the eighteenth century.57 Cotton textiles, both printed and printed and glazed, are listed very frequently. The colours and designs of the stolen textiles and garments are usually mentioned and suggest that the fabrics for sale were available in a wide range of colours and designs, in rural areas, too. Fashion characteristics and details such as lace trim, chintz design, striped handkerchiefs, and individual fashionable garments (Mantilie) confirm the arrival of fashionable types of clothing and accessories in rural areas as well as in towns.58 Among the most popular accessories were caps and bonnets, and especially scarves and handkerchiefs made of various materials, which were used by both sexes.59 Finally, the Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel with their plentiful entries are a source with great potential for research into a portrayal of the actual dressing habits of the middle and lower classes in Western Prussia. This essay was but a first step. More work and research from historians as well as scholars from other fields would be quite welcome.

57 On distribution of mixed-fibre fabrics in Europe since the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, see Blondé and Stobart, Selling Textiles; and Styles’ contribution to this volume. 58 On Montilla, see DIZ, 5 July 1763. 59 In addition of silk fabrics, the main products manufactured and distributed by the von der Leyen company in Krefeld in the 1760s were Tücher (scarves, shawls, handkerchiefs) made of different materials (silk, semi-silk fabric), in various qualities and designs, and also silk ribbons. See Kriedte, Taufgesinnte, 238.

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

353

Appendix Years and notices in Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel examined: Year 1760 1761 1762 1763 1764 1765 1766 1767 1772 Total

Number of notices 16 0 1 5 6 8 4 13 2 55

1. Einbruch in das Haus eines Predigers in Mörmter bei Xanten: Einbruch einer Räuberbande in Haus des Predigers in Mörmpter (Mörmter) bei Xanten, neben Prediger war die 3 Tage zuvor niedergekommene Ehefrau mit Kindern, die Hebamme, die Magd anwesend. An Kleidung wurde Folgendes gestohlen: “ein Paar Schuhe des Predigers mit silb. Schnallen, ein dito Paar Schuhschnallen des Söhnlein, und ein Paar silb. Hoosenschnallen. […] Ausserdem einen halb seidenen Frauenzimmer Volant mit aschfarbig gewasserten und bont couleurten Streifen. ein dito zitzenen weißen Grund mit großen Violet Couleuren und gelb durchmengten Blumen. ein Stücksgen Spitze 7 bis 7 und eine halbe Ell weissen Grund mit roth und grünen Blumen. ein Lappen Spitze ad 4 und eine halbe Ell, braunen Grund mit großen roten Rosen. 4 Ellen Spitze, blauen Grund mit rothen Blumen., ein Lappen roth Doppeltleinen Zeug. ein weiß noch nicht gesäumten brodirten Frauenzimmer Halstuch. ein Stücksgen weiß mit blau gerauteten Siamois auf denen Rauten finden sich kleine Bouquettier. eine Kinder Taufdecke von weiß getipperten Catton auf beiden Seiten egal mit Schulpger gestickt, in der Mitte eine Feder und Roose. 2 gestickte weiße mit Spitzen ausgarnirte Kinder Taufhauben. ein Paar Mannsstrümpf blaulicht mit weiß gesprickelt. ein Paar Magdschuhe.60 Zwei Wochen später, am 5. Juli 1763, erschienen ergänzende Angaben der Ehefrau zum Diebstahl im Predigerhaus. Folgende Dinge wurden als gestohlen gemeldet: 9 Servietten fein gebildt. 7 dito Damast. 4 Ellen neue Spitzen. einige Stücke dito. eine Fraise von weiß und blau gestreiften seiden Band. zwey neu brodirte Frauenzimmer Hals-Tücher.

60 DIZ, 21 June 1763.

354

Isa Fleischmann-Heck

ein Pellis mit der Kappe. ein schwarz Mantilie mit blauen Futter […] 5 Babtisten Hauben mit Spitzen. noch ein Spitzene Volant mit Bouquetten, Vögel und Insekten.61 2. Im Oktober 1762 vermeldete das Blatt, dass den Eheleuten Boom aus Xanten aus dem Kaufladen verschiedene Kaufmanns-Waaren unter andern eine blecherne Dose mit Spitzen von verschiedenen Sorten; ferner etliche Stücke Cammertuch und Batist, auch ein Stück Stück Englischer Zitz, von 20 verschiedenen kleinen Bouquers in weißem Grunde, nebst etliche Päcke wollner Strümpfen und Handschuhe gestohlen worden.62 3. Eine Woche später wird bekanntgegeben, [dass] denen Ehel. Sandhevel binnen Calcar, des Nachts zwischen den 30. Sept. und 1sten Octob. aus ihrem Laden folgende Piecen gestohlen worden, nemlich: ein stück grünen Calemanck, ein stück blau dito, ein stück rothen dito, 2 stücke gestreiften dito, ein stück geblühmt Deamant-Damast, 4 stücke weißen Englischen Zitzen, 2 stücke braunen dito, zwey stücke blauen Caton, ein stück gestreift dito, ein stück kaars dito, ein Lap roth Caton, ein stück weiß dito, 4 stücke hamburger dito, ein stück Cammertuch, 18 a 20 blaue Englische Tücher, 40 stück dito allerhand Sorten, 65 Paar allerhand Strümpf, 16 Manns Mützen, worunter Baumwollen, 28 stück allerhand Bänder.63 4. Im nachfolgenden Jahr, 1764, wird am 7. August der Diebstahl bei einem Kaufhändler in Wesel gemeldet: Da bey dem in der Nacht vom 21 bis 22 Juli in Wesel bey dem Kaufhändler Joh. Gottf. Sondermann geschehenen gewaltsamen diebischen Einbruch verschiedene Waaren, als allerhand Sorten, so holländische Cattoenen, als Schlesier Baum[wolle?], weisse und rothe und braune Schnupftücher, auch dreyzehn Stücke schmale und breite, schwarze, seidene Spitzen, […] gestohlen worden; […]. Item blaue und grüne seidene Coucarden, auch wollene Bandwerck und Schnur-Riemen, etliche Zitzen- und Catoenen-Kappen […].64 5. Am 13. November 1764 wird ein Kaufmannsladen in Xanten ausgeraubt: Es ist in der Nacht vom 20 auf den 21 October a.c., bey der Wittiben Schwarz hieselbst, zur Seithen des Hauses gegen den Laden über, ein gewaltsahmer Einbruch geschehen, und sind daselbst unter andern folgende Kaufmanns-Waaren gestohlen worden; als zwey Packen dunckelblaue, und perl couleurte Manns-Strümpfe. Etliche Paar Fleuretten und weisse 61 62 63 64

DIZ, 5 July 1763. DIZ, 11 October 1763. DIZ, 18 October 1763. DIZ, 7 August 1764.

The Duisburger Intelligenz-Zettel as a Source for Textile Research

355

Catounne, dito 8 Paar gestrickte wollene Frauen-Strümpfe. Verschieden Paar gewebte grün und perl couleurte Siette. Dito 2 Packen mit Englischen Cabaret-ledern besten Manns-Handschuhen. Etliche weisse Manns-Schlafmützen. Etliche Stücke Seidenband von schwarz und andern verschiedenen Couleuren. Ein Lappen blau geblümt Caeton. Noch ein halb Stück dito gantz blau. Beynahe 2 gantze Stücke Caton mit weissem Grunde. Noch verschiedene Lappen, dito von differenten Couleuren, wobey unter andern einige mit braun-und weissem Grunde. Ein Stück Zitz mit weissem Grunde. Noch verschiedene andere Lappen Zitz, mit braunen und andern Gründen. Circa 2 Stücke Nesseltuch, verschiedene Nessele-Hals- und Schnupftücher; sodann beynahe 3 Stücke Schlesier Camertuch […].65 6. Am 14. November 1765 wird das Haus des Kalkschiffers Derck Leeven von einer Räuberbande überfallen: Gestohlen wurden „Ein Frauenrock, von rothem Carmosin, ein dito von blauem Lacken und schwartzen Korden, 2 schwarze und eine leine Schurtze, 3 Schürtzeltücher, ein braun, ein weiß und 2 rothe Carmosin Hemdröcke, ein schwartz Schurtzeltuch, ein Heuke, ein schwartze Hoose, ein Huth, ein Paar Schuh mit metallenen Schnallen, 4 Paar schwartze und melierte Strümpfe, vier Susjes Manns-Halstücher, 2 dito weisse, ein schwartze Weste, ein Hemdrock von Calamanq, ein dito von braun Lacken, ein blau Lacken Frauenrock, 2 schwartze Schürtze, 3 Flessen-Schürtzeltücher, 8 bunte halstücher, 5 weisse dito Nesseltücher, 3 weisse Schnupf-Tücher, 35 Untermützen, 35 Übermützen, 7 Paar Küsszügen von feinem Zitz, ein neu gebild Lacken von 24 Ellen, ein dito von 8 Ellen dito Flessen, ein Bettzieg geblümt mit Kanthen, 2 gebildete Halstücher, 2 dito Wercken, […] 40 Hemder, […]“.66 7. Am 10. Februar 1766 wurde das Haus des Kätners Wilhelm Schrooten überfallen und folgende Textilien gestohlen: “1) ein silbernes Ohreisen, Meursischer Probe, mit denen Littern E.S. 2) Ein dito von Kupfer mit silbernen Liempfen. 3) Ein Weiberrock von blauem Tuch. 4) 2 dito blaue Röcke. 5) 3 rothe Röcke, 2 von Bon und einer von Düsseldorf. 6) 2 Schürtze von Serge. 7) Ein dito von schwartz Wollen. 8) 2 dito von Leinwand. 9) 2 schwartze Schürtzetücher. 10) 2 Hemd­ röcke, ein braun und schwartz Calamanque. 11) 2 weisse Schürtzetücher […]. 12) 6 dito von Leinwand. 13) viele allerhände Hemde […]. 14) 2 braune Mütze untersten, und 2 schwartze von seidenen Stoff […] 18) ein schwartz Damasten Weste. 19) eine braune Weste. 20) ein Paar grün melierte Strümpfe […]”.67

65 DIZ, 13 November 1764. 66 DIZ, 17 December 1765. 67 DIZ, 25 February 1766.

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes, 1783–1823 Aris Kafantogias

Clothing constitutes the most visible and therefore recognizable aspect of the material culture of a society.1 Its study can be divided into different aspects, corresponding to different fields of historical research, like textile production, trade, or consumption. In this article textiles and clothes are studied as part of Viennese material culture at the end of the eighteenth and the start of the nineteenth century. The term ‘material culture’ refers to a world of goods as it exists, is used, and is given meaning by its inhabitants. It can be understood as the sum of all things that are used and have meaning in a society, but it is not just a static, aggregate sum, rather it shapes social and cultural relations, as these things are firmly connected to the social and cultural identities.2 Therefore, the focus of this study lies first on recreating this stock of goods by examining what types of clothes people owned and did not own, and second in explaining the differences and the similarities as well as the stability or change of these goods. A crucial part of the study is to investigate the appearance of Vienna’s middle classes, and how it changed or adapted to new, developing conditions of production and supply of textiles and clothes. Finally, this chapter seeks to establish whether clothing constituted a defining element of this group.3 The sources of the present study are Viennese probate inventories. Probate inventories constitute perhaps the most significant source for the study of material culture from 1 The present essay is part of the author’s ongoing dissertation (Material Culture and Consumption in Vienna, 1760–1830: Appearance, Clothing, Textiles) at the University of Vienna. 2 As Christopher Tilley writes, “material culture studies have to emphasize the dialectical and recursive relationship between persons and things,” and according to Mary Douglas and Brandon Isherwood, “all goods carry meaning but none by itself […] the meaning is in the relations between all the goods.” See Christopher Tilley, “Introduction,” in Handbook of Material Culture, ed. Christopher Tilley et al. (London: Sage, 2006), 4; and Mary Douglas and Brandon Isherwood, The World of Goods: Towards and Anthropology of Consumption (London: Routledge, 1996), 49. Generally, see Jan de Vries, “Between Purchasing Power and the World of Goods: Understanding the Household Economy in Early Modern Europe,” in Consumption and the World of Goods, ed. John Brewer and Roy Porter (London: Routledge, 1993), 102; Hans Peter Hahn, Materielle Kultur: Eine Einführung (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 2005), 18–20; and Peter Bräunlein, “Material Turn,” in Dinge des Wissens: Die Sammlungen Museen und Gärten der Universität Göttingen, ed. Georg-­ August-Universität Göttingen (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2012), 37. 3 According to Roman Sandgruber, clothing marks regions and nationalities, economic and social positions, religions and mentalities, age groups and professions, and sex and marital status. See his “„Kleider machen Leute:“ Kleidung und geschlechtsspezifisches Konsumverhalten: Mengen, Farben, Formen,” in Konsu­mieren in Österreich: 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, ed. Susanne Breuss and Franz Eder (Innsbruck: Studien, 2006), 147.

358

Aris Kafantogias

the sixteenth to the nineteenth century, and are available in great numbers throughout Europe.4 Their use influenced the field greatly by providing direct, quantifiable evidence on material culture.5 Probate inventories have not yet been used to study Viennese material culture. Moreover, influential concepts regarding the history of consumption in eighteenth-century Europe, which is closely associated with an international discussion on the beginnings of industrialisation and the emergence of a consumer society, remain confined mostly to the North Atlantic economies. The research on these issues in the German-speaking world is only in its initial stages.6 That is not to say that other sources on the subject do not exist and have not been used to smaller or larger extent. Most studies on clothing and textiles, including Roman Sandgruber’s prominent work on Austrian consumer society in the eighteenth and the nineteenth century, are based mainly on contemporary commentators and observers. Other sources like the Totenprotokolle (descriptions, including the clothing, of unidentified individuals who died in the city) have been used only sparsely. In contrast, other printed material, like fashion magazines, have been more often employed.7 However, these sources 4

Burkhard Pöttler, “„1 tuzet täller …“ Qualität und Quantität in der rechnergestützten Analyse von Verlassenschaftsinventaren,” in Festschrift Gerhard Pferschy zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. by Gernot Peter Obersteiner and Peter Wiesflecker (Graz: Historische Landeskommission für Steiermark, 2000), 265; and Ruth-Elisa­ beth Mohrmann, “Archivalische Quellen zur Sachkultur,” in Geschichte der Alltagskultur: Aufgaben und neue Ansätze, ed. Günter Wiegelmann (Münster: Coppenrath, 1980), 71. 5 Whereas sources such as real wage or consumer price indexes provide a rather pessimistic, static, and obscure image of consumption in early modern Europe, literary sources that constitute part of the debates on luxury in the eighteenth century tend to depict an overestimation of consumption capability in presenting a rich and varied material culture. On the deficiencies of real wage and consumer price indexes, see De Vries, “Between Purchasing Power,” 89–99. For a brief history of the luxury debates in the eighteenth century, see Maxine Berg and Elisabeth Eger, “The Rise and Fall of the Luxury Debates,” in Luxury in the Eighteenth Century: Debates, Desires and Delectable Goods, ed. Maxine Berg and Elisabeth Eger (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 9–13; and Joyce Appleby, “Consumption in Early Modern Social Thought,” in Consumption and the World of Goods, 162–73. 6 Key concepts here include the consumer revolution and the industrious revolution. On the former, see Neil McKendrick, John Brewer, and J. H. Plumb, The Birth of a Consumer Society: The Commercialization of Eighteenth-century England (London: Europa Publications, 1982). On the latter, Jan de Vries, The Industrious Revolution: Consumer Behavior and the Household Economy 1650 to the Present (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). As Sheilagh Ogilvie and Kim Siebenhüner have both argued, additional contributions to the discussion are essential in order to reveal the full extent and applicability of these concepts on a wider European level. See Sheilagh Ogilvie, “Consumption, Social Capital, and the ‘Industrious Revolution’ in Early Modern Germany,” The Journal of Economic History 70 (2010), 287–89; and Kim Siebenhüner, “Things that Matter: Zur Geschichte der materiellen Kultur in der Frühneuzeitforschung,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 42 (2015), 391–92. 7 Roman Sandgruber, Die Anfänge der Konsumgesellschaft: Konsumverbrauch, Lebensstandard und Alltags­ kultur in Österreich im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert (Vienna: Verlag für Geschichte und Politik, 1982); Karl Klier, “Die Bekleidung unbekannter Toter in Wien in der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts,” Österreichi­ sche Zeitschrift für Volkskunde, n.s., 4 (1950): 1–41, 118–35; and Hubert Kaut, Modeblätter aus Wien: Mode und Tracht von 1770 bis 1914 (Vienna: Jugend und Volk, 1970).

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

359

provide only fragmented, static information, or are restricted to high culture and, unlike the probate inventories, are not able to yield quantitative information about the consumer behaviour of a large part of society. At a time, when fashion shattered aristocratic barriers and encapsulated a bigger part of society, and novelty replaced traditional forms of dress, these sources are unable to incorporate Vienna into international discussions on material culture.8

1. The People and the Metropolis: The Inventoried Population and Vienna The sample of the present study consists of sixty inventories, collected in twenty-year intervals for the period 1783–1823. At first glance this sample amounts to just a fraction of Vienna’s population in the period, which grew continuously to 269,368 residents in 1823.9 In contrast, only 3,000 to 5,000 people were inventoried each year.10 However, the number of people that possessed moderate means at the time of death was significantly smaller. To investigate that group, the present study considered only inventories within a wealth spectrum of 100 to 10,000 gulden. This wealth range represents a part of the population with enough assets to enable differentiation and diversity. It also includes people who owned a house, but not the very rich. According to inventory data from the years 1815, 1830, and 1840, the sample each year constitutes between 2.6 percent and 3.5 percent of the inventoried population.11   8 Berward Deneke, “Aspekte der Modernisierung städtischer und ländlicher Kleidung zwischen 1770 und 1830,” in Wandel der Alltagkultur seit dem Mittelalter: Phasen – Epochen – Zäsuren Beiträge zur Volkskultur in Nordwestdeutschland 55, ed. Günter Wiegelmann (Münster: Coppenrath, 1987), 164–66.   9 Vienna was the third largest city in Europe at the time behind only London and Paris. See Ingrid Mittenzwei, Zwischen Gestern und Morgen: Wiens frühe Bourgeoisie an der Wende vom 18. zum 19. Jahrhundert (Vienna: Böhlau, 1998), 18; and Winfried Bammer, “Beiträge zur Sozialkultur der Bevölkerung Wiens aufgrund der Verlassenschaftsakte des Jahres 1830” (PhD diss., University of Vienna, 1968), 6. A detailed description of the fluctuation of Vienna’s population from the middle of the eighteenth century can be found in Andreas Weigl, Demographischer Wandel und Modernisierung in Wien (Vienna: Pichler, 2000), 55. 10 In the 1780s the inventorying of estates became more systematic and an inventory was compiled after every death (except if the deceased was very poor). See Michael Pammer, “Testamente und Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen (18. Jahrhundert),” in Quellenkunde der Habsburgermonarchie (16.-18. Jahrhundert): Ein exemplarisches Handbuch, ed. Josef Pauser, Martin Scheutz, and Thomas Winkelbauer (Vienna: Oldenbourg, 2004), 496–98. The fact that all cases in the sample are collected from three specific years allows for a certain degree of uniformity in the description and the appraisal of the items, since in most cases the inventories have been compiled by the same commissioner or appraisers. 11 Birgit Frieben, “Die Sozialkultur Wiens am Anfang des Vormärz” (PhD diss., University of Vienna, 1966), 69; Erika Silber, “Beiträge zur Sozialkultur Wiens im Vormärz: Eine sozial- und wirtschaftsgeschichtliche Arbeit aufgrund der magistratischen Verlassenschaftsakten des Jahres 1840” (PhD diss., University of ­Vienna, 1977), 396; and Bammer, “Beiträge,” 100–101, 129.

360

Aris Kafantogias

Wealth in the sample consists of the estimated value of material possessions, the value of property, and any money owed to the deceased. It should be noted that the sample tilts towards the lower end of the wealth spectrum, especially regarding female inventories from the year 1783. The wealth distribution of the sample allows for more reliable observations regarding the social ‘depth,’ which specific textiles, clothes, and subsequently trends or fashions reached.12 Women’s wealth in the sample keeps rising through the years, while men’s spikes in the year 1803 and then falls again in 1823. In 1823 the annual mean wealth of both sexes converges with one another the most (see table 1). Table 1: Wealth distribution in the inventory sample13 Year

Gender

Number of cases

Mean wealth in Fl (CM)

1783

female

9

427.6

male

11

1,588.8

female

10

1,346.6

male

10

2,204.4

female

9

1,544.8

male

11

1,220.4

60

1,402.7

1803 1823 Total

Mean wealth in Fl (CM) (both sexes) 1,066.3 1,775.5 1,366.4 1,402.7

Source: Wiener Stadt- und Landesarchiv (hereafter WstLA), Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen Table 2: Occupation and marital status in the inventory sample Gender female

male

Occupation artisan

Married 7

merchant pensioner public employee servant services artisan merchant pensioner

1

Single

Widowed 2

Total 9

2 2 3 3

1 1 4 4 9 8 6 1

1 2 1 4 5 4

1 2 2

1

12 This is not to say that the upper half of the social spectrum in not represented. In 1840, sixty percent of Vienna’s inventoried population did not have assets amounting to even one gulden. Silber, “Beiträge,” 158. 13 All the money values in gulden (Fl) mentioned in the tables and the text are in Conventionsmünze (CM), even though values of clothing in the inventories of the year 1823 are mostly in Wiener Währung (WW), which was introduced after the state bankruptcy in 1811. At the time, the Wiener Währung had an exchange rate to the Conventionsmünze of 2.5:1. See Helmut Rumpler, Eine Chance für Mitteleuropa: Bürgerliche Emanzipation und Staatsverfall in der Habsburgermonarchie (Vienna: Ueberreuter, 2005), 123–24.

