The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806: France, the Netherlands, Switzerland, and Italy 9789048522415

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The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806 France, the Netherlands, Switzerland, and Italy

Edited by Joris Oddens, Mart Rutjes, and Erik Jacobs

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: ‘L’Unisson’. Allegorical depiction of the Sister Republics. Engraving by Esprit Antoine Gibelin, c. 1802. Bibliothèque Nationale de France Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout Amsterdam University Press English-language titles are distributed in the US and Canada by the University of Chicago Press. isbn 978 90 8964 606 4 e-isbn 978 90 4852 241 5 (pdf) nur 685 © Joris Oddens, Mart Rutjes and Erik Jacobs / Amsterdam University Press, Amsterdam 2015 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book.



Table of Contents

Timeline of the Sister Republics (1794-1806)

9

The political culture of the Sister Republics

17

‘The political passions of other nations’

33

Joris Oddens and Mart Rutjes

National choices and the European order in the writings of Germaine de Staël Biancamaria Fontana

1.  The transformation of republicanism The transformation of republicanism in the Sister Republics

43

‘Republic’ and ‘democracy’ in Dutch late eighteenth-century revolutionary discourse

49

New wine in old wineskins

57

Andrew Jainchill

Wyger R. E. Velema

Republicanism in the Helvetic Republic Urte Weeber

2.  Political concepts and languages Revolutionary concepts and languages in the Sister Republics of the late 1790s

67

Useful citizens. Citizenship and democracy in the Batavian Republic, 1795-1801

73

Pasi Ihalainen

Mart Rutjes

From rights to citizenship to the Helvetian indigénat 85 Political integration of citizens under the Helvetic Republic Silvia Arlettaz

The battle over ‘democracy’in Italian political thought during the revolutionary triennio, 1796-1799 Mauro Lenci

97

3.  The invention of democratic parliamentary practices Parliamentary practices in the Sister Republicsin the light of the French experience

109

Making the most of national time

115

The invention of democratic parliamentary practicesin the Helvetic Republic

127

The Neapolitan republican experiment of 1799

135

Malcolm Crook

Accountability, transparency, and term limits in the first Dutch Parliament (1796-1797) Joris Oddens

Some remarks André Holenstein

Legislation, balance of power, and the workings of democracy between theory and practice Valeria Ferrari

4.  Press, politics, and public opinion Censorship and press liberty in the Sister Republics

143

1798: A turning point?

151

Some reflections Simon Burrows

Censorship in the Batavian Republic Erik Jacobs

Censorship and public opinion

159

Liberty of press and censorship in the first Cisalpine Republic

171

Press and politics in the Helvetic Republic (1798-1803) Andreas Würgler

Katia Visconti

5.  The Sister Republics and France Small nation, big sisters

183

The national dimension in the Batavian Revolution

187

The constitutional debate in the Helvetic Republic in 1800-1801

201

An unwelcome Sister Republic

211

Pierre Serna

Political discussions, institutions, and constitutions Annie Jourdan

Between French influence and national self-government Antoine Broussy

Re-reading political relations between the Cisalpine Republic and the French Directory Antonino De Francesco

Bibliography 219 List of contributors

245

Notes 249 Index 319



Timeline of the Sister Republics (1794-1806)

27-28 July (night of 9-10 Thermidor), 1794 The Thermidorian Reaction puts an end to the Reign of Terror in France. December 1794 - January 1795 A French army invades the Dutch Republic. Start of the Batavian Revolution and establishment of the Batavian Republic. 16 May 1795 Treaty of The Hague signed between representatives of the Batavian Republic and France. 22 August 1795 A new French constitution is ratified, with a bicameral parliament (Conseil des Cinq-Cents and Conseil des Anciens) and an executive Directory (Directoire) of five. 2 November 1795 The Directory in France takes on executive power, starting the period of the Directory. 1 March 1796 The Dutch Estates General proclaim their own dismantling and the establishment of a National Assembly (Nationale Vergadering) in the Batavian Republic. 10 May 1796 Battle of Lodi. The Napoleonic army occupies the Austrian dominions in Italy. 15 October 1796 Napoleon proclaims the Transpadane Republic uniting the duchy of Milan, the duchy of Mantua, and other Lombardian territories. 23 December 1796 A congress of representatives from Modena, Reggio Emilia, Ferrara, and Bologna (organized by Napoleon) proclaims the Cispadane Republic.

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The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

7 January 1797 The Cispadane congress appoints a provisional government. 19 March 1797 Popular ratification of a Cispadane constitution, written by the Cispadane congress. 26 April 1797 First meeting of the two houses of the Cispadane parliament (Consiglio dei Sessanta and Consiglio dei Trenta) in Bologna. Election of an executive (Direttorio). 19 May 1797 Romagna joins the Cispadane Republic. Modena and Reggio Emilia are transferred from the Cispadane to the Transpadane Republic. 29 June 1797 Napoleon proclaims the Cisalpine Republic, uniting the Transpadane and Cispadane Republics, and appoints an executive (Direttorio). 7 July 1797 Publication of the Cisalpine constitution, based on the French constitution of the Year III. 8 August 1797 A draft constitution for the Batavian Republic is rejected by the Dutch people in a referendum. A second National Assembly is elected. 4 September 1797 The coup d’état of 18 Fructidor in France revives Republican measures and places more power in the hands of the executive. 17 October 1797 Treaty of Campo Formio. The Cisalpine Republic is acknowledged by Austria. In exchange, Napoleon cedes the Venetian territories to the Austrians. 22 November 1797 First meeting of the two houses of the Cisalpine parliament (Gran Consiglio and Consiglio dei Signori) in Milan.

Timeline of the Sister Republics (1794-1806)

11

January 1798 A French army invades the Swiss Confederacy. Start of the Helvetic Revolution. 22 January 1798 Democrat coup d’état in the Batavian Republic, with support from the French and military support from General Herman Daendels. The parliament is purged of moderate and federalist members. 15 February 1798 Roman revolutionaries proclaim the Roman Republic with support of a French army commanded by General Berthier. 17-20 March 1798 Publication of a Roman constitution, based on the French constitution of the Year III. First meeting of the Roman executive (Consolato) and of the two houses of the Roman parliament (Tribunato and Senato). 12 April 1798 First meeting of a Swiss parliament (Nationalversammlung / Assemblée Nationale) in Aarau. Establishment of the Helvetic Republic by representatives of the cantons Aargau, Basel, Bern, Freiburg, Léman, Luzern, Oberland, Schaffhausen, Solothurn, and Zurich. Publication of a Helvetic constitution. Establishment of an executive (Direktorium/Directoire). 4 May 1798 Popular ratification of a Batavian constitution. The federal Republic becomes a unitary state. 4 May 1798 After a brief armed struggle, the cantons of Uri, Schwyz, Zug, and Nidwalden capitulate and become part of the Helvetic Republic. 11 May 1798 The Law of 22 Floréal Year VI is passed in France. 106 left-wing deputies are deprived of their seats in the Conseil de Cinq-Cents. 8 June 1798 Ratification of the Treaty of Alliance between the Cisalpine Republic and France.

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12 June 1798 Moderate coup d’état in the Batavian Republic against the radical democrats, with support from the French and from General Daendels. Juli-August 1798 The cantons of Bellinzona and Lugano are constituted as parts of the Helvetic Republic. 30 August 1798 Moderate coup d’état in the Cisalpine Republic, organized by the French ambassador Trouvé. The Direttorio is partly replaced and both houses of the parliament are purged. A new constitution is introduced. 19 October 1798 Democrat coup d’état in the Cisalpine Republic, organized by the French general Brune. The Direttorio is purged and the members of the houses of the parliament are partly replaced by members who had been purged in the coup of 30 August. 7 December 1798 Moderate coup d’état in the Cisalpine Republic, organized by the French envoy (later ambassador) Rivaud. The Direttorio and both houses of the parliament are purged. 23 January 1799 Neapolitan revolutionaries proclaim the Neapolitan Republic with the approval of the French army commanded by General Championnet. 21 March 1799 The Drei Bünden join the Helvetic Republic after an invasion by a French army. 29 April 1799 End of the Cisalpine Republic. Restoration of Austrian rule. 13 June 1799 End of the Neapolitan Republic. Restoration of the rule of the King of Naples. 18 June 1799 Coup d’état of 30 Prairial Year VII in France. The Conseil des Cinq-Cents and the Conseil des Anciens, unsatisfied with the conduct of the war and the

Timeline of the Sister Republics (1794-1806)

13

efforts of the Directory, stage a coup, leaving Emmanuel-Joseph Sieyès as the dominant figure of the French government. 27 August-19 November 1799 Anglo-Russian troops invade the northwestern part of the Batavian Republic. Batavian and French troops defeat the coalition army. 29 September 1799 End of the Roman Republic. Restoration of the Papal States. 9 November 1799 The coup d’état of 18 Brumaire ends the Directory. 24 December 1799 The Constitution of the Year VIII establishes the leadership of Napoleon under the Consulate. 8 January 1800 Coup d’état in the Helvetic Republic, staged by the “Republican” faction. The Direktorium is abolished and replaced by a provisional government. 4 June 1800 Napoleon restores the Cisalpine Republic. 7 August 1800 Coup d’état in the Helvetic Republic, staged by the provisional government with French support. The parliament is abolished and replaced by a legislative council. A new constitution is introduced. 9 February 1801 Treaty of Lunéville. Extension of the Cisalpine territories. 29 May 1801 The Helvetic Legislative Council ratifies the constitution of Malmaison, a compromise between federalism and centralism, drafted by Napoleon. 19 September 1801 Moderate coup d’état by members of the executive (Uitvoerend Bewind) in the Batavian Republic, with support from the French general Augereau. A new constitution is drafted.

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The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

16 October 1801 Ratification of the new Batavian constitution. 27-28 October 1801 Federalist coup d’état in the Helvetic Republic, supported by the French envoy Verninac and the French general Monchoisy. 26 January 1802 The Cisalpine Republic is transformed into the Italian Republic. Napoleon becomes president, Francesco Melzi d’Eril vice president. 25 March 1802 Treaty of Amiens. Peace between France and the United Kingdom. The UK returns colonies to the Batavian Republic; France withdraws its troops from the Papal States and the Kingdom of Naples. 17 April 1802 Unitarist coup d’état in the Helvetic Republic. 2 July 1802 Popular ratification of a new Helvetic constitution, which is a unitarist adaptation of the constitution of Malmaison. September-October 1802 After the withdrawal of French troops from the Swiss territories, a brief civil war leads to the end of the Helvetic Republic. 19 February 1803 Napoleon imposes a new federalist constitution that restores the power of the Swiss cantons. 2 December 1804 Napoleon crowns himself as emperor of the French, establishing the French Empire. 17 March 1805 The Italian Republic is transformed into the Kingdom of Italy. Napoleon becomes king, Eugène de Beauharnais viceroy.

Timeline of the Sister Republics (1794-1806)

15

10 May 1805 Napoleon places Rutger Jan Schimmelpenninck at the head of the Batavian Republic with the title of Grand Pensionary (Raadpensionaris). 5 June 1806 Napoleon installs his brother, Louis Bonaparte, as king of Holland. End of the Batavian Republic.



The political culture of the Sister Republics Joris Oddens and Mart Rutjes

On the morning of Monday, 22 January 1798, the inhabitants of The Hague witnessed a revolution within a revolution. Almost exactly three years earlier, reformist Dutch citizens had proclaimed the so-called ‘Batavian’ Revolution after the invasion of a French revolutionary army had caused the oligarchic regime of the Orangist stadholder to implode. In May 1795, the French had off icially recognized the independence of a Batavian Republic. In March 1796, the Batavian revolutionaries had established a Nationale Vergadering, a legislative and constituent assembly loosely modelled on the French Assemblée Nationale. In May 1797, the members of this Dutch National Assembly had completed a draft constitution, which was then put to a popular vote some months later. The outcome of the first referendum in Dutch history was dramatic: eighty per cent of the voters had rejected the draft constitution, which most had considered a weak compromise between different views that had struggled for dominance in the first Dutch parliament. A second National Assembly was elected, but this constituent body was faced with a similar deadlock of opinions. In the fifth month after the second Nationale Vergadering had first gathered in The Hague, on the said 22 January 1798, a radical minority staged a coup d’état and purged the parliament of its most insistent political adversaries. This act would turn the Batavian Revolution on its head.1 Between the French invasion of January 1795 and the coup of January 1798, the French Directoire had refrained from direct intervention in Dutch politics, as it had taken the position that the Batavians would be of most use as military allies when they were allowed to have a stable and independent republic. Now, after three years of difficult and fruitless deliberations over the constitution that was to guide this republic, it had instructed Charles Delacroix, the new French envoy to the Batavian Republic, to intervene more actively than his predecessor had done and make clear to the Batavian politicians that the French government would not tolerate any further delays.2 Delacroix gave his support to the coup that the Dutch radicals had been preparing, putting an end to the policy of French non-interventionism in internal political matters.3

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On the same day, another sequence of major events occurred some 550 kilometres southwest of The Hague. In the city of Basel, delegates from all over the Swiss canton gathered in the Münster church to hear how the city council had decreed that the citizens of the city of Basel and those of the surrounding countryside would henceforth enjoy perfectly equal rights. The council had succumbed to the demands of representatives of the rural population, who had solemnly declared that they would not settle for less than ‘freedom, liberty and the sacred inalienable rights of the people’, as well as a constitution and a ‘national’ assembly that was to consist of citizens from both city and countryside. On the central square in front of the church, a tree of liberty was erected to celebrate the ‘unification’ of the people of Basel, inaugurating the ‘Helvetic’ Revolution. The Basel city government had come to embrace the need for change voluntarily, but not necessarily with great enthusiasm. More than by the revolutionary spirit that swept through the canton, its decision seems to have been prompted by the persistent rumour that a large French army was ready to intervene if the revolutionary demands of the people were not met. As had been the case in many cities of the Dutch Republic three years earlier, the mere threat of a French intervention had triggered a process of reform from within. 4 The Helvetic revolutionaries would not be granted as much room for manoeuvre as the Batavians three years earlier. In the weeks and months following the revolutionary events in Basel, citizens in many Swiss towns and villages forced their government to agree to reforms or step down. No such concessions were made, however, by the aristocratic government of the city state of Bern, which condemned the spirit of revolution and made plans to reconquer the Pays de Vaud, the Francophone canton that had been subject to German-speaking Bern until it had declared itself independent some weeks previously. On 28 January 1798, the French reacted by marching into the Swiss territory on the pretext of protecting the rights of the people of the Vaud against the Bernese; when negotiations failed, the French army moved against Bern, which fell on 5 March, breaking the resistance of the Swiss ancien régime. 5 It was the French general Brune who proclaimed, on 22 March, the unitary Helvetic Republic. Unlike the Batavians, who had been able to make the framing of a constitution a collective effort, the Helvetic people were forced to settle for a constitution written by Peter Ochs, a revolutionary from Basel who had intended the text of this constitution as a draft, and edited by the French Directors Jean-François Reubell and Philippe-Antoine Merlin de Douai.6 The imposing of a constitution that unified the Swiss confederacy dealt a severe blow to the enthusiasm

The political culture of the Sister Republics

19

of many of the Swiss revolutionaries, even among those who had initially been in favour of a French intervention. Still further to the southeast, on the other side of the Alps, the citizens of Verona were witness to an entirely different event. On 22 January 1798, the French army abandoned the city to the Austrians, who entered through the city gates that very day.7 The French retreat followed from the Treaty of Campo Formio, which had stipulated the partial cession of the Venetian territories to the Emperor. For Napoleon’s armée d’Italie, the abandonment of Verona ended an episode that had caused serious damage to its desired image of a revolutionary army of liberation. In what has come to be known as the Pasque Veronesi, the people of Verona had revolted against what they considered a French occupation on Easter Monday 1797, taking over the city and its castles. A week later, the French had regained control when 15,000 soldiers had come to the rescue of the overpowered garrison, but it had by then become painfully clear that the French were unwanted in the city. When in the summer of 1797 the French had organized the first-ever free elections for the Veronese city government, the citizens had responded by electing the heroes of the counter-revolutionary revolt, after which the elections had been cancelled and the French military authorities had appointed a ‘democratic’ government of their choice.8 Now, six months later, the undesired ‘revolution’ of Verona was over. Some 140 kilometres west of Verona, in the Milanese Palazzo di Governo (the current seat of the Italian state archives), the Gran Consiglio of the ‘Cisalpine’ Republic seemed to experience a relatively ordinary day. The members of the lower house of the Cisalpine bicameral legislature discussed the grain and rice trade, the nomination of candidates for vacant positions in the departmental governments, and a proposal that sought to cease the holding of sessions that lasted until deep in the night.9 The Gran Consiglio and the Cisalpine upper house, the Consiglio dei Seniori, had started their sessions exactly two months earlier, on 22 November 1797. They represented a republic that had been created by Napoleon in June 1797 and that largely comprised present-day Lombardy and Emilia Romagna; they served a constitution that had been imposed on them by the French government and that was a faithful imitation of the French Constitution of the Year III.10 As Antonino de Francesco shows in this volume, this constitution had at first met with resistance amongst radical Italian revolutionaries, but after the coup of 18 Fructidor Year V (4 September 1797) had taken place in Paris, bringing a more radical French regime into power, they joined their more moderate colleagues in embracing the new constitutional order.

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Their hopes for a viable and truly independent republic were soon to be crushed. On 22 January 1798, the history of the Cisalpine Republic was not to be written in Milan but in Paris, where the French foreign minister CharlesMaurice de Talleyrand summoned the Cisalpine envoys and presented them with a sixteen-article alliance treaty with France, containing extremely harsh and humiliating conditions.11 After the Cisalpine Directory and its envoys succumbed to French threats and the Gran Consiglio followed this example after ample discussions, the Consiglio dei Seniori refused to ratify the document. The French army responded to this reluctance with force: in April 1798, General Brune, who a month earlier had stood at the basis of the Helvetic Republic but was now the commanding general of the armée d’Italie, purged the Cisalpine Direttorio and both houses of parliament, setting in motion a whole series of coups, all initiated by rivalling French factions.12 22 January 1798: one day in the age of the democratic revolution.13 While the Batavian Revolution was reaching its peak, the Helvetic Revolution was only just getting underway. By contrast, the Veronese revolution, if there had been one at all, was coming to an end, whereas the Cisalpine revolution was taking a dramatic turn. Further southwards, in Naples and Rome, the revolution was yet to begin. From this cross-sectional view of late eighteenth-century revolutionary Europe, it should be sufficiently clear that parallels can be drawn between the revolutions in the various so-called ‘Sister Republics’.14 Recurring elements are the constitutions, the parliaments, the coups, and the French power politics. Similar chains of revolutionary events took place in various parts of Europe, some earlier, some later and in different tempos, but all within a time range of five to six years. While the above account of events merely scratches the surface of the study of the revolutionary era, the past decades have seen many innovative monographs that go far beyond such histoire evenementielle, and that can generally be brought together under the heading ‘political culture’. Almost all of these studies have been written by specialists of the various national, or in some cases regional, revolutionary contexts, who are often equally well-versed in the history and historiography of the revolution in France but know surprisingly little about the history of the ‘other’ Sister Republics. To state it boldly, most historians of the Batavian Revolution have until now most probably been unaware of the fact that 22 January 1798 was not only the day in which Dutch radicals staged a coup in The Hague, but that it also marks the beginning of the revolution in Basel. In this volume, we have therefore brought together experts on the French, Batavian, Helvetic, Cisalpine, and Neapolitan revolutions and their recent historiographies in

The political culture of the Sister Republics

21

an attempt to bridge this gap and open up new possibilities to study what we believe should ultimately be seen and studied as one revolutionary sphere.

National narratives A question we might f irst ask is whether the citizens of the different revolutionary republics were themselves aware of the political events that occurred in the various Sister Republics. At least when speaking of the Batavian Republic vis-à-vis the Helvetic and the various Italian Republics and vice versa, the answer should most probably be that this was hardly the case. As Andreas Würgler shows in this volume for Switzerland, newspapers and periodicals that had previously focused on news from abroad as a result of censorship restrictions were during the revolution largely filled with domestic political news. With the exception of key events in France – the coup of 18 Fructidor Year V, for example – the public was chiefly interested in the revolutionary events in their own country, which gave them enough to talk about. In the chaotic days following the Dutch coup of 22 January 1798, when the periodicals had trouble keeping up with the domestic news and were printing special issues, the creation of the Helvetic Republic seems to have been the last thing on the minds of Batavian citizens. If politicians knew more than ordinary citizens about what was happening in the other Sister Republics, it was probably not a great deal more. Recent scholarship suggests that the governments of the Dutch, Swiss, and Italian republics have never shown particular interest in establishing multilateral alliances including all the revolutionary republics, preferring instead to invest in ‘bonds of friendship’ with monarchies such as Spain, Denmark, or Sweden when this seemed more opportune. When the Helvetic and Cisalpine Republics were created, for instance, the Batavian government did little to welcome them. It seems to have intended to establish diplomatic relations with the Cisalpine Republic, but while the Cisalpine government sent an envoy to The Hague, no Batavian envoy ever arrived in Milan, and neither did the Batavian government bother to send an envoy to Aarau, from April 1798 the seat of the Helvetic government.15 Occasionally, the governments sent each other declarations in which they confirmed the ideological bonds between the revolutionary republics, but no action was taken to actively strengthen these bonds.16 As a matter of fact, relations between the Helvetic and Cisalpine Republics were even problematic, as the Cisalpine Republic strove to annex the Italophone parts of Switzerland from the beginning of its existence.17

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The general state of ignorance or even indifference about the fate of the fellow Sister Republics, caused by a lack of information and the language barrier certainly but above all the self-centredness of the revolutionary nations, never changed after the Age of Revolution ended. Preoccupied as they were with their own pasts, historians from the nineteenth-century nation-states that were built on the foundations of their revolutionary predecessors – the Kingdom of the Netherlands, the Swiss Confederation, and, somewhat later, the Kingdom of Italy – have long focused on questions regarding the place of the revolution in their national Grand Narratives, and the nature of their relation to France during the revolutionary years. This means that those revolutions are mainly treated as a component of the diachronic development of their respective nation-states. The historical analysis of the revolutionary period is therefore dependent on the role that is ascribed to it within the dominant national historiographical narrative. In the case of the French Revolution, its role has been characterized as both positive and negative, but at least as an important episode in the development of the French nation-state.18 Most historians also see the French Revolution as an event that had a transnational and even global influence. No other revolution managed to enforce a break with the early-modern period in such a vigorous way, and its events and ideals are deemed to have had an enormous influence outside the French borders since 1789.19 But such an analysis, correct as it may be, can hardly be called comparative or even transnational, since it is a story told only from the perspective of the French Revolution and how it was received outside of France. Such a Rezeptionsgeschichte is important in understanding the dynamics of the revolutionary era, but it only tells part of the story. When we look at the different national historiographies of the other Sister Republics, we can clearly discern a divergence in the ways the revolutionary era has been judged during the past two centuries; this makes us realize all the more clearly how closely these judgments have been linked to contemporary political circumstances. In the Netherlands, throughout the nineteenth century and well into the twentieth century, the history of the Batavian Revolution of the 1790s and the reformist Patriot movement that had preceded it during the 1780s was mostly written by royalist historians who thought of the anti-Orangist revolutionary era as a ‘French Epoch’ and saw the Dutch revolutionaries either as marionettes operated by French puppeteers or as violent epigones of the French Jacobins of the Year II (1793-1794).20 This negative view became unsustainable during the later twentieth century. Ironically, it was Herman Colenbrander (1871-1945) who paved

The political culture of the Sister Republics

23

the way for a revisionist approach by publishing an extensive collection of source material about the revolutionary years, though he himself is mostly remembered for his adherence to the puppet theatre metaphor. In recent decades, historians have increasingly ascribed to the Batavian revolutionaries a mind of their own and credited them as pioneers of the Dutch representative democracy and founders of the Dutch unitary state, while at the same time acknowledging that the Batavian and French Revolutions were deeply intertwined.21 Whereas in nineteenth-century Dutch historiography, one needs a magnifying glass to find historians who embraced the Batavian Revolution, in the contemporaneous Swiss historiography it is harder to find historians who altogether rejected the Helvetic Revolution. Much more than their Dutch counterparts, liberal Swiss historians such as Johannes Strickler (1835-1910) explained the Helvetik as a process of modernization and necessary break with the ancien régime, a view that was sometimes even shared, though with less ardour, by more conservative colleagues. The positive judgement of the Helvetic Era was, however, never unconditional; as in the Netherlands, but less exclusively, there always remained a certain ambivalence about the revolution because of the French military occupation of the Swiss cantons, the political interventions of the French, and the Napoleonic Era that followed the years of democratic reforms.22 In the twentieth century, the way the Helvetic Revolution was interpreted and judged remained strongly linked to fluctuations in the appreciation for the era that had preceded it: a glorification of the Swiss old regime (as well as anti-French sentiments) led to a more critical assessment of the revolution during WWI, while the same happened, though with less intensity, in the 1960s and 1970s when the study of the Swiss ancien régime experienced a revival.23 Interestingly enough, in recent years there has been a tendency to stress the continuities rather than the ruptures between the ancien régime and the Helvetic Republic, while at the same time, in the Netherlands, the conviction that the Batavian Republic should be seen as the most important rupture since Dutch independence has rapidly gained ground.24 The Italian historiography of the revolutionary era has long focused on the relation between the Revolution and the Italian Risorgimento, combining the familiar question regarding respectively the ‘Frenchness’ and ‘Italianness’ of the so-called revolutionary triennio (1796-1799) with another theme that has also been central to both the Swiss and the Dutch historiographical debate: the crucial importance of the revolutionary era for a much longer process of determining whether to opt for a number of independent states, a confederacy of interdependent states, or one centralized unitary state.25

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The French ideal of unité et indivisiblité got a grip on all Sister Republics, and all saw internal divisions between unitarists and federalists, but not a single other theme is likely to have been shaped more by the way national historiographies have been embedded in national contexts, and thus by the directions in which the Dutch, Swiss, and Italian states have headed: for a country that went from a confederacy to a unitary state during the Batavian Republic and remained so ever since, or a country for which the Helvetic Republic was a short-lived unitary intermezzo, the historiographical perspective is quite different from that of a country that was formed only in 1870, where the leading question became, in retrospect, whether the seeds of the Italian unification had been sown during the revolutionary years. When, after WWII, the triennio started to be studied more in its own right, the all-absorbing question became whether it had been a triennio giacobino, that is to say whether the ideology of the leading revolutionaries from 1796 onwards was in fact the ideology of the French Jacobins of the Year II, i.e. that of the Jacobin leader Robespierre. As we have seen, nineteenth-century Dutch historians had previously concluded the same about the Batavian revolutionaries. The idea of giacobinismo italiano that was advanced by Armando Saitta (1919-1991) and led to a controversy with – amongst others – Franco Venturi (1914-1994) and Furio Diaz (1916-2011), dominated the debate on the Italian revolution throughout the first postwar decades. The position that the Italian revolutionary movement should be considered a monolithic Jacobin bloc has long remained influential, but more recently a new generation of historians has convincingly shown that in Italy, like elsewhere, there have been different revolutionary ideologies; as a result, the giacobini italiani have become patrioti and the triennio giacobino is now called the triennio democratico.26 The national perspective dominant in history writing has created the inevitable illusion that national developments must have had national causes, because sticking to the national framework has led to a blind spot for the international context.27 This perspective has obscured the fact that many facets of modern European politics, such as representative democracy, constitutions, national citizenship, and civic rights manifested themselves for the first time during the revolutionary era. In this book we want to show how the revolutionary political cultures took root in the different Sister Republics not only within their national context, but specifically how they were influenced by international contexts – if not from one Sister Republic to another, then surely because the revolutionaries in different countries were inspired by the same Enlightenment thinkers – and whether and to what extent the political experiments and experiences of the revolutionary

The political culture of the Sister Republics

25

groups in different countries amounted to an international political culture or ideal.

The transnational character of the revolutions A volume concerned with the revolutionary political culture of different European territories is comparative and transnational by nature. But such a statement raises all sorts of questions. It raises questions on a methodological level: how should historians go about in writing comparative histories? What does ‘transnational’ mean in the context of the late eighteenth century when most European nation-states had yet to be formed or even ‘imagined’, but when at the same time the revolutions were responsible for the creation of nation-states? It also raises a question concerning the nature of the revolution(s) of the late eighteenth century. Should the upheavals at the end of the ancien régime be characterized as (different) manifestations of a single revolutionary movement, or can we understand the revolutions better if we study them primarily as ‘national’ revolutions? This calls for a brief reflection on the scholarship on the transnational character of the revolutions of the late eighteenth century. Despite the dominance of the national perspective, over the past half-century a number of groundbreaking works have been written in which the revolutions were placed in a broader international pattern, following the argument that ‘this whole [Western] civilization was swept in the last four decades of the eighteenth century by a single revolutionary movement, which manifested itself in different ways and with varying success in different countries, yet in all of them showed similar objectives and principles’.28 This was done most famously by Jacques Godechot and R. R. Palmer in the 1950s and 1960s. Godechot emphasized that the revolutions of the late eighteenth century formed a part of a single ‘Atlantic Revolution’ that swept through Western and Central Europe and the Americas. It was possible to speak of a single revolution because, according to Godechot, the social and economic problems and circumstances that caused it were relatively similar in the different territories where revolution broke out.29 Palmer also saw the different revolutions as part of a larger movement, but he chose to focus more on its ideological coherence. In his view the revolutions were the outcome of a struggle between ‘democratic’ and ‘aristocratic’ groups and ideals, and he concluded that the era under investigation should therefore be called the Age of the Democratic Revolution.30 Although both authors admit that the revolution took different courses and had different

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outcomes in specific countries, they stress their basic and fundamental similarities. This book also points to a number of similarities between the Sister Republics, but it focuses more on similarities and differences in political cultures than on social and economic circumstances or on a strict dichotomy between ‘aristocrats’ and ‘democrats’. The transnational perspective as employed by Palmer and Godechot has been far less popular than the national or local focus over the last half-century, but recently scholars have again become interested in linking the revolutionary movements of the Age of Revolutions. Historians are focusing once again on the ‘Atlantic’ character of the revolution,31 but also on its global scope, analyzing how revolutionary ideals and practices jumped back and forth around the globe, stressing reciprocity rather than the unidirectional influence of the American and French Revolutions.32 The international and reciprocal nature of the revolutionary ideals and practices will also be stressed in this volume, but with two important points in mind. First, the Sister Republics were called Sisters for a reason. They were the sisters of the French Republic, who could act as a caring sister but also as a dominant mother. The Sister Republics had been made possible by the French military, and they existed under the French sphere of influence. The Sister Republics had varying degrees of political autonomy, but the power relations were never equal. Though the patriotic governments of the Sister Republics should not simply be viewed as puppet regimes, we have to take the dominant role of France into account when analyzing the political culture of the Sister Republics.33 The second point concerns the geographical scope. The Sister Republics were not so much Atlantic or global phenomena as European ones. Studying the revolutions as part of a ‘European’ revolution is uncommon but, as many of the contributors to this book note, it is highly feasible.34 As mentioned above, revolutionaries in the different Sister Republics and France were mostly preoccupied with events in their own respective countries and often unaware of foreign developments. There were exceptions, however, as Malcolm Crook explains in his contribution. The French politician and ambassador JacquesVincent Delacroix published reflections on the various constitutions that were written at the time in the different republics, and Italian revolutionary Matteo Angelo Galdi called for a federation of sister republics based on France, Holland, and Italy.35 The celebrations that commemorated the foundation of the French Republic in 1798 included the insignia of the Sister Republics, together with a banner proclaiming an eternal alliance between them.36 These examples show the tension during the revolutionary era between the actors’ wish to create new political systems that would fit national cir-

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cumstances and their belief that their ideals were of a common, enlightened, and universal nature. If these ideals were common, should this be reflected in the cooperation between the European states and to what extent? Or should each revolutionary republic follow its own autonomous path in the realization of the revolution’s ideals? The French had to ask themselves if it was just or even possible to implement their ideals in other countries, as Biancamaria Fontana points out in her discussion of the political thought of Germaine de Staël. Were the French ideals universal enough for all countries, and if so, could they be realized if local people felt that political change was forced upon them by foreign armies? De Staël believed it was not and felt that the very ideal of the revolution, namely self-government, necessarily meant that people had to be convinced rather than forced to accept political change, for any other solution would mean a failure of democratic principles and practice.37 Likewise, the citizens of the Sister Republics were asking themselves whether it was feasible to follow the ‘French model’ and to what extent French institutions reflected supranational ideals that made such an implementation even possible. The international, European context and the tensions within it need to be highlighted to understand the political culture of the Sister Republics. At the same time, this history can offer a historical perspective on current debates on European integration.