361

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

Gender

Total

Occupation public employee rentier servant services

Married 1 1 2 3 31

Single 3

Widowed 2

2 11

3 18

Total 6 1 2 8 60

Source: WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

The occupations of the population in the sample vary greatly, as they include among others merchants, artisans, public employees, servants, and people providing services such as inn-keepers or accountants. The occupations listed for married women and widows are those of their (deceased) husbands. However, there are also a few cases of unmarried working women. There are, of course, other relevant factors that define the population of the sample, like home ownership, household size, or place of residence.14 In most cases the place of residence is either in the inner city, or in the districts that immediately surround it. In order to better grasp the material world available to these people and the role of the urban environment, it is necessary to consider the broader social and economic context of Vienna at the time. This was a period of intense transformation of Vienna, from the residence of the imperial court in the baroque period to a commercial and administrative centre of European significance. Further, a major part of Austrian proto-industry was gathered in Vienna, including the processing of silk and cotton, and the manufacture of porcelain and gloves.15 Foreign entrepreneurs and artisans, such as the French, English, or Swiss established businesses in Vienna in the second half of the eighteenth century, manufacturing a wide variety of products such as umbrellas, upholstery, buttons, clocks, and other products, which provided the Viennese population with many new consumption incentives.16 Moreover, political measures such as the abolition of the sumptuary legislation in the second half of the eighteenth century opened up consumption opportunities for broader strata of the population (fig. 70).17

14 The value of houses ranges between 3,000 and 7,000 gulden. The average household size in the sample is three people. Information on age at death is rarely available in the Viennese inventories. 15 Günther Chaloupek, Peter Eigner, and Michael Wagner, Wien Wirtschaftsgeschichte 1740–1938 (Vienna: Jugend und Volk Verlagsgesellschaft, 1991), 1:91–94; and Roman Sandgruber, “Österreich 1650–1850,” in Handbuch der europäischen Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte, ed. Ilja Mieck (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1993), 4:670–74. 16 Chaloupek et al., Wien Wirtschaftsgeschichte, 1:77–83. 17 Sandgruber, Anfänge, 294–99; and Chaloupek et al., Wien Wirtschaftsgeschichte, 1:28–30, 1:43–45.

362

Aris Kafantogias

Fig. 70: Carl Schütz: Ansicht des Kohlmarkts, Wien 1786. Copyright Wien Museum. This depiction of the Kohlmarkt, a prominent road in the center of Vienna, constitutes a typical example of the Wiener Veduten (drawings of Vienna’s cityscapes), which were produced in great numbers in the eighteenth century. The architecture, the store windows as well as the people and their clothing are depicted in great detail. The clothing of the bourgeois men and women promenading the street comes in stark contrast to the clothing of the common folk, the street vendors or the coachmen.

Not only the production, but also the circulation of products changed significantly during this period. The commercial sector of the city, with the gradual abolition of guild restrictions and the creation of a separate sector of commercial activity (Kommerzialgewerbe), underwent a structural transformation of its organisation that led to a more liberal, market-oriented system, especially with regards to the textile industry.18 It is in these measures that Roman Sandgruber located the expansion of the domestic market, especially the retail trade of textiles and the stimulation of consumer demand in Austria. By the first half of the nineteenth century retail shops in Vienna sold both textiles and readymade garments. There was also the possibility of borrowing clothes for days, weeks, or months. New cloth18 Chaloupek et al., Wien Wirtschaftsgeschichte, 1:30–32, 1:55–56.

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

363

ing could be purchased in exchange for older garments, which could then be resold at a lower price. The secondary market also covered a significant part of demand for clothing in Vienna in the period.19 In a court city like Vienna a large part of the population could also come into direct contact with the clothing patterns of the nobility and observe the latest fashions. The wider circulation of women’s almanacs, pocket books, and calendars, as well as the appearance of the first Viennese fashion magazine in 1816 contributed to a growing fashion consciousness.20 The great demographic growth was accompanied by a geographical expansion with intense construction activity at the turn of the century and again in the 1820s.21 The city not only expanded but also changed its form. A divide between the administrative and commercial centre and the industrial suburbs was established. Throughout the period the biggest part of the population living in the inner city were servants, public employees, and merchants, while a large number of artisans moved to the suburbs.22 The economic growth of the city brought about changes in the population structure. An early bourgeoisie was created, among the members of which were not only factory owners, wholesale traders, or guild masters, but also small businessmen and craftsmen.23 It is precisely this relatively broad stratum of the Viennese middle class population which constitutes the population sample of the present study. A good example of this middle class stratum are the tailors, whose numbers more than doubled from 1,000 in 1783 to 2,000 to 4,000 in 1840. There was also a spatial division of this thriving sector with the tailors of the aristocracy and the higher bourgeoisie residing in the inner city, and the tailors of the middle class and the lower strata living in the suburbs.24

19 Sandgruber, Anfänge, 386; Kaut, Modeblätter, 65–66; and Georg Stöger, Sekundäre Märkte? Zum Wiener und Salzburger Gebrauchtwarenhandel im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Vienna: Verlag für Geschichte und Politik, 2011), 29, 156–57. 20 John Styles, The Dress of the People: Everyday Fashion in Eighteenth-Century England (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 167–68; and Sandgruber, Anfänge, 301. 21 The number of dwellings rose from 44,900 in 1780 to 70,100 in 1830. See Roman Sandgruber, Ökonomie und Politik: Österreichische Wirtschaftsgeschichte vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart (Vienna: Ueberreuter, 2005), 268; Sandgruber, Anfänge, 26–28; and Elisabeth Lichtenberger, Die Wiener Altstadt: Von der mittel­ alterlichen Bürgerstadt zur City (Vienna: Franz Deuticke, 1977), 155. 22 Lichtenberger, Die Wiener Altstadt, 144; and Mittenzwei, Zwischen Gestern, 18–19. 23 Mittenzwei, Zwischen Gestern, 21, 27. 24 Mittenzwei, Zwischen Gestern, 28–29; Sandgruber, Anfänge, 302; and Kaut, Modeblätter, 64.

364

Aris Kafantogias

2. Clothing in the Viennese Probate Inventories Value of Clothes In order to have a general estimation of the fluctuation of people’s spending on clothing, it is necessary to first examine the value of the clothes.25 In doing so, the value of clothes should always be viewed relatively to total and material wealth (the total value of material goods), as well as the number of articles.26 Such an approach makes it possible to properly contextualise the value of clothes. Table 3: The number and value of clothes in the inventories of men and women and their percentage in the total and material wealth Years Female Total number of clothes Mean number of clothes Mean wealth in Fl (CM) Mean value of clothes in Fl (CM) Percentage of the value of clothes in total wealth Mean material wealth in Fl (CM) Percentage of material wealth in total wealth Percentage of the value of clothes in material wealth Male Total number of clothes Mean number of clothes Mean wealth in Fl (CM) Mean value of clothes in Fl (CM) Percentage of the value of clothes in total wealth Mean material wealth in Fl (CM) Percentage of material wealth in total wealth Percentage of the value of clothes in material wealth

1783

1803

1823

484 53.8

776 77.6

710 78.9

427.6 49.0

1,346.6 78.3

1,544.8 41.3

11.5 %

5.8 %

2.7 %

124.8 29.2 % 39.3 %

314.4 23.3 % 24.9 %

287.7 18.6 % 14.4 %

761 69.2 1,588.8 71.0 4.5 % 719.0 45.3 % 9.9 %

918 91.8 2,204.4 67.5 3.1 % 544.8 24.7 % 12.4 %

695 63.2 1,220.4 28.3 2.3 % 234.5 19.2 % 12.1 %

Source: WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen 25 It should be noted that the values include accessories like hats, gloves, knives for men, and fans for women. They exclude, however, watches and jewellery, which are described in a different category in the inventories. 26 Material wealth also represents items such as furniture, jewellery, or even artisans’ production goods and merchants’ stocks, but not landed property. These items are not always clearly distinguished as production goods in the inventories although they might have had such function, for example they could be used as a display of a craftsman’s work. See Margaret Ponsonby, “Towards an Interpretation of Textiles in the Provincial Domestic Interior: Three Homes in the West Midlands, 1780–1848,” Textile History 38 (2007), 170–71.

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

365

The most obvious trend is the rising mean number of clothes for both men and women. For women, the mean number of articles rises throughout the period. For men, however, it peaks in 1803, before declining in 1823. This trend is seemingly easy to decipher: mean total wealth also rose over the period, and wealthier people typically owned more clothes. While people may have owned more clothes, they were not spending more on them: the percentage of the total wealth spent on material goods as well as on clothes both declined over the period. It is unclear whether falling prices can explain this trend as price indexes are not available for clothes. While wholesale trade prices for cotton and wool are available after the turn of the century, their fluctuation is so great as to prevent further conclusions. More traditional price indexes regarding basic foodstuffs point to rising costs. The prices of these goods more than tripled from 1783 to1803 (but thereafter remained at the same level until 1823).27 Still these numbers cannot lead to safe conclusions about the price curve of other articles, as the prices of foodstuffs tend to rise disproportionately in war periods. Moreover, the values in the inventories should be viewed with caution, because they tend to undervalue the items, they do not reflect actual market prices and cannot be accurately compared to them. An explanation can be found in the structure of estates, particularly the parts of the inventory that do not concern material wealth, such as incoming debts, investment in state bonds, landed property, and, of course, cash. Most of the above constitute some type of investment instead of the acquisition of material goods, including production goods. So it would be safe to say that people at the time decided to either save their money, or invest it in loans and state bonds rather than accumulate possessions. Despite the fact that people progressively spent less on clothing, the mean number of clothes does not seem to be affected. In short, the value of clothes in the inventories dropped, and this drop is evident mostly in the last period. This was a result both of structural changes in the appearance of this group, and changes in the production and distribution of textiles and clothes. Clothes became cheaper to produce due to technological advances in production and were also easier to obtain because of the expansion of the market. The variety of their fabrics, a factor that could have driven their price up, also decreased. These changes will be made clear in the investigation of the structure, the fabrics, and the condition of the clothing of men and women in the period.

27 Alfred Francis Pribram, Materialien zur Geschichte der Preise und Löhne in Österreich (Vienna: Ueberreuter, 1938), 372, 382–85; Vera Mühlpeck, Roman Sandgruber, and Hannelore Woitek, “Index der Verbraucher­ preise 1800 bis 1914: Eine Rückberechnung für Wien und den Gebietsstand des heutigen Österreich,” in Geschichte und Ergebnisse der zentralen amtlichen Statistik in Österreich, 1829–1979, ed. Österreichisches Statistisches Zentralamt (Vienna: Österreichische Staatsdruckerei, 1979), 660–61, 676–79. Day-wages did not rise as much as they went from 15 kreuzer in the 1780s to 24,8 kreuzer in the 1820s. See Sandgruber, Anfänge, 115.

366

Aris Kafantogias

Outer Garments The best way to examine the changes in the appearance of Vienna’s middle class is by investigating the most visible part of their dress, namely their outer garments. For men, the amount of outer garments they owned is proportional to the rest of their wardrobe. There is nothing to indicate that this ratio changed over the course of this study. There are notable changes to male appearance in the period. While the basic structure of men’s dress, the combination of coat, waistcoat, and breeches remained constant, the cut and style of these garments changed significantly.28 Still prevalent in 1803, the waistcoat starts to be described as gilet (Gillée), and in 1823 the term Weste vanishes altogether. The difference in the description could represent a change in the cut and the length of the waistcoat, following a trend of shortening that was already in effect since the middle of the eighteenth century.29 As in Vienna, inventories elsewhere in Europe use similar wording regarding waistcoats. In his analysis of the Parisian inventories at the end of the eighteenth century, Daniel Roche differentiates between the gilet and the longer waistcoat (veste) with flared skirts, although he states that they were worn together. The latter, however, was more common in male wardrobes of every social class at the time apart from nobles. In rural Germany, the Weste is first recorded in inventories at the end of the eighteenth century and remains in similar numbers until 1820. While in Bern, Weste is first used in the 1720s, and remains a common term through the end of the eighteenth century.30 Table 4: Principle types of men’s outer garments: Total number and mean number31 1783 Total

1783 Mean

1803 Total

1803 Mean

1823 Total

1823 Mean Total

18

1.6

10

1

14

1.3

42

5

0.5

10

0.9

15

25

2.5

Overcoats overcoat frock coat Coats/Jackets coat

37

3.4

62

28 Styles, Dress, 35. 29 Aileen Ribeiro, Dress in Eighteenth-Century Europe, 1715–1789, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 121–22; and Daniel Roche, The Culture of Clothing: Dress and Fashion in the “Ancien Régime,” trans. Jean Birrell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 134. 30 Hans Medick, Weben und Überleben in Laichingen 1650–1900: Lokalgeschichte als Allgemeine Geschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 404 and Roche, Culture, 134–35. On Bern, John Jordan, “Clothes and Consumer Change in early modern Bern,” (Early Modern Textiles and Material Culture: Consumption, Distribution and Global Interaction, University of Bern, Bern, April 14–16, 2016). 31 The German terms of men’s outer garments: breeches (Hose, Beinkleid); coat (Rock); frock (Frack, Klappenfrack, Uniformfrack); frock coat (Gehrock); full suit (Kleid, Ganzes Kleid, Mannskleid); gilet (Gillee); overcoat (Kireh, Kaput, Kaputrock, Mantel, Pekesche, Schmiß); sleeve waistcoat (Ärmelleibl, Ärmelweste) spencer (Spenzer); trousers (Beinkleid); and waistcoat (Weste, Leibl).

367

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

frock

1783 Total 1783 Mean 1803 Total 1803 Mean 1823 Total 1823 Mean Total 3 0.3 15 1.5 21 1.9 39

spencer

2

0.2

2

43

3.9

171

14

1.3

14

Trousers breeches

46

4.2

82

8.2

trousers Waistcoats waistcoat

63

5.7

sleeve waistcoat gilet Full suit Total

16 183

1.5

90

9

6 19

0.6 1.9

7

0.7

259

153 62

5.6

6 81 23

166

608

Source: WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

A differentiation regarding the description of the coat also took place. While the standard description for coat (Rock) was used almost universally in 1783, frock (Frack) starts to replace it in 1803. By 1823, coats are solely referred to as Frack, and not as Rock, a development that could reflect the English fashion of the frock that dominated men’s appearance in the last decades of the eighteenth century (albeit one that took time to take hold in Vienna).32 Even though they derived from England and they were also evident in the Parisian inventories at the end of the eighteenth century, especially in those of servants and professionals, the frocks described in the Viennese inventories might refer to different garments throughout the period. The frocks in 1823 might have resembled more the tail coat which went down to the waist in the front and the knees in the back, and featured a tight waist, a high collar, narrow long sleeves, two series of buttons, and lapels on the front. Nevertheless, as with the waistcoat, coats in Vienna seem to have followed the changes in other European countries.33 Concerning the last part of the suit, the breeches, the descriptions do not give a clear answer as to what kind of trousers were actually being described. In 1783, they are described 32 Its English origin is also evident by the fact that in the Krünitz encyclopedia, the Frack is defined as “an English overcoat (Überrock) made from coarse cloth.” See Johann Georg Krünitz, “Frack,” Oekonomi­sche Encyklopädie oder allgemeines System der Staats- Stadt- Haus- und Landwirthschaft, http://kruenitz1.uni-­ trier.de. Accessed 13 December 2016. Aileen Ribeiro defines a frock as “a kind of light coat, newly in fashion, only in the 1770s outside England.” See her Dress, 126. More generally, see Styles, The Dress, 86–87; Sandgruber, Anfänge, 287–88; and Akiko Fukai et al., Fashion: Eine Modegeschichte vom 18. bis 20. Jahrhundert (Cologne: Taschen, 2005), 1:28. 33 Regina Karner, “Zylinder, Frack und Kreuzbandschuhe: Mode der Zeitwende,” in Der Wiener Kongress: Die Erfindung Europas, ed. Thomas Just, Wolfang Maderthaner, and Helene Maimann (Vienna: Carl Ge­ rold’s Sohn Verlagsbuchhandlung, 2014), 207; and Roche, Culture, 135.

368

Aris Kafantogias

as Hose, but in 1803 and 1823 as Beinkleid. The terms could be used interchangeably as is evident in other sources. For example, for those in public institutions, like hospitals or poor houses, the typical dress at the end of the century was the standard combination of coat, waistcoat, and breeches (Rock, Weste und Beinkleid).34 Breeches did not disappear from men’s dress at the turn of the century, even though in Vienna, trousers became widely established in the 1820s.35 The substitution of trousers for breeches was an instance of upwards diffusion, as the elites adopted the dress of their social inferiors. In Paris before the Revolution, trousers were characteristic of certain professions and journeymen. They were then adopted by their employers and masters and were found in their inventories, albeit in small numbers. During the Revolution they were ascribed their symbolic meaning as the emblematic garment of the Sansculottes. In England mariners played a crucial role in the popularity of trousers as their dress was associated with new ideals of masculinity and patriotism, and subsequently led to the adoption of trousers by all social classes around 1800. However, trousers were not a rural garment. The Lederhose remained dominant in rural Germany throughout the period. In Vienna, the catalyst for the establishment of trousers was the popularity of soldiers’ uniforms, especially at the time of the Congress. This trend was evident in the previous decades with the adoption of less ostentatious clothing by the elites, such as riding attire and military uniforms as formal dress, exemplified by the fact that the military uniform became the official court dress of Joseph II.36 Even though male appearance changes, the relationship between the main items remains comparable through the years. Outer garments comprised roughly a quarter of all male clothes. The value of these outer garments, however, comprised a much larger percentage. Although only an approximation, outer garments normally accounted for sixty-two to seventy-one percent of the value of all clothes. Of these, the coat was by far the most valuable part of the suit, while the waistcoat was the means to express the wearer’s personal taste and 34 Sandgruber, Anfänge, 317. Because these terms do not offer much clarity, especially regarding the length of the trousers (which also defines its form), the distinction was made based on other factors, mainly the presence of socks (Socken) instead of stockings (Strümpfe) in the inventory, or the presence of silk stockings, which would denote that the item described is indeed the shorter knee-length trousers, or breeches. 35 Jutta Zander-Seidel, Kleiderwechsel: Frauen-, Männer- und Kinderkleidung des 18. bis 20. Jahrhunderts (Nuremberg: Germanisches Nationalmuseum, 2002), 35–36; Klier, “Die Bekleidung,” 9–10; and Kaut, Modeblätter, 48. 36 Herbert Haupt, “Die Aufhebung des spanischen Mantelkleides durch Kaiser Joseph II. – Ein Wendepunkt im höfischen Zeremoniell,” in Österreich zur Zeit Kaiser Joseph II: Mitregent Maria Theresias und Landesfürst, ed. Karl Gutkas (Vienna: Amt der Niederösterreichischen Landesregierung, 1980), 79–81; Beverly Lemire, “A Question of Trousers: Seafarers, Masculinity and Empire in the Shaping of British Male Dress, c. 1600–1800,” Cultural and Social History 13 (2016), 13–14, 17–18; Leopoldine Springschitz, Wiener Mode im Wandel der Zeit: Ein Beitrag zur Kulturgeschichte Alt-Wiens (Vienna: Wiener Verlag, 1949), 57–58; Kar­ ner, “Zylinder,” 207–8; Roche, Culture, 139–40; and Medick, Weben, 404.

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

369

fashion sense.37 The mean numbers of the three parts of the suit also support such a conclusion as there were significantly more waistcoats and breeches than coats, suggesting that the main components differentiating the appearance of men were the waistcoat and the breeches, which could be more frequently changed than the coat and could be matched accordingly.38 In the way the inventories are structured, it is very difficult to extract specific values for single garments, or types of garments, because in most cases values are ascribed to entries with multiple (types of) items. Outer garments usually form a distinct set of entries and therefore they are ascribed values together.39 Individual item entries are rare and they mostly concern heavy, expensive outer garments like overcoats. For examining values, an adequate number of individual entries of the full suit (coat, waistcoat, and breeches) is available only in the year 1783. One such example is the inventory of Thomas Baur, a married, high servant of the imperial court. His inventory included twelve full suits of various qualities whose values ranged, according to condition, quality, and perhaps also fashion relevance, from two to thirty-four gulden, with an average value of fifteen gulden.40 The lowest value was assessed to a black suit made of stuff (Zeug), while the highest to a lilac woollen (Tuch) suit with gold tassels, which was probably one of his formal uniforms. The principle types of women’s outer garments were more diversified and more complicated in their description and use than those of men. They included pieces of clothing that could also be considered undergarments, because it is not clear how exactly they were worn, if for example a type of corset was worn above or underneath other outer garments, or if and how much of the petticoat was shown.41 As with men, the number of women’s outer garments follows the curve of the total number of women’s clothes and accessories: its lowest point was in 1783. It peaked in 1803, before declining in 1823. 37 In London and Germany, the coat was also the most valuable. Styles, Dress, 41; Medick, Weben, 403; and Karner, “Zylinder,” 208. 38 Apart from the term ‘full suit,’ it is difficult to assume the presence of matching sets in the inventories, because, even though the three parts of the suit are usually described in the same entry, the wording of the sources does not always permit the assumption that all three parts were made from the same fabric, had the same pattern, and were of the same colour. There is contradictory evidence regarding the presence of matching sets in the period. Men’s fashion at the end of the eighteenth century moved away from the suit made from one fabric. At the start of the nineteenth century different accounts suggest both uniformity in colour and fabric, but also a differentiation of the trousers. See Ribeiro, Dress, 124, 212–13; Klier, “Die Bekleidung,” 19; and Kaut, Modeblätter, 48. 39 The same practice can be observed in inventories in Salzburg and Graz. See Reinhold Reith, ed., Das Verlassenschaftsinventar des Salzburger Tuch- und Seidenhändlers Franz Anton Spängler von 1784 (Salzburg: Stadtarchiv und Statistik Salzburg, 2015), 27; and Burkhard Pöttler, “Clothing and Cloths in Styrian Probate Inventories of the Late 17 th and 18 th Centuries,” in Inventories of Textiles – Textiles in Inventories: Studies on Late Medieval and Early Modern Material Culture, ed. Thomas Ertl and Barbara Karl (Vienna: V&R unipress, 2017), 204. 40 WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen: 113–1783/84. 41 The descriptions for skirt (Rock) and petticoat (Unterrock) are used interchangeably in the inventories.

370

Aris Kafantogias

Table 5: Principle types of women’s outer garments: Total number and mean number42 1783 Total

1783 Mean

1803 Total

1803 Mean

1823 Total

coat

6

0.7

3

0.3

5

jacket

9

1

1823 Mean Total

Coats/Jackets 0.6

14 9

Cloaks/Overgowns overgown cloak

11

1.1

49

5.4

60

1

0.1

18

2

19

Gowns/Dresses gown

17

1.9

5

0.5

4

0.4

26

one-piece dress

11

1.2

41

4.1

30

3.3

82

Stays stays

7

0.8

13

1.3

2

0.2

22

corset

7

0.8

17

1.7

9

1

33

stomacher

6

0.7

6

Skirts skirt

27

3

petticoat

19

2.1

47

5.2

fur

5

0.6

Full dress

8

0.9

62

6.2

20

2.2

109

19

2.1

38

5.4

27

3

128

3

0.3

1

0.1

6

0.6

Other apron

Total

169

54

216

9 14

184

569

Source: WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

The structure of women’s clothing changed significantly in the period. The biggest difference was the gradual adoption of the one-piece dress, the chemise, in place of the three part dress, which was comprised of a skirt or petticoat, gown, and stays.43 First becoming popular in France in the 1770s, the chemise was a form of one-piece dress with a higher waist that could be put on over the head. It slimed a woman’s silhouette and largely replaced the hooped skirts and the tight stays, perhaps also as a result of the increasing warnings against the damaging effects of the tight corset during the century. The overgown was worn over this dress and resembled the dress’s cut.44 42 The German terms of women’s outer garments: apron (Vortuch, Küchenvortuch); cloak (Umhangtuch); coat (Mantel); corset (Korsett, Pelzkorsett, Hauskorsett); full dress (ganzes Kleid); fur (Pelz); gown (Contouche, Sack, Schaget Kleid, Kleid, Fourreau); jacket (Schaget); one-piece dress (Schmiß Commode, Commode Kleid); overgown (Überrock); petticoat (Unterrock); skirt (Rock); stays (Mieder, Leibl, Schnürmieder); and stomacher (Brustfleck). 43 Styles, Dress, 35–36. 44 Ribeiro, Dress, 227; Zander-Seidel, Kleiderwechsel, 59–62; and Almut Junker and Eva Stille, Geschichte der Unterwäsche, 1700–1960 (Frankfurt: Historisches Museum Frankfurt, 1988), 38–43. The adoption of the

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

371

Such developments are eminently perceptible in the Viennese inventories. For example in 1783, there are seventeen gowns and eleven one piece dresses in the sample. By 1803, this has markedly changed as there are now fourty-one one-piece dresses and only five gowns. This development mainly matched European patterns. Gowns were ubiquitous in Paris and London at the end of the eighteenth century as well, but not in rural France and Germany, especially in the lower social strata, a trend which reinforces the arguments of a slower diffusion of fashion in the countryside. In England differences between London and provincial towns do not appear as stark as in other countries.45 In the 1810s, a stricter silhouette was gradually re-established. Looser corsets without whalebone that fastened in front with strings or ribbons and had been popular at the end of the eighteenth and into the beginning of the nineteenth century were replaced once again by boned stays, which were different in form and were worn strictly as undergarments. For Vienna, this explains why there are fewer corsets in 1823 than in 1803.46 Skirts and petticoats were worn one over the other, mostly in order to keep the body warm, so their use was interchangeable and there were even cases of women who wore three or more skirts.47 This also explains the absence of petticoats in 1803 when there was seemingly a linguistic preference for skirt (Rock). The plethora of terms for the skirt as well as the stays, which was not unique to the Viennese inventories, corresponded to differences in form, function, or material.48 The mean numbers of women’s outer garments suggest some capacity for change, but not one that could align with the higher-bourgeois wardrobe of regular changes of morning and evening dress, especially at the time of the Congress, when a specialized wardrobe for balls and other festivities was created. It could not also match the wardrobe of the Parisian bourgeoisie that included more gowns on average.49 Outer garments comprised between twenty-six and thirty-five percent of female clothes, but between sixty and seventy-nine chemise was not without criticism from both moralists, who viewed this fashion of undress as nudity, or doctors, who warned about ‘muslin sickness,’ a type of lung disease. See Karner, “Zylinder,” 210, 213. 45 Roche, Culture, 144; Medick, Weben, 403–4; and Styles, Dress, 340–41. There are, of course, examples that contradict this statement. Any comparisons should always be viewed in relation to status and income. See Dominique Margairaz, “City and Country: Home, Possessions, and Diet, Western Europe 1600–1800,” in The Oxford Handbook of the History of Consumption, ed. Frank Trentmann (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 204–6. 46 Karner, “Zylinder,” 211; Valerie Steele, Corset: A Cultural History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 29–33, 39; Willet C. Cunnington and Phillis Cunnington, The History of Underclothes (London: Faber and Faber, 1981), 73–74; and Ingrid Loschek, Reclams Mode- und Kostümlexikon (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1999), 317. 47 Klier, “Die Bekleidung,” 123; and Styles, The Dress, 42. 48 Zander-Seidel, Kleiderwechsel, 45–47, 51, 56–57; and Barbara Knüttel, Manns- und Weibskleidung in Unterfranken: Nachlassinventare aus den Gerichtsbezirken Dettelbach, Kitzingen, Ochsenfurt und Sommerhausen als Quelle zur Bekleidungsforschung (Würzburg: Richard Mayr, 1983), 128–33. 49 Springschitz, Wiener Mode, 55; Roche, Culture, 145–46. For a description of the differences between Viennese bourgeois morning and evening dress, see Karner, “Zylinder,” 211.

372

Fig. 71: Woman with openwork striped cambric dress (Kleid von durchgebrochenem gestreiften Kambrik). Wiener Zeitschrift für Kunst, L ­ iteratur, Theater und Mode, 24 September 1818. http:// anno.onb.ac.at/cgi-content/anno?aid=wzz&datum=18180924&seite=9&zoom=33. The engravings of the Viennese fashion magazine, which both promote the Viennese fashion and showcase the latest developments in Viennese dress making, reveal the changes in the female silhouette with the adoption of the one piece dress with the higher waist and the low neckline.

Aris Kafantogias

Fig. 72: Man with cloth frock, black matte silk gilet and white serge trousers (Frack von Tuch, Gilet von schwarzem matten Seidenstoff, Pantalon von weißem Sommerzeug). Wiener Zeitschrift von Kunst, Literatur, Theater und Mode, 31 Mai 1821. http://anno.onb. ac.at/cgi-content/anno?aid=wzz&datum=18210531&seite=9&zoom=33. The adoption of the long trousers and the shorter waistcoat, gilet, by men is evident in the dress of both figures. The figure in the back, presumably a servant, showcases the front part of the gilet as well. However, there is a notable difference in the coats, the figure in the front is wearing a frock and the figure in the back is wearing a frock coat.

percent of their value. For example, in 1783, the value of a full dress (gown, petticoat, and stays) ranged from three to twenty-four gulden. The one with the lowest value is described simply as a cotton full dress (Ein Kottonenes ganzes Kleyd), and comes from the inventory of Barbara Bärin, the wife of a publican.50 There are two entries of a full dress valued 50 WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 352–1783/84.

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

373

at twenty-four gulden. The first one is a white broché full dress (weiß proschiertes ganzes Kleid) from the inventory of Klara Schelfin, the widow of a court musician, and the second one is a full dress made of Gros de Tours (grosdetor. ganzes Kleid), an expensive silk fabric, found in the inventory of Konstantia Purgerin the wife of a tailor.51 The average value of a full dress in 1783 was eleven gulden, and in 1803, fourteen gulden. It is evident that the appearance of the Viennese middle class changed in the period. The image displayed in their inventories echoes broader, European-wide fashion changes of the time, such as the adoption of the one-piece dress and the move away from the tight stays for women, and the adoption of the frock and the long trousers for men. However, it is not safe to assume that these changes represent a move towards a distinct ‘Viennese fashion’ – a term that came into use after the Congress of Vienna in 1814-15 which spurred Viennese dress making – and described a style of dress that moved away from aristocratic and towards bourgeois models, and was characterized by fine craftsmanship, a balance of extremes, and an avoidance of exaggeration. Instead, impulses in fashion came from France for women and England for men.52 Another aspect of the consumer behaviour of this stratum and their relationship to fashion is the size of their wardrobes. The total and mean numbers of their outer garments do not denote a great increase either in quantity, or in capacity for change and replacement, which could point to a dramatic shift in consumer behaviour. Rather, the mean numbers point to a general image of continuity regarding the outer garments of both sexes trough the period, always in relation to wealth. This stratum followed fashion, but it did not possess the means to create it: they were not trend setters, which was a privilege of higher social strata (fig. 71, 72).

3. Fabrics in the Viennese Probate Inventories There are six main types of fabrics that the Viennese inventories consistently denote: cotton (Baumwolle), linen (Leinen), silk (Seide), cloth (Tuch), stuff (Zeug), and wool (Wolle). Further materials of lesser significance in the inventories include leather (Leder) or mixed fabrics (Halbseide, Halbtuch). An additional, statistically relevant material used is fur (Pelz): even though it is not a textile, it factors greatly in both quantity and value in women’s clothing. There is some duplication in this description of the fabrics: although Tuch could also describe linen, cotton, or mixed fabrics, it was most commonly used to denote woollen fabrics.53 Zeug/Zeuch, on the other hand, could be used to describe any fabric, and 51 WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 302–1783/84; and WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 315–1783/84. 52 Karner, “Zylinder,” 207, 217; Springschitz, Wiener Mode, 8, 36; and Fukai, Fashion, 148. 53 See Johann Georg Krünitz, “Tuch,” Oekonomische Encyklopädie oder allgemeines System der Staats- StadtHaus- und Landwirthschaft, http://kruenitz1.uni-trier.de. Accessed 15 December 2016; Jacob Grimm and

374

Aris Kafantogias

is not counted in any specific category, even though it described a specific type of fabric each time, mostly some type of light woollen fabric.54 The inventories do not provide a description of the fabric for every item. In some cases, like shirts or shifts, the materials might have been obvious to the appraisers at the time, mostly coarse linen, and they did not bother to provide more detail.55 As a result, descriptions of fabrics are available for only a small number of items, mainly outer garments, whose descriptions have the highest degree of variation. The percentage of description of fabrics in total clothing amounts to around twenty-nine percent in 1783, in line with inventories in Bern in the eighteenth century, but then decreases to roughly twelve percent in 1803 and 1823.56 A total of 647 items (390 for men and 257 for women) refer to these most common types of fabrics.57 Overall, the number of descriptions in men’s inventories decreases through the period, and it falls regardless of the number of items in the inventories. A wealthier overall part of the population in 1803 had fewer clothes made of silk, wool, cloth, or cotton that were worth being described as such in the inventory. It should be noted that these descriptions are provided by the appraisers, not the owners, and serve practical rather than aesthetic functions, the distinction between goods of the same or similar type and their appraisal. Therefore, they are related to the variety of the goods to be appraised and vary according to the style of writing of the appraiser.58

Wilhelm Grimm, “Tuch,” Deutsches Wörterbuch, http://www.woerterbuchnetz.de. Accessed 15 December 2016; and Max Heiden, Handwörterbuch der Textilkunde aller Zeiten und Völker (Stuttgart: Enke, 1904), 593–94. 54 Johann Georg Krünitz, “Zeuch,” Oekonomische Encyklopädie oder allgemeines System der Staats- Stadt- Hausund Landwirthschaft, http://kruenitz1.uni-trier.de. Accessed 15 December 2016; and Pöttler, “Clothing,” 209. 55 Klier, “Die Bekleidung,” 6. This is a standard issue with shirts and shifts. See Jordan’s contribution to this volume as well. 56 It must be noted, however, that the numbers are not directly comparable due to differences in the items described (John Jordan includes domestic textiles whereas the Viennese numbers refer only to clothes). See his contribution to this volume. The percentage in men’s inventories is 33.1 percent in 1783, 13.6 percent in 1803, and 7.1 percent in 1823. In women’s inventories it is 21.7 percent in 1783, 9.4 percent in 1803 and 17.5 percent in 1823. 57 Two other statistically relevant fabrics are canvas (Kanevas) for men and yarn (Zwirn) for women. Canvas is almost exclusively used in the description of handkerchiefs in one case in 1783, while yarn describes only stockings, again in one case in 1823. Moreover, the term Zwirn is not clear as it could denote different fabrics. Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 664; WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 71–1783/84; and WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 250–1823. 58 Pöttler, “1 tuzet täller,” 278; Mark Overton, Jane Whittle, Darron Dean, and Andrew Hann, Production and Consumption in English Households, 1600–1750 (London: Routledge, 2004), 114–15; and Mary C. Beaurdy, “Words for Things: Linguistic Analysis of Probate Inventories,” in Documentary Archaeology in the New World, ed. Mary C. Beaurdy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 44.

provided by the appraisers, not the owners, and serve practical rather than aesthetic functions, the distinction between goods of the same or similar type and their appraisal. Therefore, they are related to the variety of the goods to be appraised and vary according to the style of Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

writing of the appraiser.58

The number of descriptions in women’s inventories does not follow this trend as it

375

The number of descriptions in women’s inventories does not follow this trend as it decreases from 1783 to 1803 before rising in 1823. Therefore, the following diagrams are the decreases from 1783 to 1803 before rising in 1823. Therefore, the following diagrams are only way to accurately depict the trajectory of the different textiles throughout the period, the only way to accurately depict the trajectory of the different textiles throughout the because they show the percentage of each fabric in the descriptions for both men and women. period, because they show the percentage of each fabric in the descriptions for both men and women. Diagram 1: Presence Presenceofofdifferent different fabrics in male clothing Diagram 1: fabrics in male clothing 100% 90% 80%

cotton

70%

linen

60%

silk

50%

cloth

40%

wool

30%

stuff

20%

fur

10% 0% 1783

1803

1823

Source: WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

Source: WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

and 7.1 percent in 1823. In women’s inventories it is 21.7 percent in 1783, 9.4 percent in 1803 and 17.5 percent in 1823. 57 Diagram 2:statistically Presencerelevant different fabrics in female clothing Two other2: fabricsfabrics are canvas (Kanevas) for men and yarn (Zwirn) for women. Canvas is Diagram Presence ofofdifferent in female clothing almost exclusively used in the description of handkerchiefs in one case in 1783, while yarn describes only stockings, again in one case in 1823. Moreover, the term Zwirn is not clear as it could denote different fabrics. 100% Heiden, Handwörterbuch, 664; WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 71–1783/84; and WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 250–1823. 58 Pöttler, 90% “1 tuzet täller,” 278; Mark Overton, Jane Whittle, Darron Dean, and Andrew Hann, Production and Consumption in English Households, 1600–1750 (London: Routledge, 2004), 114–15; and Mary C. Beaurdy, 80% for Things: Linguistic Analysis of Probate Inventories,” in Documentary Archaeology in the New World, “Words cotton ed. 70% Mary C. Beaurdy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 44. linen 336 60% silk 50% cloth 40% wool 30% stuff 20% fur 10% 0% 1783

1803

1823

Source: Zivilgericht, A2 –A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen Source:WStLA, WStLA, Zivilgericht, Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

Diagram 3: The fabrics of men’s principle outer and undergarments in the years: 1783, 1803, and 1823 50 45 40 35 30 25 20 15 10

cotton linen silk cloth

Other apron fur Full dress Total 376

47 5 8 169

5.2 0.6 0.9

54 3 6 216

5.4 0.3 0.6

27 1

3 0.1

128 9 14 569

184

Aris Kafantogias

Diagram 3: The fabrics of men’s principle outer and undergarments in the years: 1783, 1803, Diagram 3: The fabrics of men’s principle outer and undergarments in the years: 1783, 1803, and 1823 and 1823 50 45 40 35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0

cotton linen silk cloth

1803

gilet

overcoat

frock

frock coat

stockings

waistcoat

gilet

overcoat

full suit

frock

1783

frock coat

coat

dressing gown

breeches

waistcoat

shirt

stockings

overcoat

night shirt

frock

full suit

coat

dressing gown

breeches

wool stuff fur

1823

Source: WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

Diagram 4: The fabrics of women’s principle outer and undergarments in the years: 1783, Diagram 4: The fabrics of women’s principle outer and undergarments in the years: 1783, 1803, and 1823 1803, and 1823 30 25 20

cotton

15

linen

10

silk cloth

5

wool

1783

skirt

stockings

overgown

gown

one piece dress

fur

coat

apron

skirt

stockings

overgown

gown

1803

one piece dress

fur

full dress

coat

corset

apron

stockings

skirt

one piece dress

fur

gown

full dress

corset

coat

apron

0

stuff fur

1823

Source: WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

As regards men, there are two opposite trends observable in the first period: an increase in the percentage of silk and cloth, and a decrease of every other statistically relevant material, which apart from ‘stuff ’ disappear altogether in the second period. Silk goes from twenty-nine to thirty-eight percent and then falls steeply to four percent in 1823. Cloth on the other hand rises from twenty-nine to forty-eight and then to ninety-four percent in 1823. This high percentage of cloth, which it should be assumed described woollen fabrics, is due to the fact that the descriptions of fabrics in men’s inventories in 1823 concern almost exclusively outer garments, like frocks, frock coats, and overcoats,

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

377

which were made mostly of heavy, woollen fabrics. The cause of the decrease of silk can be attributed to the adoption of trousers instead of breeches and the disappearance of silk stockings, which made up almost seventy percent of the descriptions of silk in men’s inventories.59 Both the decrease of silk and the increase of wool in men’s inventories correspond to broader trends regarding the supply and demand of these fabrics in the monarchy. The demand for silk increased greatly in the last decades of the eighteenth century across the social spectrum, but fell in the middle strata at the start of the nineteenth century. Its production was concentrated in Vienna, where many foreign artisans established businesses. It constituted a thriving industrial sector of the city with 3,000 silk looms in 1794, which increased to 8,000 in 1813. Despite the destruction of its main competitor, France, the wider economic recession after 1815 affected the silk industry, and only after 1825 did it regain its former production level. On the other hand, the technical innovations that took place in wool production and processing and enabled the weaving of new complicated patterns, contributed to the increased demand for wool by the middle class population at the start of the nineteenth century. The dominance of wool at the end of the eighteenth century as regards men’s outer garments, especially coats, is also observable not only in England and Germany but also in Bern and in Paris, where it constituted the most common fabric of men’s dress across the social scale. This trend conforms to established narratives regarding men’s fashion, which according to contemporary commentators followed the English fashion, which was defined by woollen fabrics.60 A constant trend both in the description of the fabrics of men’s total clothing and outer garments is the progressively lower degree of variety. It is also evident that variety does not hinge on the number of garments. In 1783 men’s dress, and especially men’s outer appearance, was more diversified in its fabrics, though not in its clothing items, and was valued higher on average. As regards women’s clothing the trends are more muddled. The percentage of silk in the descriptions rises throughout, while linen decreases steeply. The percentages of cotton and fur peak in 1803 and then they drop to their previous levels in 1823. The most important fabrics for women’s outer garments were silk, cotton, and linen. The different types and qualities of silk mentioned in the inventories are Atlas, Damast, Gros de Tours, Mohr, 59 The disappearance of silk stockings in 1823 should also factor in the lower value of men’s clothing in the period, since they constituted an expensive article, which was valued in 1783 at one gulden per pair. W ­ StLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 71–1783/84; WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 113–783/84. 60 Tuch was also the primary woolen material in Graz. See Pöttler, “Clothing,” 209; Styles, Dress, 88, 90; Medick, Weben, 406; Roche, Culture, 144–46; Sandgruber, Anfänge, 285–88; Sandgruber, Ökonomie und Politik, 183; Chaloupek et al., Wien Wirtschaftsgeschichte, 1:83; Kaut, Modeblätter, 23; Karner, “Zylinder,” 204; and Jordan’s contribution to this volume.

378

Aris Kafantogias

Sammet, Taffet, and Dünntuch.61 Silk was also the prevalent material of women’s dress in the middle and bourgeois strata of the Parisian society at the end of the eighteenth century, and increasingly found its way to the clothing of women in rural Germany up to the 1820s. It continued to define middle-class women’s appearance in Vienna, unlike in England, where it seems to fade away after 1780 in favour of cotton.62 The decrease in the percentage of linen is related to the decrease in the number of aprons in 1823. Linen described mostly aprons in 1783, and in 1803 and 1823 exclusively aprons. Its production in the empire was concentrated mainly in Bohemia, where at the end of the eighteenth century it began to give way to cotton manufacture. According to contemporary reports, the demand for linen was gradually replaced by cotton and confined in the lower strata of the population. This is also evident in the sample, where the overall poorer women in 1783, for whom the apron was an essential, functional part of everyday dress, possessed the highest percentage of linen garments.63 Cotton is present in the inventories with different descriptions according to its type and quality, when it is not mentioned simply as Baumwolle or Kotton. Its types include: Kammertuch, Musselin, Perkal, Pikee, Wallis, and Manchester.64 From 1760 onwards, the cotton manufacture constituted one of the most important industrial sectors in Lower Austria (Niederösterreich), while the production of mixed cotton fabrics was concentrated in Vienna. In 1811, there were 20 big cotton manufactories, 559 smaller ones, and 1,533 individual master craftsmen in Austria. Cotton spinning was also increasingly mechanized in the monarchy from the start of the nineteenth century, and other innovations, such as cylinder printing, made the production of greater quantities of printed cotton possible. The development of the industry stagnated in the years 1811–20, after which it began to once again gradually gain traction.65 Cotton constituted evidently an essential fabric of women’s outer garments, but its percentage is not as significant as in the lower strata of London and Paris at the end of the eighteenth century, nor does it approach that of the Bernese women. Rather, it is more comparable to the Parisian middle class population. It might have triumphed over linen or wool for 61 The description of different types of a single fabric is also common in inventories in Bern. See John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Fictive Descriptions? Words, Textiles, and Inventories in Early Modern Swwitzerland,” in Inventories of Textiles, 227. 62 Roche, Culture, 146; Medick, Weben, 405–6; and Beverly Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite: the Cotton Trade and the Consumer in Britain, 1660–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 110–13. 63 Sandgruber, Anfänge, 287; Styles, Dress, 93; and Olga Katsiardi-Hering, Artisans and Cotton-Yarn Dying Methods: From Thessaly to Central Europe (18th to the beginning of the 19th century) (Athens: Herodotus, 2003), 87–89. 64 Barchent, a mixed cotton fabric (fustian), is also present in the inventories. 65 Chaloupek et al, Wien Wirtschaftsgeschichte, 1:88; Katsiardi-Hering, Artisans, 89; Springschitz, Wiener Mode, 90–91; and Karner, “Zylinder,” 204.