Comparative and cross-national history In order to understand the nature and dynamics of the political culture(s) of the Sister Republics and the international dimension of their national development, a comparative or cross-national approach is required. Comparative history can be defined as a mode of analysis that is concerned with similarities and differences, explaining a given phenomenon by asking which conditions were shared and which were distinctive, usually, but not necessarily, by comparing different nations.38 Although comparing different national developments is a very apt method for modifying and falsifying specific national explanations for historical developments, there are several problems and pitfalls connected to the comparative method.39 The first problem concerns the broad scope of comparative history: a historian has to be not only a specialist in the revolutionary era on a specific region or country and the specific historiographical traditions and perspectives that differ from case to case, but a specialist on all of them – a task virtually impossible for an individual scholar in today’s highly specialized

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and professionalized scholarship. We have therefore invited a range of researchers who are specialized in one of five selected topics with regard to one of the Sister Republics. Each section is preceded by an introduction in which an explicit comparison between the different countries is drawn concerning the topic of the section. This connects to a second problem of comparative history: which unit of comparison is to be chosen, since in principal anything can be compared with anything?40 Since this volume is interested with the nature and development of the political cultures of the revolutionary era, we have taken what we deem the most important elements of these political cultures as our units of comparison. An explanation as to why these specific elements have been selected follows in the next section. A last problem concerns the varying contexts of the regions or countries that are being compared. As mentioned above, there were similar developments within the different Sister Republics, but under different conditions and not at the same time. Whether reforms were instigated in 1795 when the Directoire was in power in France, or in 1801 when Napoleon was tightening his grip on the territories under the French sphere of influence, was of great importance to the success and direction of democratic developments in the Sister Republics. The problem of context here is not only diachronic but also synchronic: the local social and political contexts, not to mention historical developments were very different in the Dutch and Swiss Republics and the different territories in the Italian peninsula. This also means there are conceptual problems to deal with: did Dutch, Swiss, and Italian patriots mean the same things when they used the word ‘democracy’, or were the political circumstances and intellectual traditions so different that their meanings cannot be compared in a useful way?41 This volume is, to a large degree, concerned with exactly this type of question. We try to answer those questions in two ways. First, this book places concepts such as ‘citizenship’, ‘(parliamentary) democracy’, ‘liberty’, and ‘republic’ at the core of its investigations and asks what these elements of revolutionary political discourse (which was often proclaimed as being ‘universal’ by the protagonists) meant in different contexts. Second, although the structure of this book points to a predominantly inter-national comparison, it is complemented with attention for the cross-national transfer of political ideas and practices that highlights the international dynamic of national developments. The contributions in this volume, taking their cue from the perspective of political transfer (whereby the migration of political practices across national borders and their use as examples is studied42), show that

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revolutionary political thought and practice were not simply the result of a singular intellectual and institutional mould of French fabrication. They were rather the result of a complex process of adaptation and a national reworking of intellectual debates that were international in nature. Revolutionaries all over Europe were in debate over the question which foreign and international ideas and practices could and should be adopted and which ones should be rejected. 43 We should not underestimate the dominating influence of France – as an inspiring example but also as a military force that could and sometimes did force its will on other nations. But it is important to stress that the French governments often let the Sister Republics make their own political choices, resulting in political structures that were a mix of old and new, domestic and foreign. This was caused, on the one hand, by the contingent nature of French foreign policy (in many instances during the revolutionary era, France did not even have a foreign policy), and the fact that many foreign patriots were able to influence French policymaking decisions.44 On the other hand, French ‘constitution makers’ such as Pierre Daunou were sensitive to the idea that different nations needed different political systems and were therefore also concerned with the question which ‘universal’ ideals and practices should be part of the different constitutions and constitutional drafts of the Sister Republics. 45 The international and transnational focus of this study has helped to test and re-evaluate the national perspective that is commonly used as an explanatory and normative framework for the analysis of the Sister Republics. This becomes clear from most of the chapters in this book, in which many national historiographical accounts of the period of the Sister Republics are debunked. But it also provides new insights into the character of the revolutionary political culture as a whole. For example, what becomes clear from the section on republicanism is that the transformation of early modern republican thought during the revolutionary era was not a process limited to the American and French Revolutions, the countries that are usually studied in this respect. 46 In fact, the elaboration of the hybrid forms of republicanism that were the result of this transformation process was carried out with great conceptual depth and richness in the Sister Republics as well – something that, as Andrew Jainchill notes in his contribution, mainstream historiography of the Age of Revolution has too often neglected. 47 Another example concerns the extraordinary emphasis that all the sister regimes placed on civic education as a means to instill the new republican and democratic values and duties in present and future generations – thus

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hoping to guarantee the future of these democratic republics. In the Batavian Republic, the first minister of education stated that ‘the young Citizens and Citizenesses of the State’ should be taught the foundations of the new enlightened regime from an early age, since these foundations were crucial for ‘the durability, maintenance and happiness of the Fatherland, which they should passionately love.’48 These notions and policies were also highly present in the other Sister Republics, and the international perspective employed in this volume shows that it was in fact a vital element central to all revolutionary regimes that were looking for ways to legitimate and perpetuate their political model. 49 The comparative element of this book, then, serves to highlight previously undervalued aspects of the political culture(s) of the Age of Revolution and looks to question some of the national historiographical models of historical explanation by bringing together – in English – knowledge on different aspects of the political culture of the Sister Republics in a systematic way.

The political culture of the Sister Republics This volume seeks to study the political world of the Sister Republics from the broad and inclusive perspective of political culture. This means that politics is interpreted as much more than a factual struggle for power and is broadly defined as, in the by now classic words of Keith Michael Baker, ‘the activity through which individuals and groups in society articulate, negotiate, implement, and enforce the competing claims they make upon one another and upon the whole. Political culture is the set of discourses or political practices by which these claims are made.’50 This approach to politics more inclusively interpreted as political culture has been particularly rewarding and illuminating in the research concerning the French Revolution over the past three decades.51 We have gained a deeper understanding of politics and new and valuable perspectives on the political process by studying the way in which political habits, conventions, and styles take shape,52 by researching the way in which politics is embedded in a wider network of communication,53 and by analyzing the forms of argumentation and the meaning of key concepts used by political actors.54 Although this rich research on eighteenth-century political culture has helped our understanding of French political culture, it has had far less influence on the historiography of the Sister Republics.55 This volume hopes to fill this gap and strives to develop a new outlook on the differences and similarities between the various revolutionary states in Europe by applying

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the fruitful framework of political culture. It does so by exploring five general themes that are deemed to be central to the creation and development of revolutionary political culture. The first section of this book addresses the ways in which modern forms of republicanism emerged in the Sister Republics, all of which were proud to call themselves republics. They therefore placed themselves within the rich tradition of republicanism – an overarching political category during the Age of Revolution. To properly understand the Age of Revolution, as Franco Venturi argued in 1971, historians thus need to ‘follow the involvement, modifications and dispersion of the republican tradition in the last years of the eighteenth century.’56 Following recent trends in historical research, the transformation of republican thought and practice will therefore be at the centre of this section, and the chapters discuss the critical appraisal of the classical and early modern languages of republicanism, the redefinition of republican citizen participation and political virtue, the enlargement of the republican political space, and the uses made of the American and French republican examples. The second part focuses on (additional) political key concepts of the revolutionary republics. The decades surrounding 1800 have been described, among others by the German historian Reinhart Koselleck, as the Sattelzeit in which political key concepts acquired their modern meanings and connotations.57 The culmination of this process of conceptual renewal and transformation coincided with the years of most radical change in other areas of political activity.58 This same pattern can be discerned in the Sister Republics, where similar intense and fundamental debates were conducted over the meaning of political key concepts such as liberty, equality, sovereignty, representation, and citizenship. These debates were particularly urgent because the meaning ascribed to these key concepts would be decisive in the process of creating a new political order. This section deals with the nature of this conceptual change and focuses on the changing meanings of citizenship and democracy/representation, concepts that were central to the most fundamental political change of the time: the development of parliamentary democracies within nation-states. In the third section, the development of parliamentary cultures in the countries under discussion will be investigated. Just like representative democracies, these ‘national’ parliaments (or the attempts to create them) were political novelties, which meant that most aspects of parliamentary culture had to be either invented or copied and adapted, either from former political assemblies or from foreign examples such as the French Assemblée Nationale. The chapters in this section will concentrate on the different

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attempts to create national democratic parliaments. They discuss parliamentary rules, rhetoric, and tactics and consider the strategies that were employed when discrepancies between democratic ideology and practice became manifest. Did the activities of these parliaments, the informal parliamentary conventions, the political styles and codes of conduct eventually lead to a modern parliamentary culture? The chapters in part four deal with the interaction between press and politics in the revolutionary states. During the eighteenth century, public opinion developed and was increasingly reflected in a periodic political press. This political press (the forerunner of modern-day political journalism) became a powerful force within the political process of the revolutionary period, helped by the fact that freedom of the press and well-organized public opinion were seen by many revolutionaries as fundamental to the functioning of a representative democracy. This immediately led to debates within the Sister Republics on the limits of free speech and the proper place of public opinion and the role of the press. This section questions to what extent freedom of the press existed, whether openness of government was to be actively sought after, and whether politicians influenced public opinion via the press or whether the people behind the press tried to influence the political process. The book concludes with a section on the relationship between the French Republic and its Sister Republics, and explores recent revisionist insights into this relationship. It will particularly focus on the ways in which the Sister Republics, despite the obvious presence of the French, succeeded in shaping and establishing their own political objectives and arrangements. It also puts the relative success of the Sister Republics in maintaining a degree of independence from France in a comparative perspective. Before beginning with the first section, however, Biancamaria Fontana provides a prologue in which she discusses the views in revolutionary Europe on the future of the European order. Her contribution is a fitting prelude to the story of a revolutionary world – the political world of the Sister Republics.



‘The political passions of other nations’ National choices and the European order in the writings of Germaine de Staël Biancamaria Fontana

What I shall try to do in this contribution is to show that the subject of the present volume – the Sister Republics – is not just of interest to professional historians but to anyone who is concerned with the future of our European societies. This may sound a bit pretentious or too far-fetched but it is, I believe, a crucial point. Today, more than ever, we need to learn from our common past and to face our equally common future with some clarity of purpose. The phrase ‘Sister Republics’ does in fact belong to a very particular moment in European history, the years that immediately preceded and followed the French Revolution, roughly the 1780s and 1790s. The formula is not, however, a French invention. It was coined and promoted by patriots of different nationalities (Dutch, Italian, Belgian, Swiss, etc.) who had fled their countries and found refuge in France, in some cases following a short-lived revolutionary experience. Their collective hope – beyond their specific national concerns – was that, after the success of the American War of Independence, the victory of the revolution in a large Continental country like France would promote republican government across Europe, leading to a federation of free states united by common values: government by the people, the respect of citizens’ natural rights, peace, and national independence.1 This project reversed a belief that had dominated European political thinking for a couple of centuries, namely the view that republics were a thing of the past, a form of regime that was only suitable for the small city-states of antiquity and of the Middle Ages.2 It also replaced the traditional vision of relations between European countries as necessarily competitive – if not openly conflictual – with one that focused upon their potential for synergy and cooperation.3 As it happens, things did not turn out quite as the partisans of republicanism had hoped. In 1792, France did indeed become a large and powerful republic, and the French revolutionary government did initially offer friendship and support to those neighbouring states that wished to follow in the same path. However, for a variety of reasons that cannot be explained here, this project of a federation of free states soon turned into an ambi-

34 Biancamaria Fontana

tious war of conquest that pitted France against the rest of Europe. By the time Napoleon came to power, the newly established Sister Republics were reduced to the condition of subject states for all practical purposes, mere provinces of the new French empire. What is there for us to learn from this long-forgotten historical failure? The experience of the Sister Republics – however distorted by imperial ambitions – offered European observers for the first time an insight into what a union of inter-dependent European states might look like: how the economies, institutions, but also the cultures and habits of European nations would be affected by a closer, more direct interaction. In modern parlance, it offered an early illustration of the impact of global constraints upon people’s identities, upon their lives and political institutions. It also raised a series of questions that we are still struggling to answer today: to what extent is it possible and desirable to export political models? How far can any political regime go in forcing modernization and improvement upon a reluctant population? And who is to make political decisions: the masses, their elected representatives, or perhaps some set of experts (writers, economists, jurists, or scientists, who are supposedly better able to assess the implications of these choices)? I shall try to look at these questions through the eyes of one contemporary who was especially attentive to them, the writer Germaine de Staël (1766-1817). Staël was a privileged observer of the European international scene. To begin with, she was a genuinely European intellectual: she was born in France to Swiss parents, was married to a Swedish nobleman, and during her life – many years of which she spent in exile, first escaping from the Jacobin regime, then from Napoleon – she travelled extensively through Europe, developing contacts with the most important political and intellectual personalities of the age. Her most famous works, De la littérature (1800)4 and De l’Allemagne (1810),5 are the first histories of literature ever that study literary production both from a national and from a European perspective. But Staël was also deeply involved in politics since her early youth in spite of being a woman, with no prospect of becoming a political actor of any kind. Her father, the Swiss banker and economist Jacques Necker, had been minister of finance to King Louis XVI of France. Her husband was the Swedish ambassador to Paris, and during the revolution Staël herself was an active participant in the debates around the Estates General and the Constituent Assembly. Before and after the revolution, her salon in Paris was a centre of political canvassing, and later on her reputation as a writer and her international contacts made her into one of the most formidable

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opponents of Napoleon’s regime. After she was exiled from France, her chateau at Coppet (near Geneva) became a meeting point and an ideal refuge for many liberal European intellectuals.6 From the very beginning of the revolution, Staël saw that the political upheaval in France was bound to have significant and largely unforeseeable consequences for the rest of Europe. In this she distinguished herself from most observers, who initially regarded the revolution strictly as a domestic problem. Indeed, foreign governments were generally pleased to see the French monarchy weakened by an internal crisis, without realizing the danger that this crisis represented for their own regimes. In 1791-92, when the possibility of a war between France and the rest of Europe began to take shape, Staël canvassed to preserve peace, and after the fall of the Jacobin regime in 1794 she tried once again to persuade European governments to come to terms with the French Republic. 7 She believed, in fact, that France had a right to choose her own political institutions without any foreign interference. She also felt that an international conflict would radicalize the French revolutionary movement, thereby preventing the advent of a stable constitutional government in France and undermining the stability of other European states. Although initially having been in favour of a constitutional monarchy, Staël came to accept the fact that the break with the ancien régime made the advent of the republic inevitable, turning France into a model for patriots and reformers in other countries.8 The question was: how should one think about the international impact and transmission of political models? Staël had the choice between two dominant views on the subject. The first one – well represented by Montesquieu, a writer she greatly admired – was that uniformity in this field did not make any sense. Each country must develop its own political system, following its own particularities and traditions; what was good for one nation was not guaranteed to suit another. The second view, which had emerged from the experience of the American and French Revolutions, was that political institutions must be based upon universal principles such as equality and the protection of rights. In practice, this requirement was compatible with a limited range of choices, converging upon a single political model: representative government, or, as some preferred to call it, the modern republic, a new constitutional regime suited to the needs of modern commercial states.9 Another significant insight that came to reinforce this second perspective was that the development of an expanding international economy was making European countries more similar to one another, reducing the differences in the lifestyle and expectations of their populations. In this

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context, it was to be expected that their political aspirations would also become, for better or for worse, increasingly alike. In 1772, for example, Jean-Jacques Rousseau had stigmatized the consequences of this process of cultural assimilation in the following terms: Today there are no longer any French, German, Spanish or even English people, only Europeans. All have the same tastes, the same passions, the same customs; all in the same circumstances will do the same things… what do they care about what master they serve, or whose laws they follow? Provided they find some money to steal or some women to corrupt, they are at home everywhere.10

For Staël, the crucial test for these theories came in 1798, when the French government of the Directory decided to send its troops to occupy Swiss territory, violating Swiss neutrality which even the Jacobins had respected. In her work Considerations on the French Revolution, written in 1816-1817 shortly before her death, Staël describes how she stood, with her father and her children, on the balcony of their chateau at Coppet, in the Pays de Vaud, watching with dismay and anxiety the arrival of the French army. Although the French officers were very courteous and the family suffered no violence, she could not overcome a sense of outrage as her country of birth violated the independence of her country of origin: […] this army, which had so well defended the independence of its own country, wished to conquer the whole of Switzerland, and to penetrate even into the mountains of the small cantons, where men of simplicity retained the old-fashioned treasure of their virtues and usages. Berne and other Swiss cities possessed without doubts unjust privileges, and old prejudices were mingled with the democracy of the old cantons; but was it by force that any amelioration was to be effected in the condition of a country accustomed to acknowledge only the slow and progressive operation of time?11

Staël was ready to admit that the present form of the Swiss confederation was far from satisfactory, since the cantons did not have equal status and power, while their citizens did not enjoy equal rights. Thus she understood the aspirations of those Swiss patriots who saw in a French military intervention the only chance to overcome local divisions and old prejudices. However, she feared that by sharing in ‘the political passions of other nations’ the Swiss states would lose their strength and reason for existence. In particular,

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she argued that the ‘metaphysical gift’ of the one and indivisible republic, offered by the French ‘at the canon’s mouth’, had too high a price attached to it. The price was the loss of the ‘moral importance’ of old states such as Geneva which, having been the cradle of the Reformation, was now on its way to being reduced to political insignificance.12 The writer did not doubt that the true purpose of the Directory, beyond the immediate military advantage, was the extension of republican government in Europe. But in her eyes, to achieve this result through the destruction of the traditional values and moral resources of the single states involved was a self-defeating exercise. The French were in fact making a mistake similar to the one made by the European powers when they had tried to crush the new French Republic by military means in order to prevent ‘the contagion of French principles’: resorting to the use of force to hinder the spontaneous will of a particular population. Yet, for all her misgivings about the conduct of the Directory, Staël did not conclude that the answer to the problem should be the uncompromising defence of the status quo, the protection of national specificities and cultural barriers at all cost. One thing the experience of the French Revolution had shown convincingly was the impossibility of doing just that. In the end, Switzerland had become involved in the political passions of others. Even if the project of the inclusion of the Confederation in the one and indivisible republic had failed, her institutions and political life had been altered forever. The crucial point for Staël was the means employed for any such transformation. Clearly, violence and military occupation could only alienate a population that suffered them, turning it against whatever change or reform was intended. It is true that the French occupants were supported – in Switzerland as in other European countries – by a minority of local patriots. But the efforts of these men, no matter how enlightened and well meaning, were discredited by their association with a foreign occupying force. The same issue returned in a more dramatic and amplified form when the Sister Republics were ruthlessly transformed into provinces of Napoleon’s expanding empire. While the French revolutionaries had sincerely, if misguidedly, believed in promoting a modern, more democratic form of government across Europe, the Napoleonic experience revealed the naked ambitions and brutal interests of conquest. In Considerations, Staël described how new republics and old monarchies alike became fiefs to be distributed to the emperor’s marshals and relatives, and argued that the outcome recalled the Medieval empire of Charlemagne far more than a modern federation. The aspirations to independence of some European nations (such as Poland, Italy, and Greece), initially encouraged by the French, were abandoned and

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forgotten. There were no doubt overall improvements, since major legal and administrative reforms as well as the promotion of education and science were extended to the occupied territories. But these results were achieved at the cost of years of relentless, devastating war. Was it really necessary, Staël asked, to resort to a bloodbath in order to replace some old dukes and princes with Napoleon’s own brothers, and to give to German provinces the benefits of French bureaucracy?13 In many ways, Napoleon’s experiment of creating a large, French-dominated European super-state could be dismissed as intrinsically flawed due to use of military conquest. For Staël, who had been one of the most vocal (and hated) opponents of Napoleon’s rule, it was only too easy to expose the vices of his imperial adventure. However, when Napoleon was finally defeated and the question of redesigning European order was addressed by the forces of the coalition (roughly at the time Staël was writing her book on the French Revolution), things were not so simple. The French revolutionary empire had been erased from the maps, but the aspirations and challenges it had raised could not simply be written off and ignored.14 The major economic crisis that followed the end of the war in 1815 – possibly the first ‘global’ crisis in the history of modern Europe – was there to remind everyone how closely interdependent the interests and resources of European nations had become. And what should to happen to the political inheritance of the revolution? Should European Jews be deprived of their new civil rights, should divorce be abolished, and torture reintroduced into the penal code, in the name of a supposed respect for the old traditions and prejudices of European populations? More importantly, who was to decide on these matters? The diplomats who gathered at the Congress of Vienna, though perhaps more respectful of traditions, were no closer to a democratic approach to the issues of international order than Napoleon had been before them.15 In conclusion: if both the revolutionary regime and Napoleon had failed in their attempt to promote a new model of government across Europe, what was the right way of addressing this issue? In more general terms: was it possible to create a greater uniformity of institutions without crushing local identities and provoking a negative response from all concerned? I believe Staël had some elements of an answer to offer on this question. Some of her observations may seem obvious to us now (though they were far from obvious at the time she was writing), but however obvious, they have had little impact thus far upon the actions of politicians. The substance of her answer was that the best way of promoting political innovation was to let people see for themselves what advantages they

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can bring. If people observed that other countries benefited from certain novelties, they would eventually choose to imitate them. Indeed, in the long run, given the close interaction amongst modern nations, it may prove impossible to stop them from doing so. This approach allowed for a rather loose time span. Changes should not be enforced simultaneously, but each population should be able to move at its own speed. Had Napoleon followed this path, she argued, France would have succeeded in imposing a stable model to other countries: The example of constitutional liberty in France would have acted gradually, but with certainty, on the rest of Europe. It would no longer have been said that freedom is suitable only for England because it is an island; or of Holland because it is a plain; or for Switzerland because it is a mountainous country.16

Moreover, insistence on total uniformity seemed quite unnecessary when the pursuit of common political principles could be served in practice by a variety of institutional settings: It was a singular mania of the French revolutionaries to oblige all countries to organise themselves politically in the same way as France! There are no doubt principles common to all countries, those that ensure the civil and political rights of free nations, but what does it matter that the outcome might be a limited monarchy like England, a federal republic like the United States, or the thirteen Swiss cantons? Should Europe be reduced to a single idea…so as to make it possible to command and change everything in a single day!17

In her writings, Staël liked to compare the belief in given political ideals to the faith in religious dogmas. Just like religious conversion, the adoption of a new political regime could only be effected by example, by showing the merits and superiority of a particular system over another, through their respective moral and practical achievements. And just like forced conversion to a given faith, political novelties imposed by authority or force could only breed frustration and resentment amongst the populations that experienced them. There are, of course, a number of difficulties associated with this idea of letting the people move at their own pace, as the recent experience of the extension of the European Union has amply shown. It is in practice difficult to maintain a union of states while allowing for different time

40 Biancamaria Fontana

spans in the introduction of certain measures, or for different degrees of integration. But the core of Staël’s argument was that in such matters the only legitimacy came from public opinion. In her view the reactions of the public opinion of a whole nation were not very different from those of any individual human being, as nations could also feel insulted or deceived by the high-handed approach of rulers. People were likely to respond negatively not just to the use of force but also to the sentiment that the authorities were tricking them into acting against their own interest, or that politicians were contemptuous of their aspirations and needs. Possibly the most durable legacy Staël has left us is precisely the awareness that democratic legitimacy is at the same time more simple and more subtle than we are generally led to believe. Thus the resort to representative institutions and procedures (votes, referendums) or the opportunistic use of propaganda may prove equally insufficient to secure this legitimacy.

1. The transformation of republicanism



The transformation of republicanism in the Sister Republics Andrew Jainchill

The revolutions that swept through Europe and the Americas in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries transformed republicanism as a political language. By the end of the Age of Revolution, the early modern classical-republican tradition had, on the whole, given way to ‘modern republicanism’ in one form or another.1 Modern republicanism, limned more than established in the crucible of revolution, would ultimately provide the dominant framework of modern political legitimacy. As the essays by Wyger Velema and Urte Weeber in this section demonstrate, the end of the Old Regime meant the transformation of republicanism as a political category. It is important to emphasize in this context the central role of republicanism as an overarching political category during the Age of Revolution. To properly understand the Age of Revolution, as Franco Venturi argued in 1971, historians need to ‘follow the involvement, modifications and dispersion of the republican tradition in the last years of the eighteenth century.’2 The early modern republican tradition was far from monolithic. Nonetheless, despite its manifest heterogeneity, it revolved around a number of identifiable concerns, values, and political axioms that, collectively, most often functioned as a language of opposition to the modernizing states of the eighteenth century.3 In their treatments of pre-revolutionary republicanism, the two essays in this section each emphasize the importance of ideals of the public good, civic virtue, and patriotism – in other words, citizen commitment to public life and to the maintenance of the republic itself. On the eve of the Age of Revolution, republicanism as a political language entailed a dual emphasis on citizenship and on the body politic: the body politic would allow or even compel people to become citizens, who, in turn, would serve the body politic. The early modern republican tradition was profoundly transformed during the Age of Revolution. The elaboration of new forms of republicanism, however, did not entail the rejection of older themes, values, and tropes. The transformation of republicanism during the Age of Revolution in fact produced a number of hybrid forms, diverse among themselves, that combined old and new political languages. These hybrid republicanisms,

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melding the old and the new, dominated the Age of Revolution and provided an important element of its distinctive political character. Historians and political theorists, especially those writing in the English language, have for the most part studied this transformation in the American Revolution, the French Revolution, and, albeit to a lesser extent, in the Haitian Revolution and the South American revolutions. The two essays in this section demonstrate that the elaboration of such hybrid forms of republicanism was carried out with great conceptual depth and richness in the Sister Republics as well – a process that the mainstream historiography of the Age of Revolution has too often neglected. The hybrid republicanisms studied in this section were characterized by a powerful conceptual marriage of old and new: both of the two essays below show the persistence of the early modern republican emphasis on citizenship and public virtue while also highlighting the introduction of certain foundational concepts that could not help but transform republicanism into a qualitatively different political form. The most important such foundational concepts were democracy, representative government, and individual rights. Democracy. The emphasis on democracy or popular sovereignty during the Age of Revolution signaled a profound transformation in the republican tradition, as Velema emphasizes in his essay below. The early modern republican tradition did not embrace democracy as a political form. Considered one of the three ‘simple’ forms of government, ‘pure’ democracy was seen as tantamount to anarchy. As Velema emphasizes for the Dutch case, in a statement that could be extended to republicans throughout early modern Europe, ‘Virtually nobody […] defined a republic as a democracy […]. By itself, [democracy] was the very opposite of a republic.’ Yet, during the Age of Revolution the republic as a political form was redefined as democratic and the term ‘democratic republic’ became widespread. It is revealing that in the Dutch case, counter-revolutionaries and conservative republicans repeatedly noted that the new republics were democratic, but only in order to discredit them. Velema provides a particularly fascinating example of this: the Dutch conservative political thinker and publisher Elie Luzac pronounced himself a republican but vigorously denounced the notion that the people could govern, highlighting just how profound a transformation the creation of the democratic republic really was. The introduction of democratic sovereignty into the republican tradition may have been the most profound transformation that republicanism underwent during the Age of Revolution. It radically re-envisioned the very basis of the body politic. The notion of unitary sovereignty inhering in an undifferentiated people opened a further set of foundational

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political questions, the most important of which was how to establish this unitary, democratic sovereignty in a constitution. This process ultimately led to the transformation of the mixed and balanced constitution of the classical-republican tradition into the modern notion of constitutional checks and balances. Because the early modern republican tradition considered sovereignty to be shared among different social estates rather than located in a single ‘people,’ political power was likewise shared. 4 Thus, the ideal constitutional arrangement of the early modern republican tradition was the ‘mixed’ or ‘balanced’ constitution celebrated by Polybius in his Histories: democracy, aristocracy, and monarchy would be balanced against each other to prevent any one form from ascending and establishing the rule of one social estate over the others. This was an essentially political arrangement and not a ‘technical’ or ‘juridical’ one.5 However, if sovereignty inhered solely in the people, then political power would either have to be unitary or it would have to be divided through institutional arrangements. This move, which was of fundamental importance for the transformation of republicanism, involved the conversion of the constitutional ‘balance’ of the Polybian mixed constitution into the ‘checks and balances’ of modern democratic constitutionalism.6 The essays in this section do not deal directly with this question of constitutionalism, but it was central to the American and French experiences and to the legacy of the Age of Revolution for the transformation of republicanism. Representative Government. Like the introduction of democratic sovereignty, and in large part following it, the introduction of political representation into republicanism involved a profound transformation of republicanism. Velema characterizes this process in the Dutch Republic as one in which the ‘Dutch Patriots broke through the conceptual limits imposed by older definitions of a republic as a mixed government’. A ‘true republic’ was now ‘a form of government entirely based on the inalienable and permanent sovereignty of the people, expressed either directly or through the mechanism of representation.’ Early modern republicans had been deeply skeptical of political representation, but during the Age of Revolution modern republicans such as James Madison and EmmanuelJoseph Sieyès not only began to accept political representation but even to argue for its inherent superiority as a mode of government.7 The institution of representation also allowed modern republicans to discard a central axiom of early modern republicanism: the idea that republics could only exist in small, relatively homogeneous territories. The modern republic could be large and diverse. Madison provided perhaps the Age of Revolution’s most important articulation of this principle in Federalist no. 10, in

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which he argued that republics function most effectively when large. In the Sister Republics, the question of size was manifested most acutely in relation to questions of centralization and federalization, as the essay by Velema makes clear. Regardless of its specific incarnation, however, the introduction of political representation into the language of republicanism would, overall, be one of the most challenging and contested elements of the transformation of republicanism during the Age of Revolution. Individual Rights. The Age of Revolution created polities based not only on the principle of democratic sovereignty, but also on the conviction that the body politic was composed of free and equal individuals who possessed rights that inhered either in their status as citizens or as human beings. Yet, throughout Europe and the Americas, the articulation of individual rights provided one of the most fraught aspects of the hybrid republicanisms elaborated during the Age of Revolution. Weeber, in her essay below, provides a powerful example of how challenging this process could be. The Helvetic Republic provides a revealing example of how a universalist language of rights fits uneasily into older forms and thus necessitated the creation of ‘hybrid’ languages of republicanism. Both the Stäfner Memorial of 1794 and the speeches of the Helvetic political leaders Hans Conrad Escher and Paul Usteri in 1798 demonstrate the mixture or hybrid of ‘modern, egalitarian ideas of liberty’ and ‘the ‘old liberty’ of the forefathers’ based on a ‘corporate-participative republicanism’. However, this ‘old liberty’ was itself a creation of the eighteenth century, one that brought together older purely corporatist notions of liberty and the language of virtue and patriotism. The conception of liberty operative within the republicanism of the Helvetic Republic of 1798 thus provides an outstanding example of the hybrid republicanisms created during the Age of Revolution. It displayed specif ically local features, notably the continued use of a corporative language, which was so forcefully rejected in the French Republic, at the same time as it also clearly inscribed itself in the international language of the Age of Revolution. It also pointed to the challenges of creating such hybrids, as ‘inalienable’ rights could coexist with corporative rights only uneasily and had to be ‘forcibly integrated’ into the older language. The introduction to the early modern republican tradition of foundational political concepts such as democracy, representative government, and individual rights brought about the transformation of republicanism as a political language or ideal. It is important to emphasize in this context, however, as the two essays in this section both do, that at the same time there were also important continuities, notably in the continued emphasis on political virtue, the public good, and the importance of citizenship. It

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should be noted that the modern republicanisms that emerged during the Age of Revolution were heterogeneous enough to challenge the very notion of a single ‘modern’ republicanism emerging at this time. From the point of view of the history of republicanism, the Age of Revolution is perhaps best characterized as the moment of the multifaceted emergence of a transitional republicanism – one between classical and modern, between early modern and modern – that retained foundational values from the classical republican tradition at the same time as it embraced identifiably modern political ideals. The essays in this section show how conceptually rich the political cultures of the Sister Republics were and assign them their rightful place in the story of the transition from early modern to modern republicanism.