379

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

a variety of reasons: its advantage of being lighter and, therefore, easier to replace according to prevailing fashions, its ability to be printed in brighter colours and in vastly different patterns (all while costing less due to technical advances in production), its availability in different qualities, or that it was easier to wash than wool. Nevertheless, cotton remained relatively marginal compared to silk. However, the notion that women were at the forefront of the move towards cotton fabrics seems to have some weight in the case of Vienna’s middle strata.66 An important factor, apart from quality, that determined the value that was placed on as bad (schlecht), old (alt), ordinary (ordinari), or worn out (abgetragen/abgenützt). Such clothes and accessories, was their condition. The appraisers described the condition of descriptions reveal not only the state of the available stock of goods, but also provide hints clothes as bad (schlecht), old (alt), ordinary (ordinari), or worn out (abgetragen/abgenützt). about the frequency of renewal of clothing and the attitude towards fashion and appearance. Such descriptions reveal not only the state of the available stock of goods, but also provide However, the inventories do not provide the definitions for these terms. They simply provide hints about the frequency of renewal of clothing and the attitude towards fashion and the framework for further analysis. It should not be assumed that the items that were not appearance. However, the inventories do not provide the definitions for these terms. They described as such were necessarily of better quality or new. The absence of positive terms, simply provide the framework for further analysis. It should not be assumed that the items and especially of the term ‘new,’ which might have been reserved for unworn clothing, that were not described as such were necessarily of better quality or new. The absence of suggests that these descriptions were used in order to denote a diminishing value, and were positive terms, and especially of the term ‘new,’ which might have been reserved for unworn directly linked to the appraisal of the items.67 As with the descriptions of fabrics, the number clothing, suggests that these descriptions were used in order to denote a diminishing value, of these descriptions of condition varies each year, so it is through the use of the percentage of and were directly linked to the appraisal of the items.67 As with the descriptions of fabrics, each condition in the descriptions that a comparison between the different years for both men the number of these descriptions of condition varies each year, so it is through the use of and is possible. the women percentage of each condition in the descriptions that a comparison between the different years for both men and women is possible. Diagram 5: Condition Conditionofofmale maleclothing clothing period Diagram 5: in in thethe period 100,0% 90,0% 80,0% 70,0% 60,0%

old

50,0%

ordinary

40,0%

worn out

30,0%

bad

20,0% 10,0% 0,0% 1783

1803

1823

Source: Zivilgericht, A2 –A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen Source:WStLA, WStLA, Zivilgericht, Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

66 Sandgruber, Anfänge 188; Styles, Dress, 91; Roche, Culture, 144–46; Ponsonby, “Towards an Interpretation,” Diagram 6: Condition of Favourite, female clothing the period 170; Lemire, Fashion’s 95, 105;inKatsiardi-Hering, Artisans, 75–76; and Jordan’s contribution to this volume. 67 Overton, Production and Consumption, 115; and Beaurdy, “Words for Things,” 44–46.

67

Overton, Production and Consumption, 115; and Beaurdy, “Words for Things,” 44–46.

341

380

Aris Kafantogias

Diagram 6: Condition of female clothing in the period 100,0% 90,0% 80,0% 70,0% 60,0%

old

50,0%

ordinary

40,0%

worn out

30,0% 20,0% 10,0% 0,0% 1783

1803

1823

Source: Zivilgericht, A2 –A2 – Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen Source:WStLA, WStLA, Zivilgericht, Faszikel 2 – Verlassenschaftsabhandlungen

There are two clear trends in these diagrams regarding both men and women: a steep

rise in the percentage of clothing described as ordinary, and a steep drop in the percentage of

There are two clear trends diagrams regarding both menare andcombined women: a steep rise old clothing. As regards men, ifin thethese percentages of worn out and old clothing in the of clothing and The a steep the percentage of the droppercentage becomes continuous, albeitdescribed not as steepas inordinary, the first period. samedrop is trueinfor old clothing. As regards men, if the percentages ofout worn out and old clothing are combined women’s inventories, where the percentage of old or worn clothing in the descriptions

the drop continuous, albeit not as steep in the first period.clothing The same drops from becomes almost eighty to nineteen percent in 1823. The percentage of ordinary in is true for women’s inventories, thetrajectory. percentage of old or wornitout clothing the descriptions the descriptions follows anwhere opposite In men’s inventories increases frominseven

drops from eighty to nineteen in 1823. The percentage of ordinary percent in 1783almost to fifty-nine percent in 1823,percent and in women’s inventories it goes from twenty- clothing in the descriptions follows an opposite trajectory. one percent in 1783 to eighty-one percent in 1823.

In men’s inventories it increases from seven Regarding percent in 1783 to fifty-nine percent in 1823, and in women’s inventories it goes men’s clothes, the term ‘old’ describes mostly outer garments in 1783 and from twenty-one percent in 1783 to eighty-one percent in 1823. in 1803, particularly the three parts of the suit, as well as shirts and stockings, while in 1823, Regarding men’s clothes, the term ‘old’ describes mostly outer garments in 1783 and in it does not refer to a particular set of items. The coat is described as old, while the breeches 1803, particularly the three parts of the suit, as well as shirts and stockings, while in 1823, and the waistcoat are described as worn out. It should be noted that these descriptions are it does not refer to a particular set of items. The coat is described as old, while the breeches similar, but not synonymous. An old piece of clothing is not necessarily worn out and vice and the waistcoat are described as worn out. It should be noted that these descriptions versa.68 Old could also mean used, patched up, inherited, or purchased in the secondary are similar, but not synonymous. An old piece of clothing is not necessarily worn out and market. This argument is reinforced by the fact that, while only one-fourth of the breeches and vice versa.68 Old could also mean used, patched up, inherited, or purchased in the secno waistcoat are described as old, none of the coats are described as worn out. This ondary market. This argument is reinforced by the fact that, while only one-fourth of the differentiation in the descriptions can be observed in the same inventory and in more than one breeches and no waistcoat are described as old, none of the coats are described as worn case, which were compiled by different appraisers.69 The coat was a more valuable possession out. This differentiation in the descriptions can be observed in the same inventory and in and was not as susceptible to regular change. It was made from durable materials and its value more than one case, which were compiled by different appraisers.69 The coat was a more 68 There is only one entry of fourteen shifts which are described as both old and worn out. WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 175–1783/84. 68 ThereZivilgericht, is only one of fourteen whichA2: are220–1803. described as both old and worn out. WStLA, Zivil­ 69 WStLA, A2:entry 150–1803; WStLA,shifts Zivilgericht,

gericht, A2: 175–1783/84. 69 WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 150–1803; WStLA, Zivilgericht, A2: 220–1803.

342

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

381

valuable possession and was not as susceptible to regular change. It was made from durable materials and its value did not depreciate quickly. It could be passed on from father to son, and, as mentioned before, if the owner wanted to differentiate in colour and pattern he could do so with his waistcoat or breeches.70 In female inventories from 1783, the term ‘old’ describes a great number and wide variety of clothes and accessories. In 1803 it is seldom used, and in 1823 it describes exclusively scarves and skirts. These decreasing mentions of clothing described as old clearly show that over the sample, the Viennese replaced their clothes more frequently and were less likely to keep their old clothes, which were so outdated that it affected their value. The term ‘ordinary’ refers in men’s inventories mainly to accessories, like canes or tobacco tins in 1783 and 1803, and only in 1823 it is mentioned as a description of outer garments, though it still describes mostly accessories. As regards women, it refers in 1783 only to neckerchiefs and stockings, in 1803 mainly to caps, while in 1823 the range of items described as ordinary increases greatly together with the number of descriptions. Ordinary is a difficult term to interpret. It could denote a mundane, plain item or garment. It could be used to signify the existence of one or more distinct items of greater value. It could simply imply the existence of what was expected. It could also be used however in order to denote a norm, a homogeneity of style or material, both in accessories and, in the final period, also in dress. This is true especially for men, whose appearance in 1823 was defined almost exclusively by woollen garments.

Conclusion In the present essay, it became clear that probate inventories, even with their problems and limitations, can provide significant evidence and shed light on a wide range of aspects of material culture. They provide a necessary stepping stone for the research of the Viennese material culture in general, and clothing in particular. In the centre of this study stands the clothing of a relatively broad stratum of Vienna’s population that constituted an emerging middle class made up of different occupational categories, such as artisans, merchants, public employees, or servants. The social and economic setting, in which these people lived and dressed, was an expanding city, both geographically and demographically, which supplied them with a wide range of textiles and clothes and an increasing variety of consumption opportunities. They did not depend on the occasional visit from a peddler, rather they had the ability to purchase these articles in a large market, either as clients of an increasing number and variety of tailors, or as readymade articles in the secondary 70 Styles, Dress, 39, 41.

382

Aris Kafantogias

market. They were not subject to sumptuary legislation and therefore they were able to wear them without any legal restrictions. Finally, they could come in direct contact with aristocratic dress and the latest fashions. The number of their garments fluctuated according to their wealth, although they constituted an ever decreasing part of their estates. Clothing comprised a greater part of women’s total and material wealth, and women owned progressively more and more expensive clothes and accessories on average than men. Even at the end of the eighteenth century, a sample of overall poorer women on average owned a comparable number of garments to a sample of much wealthier men. Therefore this trend could reinforce the argument of the increasingly gendered character of demand for clothing in the eighteenth century, and the progressive rise of female spending on apparel.71 The structure of appearance changed significantly, especially for women, at the start of the nineteenth century. The changes seem to have been accompanied by a decrease in the value of clothing in 1823, though they do not solely justify it. The lower value of garments on average should also be associated both with developments in production and supply, which made the purchase of clothing at the time easily accessible and perhaps also cheaper to buy and to replace, and with the progressive lower degree of variety and diversity in wardrobes. The inventory data certainly cannot support a narrative for a consumer revolution regarding the clothing of the Viennese middle class in the period. The total and mean numbers of their outer garments do not point to fundamental changes in consumer behaviour regarding quantity and capacity for change. Rather, they suggest a trend of continuity in the size of wardrobes through the period. However from the information available in the inventories, there is no way to know what percentage of people’s clothing was tailored for them, what they bought readymade or used and what they made themselves or inherited. The fabrics of their garments changed in line with developments in their production and supply. The overall image for both men and women is a movement from a higher degree of diversity at the end of the eighteenth century to domination of a single fabric, especially regarding outer garments, woollen cloth for men and silk for women in 1823. Cotton had its place in women’s clothing, but again it remained far behind silk. The image of progressive homogeneity of dress and appearance is reinforced by the description of the condition of clothing in the inventories. Accessories and clothes are increasingly described as ordinary, while old clothing fades away, especially in 1823, when, even though the structure of outer garments and appearance changes generally, it retains a degree of homogeneity in the population under research.

71 De Vries, The Industrious Revolution, 141–43.

Textiles and Clothes in the Probate Inventories of Vienna’s Middle Classes

383

Clothing with all its different aspects can not only be considered as a point of social difference and distinction, but could also be viewed as a unifying element, and a marker of group identity.72 The appearance of the Viennese middle class population is characterized both by change according to prevailing norms and fashions, and by progressive homo­ geneity and uniformity. It is evident that this group followed fashion, at least in its principle changes, and it is also certain that the metropolis and the direct contact with the nobility exerted pressures of imitation and distinction. It is also not clear to what degree the middle class severed its ties with clothing patterns of the aristocracy, and there is certainly some merit to the notion that women’s dress, especially in the upper part of this stratum, followed the dress of the nobility closely.73 However, fashion consciousness, continuity, and homogeneity constitute hints of a creation of an appearance of this group, an appearance defined by new, increasingly visible modes of industrial production and consumption.

72 Medick, Weben, 380–81. 73 Sandgruber, Anfänge, 300; and Roche, The Culture, 145–47.

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric: The Consumption, Chronology, and Use of Cotton in early modern Bern John Jordan

Perhaps no item better exemplifies the material and global turns for the history of early modern Europe than cotton.1 It is seen as ‘revolutionising’ first how Europeans decorated their homes, and second, how they dressed. In doing so, it provided a substantial push to a (at the time) nascent fashion industry that had broad-reaching effects on consumer practices generally.2 Beyond how it changed the material world of early modern Europe, it was also one of the first global goods: it was traded, produced, cultivated, and worn in Africa, Asia, Europe, and North and South America.3 Such global trading helped trigger processes of import substitution in Europe where manners of weaving, spinning, printing, dyeing, and colouring did not simply mimic their Asian counterparts, but rather developed their own techniques.4 1

As the old Eric Hobsbawm quote (“whoever says cotton, says the industry revolution”) reminds us though, such interest is hardly novel. See his Industry and Empire: an Economic History of Britain since 1750 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1968), 34. 2 Beverly Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite: the Cotton Trade and the Consumer in Britain, 1660–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); and on why cottons became so desirable, Giorgio Riello, Cotton: the Fabric that Made the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 112–15. On consumer change, see Neil McKendrick, John Brewer, and J. H. Plumb, The Birth of a Consumer Society: the Commercialization of Eighteenth-Century England (London: Europa Publications, 1982); John Brewer and Roy Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods (London: Routledge, 1994); Maxine Berg, “New commodities, luxuries and their consumers in eighteenth-century England” in Consumers and Luxury: Consumer Culture in Europe, 1650–1850, ed. Maxine Berg and Helen Clifford (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), 63–85; Ina Baghdiantz McCabe, A History of Global Consumption 1500–1800 (New York: Routledge, 2015); and Frank Trentmann, Empire of Things: How We Became a World of Consumers, from the Fifteenth Century to the Twenty-first (New York: Allen Lane, 2016). 3 Giorgio Riello and Prasannan Parthasarathi, ed., The Spinning World: A Global History of Cotton Textiles, 1200–1850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Giorgio Riello and Tirthankar Roy, eds., How India Clothed the World: the World of South Asian Textiles, 1500–1850 (Leiden: Brill, 2009); Riello, Cotton; Sven Beckert, Empire of Cotton: A Global History (New York: Knopf, 2014); Pedro Machado, Ocean of Trade: South Asian Merchants, Africa and the Indian Ocean, c.1750–1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014); and Robert DuPlessis, The Material Atlantic: Clothing, Commerce, and Colonization in the Atlantic World, 1650–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 4 Maxine Berg, “In Pursuit of Luxury: Global History and British Consumer Goods in the Eighteenth Century,” Past and Present 182 (2004): 85–142; Beverly Lemire and Giorgio Riello, “East & West: Textiles and Fashion in Early Modern Europe,” Journal of Social History 41 (2008): 887–916; Olivier Raveux, “The Birth of a New European Industry: L’Indiennage in Seventeenth-Century Marseilles,” in The Spinning World, 291– 306; and Julia Schmidt-Funke, “ ‘Eigene fremde Dinge’. Surrogate und Imitate im langen 18. Jahrhundert,” in Präsenz und Evidenz fremder Dinge im Europa des 18. Jahrhunderts, ed. Brigit Neumann (­Göttingen:

386

John Jordan

Yet as good as this research has been at highlighting cotton’s global interconnections, much of its European focus has been on the continent’s northwest, principally England, France, and Holland.5 Deeper and more thorough examinations of other areas of Europe, such as the Swiss cantons, are rarer. Yet for such a ‘revolutionary’ good, such studies are crucial for there is ample evidence to suggest that the northwestern European economies developed on a significantly different trajectory than others in Europe.6 As a result whether these metanarratives hold water outside of the continent’s leading, but also outlier, economies is an open question. Moreover, although there has been extensive research on the Swiss cotton industry, much of it belongs to an older tradition that focused on production and industry.7 The themes that have shaped cotton’s resurgence in the last twenty years – its material qualities, global interconnections, and local consumption – remain under-researched for the Swiss cantons.8 Through a twofold examination, this chapter aims to develop a deeper understanding of the consumption of cotton in the Swiss city of Bern. First, existing historiography has placed significant weight on how (printed) cotton textiles were used as domestic furnishings, and then later as clothes. Second, it has stressed how cotton was not an elite good, but rather widely diffused throughout society. This chapter probes whether cotton’s use and ownership in Bern follows similar patterns.

5

6 7

8

Wallstein, 2015), 529–49. Beyond these initial changes to manufacturing, cotton became the leading industry of the industrial revolution, see Beckert, Empire of Cotton. See Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite; Roche, Culture; Styles, Dress; Anne McCants, “Modest Households and Globally Traded Textiles: Evidence from Amsterdam Household Inventories,” in The Birth of Modern Europe: Culture and Economy, 1400–1800, ed. Laura Cruz and Joel Mokyr (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 109–31; and DuPlessis, The Material Atlantic. See Sheilagh Ogilvie, “Consumption, Social Capital, and the ‘Industrious Revolution’ in Early Modern Germany,” The Journal of Economic History 70 (2010): 287–325. See Adolf Jenny-Trümpy, “Handel und Industrie des Kantons Glarus: geschichtlich dargestellt: Zweiter Teil,” Jahrbuch des Historischen Vereins des Kantons Glarus 34 (1903): 1–710; Werner Fetscherin, Beitrag zur Geschichte der Baumwollindustrie im alten Bern (Weinfelden: Neuenschwander, 1924); Walter Bodmer, Die Entwicklung der schweizerischen Textilwirtschaft im Rahmen der übrigen Industrien und Wirtschafts­ zweige (Zurich: Berichthaus, 1960); Anne Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke der Schweiz im 18. Jahrhundert, ihre Vorläufer, orientalische und europäische Techniken, Zeugdruck-Manufakturen, die Weiterentwicklung (Basel: Basler Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1968), and Béatrice Veyrassat, Négociants et fabricants dans l’industrie cotonnière suisse 1760–1840: aux origines financières de l’industrialisation (Lausanne: Payot, 1982). Existing scholarship has also focused more on rural areas in Switzerland. Urban centres, in contrast, are much less examined. See for example the contributions of Gabi Schopf, Eric Häusler, Alexis Schwarzenbach, and Ernest Menolfi to this volume. Recent scholarship is beginning to change this, see for example, Kim Siebenhüner, “Calico Craze? Zum geschlechtsspezifischen Konsum bedruckter Baumwollstoffe im 18. Jahrhundert. Ein Blick von England zur Alten Eidgenossenschaft,” L’homme. Zeitschrift für feministische Geschichtswissenschaft 27 (2016): 33– 52; and Gabi Schopf, “From Local Production to Global Trade: the Distribution of Swiss Printed Cottons in the early modern World,” Textile History (forthcoming).

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

387

1. Inventories Archival data on textiles, however, is harder to come by: extant textiles are rare, and usually come from elites. As a result, they give almost no insight into quantitative or broader socioeconomic developments. Legal sources like reports of stolen goods or missing person notices are a common source because they frequently describe the clothes worn and name the type of fabric.9 But they form an imperfect sample because the socioeconomic status of those involved is seldom clear, and they rarely reveal anything about the overall quantity of clothes one possessed. Inventories are another option but for many areas, probate inventories provide a sample that skews towards the wealthy and did not always include detailed listings of textiles.10 Further, they were compiled at the end of a person’s life after they had had the chance to acquire goods for several years. Bankruptcy inventories overcome many of these problems. First, they are not tilted towards the rich but rather cover a broad social spectrum (see Table 2). Second, bankruptcy inventories record people’s possessions not just at death, but rather at many different stages of life.11 For the canton of Bern, there is a serial run of bankruptcy inventories from 1646 to 1797. As part of the research project, “Textilien und materielle Kultur im Wandel: Konsum, kulturelle Innovation und globale Interaktion in der Frühen Neuzeit” funded by the Swiss National Science Foundation, Claudia Ravazzolo and I created a database of people’s pos-

  9 See Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite, 89–93; and Styles, Dress of the People, 38–55, and 327–32. The Signalmente would be a Bernese example of such a source. See for instance, Norbert Furrer, “Graue Haare, kahler Kopf ”, in Berns goldene Zeit: das 18. Jahrhundert neu entdeckt, ed. André Holenstein (Bern: Stämpfli, 2008), 88. 10 See Margaret Spufford, The Great Reclothing of Rural England: Petty Chapmen and Their Wares in the Seventeenth Century (London: Hambledon Press, 1984), 37–41; Lorna Weatherill, Consumer Behaviour and Material Culture in Britain, 1660–1760 (London: Routledge, 1988), 2–4; Carole Shammas, The Pre-industrial Consumer in England and America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 18–20; Jutta Zander-Seidel, Textiler Hausrat: Kleidung und Haustextilien in Nürnberg von 1500–1650 (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1990), 36–40; Lorna Weatherill, “Consumer Behaviour, Textiles and Dress in the Late Seventeenth and Early Eighteenth Centuries,” Textile History 22 (1991): 297–310; Roche, Culture, 70–75; and Mark Overton, Jane Whittle, Darron Dean, and Andrew Hann, Production and Consumption in English Households, 1600–1750 (London: Routledge, 2004), 13–32. Unlike American and British probate inventories, Bernese bankruptcy inventories do include listings of real property, making it possible to investigate how people invested their capital. Swedish probate inventories also include listings of real property. See Gudrun Andersson, “A Mirror of Oneself: Possessions and the Manifestation of Status among a Local Swedish Elite, 1650–1770,” Cultural and Social History, 3 (2015): 21–44. 11 Although in our sample, there are 171 inventories compiled upon a person’s death. Bankruptcy inventories are not without their problems. 97 cases were triggered by a person fleeing the canton of Bern, leaving behind, usually their wife, to settle the debts. In these cases, the items they took with them will be missing from the final record. In other cases, such as with a still woman who was still alive at the time of the bankruptcy proceedings, her clothes are often missing as they were exempted from the calculations.