‘Republic’ and ‘democracy’ in Dutch late eighteenth-century revolutionary discourse Wyger R. E. Velema

Historians of the early modern Dutch Republic have repeatedly argued that Reinhart Koselleck’s notion of a conceptual Sattelzeit, running from roughly 1750 to roughly 1850, is of very little use to them.1 One has to admit that they seem to have a point. For it is undeniable that such a unique Sattelzeit is absent in the Dutch case. When we look at the development, or – as some would prefer – the ‘modernization’ of political concepts in the period of the Dutch Republic, it soon becomes clear that several periods of rapid conceptual change may be discerned, all of them of considerable importance. One such period was the second half of the sixteenth century, which saw a prolonged struggle of the Dutch against their Spanish overlords, in the course of which the rebels developed a sophisticated political vocabulary focused on the right of resistance to unjust authority, on political liberty, and on the liberty of conscience.2 Of at least equal importance in terms of the development of Dutch political language and thought was the third quarter of the seventeenth century, the so-called First Stadholderless Era. Although historians disagree about the exact nature of the changes in political discourse that took place during these years, they tend to agree that this era saw the formulation of refined forms of principled republicanism.3 Indeed, in a series of recent publications, the British historian Jonathan Israel has tirelessly argued that the Dutch invented modern ‘democratic republicanism’ during the third quarter of the seventeenth century. 4 It is therefore evident that Dutch political concepts did not go through a single and unified process of ‘modernization’ during Koselleck’s Sattelzeit. Despite all this, it also remains true that the decades around 1800 in the Netherlands were of crucial importance for the development of the meaning of the two closely linked concepts I shall be discussing in this chapter: ‘republic’ and ‘democracy’. The extraordinary importance of the changes in the meaning of the concept of democracy in the Dutch Republic during the last two decades of the eighteenth century has been pointed out many times, not only by Dutch historians, but also by such eminent international students of the birth of modern democracy as Robert Palmer and John

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Dunn.5 Extremely valuable as such scholarship has been and is, it tends to suffer from a certain narrowness of vision, perhaps even from the mortal sin of anachronism. For historians such as Palmer and Dunn have studied the development of the modern concept of democracy in relative isolation. They have, it is true, attempted to establish with some exactitude the semantic field to which the late eighteenth-century concept of democracy belonged and have pointed out how it was related to the developing concepts of the people, the sovereignty of the people, and representation.6 They have, however, failed to address the larger issue of the relationship between the emergence of the modern concept of representative democracy and the much older language of classical republicanism. Yet it is exactly here, as I will argue, that the key to understanding the nature of the late eighteenthcentury Dutch debates over the nature of democratic republicanism is to be found. In putting forward this view, I do not lay claim to great originality. It was already in 1971 that Franco Venturi, in his brilliant volume Utopia and Reform in the Enlightenment, observed ‘that it is more worthwhile to follow the involvement, modifications and dispersion of the republican tradition in the last years of the eighteenth century, than to examine the emergence of the idea of democracy in those same years’.7 Since then, and particularly since J. G. A. Pocock’s seminal The Machiavellian Moment, first published in 1975, the importance of the early modern European republican tradition has been fully recovered.8 Much of this revisionist scholarship on republicanism initially discerned an unbridgeable gap between early modern classical republicanism on the one hand and modern liberal representative democracy on the other. Whereas classical republicanism revolved around the political participation of the independent and virtuous citizen, liberal and representative democracy mainly focused on the protection of individual rights through a system of political representation. Early modern classical republicanism and modern liberal and representative democracy could thus appear to be based on entirely different, indeed radically separate and opposed political languages – the one obsessed with public virtue, the other preoccupied with individual rights.9 More recently, however, historians have increasingly questioned the validity of this stark dichotomy. Not only have they pointed out that many early modern political theorists employed the language of virtue and the language of rights at the same time, they have also – and more importantly – argued that the emergence of modern liberal and representative democracy during the last decades of the eighteenth century was not based on a total rejection of classical republicanism, but should at least in part be viewed as a critical re-working and adaptation of that political language.10 The development of the concepts of ‘republic’ and

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‘democracy’ in the revolutionary era should therefore always be studied together.11 This is, of course, particularly true of the Dutch Republic, where it is entirely obvious that the emergence of modern notions of representative democracy took place against the background of, and in interaction with, a long tradition of republican political thought. Let us therefore now turn to the rather spectacular changes the concepts of democracy and republic underwent in Dutch political discourse during the last two decades of the eighteenth century. Throughout the eighteenth century, Dutchmen had prided themselves on being freeborn republicans and had considered their political order as belonging to a select group of free republican states. In Dutch political discourse, many different definitions of what was to be understood by the concept of a republic circulated. To some, a republic was primarily a form of government without a king or a monarchical element. To others, following the Polybian tradition, a republic was a mixed form of government, characterized by the rule of law. There were many Dutchmen who followed the classical republican tradition and its eighteenth-century reinterpretation in the work of the immensely popular Montesquieu by stressing the fact that republics were based on public virtue, on the willingness of the citizens to sacrifice their private interests to the common good. Finally, many were convinced that republican living meant the adoption of certain forms of behaviour and certain moral values, of a specific set of moeurs: a republican – the very opposite of the effeminate, luxury-loving, and corrupt courtier – was frugal, sober, hardworking, and honest.12 Virtually nobody, however, defined a republic as a democracy. Indeed, as was the case in eighteenth-century European and American pre-revolutionary political discourse in general, most Dutchmen regarded democracy as a dangerous form of government, inevitably leading to anarchy and the end of the rule of law. Democracy was only regarded as valuable as one of the elements in a republican mixed government.13 By itself, it was the very opposite of a republic.14 This entire conceptual structure suddenly started to crumble during the 1780s, a period of political upheaval in the Dutch Republic known as the Patriottentijd (Patriot era).15 The Patriot reform movement started out as a fairly traditional republican opposition movement. At first, its central issue was the threat to liberty posed by the perceived growth of the power of the monarchical element (represented by the Stadholder) within the Dutch republican mixed government. Having absorbed the political thought of the Enlightenment and having closely followed the revolutionary developments in the thirteen American colonies, however, the Dutch Patriots soon broke through the conceptual limits imposed by older definitions of a republic as

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a mixed government.16 Indeed, they began to question the entire legitimacy of the political order of the Dutch Republic and very rapidly came to the conclusion that it was not in fact worthy of being regarded as republican in the true sense of the word. In what must be regarded as a conceptual move of fundamental importance, the Patriots increasingly began to insist that a true republic was not a mixture of monarchical, aristocratic, and democratic elements. Instead, it was a form of government entirely based on the inalienable and permanent sovereignty of the people, expressed either directly or through the mechanism of representation. A republic, in short, was suddenly redefined as a democracy. In the words of the authors of the two-volume Grondwettige Herstelling (Constitutional Restoration), which appeared between 1784 and 1786 and is generally regarded as one of the main Patriot manifestos: ‘A people that is truly republican, that is to say both legally and factually free, has to be governed either by itself or by its Representatives.’17 Redefining a republic as a democracy was a daring and radical conceptual move, yet it left very many problems unresolved and indeed may be said to have created a considerable number of new ones. What may in fact be observed in Patriot political discourse is the blending of the older and deeply rooted language of classical republicanism with the new and still relatively undeveloped language of representative democracy. The Patriots, it is true, went out of their way to emphasize that their political ideal was not a classical direct democracy but a modern ‘Democracy by Representation’.18 Yet, perhaps unsurprisingly given their long republican background, they infused this modern notion with all sorts of elements from the early modern republican tradition. They remained wedded to the idea that the survival of a republic depended on the political virtue and the active participation of the citizen, who should safeguard his independence by bearing arms. They experienced great difficulty in reconciling this fundamental tenet with the notion of representation – which, after all, may be regarded as a substitute for direct political participation – and tried to come up with all sorts of intermediary solutions between republican participation and democratic representation. Given these ambivalences and hesitations, they generally preferred a ‘mandate’ or ‘actual’ theory of representation to an ‘independence’ or ‘virtual’ theory of representation.19 Entirely in line with their republican heritage, they moreover regarded it as more or less self-evident that a representative democracy, just like a traditional republic, could only be successful if the size of the political unit remained relatively small. The Patriots never got the chance to resolve these theoretical struggles.20 In 1787, at the height of their movement, an armed Prussian intervention in

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the Dutch Republic rudely ended their quest for a new type of republican democracy. The new democratic republicanism of the Patriots, with all its unresolved problems, would not resurface until 1795.21 Even before the Patriot movement was defeated by the Prussian army, Dutch conservative republicans had mounted a massive conceptual counterattack against the Patriot redefinition of both republic and democracy. It is highly important to notice this, since it clearly demonstrates that contemporaries were fully aware of the fact that they were living through a period of fundamental conceptual change and contestation. The predominant conservative tone was one of deep incomprehension, indignation, and frustration at the Patriot attempt to unceremoniously relegate the glorious Dutch Republic to the dustbin of history. To Dutch conservative republicans, it seemed as if the world had been turned upside down and all old certainties had suddenly vanished. One had to be either uninformed or insane to redefine a republic as a democracy, they vigorously maintained. In his fascinating Lettres sur les dangers de changer la constitution primitive d’un gouvernement public. Ecrites à un Patriote hollandois, Elie Luzac, who described himself as ‘Républicain par naissance & par attachement’, openly proclaimed that he no longer wished to be called a republican ‘dès que c’est le peuple qui gouverne’.22 The main strategy Dutch conservative republicans used was to ignore all Patriot attempts to distinguish between direct and representative democracy and to ascribe all the well-known flaws of the former to the latter. Indeed, the public official and writer Johan Meerman considered the lawlessness of democracies to be so horrible that he exclaimed: ‘[…] should I be offered the choice between becoming a subject of the Dey of Algeria or Tripoli and becoming a citizen in a Democracy, where the constitution may be changed by the people at any time, I would gladly and swiftly cross the Mediterranean.’23 Significant as their counterattack was, the defenders of the old republican order did not succeed in stemming the tide of democratic republicanism. In January 1795, French revolutionary troops, accompanied by considerable numbers of exiled Patriots, entered the Dutch Republic. The Stadholder fled and the republican ancien régime was quickly dismantled. With the revolution triumphant, the discussion about the nature of democratic republicanism could be and was resumed. Compared to the Patriot era of the 1780s, the context in which this renewed debate was conducted had profoundly changed. This was in the first place, of course, because the political order of the old Dutch Republic had disappeared, but it was also because the so-called Batavian revolutionaries of the years after 1795 had witnessed the establishment of the unitary and revolutionary French

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Republic.24 Equally important was the fact that, from March 1796 on, a new forum for political debate was created: the National Assembly, convening in The Hague.25 Even though the National Assembly rapidly became the central arena for political decision-making, the press remained of great importance in the debate over the meaning of key political concepts. Given the topic of the present contribution, it is worth observing that the two most sophisticated political periodicals of the years after 1795 were entitled De Republikein and De Democraten (The Republican and The Democrats).26 From the very beginning, it was evident that virtually all participants in this renewed debate accepted the Patriot redefinition of a republic as a democracy, a consensus no doubt considerably reinforced by the fact that the adherents of the old republican order were banished from the public sphere. Thus in the second issue of De Republikein (entitled ‘Investigation as to what a republic is’), editor Jan Konijnenburg insisted that states such as Venice and the old Dutch Republic had used the name of republic in vain, since in ‘a true and free Republic’ people had the right ‘to choose their own regents, or have them appointed with their consent’.27 And early on in the debates in the National Assembly, representative Jacob Floh observed that it was now generally known and accepted ‘that in a Republican Form of Government, the sovereign power resides in the hands of the entire people.’28 Yet behind this consensus over the redefinition of a republic as a democracy, considerable differences of interpretation continued to exist, as had been the case in the Patriot era. The first of these concerned the problem of the proper size of a democratic republic. This issue had been relatively muted in the 1780s, as we have seen, since most Patriots accepted the federal structure of the Dutch Republic as a given. In the post-1795 political situation, however, it came to occupy central stage, not only because of the example of the one and indivisible French Republic but also because of the simple fact that a Dutch constitution needed to be written and the topic could therefore simply no longer be ignored. It is well known that many Batavian revolutionaries wished to follow the French model of a unitary republic and that this was the group that ultimately triumphed in 1798. In Dutch historiography, those who opposed the formation of a unitary republic after 1795 have generally been ignored or ridiculed as unimaginative adherents of the old republican order. This, it would seem, is entirely unjustified. Federal republican theorists such as Johan Hendrik Swildens, Gerard Dumbar, and Jan Willem van Sonsbeeck operated within the new paradigm of democratic republicanism. They opposed a unitary republic not because they were inveterate conservatives but because they deemed it to be insufficiently republican and democratic.29 In a series of pamphlets written

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in 1795, Swildens made it abundantly clear that popular self-government through representation was the essential characteristic of a free republic. He proceeded to demonstrate that such a form of government could only be successful in small political units. Whatever else they may have gotten wrong, he observed, ‘Our Ancestors understood very well that the Guarantee of the Liberty of each Citizen should be as close to each citizen as possible; Yes, that each Citizen should have his liberty under his eye and within his reach as if it were his house.’30 Ignoring this basic truth by establishing a unitary republic in the Netherlands would inevitably result, Swildens explained with remarkable foresight, in the introduction of monarchy. For a unitary republic was a ‘monarchized republic’ in which no effective barriers were left against the unlimited accumulation of power in one central point.31 Perhaps the term republic should even be entirely discarded in describing such a centralized state, Swildens suggested, for given its size it was inevitable that citizens would have to give up their capacity to decide about the common good to an unmandated and quasi-independent body of representatives and would thus in effect entirely lose their hard-won republican liberty.32 As is clear from the above, arguments about the appropriate size of a democratic republic were closely linked to arguments about the nature of democratic representation, the second major area of disagreement beneath the new republican consensus. Like their Patriot forerunners, the Batavian revolutionaries generally had very few doubts about both the impracticality and the undesirability of a direct democracy based on ancient models. Almost invariably, they desired a popular government by representation. Yet it would be utterly anachronistic to ascribe our modern concept of representative democracy, in which the political role of the citizen has largely been limited to the periodic casting of a vote, to these revolutionaries. Indeed, it is precisely in the intellectual struggle to find some middle ground between the persistent ideal of classical republican participation and political virtue and the generally perceived necessity of modern democratic representation that we find one of the most salient characteristics of early Batavian political thought. There were, to be sure, some Batavian theorists of republican democracy who opted for a full-blown ‘independence’ theory of representation. Member of Parliament Jacob van Manen, for instance, observed in 1797 that ‘The Sovereignty of the People exclusively resides in the Legislative Power […]. What the people are in a pure Democracy, the Legislative Power is in a Representative Democracy.’33 Yet substantial numbers of Batavian revolutionaries continued to reject such a modern and restrictive view of republican democracy and insisted that citizen participation was at least as crucial as representation. Indeed, one

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of Van Manen’s colleagues in the National Assembly, Jacob Hahn, went as far as proposing the replacement of the name of ‘representative’ with that of ‘administrator’ (bestuurder) in order to make it clear that sovereignty always resides in the people as a whole.34 Hahn’s proposal did not make it, but his view that representatives should be closely tied to and monitored by the electorate was widely shared. Nothing could be a greater threat to true republican liberty, as the radical revolutionary politician and writer Bernardus Bosch maintained in his criticism of the first constitutional plan of 1796, than to hold the people for ‘dead and buried after the election of its representatives.’35 In a 1795 pamphlet, he had already exhorted his fellow citizens to guard their permanent sovereignty with all available means, ‘since losing your sovereignty, which constitutes your ethical essence as human beings, means losing your existence as HUMAN BEINGS, and will inevitably reduce you once more to the status of animals, driven along by the stick of their master.’ According to Bosch, Dutch citizens could avoid this tragic fate by arming themselves and by regularly holding popular conventions, where the voice of the people could directly be heard, alongside the elected National Assemblies.36 Others suggested that citizen participation be maintained through an elaborate structure of primary assemblies.37 What all of these proposals had in common was the fear that a system of independent representatives would be no more than an elected aristocracy and the conviction that the citizens of a free and democratic republic should be allowed to exercise their political virtue in more meaningful ways than through the periodic casting of a vote. It is time to bring this chapter to an end. The debates to which the redefinition of a republic as a democracy gave rise during the first years of the Batavian revolution were of such a fundamental nature that a consensus on the shape of a new political order was never reached. The first Dutch constitution of 1798, imposing a unitary state, could only be adopted by means of a coup d’état and heavily rigged elections. The new constitution explicitly stated that the Batavian republic would be a ‘popular government by representation’ (article 10), in which the elected representatives were responsible to the Batavian people ‘at all times’ (article 11). All constitutional changes, moreover, needed to be explicitly approved by ‘the will of the people’ (article 70).38 Although the means used to establish the constitution were less than elegant and the language it used was still highly ambivalent, democratic republicanism had now, after almost two decades of debate, finally been established. It was not to survive for long, however: the two following decades would transform the Netherlands from a democratic republic into an authoritarian monarchy. But that is another story.



New wine in old wineskins Republicanism in the Helvetic Republic Urte Weeber

When examining the transformation of republicanism in Switzerland in the aftermath of 1798, one has to answer a number of questions. What does republicanism mean? What was the nature of the republicanism (or republicanisms) that existed in Switzerland before the introduction of the Helvetic Constitution of 1798? Who were its supporters? What kind of republicanism unfolded around and after 1798? Is it possible to call it a transformation in the sense of the Latin term transformare, or is it better to speak of an innovation? Did anything change at all? This chapter tries to answer these questions. Since the publication of J. G. A. Pocock’s influential book The Machiavellian Moment, early modern republicanism is mostly understood as ‘civic humanism’, a paradigm that was developed in the Italian Renaissance, notably by Machiavelli.1 According to Pocock, Machiavelli, whose thought was shaped by the temporal finiteness of the republic and the Aristotelian philosophy of the polis, expressed his views on both the republic and its citizens in a specific language. Key concepts of this republican paradigm are virtue, armament, and property, as well as mixed constitution and participation.2 The political model that was developed in Renaissance Italy was a community of equal, independent, well-armed, and politically active citizens. Freedom of the single citizen was dependent on the freedom of the community, which could only be guaranteed by the virtue of its citizens.3 According to Pocock, this paradigm provided the backdrop of any argumentation around the term ‘republic’ in sixteenth and seventeenth-century England as well as in eighteenth-century America. Unlike Pocock, Quentin Skinner emphasizes the influence of Roman authors, especially Cicero’s, on early modern republican thinkers.4 According to Skinner, these authors had focused less on the active, virtuous citizen and more on a new concept of liberty: independence from arbitrary constraint by others. Whereas Skinner speaks of a ‘neo-roman theory of free states,’5 the paradigm that he has developed is also often named ‘republicanism’.6 Almost all scholars who participate in this debate on early modern republicanism see changes in the republican paradigm in the eighteenth century. According to Pocock, the polarity of virtue and commerce became

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evident.7 Due to the changing social structure, the so-called ‘good manners’ of the new commercial society increasingly replaced virtue as the main binding force in civic relations. Politeness was the new key term.8 Manuela Albertone and Jonathan Israel have pointed to the increased appearance of democratic elements in the republican language around 1700.9 In a nutshell, it has become common practice to add an adjective when speaking about eighteenth-century forms of republicanism. It is possible to distinguish between classical republicanism, commercial republicanism, democratic republicanism, modern republicanism, and last but not least, republican liberalism. In Switzerland, the republican self-image evolved in the seventeenth century. The necessary precondition of this multi-layered process was the country’s formal recognition as a state under international law.10 The seventeenth-century debates were dominated by the antimonarchical dissociation from absolutist France and by questions about sovereignty and cantonal borders within the Corpus Helveticum. Swiss republicans advocated a government that was based on elections and participation and that guaranteed liberty and independence from other states. Liberty was understood in corporative terms. Equality was considered a prerequisite only within the ruling class – in the aristocratic cities as well as in the democratic Landsgemeindekantonen. The Swiss community was still organized as a feudal system. Privileges made up for the lack of dynastical or divine legitimization. The Swiss republicans strived to keep this system alive in a competitive world that was dominated by large-scale monarchies. They deemed active participation of individual citizens necessary to achieve this. Political participation was therefore a necessary evil or, from a different perspective, a welcomed opportunity to enjoy collective privileges. Active participation in the decision-making process, however, was not explained along the lines of civic humanism as strengthening the virtue of the citizens. A widespread rhetoric of virtue(s) did not emerge in Switzerland until the eighteenth century.11 Facing the enlightened criticism of the decadent behaviour of ruthless monarchs, virtue then advanced as the main argument of consolidating Swiss republican self-confidence. But this ideal image of a natural, well-armed, free, and virtuous community organized as a federal republic of self-sustaining cantons did not remain uncriticized – neither from outside nor from inside Switzerland. New ideas of individual rather than collective liberty and legal security emerged. In addition, facing the situation of the Seven Years War, a materialistic fear of a financial crash and consequently a decline of the Swiss Republic spread within the

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elites. All these factors kindled different reform debates within the Corpus Helveticum.12 These debates show different kinds of republicanism in eighteenth-century Switzerland. In cities that were dependent on flourishing commerce, such as Zurich and Basel, people advanced other ideas than in agrarian communities such as Bern. For example, the circle around Johann Jakob Bodmer, a publicist and professor of history in Zurich, asked for a consistent return to the old liberties and virtues of the forefathers. Historiography and poetry could be instrumental in regenerating these virtues and thus in counteracting communal decline. Simone Zurbuchen calls this ‘radicalpolitical’ republicanism,13 which she distinguishes from the ‘commercial republicanism’ in Basel, where the philosophical publicist Isaak Iselin promoted the idea of a free market without guilds and guaranteed by a representative democracy.14 Iselin did not wish to abandon the regulating force of virtue altogether but to replace or complement virtue by the improvement and progress of science and culture.15 In Bern, by contrast, aristocratic thinkers pleaded for a strict separation of economy and politics. Following the model of ancient Rome, the so-called ‘Economic Patriots’ turned against corrupting influences from abroad and the mercenary service, and tried to transform Bern into an economically autonomous, agrarian republic. Belá Kapossy calls this kind of republicanism ‘paternalistic republicanism.’16 The many differences notwithstanding, nearly all eighteenth-century political debates in Switzerland had in common that they were ethical in nature. ‘Patriotism’ had become the key concept that was to be promoted through historiography, education, science, and culture, or an agrarian way of living. Hence, virtue, and not a normative constitution as it would be in a language of modern republicanism, remained the organizing principle of Swiss republicanism. This is not surprising if we bear in mind that Switzerland had never been a unitary state with a unitary constitution before the Helvetic Revolution.17 Rather, every canton perceived itself as an independent republic. Within these small Swiss republics, the debates revolved around and remained limited to the question of which groups of citizens or non-citizens should be granted political or economic privileges. Reform-oriented proposals were always about liberties – in plural – for groups. Individual liberty had not yet been discussed. Did the introduction of the unitary constitution of 1798 change the character of Swiss republicanism? If we read the opening speech of Paul Usteri, the first president of the new elected Swiss Senate, delivered in Lucerne on 4 October 1798, the answer to this question is rather ambiguous.18 On the

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one hand, Usteri explicitly refers to the new constitution as the ‘new order of things’ which guarantees freedom under the law, elected representatives, and the people’s equality before this law.19 He criticizes the defects of the former ‘old constitution’ and the ‘blind attachment’ to it.20 He welcomes the fact that ‘inalienable human rights’ had now replaced ‘old liberties’ – in plural – sending these ‘innumerable privileges’ to the ‘land of darkness’.21 ‘Liberty’ – in singular – and ‘equality’ are the dominant terms in Usteri’s speech.22 On the other hand, however, he emphasizes the bond with the Swiss ‘forefathers’. Near the Alps, on the ‘classical ground of liberty’, he sees an opportunity to reanimate the ‘freedom of Helvetica’.23 Four times in his speech Usteri addresses the ‘God of our fathers, since thousands of years the guard of Helvetian Liberty’. He tries to ‘evoke again the lapsed spirit of this Helvetic Liberty’.24 For Usteri, the liberty of 1798 is not a new status but the reanimation of a lost status: ‘[…] the new bond of the Swiss is the bond of our fathers that we reiterate, the alliance for freedom and peacefulness; only the forms have been changed according to the needs of time and all those hundreds of constitutions have been fused into one.’25 At the same time, ‘virtue’ and especially ‘patriotism’ remain important for Usteri, who considers these concepts to be the ‘spirit and life’ of this new bond.26 The same line of argumentation can be found in the speech delivered by Hans Conrad Escher on the occasion of the opening session of the Great Council in Lucerne, on the same day.27 Escher and Usteri were both from Zurich and had been friends ever since they had both studied in Göttingen. They also coedited the journal Der Republikaner.28 Escher speaks of a ‘new republic’ where the ‘maxims of law’ stood up to the ‘shadow of the privileges’ and ‘the old circumstances’.29 With the Helvetic Revolution, the Corpus Helveticum had taken the step from ‘dependence’ to ‘liberty’, from ‘inequality of rights’ to ‘equality of rights’.30 But Escher also links this new Culturstufe (‘level of culture’) to the Swiss forefathers, who had been the ones to ignite the ‘flame of liberty’. He also refers to people and scenes of the Swiss myth of foundation as a free and independent republic: ‘Tell’, ‘Morgarten’, ‘Sempach’, ‘Grütli’, and the Alps.31 For him as well, the ‘real sense of virtue and morality’ remains central with regard to the functioning of this new republic.32 This sense of virtue, however, has to be complemented by ‘functional political enlightenment’ (zweckmäßige politische Aufklärung) that is necessary to fight the backwardness of Swiss regents in matters of Staatswissenschaften (‘sciences of state’) and most notably Staatswirthschaft (‘political economy’).33 ‘Everywhere, even under the rule of monarchs’, asserts Escher, ‘laws had been improved and modified according to the

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needs of time’.34 Only in Helvetia, regents continued their wohlhergebrachten Schlendrian (‘usual jog trot’).35 Usteri and Escher try to combine two languages that we could define as classical and modern republicanism. They strive to present the new language as a continuation of the old, a strategy that certainly originated in a strong need for guidance and legitimation. They speak of a ‘republican spirit’ that had once been erased, but that has now been reanimated and is ‘really enlightened’ (ächt aufgeklärt) by nature.36 This new, mixed or improved republicanism was held to be more rational and modified according to the needs of modern times. Virtues, and above all the virtue of patriotism, still play a decisive role in this system in order to guarantee a functioning of the new republic across all borders of factionalism. But how should this kind of virtue be kept alive? What was considered the decisive instrument was not armed fight as in Renaissance republican thought but rather education, which took its place as an essential theme in the thinking of the Helvetian elites. Throughout the Enlightenment, especially within the numerable intellectual societies such as the Helvetische Gesellschaft, education had already been a central notion.37 The Helvetic Revolution generated the opportunity to put enlightened ideas on education into practice. Usteri, for instance, became a member of the board of education in 1799. In different plans regarding the Vaterländische Erziehung (‘patriotic education’) during the era of the Helvetian Republic, it is possible to discern a language that is actually quite modern and liberal. This is, for example, the case in the draft for a new school law that Philipp Albert Stapfer, the Minister of Science, Arts, Buildings, and Streets, presented in Lucerne on 28 November 1798.38 Stapfer makes the claim that education can give each and every citizen access to ‘real liberty’ (ächte Freiheit).39 The state, for Stapfer, was first and foremost a ‘means to this end’. 40 The same argument can be found in the thought of one of the most famous Swiss pedagogues, Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi. His ideas, however, focus on groups and not on individual self-fulfillment. As Daniel Tröhler has convincingly shown, Pestalozzi believed that it was the responsibility of the state to strengthen the autarky of the family. 41 In a situation of economic security, the familial environment could provide the perfect formation of republican virtue. This virtue is, according to Pestalozzi, the necessary supplement to the rule of law. As a logical consequence, Pestalozzi advocates an exclusive, ethnically legitimized class of regents. While accepting the existence of a politcal elite, he advocated a well-balanced education for all citizens at all levels of society, most notably in order to avoid social conflict.

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After the 1798 rupture, he attempted to realize these ideas by striving to establish his ‘method’ as the basis of a new Swiss elementary school. Like many others, he was initially borne by the optimism that the new Helvetic Republic could reanimate the ‘spirit’ of the old republic of the forefathers.42 Pestalozzi held a relatively conservative position within the wide range of Swiss republican thought in the aftermath of 1798. In fact, there were also more progressive thinkers – take,for example, Escher or Usteri. In sum, republicanism in the Helvetian Republic must be seen as a synthesis of an old, corporative, participatory republicanism and a new republicanism based on constitutional and egalitarian principles.43 The new republic was identified with the republic it succeeded. As in the eighteenth century, ‘patriotism’ was the key concept – a virtue that was to be promoted through historiography, education, science, and culture. As for reformists earlier in the eighteenth century, the goal was the creation of a rational and efficient state. In the wake of 1798, however, the constitution that guaranteed liberty and equality before the law became a new point of reference, allowing liberty to become thinkable and discussible in individual terms. It is important to stress that even the ‘new’ elements in the Helvetic debate did not pop up like mushrooms after the year 1798. They had already been discussed in insular circles during the Swiss Enlightenment, especially after the advent of the French Revolution. The transfer to the Helvetic form of republicanism I have outlined proceeded slowly and gradually. There are some texts from the 1790s that show a hybrid combination of different ideas of liberty, of republicanism based on virtue, and of republicanism based on constitutionalism. One of these texts is the Stäfner Memorial, a document presented to the Zurich authorities in 1794. The authors of the Stäfner Memorial, all leading members of the commune of Stäfa, demanded the re-establishment of old privileges and a constitution that met the needs of the rural areas and guaranteed inalienable individual human rights. 44 The Stäfner Memorial abounds in references to the old liberties of the forefathers. 45 Alongside ‘inalienable human rights’ and the ‘natural order of things’, its authors presented history and ‘original documents’ as authorities of truth. 46 The principal demands of this treatise were the equality of all citizens, access to the higher ranks in the army, freedom of trade and education, the abolishment of feudal dues, and equal taxation. These claims were justified by pointing to the merits of the rural population, the ‘natural’ organization of the state as a family, and human rights. 47 When different communes around Lake Zurich subsequently tried to re-establish their rights by invoking sixteenth-century documents (the so-called Stäfner Handel), the council of Zurich reacted by sending troops

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to garrison Stäfa. Pestalozzi, who held an influential position in the city of Zurich at that time, advocated a gentle punishment of the principal agents of this uprising, even if he was still critical about the economic argumentation of the Stäfner Memorial that formed the starting point of this movement.48 His plea was not without success and in 1798, many of the protagonists of the Stäfner Handel would even gain positions in the newly established government of the Helvetic Republic. Most of them considered the new constitution an embodiment of their republican ideal: a mixture of old collective liberties and new individual human rights. 49 The fusion of traditional concepts and modern ideas of individual liberty did not occur in all regions of the Swiss Republic nor in all social settings before the constitutional rupture of 1798. As Eric Godel has recently shown, the corporative idea of liberty continued to determine the self-concept of the people in cantons such as Uri and Schwyz or the city of Lucerne up to the armed conflict with French troops, until finally the inhabitants of these regions had little choice but to confront the new principles when the Helvetic constitution was introduced by force.50 Even after this momentous event, a corporative understanding of liberty persisted within certain levels of society. Especially those groups that had suffered from the demolishing of the old corporative structure clung to the old liberties. The loss of security and the exposure to a higher level of competition made them critical visà-vis the new order. As Rolf Graber argues in his case study on Zurich, this should, however, not lead us to think that the entanglement of ‘old liberties’ and ‘new liberty’ did not occur in the minds of the lower social classes.51 During the process of transition in the last decade of the eighteenth century, ‘real virtue’ (ächte Tugend) and ‘real liberty’ (ächte Freiheit) always remained contested patterns of interpretation.52 As Eric Godel has recently imparted as well, however, corporative ideas of liberty and modern, egalitarian ideas of liberty were not always considered antithetical but were often integrated in a new concept of liberty that was formulated with recourse to the ‘old liberty’ of the forefathers, as the examples of Usteri and Escher show.53 I am not sure if ‘transformation’ is the best term to describe this process of alteration in the language of republicanism. Indeed, we can still detect the same material: the same words, the same references, and the same ideas. New ideas were claimed but almost forcibly integrated into the familiar language. There was a conceptual transition, but the renewal was presented as reiteration. As the hat of William Tell on top of the liberty trees and his image on the seal of the new, unified republic show, this phenomenon was also mirrored in Helvetian imagery.54 In accordance with a proverb, one

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could argue that new wine was sold in old wineskins – though these still contained some old wine, too.55 The recourse to a pre-revolutionary language of republicanism seems to have been a feature common to all revolutionary Sister Republics. The language of virtue was not completely replaced by the language of rights, instead it was ‘critically re-worked’.56 In the Helvetic Republic, it was the forced implementation of a new constitution that provided a decisive impulse for the occurrence of a paradigmatic shift. This constitution guaranteeing individual rights had to be integrated into a historical narrative that should first and foremost promote a unitary republican identity in order to do away with confessional and cantonal differences. The creation of such an identity was an important concern in all of the Sister Republics, not least because the revolutionaries in these republics wished to affirm their autonomy vis-à-vis the French république mère. In this chapter I have only dealt with a limited number of discursive manifestations of Swiss republicanism in the wake of 1798. Nevertheless, they point out important continuities between the political cultures of the Swiss Old Regime and the Helvetic Republic that contradict the more traditional historiographical view that the Helvetic Republic should be understood as a radical break with the past.57 These continuities are not extremely surprising if we bear in mind that Usteri, Escher, and most other members of the Helvetian elite had received their social and political training before the Helvetian Revolution. André Holenstein, who has recently pointed this out, has aptly called the Helvetik the ‘republican variant of enlightened reform absolutism’.58 In conclusion, the transformed republicanism of the Helvetian period was of a rational and reformist nature. It was also modern in the sense that it promoted equality, inalienable human rights, and individual liberty as guaranteed by the law. At the same time, the Helvetic republicanism was still rooted in ethical and moral as well as corporative principles. The Helvetian revolutionaries attempted to accomplish all aspects with recourse to the ‘old liberty’ of their Helvetian forefathers. In retrospect, their language should be seen as a synthesis of different kinds of republicanism. In their own day, however, the Helvetian elites concurred that the renewal was but a reiteration!

2. Political concepts and languages



Revolutionary concepts and languages in the Sister Republics of the late 1790s Pasi Ihalainen

Political debate was transnational in the Europe of the 1790s to a higher degree than ever before. Varieties of Enlightenment thought and ideas of the gradually radicalizing French Revolution crossed national boundaries. Traditional monarchies were challenged by the strengthening of older oppositional discourses and the rise of new oppositional discourses, which often emphasized the involvement of ‘the people’ as ‘citizens’ in political debate and decision-making side by side with the ruler and old elites, and which sometimes also redefined ‘democracy’ as a form of government. The expanding – and in the case of several countries increasingly free – printed media was becoming interested in reporting on the proceedings of the representative institutions, creating new links between them and the general public. Politicians – both in the sense of political writers and that of acting statesmen –were readily drawing comparisons between constitutions at home and abroad.1 The transformation and radicalization of Western political thought in the late eighteenth century took place in stages, through international interaction. French Enlightenment thinkers gave new connotations to democracy; the American colonists and their British sympathizers emphasized popular representation and increased parliamentary publicity; and the British political elite began to re-evaluate democracy and publicity within their mixed constitution and parliamentary government in the 1780s. The Dutch Patriots, aware of all of these trends of thought, combined the concepts of representation and democracy into ‘democracy by representation’. When the French joined the process of transformation with their Revolution in 1789, much of Europe was at first uncritically enthusiastic. However, the revolutionary process led to more radical redefinitions of democracy, citizenship, and other basic political concepts than anyone had ever expected, which made much of Europe react against such excesses. By 1795, the French were already exporting their revolutionary notions to their neighbouring countries: the Netherlands, Switzerland, and Italy.2 In this section, we discuss the reception and consequences of this exportation project. The comparative and transnational European context is taken into account as we view republican and revolutionary understandings

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of the concepts of democracy and citizenship in the national spheres of Switzerland, Italy, and the Netherlands. Indeed, the national sphere was only gradually emerging in these three countries, where decentralization and a plurality of practices had been customary in the early modern period. Silvia Arlettaz’s study on citizenship in the Helvetic Republic (1798-1803) shows how the concepts of nation, people, fatherland, and citizen in their revolutionary senses were imposed on the Swiss in the new republican constitution that followed the French occupation. The Helvetic Republic entailed an attempt to redefine the entire semantic field of citizenship; there had not been anything resembling ‘the Helvetian nation’, ‘people’, ‘fatherland’, or ‘citizen’ in the early modern confederation of cantons. A tiny radical elite3 imposed unity and homogeneity and questioned the privileges of previous ruling elites, but their project lacked wider popular support amongst the public accustomed to sovereign cantons, closed elites, and sometimes direct democracy. Following the general European practice, the concept of the citizen had previously been used mainly with reference to the most appreciated burghers of towns and cities. The concept now needed to be radically rethought, alternative groups included in the political nation, and the boundaries of citizenship in relation to women and religious minorities – among others – to be defined. The usefulness of an inhabitant to the community, achieved through education or business, became an increasingly important criterion. As the Revolution was imported to Switzerland in the aftermath of the French de-christianization, the relationship between the church and the state also had to be rethought. Anticlerical tendencies strengthened and the church and state were separated, causing many leading clergymen to appear as spokesmen of the old order. In the Italian Cisalpine Republic (1797-1802), organized by Napoleon, ‘democracy’ was one of the imported revolutionary concepts that became an object of intense debate, as illustrated by Mauro Lenci. The Italians debated the concept at a time when its popularity in France and elsewhere was already declining in the aftermath of the radical Jacobin phase of the Revolution. In the Batavian Republic, too, references to ‘democracy’, understood as direct democracy, were mostly avoided and were replaced either with an emphasis on representative government or with the vernacular term for popular government (Volksregeering). Even if the Italian debate may appear as a reflection of a belated and forced reception of revolutionary concepts created elsewhere, it led to some new applications in new contexts. The debate had already been preceded by quite an extensive international controversy on representative democracy

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on which the Italians could draw. Maximilien Robespierre’s redefinition of representative democracy in 1794 may have been the most relevant model for them, but there was also a longer-term transnational process of redefining democracy in the background. Given the lack of earlier rethinking of democracy in its pejorative classical sense of direct democracy, the update of the Italian language of politics became extensive and quite confrontational in the late 1790s. Lenci shows how democracy was redefined in various genres of political literature, in different local contexts, in rapidly changing constitutional and political circumstances, and for the purposes of conflicting political arguments. There were limitations to the freedom of expression set by the French military administration, and no unified ‘national’ debate could yet emerge in those circumstances. Contributions to the debate on the meaning of democracy were many around Italy, in any case, and re-evaluations of the concept were taking place. Even the aristocratic tradition of classical republicanism became reinterpreted in the Italian context – quite anachronistically – in democratic terms. Citizenship and democracy were contested concepts not only in Switzerland and Italy but also after the French occupation of the Dutch Republic in 1795. The concept of the citizen had been evolving since the 1760s in several Western European languages and the Dutch transformations were thus nothing unique. The amalgamation of the concepts of the citizen and the privileged bourgeois in political discourse was general in Germanic languages: the same was initially true of the German concept of Bürger and the Scandinavian variations of (med)borgare, though at least in Sweden the concept had already become a near synonym of ‘subject’ or inhabitant of the fatherland. 4 Yet the Dutch case deserves particular attention due to the Patriot movement of the 1780s which had opened up a period of redefinition of the language of politics before the outbreak of the French Revolution – even if the Dutch revolt had been smashed by a Prussian intervention in 1787.5 Historians have put forward quite divergent interpretations on how revolutionary in social terms the Patriot movement was, that is, whether the Patriots only campaigned to extend representation to their own, rather elitist social group or whether their concept of the citizen reached beyond financially independent men. This political fermentation preceding the French Revolution provided the background for the debates of the Batavian Republic, which makes the update of the language of politics in the Netherlands slightly different from the Swiss and Italian experiences. The transnational debate on citizenship had moved on between 1787 and 1795, and once the Dutch Republic fell, the Dutch language of citizen-

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ship had to be rapidly updated along the lines of the current stage of the Revolution – into a form in which utter radicalism had no place but the concept of citizenship was nevertheless redefined. The Batavians tried to combine traditional (federalist) and transformed (unitarist) Patriot concepts of citizenship with the French tradition, which was not easy given the many varieties of the French Revolution since its beginning. Some Dutch historians have emphasized the popularity of the particularly Dutch revolution of the 1790s and the domestic basis of the constitutional process; others have rejected the Batavian Republic as an unoriginal puppet regime. The Batavians did not invent the major aspects of Batavian citizenship without transnational intellectual interaction, which, in the circumstances of the late 1790s, was quite one-sidedly focused on France.6 There were significant fluctuations in the content of the Batavian debate in its various stages as well, depending on the proportion of federalist and unitarist members in the National Assembly / representative body and more particularly in its Constitutional Committee. Mart Rutjes demonstrates how the definition of the limits, rights, and duties of citizenship had its particular challenges in the Dutch case. An increasing emphasis on education was a general Enlightenment development, and so was the revolutionary discourse on the usefulness of citizens. Rutjes’s discussion of the integration of the country population to citizenship is interesting when contrasted with another country with long traditions of estate representation such as Sweden, where the Peasant estate had been involved in the Diet throughout the early modern period. It was only in the late eighteenth century that the Swedish and Finnish common people began to view themselves as ‘citizens’, however, encouraged by a monarch who wanted to overcome the nobility by allying with the commoner estates.7 Against this background of the political integration of the rural population in some northern European countries, the Dutch tendency to exclude country people appears to be a consequence of the essentially commercial nature of the old order of the Republic. Once the rural population was integrated in the electorate, this must have had consequences for election results, possibly strengthening federalist tendencies that, in turn, appeared counter-revolutionary in the eyes of the radicals. The Batavians created the first national representative body of its kind in the Netherlands. An important transformation in the role of representative institutions was spawned by the growing publicity of their proceedings, marking a gradual transition from early modern estate assemblies to parliamentary government of a more modern kind. Parliamentary publicity had been extensively debated in countries such as Britain and Sweden ever

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since the 1760s. In the British Parliament, references to the particular value of such publicity increased in the 1790s not only among the opposition but also the government ranks. The French model of publishing the debates of the revolutionary assemblies may of course have been more important for the development of parliamentary publicity around the Dutch National Assembly.8 Even if this parliamentary experiment did not prove a lasting one, it constituted one step in the process of the emergence of representative government based on publicity in a country where the former States General had been notorious for their secrecy. A further noteworthy aspect of political citizenship in the Batavian Republic was the interaction between the National Assembly, extra-parliamentary publicity, and the electors, which did not seem to function particularly well, as the radicals took over much of the press and as public debate became increasingly regulated after the coups of 1798. There may have been an ideal that all members of the Dutch people would audit their representatives, but this was hardly realized in practice. A further coup in 1801 and the Constitution of 1805 limited possibilities for democratic representation and citizenship once again. There were constant contradictions between traditional republican and revolutionary notions of citizenship in the Netherlands, but serious attempts to unite these were made and visions for an extended political nation thus opened. Nineteenth-century Dutch political culture would, however, disregard much of the Batavian experiment in favour of continuity with the old-regime Republic.



Useful citizens. Citizenship and democracy in the Batavian Republic, 1795-1801 Mart Rutjes

The concept of citizenship in the Dutch Republic changed dramatically at the end of the ancien régime. During the revolutionary era, the primary meaning of citizenship as the privileged membership of the urban community gave way to the notion that a citizen was first and foremost a member of the nation-state. The citizens of the nation-state would enjoy certain basic rights on an equal basis, such as the freedom of speech, assembly, and religion as well as the protection of property. 1 The development of national citizenship in the Netherlands was far from straightforward for a number of reasons. To begin with, there was little agreement on the question which inhabitants should count as citizens and whether separate rights and duties should be reserved for different categories of people (take for example the Declaration of Rights of Man and Citizen). Moreover, the terms ‘citizen’ and ‘citizenship’ are not only legal concepts, they also carry socio-cultural meanings that perhaps weigh more heavily than legal notions. ‘Citizen’ is not just a legal category but also a title, a quality that can be defined in different ways. These meanings all played a part in the conceptualization of the national citizen.2 Third, national citizenship did not simply succeed or overtake urban citizenship; it developed and existed alongside it. It developed through the creation of an alternative political domain, whose context and characteristics have to be taken into account to understand the development of citizenship in the Batavian Republic (1795-1801). This is the aim of this contribution.3 I will start by briefly describing the history of the concept and its different meanings leading up to the Batavian Revolution. I will then discuss the use of citizenship within its specific political context after 1795. Lastly, I will give a more detailed analysis of one specific argumentation that was used during the Batavian Republic: the utilitarian view on citizenship. This particular view has received little attention in the context of the Batavian Republic but offers a good example of the way in which citizenship was transformed and defined along new lines in the

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late eighteenth century. It also shows the interconnectedness of the legal and socio-cultural meanings of citizenship, and the tensions between them.

Citizenship in the Dutch Republic before 1795 When describing the concept of citizenship in the Netherlands, it is important to stress the semantic fact that in Dutch language there are no separate words for citizen and bourgeois; both words are captured in the noun burger. From the Middle Ages up to the nineteenth century, the burger in the Low Countries was primarily defined as the privileged inhabitant of a city. Citizenship (burgerschap) was first and foremost a legal concept, describing the rights and privileges of the members of the urban community. Only citizens, for example, could become members of guilds or hold public office. 4 Even though the boundaries between ‘citizens’ and ‘inhabitants’ were in practice more fluid than the official rules suggested, the meaning of citizenship as a legal status for a privileged member of the urban community remained firmly in place during the early modern period.5 Citizenship did not only have a legal connotation. From the fifteenth century on, the moral qualities of the citizen were discussed, particularly within the framework of civic humanism, which was strongly rooted in the language of classical republicanism. Virtue, or deugd in Dutch, was seen as the most important aspect of citizenship within this context. In classical republican thought, virtue was first and foremost defined as the active involvement of independent citizens in the res publica.6 During the eighteenth century, the moral qualities of the citizen were again discussed but in a different context. Inspired by Enlightenment ideas on rationality and progress, a new emphasis emerged. Every human being, it was believed, could potentially become an educated, enlightened member of society – a citizen. In this particular framework, however, civic virtue was understood as polite or ‘civilized’ behaviour rather than active involvement in the political life.7 The role of the citizen was also discussed on a different scope. In the course of the eighteenth century, an emerging nationalistic discourse made it possible and increasingly customary to speak of a citizen as an inhabitant of the fatherland, not just the city. A national awareness had already existed in the Dutch Republic before the second half of the eighteenth century, but it was only after 1750 that this awareness was broadened and deepened,

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leading to the rise of a ‘cult of the fatherland’. This was made possible by the creation of a national public sphere triggered by the Dutch Enlightenment and its emphasis on the diffusion of knowledge and opinion through societal culture and printings.8 In the last decades of the eighteenth century, ‘the fatherland’, ‘the nation’, and its members – citizens – also became highly politicized, since they played a prominent role in the political thought of the revolutionary Patriot Movement. Between 1780 and 1787, the Patriots aimed to reform the political and even social structure of the Republic. They deemed this reform necessary because they believed the Republic – its economy, politics, and the moral state of its inhabitants – to be in a state of deep decay. The Patriots aimed their critique at Stadholder William V, Prince of Orange, the most powerful official in the Republic, and his Orangist supporters. The Patriots believed that only the virtue of the Dutch people, combined with a reform of political institutions (including the containment of the Stadholder), could revive the former glory of the ‘fatherland’. In this discourse, the idea of the citizen as an enlightened, civilized individual was combined with the classical republican notion that a citizen was essentially an active participant in politics and a defender of the polis.9 But although the Patriots used a patriotic discourse that aimed at the revival of the Republic as a whole, the movement was organized locally, with a focus on the province or the city. The Patriots in general wanted to reform politics in a way that left intact the existing corporate structure and the citizens as the privileged members of the urban community.10 Although classical republican thought was well suited for these goals, it was more difficult to envisage how the traditional status of the citizen as a privileged member of the urban community could be reconciled with the more universalistic notion of the enlightened individual citizen who was foremost the member of the nation-state, once the discussion on natural and political rights and duties came into play. Although some opponents of the Patriots stated that the Patriots’ claim that the people were sovereign and that citizens possessed natural rights led to the inevitable, dangerous conclusion that all inhabitants of the country were citizens with political rights, the Patriots themselves did not draw this conclusion. They stated that the people as a whole had natural rights but made a distinction between those who could exercise political rights and those who could not.11 These distinctions were based on geography (city-countryside), class (financially independent or not), and sex (although there was no debate on political rights for women during the Patriot Era).

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Citizenship in the Batavian Republic, 1795-1801 In 1786 and 1787, the Patriots tried to take over power in different cities in the Republic, leading to a state of civil war between the Patriots and the Orangists. When the Stadholder called in the help of his brother-in-law, the King of Prussia, the Patriots’ hope for victory soon faded. The Patriots were no match for the well-trained Prussian troops, and in 1787 the Patriot Revolt ended. Eight years later, however, they received a second chance when the French revolutionary army, which included the Patriots who had fled the country in 1787, invaded the Dutch Republic. The Batavian Revolution broke out, leading the Stadholder to flee to England and putting political power in the hands of the Dutch revolutionaries.12 In 1795, the Patriots, or Batavians as they now called themselves, established the Batavian Republic. The debate on the meaning of citizenship resurfaced, but by now its character had changed. Many Batavian revolutionaries argued that the legal position of the citizen as inhabitant of a city should be abandoned in favour of membership of the Dutch nation-state, and claims were made for the extension of natural and civic rights to all inhabitants of the Republic. The direction the citizenship debate took has to be understood against the background of two developments. The first has to do with the major political issue that was brewing within the Batavian camp after 1795: should the Dutch Republic become a unitary state (which is what happened eventually) or should it remain a federation of relatively autonomous provinces?13 The Patriots had not called for abandoning the federal structure, and it is not difficult to see how the new call for a unitary state influenced the debate on citizenship: in the unitary state, all inhabitants should be treated as members of a single Dutch community under a single roof, and therefore as citizens of the Batavian Republic rather than as citizens of Amsterdam, Groningen, or Deventer.14 A second development was the increased importance of the concept of equality within Batavian discourse compared to the Patriot discourse of the 1780s. The new emphasis on equality was influenced by the events in France after 1789, but it was certainly not a development enforced by the French army after 1795.15 Two years before the Batavian Revolution, the famous Patriot and later first chairman of the National Assembly Pieter Paulus had published a treaty on equality. His Verhandeling over de vrage in welken zin kunnen de menschen gezegd worden gelijk te zijn? (Treatise on the question in what way people can be said to be equal) became hugely popular, showing that equality was becoming the new catchword.16 After 1795 the central concept of the Patriot era – liberty – had given way to the concept

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of equality. The claim often made in speeches and pamphlets that ‘Liberty’ cannot exist without ‘Equality’,17 or that ‘natural Liberty has Equality as its natural limit’18 was virtually uncontested, so that representative Johan Konijnenburg was stating the obvious in December 1797 when he spoke of his colleagues as people who ‘honor the Law of Equality as a State-maxim’.19 Of course, the meaning of unity and equality was fiercely contested, but the centrality of these notions created the possibility of defining citizenship in a broad and inclusive manner. This was indeed the case, especially during the first years of the Batavian Republic. The Verklaring voor de Rechten van de Mensch en Burger (Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen), drafted weeks after the outbreak of the Revolution, did not specify what the difference between man and citizen was (despite its title), nor did it differentiate between specific rights for citizens and non-citizens.20 Later in 1795, a census was held in order to determine the number and location of the different electoral districts. It was decreed that ‘the whole population’ should be counted, meaning all inhabitants with a fixed address. By counting all inhabitants as members of the ‘Batavian people’, it was implied that all inhabitants were also citizens – members of the Dutch nation.21 The Constitutions of 1798 and 1801 confirmed the imprecise meaning of citizenship. Citizenship was not clearly defined in the texts, suggesting that all people who had their permanent residence in the Republic counted as Dutch citizens.22 This was also noticed by contemporaries, who not seldom complained about the use of the word ‘citizen’. Johan Greve, a representative from the city of Deventer, told his colleagues in the National Assembly in 1796 that since the revolution started, the word citizen had become ‘a title, or a compliment, in the same fashion as people used to say “sir”’. People addressed each other as ‘Citizen’ or ‘Citizeness’, and members of the legislative assembly were called ‘Citizen Representatives’. It seemed as if all Dutch people were citizens, but this could not be further from the truth, according to Greve. It was the task of the National Assembly to decide and declare ‘which Inhabitants are Citizens’.23 Although the distinction between inhabitants and citizens remained opaque, the Batavian lawmakers would make a distinction between the right to vote and hold office, and other civic rights such as freedom of expression and religion (Catholics, dissenters and Jews had obtained citizenship in 1795-1796). Although some Batavians used the distinction that the French had used in their political speech for a while, that between ‘active’ and ‘passive’ citizens,24 these words did not catch on. The Batavians usually spoke of burgers (citizens) and stemgerechtigde burgers (citizens with the

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right to vote). In line with the republican argument that only financially and legally independent citizens could be trusted with the electing and holding of political office, different groups were denied the right to vote: women, children under twenty, domestic servants, people placed under legal restraint, those bankrupted, and those receiving poor relief.25 In order to become eligible to vote, those citizens who were qualified had to sign a declaration in which they denounced ‘the regime of the Stadholder, Federalism, Aristocracy and Anarchy’.26 In practice, this meant that known Orangists, at least until the new constitution of 1801, were excluded from voting and holding political office. Despite these restrictions, the Batavian Republic was the first experiment with representative democracy in Dutch history, based on a suffrage that was truly revolutionary in its scope: more than 400,000 men were eligible to vote out of a total population of 1.9 million. This amounted to more than 40 per cent of the male population, or 20 per cent of the total population, a figure that after the end of the revolutionary phase of the Batavian Republic would not be reached until late in the nineteenth century.27 So despite the restrictions on full political rights for all Dutch citizens and the de facto exclusion of Orangists, the Batavians dramatically increased the scope of popular influence on government, and therefore the scope of political citizenship.28 The broadening of the concept of citizenship in general (including natural and civil rights and duties) and the granting of political rights to parts of the citizenry occurred simultaneously, leading to fierce debates where the meaning of citizenship and the political discourses in which they were framed were contested and reworked. In this process, different sets of arguments were used to substantiate claims for or against the full citizenship status of different groups of people. In the second part of this chapter I will discuss an argument that in my view played a substantial role in the Batavian debates on citizenship, more so than in the earlier Patriotic notion of citizenship. It shows how the republican meaning of citizenship was contested by the use of a new argument in the political debate. It also proves that in these debates the legal, political, and cultural meanings of citizenship could hardly be distinguished from each other.

Useful citizens An important aspect of the conceptualization of citizenship during the Batavian years was an emphasis on ‘usefulness’ in defining what it meant to be a citizen. One could, of course, be useful (that is, contributing to

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the general welfare) in many ways, but I will start with the politicoeconomic perspective.29 During the 1770s and 1780s, several progressive thinkers – the so-called ‘economic patriots’ – had started to reformulate the social-economic position of the Dutch Republic, influenced by the growing international attention to political economy. They claimed that trade still made the greatest contribution to the Republic’s welfare, but that this contribution was reliant on the efforts of industry and agriculture. They reasoned further that those involved in trade, industry, and agriculture should co-operate more with each other instead of competing – the latter not being uncommon in the federative Republic. The economic patriots therefore argued for a relatively protectionist international policy combined with the stimulation of domestic industries and agricultural production. This would create a more ‘national’ economy in which the different parts would be more harmonious and less hierarchical.30 The call for the ‘revival’ of the Dutch economy was echoed in the Batavian citizenship debates in several ways. When the National Assembly discussed the admittance of foreigners to the Republic, different representatives argued that regulations regarding foreigners’ voting rights should be lenient. After all, the influx of foreigners in the past had made a great contribution to the commercial wealth of the old Republic, and many of them had established factories.31 It is no coincidence that inhabitance (ius soli) remained the prime determinant for citizenship during the Batavian Republic, instead of parentage (ius sanguinis) later in the nineteenth century.32 This relatively open attitude towards foreigners must be placed within an older tradition in the Dutch Republic of relying on the influx of foreign labour to maintain its economic prosperity, but economic patriotism gave this tradition a new sense of political urgency. A second echo of economic patriotism was heard in the debate on voting rights for the poor. Although property qualifications for elections were not introduced between 1795 and 1801, a large part of the revolutionaries suggested that those people who lived on charity should not be able to vote. This provoked a furious answer by the more radical Batavians. Their spokesman in the National Assembly, Pieter Vreede, argued that ‘a Citizen could not lose his right [to vote] on the basis of his neediness’.33 Some representatives had stated that the poor were of no use to society, but this was blatantly false, according to Vreede (himself a broadcloth manufacturer from the city of Leiden): ‘The lowest classes of citizens are the support of the others – it is they who are the driving force behind the Factories and industry of this country, and without them there would not even be an industry. It is they who man our Army and our Fleet, protecting our Fatherland[…]’.34

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Since these citizens contributed just as much to society as the wealthy, they had just as much right to vote. In this case, the call for equality which was closely connected to the concept of citizenship was explained and reworked along social-economic lines: anyone who made a contribution to the national economy and welfare was useful to society, had an interest in the community, and was therefore equal in all the rights a citizen had, the argument ran. This argument was not convincing enough; the Assembly decided that those who received poor relief in the year previous to an election would not be eligible to vote. The main reason for this was the worry that the votes of the poor could be bought. The republican argument that only financially independent persons should be able to vote remained strong.35 In the third and last example, the notion that an economically ‘useful’ citizen was a ‘true’ citizen proved to be more successful. By its legal definition before 1795, those who lived in the countryside could not be citizens. In a socio-cultural sense, too, the citizen – defined as the backbone of society - was historically identified with the city and the urban merchant classes. They embodied the civic virtues that had made the Republic great – farmers did not play a role in the iconography of the citizen.36 This started to change with the criticism of the Dutch politico-economic system, which was combined with a growing dissatisfaction with the position of the merchant classes. In the second half of the eighteenth century, it was claimed that the honest business sense of the seventeenth century was disappearing and making way for merchants – bourgeois entrepreneurs – who were only interested in making a personal profit by investing capital in foreign enterprises and funds. According to the critics, this business model was not only proof of a lack of patriotism but also a sign that the corrupting force of wealth was threatening the model of civic virtue in the Dutch Republic.37 This critique was again expressed by a large part of the Batavian camp after 1795. Some went even further than the economic patriots and argued that agriculture was just as important, if not more important, to the welfare of society than any other part of the economy. Without agriculture, nothing could flourish. It was the ‘first source of the people’s happiness’. Agriculture was: ‘independent. She needs no-one, and everyone needs her.’ From this viewpoint, the position of agriculture and farmers in past and present had been one of ‘inequality’. This was even more unjust since in particular the inhabitants of the countryside exhibited the natural state of equality and frugality that had been so lacking in the recent past of the Republic.38 The importance of the countryside was acknowledged in the Batavian Republic. The Constitution of 1798 contained a separate article confirming the duty of society to improve the state of agriculture in the Republic.39

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At the same time, the inhabitants of the countryside had gained political rights by the abolition of the nobility in 1795. They could now vote for their own representatives, which was put into practice in the first parliamentary elections in 1796: out of 126 representatives, 50 were chosen in rural areas, a clear break from the situation in the old Republic where the representatives of the countryside (i.e. the nobles) had been far outnumbered by those from the cities. 40 Not everyone, however, was convinced that the countryside was at the same stage of development as the cities. One representative argued for assigning superintendents to elections in rural areas, since the ‘simple countryman’ could not yet be trusted with the organization of elections. 41 But despite these reservations and the persistence of the semantic opposition between burger (citizen) and boer/landman (farmer/countryman), rural Dutchmen could claim they were citizens, not in the last place because they were seen as useful members of society.

Useful citizens and representative democracy The expansion of the concept of citizenship after 1795 – influenced by the ideal of equality and legitimized in political debate by the argument that many citizens who seemed dependent in fact made important contributions to the general welfare – was reflected in the inclusion of new groups into the political sphere. As mentioned above, the vote was seen as the most important political right a citizen could attain. Popular sovereignty was at the core of Batavian political thought, and the only way to do justice to this idea within a representative democracy was by letting the people decide who should govern in their name. However, in the Batavian view on representative democracy, voting was not the only way to be politically active. Public deliberation and a constant exchange of information and views between the representatives and the people was seen as indispensable for maintaining a ‘free Republic’. It was believed that constant conversation would give the representatives enough information to make balanced judgments while allowing the public to check whether the government was acting on the will of the people. Measures such as public accessibility to parliamentary debates, publication of the minutes of parliament, and publication of the state budgets were therefore introduced after 1795. 42 To be a good citizen was to act on this information. The Constitution stated that every citizen had the right to express his opinions freely and that every inhabitant had the right to ad-

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dress the government. The periodical De Republikein even formulated this as a civic duty: it was ‘the duty of a Republican to point out the deficiencies and errors in a candid and modest way, but also to bring up the means by which they can be improved’. 43 The Batavians were convinced, like the Patriots before them, that an active attitude, both socially and politically, was something that had to be constantly promoted and encouraged. Following the enlightened idea that good behaviour could be taught to any rational individual, the Batavians made a start with the establishment of a national uniform primary educational system, which was in part devised to make sure that future generations would grow up as loyal patriots and republicans. The Instruction for the Agent of National Education stated that: the young Citizens and Citizenesses of the State, to whose enlightenment and virtue the Batavian People have trusted the sacred pledge of the foundations of the Social Contract, should be taught these foundations at an early age, convinced that true appreciation of Freedom and the sensible and honest practicing of the separate and general rights and duties are the most important conditions for the durability, maintenance and happiness of the Fatherland, which they should passionately love. 44

The Batavians disagreed on the extent to which this public spirit should be institutionalized or enforced in the political system, but they agreed on the fact that by taking an interest in politics, a citizen proved his worth to the common welfare. This also meant her worth, because women could also perform this feature of citizenship. Women could not vote, but they could and did perform the auditory role of the citizen: half of the audience seats in parliament were reserved for women; 45 women wrote addresses to the government and were considered as reading public. 46 That women should play this part was not so surprising if we take into account that women were seen as an important factor in the upbringing and education of children, who, as we have seen, had to be taught the rights and duties of a good citizen from an early age. Women had to be able to fulfill this educational role. From this perspective, the political role of the citizen encompassed more than the occasional casting of the vote on election day. The meaning of citizenship was extended from a political perspective: the field of politics was widened, and with it the understanding of citizenship as a political activity. 47

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Conclusion The way citizenship was used and defined during the Batavian Republic was influenced by both its historical roots and the specific context of the Batavian Revolution. Citizenship before 1795 was primarily a legal status referring to the privileged members of cities, but it also had moral connotations within both classical republican and enlightened politeness discourses. In the course of the eighteenth century, the notion of national citizenship developed, a concept that became politicized during the Patriot Era. But it was only after 1795 that attempts were made to link the idea that a citizen was a member of the nation to the implementation of equal civic rights to those members of the nation, the citizens. This position, triggered by the ideological emphasis on equality and unity, led to fierce debates on the nature of citizenship. These debates took place in a revolutionary context in which the word ‘citizen’ was omnipresent and all-encompassing. The argument that all inhabitants of the Republic were citizens was supported by the invocation of a utilitarian discourse based on the idea that the different parts of Dutch economy and society were mutually dependent and all necessary for the maintenance of the public welfare. This definition of citizenship was used in the argument for full political rights for inhabitants of the countryside and those who received poor relief. Within the system of representative democracy, usefulness (understood in different ways by different people) also played a part, since all members of the Dutch people were considered to be capable of auditing the people’s representatives and reminding them of their duties. This definition of citizenship partly contradicted the republican notion that only financially and legally independent persons could participate in the execution of popular sovereignty, i.e. holding office and electing officials. This tension would remain, even though the republican idea of the independent civis was under attack by those who claimed that the poor were just as ‘independent’ as the wealthy. It has to be stressed that the tensions and contradictions within the notions of revolutionary citizenship are not something unearthed through historical analysis but were also noticed by contemporaries. Their rhetorical use of citizenship and the institutionalization of citizenship remained diffuse during and after the Batavian Era. Introducing the ideal of the Dutch citizen as an individual bestowed with equal rights opened up the possibility of allowing more people to participate in the political, economic, and cultural spheres. At the same time, the way in which equality and citizenship were linked created (or extended) dividing lines between citizens and non-citizens, both legally and culturally. Could those who

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were not useful to society, such as beggars, be considered citizens? And what about those who did not participate in upholding the free Republic by participating in public debate, often called stille burgers (‘silent citizens’)? By bringing up usefulness as a legitimate category for defining citizenship, the Batavians welcomed many to its realm but added new questions to the debate on citizenship.