388

John Jordan

sessions from these inventories based off a series of decanal samples.12 In total, the database contains 513 inventories, 1,019 people, and 69,222 entries of objects. Table 1: Inventories in the Sample (divided by debts (Schulden) in Kronen) Decade

Inventories in the Sample

Inventories not in the Sample13

1660

36

6

Total Inventories for Decade 42

1680

64

3

67

1700*

4

5

9

1720

66

8

74

1740

121

2

123

1760

126

47

173

1780

96

44

140

Total

513

115

628

*It is unclear why so few inventories were compiled in this decade.

Inventories, even bankruptcy ones, however, are not without their problems. For example, of the 23,275 entries on textiles, only 6,940 (29.8 percent) note the fabric.14 For researching material culture and consumption, the presents a challenge as without the material being labelled, it is difficult to gauge how widespread ownership of different fabrics was. Why was the material so rarely labelled? For some items like shirts, tablecloths, towels, pillow cases, and bed sheets, the fabric was almost always linen, and to label it as such would likely have been redundant. Thus, of the 11,207 entries for these goods, only 1,983 (17.7 percent) note the fabric (which in those cases was overwhelmingly linen). Once those items are removed, the number of textiles with a named fabric rises from 29.8 percent to

12 The years sampled: 1660–69, 1680–1689, 1700–1709, 1720–1729, 1740–1749, 1760–1769, and 1780–1789. Our thanks to Eric Häusler and Corina Liebi for their help in inputting cases into the database; and to Sheilagh Ogilvie for her advice, support, and feedback on how to construct the database. 13 The inventories not included in the sample belong to a third series of alphabetically-organised inventories. Our sample is based off of Series I and II which are chronologically organised. Series I and II begin with StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1408 Band Nr. 1 (1646–1664) and end with StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1459 (1789–1790). Series III begins with StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1463 Mappe A and ends with StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1548 Mappe Z 2: Zell – Zy. Between the three series, there is temporal overlap, and duplicates of some inventories. 14 The problem of so many fabrics not being labelled is not unique to Bern. See Aris Kafantogias’ contribution to this volume; Beverly Lemire, “Second-hand beaux and ‘Red-armed Belles’: Conflict and the Creation of Fashions in England, c. 1660–1800,” Continuity and Change 15 (2000), 399–400; and McCants, “Modest,” 123.

389

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

41.1 percent. In other cases, it may have been that the scribes were just unsure or felt the fabric was not important in identifying or for appraising a textile, and thus chose to omit it.15 There are also temporal and socioeconomic dimensions to the lack of materials. For most of the sample, the rate hovers around 30 percent (see Table 2a). But in the 1720s when many of these new textiles start to appear, it spikes to 40 percent of fabrics being named, likely reflecting the importance of fabric to appraising and identifying textiles at this time. As the novelty of the new fabrics wore off, this figure drops over the course of the eighteenth century. By the 1780s, less than 20 percent of the fabrics are named, indicating that perhaps the fabric was of less importance to valuing a good, and that other markers were more important. Further, as section four details, the sample gets demonstrably poorer over the eighteenth century. The decreasing rate of naming, thus, correlates to a change in socioeconomic status: the textiles of the wealthy were much more likely to be identified, whereas the textiles of the poor were not (see Table 2b). Obviously, this creates methodological issues when trying to assess when and what cottons were used for. With that said, there are many objects such as jackets, waistcoats, hose, blankets, and curtains where more than half of the entries specify the fabric, permitting closer analysis. For the remainder of this chapter, all the figures and percentages cited are of the named fabrics only. Table 2a: Textile Entries in the Sample (by Decade) Decade

Unnamed Fabric

Named Fabric

Unnamed ­Percentage

Total Textiles

1660

1,628

598

73.1

2,226

1680

1,410

600

70.1

2,010

1700

20

60

25.0

80

1720

1,629

1,235

56.9

2,864

1740

3,813

1,479

72.1

5,292

1760

4,735

1,629

74.4

6,364

1780

2,788

606

82.1

3,394

Total

16,023

6,207

72.1

22,230

15 On account of the plethora of different fabrics (more than eighty are mentioned in the inventories), precisely identifying a given one would have been a challenge for many court scribes. In contrast, there are only seven different types of wood named. Anne McCants found a similar ratio of named textiles to types of wood in Dutch inventories. See McCants, “Modest,” 123. On the accuracy of and labels used by scribes in inventories, see John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Fictive Descriptions? Words, Textiles, and Inventories in Early Modern Switzerland” in Inventories of Textiles – Textiles in Inventories. Studies on Late Medieval and Early Modern Material Culture, ed. Thomas Ertl and Barbara Karl (Vienna: Vienna University Press, 2017), 219–38; as well as Overton, Production, 114–16.

390

John Jordan

Table 2b: Textile Entries in the Sample (by Debt Strata) Debt Strata (Kronen) Unknown

753

351

Unnamed ­ Percentage 68.2

1,176

343

77.4

1,519

200–499

1,538

500

75.5

2,038

500–999

2,045

734

73.6

2,779

1000–2499

3,316

1,389

70.5

4,705

2500 Total

Unnamed Fabric

Named Fabric

Total Textiles 1,104

7,129

3,398

67.7

10,527

15,957

6,715

70.4

22,672

2. The Forerunner and the European Printed Cotton Industry At first glance, the tailor Samuel Baumgartner would not appear as a revolutionary figure. Originally from the rural village of Lauperswil in Emmental, he had moved to the city of Bern, settling near the Golattenmattgasse city gate.16 As an unmarried man without citizenship rights, he was likely either a journeyman training to become a master or an assistant in a master’s workshop.17 Whatever his status, his death in the spring of 1687 triggered bankruptcy proceedings; perhaps because his creditors were worried about his financial standing. As it turned out, such worries would have been unfounded as his assets – solely material goods – were valued at 191 Kronen, 19 Batzen, 3 Kreuzer, surpassing his debts of 182 Kronen. As part of the bankruptcy process, an inventory was created, listing all of his belongings, and debts. Despite his meagre wealth, Baumgartner had accumulated a broad range of goods. Included among them were the usual tables, chairs, candlesticks, pots, and pans that most people had at the time. As evidenced by the twenty-nine books he had, Baumgartner may have been an avid reader (most of his contemporaries only had two or three books, one of which was usually the Bible).18 There were also a wide array of clothes – three jackets, four pairs of breeches, two pairs of stockings (one for the summer and one

16 Today: Aarbergergasse. 17 After 1651, Bern restricted citizenship to those whose parents had been citizens. Migrants like Baumgartner could become permanent residents, but not citizens. See Stefan Altorfer-Ong, Staatsbildung ohne Steuern: Politische Ökonomie und Staatsfinanzen im Bern des 18. Jahrhunderts (Baden: hier + jetzt, 2010), 71. 18 On Bernese collections of books, see Norbert Furrer, Des Burgers Buch: Stadtberner Privatbibliotheken im 18. Jahrhundert (Zurich: Chronos, 2012)

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

391

for the winter), and an astounding thirty shirts (nineteen of differing quality, eight night, two wool, and one flax).19 But the item that stirs the most interest came from the bedroom, for Baumgartner was in possession of a small printed cotton blanket with a silk border (ein truckt baumwollen techli mit daffet ÿngefasset). Of the sixty-three others from our sample who also were inventoried as part of the bankruptcy proceedings in the 1680s, only one, a refugee French merchant, Jean Felice, had any printed cotton (two others had plain cotton textiles).20 Within the Swiss cantons, Baumgartner would appear to be a forerunner, a man ahead of his time.21 Elsewhere in Europe, his revolutionary status would be much more questionable; average would perhaps be a better description. Assessing Baumgartner’s place in history means looking more broadly at the consumption of cotton, especially printed cotton, textiles in the Swiss cantons and Europe. Since antiquity, India has been the centre of cotton textile production. Potentially as early as the ninth century (CE), Indians began the process of printing on textiles.22 But it was not until the sixteenth century through trade with Portugal that they made inroads into the European market. From there through peddlers and regional trade networks, Beverly Lemire argues Indian printed cottons spread through Iberia and beyond to England, France, and the Netherlands where they were used to decorate the homes of elites families.23 But it was not until the end of the seventeenth century that Indian textiles were imported en masse to Europe: from 1670 to 1690, the English and Dutch East India companies imported annually on average over 800 000 pieces.24 How widely throughout English and Dutch society, these textiles were consumed is a hotly debated question. Beverly Lemire argues that their consumption was quick and widespread, triggering a calico craze in the late seventeenth century. John Styles main19 In comparison, Roche notes that in Paris working men had on average six shirts each around 1700. See his, Culture, 174. 20 Besides the blanket, Baumgartner also had three night caps (Nachthauben) made of cotton. 21 For Baumgartner, Felice, Friedrich, and Heinrich’s inventories, see StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1413 Band Nr. 6 (1687–89), cases 5 (Baumgartner), 14 (Felice), and 23 (Hans Cunrad Heinrich Friderich); and StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1412 Band Nr. 5 (1682–86), Case 27 (Hans Samuel Heinrich). 22 Owing to a lack of extant written or physical sources, the exact timing of when India began to print on textiles cannot be definitively established. For a longer discussion, see Eiluned Edwards, Block Printed Textiles of India: Imprints of Culture (New Delhi: Niyogi, 2016), 27–43. 23 See Beverly Lemire, “Revising the Historical Narrative: India, Europe and the Cotton Trade,” in The Spinning World, 211–14. 24 For these years, Riello does not include statistics on the French East India Company (who would also have been active in this trade). See Giorgio Riello, “The Globalization of Cotton Textiles: Indian Cottons, Europe and the Atlantic World, 1600–1850,” in The Spinning World, 265. As John Styles has noted, many of these textiles were not actually printed, but rather plain cottons that would be further refined in or re-exported from England. See John Styles, “Product Innovation in Early Modern London,” Past and Present 168 (2000), 133. It is possible, albeit unlikely, that Baumgartner’s blanket derived from one of these shipments.

392

John Jordan

tains such levels of consumption did not happen until nearly a century later, and that the calico craze was more indicative of an extensive propaganda campaign.25 Whatever the amount of consumption, the emergence of so much foreign cotton caused trepidation among English linen and wool merchants. Fearing a loss of business, they successfully lobbied the English parliament, leading to a ban of Asian printed and painted textiles in 1701, followed by a ban of all printed and painted cotton textiles in 1722 (notably exempt from this ban, however, were mixed cotton fabrics such as fustian).26 England was not alone in such a reaction to cotton and printed textiles as France (1686) and Catalonia (1717 and 1728) also introduced import bans.27 In contrast, the Swiss cantons had a quite different history with cotton textiles. For one, they were closer to northern Italy where one of the first European cotton industries sprang up in the twelfth century (Spain and southern France were other early hubs of production). These industries soon expanded across the Alps to Swiss and southern German cities like St. Gallen, Ulm, and Augsburg which became important centres of Barchent (fustian) production. But by the late sixteenth century, these industries were in decline as changes in the trading relationship with the Ottoman Empire disrupted the supply of raw cotton. For most of the seventeenth century, no doubt impacted as well as by the Thirty Years War, the European cotton industry fell into heavy decline.28 At the end of the seventeenth century, the industry began to rebound as the Swiss cantons and their neighbouring regions were one of the first areas in Europe to develop domestic textile printing industries. Geneva (1691), Neuchatel (1688), Bern (1706), and Basel (1716) all quickly became sites of calico production.29 The French expulsion of the 25 See Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite, 79–114; and Styles, Dress of the People, 109–32. 26 Styles, Dress of the People, 109–14; and Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite. 27 France’s ban went the furthest as they also banned the domestic production of printed cottons. The first Catalonia ban targeted only Asian productions, the second European imitations. See Riello, “The Globalization of Cotton Textiles,” 271–74; and James Thomson, “State Intervention in the Catalan Calico-printing Industry in the eighteenth century,” in Markets and Manufacture in Early Industrial Europe, ed. Maxine Berg (New York: Routledge, 1991): 57–89. 28 See Sven Beckert, Empire of Cotton: A Global History (New York, 2014), 23–28; and Maureen Fennell Mazzaoui, The Italian Cotton Industry in the Later Middle Ages, 1100–1600 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 28–55, 130–62. 29 Mulhouse (1746) was a later but vital addition to the region. Slightly further afield, Marseille, Augsburg, and Barcelona were all home to robust printed cotton industries. Many other regions, such as France, did not develop domestic textile printing industries until the 1740s. See Riello, Cotton, 172–74; and Serge Chassagne, “Calico Printing in Europe Before 1780,” in The Cambridge History of Western Textiles, ed. David Jenkins (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 513–27. On the diffusion of cotton printing in the Swiss cantons, see Jean-Richard, Kattundrucke, 42–43; and Kim Siebenhüner, “Zwischen Imitation und Innovation. Die schweizerische Indienne-Industrie im 18. Jahrhundert,” Werkstatt Geschichte 74 (2017): 7–27; on Mulhouse, see Paul Schwartz, “Les débuts de l’indiennage mulhousine (I),” Bulletin de la Société industrielle de Mulhouse 124.3 (1950): 21–44; and Paul Schwartz, “Les débuts de l’indiennage mulhousien (II),” Bulletin de la Société industrielle de Mulhouse 125.1 (1951): 33–56; on Marseille, see Olivier Raveux,

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

393

Huguenots in 1685, many of whom settled in the Swiss cantons, helped spur this nascent industry on.30 This longer history with cotton and a nascent textile printing industry likely goes a long ways to explain why unlike in so many other European polities, printed cotton textiles were never banned in Bern.31 To protect its nascent industry from regional competitors, Bern’s Commercial Council (Kommerzienrat) temporarily proscribed the import of printed cottons in 1711. Unlike England, France, or Catalonia, however, the ban did target Asian imports, but rather regional productions from neighbouring cantons.32 Further, whereas England, France, Württemberg (1712), and Prussia (1721) banned the wearing of printed cottons, Bern largely did not.33 The closest was a 1728 sumptuary legislation that banned the wearing of foreign cottons made outside the canton.34 But in the 1747 “Spaces and Technologies in the Cotton Industry in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries: The Example of Printed Calicoes in Marseilles,” Textile History 36 (2005): 131–45; and Raveaux, “The Birth of a New European Industry,”; on Barcelona, see James Thomson, A Distinctive Industrialization: Cotton in Barcelona, 1728–1832 (Cambridge, 1992); and on Augsburg, see Claus-Peter Clasen, Textilherstellung in Augsburg in der frühen Neuzeit, 2 vols. (Augsburg: Wißner, 1995). 30 See Danièle Tosato-Rigo, “Protestantische Glaubensflüchtlinge,” Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz (HLS), http://www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/textes/d/D26884.php. Accessed 28 September 2017. Based on the timing of his case and his possessions, the aforementioned refugee Felice was likely a Huguenot, and possibly also a textile printer. 31 It is quite possible they were never banned in any of the Swiss territories. But the sheer number of different jurisdictions makes an exhaustive search impractical. Further, as Kim Siebenhüner argues, in the Swiss cantons, cotton was not perceived as a threat to the linen, wool, or other textile industries. Instead, it was seen as offering further employment and economic possibilities for spinners, weavers, and merchants. See Siebenhüner, “Calico Craze?,” 41–45. 32 The exact length of this prohibition is contested. Werner Fetscherin believes it was still in place in the 1770s whereas Ernst Lerch argues that by 1720, other Swiss cantons were allowed to sell their printed cottons in Bern. Both agree, however, that its efficacy was limited. See Fetscherin, Beitrag, 75–79; and Ernst Lerch, Der Bernische Kommerzienrat im 18. Jahrhundert (Tübingen: Laupp, 1908), 57–76. 33 Prussia’s ban was general, while Württemberg proscribed certain classes of citizens from wearing them. See Hans Medick, Weben und Überleben in Laichingen 1650–1900: Lokalgeschichte als allgemeine Geschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 387; and Siebenhüner, “Calico Craze?,” 41. 34 “Persienne. Und weilen eine Zeit dahero wahrgenommen worden, daß die Kleidung von fremdem baumwollenem Zeug, Persiennes genannt, mächtig überhand genommen, hierdurch das Gelt auß dem Land, denen allhiesigen Manufacturen aber grosser Schaden zugezogen worden; hat man diesem also länger nicht zusehen, sondern dergleichen frembde Persiennes hiemit von nun an gäntzlich abstellen wollen, so daß niemand bewilliget seyn soll, der Gattung Gezeugs zu kauffen, und sich darmit zu kleiden” See StABe, Mb 112 Ordnung Wider den Pracht und Uberfluß in Kleideren, wie auch andere Excessen und Uppigkeiten in der Statt BERN und Dero Teutschen Stätten und Landen, Bern 1728, 6–7. Sumptuary legislation was not without power. For example, from February 1713 to February 1714, 110 people were fined in the German village of Wildberg for violating them (although most of these cases had more to do with personal animosity than concerns over dress). See Sheilagh Ogilvie, Markus Küpker, and Janine Maegraith, “Die lokale Regulierung des Konsums im frühneuzeitlichen Württemberg,” in Revolution des Fleißes, Revolution des Konsums: Leben und Wirtschaften im ländlichen Württemberg von 1650 bis 1800, ed. Sigrid Hirbodian, Sheilagh Ogilvie, and Johanna Regnath (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2015), 67.

394

John Jordan

sumptuary legislation, this prohibition was not repeated.35 The 1766 sumptuary legislation introduced a handful of restrictions on cotton textiles, but they were all based on social status.36 In short whereas many European polities sought to ban the wearing or import of printed cottons to help foster domestic textile industries, such bans were not part of Bernese engagement with cottons. But unlike the Dutch Republic which did not ban printed cottons, the Swiss developed a thriving textile printing industry – one that was second to only Lancashire in production quantity at the end of the eighteenth century.37 How then did these developments affect local consumption?

3. Cotton in Bern: Uses and Chronology Prior to the founding of domestic textile printing industries, cotton appears to have been quite rare in Bern: in the 1660s, there are only four entries of them (none of which were Barchent). The increased import of Indian textiles does not appear to have had immediate effects on the Bernese textile market. Although there are 35 entries of plain and printed cotton textiles in the 1680s, 27 of them (18 printed, nine plain) belong to the stock of the refugee French merchant, Jean Felice. While Felice may have had cotton to sell, it appears not many in Bern were buying it. With only four inventories, the 1700s are unfortunately a dark period in our sample, and it is not possible to draw firm conclusions about cotton’s consumption in this decade. By the 1720s, plain and printed cottons have become a significant presence in the database, and for the rest of the eighteenth century, their presence continues to grow (see Table 3).

35 See StABe, Mb 150 Ordnung die Kleider und andere Sachen betreffend. Zusammen einem Einsehen der Knecht- und Mägden halber wegen deren Dienst und Lidlohn …, Bern 1747. 36 Youth and servants were not allowed to wear these goods. For boys and girls it was forbidden to wear: „Alle goldene Nippes insgesamt; Die Persienne; Die Mousseline zu Fürtücheren; Die seidene Strümpf.“ See StABe, Mb 220 Ordnung die Kleider v. Knechten und Mägde, wie auch deren Dienst und Lidlöhn betreffend, Bern 1766, 12, 14. For the maids: “Den Mägden verbieten wir zu tragen den brodirten Leinwand; die Persienne; Calanca und Angloises; die seidene Strümpfe und alle seidene und halbseidene Stoffe.” See Ordnung, die Kleider v. Knechten und Mägde, wie auch deren Dienst und Liedlöhn betreffend (Bern: Hochobrigkeitliche Buchdruckerey, 1767), 14. 37 See Riello, Cotton, 125–26; and Siebenhüner, “Zwischen”, footnote 17.

395

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

Table 3: Entries of cotton textiles in the Bernese bankruptcy inventories (by decade)38 Fabric Name Inventories Printed Cottons Plain Cottons Total

1660– 1669 36 0 4 4

1680– 1689 64 19 16 35

1700– 1709 4 2 0 2

1720– 1729 66 90 20 110

1740– 1749 121 194 93 287

1760– 1769 126 228 125 353

1780– 1789 95 102 19 121

Total 512 635 279 914

Domestic Furnishings When the consumption of printed cottons begins in earnest in Bern in the 1720s, it is primarily as blankets and bed covers.39 From 1720 to 1769, 58.4 percent of the blankets in the sample were from printed cottons – a marked change from the 1660s and 1680s when blankets were almost entirely made of wool, and with the exception of Baumgartner’s blanket, printed cottons were non-existent (see Table 4). Not only had a new style had taken hold, it appears to have swept away other fabrics.40 Beyond blankets, beginning in the 1740s, printed cottons also became a common material other domestic textiles, such as bed hangings (fig. 73). They, however, were only one of many materials that were used: from 1740 to 1789, linen and wool were just as common (see Table 5a).41 With window curtains, printed cottons quickly overtook linen and 38 Printed cotton terms: Indienne, Persienne, and gingham; plain cotton terms: Baumwolle, Gansauer, muslin, Barchent, cotton, and Manchester; linen terms: Bestreich, Flachs, Nanquin, Ristig, Schürlez, Strichlizeug, Unspunn/Chuder, and Zwilch; wool terms: Aman, Baye, Cadis, Camelot, Creppon, Cronrasse, Etamine, Flocken, Grisette, Macheier, Molton, Ratine, Sarge, and Scharlach. On the names of cotton textiles, see John Jordan and Gabi Schopf, “Global Goods in Local Languages: Naming Indian Cottons in the Swiss Cantons” in Names and Naming in Early Modern Germany, ed. Joel Harrington and Beth Plummer (New York: Berghahn Books, forthcoming). See also Aris Kafantogias’ contribution to this volume. 39 See Styles, Dress, 107; Riello, Cotton, 126 and Beverly Lemire, “Domesticating the Exotic: Floral Culture and the East India Calico Trade with England, c. 1600–1800,” Textile 1 (2003), 72–76. For the less visible parts of the bed (sheets, pillow cases, Unterbett, Dachbett), linen was by far the dominant material accounting for 94 percent of the named fabrics. Cotton made no headway in becoming a material used for sheets or pillow cases. Of the 1304 specified entries, only eight were cotton. For England, John Styles has noted a similar pattern where it was not until the nineteenth century that cotton sheets become more common. See Styles, Spinning World, 321. 40 Only in the 1780s does wool make a comeback and surpass printed cottons as the most common material for blankets. The cold winters in Bern may have played a role in this. See Christian Pfister, “Kleine Eis­ zeit” Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz, 13 vols. (Basel, 2011). On the wool industry in Württemberg, see Sheilagh Ogilvie, State Corporatism and Proto-Industry: the Württemberg Black Forest, 1580–1797 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 41 Methodologically ‘curtains’ present a challenge as the German word of Umhang was used for both bed hangings and window curtains. In some instances, the object is specifically referred to as a bed (Bett) or window (Fenster), but often not. In assessing these objects, we have assumed those curtains that were mentioned next to, or as part of beds, to be bed hangings. Even then, Amy Barnett notes that window curtains in Norwich were generally found in bedrooms where they were used less for decoration, and more for

396

John Jordan

Fig. 73: A mid-eighteenth-century curtain, probably for a bed, made from a turquoise indienne with a printed black ground and a pattern of flowered branches and fruits. The curtain, made from three panels of fabric, measures 295 × 151 centimeters, and is decorated with black fringes and bows of matching turquoise ribbon. The rather course cotton fabric (17 threads/cm.) was made and printed in Europe, probably Germany. Textilmuseum St.Gallen, Inv. Nr.25649. Photograph: Claudia Ravazzolo.

wool as the most common fabric in the 1740s – and maintained that status for the rest of the eighteenth century (see Table 5b).42

keeping draughts out, and warmth in. See her “In with the new,” 87. Bed hangings appear to have been rare in seventeenth-century Bern as there are few entries of them in the inventories. Bern deviates here from Cambridgeshire where more than a quarter of probate inventories from 1670 to 1705 featured bed curtains. See Spufford, Reclothing, 110. In Nuremberg, Jutta Zander-Seidel notes bed hangings were present as in the early sixteenth century in noble households, but were not a common item. See her Textiler Hausrat, 352–55. 42 Interestingly whereas wool makes a comeback in the 1780s and becomes the most common fabric for blankets in the 1780s, its use for curtains and bed hangings plummets in the 1780s.