From rights to citizenship to the Helvetian indigénat Political integration of citizens under the Helvetic Republic 1 Silvia Arlettaz

The Helvetic Republic, Une et Indivisible, was established by the Constitution of 12 April 1798.2 This constitution was imposed by France and was intended to create a nation with a republican system. It abolished federalism so that cantons were reduced to the status of mere administrative units, whilst the communes were stripped of their prerogatives. Sovereignty was no longer a monopoly of privileged families; henceforth it was to be embodied in ‘the totality of citizens’. The nation became the foundation of society. The relationship between the individual and the state underwent a historic shift: from the commune to the Fatherland, that is, to the nation. The intention of the Republic was to replace a non-egalitarian hierarchy with a society made up of free and equal citizens. For the new regime, the creation of an integrated national entity was a major challenge. It was first considered in terms of its political and civil dimensions: the proper functioning of representative democracy had to be ensured. This new national entity was constructed by means of a double dialectical process of inclusion and exclusion. The inclusion was to be based on the key notions of ‘people’ and ‘citizen’. The exclusion was to be founded on a certain number of criteria judged essential for national cohesion, for the functioning of the republic, and for the security of the new regime. The emergence of a new model for ‘citizenship’ (citoyenneté) was intrinsically bound up with the development of national society. It took place at a turning point in Swiss history when, by both breaking away from and continuing with what had been inherited from the ancien régime, the aim was to create a Helvetian people and to integrate citizens into a system that was still being developed. In this context, the notions of ‘citizen’ and ‘citizenship’ took on a new and significant resonance. Constructing them was to be an issue for interests that revealed the tensions inherent in the confrontation between a new world view and national imperatives. In this contribution, I shall first show how a single Helvetic indigénat replaced earlier rights of citizenship. Second, I shall focus in particular on the question of the political integration of citizens and its boundaries.

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A brief excursus on the political status of Jews – whose emancipation amounted to no more than being granted the status of foreigners – enables me to illustrate the cultural and identity aspects of citizenship in a republic that was trying to achieve unity.

Society under the ancien régime: Citizens’ rights and integration within the commune Under the highly decentralized, federalist structure of the ancien régime Confederation, there was no single Swiss citizenship but rather as many citizenships as there were corresponding sovereign powers. As regards government of the populace, sovereignty was essentially lodged in the commune, the location of integration and socialization. Only bourgeois residents in their commune of origin enjoyed all the rights and duties deriving from citizenship and, in particular, political rights and the right to financial assistance. Outside his own commune, a bourgeois was regarded as a foreigner not only in the other cantons but even in his own. Alongside this political and social structure, which was based on the bourgeoisie, went a stratification of society into categories of inhabitants who possessed restricted rights.3 The right to citizenship was essentially determined by the ius sanguinis. Social mobility remained the exception. Indeed, beginning in the sixteenth century, but more especially during the eighteenth century, communes obstructed or even blocked access to the status of bourgeois in order to protect their property and privileges.4 This desire to maintain social control through the strict regulation of access to the rights of citizenship and by a refusal to grant freedoms more widely excluded a considerable fringe of the population from integration. Such a policy failed to meet the needs of a Swiss society that was undergoing change in the form of rapid population increase and increased social mobility. It also failed to take into account the interests of the new economic classes aspiring to participate in public life and to apply their skills freely. For some of the elite, restoring the people’s liberty had to be achieved by means of centralization and the creation of a ‘national form’ of citizenship, within the Republic.

The creation of the Helvetian people: The single Helvetic indigénat With the advent of the 1798 Republic, the Helvetian people became the basis of the new national entity. The first process of integration that was required

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involved the peoples of the now-dissolved former Confederation. This implied creating a bond between those individuals who were capable of transferring their former loyalties and defining the bases for a new citizen status. The bond in question was the Helvetic form of citizenship, the so-called indigénat. For the first and only time in the history of Switzerland, a radical break from traditional institutions meant that the right to citizenship would now be uniform across the country and would be independent of the former communal rights to citizenship, now shorn of any political character through a process of centralization and likewise independent of cantonal rights of citizenship that disappeared with the cantons themselves. It conferred on citizens a general and common legal status. Not all former residents were called upon to form part of the Helvetian people. The 1798 Constitution reserved recognition of indigénat for those of the population who had been legally recognized by and integrated, in socioeconomic terms, into one of the local communities, that is, the bourgeois and the permanent residents (manents): Art. 19: All those who are at the present time effectively bourgeois, whether of a municipal or a dominant town or of a subject or non-subject village, become Swiss citizens by virtue of the Constitution. The same applies to those who had the right of perpetual residency and to those manents who were born in Switzerland.5

This political decision institutionalized the exclusion of those who were tolerated and of those persons who were unable to provide proof of their status.6 It likewise marginalized families, often those that had been established for generations, who could show no positive right to citizenship because many communes refused to deliver formal letters patent. By pushing back the limits of legal recognition from the local to the national level, the Republic turned those who had been without rights under the ancien régime into foreigners. Moreover, indigénat did not confer any permanent status. The Constitution granted the state the right to govern the national community with supreme authority and therefore to withdraw citizenship, completely or on a provisional basis, from any Helvetian deemed to be unworthy of it. It declared that there were five grounds for incurring loss of citizenship: naturalization in a foreign country, affiliation to any foreign corporation, desertion, absence from the territory for ten years without permission to extend the absence, or being sentenced to a peine infamante (a sentence involving exile or deprivation of rights of citizenship) until legal discharge.7 With the exception of

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naturalization, which is the result of the individual’s free choice, the other factors that would result in the loss of citizenship derived from considerations about security that were dictated by the immediate situation. The point was that, in the climate of great tension that surrounded the setting up of the Republic, keeping a watchful eye on those parts of the populace that were deemed to be dangerous in a political and social sense was a priority. The aim was also to prevent the aristocrats and émigrés from returning and, on the other, to provide a means of bringing pressure to bear on supporters of the ancien régime who refused to serve their fatherland.8 The process of constituting the Helvetian people also involved the desire to unify the nation’s society by bringing together constituents that were of the same ‘nature’. This process of homogenization was carried out in terms of three main common denominators: origin, status as a citizen, and adherence to common values. In a determinist view of the nation, one which was a continuation of the customs of the ancien régime, access to citizenship was determined in relation to a national community based on descent, in which the principle of jus sanguinis was to preserve ethnic and cultural unity. However, the Constitution allowed foreigners who had been established in Switzerland for 20 years the option of acquiring Helvetian citizenship on a conditional basis.9

Universality of citizens: Creating a population of active citizens The Republic brought hope to those citizens who expected the state to institute reforms, particularly in political affairs. By making the ‘universality of citizens’ its most important feature,10 the Constitution made participation in public affairs, traditionally the fundamental right of the citizen, no longer a privilege that fell only to a local minority but a general and positive right. Representative democracy had to allow a new governing elite to accede to power and to consolidate a new order. This meant that the exercise of political rights now came to represent a major stake and the governing elite was to put into effect various checks and balances to eliminate any centrifugal forces. In order to satisfy the desire for democracy, the 1798 Constitution widened public participation by extending the right to vote. The 1798 Constitution was relatively liberal in its definition of the political status of its citizens. An active citizen was a male Helvetian over the age of twenty who had been permanently resident in the same commune for five years and who was not under any sentence from the courts. Under the terms of the civic oath, he adhered to the values of the Republic and undertook

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to serve his Fatherland and the cause of liberty and equality, as a good and faithful citizen, with all the rigour and zeal that he is capable of and with a just hatred for anarchy and licence.11

In general terms, it was not part of the legislators’ plan to abolish disqualification. Qualifications for citizenship were no longer to be based on birth, membership of a privileged corporation or economic elite; they were to have their legal basis in the imperatives defined by the functioning of the Republic and they were to be laid down in law.12 In fact, the majority of the elites considered the Helvetian people to be ill prepared to exercise their civic responsibilities. In the foreword to his provisional plan for a Constitution, Pierre Ochs explicitly asked that a question be put to the nation regarding the suitability of applying a probationary period, in order that: […] public opinion might be formed in an atmosphere of calm and in order, that prejudices, habits of serfdom, regrets and resentments might be forgotten and, above all, that the fundamental principle of equality in political rights might have the time to take root and become properly established.13

Frédéric-César La Harpe, Ochs’ fellow founder of the Helvetic Republic in 1798, shared this feeling of caution: The Swiss people have been so befuddled by the previous government that they are no longer capable of patriotic and generous sentiments. Sordid self-interest, combined with fanaticism: these are the only sentiments that appeal to them and so it is very difficult to get them to appreciate the new order of things.14

Whilst not all elected representatives agreed with this judgment, critical voices remained a minority. Even for those patriots who intended to allow the people a large share in public affairs, the exercise of sovereign power was to remain ‘wisely’ restricted but ‘without stifling the voice of the people.’15 But as soon as the first proposals for revision16 of the 1798 Constitution were tabled, the rules for suffrage became more restrictive. The ideal state, based on the values of the 1798 Republic, gradually gave way to a more materialist state in which other personal qualities were deemed to be necessary. For the elites, a good citizen was an educated citizen, and it was the task of the Republic to school the citizen accordingly. With this in mind, it was necessary to purge the primary assemblies of citizens who had not been thus schooled. In 1799, the Senate Commission proposed that the Constitution require that

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a citizen be able to read and write and be skilled in a profession or a branch of agriculture in order to be allowed to take the civic oath.17 Disqualification on the grounds of illiteracy was a requirement in later plans; any departures from this resulted only from delays in its application.18 To this were added requirements concerning economic solvency and independence. Any citizen incapable of managing his own affairs or of contributing to the upkeep of public authorities could not aspire to play any part in public affairs.19 The tendency to close off access to the political sphere was confirmed by the Executive committee’s proposal of 8 January 1801:20 The Constitution is taking back from the hands of the people the excessively large part in elections that the former constitution had given them and transferring it to the duly constituted authorities […] the wish of the Constitution was to remove the right of election from the influence of demagoguery whilst maintaining rights of property, a guarantee of freedom and giving the people a share in the exercise of sovereignty such as would not lead it into anarchy.21

The Constitution of La Malmaison of 29 May 1801, which was subsequently not implemented, restricted participation in public affairs by citizens: No person may be allowed to nominate or to be nominated to a national or cantonal post: 1. Unless he is a Helvetic citizen, 2. Unless he is a property owner in Helvetia or exercises a liberal profession, 3. Unless he pays a tax (each canton shall set the level of this tax). The tax must be, for the Cantonal Authorities, double that of the District, and for the National authorities triple that of the Cantonal Authorities.22

At the same time, the tendency was to remove from electors the power to nominate their representatives. Thus, in January 1800, the majority of the Senate Commission proposed entrusting to a National Jury the task of electing, from a list of eligible citizens, the representatives of the people for the highest offices of the state.23 This option was taken up in the second Helvetic Constitution of 25 May 1802, which attempted to control the appointment of representatives to the Diet: Art. 18: There shall be in each Canton a Jury for nomination and a Jury for election […] A person shall not be a member of the Jury for nomination unless he is the owner of a property, the minimum value of which in the largest

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Cantons shall be ten thousand francs and two thousand francs in the smaller Cantons. […] Members of the Juries are ineligible for the posts for which it is their task to make nominations. They are appointed for life.24

Access to government posts was subject to limitations that further conspired to produce a restricted degree of representation of political society.25 This form of selection was imposed on the one hand in order to control renewal of the political class and, on the other, to ensure the legitimacy of power, which was henceforth to be based on the intelligence, talents, and virtues of its magistrates.26 The 1798 Constitution made eligibility subject to an age limit,27 to civil status (being married was a prerequisite),28 and to social status through the requirement of having previously held high office.29 Such experience of public life, in later proposals combined with the possession of property and wealth, made possible a process of selection that created a de facto ruling elite. A further important dimension, the moral integrity of the citizen, was spelled out by the Legislative Council in its ‘directions’ to the cantonal Diets of 15 July 1801: But now and always, the qualities that are essential for appointment to the post of magistrate are the fear of God but fear of no other, good morals, honesty and public spirit and, for the higher posts, extensive knowledge and experience.30

The notion of ‘public spirit’ is particularly important. It is the moral cement that is essential for cohesion between the people and the authorities. It creates a bond, based on a feeling of personal and cultural belonging, a bond that is seen as going beyond any identification with institutional processes.

The boundaries of political integration In principle, citizenship thus acted as a powerful factor in integration. But it was also subject to, and an instrument of, disfranchisement inasmuch as it institutionalized a set of exclusions deemed necessary for the common interest of the nation. In defining the political and civic character of Helvetian citizenship, conformity with the spirit of the public and the ability to contribute to the general weal are inseparable from suffrage. They demand that the citizen have attained a stage of development and

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autonomy that would ensure his ability to make independent judgments. Such criteria thereby legitimized the collective exclusion of minors, women, ecclesiastics, and Jews. Women and ecclesiastics Women were kept on a tight rein both by custom and by law and had no civil existence in their own right.31 A woman’s nature and her state of dependency upon her father, her husband, or a guardian excluded her from political life. The access of women to public space was restricted to the sphere of public utility under the direction of men. As for women in the cultural elite, while they may have upheld the principles of equality, freedom, and justice, they did not fight to improve their status.32 Citizens’ rights did not have a feminine form. The emancipation of women in terms of citizenship did not figure on the programme of official discussions.33 As a study on the image of women in the press and in political writings in German makes eminently clear, silence is the dominant feature: ‘Women have no part to play in political reporting.’34 The collective disfranchisement of ecclesiastics derived from the aim to make a clear separation between church and state. The recollection of the religious struggles that had caused deep divisions among the people of Switzerland, combined with the fact that some of the clergy had lent their aid to supporters of the ancien régime, led to ecclesiastics being mistrusted. In order to promote civil cohesion and to do away with the former confessional restrictions imposed by the cantons, the Republic guaranteed, conditionally and strictly under the control of the state, the expression of religious views and freedom of worship. For the time being, participation by the church was to be restricted to its spiritual role, and its teachings were to remain under supervision to prevent them from turning citizens away from their duty of obedience to the Republic.35 And above all, it was not seen as appropriate to allow spiritual advisers to play any part in political affairs: Ministers of any cult may not carry out political functions nor may they attend primary assemblies.36

The first to be affected by such discrimination were members of the Catholic Church, and this caused some resistance. On the Protestant side, a few voices were raised in condemnation of a form of exclusion that ran counter to the principles of freedom and equality: On what constitutional and legal basis are they to be distinguished from the other citizens? In our religion, their character is a matter that may

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be ignored; nothing distinguishes them from the other Christians of the Reformed Calvinist Church.37

References to the freedom and autonomy of individuals were subjective in nature and assumed a political character, rendered ‘legitimate’ in terms of the aims of Republican society. In 1798, the expected separation between state and church made participation by ecclesiastics in the political sphere undesirable. At the same time, ecclesiastics were required to swear the civic oath. Even though they did not exercise political rights, they were still ‘no less citizens’ and were required to ‘do all that they could to pay due homage to the fatherland which attached them to itself indissolubly’. Those who refused were to be ‘deported beyond the confines of Helvetia immediately and without right of appeal.’38 The Jews as ‘impossible citizens’ Producing a construct of the foreigner as a corollary to that of the citizen enables the sense of belonging to be reinforced and citizenship to be promoted. The debates on the emancipation of the Jews and on their access to citizenship provide a perfect example of the declared interests of the Helvetic Republic and the various values that serve as its collective substratum and with which any candidate for citizenship must be identified. The granting of citizenship, which guarantees total participation in the body of the nation, implies institutions but it also implies everything that relates to habits, ways of behaving, and opinions. The argument that opposed the emancipation of the Jews explains the identity and cultural dimensions of citizenship in a Republic in search of unity. In 1798, Jews were a tiny minority. In exchange for payment, they were tolerated by virtue of letters of protection that were subject to renewal. They resided for the most part in two villages in the County of Baden: Lengnau and Endingen.39 When the Helvetic Republic was set up, the Jews expressed their desire for emancipation and their wish to be integrated into the new Helvetian nation as active citizens. 40 The fact was that the Jews were, in a sense, inhabitants without any status. Were they foreigners or were they citizens? The problem was how to provide established Jews with a political and civil status that was in line with the Constitution. Opening up the national community was not really on the political programme of the Republic. It had no need to increase the number of its citizens, especially if Jews were involved. The right to citizenship became subject to restriction and social engineering. By restricting access to citizenship, the Republic was protecting itself against competition; against the

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arrival of the ‘dregs’ from foreign states; against the customs, practices, and beliefs of foreigners. Were Jews worthy of being regarded as Helvetian, and could they serve the common interest? The representatives would turn out to be divided on the subject of reforms that were judged to be either inadequate or over-generous. For the representatives who considered the right to citizenship as a civic contract and who had faith in the Republic, in the name of equality, citizens’ rights were to be accorded to any candidate who fulfilled the constitutional and legal conditions. 41 A minority of enlightened representatives took the view that there was no constitutional argument that could oppose the recognition of Jews as citizens. These opponents rejected the view that tolerance in exchange for payment amounted to a right of manence. Moreover the parliament considered that the conditions required by the 1798 Constitution for naturalization were insufficient. Naturalization represented a challenge for an elite whose intention was to develop a selective and strategic view about participation in public matters. The arguments that were devised in opposition to the integration of Jews were forerunners of future restrictions on the exercise of political rights. Jews did not offer the economic and social guarantees expected of useful citizens. They were tolerated, with limited civil rights that forbade, in particular, access to ownership of property and to a variety of jobs; they remained on the fringes of society. Religious and social prohibitions made them incapable of being assimilated. In addition, because of their allegiance to the ‘Jewish Nation’, they excluded themselves from citizenship. But the Jews were even more undesirable because of their nature, their morality, and their interests. For the young Republic, the formation of a ‘public spirit’ was a fundamental necessity for collective construction. It had to create a bond, an identity based on belonging, on culture and on politics that would go beyond mere identification with the institutional process by which citizens were integrated. For this process, because of their nature, their morality, and their interests, the Jews were the undesirable ‘foreign body’ par excellence. This rhetoric of denunciation is by no means original and uses carefully chosen terminology. Jews are deprived of their individual identity and subjected instead to moral judgments founded on membership of an ethnic and cultural group. A Jew is believed to be naturally wicked; his moral qualities and behaviour are suspect. Whether he is rich or poor, he is suspected of harming the host society. For the time being at least, even if certain people wished to grant the Jew ‘all human rights’, the Jew ‘had none

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of the moral qualities that ought to distinguish the Swiss citizen. Firmness, courage, fidelity, disinterestedness, love for his brothers.’42 Views about the value of citizenship are likewise divergent. For those in favour of a policy of extension, it was seen as very far-reaching; thus it would be ‘iniquitous’ to refuse Jews a right to which their nature as a ‘human being’ entitles them. 43 To cut off an entire class of human beings would be ‘an outrage to humanity’ and would sanction ‘the most grievous intolerance.’44 Here the notion of a Republic of citizens takes on its full meaning. For the other side, through a process of sanctification of citizenship that implies a narrow form of patriotism, citizenship is a ‘favour that must not be sold off cheaply’. 45 The argument based on education, the cornerstone when it came to building a citizen, remained ineffective. For the most hostile, a determinist view meant that not only were Jews considered to be wicked because vices ‘have become second nature to them’,46 they were also devoid of any element of perfectibility. 47 ‘The Jews […] would stop our citizens wanting to live in Helvetia. Did we make sacrifices in the revolution to enable them to enjoy its benefits?’48 Even for some representatives who were convinced that the Jews’ cause was just on the basis of law, reason, philosophy, or philanthropy, when the question was viewed politically it appeared to be premature. Caution concerning sovereign power gave legitimacy to exclusion. The nation did not have a high regard for Jews; the people did not want them. 49

Conclusion The construction of a new kind of citizenship was an integrating factor, creating a sense of belonging that went beyond the innumerable frontiers of location and class under the ancien régime. But it also engendered exclusion – in the constitution of the Helvetian people, in the recognition of the right to citizenship and of citizens’ rights, as well as in the rights deriving from the status of citizen.50 The population of active citizens formed a national entity, intended to be single and homogenous but separated from sociological realities. The exercise of political rights may have been strongly promoted under the Helvetic Republic, but it remained very marginal. There was, nevertheless, some progress by comparison with the ancien régime, to the extent that there was no longer a concentration of the right to wield power in the hands of the local oligarchies. Foundations had been laid for a change in the nature of the elites, and this renewal naturally implied different political conditions and intentions.



The battle over ‘democracy’in Italian political thought during the revolutionary triennio, 1796-1799 Mauro Lenci

The revolutionary triennio in Italy was a sort of linguistic laboratory 1 which saw substantial semantic mutations of the term ‘democracy’. It left behind the etymological deadweight of the classical era with its conception of direct democracy, above all the Athenian and Spartan models, and at the same time caused a sort of ‘democratization’ of the republican tradition as interpreted by Niccolò Machiavelli and Montesquieu. Both processes sought to engender a new form of representative democracy fundamentally based on the sovereignty of the individual-citizen-male voter in a universal sense (some, however, proposed enfranchising women as well). The concept of representative democracy swung back and forth between the two extremes of a representative republic in the hands of a new natural aristocracy – a republic sensitive to the so-called liberty of the moderns and favourable to commerce – and that of a direct democracy based on the agrarian model of the ancients. Before the revolutionary armies descended on Italy, the ‘republic’ and republican ideals were certainly deeply rooted experiences in the history of some areas of the country but, as indeed all other political concepts of that period, they were to be analyzed from an aristocratic viewpoint. When authors of the time spoke of democracy, they either referred to the negative judgment made by Plato and Aristotle on that form of government or they thought of the democratic principle as an essential part of the governo misto.2 Historically speaking, democracy was embodied in the experience of republican Rome. This idea was still fully in vogue in the British monarchy which, as David Hume affirmed, some continued to consider a republic, despite appearances.3 The Piedmontese writer and poet Vittorio Alfieri, in his Della Tirannide of 1777, commented that from a certain point of view the ‘English Republic’ was more strongly rooted than the Roman one. The republican ideal of vivere libero and vivere civile that Alfieri, the Milanese philosophe Pietro Verri, Cesare Beccaria, and others had taken from Machiavelli presupposed that the right to vote was firmly linked to the property of the land, clearly marking the difference between the people (il popolo)

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and the notorious plebes (l’infima plebe). In the words of Alfieri, the latter was ‘unworthy of respect’ in any form of government, not ‘even in genuine democracy’ (schietta democrazia). 4 In the praxis of a mixed state, Beccaria noted in his famous Dei Delitti e delle Pene of 1764 that the people should represent only a part of the government and should remain at a distance from both ‘extreme political freedom’, which coincided with the despotism of the law, and ‘extreme dependency’, which favoured the despotism of men.5 However, the concept of political liberty in the wake of Montesquieu could not be differentiated clearly from that of civil liberty, as the Welsh philosopher David Williams would clearly state in the lectures he gave in 1789 during which he commented on the Esprit du Lois. Montesquieu in fact had defined as political freedom what instead should have been referred to as civil freedom, since he alluded to the power that each citizen had within the constraints of the law. 6 This is the reason for which also Gaetano Filangieri, in his Scienza della Legislazione written between 1780 and 1785, described ‘political liberty’ as synonymous with both safety and the perception one had of that safety. Even when he spoke of democracy, Filangeri did so unmistakably in terms of the classical model as interpreted by Rousseau. Filangeri wrote: ‘the people, in a democracy, are sometimes the monarch, at other times the subject’, and above all, in such a government, sovereignty cannot be represented except in public squares. In a note that apparently referred to the new country of America, Filangieri, anticipating the famous Federalist Paper No. 10 by James Madison, also spoke of the necessity of depending on representatives in large republics.7 Similarly, in the first edition (1783-85) of his Saggi Politici, the Neapolitan philosophe Mario Pagano also remarked that while he accepted that political freedom could only be enjoyed in popular republics, he also underlined the enormous importance of civil liberty which was to be protected by the three forms of government, simple and mixed.8 The French Revolution completely changed the frame of reference. A correspondence from London dated 12 February and published in the 2 March 1790 edition of the Gazzetta Universale of Florence reported the shocking news of the first anti-revolutionary remarks made by Edmund Burke, who ‘spoke against the revolution in France, calling it the source of a bloody, tyrannical and ferocious democracy’.9 In view of this opinion, in the words of Saverio Scrofani, one of the first Italian commentators of the French upheavals in 1791, the ‘democratic party’ would become the party that wanted to disrupt the balance of power and class society, granting all powers to the National Assembly.10 Along these lines and in the same year, the Roman theologist Nicola Spedalieri noted how the French, hating the

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monarchy and being ‘desirous of democracy’, had exaggerated the direction of that form of government in different ways: in announcing man’s rights and in proclaiming liberty and equality, they had created the illusion that the masses were capable of ‘forming a correct opinion of things’. ‘All people,’ wrote Spedalieri, ‘experience the fury of becoming sovereign, of judging everybody, of giving everybody his sanction’.11 Thus, the opponents of the new French political system were the first to use the term ‘democracy’ to identify that experience, albeit with an obvious negative overtone.12 Furthermore, even those like Pietro Verri, despite expressing sympathy for the representative government during the early stages of the French Revolution, around 1790, would never have gone beyond supporting the advent of an enlightened monarchy that would pay attention to the people’s voice, the Pascalian Regina del mondo.13 In his 1792 edition of the Saggi Politici, the future martyr of the Neapolitan Republic, Mario Pagano, still used the term ‘democracy’ in its ancient Aristotelian meaning, in the sense of the corruption of politeia. Also, the only two forms of government he considered legitimate were the monarchy and the republic (the latter being synonymous with aristocracy and politeia). Pagano didn’t think that the new ‘representative government’ constituted a new form of administration.14 In 1797, Verri continued to support the ‘republic’, and not ‘democracy’ against tyranny, and when he spoke of democracy he still looked to antiquity, stating that this type of government could only be found in very small villages where voting was done by whoever participated in public meetings.15 In the same year, Melchiorre Cesarotti, professor at the University of Padua, reaffirmed that ‘republic’ would be the most suitable name for a government in which the people elected a number of citizens to take on the responsibility of administration.16 Between 1789 and 1794, other fundamentally important authors in the history of political thought and in particular those commenting on democracy such as Sieyès, Condorcet, or Paine, as well as Madison before them, used expressions like ‘representative government’, ‘representative system’, ‘representative republic’, or ‘representative constitution’ expressly to differentiate this new form of civic state from classical democracy, and to distance themselves from the modern interpretation that the Jacobins would support.17 It was, in fact, Robespierre’s famous speech to the Convention in February 1794 that clearly represented a turning point in the history of the term ‘democracy’.18 ‘La démocratie’, he wrote, n’est pas un état où le peuple, continuellement assemblé, règle par luimême toutes les affaires publiques, encore moins celui où cent mille

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fractions du peuple, par des mesures isolées, précipitées et contradictoires, décideraient du sort de la société entière: un tel gouvernement n’a jamais existé, et il ne pourrat exister que pour ramener le peuple au despotisme. La démocratie est un état où le peuple souverain, guidé par des lois qui sont son ouvrage, fait par lui-même tout ce qu’il peut bien faire, et par des délégués tout ce qu’il ne peut faire lui-même.19

Robespierre viewed democracy as an alternative to both the démocratie absolue and the despotisme représentatif,20 a concept that would find its fulfilment in the Constitution of Year I and that a few Jacobins had started to identify precisely with démocratie représentative.21 Undoubtedly, the myth of direct democracy had played a key role in justifying the Jacobin strategy towards power, but the same democratic rules as well as the concept of human rights or the very existence of a diversified public opinion and freedom of press were overpowered ‘by the law of one and virtuous people’ that had to be moralized and ‘regenerated’, in the words of Lucien Jaume.22 We are also reminded by Patrice Higonnet that the Jacobin leftist in the Marseille Club had maintained that France ‘was a “representative government”’. Direct democracy might be good in theory but the risk was to throw the Convention into a state of chaos: ‘L’appel au peuple est un déchirement de notre unité et indivisibilité […] ils peulent nous perdre en pendant le centre de notre souveraineté’.23 R. R. Palmer wrote that it was in Italy ‘that the word “democracy” was most commonly used in a favourable sense, in the years between 1796 to 1799’; to explain this, he referred to the radicalism of the few Italian revolutionaries on the one hand, and on the other he mentioned ‘the old story’ of the word ‘republic’ in the Italian context, to which we might add that such a ‘republic’ was mainly associated with harsh aristocratic dominion.24 Lazzaro Papi, one of the first Italian historians of the French Revolution in the first half of the 19th century, decided to return to his native city of Lucca in 1802 full of hope, from an adventurous life in British India, when he heard the news of the victories of Napoleon’s army and of the ‘democratization’ of Italy. The aristocratic republics, Papi wrote, where ‘the tyranny of an organized body is more difficult to oppose than the tyranny of one monarch alone […] as can be testified by those who experience the haughtiness of the aristocracy and the jealousy, the opposition and the persecution against any member of the people who dares to aspire to improving his condition in any way’.25 The newspaper Termometro politico della Lombardia also warned that the hidden and waiting aristocrats were ready to pounce on any wrong move on the part of the Italian republic, ‘to either prevent this move or aristocratize it’.26

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Thus the watchword ‘democratize Italy’ would accompany the creation of the Sister Republics in the triennio as well as the debate that would ensue from that experience in the Jacobin sphere which, according to the most recent historiography, seemed much greater and better organized compared to the mere reference that was normally made to Filippo Buonarroti as the main representative of the Italian democratic tradition.27 That debate, in fact, would provoke the new model for representative democracy and clearly showed the changes being effected, giving rise to neologisms both in the democratic party and in the field of their adversaries. The discussion also created a wide divide within the republican tradition, revealing its aristocratic origins and obliging members to take a position in one of the two opposing fronts. The full acceptance of the term ‘democracy’ led on the one hand to an anachronistic re-interpretation of the whole past of republicanism from a democratic standpoint but, on the other, it underscored the aristocratic character of the preceding republican experience, as we see in Papi. Therefore, to justify and to give a certain historical legitimacy to the advent of the Sister Republics, the Classical, Medieval, and Renaissance republics were considered democratic. In this context,Dante, Michelangelo, Machiavelli, Montesquieu, Beccaria, Verri, Filangieri, and the eighteenthcentury satiricist Giuseppe Parini were enrolled in the democratic order. However, to emphasize the true democratic character of the new regimes, the fact that the right to vote had in the past always been in the hands of the nobles was underlined. The revolutionary poet Ugo Foscolo, having taken for granted the thesis that a republic equalled a democracy, refused the title of republic for the ancient orders be they Greek or Roman, Florentine or Venetian, ‘because there is no hint of a republic in a government which does not recognise or elect its magistrates from the people’. An anonymous author who used the name Nicio Eritreo wrote: ‘Not even the Romans or the Greeks were living in a perfect democratic republic, but rather a mixed or semi-democratic order, given that the nobles and men of honour had an enormous influence on the government.’28 The division and realignment of the republicans revolved around the definition of the term ‘democracy’. It may have been the Burkean interpretation of the revolution that made Alfieri change his position on republicanism.29 He was so astonished by the news from France that he felt the need to invent a new term for the French type of government, considering plebe too strong a word to describe it. According to Alfieri, the entire vocabulary pertaining to politics had to be renewed; for this reason, his Misogallo of 18 January 1796 contained an epigram in which he peremptorily affirmed:

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‘Add an “I” to the term democratic and the wonderful word demiocratic appears – that is, the government as executioner. For new things, new words.’30 Alfieri’s presumed treason did not go uncommented; replying to Melchiorre Cesarotti’s question as to whether his opinions were after all democratic, his answer, on 1 April 1796, reaffirmed his love of liberty and his hatred ‘of all tyrants and tyranny whichever face it wore to hide behind’. However, the revolutionary epoch had taught him to distinguish the people from the plebes and the many libertines from the few ‘freeborn’ (liberi).31 In June of the same year, the first issue of the journal Il Termometro Politico made an applauding announcement of the staging of Alf ieri’s republican plays. Two editions later, the same journal sadly assigned the author to the ranks of the classe de’ democratici per singolarità - that is to say, the class of democrats that was known for its singularity, those who had gained popularity and fame through the originality of their democratic ideas only to change sides and express opposing sentiments. ‘For what other reason,’ the narrator asked, ‘could the author of the tragedies of Virginia, Timoleone and de’ Bruti abandon himself to the convulsions of the most violent aristocratic ideas?’32 Other republicans, important figures such as Melchiorre Gioia from Piacenza, the Piedmontese Carlo Botta, or the Neapolitan revolutionaries Vincenzo Cuoco and Eleonora Fonseca Pimentel, became supporters of a representative government in the hands of a wise and informed elite. Botta certainly did not think that any member of a people could be admitted to a governing administration. He considered primary assemblies as suitable institutions for the masses that had been dejected for so long. He regarded these people, though good at heart, somewhat like ‘a tribe of Hottentots’, segregated from the upper orders. Botta sustained the classical republican ideals, and though he warned against the dangers of commerce, he appreciated the fact that it had mitigated the ‘ferocity of nations’, improving ‘civility and politeness’.33 Gioia went even further: ‘government, entrusted to the wise, elected by the people, or in other words, the republic, the only form of government in which liberty can flourish’, and in whose shadow the arts, manufacturing, and commerce can prosper.34 Even Fonseca thought that the democratic character of a ‘representative republic’ consisted of having the right to vote, but above all it resided in the opportunity for the citizen to censure the government’s activities by means of public opinion and freedom of the press.35 Cuoco instead complained about ‘the turmoil of public assemblies’ under Robespierre and declared that representation was necessary when people could not assemble because of the size of the nation. The people were

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incapable of discussing important questions, and these would be better left ‘to a congress of wise men’. Concerning the matter of the Neapolitan Republic, Cuoco was quite explicit: ‘A democratic government (and you know well that ours is by no means such) might be the most correct form of government, but it cannot be acceptable unless the people are informed.’36 There were others such as the colourful revolutionary Giuseppe Fantuzzi who, in his attempt to create a bridge between republic and democracy, endeavoured to contrive a new form of mixed government fit for modern times and proposed ‘demostocracy’ as its name. 37 All these types of republics were considered to be the opposite of ‘absolute democracy’ or ‘pure democracy’, a form of government that was impossible to create in large states because it was bound to result in riots. The message essentially conveyed by the French newspaper of the French army in Italy was that it was best left to history to judge the Jacobins and their actions and that real Italian patriots would do better to realize that they acted in a ‘representative republic’ and not in a ‘democracy’.38 The latter, as another newspaper published, should be ‘purged of all its inconveniences’, eradicating ‘demagogues and agitators’ and acting so as to impede the ‘ignorant class’ from exercising any ‘influence either on the legislation or government’.39 The most radical defenders of a ‘pure’, ‘true’, ‘real’, ‘severe’, ‘complete’ (these are only a few of the adjectives of the time) democracy were those republicans who looked to the ancients and wanted not only equality under the law but also equality of property. For this reason, they often cited the agrarian law and the limitation of luxury and commerce. These were the republicans who admired the Jacobin constitution of 1793 and criticized the Thermidorian constitution. They were the focus of the same accusation Bernave had made against Robespierre: that of wanting to apply Rousseau’s theory concerning the small democracies of antiquity to great modern states. 40 For the radical journalist Pietro Custodi, the constitution of Year I represented ‘the zenith of democracy’, while that of the Year III was no more than ‘a filthy carcass’ which had reduced democracy to ‘ashes’. 41 The Neapolitan revolutionary Giuseppe Abamonti argued that the 1795 constitution had been created ‘on the graves of factions not yet extinguished’ to guarantee the government against anarchy and disorder, but when considering ‘purely representative principles’, that constitution actually limited the people’s rights. He was aware that the only hope for the republics to survive in Italy was necessarily to involve the mass of the nation in its political change. Abamonti did not care that he was accused of wanting ‘to assemble the people too frequently’ and by so doing create reasons for continuous sedition. 42

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In his Giornale dei Patriotti d’Italia, Matteo Galdi, though viewing a representative government as an ill that would sooner or later re-pave the aristocracy’s path back to power, recognized its inevitability. He maintained, however, that the only way to elevate a people from its state of ignorance was by having it participate in government and sovereignty; this could be obtained by increasing the number of judges in the provinces and frequently organizing primary assemblies on public issues. 43 Nicio Eritreo wrote that in modern republics all individuals had the same right to elect and to accede to honours and positions. 44 In 1799, Vincenzio Russo highlighted that whoever distanced himself from those principles would regress ‘from the democratic line […], from true democracy’. This in fact was the only system consistent with human nature, in which the people would be ‘self-governing’. Therefore, if we had to accept the representational system under such circumstances, although unwillingly, this was only to educate the people to exercise direct sovereignty as soon as possible. 45 Besides ‘republic’ and ‘democracy’, Italian revolutionaries began to distinguish a third type of government. Luciano Guerci posits that the term ‘representative democracy’ appeared for the first time in the anonymous essay Sul governo che conviene all’Italia (On the government that best suits Italy, 1796). This essay is particularly interesting because its author places this form of government at the very top of the republican tradition. 46 It is also noteworthy that its anonymous author reinterpreted the above-cited note by Filangieri in a democratic fashion. He stated that Filangieri could be considered one of the very few authors who had had the courage to admit that a large state could be ‘governed democratically’, even if he had ‘said so almost under his breath citing this truth in a footnote.’ In a representative democracy, each person would have the right to vote and the right to be elected, and where an entire nation participated in the elections, the best people for the job would be chosen. A representative democracy was also characterized by ‘political equality of the citizen and not by that metaphysical equality so sought after in the dreams of the politicians.’47 Another author, G. Tirelli, asserted that this form of government was the best because man was primarily concerned with his own interests and unconcerned with the interests of others. Besides, one could not entrust the responsibility of legislation to ‘a blind and obstinate multitude’. 48 Giovanni Ristori believed that progressive elections could give a small republic the possibility to enlarge its ‘restricted boundaries’ (circonferenza ristretta). 49 In 1797, yet another anonymous author, this time a Venetian, wrote that in a representative democracy, the supervision exercised by the national

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public opinion on the elected assembly was better than that performed by a small unenlightened population.50 Salvo Mastellone tells us that it was Giuseppe Compagnoni, an Enlightened cleric from Romagna, who gave the clearest definition of democracy during the triennio.51 Compagnoni distinguished representative democracy from ochlocracy, i.e., from the ‘empire of the seditious, foolish crowd’. It was absurd to conceive an assembly of the whole of the people, and this problem was not solvable by summoning them ‘in many partial assemblies’ nor by having those primary assemblies sanctioning new laws. As we can see from the examples furnished by America, France after 1795, and the Netherlands and Italy, representation was necessary but was in no way, as Rousseau argued, ‘the result of corruption’. Instead, it revealed itself necessary to preserve ‘public rights’. The citizens of the modern state, existing in ‘great numbers’ and unable to delegate any work to slaves as the ancients had done, had to ‘attend to their own businesses’ out of necessity, therefore having ‘sacred and untouchable’ rights: no appeal to the general will could allow for these rights to be violated.52 What remains to be said, as Guerci wrote once before, is that representative democracy took on different forms and different names.53 Furthermore, despite its emancipation from the old heritage and its growing adherence to the freedom of modern people and commerce, what strongly lingered was the appeal to classical rhetoric, combined with a form of scepticism and the basic fear of precisely that individualism that is the essence of democracy itself.

3. The invention of democratic parliamentary practices



Parliamentary practices in the Sister Republicsin the light of the French experience Malcolm Crook

Historians have in recent years become increasingly involved in bringing together the experience of Europeans, and indeed people all over the world, during the Age of Revolution (1750-1850).1 To be sure, Robert Palmer and Jacques Godechot introduced an Atlantic dimension to the map in the 1960s. However, the reception of their work was somewhat mixed and the French Revolution, like contemporary events elsewhere, was subsequently studied from an internal point of view for the most part.2 Yet this was to ignore its transnational dimension, which is now attracting renewed interest and forms the subject of the essays collected in this volume. Above all, the expansion of la Grande Nation after 1795 had a direct impact on neighbouring territories, integrating some areas of the Low Countries, the Rhineland, and Alpine territory into the French Republic while proclaiming Sister Republics elsewhere.3 However, revolutionary expansionism was by no means a one-way process, especially at the outset, when the affiliated peoples along the eastern border of France, from the North Sea to the Mediterranean, were allowed significant latitude in the regimes they created. There was, as a result, considerable interaction between the experiments conducted in these Sister Republics and developments in the metropole, which offer the potential for a fascinating study in transnationalism. The three chapters in this section focus on a particular aspect of this phenomenon, namely that of constitution-making in the Dutch, Swiss, and Neapolitan Republics, together with the parliamentary practices that accompanied it. There were, of course, substantial differences between these three, diverse locations, above all in so far as the Neapolitans were still in the process of discussing a document when their short-lived republic was curtailed in 1799 and the old monarchy restored. In the Dutch and Swiss Republics, by contrast, constitutions were elaborated, although in both cases the French were to impose their own versions later. Nonetheless, in all three instances, constitutional cultures emerged which, though they were influenced by developments in France, would also carry an indigenous

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character. Conversely, the experiments in the Sister Republics, which often bore a more authoritarian stamp than the French Constitution of the Year III (1795), fed into the subsequent Constitution of the Year VIII (1799) on which the Napoleonic Consulate was based. Though it is all too seldom recognized, there was therefore a contemporary transnational debate in progress that encompassed these areas – and others besides – as part of the broader, ambitious attempt to reconstitute much of Western Europe and the Atlantic world on a republican basis. The French Constitution of 1795 generally served as a point of reference, while Dutch, Swiss, and Italian revolutionaries were also aware of its predecessors from 1793 and 1791. Yet this is not to say that the Directorial regime in France was slavishly followed, for the Sister Republics brought their own ideas to the task, evidently influenced by the political cultures from which they emerged, as well as a common classical inspiration and Enlightenment heritage. The French followed no preconceived or universal plan, and a variety of individual constitutions emerged with a specific character. Both the Dutch Provinces and the Swiss Confederation were loose conglomerations of states which lacked a monarch and had maintained a long tradition of elected authorities. Indeed, some cantons in Switzerland still involved the citizenry as a whole in an annual general assembly, the landsgemeinde. However, few of the prevailing arrangements were democratic, and none of these practices were in evidence in the Kingdom of Naples, which was ruled by a branch of the Bourbon dynasty until its overthrow by the French army in 1799. This perhaps helps explain the significant recourse to classical precedents in the constitutional proposals that were made there. The nascent Neapolitan (or Parthenopean) Republic did not produce a constituent assembly or a parliament. Rather, a provisional government, nominated by local patriots, briefly sought to lay the foundations for a parliamentary regime. Its legislative commission was headed by Mario Pagano, whose constitutional progetto occupies the bulk of Valeria Ferrari’s essay. In keeping with general contemporary debate over the form of the modern republic, this was based on the notion of representative democracy, with two-tier elections, as in France. 4 However, in contrast to the French Directorial model (which was clearly influential), it gave the initiative in a bi-cameral legislature to a Senate composed of older men and, instead of further empowering the executive (or archonate, in Pagano’s scheme), set up an eforato (borrowed from Sparta), which was to ensure that the constitution was observed. This idea for a sort of constitutional court had been proposed but not adopted in France.

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Finally, Pagano proposed a censura, which was to oversee the morality of the citizens, with the possibility of suspending their rights in the event of immoral behaviour. Civic education and virtue had likewise exercised the French since 1789. Like the Neapolitans, the Dutch were also allowed more latitude than has generally been believed during the so-called période française, though the French army was equally instrumental in overturning the old regime there.5 The first Constitution that the Dutch drafted, comprising over 900 articles, was rejected by a popular vote in 1797, then a second accepted (by the same procedure) the following year, but French influence was less significant than has been thought. To be sure, in the wake of the rejection of the first constitutional draft of 1797, the French had put forward their own constitutional projet and, though they did not impose it, the Dutch constitution of 1798 was completed under their supervision. Like its French counterpart of 1795, this document enshrined a five-man executive directory and two chambers of parliament. However, while both were elected by a quasi-universal (all taxpayers) male suffrage, the electoral system was slightly different in so far as the primary assemblies nominated the candidates among whom second-degree electors were obliged to choose deputies. Moreover, the Dutch emphasized the importance of education and welfare (a traditional Protestant concern), which the French had dropped from their Declaration of Rights in 1795. Indigenous ideas likewise influenced the Swiss constitution of 1798, which was no exact copy of the French constitution of 1795 either. Though the French established the Helvetic Republic after they took control of most of the Swiss territory in March 1798, they adapted a model that had been developed by Peter Ochs while this native revolutionary was in Paris. As André Holenstein’s chapter demonstrates, no constituent assembly was convened to draft the document but, while the Swiss constitution resembled the French in its basic outline, with an executive directory and a bi-cameral parliament, the detail was different. This was not simply a matter of nomenclature. The constitution included a Great Council and a Senate, instead of a Council of Five Hundred and a Council of Elders for the legislature, and there was also a longer term of office for Swiss deputies, for example. On the other hand, as elsewhere, the broad male electorate was restricted to the choice of second-degree electors in their primary assemblies. Above all, foreshadowing later developments in France, the power of the executive was greater and thus at variance with Swiss tradition. In particular, those inner cantons which had retained general assemblies felt their custom was more democratic than the new prescription.6 When the

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first Swiss parliament met at Aarau in April 1798, its numbers were reduced by an electoral boycott. Even so, just over 200 deputies appeared, with a membership that included petty craftsmen, shopkeepers, and peasants as well as a substantial contingent of lawyers, who tended to bulk large in all republican legislatures during this period. A parliamentary culture had to be created in each republic, since earlier representative bodies had operated according to custom rather than written regulations. This question of organization lies at the heart of Joris Oddens’ chapter, which is concerned with accountability, transparency, and, above all, a new sense of time in the Dutch assembly. The first two elements were generally practised by parliaments in the Sister Republics, all of which sought to publish their proceedings. Members of the public could also attend debates, though the Swiss chose to exclude non-deputies from their discussions in certain circumstances. However, openness and responsibility might conflict with the operation of a legislative timetable. The first Dutch Parliament was required to present a draft constitution to the people for ratification within a year. Ironically, having complied with this obligation, its work was rejected in the subsequent ‘referendum’. Reading out petitions (which citizens everywhere were encouraged to submit) was a lengthy business, while most deputies were extremely anxious to deliver speeches, leading to accusations in the Dutch Republic that ‘national time’ was being wasted. The French did not set themselves a deadline for drafting their constitutions, but protracted debate certainly frustrated them as much as their Dutch or Swiss counterparts. ‘The maddening desire to speak’ was bemoaned by one French deputy, clearly annoyed by those verbose orators, ‘who may spend three days rendering a question more confusing than before.’7 There are many other questions that the three stimulating chapters in this section raise concerning constitutional and parliamentary practice in these (and other) Sister Republics. Further research is required to answer them, but this should be encouraged by the appearance of this volume. Much more comparative history, of the sort that Annie Jourdan has recently been undertaking, is urgently required. Despite frequent interventions from the French, a genuine exchange of individuals, ideas, and practices took place during this period. French political culture was not simply imposed, and considerable experimentation occurred in which local patriots played a signif icant role. Above all, these transnational dimensions were apparent at the time. Jacques-Vincent Delacroix was surely not alone in publishing reflections on the various constitutions that were written, nor Matteo Angelo Galdi a lone voice when he called

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for a federation of Sister Republics based on France, Holland, and Italy. 8 Celebrations commemorating the foundation of the French Republic in 1798 included the insignia of these republics, together with a banner proclaiming an eternal alliance between them. In the event, under Napoleon Bonaparte, ‘brother’ monarchies came to prevail and only the United States of America continued to develop democracy in the early nineteenth century. Nonetheless, its European sisters left an important legacy, though that is a topic for another book.



Making the most of national time Accountability, transparency, and term limits in the first Dutch Parliament (1796-1797) Joris Oddens

Over the past fifty years, historians have come to see the closing decades of the eighteenth century as fundamental to the rise of a ‘modern’ concept of time. This is largely due to the German historian Reinhart Koselleck, who wrote a number of articles on this topic during the 1960s and 1970s.1 Both for Koselleck and other historians connected to the German begriffsgeschichte school, the ‘shock of revolution’, and in particular the French Revolution, has been the most important catalyst for new ideas about time and a ‘rupture in continuity’, that is to say the notion, widespread among contemporaries, that they were living in modernity and that the future was unknown.2 ‘With the [introduction of the French] revolutionary calendar,’ Koselleck writes, ‘the attempt to let a new era of time already begin with that caesura was officially sanctioned and celebrated as a revolution.’3 This view has been very influential. One cannot, for example, fail to hear its echo in the following quote taken from a more recent article (2003) by Lynn Hunt: A new relationship to time would turn out to be the single greatest innovation of the revolution […] Revolution meant rejecting the past, introducing a sense of rupture in secular time, maximizing and elongating the present in order to turn it into a moment of personal and collective transformation, and shaping the future in accordance with the discoveries made in the present. Time became an issue; it ceased being a given. 4

The French Revolution did not stop at the border, and historians such as Ernst Wolfgang Becker and Peter Fritzsche have recently attempted to show how the revolutionary experience irreversibly changed the concept of time not only in France but also in other parts of the Western world.5 ‘It is difficult to overemphasize,’ Fritzsche writes, ‘the extent to which the prolonged nature of the French Revolution disrupted Western conceptions of historical continuity.’6 As one of the aims of this book is a critical reevaluation of the relationship between France and its Sister Republics, I will take this assertion as the

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point of departure for my contribution, in which I intend to nuance the view that it was primarily the experience of the French Revolution that reshaped the concept of time everywhere in the West. Equally, I would like to draw attention to the advent of a form of time-bound representative democracy in this epoch, which has, in my view, played a significant and overlooked role in this process. I will attempt to achieve this twofold aim by discussing the case of the Batavian Republic where, in March 1796, Dutch revolutionaries founded the first Dutch National Assembly. The number of scholars who have taken into account the temporal character of democratic rule is surprisingly limited.7 A notable exception is the eminent political scientist Juan Linz, who writes that ‘one of the defining elements of political democracy is that it is government pro tempore. The idea of electing someone for life to exercise effective power, or representatives for unlimited time […] does not fit into our thinking about democracy.’8 Conversely, Linz maintains that ‘rule in non-democratic regimes is not defined as limited in time.’9 The Finnish scholar Kari Palonen, whose work is inspired by that of Koselleck, also connects the ‘temporalization of politics’ to the introduction of the practice of regular elections. Palonen traces this back to the Triennial Act of the English Parliament in 1641, which he considers the first step towards the understanding that the government has a limited time span and that it needs the continuous support of its electorate.10 This shift toward a temporal concept of ‘politics’ took place at different times in different places, and at a different pace. In the eighteenth-century Republic of the Seven United Provinces, de facto sovereignty resided mainly with the different Provincial Estates.11 These Estates consisted of landed nobles and urban regents. There were many local variations in the way they came to power, including sometimes periodic elections, but despite this, by the end of the eighteenth century, government had everywhere become the domain of a very limited number of ruling families. In theory, terms may have been limited; in reality, local regents were almost always reappointed, as long as they stayed loyal to the Orangist stadholder, who played an important role in the appointment procedure.12 The Provincial Estates sent their deputies to the Estates General in The Hague. The duration of their term was subject to provincial variation, but it was usually long. Zeeland was the only province that named its deputies to the national governing body ad vitam, but national deputies often served for many years in other provinces besides. At the Estates General, voting was not by head but by province, and decisions had to be taken unanimously. As the deputies were sent to The Hague with a strict binding mandate, decision-making processes often lasted interminably.13 Both the long-lasting

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terms of the deputies and the principle of the binding mandate made it difficult to think of politics as a ‘time-bound and time-limited’ activity.14 The Dutch oligarchic confederacy was seriously challenged by the democratic reform movement of the so-called Patriots. During the 1780s, these Patriots put forward the view that sovereignty did not reside with the provincial assemblies but with the people at large. The sovereign people, they claimed, possessed a series of inalienable natural rights, including the right to participate in government by choosing their own representatives and the right to dismiss a bad government at any given time. A central notion in their reform programme, which was inspired by the works of French and British political theorists and the political language of the American Revolution, was that regents would have to be called to office through popular election instead of stadholderly appointment.15 The Patriots were, however, much less convinced that the idea of ‘nonpermanence’, as they called the principle of term limits, was also a necessary condition for representative democracy. In different plans for the reform of local governments, the very element of permanence was in fact promoted as a bulwark against the arbitrary power of the stadholder; elsewhere, most notably in the city of Deventer, periodic elections were considered a serious option.16 However, in 1787, just as the Patriots began operationalizing their reform projects, stadholder William V succeeded in suppressing the Patriot movement with the support of a Prussian army. Some eight years later, with the French Revolution now well on its way, Dutch Patriots who had gone into French exile convinced their fellow revolutionaries to invade the Dutch Republic. A successful invasion in January 1795 led to the collapse of the stadholderate, forcing William V to take refuge in England. In exchange for an indemnity of 100 million florins, power was left to the former Patriots, who now called themselves Batavians.17 In the first year of the Batavian revolution, the now revolutionary Estates General decided that a National Assembly was to be established. The question was, however, whether this assembly was to have constituent as well as legislative and executive powers, or whether the assembly had to be preceded by a constitution drawn up by a small constituent commission. The disagreement on this matter proved so great that it took the different provincial delegations in the Estates General almost a full year to reach a compromise. The final agreement was that a first draft of the constitution would be written by a constitutional commission composed of members of the legislative assembly but that worked independently from it, and that this draft would subsequently have to be approved by the full assembly.18

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When measured by the standards of the ancien régime, the lengthy discussions that had preceded this decision were not unusual. In the Batavian Republic, however, they met with rapidly escalating intolerance. Even if the Dutch Republic had never had a real constitution, many now felt that the state of revolution the country had entered early in 1795 could only be brought to an end when the country was given such a constitution. Hopes were high that the abolition of the binding mandate would make it possible for the National Assembly to be more decisive than the Estates General had been, and that this would become manifest both in its legislative and constituent activities. On 30 December 1795, the provincial delegations in the Estates General finally agreed on the semi-constitutional document that constituted the founding of a National Assembly. This document established that a draft constitution was to be presented to the nation at the latest one year after the first meeting of the assembly, and that the assembly was to remain in session for no longer than eighteen months.19 It needs to be pointed out that this eighteen-month term was specifically meant for the National Assembly in its function as a constitutional convention. When, in August 1797, the draft constitution was rejected by a majority of the people, the same conditions applied for a second National Assembly that convened on 1 September 1797. After the second assembly had been in session for nearly five months, a group of radical members staged a coup d’état and barred their more moderate colleagues from the assembly, changing the name of the remaining rump parliament to Constituent Assembly. Less than two months later, this assembly concluded a new draft constitution, which was ratified by the people on 23 April 1798. When instead of holding new elections, the unconstitutional Constituent Assembly decided to turn itself into a constitutional Representative Body, it was soon swept away by a countercoup. While maintaining the constitution, the new regime did not hesitate to organize elections, after which a new Representative Body was convened on 31 July 1798.20 In their constitution, the Batavians opted for a system of rotation that bore strong resemblances to the French Constitution of the Year III, including annual elections and the renewal of one-third of the members at each election.21 This choice of a parliamentary system that combined elements of continuity and discontinuity points to the extraordinariness of time-bound politics in the time of the two National Assemblies, from 1 March 1796 to the first coup d’état on 22 January 1798. For nearly two years, however, this was the reality with which members of the parliament and their followers everywhere in the Batavian Republic had to contend. As Linz writes:

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The conf ining character of time in democratic politics is […] almost inevitably a source of frustration and failure of democratic leadership […] The time-bound character of democratic power […] is likely to be one of the sources of instability and inefficiency of democratic governments.22

The members of the first Dutch parliament were soon to discover this. On 21 April 1796, Gerard Vatebender delivered his maiden speech to the National Assembly. Although Vatebender had himself sat in the assembly for little more than two weeks, he presented his colleagues with a gloomy reflection on its functioning so far. Vatebender said he considered it his duty to make use of his freedom of speech, even if his remarks were unflattering towards the body of which he himself was a member.23 The deputy from Gouda started out by saying that he would not comment on the behaviour of the deputies, as he was sure they were themselves very familiar with the appropriate rules. He then nonetheless summed up what he felt such rules should prevent his colleagues doing, like wasting the precious ‘time of the Fatherland’ by repeating in detail what several others had said before them, or submitting meaningless proposals about ‘names, words, and sounds’. It is clear that the members of the assembly and the audience in the public galleries all knew that Vatebender was not simply articulating a syllabus of possible errors here, but that he was referring to misbehaviour that he considered to have actually taken place during the opening weeks of the assembly.24 The real aim of his speech, Vatebender argued, was to draw attention to the fact that the assembly was daily confronted with an ‘endless stream of addresses, petitions, proposals, letters and statements’, which were often of minor importance for the nation as a whole but nevertheless gave rise to extensive debates, causing more important matters to remain undiscussed. If the deputies wanted to make sure that they could not be held responsible for the loss of ‘precious time, not their own but the time of the nation’, then the assembly would have to change its ways. Vatebender suggested that the assembly should name a permanent commission that was to investigate how the assembly could work more efficiently. It should do so by finding ways to save time on the practice of reading and discussing matters put before the assembly by its citizens, and by deciding which matters were of such importance that they should always be given precedence over less important matters.25 Four months earlier, when the National Assembly still only existed on the drawing board, Vatebender had given a farewell lecture at the Latin School of Gouda, where he had been the rector. This lecture, which was later

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published, can be considered the most systematic contemporary survey of the qualities a citizen needed to possess in order to make a ‘worthy representative of the people’. He would, among many other things, have to be irreproachable, loyal, honest, amiable, a good speaker, and a hard worker, and he would have to know the legal system, the interests, the history, and the geographical situation of his country.26 When we compare the farewell lecture to Vatebender’s maiden speech in the assembly, it is striking to note that whereas in the lecture nothing is mentioned about the required ability to prioritize and to make efficient use of what would soon come to be known as ‘national time’, this had become the central theme of the speech. ‘Political and social concepts,’ Koselleck writes, ‘do not only indicate or record given facts. They themselves become factors in the formation of consciousness and the control of behavior.’27 Consequently, the concern over the importance of time, which Vatebender and many of his contemporaries suddenly developed, can be made visible by focusing on the genesis and frequent use of the concept of ‘national time’ and related phrases like ‘time of the fatherland’ and ‘time of the nation’. This conceptual cluster, which referred to the limited time that the nation had put at their representatives’ disposal, was born in the assembly, where the different but related phrases soon became popular catchwords. This did not go unnoticed outside the domain of parliament. The nationally distributed weekly De Democraten, for example, included the expression ‘to save the national time’ in a satirical dictionary made up of new words that were used by the leading politicians of the time.28 As far as I am aware, Gerard Vatebender was the first to formulate the concept of national time in the assembly. Similarly, he was also the first to thematize what can be described as the tension between accountability and efficiency that was felt by the deputies in different ways. Above all, members of the National Assembly were convinced that they could only make a legitimate claim to be a representative body when they enabled all citizens in the Batavian Republic to express their ideas, their comments, and their grievances by means of petitions. To encourage them to do so, they issued a proclamation affirming each individual citizen’s right to petition and request.29 This right was readily exercised. Each day the assembly received at least some, but more often several dozen, addresses: comments, both positive and negative, on decisions that had been taken; attempts to influence decisions that had not been taken; complaints about lower levels of government; requests for offices and state pensions; and all kinds of other private matters that petitioners hoped could be settled by the assembly.

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As Vatebender’s speech suggests, the assembly struggled to handle this infinite influx. There are instances of discussions over single petitions that lasted for hours and even for days, but it was the fact that all petitions had to be read in full in the Assembly which weighed most heavily on the shoulders of the deputies. The deputies could not hide their profound despair and frustration over this practice. After eight different petitions on the same subject had been read in the session of 27 April, Jacob Hahn exclaimed: I cannot conceal that my blood is boiling inside my veins, and that maybe it would be wiser not to speak; I will only say that we are wasting the National Time on this subject, when […] there are so many matters under discussion that have to be settled.30

The problem of the petitions had already been brought to the forefront during the f irst month of the assembly’s meeting. While the deputies were discussing a draft version of the Reglement van Orde (Rules of Order), representative Jacob van Manen had suggested that a commission of twelve members should be formed that was to read incoming correspondence and then inform the assembly about its contents.31 The commission charged with drafting the Rules of Order had advised negatively on Van Manen’s proposal, as it ‘went against the right of the citizens to bring their interests before the assembly in detail’. This view had been accepted and, in the Rules of Order that were eventually adopted, nothing was included to modify the standing practice that all petitions be read in full.32 The assembly had not changed its mind in December 1796, when it finally discussed the commission report that had been written in response to the proposal that Vatebender had made five months earlier. The commission had proposed four possible measures that might help the assembly work more efficiently, the most important of which was the creation of a designated commission that was to read and summarize the addresses and petitions before they were brought to the assembly, endorsing the very same suggestion that Jacob van Manen had made during the assembly’s opening weeks.33 It did not enjoy a happier fate this time: as representative Johan van Leeuwen immediately objected, this went against the rule, put down in the Reglement constituting the assembly, that its sessions had to be held in public.34 This argument was all that was needed to ensure that the commission report was rejected; the assembly desisted from further discussion, and it did so, ironically, ‘in order to save the National Time’.35 The introduction of public sessions was, in fact, another key aspect of the reform programme of the Batavian Revolution. Judging that political

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transparency was a necessary condition for a functioning representative democracy, the revolutionaries granted public access to the meetings of the National Assembly. Another important element of the Batavian campaign for a maximum degree of transparency was the decision to grant a printing house in The Hague permission to publish the Dagverhaal, a verbatim record of the day-to-day proceedings of the National Assembly. 36 The proceedings appeared on a daily basis with a few days’ delay, amounting to more than five thousand pages for the First National Assembly alone. This information was ravenously devoured in private residences, societies, and coffee houses all over the country. As with the comprehensive right to petition, the publication of parliamentary proceedings was intended to lend truth to the claim that the National Assembly was indeed a representative body and thus able to meet the accountability standards that the Batavian revolutionaries thought fit for the new type of government. The result was that the deputies sensed the continuous presence of the public while they were fulf illing their role as representatives. This affected their public performance in a way that was hard to combine with the Assembly’s wish to be an efficiently working governing body. When we return to Gerard Vatebender’s speech, the first time-wasting practice that he mentions is the endless repetition of arguments that had been made by many others before.37 Throughout the sessions of the assembly, the anger generated by this practice rivalled the annoyance over the reading and discussion of the petitions. In fact, Vatebender’s colleague Johan van Leeuwen, whom we just met as a great advocate of publicity, even claimed that if the National Assembly wanted to save time, the solution would not be to hide its activities from the nation by assigning them to preparatory commissions but rather to stop the members from repeating each other over and over again in the plenary sessions.38 Unlike its ancien régime predecessor, the National Assembly did not consist of provincial delegations that would name a single speaker to represent them. The assembly did see the rise of what we could call political parties, but their legitimacy was contested by many, while the modern practice of choosing party spokesmen for different subjects was still a step too far.39 Thus, all of the deputies had the right to speak on each subject under discussion. Controversial matters that were deemed important usually returned to the assembly on more than one occasion, and vital decisions were postponed time and time again. Each time a discussion was revived up to two-thirds of the 126 deputies enlisted to read long speeches, which were often largely made up of the same arguments they had already used on previous occasions. Moreover, the deputies generally read speeches

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which they had written out in advance, making it impossible for them to take into account arguments that had been made by preceding speakers. Especially when they took part in time-consuming debates on subjects that the assembly had addressed many times before, most of the deputies had long lost faith in the possibility of convincing their fellow representatives. The reason why they nevertheless continued to reiterate their position was, as representative Willem Hendrik Teding van Berkhout both stated in the assembly and confided to his diary, that they felt their speeches were the only way they could justify themselves before the Dutch people. 40 The all-seeing eyes of the people, cast upon them through the Dagverhaal, made the deputies less willing to compromise. They realized that their intransigent positions, like those of their opponents, led to an endless repetition of arguments and an indecisiveness that could not fail to displease the nation, but they did not have the heart to repudiate their perceived duty to keep speaking out according to their conscience.

Conclusion ‘Alles wird so ganz anders’. When Peter Fritzsche penned these words, he was quoting the German historian Johannes von Müller, who wrote about the French Revolution in 1797. 41 The same five words would, however, also have made a good motto for the German Begriffsgeschichte school, whose theoretical premises play an important role in Fritzsche’s recent book. While they may give different answers to the question as to which of the revolutionary experiences was most disruptive – the speed with which the meaning of political concepts evolved, the death of the king and the shift to a republic, the Terror, the introduction of a new calendar, or the devastating revolutionary wars – Koselleck cum suis, Fritzsche, and others all agree that the French Revolution gave contemporaries all over Western Europe the feeling that everything was becoming different, a feeling that indicates ‘a new relationship to time’. 42 Of course, Dutch contemporaries in 1795 were aware of the course of events in the French Revolution, in which they had, in some cases, been personally involved. 43 Even then, it was generally an experience they found alien, in which they had only played an active role in order to advance the Dutch cause by convincing the French to give them military support. For most Batavians, France was a foreign country where they did things differently. In general terms, they felt ideologically connected to the French revolutionaries, while the great and irreversible changes French state and

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society were clearly undergoing certainly supplied them with useful examples, both positive and negative. However, the French remained a different people with a different national character. 44 It must be stressed just how different the revolutionary experience of the Dutch was. In the first place, the Batavian Republic succeeded a republic and not a monarchy, and the deposition of the stadholder, who came the closest to being a monarchical figure in the Netherlands, was by no means unique in Dutch history. Second, the Batavian Revolution did not have a Terror. In fact, the revolution was largely conducted without bloodshed. Third, Dutch contemporaries generally considered the Batavian Revolution, after the Patriot Revolution and the Orangist Restoration, the third Omwenteling in little over a decade. And finally, even if the Batavians followed French precedent by calling 1795 ‘Year One of Batavian Liberty’, the Anno Domini system remained in widespread use and no new calendar was introduced. One of the most noteworthy innovations of the Batavian Revolution was the founding of a National Assembly, which was at the same time a constitutional convention and a legislative body. The introduction of an eighteen-month term limit for the National Assembly meant that the drafting of the constitution became subject to a deadline; when this deadline was not met, the framing process would be taken over by a new group of representatives, who were likely to make different choices. The principle of popular elections meant that the composition of the National Assembly could not be predicted. Until the moment when new elections had taken place, the future of the Dutch people would therefore remain uncertain. More than anything, it was the time-bound nature of the constitutional project that gave the Batavians the idea that they were living in a present that was different from the past with which the current intermediary government had broken, and equally different from a future when a new constitutional government would rule. 45 It was, in particular, the novelty of this situation that caused time to ‘cease being a given’ and ‘become an issue’ in the Batavian Republic. The deputies of the first Dutch National Assembly were not experienced members of parliament. In the years preceding their election, they had developed high-minded ideas about the accountability required by this new type of government, and they were determined to meet these requirements when they had the chance to put their ideas into practice. Hence, as we have seen, the deputies insisted on granting citizens direct access to the assembly by allowing addresses and requests to be read in full, and they continued accounting for themselves in long and repetitive speeches. The representatives soon became aware that these and other, similar practices

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were time-consuming and inefficient but, seeing no reasonable alternative, they persisted with them. Not only did the members of the first Dutch parliament have little experience finding the right balance between accountability and efficiency, they also had no previous experience in dealing with the frustration that tension between these essential elements of democracy inevitably produces. Whereas we have by now generally accepted the idea that the scarcity of time is a feature inherent in democratic politics, it instilled in the first democratic politicians a sense of agitation that was almost unbearable. During the sessions of the assembly, they could not stop repeating that ‘the time of the nation’ was ‘precious’, and that ‘national time’ was being ‘wasted’. The published proceedings of the assembly were read by many, on a daily basis, and in every corner of the country, thus making the parliamentary debates the first major event with a truly national scope and impact that was experienced simultaneously by all citizens.46 Thus, the parliamentary concern over the time of the nation became a concern shared by the whole nation and contributed to the sense that time was scarce, or to put it in Koselleckian terms, to a ‘feeling of acceleration’. 47 If the closing years of the eighteenth century were formative in constructing a new concept of time in the Batavian Republic, this should not be sought primarily in the experience of revolution, which was less forceful and disruptive than it had been in France, but rather in the shared temporality that was brought about by the debates in the first Dutch parliament.



The invention of democratic parliamentary practicesin the Helvetic Republic Some remarks1 André Holenstein

On 12 April 1798, 121 deputies gathered for the constitutive session of the first parliament in Swiss history in the small town of Aarau – a meeting place which was equally accessible from all regions of the country. To proclaim Aarau as the provisional capital of the new republic and as the seat of the first Helvetic parliament, however, had a highly symbolic significance, too. Only a few weeks before, the Federal Diet – a congress assembling representatives of the old power elites from the 13 sovereign republics of the Swiss Confederation – had met for the last time in the same town of Aarau without being able to prevent the dissolution of the Swiss ancien régime.2 The meeting of two fundamentally different representative assemblies convened in Aarau in such a short space of time marked the transition from premodern polity to a modern parliamentary system. Thus, within a few weeks Aarau had not only served as the burial ground of the Old Confederation, it also became the birthplace of the new Helvetic Republic.3 The proclamation of the Helvetic Republic took place under circumstances that foreshadowed the serious problems the young republic was to encounter during its short lifetime. The new Helvetic state was the subject of great controversy among the population. Its constitution had not originated from a transparent and coordinated political process in the country. During the collapse of the old order in the first weeks of 1798, and before French troops had gained control over most parts of the Swiss territory in March 1798, dozens of small heterogeneous states had emerged from a domestic revolutionary process that led to the political emancipation of the former subject territories in the Swiss Confederation. Some of them had adopted the representative constitution elaborated by Peter Ochs, a sympathizer with the French Revolution and enlightened representative of the old Basel elite, during his stay in Paris around the beginning of 1798. 4 Ochs had considered his constitution an interim arrangement, to be referred to until a Swiss constitutional assembly came into operation. In January

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1798, Philippe Antoine Merlin de Douai and Pierre Claude François Daunou, the constitutional experts of the French Directory, adapted Ochs’ draft to the French constitution of 1795. Meanwhile, several Swiss cantons had adopted a revised version of the constitution, drafted by the Basel National Assembly after Peter Ochs’ return from Paris. The Basel draft represented the third proposal for a new Swiss constitution, a version that better suited Swiss tradition.5 A significant number of regions, mainly the canton’s former subject territories (Gemeine Herrschaften), however, had opted for a further alternative. They rejected parliamentary democracy altogether and opted for a version of direct democracy. They followed the centuries-old example of the rural cantons of the former Confederation, where a plenary assembly of all adult males, the so-called Landsgemeinde, traditionally met to decide upon the state’s major political issues once a year.6 A confusing situation with competing and incompatible constitutional options had thus emerged in Switzerland. In March 1798, however, the French authorities put an end to this bewildering constitutional heterogeneity on the spot and imposed parliamentary democracy as the only constitution admissible for the new unitary republic. As a consequence, large parts of the country boycotted the new regime and did not attend the new parliament’s constitutive session.7 The eastern parts and the rural cantons of Switzerland, as well as Ticino and Valais, opposed the new political order. Incompatible concepts of political liberty clashed and revealed the fundamental gap between a notion of political freedom based on exclusive corporate privileges and the jusnaturalistic and universalistic views of the Enlightenment and the French Revolution.8 So the deputies arriving in Aarau in April 1798 mainly represented the regions formerly ruled by the city-cantons. The deputies gathering in Aarau were confronted with an additional challenge. The members of the Helvetic parliament constituted everything but a social and cultural unity. The assembly brought together deputies from German-speaking, francophone, and Italian-speaking parts of the country. Among the deputies from towns and rural regions, there were burghers and villagers, members of learned professions, entrepreneurs, merchants, craftsmen and peasants, members of the old power elites, and newly emancipated subjects too. The parliament consisted of members from very different social, economic, and cultural backgrounds and milieux. Most of them had never acquired any political experience at a level beyond local administration and self-government. This multitude was to form the legislative body of a unitary Swiss nation state – a nation-state that might have represented the vision of a small enlightened reformist elite but still had

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to be brought into being. For what did the former subjects of the patrician Republic of Bern coming from the Pays de Vaud have in common with the deputies who had belonged to the old power elites in Bern, Basel, Zurich, or Lucerne? Which traditions and experiences would enable them to delineate a broadly accepted and shared vision of a Swiss nation in a country that lacked a common language, culture, and political tradition?9 Last but not least, the deputies had to cope with another challenge. In a modern republic, such as the Helvetic Republic was intended to be, political power was to be based on the rule of laws issued by a representative body. The parliament constituted the polity’s focal point and represented people’s sovereignty, both institutionally and symbolically. These basic principles were absolutely new in Swiss constitutional history. The Federal Diet of the Old Confederation had been anything but a parliament. During its heyday, it had worked as a very informal platform for communication and information and for networking purposes among the political elite of the Swiss cantons. However, it had never gained any formal competence as a parliamentary or even proto-parliamentary institution, nor would the cantons have accepted the Diet as a kind of central government for the whole Confederation.10 Moreover, Swiss political and constitutional tradition lacked the experience of assemblies of estates, like the French Etats Généraux, the Imperial Diet in the Holy Roman Empire, or the territorial diets (Landstände) in German principalities.11 Thus, the very notion of an institution acting as repository of the people’s political will, the modes of parliamentary political debate, the organization of opinion, and the rhetorical skills necessary to advocate one’s argument and to obtain political majorities in parliament – all these aspects of a modern parliamentary culture had to be invented, implemented, and tested. And all this had to be undertaken under quite difficult conditions, not least because of the occupation of the country by a foreign army. This chapter will focus on the following aspects. First, the parliament’s position within the new constitutional framework of the Helvetic Republic will be considered. What were the competences attributed to the legislative body? How was the new parliament intended to proceed? Was the Helvetic Republic endowed with a strong parliament, or was its influence rather restricted by a strong executive power? And how extended was the people’s democratic participation in a state that was to be based on the principle of the people’s sovereignty? Then I will look at the social structure of the Helvetic parliament. What did the first Swiss parliament look like? Which regions, groups, and milieux were represented? Finally, I want to concentrate on some communicative and cultural features that marked the parliament’s practice of debate.

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With regard to the constitutional instability and the series of four coups d’états that characterized the period between 1800 and 1802, this text will focus on the first two years of the Republic between 1798 and 1800. With the second coup d’état of 7/8 August 1800, the government compelled both chambers to dissolve and thereby initiated a frenetic and highly controversial constitutional debate. It only concluded in 1802, when Napoleon deliberately put an end to the Helvetic Republic. By withdrawing the French army from Switzerland, Napoleon sought to create the preconditions for a new constitutional solution, which he himself imposed on Switzerland in his so-called mediation of 1803.12

The Helvetic parliament’s constitutional framework The Helvetic constitution of 1798 ascribed the legislative power to a bicameral parliament, thereby following the French constitution of 1795.13 The Great Council (Grosser Rat) corresponded to the French Council of Five Hundred (Conseil des Cinq-Cents), and the Swiss Senate to the Council of Elders (Conseil des Anciens) in France. As in the French case, the bicameralism of the Helvetic parliament was not effectively implemented. The Great Council formulated the laws in detail and submitted them to the Senate, which only had the right to confirm or reject the laws as a whole, without being allowed to enter into any details of the legislative debate. In turn, only the Senate was authorized to propose constitutional reforms by initiating a very laborious procedure that would take at least five years to conduct, this being the interval between the two parliamentary sessions necessary to confirm any constitutional reform. Even then, the proposals still had to be submitted to the vote of the primary assemblies in the country (Art. 106). As a result, legislation and constitutional reform became very cumbersome affairs in the Helvetic Republic. Each canton sent eight deputies to the Great Council (Art. 36)14 and four to the Senate. Members of the Great Council had to be at least 25 years old, while senators were required to be at least 30 years old and either married or widowed. Former members of the Helvetic government were automatically admitted as senators. Thus, the Senate was intended to form an assembly of experienced, wise, elder statesmen, whereas the Great Council represented the political will of the whole population.15 Deputies to the Great Council were elected for six years and could be re-elected after an interval of two years. Senators held office for eight years and could be re-elected after a time-out of four years. All parliamentarians were elected by a two-stage

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procedure: active citizens convened in so-called primary assemblies in order to appoint second-degree electors who would choose the deputies at a subsequent electoral convention. Thus the political participation of the huge majority of the people was restricted to attending these primary assemblies. This observation should prevent us from assuming an excessively democratic idea of the people’s sovereignty in the Helvetic constitution. Both chambers were to be periodically renewed during the legislative term: in even-numbered years, one-third of the great councillors were to be designated by lot and had to resign afterwards, whereas in the oddnumbered years, one-fourth of the senators were to be replaced.16 For both chambers, the presidency and the bureau were to be renewed every second week. Both chambers were denied the competence to establish permanent commissions (Art. 70) and to delegate affairs to particular deputies (Art. 68). They were not even allowed to assemble for joint sessions (Art. 69). Furthermore, every year both houses had to interrupt their debates for three months at least (Art. 64). During this period the Directory acted without any parliamentary supervision. Even on such vital and fundamental matters as state finances or declarations of war and peace, the parliament was only allowed to deliberate and to decide on the basis of propositions to the government (Art. 50). The government also exercised exclusive authority over the appointment of army officers, ministers and diplomats, the president of the Supreme Court, and the functionaries of the state treasury (Art. 82). It even disposed of a budget for personal and secret purposes for which it was not accountable to the parliament (Art. 81). At the same time, members of the government were denied access to the parliament’s sessions. Communication between the executive and the legislature was only to be conducted by writing, which rendered cooperation rather difficult. Altogether the Helvetic constitution presented the ideal of a strong, unitary nation and polity, which was primarily based on the government’s far-reaching executive power, while the parliament’s autonomy was significantly constrained. In this regard the Helvetic Republic even went further than the French constitution of 1795.17 Tiresome prescriptions curtailed the parliament’s room for manoeuvre and impeded both efficient legislative work and cooperation between the two chambers.

The social composition of the first Helvetic parliament Unfortunately, Swiss parliamentary history lacks the prosopographical reference works and studies available in the historiography on the repre-

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sentative assemblies of the French Revolution.18 We have to rely instead on Thomas Baumann’s analysis of the deputies’ socio-economic and regional provenance.19 Theoretically the two chambers were made up of 216 deputies during their initial legislative sessions. Baumann’s prosopographical survey is based on a sample of 144 deputies, or 66 per cent of the parliament’s members, for whom he could provide biographical information such as geographical origin, age, and profession. What did the first Swiss parliament look like? How old were its members and which regions, groups, and milieux did they represent? The Helvetic parliament was a rather young assembly: 30 per cent of the Senators and 40 per cent of the deputies to the Great Council were less than 40 years old; only 17 per cent of the Councillors and 30 per cent of the Senators were older than 50. Although every canton was ascribed an equal number of 12 deputies for the initial meeting, there were, at least in certain cases, regional disparities within the different cantons. Important and prominent towns such as Zurich, Bern, Schaffhausen, Solothurn, or Basel, which had played a predominant political role during the ancien régime, sent three, four, five, or even seven (as was the case for the town of Basel) deputies to the parliament. Regarding their relative small population in comparison to the much larger population of their surrounding rural areas, these towns were clearly overrepresented. The vast majority of the deputies, however, came from municipalities and village communities in the territories formerly subjected to the ruling towns. For the first time, people from these communities appeared on the country’s main political stage and were given the right to engage in politics on a level that transcended local administration. What about the deputies’ socio-economic circumstances? Lawyers were the best represented profession and made up nearly 30 per cent of the members in both chambers. Merchants and entrepreneurs were equally well represented with 11 per cent of the Great Councillors and 12 per cent of Senators. Regarding other professions, there were significant differences between the Great Council and the Senate: whereas petty craftsmen, innkeepers, clerks, and peasants were better represented in the Great Council, physicians and men who had belonged to the authorities of the ancien régime were more numerous in the Senate.

Parliamentary proceedings and rhetorics How did this legislative body work? How could this mix of unequal elements eventually become a melting pot? How would Peter Ochs, Basel’s

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former supreme master of guilds (Oberstzunftmeister), and Johann Melchior Kubli, a wood merchant from Glarus, cooperate as senators? How would council members so diverse as the Bernese law professor Bernhard Friedrich Kuhn and the autodidact Johann Kaspar Billeter from Zurich come to an understanding?20 I will close my contribution with some observations regarding the difficulties that accompanied the implementation of the new parliamentary culture. Debates were continually bogged down for procedural reasons: for instance, how often a deputy would be allowed to speak on the same issue, at what moment discussions about a topic should be closed, or on what kind of matters deputies should be allowed to speak in the context of one and the same debate.21 The chambers elaborated a very detailed ordinance comprising about 200 articles to regulate their activities and the procedures to be observed during debates.22 These detailed rules revealed the rationalistic and bureaucratic spirit of the new republic. In principle the sessions were open to the public, but the chambers would close their doors in order to debate important questions concerning foreign policy, domestic dangers, fiscal and financial issues, and whatever question they deemed worthy of discussion without an audience.23 Initially, German and French were admitted as the two official languages for the parliamentary debates and records – something that led one deputy to say that the Helvetic Republic had only half a life because it had to exist in two languages.24 In September 1798 the Great Council acknowledged that, in principle, every law should be published in German, French, and Italian without giving priority to an original text.25 As time went by, disciplinary problems arose. Deputies failed to attend the sessions or they were absent and took holidays all too frequently, so that a quorum could not be constituted.26 Only a minority of the deputies took an active part in debates. An even smaller number of parliamentarians rose to speak on different topics.27 This observation hints at a major problem emerging from the deputies’ social and cultural diversity, and from their different political provenance. Calling or even insulting a deputy as an aristocrat, a townsman, an advocate, or as a learned man and scholar became a prominent feature in the parliamentary rhetoric of deputies from rural areas and lower social strata, who thereby expressed resentment against the former authorities of the city-cantons under the ancien régime.28 Some deputies from rural areas would tend to openly present themselves as backbenchers, as illiterate and overcharged novices who lacked the literacy and culture necessary for membership in the nation’s legislative body.29 Learned deputies with an urban background would, for their part, criticize rural representatives for their parochialism and lack of cultural breadth.

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In the context of the virulent controversy on the general outline of a new constitution that commenced after the first coup d’état in January 1800, this overt cultural gap within parliament would be turned into a political argument by deputies who advocated more elitist constitutional concepts. Criticizing the incompetence and insuff iciency of the great majority of deputies, pointing the finger at the parliament’s meagre political performance and achievements during its first two years, and also repudiating the factionalism that was rife among the deputies, a minority of urban, literate parliamentarians would propagate constitutional patterns that entrusted legislative and executive power to a narrow cultural elite. They promoted the key role of a kind of enlightened cultural aristocracy in politics, thereby reiterating the notion of the philosopher king, albeit fashioned in a republican manner.30



The Neapolitan republican experiment of 1799 Legislation, balance of power, and the workings of democracy between theory and practice Valeria Ferrari

A constitution that ensures public freedom, and that, by casting its gaze upon the uncertainty of the centuries to come, suffocates the seeds of corruption and despotism, is the most difficult work to which the boldness of human genius can aspire.1

Beginning with these words, in early April 1799, Francesco Mario Pagano set out to explain the content of the constitutional project he had been called upon to prepare for the members of the provisional government of the republic proclaimed in Naples on 21 January that same year. Although it never came into operation, the Constitution of 1799 in some ways provides a litmus test for the disputed historical assessment of the Neapolitan Republic of 1799. For the passage of time does not appear to have given us the serenity of at least a broadly shared, if not unambiguous, vision of the basic features of this event. Instead, it seems to have helped to increasingly accentuate the ideological disparity of historiographical positions still irreconcilably opposed today. On the one hand, there are those who tend to see the Neapolitan Republican experiment above all for its ‘exceptionality’, given the many important differences from its Republican sisters that made the Neapolitan Republic almost a history unto itself, lying partially outside the republicanization process already underway for some time in the heart of Europe. On the other hand, there are those who never tire of stressing that the Republic founded in Castel Sant’Elmo wholly belongs to the events that characterized Italy’s three-year republican experience.2 The same, then, or different? Self-standing or not? The exception or the rule? In Italian historiography of the past century, these questions have become far more important than the issue at hand, giving rise to differing and opposing interpretations as to the origins of our Risorgimento and the complex development of Italian national consciousness.3 In the case of Naples, the elements of discontinuity with its Sister Republics’ orthodox path of formation are unmistakable: in fact, there, the

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Republic came into being as a full-blown act of insubordination to the government of the Directory (which, due to the fear of a new anti-French offensive in the peninsula, certainly could not hope at that time to expand the military front to southern Italy). Thereafter the Directory repeatedly refused to receive the Neapolitan delegates who had come to the French capital to seek recognition for the independence of the Neapolitan republican government.4 In Naples, as elsewhere, while French bayonets were decisive factors in the fall of the monarchy, in southern Italy it was the members of the so-called Neo-Jacobin wing, a traditional ally of the Italian patriotic cause, who wielded them, in the persons of General Championnet, the commander of the French troops that had entered Naples, and Marc-Antoine Jullien, the future secretary of the provisional government.5 It was no accident that both were soon to be taken under arrest by the Directory. Unsurprising, then, was the elective affinity that arose between them and the nationalistic patriots who, for a number of years, and at least since 1792, had already fully demonstrated their democratic, pro-republican sentiments by acting first in the shadows, within Masonic/Jacobin-style secret associations, and later on as exiles in the governments of the Sister Republics founded in central/ northern Italy from 1796 onwards. The outcome of all this was to be the birth of what, in spite of the differing critical interpretations, was doubtless the most original and autonomous of the Republics that arose in Italy in the period from 1796 to 1799 – although, lasting just five extraordinarily intense months, it was the most short-lived. In fact, while the brevity of the Neapolitan Republican experiment did not limit its ability to bring about legislation modelled on the French example that made a clean slate of the legal and institutional arrangements from the ancien régime,6 it certainly hampered the possibility of laying the groundwork, as occurred elsewhere, for effective democratic parliamentary practice. Indeed, until 14 April 1799, the legislative and executive powers were united in the same institution: the provisional government, consisting of 25 members selected entirely by Neapolitan patriots, which was subdivided into a number of committees, including a legislation committee. Only in mid-April were the legislative and executive powers separated into two different Commissions. Nonetheless, debates about the draft laws to be approved were quite lively and went far beyond merely proposing a literal transposition of French legislation. In particular, a long, hard-fought confrontation – mirroring the great variety of political orientations that existed among the Neapolitan patriots – raged over the law abolishing feudalism. The debate, which began in the government’s public and plenary assembly

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on 18 February, ended only in late April when, after decades of futile requests in this vein from the southern reform movement, all the seigneurs’ legal and tax rights, as well as personal services, were abolished. Meanwhile, commoners were attributed the feudal demesnes – those lands over which the farmers customarily exercised civic uses – while the other feudal lands were subjected to the payment of ordinary taxes. The president of the legislative commission hired to draft the constitution of the republic was Mario Pagano, whose political and juridical thought has in recent years seen renewed interest in Italian historiography.7 This historiography has pointed to the southern jurist as the one who ‘most, and better than anyone else, embodies the link between the republican experience and the season of enlightenment and reform’8 and to the constitution he developed as the ‘masterpiece of political and juridical thought’ of the entire Italian Enlightenment.9 In Naples, as in the other Sister Republics, the necessary point of reference was the constitution then in force in the ‘Mother Republic’ which, at any rate, Pagano did not hesitate to define as ‘one of the finest constitutions thus far produced’.10 He thus demonstrated his full appreciation – completely in line with the distrust he always had for ‘pure’ or plebiscitary democracy, seen as a potential form of popular dictatorship – for that model of representative democracy that this constitution aimed to affirm. However, undeniable connections may be glimpsed between the content of the Pagano Constitution, or better, of the numerous variations made to the text of the French Constitution of 1795, and the reflections he made in his previous works, above all in Saggi Politici which, published in two editions around the time of the French Revolution (1783-85 and 1791-92), represent the summa of the political thought of the jurist from Brienza.11 Beyond the many small – albeit sometimes significant – modifications Pagano introduced in his Dichiarazione dei diritti, e doveri dell’Uomo, del Cittadino, del Popolo e dei suoi rappresentanti12 in comparison with the Declaration of Rights and Duties of Man and Citizen that prefaced the French Constitution of the Year III, it is above all with regard to the function of the legislative and executive powers, and the relationship that was to be established between them, that we may note the discontinuity that existed between the constitutional project of the Neapolitan Republic and the French constitutional model. As for the legislative body – bicameral here as it was in France – it was certainly not the different terminology that Pagano conceived (Senate in place of a Council of Elders and Legislative Body as opposed to a Council of Five Hundred; similarly, in the Neapolitan version, the French Directory was, in Naples, to be dubbed the Arcontato)

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that marked the difference between the two constitutional models, but an entirely unique conception of that body’s role. In fact, Pagano, starting from the assumption that the power to propose laws was ‘more the effect of cold analysis than of bold genius’ and, believing that this task required ‘more extension of reason than flights of spirit’, was thus of the opinion that a ‘few mature men’ were more suited for this task than were an ‘ardent multitude of youths’.13 Therefore, as opposed to the original French model, the southern jurist inversed the relationship between the two branches of legislative power. In the light of the events that had characterized the Directory’s first four years of existence, Pagano did not hesitate to criticize certain aspects of the constitution developed by the Commission des Onze, in which he saw the tendency to produce a state of full-blown institutional paralysis.14 It failed to rule out the possibility that, in order to avoid a standstill, one of the powers would overstep its own limits and invade another power’s sphere of responsibility.15 His argument went as follows: If the executive power is too dependent upon the legislative body, as it was in the French Constitution of 1793, in this case the Assembly will absorb the executive power and, by concentrating all powers in it, will become despotic. And if one is independent of the other [as in the case of the Constitution of the Year III], this may give rise to two disorders: either inaction, and the weakness of the political machine, given the unintelligence of the two bodies rivalling one another, or the usurpation of one over the other, due to every power’s natural tendency to expand.16

However, the solution to this difficulty was entirely different from the one worked out in the governments of the other Sister Republics where, without compromising faithfulness to the Directory’s constitutional model, measures were taken to reinforce the executive power, almost as a ‘test bed’ for what was to take place in the ‘Mother Republic’ after 18 Brumaire.17 In fact, Pagano’s main fear was the regime’s possible despotic drift, a risk that he glimpsed not only where power was concentrated in the hands of a single individual but also in the case where a multitude of subjects held it. Therefore, convinced that the principle of the separation of powers was not, on its own, a sufficient bulwark against despotism, in his constitutional Progetto he introduced an entirely original institution called the Eforato, covered by title XIII of the Progetto, called ‘Protection of the Constitution’. This body consisted of seventeen members – as many as the Republic had departments – chosen every year by the electoral assemblies18 from among

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those who possessed the following requirements: being no less than 45 years of age; being married or widowed; having been, at least once, a member of the legislative body or of the Arcontato, and having been domiciled in the Republic for no less than ten years at the time of election (art. 365). The functions of the Eforato were detailed by art. 368 of the Progetto, which endowed this body with the following tasks and powers: the task of examining whether or not the constitution was observed in all its parts and whether the authorities had observed their own constitutional limits; the power to check each authority within its respective limits and duties, quashing and nullifying the acts of those that had gone beyond the functions attributed to them by the constitution; and lastly, the power to propose to the Senate the revision of those articles of the constitution that had been deemed ‘inappropriate’ and to suggest to the legislative body the abrogation of laws considered to conflict with constitutional dictates. Ideologically removed from Rousseau’s dogma of the legislator’s infallibility as expression of the popular will, Pagano did not hesitate to seek the most effective possible formulation of the balance of powers. It is well known that the problem of reviewing the constitutionality of laws, already introduced in the United States of America, had also been debated in France, where the Convention did not lack proposals to establish bodies endowed with this responsibility; 19 none of these proposals, however, met with any success. In fact, even in the climate of Thermidor, what prevailed was the idea – and the true Leitmotiv of French revolutionary constitutionalism – of the centrality of legislative power. This in turn originated from French constitutionalism’s atavistic distrust in a political institution, first and foremost judicial, invested with the power of reviewing the decisions made by the legislature.20 But the risk of despotism was not Pagano’s only concern. As he saw it, just as pernicious to the proper function of the republican regime was corruption – a disease that, if not duly repressed, risked poisoning all of society. This fear gave rise to the other new development in Pagano’s Progetto, in comparison with the French Constitution of 1795: the institution of the Censura (articles 314-316) – a tribunal composed of five members no less than 50 years of age, present in every canton and charged with overseeing education and safeguarding public morality. In fact, starting from the assumption that freedom was menaced not only by the usurpations of constituted powers, but also by citizens themselves and by public corruption, he gave these censors the task of overseeing the democratic conduct of the citizens, with the power to deprive them of the suffrage, or of eligibility in the case of corruption.

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In Pagano’s view, however, it was also necessary to take preventive action by placing the utmost importance on the issue of public education. Therefore, while the Thermidorian Constitution went no further than concerning itself with mere ‘instruction’, title X of the Progetto regarded ‘education and public instruction’ together. As early as his Saggi politici, Pagano had dedicated an entire chapter to the issue of education, clearly distinguishing instruction, which makes man ‘enlightened and generally cultivated’, from education, which is the ‘concurrence of all outside physical, moral, and accidental reasoning that develops natural talents and, through the sensations of the spirit, leaves indelible moral traits, forms the spirit, and provides a certain amount of ideas that create our internal universe’.21 Pagano thus held that the Republic had to dedicate all its efforts to the problem of education which, in his Progetto, should also include studying the Republican catechism, as well as theatrical performances aimed at ‘promoting the spirit of liberty’ (art. 299) and national holidays ‘to excite republican virtues’ (art. 300). All these ideas were wholly in line with the conviction, common to the Italian democratic movement, that it was vitally necessary to involve the people in democratic propaganda, while relying on any expedient deemed useful towards this end, such as, for example, using dialect in publications for the general public. Although General Championnet had solemnly affirmed that the constitution of the Neapolitan Republic would come into force on 21 March, it was still being considered by the legislative commission early in June. Pagano’s constitutional Progetto then ended up being overturned by the tragic events that led to the fall of the Republic and, after the Bourbon Restoration, to Pagano being sentenced to death and hanged on 29 October 1799. However, it remains one of the most important works of the ‘political’ Pagano; many suggestions worked out earlier, during the period of the highest splendour of Neapolitan reformism, flowed into it and found fulfilment. Yet, in our view, this does not invalidate the acknowledgement that the experiment of the Neapolitan Republic – whose story is in fact essential for its complete historical evaluation – belongs squarely within the Italian triennio (17961799).