397

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

Table 4: Fabrics of Blankets (Decke, Tapi) Decade

Printed Cotton

Wool

Silk

Other

1660 1680 1720 1740 1760 1780

0 1 47 94 78 33

34 16 23 19 50 43

0 1 2 6 6 2

0 0 13 22 15 7

Unnamed Fabric 37 25 30 74 135 79

Total

252

185

17

58

380

Total 71 43 115 215 284 164 892

Samuel Baumgartner would then appear to have been nearly a half century ahead of his contemporaries. But this statement is not entirely true. With regards to printed cottons, he certainly was ahead of the times. But cotton was not the only fabric that one could print or paint on. And indeed, there were predecessors and contemporaries of Baumgartner who owned curtains or blankets made of linen or wool that were also printed or imbued with the floral patterns that were so characteristic of printed cottons.43 In that regard, the results from Bern support John Styles’ contention that Europe had already been trending towards lighter and more colourful fabrics prior to the creation of the English East India Company in 1600.44 The use of floral patterns, printing techniques, and colourful textiles were all part of how some seventeenth-century Bernese decorated their homes.45 What changes with the growth of the Swiss printed cotton industry is the increased use of cotton as a fabric, and the frequency with which these motifs and designs were employed.46

43 See for the example from the 1660s, the pretty flowered curtain (1 hübsch blumbt umbhang blatt) in Hans Bauernköng’s inventory; or the green, wool flowered bed curtain (1 grunen wulline blumbten umbschlag mit 3 bletteren) in Hans Jacob Bitzius’ inventory. For Bauernköng and Bitzius, see, respectively, StABe, Gelts­ tagsrödel, B IX 1408 Band Nr. 1 (1646–1664), Cases 12 and 13. From the 1680s, see the flowered blanket (ein blumbde decki) in the inventory of Albrech Oswalt, a flowered, half-linen curtain (ein blümbt halbleinige Umbhang) in the inventory of Niclaus Ascher, and a printed linen curtain (1 truckten leinigen umbhang) in the inventory of Benedict Wittschi. For Ascher and Oswalt, respectively, see StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1412 Band Nr. 5 (1682–1686), Cases 6 and 19, unfol.; for Wittschi, see StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1413 Band Nr. 6 (1687–1689), Case 8, unfol. 44 See Styles’ contribution to this volume as well as his “Indian Cottons and European Fashion, 1400–1800,” in Global Design History, ed. Glenn Adamson, Giorgio Riello, and Sarah Teasley (London: Routledge, 2011), 39–42. 45 Bern was not alone in this. Anne Buck has found painted linens already in early seventeenth-century Bedfordshire. See Anne Buck, “Clothing and Textiles in Bedfordshire Inventories, 1617–1620,” Costume 34 (2000), 32–33. 46 As Beverly Lemire notes, this increased use of floral motifs, was part of a long-term trend, and mirrored in other areas of early modern life. See her “Domesticating the Exotic: Floral Culture and the East India Calico Trade with England, c. 1600–1800,” Textile 1 (2003): 64–85.

398

John Jordan

Table 5a: Material of Fabrics of Bed Curtains (Bett Umhänge) Decade 1660 1680 1700 1720 1740 1760 1780 Total

Linen

Wool 0 11 1 16 10 14 6 58

Cotton* 4 1 0 6 6 21 2 40

Other

0 0 0 6 6 16 8 36

Unknown 0 2 0 4 0 4 1 15

3 8 0 36 80 84 47 258

1 0 0 8 15 9 17 50

Unknown 61 49 3 81 170 154 93 608

Total 7 22 1 68 102 139 64 403

Table 5b: Material of Fabrics of Window Curtains (Fenster Umhänge) Decade 1660 1680 1700 1720 1740 1760 1780 Total

Linen

Wool 49 25 0 52 22 15 1 164

Cotton* 19 32 3 8 18 10 2 95

0 0 0 8 27 30 9 74

Other

Total 130 106 6 157 252 218 122 991

*For Tables 5a and 5b, cotton includes printed and plain cotton. For both bed and window curtains, there were only twelve plain cotton entries. The rest are all printed cottons.

Clothes Domestic furnishings, however, only represent, one side of the coin, for cotton also became a material for clothes. In looking at the fabrics people used for clothes, it is first necessary to differentiate between male and female clothes. As elsewhere in Europe, the common attire for Bernese women was some form of a long gown over stays and a petticoat. For men, while the three piece suit (breeches, waistcoat, and coat) may have started to emerge in England in the late seventeenth century, it was not until the 1720s that it starts to appear in Bern (fig. 74, 75).47 With women’s clothes, there are unfortunately only four female inventories from 1660 to 1729 which is too small a sample to establish any trends.48 There are, however, enough 47 Breeches and coats are common in the inventories from 1660 to 1689, but waistcoats do not appear until the 1720s. On English and European dress, see Styles, Dress, 14–15; and Aileen Ribeiro, Dress in Eigh­ teenth-Century Europe, 1715–1789, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002). 48 Female clothes do not typically appear in the male inventories as the woman was often allowed to keep her clothes. The issue of inventories not including female clothes is not specific to Bern. See Adrienne Hood,

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

399

Fig. 74: A man’s waistcoat, made around 1770 from a curry-collored cotton with painted flowers in red, blue and black. The waistcoat is linned with cotton gauze and alpaca, and has a frontlenght of 75 centimeters. It has two flap pockets and is closed with eleven covered buttons from the waistcoats fabric. © Historisches Museum Basel. Inv. Nr. 1972.278 Photograph: N. Jansen.

cases to permit analysis of the years 1740–1789. For these years, from the 1740s through the end of the eighteenth century, printed cottons were by far the most common material for women’s clothes, particularly their outer clothes such as gowns, coats, and aprons. Trailing far behind were wool, silk, and linen (see Table 6a).49 While printed cottons remained constant as the most common fabric for women’s outerwear throughout the second half of the century, the popularity of other fabrics fluctuated. For instance, although silk was the second most common material in the 1740s, its presence steadily drops in the ensuing decades. In its place, varieties of wool and linen,

“The Material World of Cloth: Production and Use in Eighteenth-Century Rural Pennsylvania,” The William and Mary Quarterly 53 (1996), 48; and Andersson, “A Mirror,” 228. 49 For a thorough analysis of women’s clothes in eighteenth-century Bern, see Claudia Ravazzolo, “Der F ­ rauen Kleider: Hausrat und Materieller Besitz von Frauen in Berner Konkursinventaren des späten 17. und des 18. Jahrhunderts” (master’s thesis, University of Bern, 2017).

400

John Jordan

especially stripped linen (Strichlizeug) grew in popularity. Similar to domestic interiors, while printed cotton was a popular fabric, other fabrics remained well-represented.

Fig. 75: A Woman’s jacket or caraco from the second half of the eighteenth century, made from a fine white cotton chintz with painted branches of flowers in red, blue and brown. The fine weaving and handpainted pattern speak for an Indian origin of the fabric. Partly still visable is the chintz-typical shiny surface, which has often worn off in historical examples. This caraco with mouselin ruffles at the sleves is linned with white linen and closes at the front with hooks and eyeletts. © Bernisches Historisches Museum, Bern. Inv. Nr. 10922, Photograph: Stefan Rebsamen.

401

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

Table 6a: Material of Female Outerwear Clothes (Rock, Jacke, Fürtuch, and Robe) Decade

Printed Cotton

Linen

Wool

Silk

Other

1660

0

0

1

2

4

Unnamed Fabric 4

Grand Total

1680

0

4

3

0

3

9

19

1700

0

2

1

0

1

1

5

1720

0

1

2

0

0

0

3

1740

26

6

12

18

0

34

96

1760

37

28

25

13

9

99

211

1780

22

12

6

4

4

70

118

Total

85

53

50

37

21

217

463

11

Finally, plain cottons also formed a significant part of women’s dress. Muslins, for example, accounted for 35 of the 36 pieces of women’s neckwear with a named fabric in the 1740s and 1760s.50 Temporally, Bernese women’s clothing was on a similar trajectory as that of English women where cotton gowns where almost non-existent at the end of the seventeenth century, but were accounting for one-third of gowns stolen from plebeian owners by the 1750s.51 In a similar vein, Beverly Lemire has found that cotton, checks, and linen accounted for 28.3 percent of clothes pawned in York in December 1777 – a figure remarkably close to the 28.8 percent that those fabrics accounted for in women’s outerwear in Bern.52 Thus, despite having markedly different legal regulations when it came to printed cottons, Bernese and English women appear to have dressed in similar fabrics. The fabrics of men’s clothes diverge from those of women’s clothes. First and foremost, printed cottons are quite rare: in the entire database there are only 59 articles of male clothing made from them. Temporally, they only began to have a noticeable presence in male outerwear in the 1760s – well after their use for women’s clothes or domestic furnishings. Plain cotton formed a more important part of male wardrobes as it was the most common fabric for waistcoats, neckwear, and caps.53

50 There are only four female inventories for the 1780s which makes it difficult to assess if this trend continued. (The 1780s are also the decade with the least amount of fabrics named.) The limited data would suggest it did not. Of the six items of female neckwear with an identified material, only two were muslin, the other four were silk (three) and wool (one). 51 Styles, Dress, 111–14. 52 Note: both figures refer the percentage of all fabrics, including the 50 percent where no material is specified. See Lemire, “Second-hand beaux,” 399–400. 53 Its fourth most frequent use was for hose, but its usage there was dwarfed by linen, wool, and silk.

402

John Jordan

Table 6b: Materials of Male Waistcoats (Veste) Decade 1720 1740 1760 1780 Total

Plain Cotton 5 40 22 9 76

Silk

Broad-­ cloth 5 15 25 8 53

Linen

2 10 20 9 41

2 6 15 9 32

Wool 5 7 7 8 27

Printed Cotton 0 0 11 8 19

Other 1 4 15 13 33

Unnamed Fabric 18 66 134 146 364

Total 38 148 249 210 645

Table 6c: Materials of Male Coats* (Camisol, Casaque, Jacke, Kittel, Manskleid, Rock, Tschöpli, Wams) Decade 1660 1680 1700 1720 1740 1760 1780 Total

Broad-­ cloth 18 4 1 10 23 39 14 109

Wool 1 4 1 5 20 23 14 68

Linen 9 3 0 3 1 6 11 33

Silk

Printed Cotton 6 1 0 2 14 7 3 33

0 0 1 0 1 4 5 11

Plain Cotton 0 0 0 0 0 2 2 4

Other 12 2 0 0 8 14 14 50

Unnamed Fabric 32 21 2 37 111 172 91 466

Total 78 35 5 57 178 267 154 774

*Not including banyans

When printed cottons do appear as male clothes, it was overwhelmingly for two types of outerwear for the upper body. First, beginning in the 1760s, they are used for waistcoats.54 But many other types of fabrics, particularly plain cotton, broadcloth, silk, linen, and wool were much more frequent (see Table 6b). Second, there are twenty-two male coats made from printed cottons (see Table 6c). Eleven of these, however, are banyans (Nachtröcke), a special type of dressing gown that elite males wore at home.55 The other eleven were a more standard coat. As with waistcoats though, they too first appear in the 1760s and are also outweighed in popularity by other fabrics like broadcloth and wool, and to a lesser extent by linen and silk. With the exception of the lack of banyans, the dearth of printed cottons in male dress fits broadly with European developments. For the English town of Brandon, Styles has noted that “[c]oats were predominately made from woollen cloth, with various shades of brown the most common colour, followed by blue and then green. Waistcoats displayed a 54 It is important to note that the labelled material here is gingham, a stripped mixed cotton fabric rather than the more common indienne, the traditional printed cotton. 55 On banyans, see especially, Siebenhüner, “Calico Craze?,”.

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

403

wider range of fabrics including woollen cloth, worsted, linen and various cottons a wider range of colours.”56 In both Brandon and Bern, then, printed cottons were rare as a fabric for coats and waistcoats, instead wool, worsted, and broadcloth were the standard fabrics.57 The pattern that emerges in Bern from the bankruptcy inventories is one of printed cottons first making inroads into people’s lives in the 1720s as blankets.58 That printed cottons were first used as part of bedding is hardly surprising. Beds with all their associated textiles were usually the most valuable objects in early modern homes and inventories.59 Further, the history of material culture has shown that prominently displaying certain objects in public parts of a home was a way to convey social status.60 While one may think of beds and bedrooms as being private areas, as Gudrun Andersson shows, this was not always the case: in Swedish inventories, beds are found in the parlour or drawing room.61 Spatial data on objects for the Bernese bankruptcy inventories is imperfect: there is substantially more for the seventeenth than the eighteenth century. But the existing data shows that many of these printed cotton blankets were to be found in the more public areas of the home. As elsewhere in Europe and North America, such objects were displayed as a way to convey status by showing that was one in possession of a presti­gious, prized, and exotic object.62 The 1740s are the key decade of change. Not only do printed cottons increase in quantity, their uses spread to other domestic furnishings, as well as women’s clothes.63 Not surprisingly, this growth in consumption was linked to the development of the Bernese printed 56 Styles, Dress, 39. 57 In terms of colours, black, grey, blue, and brown were the most common colours of coats in Bern. 58 The lack of inventories for the 1700s presents a bit of an issue for the chronology. It is possible that printed cottons were already making inroads then, but their minimal presence in the 1720s would suggest that their blossoming in Bern occurred later. 59 See Shammas, The Pre-industrial Consumer, 169. Stana Nenadic argues that the primary place of beds was only superceded in 1760 by the dining room table. See her “Middle-rank Consumers and Domestic Culture in Edinburgh and Glasgow 1720–1840,” Past and Present 145 (1994): 122–56. 60 See Amy Barnett, “In with the new: Novel Goods in Domestic Provincial England, c. 1700–1790,” in Fashioning Old and New: Changing Consumer Preferences in Europe (Seventeenth-Nineteenth Centuries), ed. Bruno Blondé, Natacha Coquery, Jon Stobart, and Ilja Van Damme (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 81–94; Giorgio Riello, “Fabricating the Domestic: The Material Culture of Textiles and the Social Life of the Home in Early Modem Europe,” in The Force of Fashion in Politics and Society: Global Perspectives from Early Modern to Contemporary Times, ed. Beverly Lemire (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), 41–65; and Andersson, “A Mirror.” 61 See Andersson, “A Mirror,” 33. Lorna Weatherill found that beds were rare in English living rooms, but notes enclosed and folding beds were found in Scottish living rooms. See Weatherill, Consumer Behaviour, 10. 62 On the period’s fascination with the exotic, see Daniela Bleichmar and Peter Mancall, eds., Collecting Across Cultures: Material Exchanges in the Early Modern Atlantic World (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011); and Benjamin Schmidt, Inventing Exoticism: Geography, Globalism, and Europe’s Early Modern World (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015) 63 It is possible that printed cottons were a common part of women’s dress prior to the 1740s, but a lack of female inventories for this time prohibits further analysis.

404

John Jordan

cotton industry. Despite the first firms being founded in 1706 and 1708, it was not until the 1720s that the Bernese could spin and weave enough cotton domestically to supply local production needs. And it was not until the 1730s that the leading printing firms of Küpfer and Engelhard were well-developed.64 In other words, only once local manufacturing was established, did consumption rise.65 Developments over the rest of the century do not reveal a continued steady rise. In the 1760s, printed cottons remain a significant presence in the inventories, although there does not appear to have been major growth from the 1740s. With the exception of a few male waistcoats and jackets, they are not being used for new purposes nor is their consumption increasing. By the 1780s, they appear to be in decline – their use in domestic furnishings has sharply declined.66 Considering the continued growth of the Swiss and Bernese printed cotton industry in the second half of the century – Bernese production quintupled from 25,200 pieces in 1735 to 131,645 pieces in 1762 – the lack of a matching rise in consumption is surprising.67 Perhaps, it is a sign that by this time, the industry was geared towards export rather than local consumption.68 What is vital to note in these developments is that other fabrics remain well-represented. Linen, while gradually declining as a named fabric for bed and window curtains, remained an important fabric for bed sheets, pillow cases, duvets, and female outerwear.69 Wool continued to be a common material for blankets coats, waistcoats, hose, and female outerwear.70 Plain and printed cotton’s ascension was by no means absolute. In recent years, historians have come to accept this point for other European polities. For instance, 64 See Fetscherin, Beitrag, 27–43, 59–63. With inventories, one must remember that that they do not reflect immediate changes in consumption, but rather steady accumulation of goods. In that sense, it is completely logical that a rise in production in the 1730s is reflected in the inventories of the 1740s. 65 Styles, too, notes that in England, it was only as of the middle of the eighteenth century when cotton could be locally produced that it started to displace other fabrics. See Styles, Dress, 112. 66 The higher percentage of textiles without a labelled fabric for the 1780s means it is possible that printed cottons are underreported for this decade. Such an interpretation would suggest that they were now so common that specifically identifying them was no longer necessary to properly assess their value. 67 See Fetscherin, Beitrag, 91. 68 France was a major destination for Swiss printed cottons – one that was legally closed until 1759 when the French prohibition on printed cotton was repealed, opening up a new market. Although as Michael Kwass demonstrated, even during the prohibition, smuggling was rampant. See Fetscherin, Beitrag, 91; and Michael Kwass, Contraband: Louis Mandrin and the Making of a Global Underground (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). 69 Concerns over hygiene, and the ability to wash linen in boiling water likely explain part of the reason why linen retained its importance for these textiles. On the hygiene and washing of cotton and linen, see Styles, Dress, 127–32. 70 Besides cotton, Bern was also home to robust silk, linen, and wool industries. See Hedwig Schneider, “Die bernische Industrie- und Handelspolitik: im 17. und 18. Jahrhudert” Schweizer Studien zur Geschichtswissenschaft 18.3 (1937), 469–504; and Christian Pfister, Im Strom der Modernisierung: Bevölkerung, Wirtschaft und Umwelt 1700–1914 (Bern: Historischer Verein des Kantons Bern, 1995), 231–38.

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

405

even as big a champion of cotton as Giorgio Riello, has noted that cotton complemented, rather than replaced, woollens, worsteds, silks and linens.71

4. Cotton in Bern: Wealth and Consumption While the previous section argued that cotton underwent a consumption boom in the 1740s before declining in the 1780s, there was a noticeable factor missing in the analysis: socioeconomic status. Printed cottons are often portrayed as a democratising force in how they allowed non-elites to add colour, design, and style to their wardrobes or interior decorations. Further, their durability meant they lasted longer than other fabrics like silk.72 With the database on bankruptcy inventories, it is possible to test how widely, and by whom, cotton was consumed in Bern. Were the poor really consuming more cotton? To investigate, we divided our sample into five groups, based on their total debts in the inventory. While at first blush, it may seem counterintuitive to use total debts rather than assets as a measure of wealth, such an approach has a lot to recommend it. First, in a bankruptcy case, a person’s remaining assets are not the best gauge of their personal wealth as it is quite likely that they would have exhausted some streams of revenue, credit, or capital while trying to avoid bankruptcy proceedings. Thus what is listed in their assets is 71 See Riello, Cotton, 134. How Bern precisely compares with other European areas is harder to assess. Comparative data on fabrics is hard to come by. Most inventory-based studies on consumption do not specifically examine fabrics. For example, neither Weatherill nor Overton investigates fabrics in any depth. Many textile studies do not have detailed quantitative data and instead rely on anecdotal rather than systematic proofs. See for example Beverly Lemire’s use of a single inventory or a quote from Daniel Defoe. Lemire, “Revising the Historical Narrative,” 221. In Huntingdonshire (northwest of Cambridge), Bridget Long notes an increasing number of blankets per person/household from the seventeenth to the eighteenth century; however, fabrics and materials are not part of her study. See Bridget Long, “‘The outermost of the bedcloaths; that under which all the rest are concealed’: A Study of Bedcovers in Eighteenth-century Huntingdonshire,” International Journal of Regional and Local History 11 (2016): 1–16. Some studies do engage with fabrics though. For example, for the city of Danzig, Corina Hess found more cotton (24) than wool (17) blankets in probate inventories from 1651 to 1800, but she provides no deeper insight into diachronic change or whether the textiles were printed or not. She does note two ‘Indianische Decke’ from 1653 as well as 16 ‘Asian’ blankets in her sample, so printed cottons were certainly part of Danzig’s interior decoration, and moreover, at an early date (curtains were not part of Hess’ study). See Corina Heß, Danziger Wohnkultur in der frühen Neuzeit: Untersuchungen zu Nachlassinventaren des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Lit, 2007), 240–45. For London, David Mitchell found that printed cottons accounted for about 10 percent of bed hangings from 1690 to 1720. Wool bed hangings, first serge, and then later camlet, were much more common. See David Mitchell, “‘My purple will be too sad for that melancholy room’: Furnishings for Interiors in London and Paris, 1660–1735,” Textile History 40 (2009), 5–8. For Paris, Annik Pardailhé-Galabrun notes that printed cotton (indienne) and calico were among the more luxurious fabrics used for bed spreads, but provides no further details. See her The Birth of Intimacy: Privacy and Domestic Life in early modern Paris (Oxford: Polity, 1991), 77. 72 Styles argues, however, that cotton was not as durable as linen. See his Dress, 127–32.

406

John Jordan

likely not representative of what their wealth was. Second, one could not become heavily indebted without access to large sums of capital – access that was dependant on having good credit. Simply put, people are not likely to lend large sums to those unlikely to pay them back. Having a high amount of debt signalled an ability to move in wealthy financial circles. As a result, with bankruptcy inventories, debts are a much better measure of a person’s financial activity and standing.73 Before proceeding further, it is important to note that the indebtedness of those inventoried decreases demonstrably over the eighteenth century.74 For the cases from 1720 to 1749, over 60 percent of those inventoried had debts of greater than 1000 Kronen. From 1760 to 1789, this decreases markedly to 43 percent. In contrast, from 1720 to 1749, over 20 percent of those inventoried had debts of less than 500 Kronen. But for 1760 to 1789, this rises to 45 percent of those inventoried (see Table 7). This change in the financial profile of those being inventoried is reflective of the sample becoming poorer over the course of the eighteenth century.75 While the change in financial status of the sample presents obvious interpretational challenges, it does offer a potent window into the consumer choices of the poor to middling, especially at the end of the eighteenth century.76

73 This case is perhaps best encapsulated by the case of Sigmund Frsiching, a Bernese city councillor, who filed for bankruptcy in 1746. As a councillor, Frisching would have belonged to Bern’s financial elite. Yet in his inventory, his personal wealth amounted to the middling sum of 493 Kronen (which would have put him just below the 40 th percentile for total wealth in the 1740s). His debts, however, were over 8,600 Kronen. Thus, his actual financial standing is far better represented by his debts, not his assets. On credit, debts, and bankruptcy, see Craig Muldrew, Economies of Obligation: the Culture of Credit and Social Relations in Early Modern England (Houndmills: Macmillan, 1998); Beate Sturm, “Wat ich schuldich war” Privat­kredit im frühneuzeitlichen Hannover,1550–1750 (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2009); McCants, “Modest,” 115–16; and Thomas Max Safley, The History of Bankruptcy: Economic, Social and Cultural Implications in early modern Europe (London: Routledge, 2013). For Frisching, see StABe, Geltstagsrödel, B IX 1424 Band Nr. 17 (1746–1747), Case 6. 74 Lacking a price index, we have yet to control for inflation. The debt groups (all in Kronen): less than 200; 200 to 499; 500 to 999; 1000 to 2499; and greater than 2500. For a small subset of cases, it was not possible to establish the total debts of the person inventoried. For context, a craftsmen in the mid-eighteenth century earned between fifty and seventy Kronen per year. See Daniel Schmutz, Martin Lory, and Stefan Rebsamen, Geld – Preise – Löhne: ein Streifzug durch die Berner Wirtschaftsgeschichte (Zürich: Chronos, 2001), 38. 75 One of the main reasons for this change is a decrease in property ownership. From 1660 to 1729, around 75 percent of the cases included some form of real estate (a house, a barn, or land). In the 1740s, this decreases to slightly more than forty percent, and in the 1760s and 1780s, it plummets to less than twenty-­five percent. Especially in rural areas, the number of people that became permanently dependent on welfare increased in the last third of the century. See Erika Flückiger Strebel, Zwischen Wohlfahrt und Staatsökonomie: Armenfürsorge auf der bernischen Landschaft im 18. Jahrhundert (Zurich: Chronos, 2002). 76 It is very unlikely that servants or the very poor are captured in our sample. For what their clothes were in England, see John Styles, “Involuntary consumers? Servants and their Clothes in Eighteenth-Century England” Textile History 33 (2002): 9–21.

407

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

Table 7: Inventories in the Sample (divided by debts in Kronen) Decade 1660 1680 1700* 1720 1740 1760 1780 Total

2500 14 11 2 25 40 29 20 141

Debts Unknown 4 13 0 2 0 5 1 24

Total 36 64 4 66 121 126 96 513

Table 8: Number of inventories with blankets, 1720–1789. Sorted by debt group and fabric Debt Level (Kronen) Unknown 2500 Total

Printed Cottons 4 5 8 13 23 57 110

Wool

Silk 3 2 16 12 12 40 85

Total 1 0 0 0 1 11 13

4 16 29 28 43 73 193*

*Note: only 193 of the 409 inventories for this time in our sample included a blanket

With regards to domestic furnishings, there is little evidence to indicate that printed cottons were broadly consumed. Instead, their consumption is overwhelmingly anchored in the most indebted group (greater than 2,500 Kronen), where more than 78 percent of those whose inventory included a blanket or bed cover of some form, had one made from printed cotton (see Table 8).77 For the third and fourth most indebted groups (500 to 2499 Kronen of debts), however, this figure drops to just over 50 percent, and for the two least indebted groups (less than 500 Kronen of debts) to less than 30 percent. Further, not only were the wealthy more likely to have printed cotton blankets, when they did have them, they typically had more of them: on average three per person. In contrast, in all other debts groups, the average was between 1.4 to 1.8 per person, indicating that not only were the less indebted less likely to have printed cottons, when they did have them, they were more of a novelty good. Diachronically, there is little to indicate that printed cottons blankets became more common or more accessible to the poor or the middling over the course of the eighteenth century. Their ownership rate among those groups stays fairly consistent. Compared to 77 Silk blankets were exceedingly rare but when they do appear are almost exclusively possessed by this group.

408

John Jordan

late seventeenth-century London, where David Mitchell claims printed cottons were cheap and popular for beddings, the Bernese results stand in stark contrast. Here printed cottons were not a democratising force in how people decorated their homes, rather they remained the province of the wealthy.78 Similarly, males who owned printed cottons were much more likely to come from a wealthy background. Of the 65 male inventories from 1720 to 1789 with debts greater than 1000 Kronen and some form of outerwear, almost half included outerwear made from cotton. Conversely, of the 82 male inventories with debts of less than 1000 Kronen, less than a third, included outerwear made from cotton.79 Generally though, there are not big differences between middling and wealthy males in terms of the fabrics that they used for outerwear: linen, wool, cotton, and even silk, appear in roughly the same quantities (see Table 9a). Table 9a: Inventories with Male Outerwear Clothes, 1720–1789 sorted by fabric Debt Level (Kronen) Unknown 2500 Total

Linen

Silk

2 4 8 10 12

3 2 5 8 10

Broad-­ cloth 3 2 6 12 8

5 41

21 49

20 51

Wool

Plain Cotton 3 4 9 12 6

0 2 6 7 10

Printed Cotton 0 3 4 3 5

20 54

12 37

10 25

All ­Cotton

Total

0 5 9 10 13

5 19 30 33 25

18 55

40 152

*Some inventories included both plain and printed cottons Table 9b: Inventories with Female Outerwear Clothes, 1740–1789 sorted by debt level in Kronen Debt Level (Kronen) 2500

 0

0

1

 0

1

1

2

Total

14

15

21

11

18

19

31

78 For London, see Mitchell, “My purple,” 7. 79 Plain cottons only start to appear in the two poorest groups for men’s outerwear in the 1760s. In the 1740s, they were exclusively owned by those with at least 500 Kronen in debts.

The Non-Revolutionary Fabric

409

For the years it is possible to investigate, female clothes show a different trajectory. In the 1740s, printed cottons are already making inroads amongst poorer female consumers, as two of the five women with less than 500 Kronen in debts possessed clothes from printed cottons. In the 1760s for the same debt bracket, this rises to eight of eleven women inventoried. Of the women with printed cottons, each of them had on average four articles of clothing made from it: printed cottons were clearly a regular part of their wardrobes.80 It is important to remember, however, that printed cottons were only one type of fabric and design. Other fabrics were just as, if not more popular. For instance of the 16 women with debts of less than 500 Kronen inventoried in the 1740s and 1760s, all 16 had clothes from wool, and eight had clothes from silk (see table 9b). As a general point for both females and males, there is little divergence between the wealth groups in the types of fabrics they used for outerwear. The same fabrics – linen, silk, wool, cotton, and broadcloth (for males) – appear spread throughout society. This is not to suggest that the lower, middle, and upper classes all dressed the same, but rather the difference lay not in the type of fabric. Instead, it is more likely to be found in the quality and quantity of the clothes they wore.81 For example, Esther Suter and Lisette Küpfer, two women inventoried in 1764 and 1776, respectively, both owned at least one gown (Robe) made from printed cotton. But whereas Küpfer’s was valued at the stunning sum of twenty-­five Kronen, Suter’s was valued at slightly less than two Kronen. While the garment and fabric may have been the same, there were clearly significant differences likely in the quality of the printed cotton between the two dresses.82 In short, while the fabric may have been the same, there was still room for significant variation in quality. Outside of poor women’s clothing, it is tough to see cotton as democratising how people dressed or decorated their homes in eighteenth-century Bern. Printed cotton furnishings or clothes were not something that the plebeian or middling in Bern regularly owned. Instead, they largely remained the possessions of the wealthy.

Conclusion In looking at cotton’s use and consumption in early modern Bern, three major things stand out. First, historians have framed the eighteenth century as a time of a consumer revolution when the poor and middle class increasingly consumed non-essentials, espe80 Styles notes the same trend in England where at the end of the eighteenth century, printed cotton gowns have become ubiquitous in plebeian dress. See Styles, Dress, 126. 81 Such a pattern would also match other European polities. See Styles, Dress, 31–38; and Roche, Culture, 129–48. 82 Ravazzolo, “Der Frauen Kleider,” 50–74.

410

John Jordan

cially things related to domestic comfort. Yet these results cast doubt on how widespread any consumer revolution in eighteenth-century Bern could have been. For printed cotton blankets are exactly the type of good – a non-necessity used to decorate a bed/home – that are supposed to be increasingly consumed by the lower and middle classes. The fact that they were not raises questions as to how extensive these consumer changes were felt in Switzerland. Second, for all the discussion about cotton as a global good, its consumption in Bern is not a story about global interconnections. Yes, the raw material was imported from distant places – India, the Middle East, and later Cyprus and America – but only when it could be locally spun and printed did its consumption markedly rise. Such results force us to rethink the ‘globality’ of European consumption at this time. For without local infrastructure and industry, the consumption of global goods was minimal, and mainly limited to the wealthy. Only when the ‘global’ could be provisioned domestically, did its consumption among non-elites rise.83 Third, despite all the attention lavished on cotton in the eighteenth century, it is difficult to see it as having been a revolutionary good at this time in Bern. While it was the favoured material for some items like women’s gowns and men’s waistcoats, it did not transform how people dressed or decorated their homes. None of this is to deny the in-roads that cotton made. It went from being nearly non-existent in the seventeenth century to a fabric as common as wool and linen by the 1740s. But never in the eighteenth century did cotton rise above and eclipse those other fabrics. Such changes did not happen until at least the nineteenth century. For eighteenth-century Bern, cotton was just another fabric.

83 Jutta Wimmler’s contribution to this volume also makes a similar point about the interconnection of increased consumption of global goods and increased local production.

Notes on Contributors

Michaela Breil is a textile and fashion curator and vice director at the Staatliches Textil- und Industriemuseum Augsburg (tim). Eiluned Edwards is a Professor in the School of Art and Design at Nottingham Trent University. Her research areas are the histories and social context of textiles and craft production, and the relationship between craft and fashion, with a regional focus on South Asia, notably India. She is the author of Textiles and Dress of Gujarat (London 2011), Block Printed Textiles of India: Imprints of Culture (New Delhi 2016) and Crafting Futures India (British Council 2018). She is currently working with the Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto, on a forthcoming exhibition (Nov 2019-April 2020): The Cloth that Changed the World: Indian Painted and Printed Cottons. Isa Fleischmann-Heck is vice director of the Deutsches Textilmuseum Krefeld. Her research focuses on the history of fashion and dress. She published several exhibition catalogues on the collections of the Textilmuseum Krefeld. Eric Häusler was a research assistant in the SNF-Sinergia project “Doing House and Family. Material Culture, Social Space, and Knowledge in Transition (1700–1850)” at the University of Bern from 2015 until the end of 2018. His PhD project Gescheiterte Haushalte? Konsum, Kredit und Konkurs im Berner Geldstag 1750–1900 focuses on household consumption and finance as well as the social resolution of economic failure. John Jordan is a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Bern. His current research interests lie in the history of consumption, especially that of global goods and textiles, in early modern Europe. Previously, he has worked on the intersection of law and society in early modern Germany, particularly as it pertains to disputes – their initiation, conduct, management, and (sometimes) resolution. Aris Kafantogias is a PhD student and doctoral assistant at the Department of Economic and Social History of the University of Vienna. His PhD project focuses on mate-

412

Notes on Contributors

rial culture and consumption in Vienna in the period 1760–1830, with particular emphasis on clothing and textiles. Barbara Karl is the director of the Textilmuseum St. Gallen. Her current research concentrates on cultural exchange between Europe and the Islamic World. She is the author of Treasury-Kunstkammer-Museum. Objects from the Islamic World in the Museum Collections of Vienna (2011) and of Embroidered Histories: Indian Textiles for the Portuguese Market during the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (2016). Vibe Maria Martens is currently working as an archivist. During her PhD at the European University Institute in Florence she worked on Indian textiles in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Denmark. Her research focused on colonial trade, merchants, material culture and consumption of cotton textiles in early modern Scandinavia. Ernest Menolfi is a free researcher in Basel. He published on regional, economic, and social history. He is particularly interested in the development of the textile industry in Eastern Switzerland. Ernest Menolfi is the author of Hauptwil-Gottshaus (Frauenfeld 2011). Karl Borromäus Murr is director of the Staatliches Textil- und Industriemuseum Augsburg (tim) and a lecturer for history and technology at Ludwig-Maximilian University of Munich and Augsburg University. He is interested in industrial and social history in a global context. Karl Borromäus Murr is the editor of Die süddeutsche Textillandschaft (Augsburg 2010). Claudia Ravazzolo is a PhD student at the University of Jena. Using a serial run of bankruptcy inventories, her dissertation investigates household assets, debts, and material culture in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Bern. Gabi Schopf is a research assistant and PhD student at the University of Jena. Her PhD project investigates the trade of cotton textiles on a local as well as European level. She is mainly interested in eighteenth century trading practices, including advertising, mail ordering, travelling salesman and exchanging samples. Alexis Schwarzenbach is a Professor at the Lucerne School of Art & Design, Lucerne University of Appolied Sciences and Art. He is interested in design and business history. His current project deals with the rise and fall of the Zurich silk industry and the global distribution of silk textiles manufactured in Switzerland.

Notes on Contributors

413

Kim Siebenhüner is a Professor for early modern history at the University of Jena. Previously, she directed the SNF project “Textiles and material culture in transition” at the University of Bern. She is the author of Die Spur der Juwelen. Materielle Kultur und trans­ kontinentale Verbindungen zwischen Indien und Europa in der Frühen Neuzeit (Köln 2018). John Styles is a Professor Emeritus in History at University of Hertfordshire. He has published extensively on eighteenth-century British history, particularly on design, consumption, manufacturing, crime and the criminal law. John Styles is the author of The Dress of the People (New Haven 2007) and Threads of Feeling (London 2010). His current project explores spinning as a material, economic, social, legal and cultural practice. Jutta Wimmler is a postdoctoral researcher at the chair for comparative European economic and social history at Europa-Universität Viadrina Frankfurt (Oder). Her main research looks at economic history in the Atlantic world and Africa. Jutta Wimmler is the author of Centralized African States in the Transatlantic Slave Trade (Graz 2012) and The Sun King’s Atlantic. (Leiden/Boston 2017). In her current project, she studies the connection between the German-speaking regions and the Atlantic world.

Index of Names

Ackermann, Rudolph 55 Actienstickerei Kronbühl [firm] 301 Ahmed Shah [Gujarat] 72 Aiolfi, Sergio 181 Akbar [Mughal Empire] 68, 72, 230 Albuquerque, Afonso de 227, 239 Albuquerque, Brás de 239 Alder, Otto 291, 298–300, 303–310, 313, 314 Allāmi, Abul Faz’l 68 Amman [firm] 24, 96, 124 Andersson, Gudrun 403 Antoinette, Marie 54 Apfel [family] 91 Arnold B. Heine & Co. [firm] 300, 306 Arnold Constable & Co. [firm] 277, 278 Aschmann, Friedrich Theodor 276–278, 280 Aschmann-Davis, Martha 277 Aurangzeb [Mughal Empire] 68, 72 Austria, Catarina de [Portugal] 240 Avis [dynasty] 233 Bärin, Barbara 372 Bastineller, Carl Gottfried [director Lagerhaus]: 204, 212, 217, 219, 220 Baumann & Co. [firm] 305 Baumann, Caspar 280, 281, 283–285, 287–289 Baumann, Johannes [firm] 132 Baumann-Hüni, Hans Caspar 271 Baumann-Zürrer, Caspar 270, 272, 273, 279, 280, 286, 288, 290 Baumgartner, Samuel 390, 391, 395, 397 Baur, Thomas 369 Beaujour, Louis-Auguste Felix de 154 Beaulieu, Antoine Georges Nicolas de 71, 76, 159, 160, 179 Beguin, Auguste 259 Bell, Thomas 62 Bentley, Thomas 297, 298 Berg, Maxine 248 Bernier, François 68

Bernoulli, Hieronymus & Sohn [firm] 96 Berthoud, Auguste 253, 265 Bharmalji I. [Kachchh] 77, 78 Bhasin, Brij 79 Bion, Peter 128 Blaszczyk, Regina Lee 297, 298 Blumer, Peter 281 Bocaccio 236 Bodmer, Johann Georg 126 Bodmer, Walter 119 Bonnier, Fitz 245, 246, 254 Bouchon, Basile 45 Bragança [dynasty] 234, 237, 238 Brett, Katherine 174 Brünings, Anton 167 Brunnschweiler [firm and family] 127, 128, 133 Burckhardt & Cie. [firm] 24, 25 Burmann, Christoph 295, 296 Cardim, Pedro 234 Cardon, Dominique 203, 205, 207 Cennini, Cennino 149 Chambrier d’Oleyres, Jean-Pierre 155 Chapman, Stanley 17 Charles V. [Habsburg] 233 Chassagne, Serge 17 Chorley, Patrick 42 Christoph Burckhardt & Co. [firm] 252, 253, 331 Clair of Parma, Isaye 155 Clark, W.A. Graham 300 Clemen J., Père & Fils [firm] 255 Coeurdoux, Gaston Laurent 71, 76, 159, 160, 179 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste 52 Coninck, Frédéric de 330 Correia, Gaspar 226–228 Cramer, Johann Albert 97 Crill, Rosemary 178 Crone, Borchard de 152 Custer, Jacob Laurenz 9, 10, 20, 33

416 Danssé, Guillaume 260–262 Defoe, Daniel 38 DeLuze & Co. [firm] 328 Destinon, Jean 211, 212 Deutsch brothers [firm] 133 Dolder, Heinrich 271–273, 282, 283, 285, 286, 289 Dolder, Jakob Andreas 127 Dollfus, Köchlin & Schmalzer [firm] 153 Ebel, Johann Gottfried 120 Ehrenzeller, Hans Jacob 128, 129 Engelhard [firm] 404 Escher [firm] 124 Esslinger, David 123 Falcon, Jean-Baptiste 45 Falkner, Peter 184 Fäsi, Johann Conrad 120 Favre, Henry 328 Fehrlin, August 304 Felice, Jean 391, 394 Ferdinand of Tyrol [Habsburg] 240 Field, Marshall 298 Flemming, Henry 44 Flückiger, Marie 193 Forster, Georg Paul 115, 118 Forster, Karl Ludwig 118 Frederik II. [Prussia] 196, 214, 215, 221 Frederik William I. [Prussia] 196 Frischknecht, Anton [firm] 132 Gama, Vasco da 226, 227 Geymüller, Ursula 184 Gibou, Paul 216, 218 Gittinger, Mattiebelle 181 Glinz, Othmar [firm] 129 Goldschmidt, Amschel Isaak 104, 106 Göller, Moritz 343 Gonthard, Jacob Friedrich & Söhne [firm] 109 Gonzenbach [family] 121–124, 126, 127, 128 Gout, Paul 159 Greuter, Bernhard 133, 134, 153, 166 Grodtschilling Peschier, Marie Suzanne 332 Gustav Igstaedter & Co. [firm] 310 Haas, Löw Götz [firm] 108, 111, 113 Haberly [colorist] 165

Index of Names

Habsburg [dynasty] 234, 237, 240 Hanau, Lehmann Isaak & Co. [firm] 96, 103–106, 110, 115 Hanhart, Heinrich [firm] 133 Hartenstein & Cie. [firm] 164 Hartmann, Catharina 190 Hartmann, Christian 116 Hartmann, Johann Gottfried 91, 116, 118 Havart, Daniel 70, 76 Heer [firm] 10, 134 Heinz, Henry 298 Heinzelmann brothers [firm] 113 Hellot, Jean 161, 162, 170 Henry [Portugal] 234 Hermbstädt, Sigismund Friedrich 162 Herrmann, Friedrich [firm] 133 Heuste, Roger 257, 258 Hilaire-Pérez, Liliane 146 Hinrichs, Carl 215 Hofenk de Graff, Judith 178 Holmsted, Frederik 328 Horner & Turner [firm] 56 Iklé frères & Co. [firm] 291, 298–300, 303, 304 Irwin, John 70, 73, 74, 174 Iselin, Reinhard 328 Jacob Hillenbrand seel. Erben [firm] 102 Jacobsson, Karl Gottfried 203, 207–209 Jain, L. C. 75 Janssens, Madam 262 John II. [Portugal] 233 Joseph II. [Habsburg] 368 Kapadia, Rita 75 Karl Eugen [Duke of Württemberg] 164 Kelly, Johann Jakob [firm] 131 Kirchgeorg, Manfred 295, 296 Koehn, Nancy 298 Kölliker [firm] 133 Koplin, Matthias 211, 216 Kramer [firm] 124, 126 Krause, Gisela 199, 201, 205, 209 Krug, Johann Carl [firm] 95 Krünitz, Johann Georg 109 Küpfer, Johann Friedrich 163, 404 Küpfer, Lisette 189, 190, 409

417

Index of Names

Lang, Gottfried 96 Lange, Johann Wilhelm 114 Laué & Co. [firm] 24, 30, 164, 168, 245, 247, 251– 256, 258–263, 265, 328, 331 Laué, Christian Friedrich 253 Laura, Stanislaus de 265 Lee, William 45 Leeven, Derck 344, 355 Lemire, Beverly 11, 22, 191, 391, 401 Leonhard Jakob Mahler & Co. [firm] 95, 102 Leonhard, Georg 124 Leumann [firm] 133 Loeb & Schoenfeld Co. [firm] 300, 306 Loppacher, Johann Ulrich 131 Louis XIV. [France] 52 Löw & Isaak Elias Gumperz [firm] 113 Luna, Alvaro de 236 Macklot, Johann Michael 168 Mahler & Hüni [firm] 283 Manrique, Sebastian 228 Manuel I. [Portugal] 233, 234 Mayer, Laurenz [firm] 132 Mayr, Johann Heinrich 133–137, 164 Mebold [firm] 164 Meffert, Heribert 295, 296 Menard, Pierre 196, 218, 219 Merz, Johannes [firm] 132, 153, 166 Meyer, William & Co. [firm] 306 Mezger, Johann Georg 127 Mieris, Willem Van 57 Miller, Lesley 248 Miller, Marla 191 Mitchell, David 408 Mittelholzer, Hans Ulrich [firm] 132 Mokyr, Joel 146 Mollem, Jacob 50 Montgolfier brothers 110 Müller, Conrad 263 Müller, Guillaume 252, 253 Munro, John 42 Nägli, Wild & Blumer [firm] 283 Napoleon Bonaparte 118 Nehru, Jawarharlal 78, 79, 87 Nemnich, Andreas 56 Neuhofer, Jeremias 128, 152

Nhengarji I. [Kachchh] 78 Nicolai, Friedrich 220 Nieto-Galan, Agustí 157 Nöbeling, Carl Philipp [dyer] 219, 220 Oberkampf [firm] 328 Oliveyra, Nicolão de 241 Oppenheimer, Alder & Co. [firm] 310 Papelier, Johann Martin 96 Peschier, Pierre 32, 329–334 Pestalozzi [family] 283 Philipp II. [Habsburg] 234, 236, 237 Philipp III. [Habsburg] 237 Piccolomini, Marietta 278 Pitton de Tournefort, Joseph 162 Poni, Carlo 248 Pourtalès & Co. [firm] 24 Purgerin, Konstantia 373 Raveux, Olivier 151 Reichenbach & Co. [firm] 306 Reissig, Harald 198 Rhamnus [family] 209 Riello, Giorgio 11, 151, 171, 172, 248, 317, 327, 405 Rieter [firm] 134 Rist, Johann Christoph 254, 260, 262 Rittmeyer & Co. [firm] 301 Roche, Daniel 366 Römer & Kitt [firm] 123 Roques, Georges 71, 72, 76, 77, 80–83, 85, 86 Rordorf, Elisabeth 123 Rordorf, Heinrich 123, 138 Rosetti, Gioanventura 148 Roxburgh, William 70, 71 Rudolph II. [Habsburg] 240 Ryhiner, Johannes 147, 156–162, 164, 165, 167, 169, 170 Ryhiner, Samuel 151–153, 157 Sandgruber, Roman 358, 362 Schaltegger, Peter 122–124 Schelfin, Klara 373 Scheuss, Maximilian [firm] 132 Schiess, Johannes & Merz, Daniel [firm] 132, 133 Schill, Jakob Friedrich 96 Schindler, Severin 211

418 Schläpfer [firm] 131, 134 Schlatter, Salomon [firm] 129 Schmitz, Heinrich 198, 199, 212, 217 Schöppler & Hartmann [firm] 27, 91–118 Schöppler, Johann Michael 91, 116, 118 Schrooten, Wilhelm 344, 355 Schropp, Matthäus 95 Schüle [firm] 91, 92, 104, 106, 117, 118, 168 Schüppach, Michael 193 Schwanke, Irmgard 256 Schwartz, Paul 64, 70, 76, 77, 81, 85 Shah, Archana 79 Shaikh, Ahmedbhai 73 Siddik, Mohammad 79, 86 Smail, John 248 Sommerville, John 53 Sondermann, Johann Gottfried 349, 354 Sparling, Samuel 295 Stadler, David 123 Steiger, Jakob 303 Stettler, Niklaus 25 Stickerei Feldmühle [firm] 300, 306 Straub, Peter 129 Straubel, Rolf 220 Strauss, J. J. [firm] 133 Streiff [firm] 130, 133, 134, 153, 166 Streuli, Emil 270–279, 281, 282, 287–290 Streuli-Maurer, Hans Caspar 270, 271 Struckmeier, Sabine 203, 205, 208 Stuppano, Peter Jacob & Co. [firm] 97, 114 Sulzer [firm] 133, 154 Suter, Esther 409

Index of Names

Tanner, Albert 17 Ternaux, Guillaume Louis 126 Tobler & Fehr [firm] 129 Trentmann, Frank 294 Trivellato, Francesca 264 Vogel [firm] 133 Walser, Gabriel 120, 131 Walser, J. & Comp. [firm] 109 Warin, Nicolas 211, 212 Watson, John Forbes 62 Wedgewood & Bentley [firm] 29, 297, 298 Weinbeck, Johann Gottlieb 212, 213, 215–217 Weisbrod-Bühler, Marion 280 West, Francis 56 West, John 56 Wetter, Rudolf 132 Wetter-Rüsch, Charles 291, 298–300, 304–306, 313 Wilckens, Henrich 152 Wilckens, Martin 152, 153 Zackelmayer, Georg Friedrich 95, 116 Zedler, Johann Heinrich 248, 254, 263, 264 Zeller, Heinrich 154 Zellweger [firm] 102, 109, 113, 131, 134, 262, 263 Zinzendorf, Karl von 120, 166 Zürrer, Bertha 280 Zürrer, Jakob 270, 279, 280

Index of Places

Aachen; 198 Aadorf 133 Aargau 18, 30, 133, 139, 153, 164, 168 Acre 40, 97, 114 Adrianople 154 Africa 43, 78, 117, 182, 199, 228, 230, 331, 385 East Africa 226 Southern Africa 63 West Africa 25, 39, 42, 63, 207, 208, 331 Ahmedabad 63, 64, 67–73, 75–79, 81–83, 85–87 Ahrensburg 330 Ajrakhpur 80, 83 Akkon 97 Allgäu 94 Alsace 95, 133, 137, 139, 140, 202 Altona 330 America 42, 43, 99, 117, 410 Central America 206, 209 North America 39, 59, 324, 331, 385, 403 South America 209, 385 United States of America 199, 268, 272–274, 276– 278, 281, 292, 300 Amersfoort 151 Amriswil 306 Amsterdam 21, 22, 24, 50, 96, 97, 100, 103, 114, 118, 151, 155, 198, 211, 212, 254, 260, 330 Ancona 281 Andhra Pradesh 63, 67, 86 Angouleme 256, 260 Antwerp 262, 331 Appenzell 132, 134, 268, 307, 308 Appenzell Ausserrhoden (canton) 102, 109, 119, 123, 124, 131, 138, 139, 292 Appenzell Innerrhoden (canton) 292 Arbon 133, 134, 137, 164, 300 Arendal 330 Asia 46, 117, 182, 199, 225, 230, 233, 321, 385 Central Asia 68, 151 East Asia 23, 42, 61

South Asia 23, 42, 62 Southeast Asia 61, 98 Astodia 73, 85 Aubenas 155 Augsburg 12, 21, 24, 27, 91–95, 97, 100–106, 108– 111, 113, 114, 116–118, 128, 136, 152, 168, 392 Austria 196, 362, 378 Lower Austria 378 Auteuil 306 Azmoos 138 Azores 207, 240 Baden 130 Bagh 63 Bagru 73 Bahia 242 Balkans 97 Barbados 40 Barcelona 17 Basel 12, 16, 18, 19, 24, 27, 96, 97, 119, 147, 155, 157, 158, 169, 171, 174, 182, 184, 185, 188, 193, 194, 252, 268, 275, 330, 392 Batalha 233 Batavia 118 Beaujolais 49 Bengal 24, 25, 30, 181, 182, 225, 226, 228–230, 237, 238, 240, 242, 323, 330 Bergen Hill 276, 290 Berlin 12, 25, 97, 102, 155, 162, 167, 195, 196, 199, 203, 209–215, 220, 221, 306, 330, 341 Bern 12, 18, 19, 23, 33, 43, 153, 173, 188, 190–193, 275, 309, 366, 374, 377, 386, 387, 390, 392–395, 397, 398, 401, 403, 405, 409, 410 Bern (canton) 17, 21 Besançon; 263 Bharuch 72 Biel 119, 123 Bischofszell 121, 122, 133 Black Forest 256 Bochum 342–344

420 Bohemia 378 Bologna 50 Bombay 63, 75, 78, 87, 323 Bordeaux 24, 330 Boston 307 Brandenburg-Prussia 198, 210 Brandon 402, 403 Brazil 99, 206, 230 Bremen 152, 167 Breslau 118 Britain 17, 44, 54, 59, 62, 70, 87, 126, 292 Broach 72 Brooklyn 275 Brussels 54, 303 Bürglen 133 Buchholz 100 Burhanpur 70 Burma (Myanmar) 65 Calw 96, 97 Canary Islands 207 Cape Verde 207 Caracas 99 Caribbean 25, 61, 206, 208, 209 Catalonia 392, 393 Çelebi 151 Ceylon 226 Chartres 257 Chennai 67, 69, 70 Chicago 307 China 25 Chittagong 228 Colberg 25 Colchester 49 Cologne 268 Como 268 Copenhagen 22, 24, 32, 317, 318, 320, 321, 328–334 Coromandel Coast 24, 61, 67, 69–71, 173–176, 181, 182 Cortaillod 21, 24 Crailsheim 96 Cressier 154 Cyprus 40, 97, 410 Dacca 229 Dani Limda 73, 85 Deccan 74

Index of Places

Deesa 73 Denmark 12, 25, 32, 173, 317, 318, 320, 324, 326, 327, 329–332, 334, 394 Dhamadka 79, 80, 83 Diessenhofen 133 Duisburg 348, 349 Düsseldorf 343 Egypt 65 Emmental 193, 390 Ennenda 128 England 9, 11, 18, 19, 32, 36, 37, 42–46, 48–50, 56, 91, 100, 136, 137, 191, 208, 317, 324, 327, 329, 330, 345, 367, 368, 371, 373, 377, 378, 386, 391– 393, 398 Europe 35–37, 41–46, 48, 50, 51, 55, 61, 62, 65, 67, 87, 97, 100, 126, 147, 148, 150, 151, 154–157, 160, 167, 169, 171–173, 175, 176, 179, 180–182, 185, 190, 191, 193, 199, 201, 202, 205–207, 210, 220, 225, 228, 230, 231, 234, 238, 243, 245, 248, 249, 251, 259, 292, 320, 321, 324, 328–330, 332, 334, 341, 352, 358, 366, 385, 386, 391, 392, 397, 398, 403 Central Europe 25, 56, 209 East Europe 209 Northwestern Europe 11 Southern Europe 46 Western Europe 39, 40, 44, 53, 60 Farsund 330 Flanders 37, 39, 42 Florence 51 Fort St. George 69 France 9, 11, 18, 19, 22, 24, 25, 32, 37, 40, 42, 44, 52–54, 59, 62, 71, 100, 118, 132, 135–137, 141, 154, 185, 190, 203, 208, 210, 245, 253, 292, 300, 324, 330, 351, 370, 371, 373, 377, 386, 391–393 Northern France 43 Southern France 202, 209, 392 Franconia 101 Frankfurt (Main) 96, 102–105, 108, 110, 111, 113, 116, 249, 330 Frankfurt (Oder) 25, 213–215 Frauenfeld 133, 134 Friderichstadt 330 Friesland 349 Fustat 65

421

Index of Places

Gandhinagar 82 Geneva 16, 18, 27, 119, 153, 260, 261, 328, 330, 392 Genoa 51, 97, 100, 102, 134, 135, 151, 155 Germany 22, 25, 56, 104, 130, 136, 292, 300, 366, 368, 371, 377, 378 Southern Germany 39, 91, 95, 100, 118 Glarus 16, 18, 19, 21, 24, 27, 124, 133, 139, 153, 166, 281 Glarus (canton) 119, 128, 130, 133 Goa 226–228 Goldach 131 Gossau 131 Gothenburg 330 Grenzach 130 Guatemala 99 Gujarat 63, 64, 70, 72, 75, 77, 79, 83 Eastern Gujarat 73 Northern Gujarat 73 Western Gujarat 73 Hanau 97 Hamburg 24, 94, 100, 108, 109, 211–215, 221, 300, 330 Hauptwil 19, 24, 27, 121–128, 131, 133 Hausen am Albis 270, 272, 280 Herisau 19, 21, 109, 121, 131–134, 153, 166, 262 Hoboken, New Jersey 275, 276, 278, 290 Holland 37, 42, 45, 91, 105, 118, 199, 202, 221, 386 Horgen 269, 270, 274, 277, 278, 282 Hugli 229 Iberian Peninsula 230, 391 India 12, 18, 20–22, 24, 28, 37, 43, 44, 62–69, 74, 76, 79, 81, 85, 87, 91, 98, 147, 149, 150, 151, 154, 156, 159, 169, 171–174, 176, 178, 179, 181, 182, 190, 191, 193, 225–229, 234, 239–241, 243, 258, 320, 321, 325, 328, 329, 391, 410 East India 25, 228, 326 Southern India 67, 69, 71, 76 Western India 61, 64, 70, 71, 72, 73, 75, 76, 77 Islikon 134 Isny 94 Italy 11, 22, 36, 37, 42, 50–52, 127, 253, 265, 268, 392 Northern Italy 39, 289 Northwest Italy 50

Jaipur 63, 73, 77 Jamaica 40 Jamalpur 73, 85 Java 99 Jouy 20, 328, 329 Jutland 332 Kachchh 63, 64, 67, 73, 75, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 83, 86, 87 Kachchh district 83 Kalkar 343, 344, 349 Karlsruhe 168 Kaufbeuren 102, 113 Kefikon 133, 153 Kempten 102 Khambat 69, 72 Khandesh 70 Kiel 330 Koblenz 330 Kolberg (Kołobrzeg) 213, 215 Krefeld 31, 268, 273, 286, 336, 337, 345, 346, 350 Kriegshaber 104 Lancashire 17, 39, 62, 63, 74, 394 Lancaster, Pennsylvania 272 Langensaltze (Saxony) 204 Langnau 193 Languedoc 154 Lauperswil 390 Leeds 56 Leghorn 134 Le Havre 273 Leiden 36, 39, 48, 57 Leipzig 102, 214, 330 Lenzburg 24 Les Halles 330 Liège 330 Liguria 265 Lille 330 Lippe 345 Lisbon 237, 239–242 Livorno 24, 95, 97, 100, 112, 114, 134, 135, 151 London 21, 22, 24, 39–41, 55, 100, 103, 248, 258, 267, 304, 306, 309, 371, 378, 408 Longchamps 306 Lorient 21 Lower Rhine area 12, 32, 335–337, 341, 344–346, 349–351

422 Lübeck 330 Lucca 51 Lucerne 17, 19 Luckipore 328 Lugano 253 Luxeuil 306 Lyon 31, 45, 50, 52–54, 56, 59, 135, 253, 255, 268, 273, 274, 286 Macedonia 97 Masulipatnam (Machilipatnam) 63, 67, 70 Madhya Pradesh 63, 70, 73, 75, 86 Madras 67, 70, 323 Magdeburg 202 Malmö 330 Malpur 72 Manchester 56, 59, 62, 63, 110 Mandvi 78 Manhattan 277, 278 Marseilles 24, 97, 100, 132, 151, 155, Mattwil 133 Mediterranean 43, 51, 60 Melinde (Malindi) 226 Memmingen 96, 102 Mettendorf 131 Mexico 99 Middle East 24, 410 Milan 102, 116, 134, 137 Mörmter 344, 353 Mörschwil 131 Moscow 330 Münsterland 350 Mulhouse 16, 18, 19, 21, 24, 153, 164 Mumbai 63 Munich 102 Muscat 78 Nantes 20, 24, 330 Naples 134, 135 Near East 24, 154 The Netherlands 11, 32, 49, 50, 62, 96, 97, 100, 118, 133, 136, 152, 207, 324, 329, 330, 340, 344, 346, 349, 351, 391 Neuchatel 16, 18, 19, 27, 119, 133, 139, 153–155, 275, 328, 392 New England 191 Newfoundland 282

Index of Places

New Jersey 290 New York, NY 56, 258, 267, 273–282, 285, 286, 289, 290, 306, 307 Nidau 123 Nîmes 40, 154 Norfolk 44 Normandy 49 Norwich 38, 46, 59 Nuremberg 91, 95–97, 102, 116, 118 Obergünzburg 95 Obfelden 272 Oslo (Christiania) 330 Ostende 330 Ottoman Empire 97, 98, 151, 154, 392 Paisley 51 Pakistan 77 Palakollu 67, 70 Palestine 97, 234 Pandua 231 Pappenheim 101 Paris 22, 53, 259, 261, 268, 270, 274, 278, 302, 306, 308, 309, 328, 368, 371, 377, 378 Patna 330 Persia 68, 70, 151 Petaboli 67 Pethapur 73, 82 Philadelphia 56, 307, 309 Picardy 42 Piedmont 50 Pipad 73 Plauen 306 Pomerania 213 Pondicherry (Puducherry) 71, 179 Porto Maurizio 265 Portugal 12, 25, 230, 233, 234, 237–240, 243, 330, 391 Potsdam 198 Prussia 18, 195–197, 202–205, 213–215, 220, 221, 341, 393 West-Prussia 32, 335–338, 340, 343, 350, 352 Pulicat 67 Rajasthan 63, 70, 73, 75, 77, 86 Rajputana 70 Regensburg 95, 268

423

Index of Places

Rheineck 9, 10, 131, 134, 137 Roanne 245 Rome 134 Rorschach 131, 300 Rotterdam 97, 100, 118 Rouen 20, 154, 155 Russia 151, 330 Saint-Sulpice 154 Salerno 134 Salona 97 Sanganer 73 Santo Domingo 99 Sarkhej 72 Satgaon 228, 229 Saxony 100, 204, 205, 214 Schaffhausen 24, 96, 123, 124 Schwanden 281 Scotland 46, 51 Senegal 97, 98 Seville 57 Shahpur 73 Silesia 202 Sindh 77, 80 Singapore 299 Sironj 69, 70 Smyrna 24, 40, 97, 154 Sorntal 128 Spain 11, 17, 44, 230, 236, 392 Spandau 210 Speicher 131, 134 Spenge 343, 344 Spitalfields 50 Stäfa 270 Stettin (Szcecin) 25, 213–215, 221, 330 St. Croix 330 St. Fiden 131 St. Gallen 9, 12, 16, 21, 24, 27, 44, 121, 122, 128, 130– 132, 134, 142, 275, 292, 299, 300, 307, 311, 392 St. Gallen (canton) 119, 132, 137 St. Louis 295, 307 Stockholm 330 St. Petersburg 57, 267, 330 Strasbourg 96, 97 St. Thomé 67 Sulz am Neckar 164 Surat 69–72

Surinam 98 Swabia 17 Switzerland 9–12, 16–18, 20–22, 25, 43, 95, 100, 102, 119, 134, 135, 141, 145, 166, 249, 270, 274, 275, 280–282, 291, 294, 300, 386, 391–393, 410 Eastern Switzerland 18, 21, 27, 119, 121, 123, 131, 133, 137, 138, 139, 143, 292, 310 Western Switzerland 121 Tallinn 330 Tamil Nadu 71 Tapper 83 Teufen 123 Thailand 73 Thal 131 Thalwil 272 Thar 80 Thessaloniki 24, 154 Thessaly 154 Thurgau (canton) 12, 119, 121, 126, 133, 134, 138, 153, 164, 292 Thuringia 165 Ticino 275 Tödden 350 Toggenburg 21, 132, 133, 138, 139 Torino 127 Tours 54, 342 Trieste 24, 97, 100, 102, 112, 114, 134 Trogen 97, 102, 109, 113, 121, 131, 135 Troyes 49 Turin 259 Ulm 392 Utrecht 50 Vasna 67 Venezuela 99 Venice 24, 40, 51 Verona 10 Vienna 12, 24, 33, 97, 154, 155, 270, 309, 359, 361– 363, 366–368, 371, 373, 377–379 Vijayanagara 226 Virginia 44 Wesel 343, 344, 349, 352 Whitehaven 44 Wildegg 245, 249, 254, 258–260, 262, 328

424 Wiltshire 36 Winterthur 21, 134 Wollishofen 123 Wroclaw 330 Württemberg (duchy) 96, 164, 331, 393 Xanten 343, 344, 349, 353, 354 York 401 Yorkshire 56 Yucatan peninsula 208

Index of Places

Zanzibar 78 Zurich 12, 17–19, 21, 24, 26, 31, 43, 123, 124, 126, 129, 134, 153, 154, 245, 267–270, 272–274, 278, 280, 285, 286 Zurich (canton) 267 Zurzach 125, 134