4. Press, politics, and public opinion



Censorship and press liberty in the Sister Republics Some reflections Simon Burrows

In early 1798, the veteran Swiss journalist Jacques Mallet du Pan informed his friend, the abbé de Pradt: As for the public… one must leave the continent in order to speak to it; for there is no longer anywhere where anyone can print a line against the Directory and its manoeuvres […] Your continent horrifies me with its slaves and executioners, its baseness and cowardice. Only in England can one write, think, speak or act.1

The situation he describes implies a strange inversion of revolutionary values. For press liberty was enshrined at the heart of the founding document of the French Revolution, the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen. The revolutionaries of 1789 were convinced that only freedom of expression could guarantee political transparency, safeguard against corruption, and ensure the political education of the people. Yet less than a decade later, Mallet was suggesting that the armies of that same revolution had snuffed out press liberty across the entire continent, reducing the states of Europe, presumably the Sister Republics above all, to repressive French puppets. But was it as simple as Mallet’s colourful prose implied? The chapters in this section suggest a much more nuanced picture. Taken together, they offer a tightly organized and cohesive set of revisionist interpretative essays, as well as a model of effective, collaborative, internationally comparative press history. This is in itself a helpful contribution, for such comparative work is rare in the field of press history. Ten years ago, when Hannah Barker and I edited a set of nationally focused essays on press, politics, and the public sphere across Europe in the period 1760-1820, one reviewer commented that the last person to attempt such a comparative overview was the German diplomat Joachim von Schwarzkopf, and he was writing in 1800-1801.2 A couple of years later, I found a similar paucity when I rashly agreed to write a 4,000-word synthetic piece on the press in Europe in the nineteenth century.3 My search for useful comparative literature to move the chapter

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beyond my own period yielded thin pickings, most notably an ambitious but distinctly uneven study on the reporting of the Dreyfus case in several different countries. I found little other genuinely comparative work. 4 This problem doubtless stems from the overwhelmingly vast primary resource base for historians of the press and the natural – and in many ways common sense – national division of the historiographies. For national legal and censorship structures and national publishing cultures have largely shaped the content, style, and diversity of journalistic products. And yet, if we wish to attempt a wider understanding of the press in the political culture of late early modernity, or indeed the intellectual, social, and cultural developments of the period, we surely need to adopt comparative, collaborative approaches and frameworks that examine common experience and notable divergences between different countries. I began reading the contributions on censorship in this volume with several preconceptions, formed primarily in the process of editing Press, Politics and the Public Sphere. In the introduction to that book, we grappled with the model of the public sphere set out by Jürgen Habermas in his celebrated and heuristic work The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, summarizing the most cogent criticisms made by our contributors and other scholars before setting out an alternative vision of how the public sphere worked in reality.5 Like many previous commentators, we found Habermas’s emphasis on the bourgeois nature of the public sphere far from universally applicable (though, of course, he emphasized that it only reached a fully developed form in Britain). We found that in Britain, America, and the revolutionary Dutch Republic, the audience reached far beyond commercial elites, while in other countries, ranging from Russia to revolutionary France, significant noble readerships continued to exist. In the latter case, news organs designed for a noble audience coexisted with papers such as the Feuille villageoise, which was aimed at a popular readership. Such popular papers existed in Italy, too, during the revolutionary triennium, but their constituency never really reached beyond the urban elites who formed the bureaucratic cadres of the Sister Republics. We went on to argue that although the press was part of a relatively broadbased public sphere, it was not necessarily robust: hence the triumph of a liberal, democratic free press was far from inevitable. The press of the late eighteenth century was not independent of state power as the Habermasian model seemed to suggest, but instead enjoyed what we called ‘a contingent autonomy’ that proved decidedly fragile when faced with a ‘hegemonic or tyrannical government’ determined to exert the full force of state power. In

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most countries the press and public sphere had emerged under ‘state aegis and tutelage’, for the state’s legislative and policing frameworks shaped the parameters for free expression, and in many continental states newspapers were founded by or used as tools of government.6 As such, newspapers were often designed to influence opinion in other states and carefully excluded local political news, as it might be harmful to local interests. As Niek van Sas showed, even in an enlightened, relatively liberal polity such as the Netherlands, much political discussion was conducted in veiled form in Spectator style moral weeklies.7 Moreover, across much of Europe, the public was distinctly absent from newspaper discussion, which revolved around high politics and high political actors, revealing some of the secrets of state but not offering a forum for their discussion. Such discussion, if it took place at all, did so away from the news media among those skilled at decoding and evaluating the often contradictory content of political reports. Moreover, everywhere the state had considerable repressive powers at its disposal. Legal prosecutions and criminal libel trials were used, sometimes extensively, to intimidate and silence journalists in Britain, Ireland, America, and the Dutch Republic. Elsewhere, popular violence and political coups constrained freedom of expression. Journalists therefore often needed ideological commitment and bravery to speak out. Discretion and tactical sense could also be advantageous. However, armed with these, journalists across ancien régime Europe gradually carved out for themselves a space for discussion, exploiting the tensions inherent in the policies of states that simultaneously sought to promote their interests to an international public, policymakers, and financial markets through apparently independent and hence credible organs of opinion. Unable or unwilling to be seen to coerce or control journalists, they were forced to develop more symbiotic and subtle relationships with the press. Nevertheless, armed force had, we noted, extinguished the public sphere to a large extent in the Netherlands in 1787 and 1798; in revolutionary France and Italy; and in Napoleonic Germany. Moreover, Napoleon largely succeeded in silencing critical discussion across Europe, establishing tight control over the dissemination of agenda-setting information.8 He was limited, however, by a lack of resources and the largely personal nature of his control apparatus, which could not extend to prior censorship and therefore relied on coercion and official vigilance to persuade journalists to police themselves more severely than any state censorship apparatus.9 Where a freer press did develop, we concluded, it was usually due to a revolutionary disruption, which either destroyed or radically reorganized state power,

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rather than a process of gradual evolution towards a liberal public sphere. And this brings us back to the Sister Republics. This framework provides a set of questions with which to assess our model and illuminate the experience of the Sister Republics. How far did the French occupation of the Sister Republics lead to a liberalization of the press, and how far can we detect an evolution in the press in the mid- to late 1790s? How far did the new republican authorities and elites encourage and benefit from press proliferation or connive to defend their native press against external pressure from France? When did more repressive measures replace liberal press regimes, in effect as well as in principle? What form did such policies take, and how far did they mimic ancien régime attempts at press control? What ideological justifications were used for clampdowns on the press, and did they represent a rejection of the Enlightenment and early revolutionary ideas about a free press? Did such repression foreshadow later Napoleonic attempts to close down the European public sphere? How free was the press in these states, and to what extent did press policy reflect developments in French domestic policy? How much latitude did the governments of the Sister Republics have in their press policies and how did they use it? How effective were their attempts at censorship and how were editors able to evade them? The contributions which follow offer clear and often compelling answers to these questions, as well as making some powerful eruptions into national historiographies. They offer a relatively consistent picture, one that contains some delicious paradoxes and raises new questions. The first paradox is that the importation of press freedom from the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen into the constitutions of the Sister Republics was followed almost immediately by severe police and censorship measures in Switzerland and the Cisalpine Republic, and a clampdown on Orangist journalists in the Batavian Republic. However, some of these control measures were initially imposed for just a year, which suggests that they were seen as emergency measures while the new state apparatus was getting established. So, too, does Erik Jacobs’ suggestion in his contribution that the exemplary punishment of the Dutch printer-bookseller F. J. d’Agé in 1795 was apparently a one-off event and that the following two years saw a relaxation of the Batavian press regime. We should remember, too, that there was a constant external military threat to the new states, and that in 1799 all three Sister Republics faced invasion. In such crisis, we might expect repression to be the norm. Indeed, from 1792 there were also periodic clampdowns on Jacobin and counter-revolutionary papers in France; whilst even the British press suffered from Pittite repression.

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And yet, paradoxically, press liberalization proved to be far from a dead letter after the revolutionary armies arrived in Italy, Switzerland, and Holland. Despite the limiting effects of new censorship or police regimes, in Switzerland and the Cisalpine Republic the press underwent a revolutionary metamorphosis. Both experienced a partial liberalization and significant increase in the number of titles available on the market. But even more significant was the transformation in the content of the newspapers. Despite censorship, the rapid emergence of a new essay journalism, which stressed opinion rather than information, seems to be the hallmark of the newly emergent revolutionary public sphere. Such papers also, as Andreas Würgler notes in his chapter, tended to appear more frequently – accelerating the pace of events and popular engagement with them. The end result was not Habermasian rational critical debate but, almost inevitably, a politically polarized, often murderously partisan press. Such a press emerged in the American colonies in the 1770s; the Dutch Republic in the early and mid1780s; revolutionary France from 1789; as well as in the Sister Republics and Ireland in the 1790s. Despite General Bonaparte’s attempts to establish tight controls, liberalization may have had its most extreme results in Italy, where previous repression had been strictest. There, with the connivance of local revolutionary elites, the ‘explosion of the press’ from 1796 was remarkable. Likewise, in Switzerland the number of titles on the market increased permanently following the French invasion, whilst in Holland, Orangist journalists – although liable for persecution if they continued to express their views too openly – fared much better under the Batavian republic than Patriot journalists had done in 1787. Then, in the wake of the Prussian suppression of the Patriot revolt, most leading Patriots fled Orangist retribution, and many only returned with the invading armies in 1795. In that sense, the Batavians’ relative forebearance seems remarkable, particularly given the violent partisanship on both sides of the political divide in the 1780s. It seems clear that the interpretation of the legislation of 1798 as a rerun of 1787, but with Republicans triumphant, is open to serious revision. Indeed, Erik Jacobs suggests that the decree of 1798, a response to French government pressure, would have been a dead letter were it not for the repressive zeal of the police chief Abraham Jacques La Pierre, who closed down several papers. Despite La Pierre’s efforts, which redoubled after 1802, the Dutch press retained a surprising degree of autonomy through to 1806 and even beyond. Its independence was only finally snuffed out in 1811. This in turn suggests that my own work has hitherto overstated the extent of the Napoleonic news hegemony before Tilsit.

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Of course, just as censorship was an established part of the European journalistic scene under the ancien régime, so were French-inspired repressive measures. For example, Jean Vercruysse found that between 1760 and 1785, Dutch authorities took action against journalists on at least 24 out of 28 occasions when the French government complained about Dutch papers. So complaints from the French authorities were a fact of life for foreign journalists, regardless of whether they lived in a Sister Republic in the 1790s or within Bourbon France’s sphere of influence before the revolution. Yet the punishments meted out to offending journalists by the Dutch authorities under pressure from the Bourbons were usually tokenistic, often limited to printed corrections and retractions.10 Within the power structures of eighteenth-century politics, France had a voice that was often hard to resist, but compliance with her demands was sometimes superficial. When we turn to the efficacy of French revolutionary complaints and the resultant punitive measures, we are again faced with a case of plus ça change. Diplomatic complaints in the ancien régime period seldom led to draconian action against journalists except where sovereigns or diplomats had been insulted, and the same seems to have been true to a surprising degree under the Sister Republics.11 Old tricks such as reopening a suppressed newspaper under a new title or in a new city seem to have remained surprisingly common. It is also clear that in Italy and the Netherlands, local revolutionary elites connived in protecting local journalists and publications, even at the risk of upsetting the French authorities or tolerating opposition papers. The Cisalpine opposition to General Bonaparte’s attempts to ban offending journalists from publishing for life, and the Councils’ willingness to declare repressive press measures illegal, as described in Katia Visconti’s contribution, are striking examples of this. Napoleon’s proposal was one measure that might have genuinely snuffed out oppositional journalism, yet local legislators refused to be browbeaten into accepting such a draconian proposal. Likewise, the Batavian government would probably have ignored the press decree of 1798 but for the actions of La Pierre. This implies that many members of the political elites of the Sister Republics were paying more than lip service to the principles of freedom of the press declared in the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen. They shared an enlightened commitment to free publicity and democratic transparency. Yet in due course, these same individuals seem to have been involved in repressive actions against the press. Was this the result of disillusion, hypocritical opportunism, protective self-interest, or French pressure? It seems unduly hard to accuse these men of inconsistency, let alone hypocrisy. The enlightened idea of press freedom was based on polite standards of

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intellectual debate. Even the French revolutionaries of 1789 believed that it should operate within carefully prescribed limits, albeit those of a positive freedom. Let us remind ourselves of the text of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen, article 11: Free expression of thought and opinions is one of the most precious rights of man. Accordingly, every citizen may speak, write and publish freely, subject to the penalties for the abuse of this freedom provided for by law.

What might be an abuse of this freedom? One clear answer is provided by article ten of the same Declaration: No one must be troubled on account of his opinions, even his religious beliefs, provided that their expression does not disturb public order under the law.

In the polarized, sometimes murderously partisan world of revolutionary politics, this would clearly place counter-revolutionary and oppositional papers outside the law in the eyes of even the liberal revolutionaries of 1789. This was particularly true in the many cases where invective gave way to insult.12 And yet, in the Dutch case, where there was a stronger tradition of a more liberal press regime, there is considerable evidence that the treatment of opposition journalists actually softened in the course of the years 1795 to 1797, despite (or conceivably because of) press intimidation of politicians. Thereafter there was little enthusiasm for the harsh measures of 1798 and little political will to enforce them. Even in the Cisalpine and Swiss Republics, where freedom of expression was less deeply rooted, it took imminent external threats to promote a truly draconian reaction, including the death penalty for press offences. By then, however, the political stakes were higher. Faced with the reality of invasion and violent overthrow, the ever-present fear of a rapid turn of the political wheel which, as Katia Visconti hints, may previously have restrained the republicans’ behaviour towards domestic enemies, was perhaps transformed into desperate, internecine panic. In a revolutionary environment and against the background of European warfare, press liberalization was always likely to be a precarious achievement, containing the seeds of its own destruction. And yet, in a short time, and under constraint from the beginning, it wrought a remarkable transformation in newspaper volumes, style, and content, and enjoyed considerable support among revolutionary elites. The key question then

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is perhaps not so much why there was a resort to more repressive policies in each of our three Sister Republics, but rather why there was support for such a degree of press freedom as existed, and in the Dutch case, why it lasted so long. The answer to this conundrum has much to tell us about the political culture of the Sister Republics.



1798: A turning point? Censorship in the Batavian Republic Erik Jacobs

In his standard book on the history of the Dutch press, written in 1943, historian Maarten Schneider remarked that the Batavian Republic features a reversal in theory and practice.1 Before the revolution, in the Republic of the Seven United Provinces,2 the press had been constricted by law, but in practice it had been free to do largely as it pleased.3 In the Batavian Republic, this situation became reversed. The grandiloquent Declaration of the Rights of Man of 1795 and its constitutional counterpart of 1798 both ensured freedom of thoughts, ideas, speech, and consequently of the press – but only theoretically, because the press was now subjected to a far tighter rein than before the revolution, Schneider stated. Schneider’s ideas have been contradicted by G. D. Homan, whose influential article in 1976 showed that any curtailment of the freedom of the press is to be sought in 1802, after the new constitution had been installed and the democratic period of the Batavian Republic had ended. Before that, ‘few attempts were made to curtail freedom of the press even in time of stress and turmoil’. 4 By this turmoil he meant the events of 1798, the year in which a coup d’état led to political purges, the founding of the first – quite radical – constitution after a manipulated plebiscite, and following that an unconstitutional decision to not have new parliamentary elections, which in turn incited a second coup d’état. According to Homan, there was talk about the curbing of the ‘licentiousness’ of the press, but this did not lead to more stringent policy, let alone any repression of the press in reality. Homan’s revision of Schneider’s observations has been amended by both A. H. Huussen Jr. in 1987 and Wyger R. E. Velema in 1997.5 Both scholars agreed that the political turmoil of 1798 was the turning point in the history of the freedom of the press during the Batavian Republic. Huussen claims it marked ‘a dramatic departure from the policy followed in the previous three years’. Velema agreed with Huussen but interpreted 1798 as the culmination of a process that had taken root as early as 1795 rather than a watershed. He emphasizes the lack of protest in both the press and the National Assembly against governmental limitations on the freedom of the press in 1798. This lack of protest was remarkable, because the Batavian revolutionaries had always considered freedom of the press to be a precondition for their par-

152 Erik Jacobs 31 January Declaration of Rights of Man

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Figure 1: A short history of the Batavian Republic 1795-1801

ticipatory Republic. But, as Velema explains, by 1798 the free press seemed to have sown only discord instead of the stimulation of enlightened ideals and public participation. When two coups d’états were needed to overcome the political deadlock, belief in the participatory Republic received its death blow. The freedom of the press ceased to be a central issue.6 For this reason, the governments in 1798 could limit the freedom of the press without much resistance. According to Huussen and Velema, Homan’s thesis that the freedom of the press was not suppressed before 1802 could no longer stand.

A short history of Batavian censorship The Batavian freedom of the press was ambiguous from the start. Little over a month after they had issued a Declaration of the Rights of Man (see figure 1) on 4 March, the Provisional Government of Holland decided that freedom of the press should not allow counter-revolutionary tendencies in society to fester. It thus declared that it would flog, imprison, and banish those who wrote (or spoke) against, and thereby endangered, the Rights of Man and the sovereignty of the people.7 And these sanctions were carried out. The printer and bookseller F. J. d’Agé was arrested on grounds of contravening the decree of 4 March 1795 and was sentenced to six years of prison labour and banishment thereafter.8 d’Agé had published a broadsheet containing supposed articles of a peace treaty between France and Prussia. Although these were taken from the Leydsche Courant, a Patriotic newspaper,9 d’Agé

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had forgotten to mention their spurious nature.10 The writers of the Leydsche Courant escaped with a warning. However contradictory this attitude towards freedom of expression seems to be, it may be argued that it does little more than illustrate the turmoil that characterized the early stages of the Batavian Republic. An interestingly comparable situation in 1797 seems to suggest that this at least partly accounts for the severe punishment of d’Agé. In May of that year, the Orangist editor Johannes Olivier published an article in his Rhijnlandsche courant11 reporting on a placate that circulated in several German and Belgian cities. The article created quite a stir,12 as the German broadsheet supposedly contained the conditions for the peace negotiations between – once again – France and Prussia, which would have far-reaching consequences for the Batavian Republic. Similar to d’Agé, Olivier did not add to the article that the information may have been untrue. But instead of being punished, Olivier was set free with a warning to be more careful in the future.13 This leniency suggests that by 1797 the revolutionary situation had cooled down. Orangist printers and editors could go about their business as long as they operated inconspicuously and carefully.14 After the failed Anglo-Russian invasion of 1799, the Orangists were allowed to play a public role again and Orangist publications and magazines started to reappear.15 By 1797, the counter-revolution had ceased to be the main issue concerning the freedom of the press. During the first National Assembly (1796-1797), the rift between the radical reformers and what was known as the moderate party grew ever sharper, a division deepened by opposing political periodicals.16 The daily publication of the proceedings of the National Assembly in a commercial newspaper called Dagverhaal, a magazine in great demand throughout the Batavian Republic, made the querulous nature of the assembly painfully clear.17 The members of parliament were heavily criticized in the political press, where name-calling, debasement, and the spreading of rumours were commonplace, in the cheap anonymous leaflets sold by peddlers as well as in the more expensive magazines available in bookshops.18 Although in a quantitative sense the moderate parliamentarians faced the bulk of the critique, the moderate press was just as keen on slandering the radical members of parliament.19 The high-water mark of this tension was the fierce battle fought over the first constitutional draft, which had been worked on by the assembly for nearly two years and the fate of which was to be decided by referendum at the beginning of August 1797. The press not only criticized virtually every part of the proposed constitution but even reverted to threatening the members of the opposing political persuasion with physical abuse if they would turn up to vote.20 The elitist magazine de

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Democraten stated that both opponents and supporters of the constitution had abused the holy right of the freedom of the press.21 Some representatives wondered whether judicial circumscription of the press was in order, but no laws were enacted. If writers crossed the line, the laws against slander or rioting should suffice.22 So aside from the Orangists, the Batavian people enjoyed a great measure of freedom to write their opinions. And this situation continued after the radical coup d’état of 1798. Indeed, the radical regime was often criticized by the French for not putting a stop to critical political magazines.23 It was only after the French ambassador Charles Delacroix and his secretary Brahain Ducange had been publicly offended that the radical leader Pieter Vreede was forced to make amends to the French. In his official proclamation on 22 May, he stressed that any ‘abuse of the press’ went directly against the freedom of the nation and should be considered a crime to be punished.24 But Vreede did not state what that punishment was to be, and his proclamation met with scepticism in parliament, which decided only to take note of it.25 There is no evidence to suggest that after 22 May the repression of the press was more fervent than before.26 Indeed, there was little time for that since only three weeks later, on 12 June, a second coup d’état deposed Vreede’s radical government.

1798 On 19 July, Vreede’s successors issued an official decree following an upheaval in Amsterdam in support of the deposed radical government. This decree prescribed severe corporal punishment, five years’ imprisonment, and banishment for life for those who threatened the current government by action, word, or in writing. As representative Herman Vitringa observed, the decree was nearly an exact copy of the decree of 4 March 1795, only applied to all citizens instead of just the Orangists.27 Vitringa declared that this older decree had not solved the judicial problems and because of that he was very sceptical about the effectiveness of the proposed measures.28 But despite his objections, the decree was accepted by the assembly. This is where the curtailment of the freedom of the press was put to paper. Huussen deemed it a direct consequence of the executive branch of government gaining power at the expense of the legislative and judiciary, chocking critical opposition. Another example of that was the instruction of the Agent of Internal Police, which granted him vast powers to halt the distribution of politically subversive periodicals and pamphlets.29

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But it remains to be proven if these measures had an impact on the political press. The decree of 19 July and the Agent’s instruction were written in a period of political instability, as was the March 1795 decree. A new government had just been installed and faced rioting and upheaval by the supporters of the deposed regime. To answer the question whether the decree had practical consequences, the number of available political periodicals per month has been plotted in figure 2. Close and comparative examination of the graph indicates that there is little reason to believe that the measures taken in July 1798 severely hampered the political press.30 Quantitatively at least there is little to support the claim of a watershed in 1798. Huussen argues that a ‘more general attitude of disapproval about the political press’ was felt after 1798.31 But he only supports this by referring to a conflict with the Haarlemsche Courant, a case hardly different from any other comparable collision between government and newspapers from 1700 up to 1798.32 The proceedings of the Provincial Government of the province of Holland between 1795 and 1798 provide several examples of local municipalities or private persons sending missives asking for repression of newspapers or magazines.33 These were mostly turned down, but they often led to debate and sometimes special committees were established to decide whether there was any need for legal action. On one occasion the provincial assembly meddled directly in the affairs of the Gazette de Leyde, telling the publisher to find a more ‘republican’ editor or else face closure of the paper. 34

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Up to 1802 Maybe Velema’s assertion that the waning of popular political participation caused the lack of parliamentary opposition to the curtailment of the freedom of the press is a better explanation for this supposed shift in the general attitude. The first part of Velema’s argument is confirmed by the quantitative analysis. The steady decline in the number of available political magazines during the Batavian Republic, as illustrated by the trend line in figure 1, suggests that demand for political periodicals dwindled. If demand dropped, it is safe to assume that the popularity of politics declined as well.35 But for the second part of Velema’s argument: the lack of opposition to the 19 July decree was not necessarily a direct consequence of a decrease in popular participation. On several occasions before 1798, the National Assembly discussed how freedom of thought and expression should be codif ied in the constitution. The scope of this contribution does not allow for an in-depth analysis of these debates, but suffice it to say that since 1796 there had been parliamentary discussions about the legal limitations to the freedom of the press.36 Before July 1798, the general attitude towards the press was at least as ambiguous as after; it was only after 12 July that most opposition to legal limitation was eliminated from the assembly. Besides, the decree passed mainly because it was presented as an indispensable tool for the revolutionaries to stabilize the riotous frictions (especially those in Amsterdam) after Vreede’s government had been deposed. 37 And the decree would remain in dispute, especially after radical representatives were re-elected into parliament in the course of 1799.38 After two debates on the unconstitutionality of the decree had (nearly) escalated, the matter was referred to a committee and not heard of again. This effectively rendered it useless, even though it did not result in its abolishment.39 In 1801 another committee was formed to provide an answer to two propositions made by the executive to restrict the freedom of the press. This again shows that the decree was considered to have been temporary, as it is not even mentioned in this committee’s report. 40 Indeed, the report stated that up until then the Batavian Republic had been ‘deprived of a general law that defines the boundaries between use and misuse of the freedom of the press’. But although the members of the committee repeated that the misuse of the freedom of the press should be dealt with, 41 they advised strongly against the legal curtailment of the freedom of the press as proposed by the executive. In the past, the press had often proved to be the only means by which the general public could keep tabs on the government, they argued. 42

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The rejection of the proposition of the executive (Uitvoerend Bewind) by the committee is an example of a continuing struggle between the legislative and the executive branches of government. 43 This eventually resulted in the coup d’état of 19 September 1801, when the executive took matters in hand. A new constitution was in place by October. 44 The new Staatsbewind that replaced the former Uitvoerend Bewind was scarcely controlled by the legislative, effectively ending the democratic period of the Batavian Republic. And, during its reign, virtually all remaining political periodicals were forced to quit (on 28 June 1802). If any watershed in the history of the Batavian political press is to be determined, this is it. However, to simply state that the Staatsbewind did so to quell opposition, as Homan suggests by calling it ‘the most serious’ amongst its failures, seems to be an oversimplification. 45 If the Staatsbewind had wanted to do so, why wait nearly nine months? Besides, why would the Staatsbewind have been effective where its predecessors had failed?

La Pierre As it turns out, it was the personal involvement of the Agent of Internal Police, Abraham Jacques La Pierre, 46 that stopped the critical political press in the Batavian Republic. 47 Of course, he needed a strong central government such as the Staatsbewind to implement his censorship. Before 1801, the executive lacked the power to do so. Still, this was done at La Pierre’s personal request, not the other way around. Appointed by Vreede’s radical government, La Pierre was the single most important combatant of the political press of the Batavian period until 1802. A controversial figure from the start, he was not trusted by either Vreede’s Uitvoerend Bewind (and rightly so, as he later defected to the people deposing them) or by their successors. Even so, he managed to maintain his position. 48 During this time he worked fervently to suppress oppositional forces throughout the Netherlands. 49 Between the January and June coup d’états of 1798, he tried to root out supporters of the House of Orange using a close-knit network of informants as well as local and provincial governmental councils. He was made responsible for the purge of the lists of people entitled to vote.50 After 12 June 1798, he used the same networks that provided him the information on Orangistic counter-revolutionairies to smother radical opposition to the new regime.51 He was responsible for the laws on the closure of political associations in 1798-1799, and it had been his agency that organized the closure of federalist

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clubs and associations throughout the country before the second coup d’état.52 Time and again, he tried to convince the government that more stringent measures against the press had to be taken.53 He often called important political editors on the carpet to harass them with questions and threats.54 La Pierre and his network were mostly responsible for the curtailment of the press in 1802. He took pleasure in personally informing the lead editors of the major critical newspapers that the game was up.55

Conclusion Homan was right to suggest that until the advent of the Staatsbewind, the freedom of the press was never seriously hampered. However, the take-over by the executive in 1801 did not in itself instigate the thorough cleansing of the political press but only provided the necessary condition for La Pierre to fulfil his personal crusade against the unbridled licentiousness of the critical press. The centralization of power in the Staatsbewind allowed him to finally use the far-reaching authority he enjoyed by instruction and his network of informants to effectively shut down popular political magazines throughout the Republic, which up until the Staatsbewind had been impossible. The Batavian politicians left in charge after 1802 were in favour of a free press as long as it prevented tyranny and promoted Enlightenment values. Slander, personal debasement, or even the suggestion of political intrigue of political actors were certainly far beyond that. Even so, it took La Pierre over half a year to convince the Staatsbewind to finally allow him to stop the ‘licentious’ political press. It was the centralization of political power in the Staatsbewind, then, which provided La Pierre with the means to carry out his personal vendetta against the political press. One could call this a reversal of theory and practice (as Schneider did), but we have to remember that this reversal only occurred after the democratic era of the Batavian Republic was over. And even after 1802, the Batavian government generally agreed that freedom of the press was one of the pillars of the Republic.56 And finally, both Homan and Huussen were correct when they remarked that the Napoleonic censorship imposed after 1806, and especially in 1811, was far worse than any imposed by any Dutch government, before or after 1795.57



Censorship and public opinion Press and politics in the Helvetic Republic (1798-1803) Andreas Würgler

The Helvetic Revolution was without doubt the most significant disruption in Swiss history, which had developed rather continuously in the course of four hundred years. The rupture was twofold. First, the new constitution, shaped by the hands of the French Directoire, abolished the sovereignty of each of the thirteen former cantons; the federalist organization was replaced by a strong central state unknown to Swiss history up to that time, as were the new principles of human rights and the separation of powers. At the same time, this new constitution was introduced and backed by French troops, leading the Swiss people to perceive the revolution also as an occupation by armed forces. This contribution will discuss whether and how this sudden change affected the relation between press and politics, censorship and public opinion. In what follows, I will first hint briefly at the pre-revolutionary historical context and then discuss the introduction of the freedom of the press and its effects on the production, the contents, and the style of printed periodicals. Finally I shall discuss some legislative and practical problems of ‘enlightened censorship’.

Press and censorship before 1798 In contrast to many other parts of Europe, there was no absolutism in Old Regime Switzerland with its population of about 1.5 million. The ruling aristocracies in the thirteen sovereign cantons were careful, however, to keep political affairs secret. The deliberations of the different political bodies – the rather loosely institutionalized Swiss federal Diet at the ‘national’ or ‘federal’ level, and the powerful councils in each canton – remained secret as a rule. Newspapers and journals were all monitored by the cantons’ censorship, which was organized as a sort of state-church joint-venture and had all pre-modern tools of censorship at hand: destruction of printed texts, prohibition to print texts, special taxes, and security deposits as well as printing privileges, (in)direct subsidies for publishers, and so on. Censorship by the state or the church included the control of the production,

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presentation, distribution, and perception of all kind of information, be it written or printed texts, spoken or sung words, performed gestures, staged theatres, painted or printed images.1 Despite this situation, more than thirty periodicals were published regularly before 1798 – about ten newspapers, ten advertisers (Intelligenzblätter or Anzeiger) and ten journals (Zeitschriften) – because the federal structure favoured the rival production of periodicals in different cantons. These periodicals were mostly run privately but were to some extent subject to the government’s need to spread information. Most of these periodicals were published in Protestant cities such as Zurich (23), Geneva (11), Basel (7), Bern (5), and Lausanne (5),2 whereas the number of titles produced in Catholic cities was quite modest (Fribourg 3, Lucerne 2). The Swiss press was bilingual or even trilingual, if we consider the Italian-speaking area, where three titles (4 per cent of the total pre-revolutionary production of periodicals) were edited between 1781 and 1797 – compared to 28 titles in French (33 per cent) and 53 titles in German (63 per cent). German was, obviously, the most important idiom in the Old Confederation and the only official language spoken by the thirteen members at the federal conferences or Diets. Censorship largely determined the contents of the periodicals and especially the newspapers. News from abroad dominated, while those of domestic origin were almost non-existent. After the remarkable decline of confessional disputes during the eighteenth century, the authorities of both Catholic and Protestant cantons collaborated quite closely in almost all matters of censorship.3

The freedom of the press and the boom of political periodicals The Helvetic Constitution was Switzerland’s first constitution. Written by the Swiss Peter Ochs and modified by the French government in Paris, it was put in place on 12 April 1798, about six weeks after the military defeat of the old Swiss Confederation by French revolutionary troops. Article 7 stated: ‘The freedom of the press is a natural consequence of everybody’s right to be instructed.’4 The constitutional guarantee of the freedom of the press triggered a boom in publications. I shall now analyze some of its quantitative and qualitative aspects. The most visible effect of the freedom of the press was the dramatic increase of newly founded printed periodicals, especially during the first two years of the Helvetic Republic (see graph 1).5 The number of 44 newly

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50 45 40 35 30 25 20 15 10 5

1781 1782 1783 1784 1785 1786 1787 1788 1789 1790 1791 1792 1793 1794 1795 1796 1797 1798 1799 1800 1801 1802 1803 1804 1805 1806 1807 1808 1809 1810 1811 1812 1813 1814 1815 1816 1817 1818 1819 1820 1821 1822 1823 1824 1825 1826 1827 1828 1829 1830 1831

0

Graph 1: Newly founded periodicals per annum (Switzerland 1781-1831) (N=378)

established periodicals in 1798 was three times higher than the previous record in Swiss history (13 in 1794). The lowest amount of new periodicals founded in one year (12)6 during 1798-1803 was, with the exception of 1794, higher than for all years before and after the Helvetic Republic until 1830. The take-off in periodicals was a completely new phenomenon,7 but it did not last for long. Only in the 1830s could the high number of new (and lasting old) periodicals be stabilized due to the definitive implementation of the freedom of the press in many cantons in 1830/31. The upswing of publications was not, however, limited to newspapers and journals. The number of pamphlets, booklets, printed petitions, and so on also rose. These publications show that there was a strong demand for (political) information and discussion that had been suppressed by censorship during the Old Regime. It is not yet possible to gauge the exact increase in pamphlets because no exhaustive bibliography of this kind of printings exists. Some of them – especially in the cantons of Vaud, Zurich, and Schwyz – have been studied more intensively. These studies stress the importance of this genre for the political developments in Switzerland,8 although figures indicating the quantitative importance of these pamphlets have to be handled with caution. However, it seems that the amount and importance of the printing production during the eighteenth century have mostly been underestimated so far.9 At the same time, the boom in printed periodicals has to be questioned critically. The Swiss historian of the press, Ernst Bollinger, stated that the number of newspapers and journals increased from 40 in 1797 to 120 in 1798.10 But he and others only counted the newly established titles without

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50

40

30

20

10

1781 1782 1783 1784 1785 1786 1787 1788 1789 1790 1791 1792 1793 1794 1795 1796 1797 1798 1799 1800 1801 1802 1803 1804 1805 1806 1807 1808 1809 1810 1811 1812 1813 1814 1815

0

Graph 2: Number of periodicals in Switzerland, 1781-1815 (N=194)

checking how long they continued to be published.11 Christoph Guggenbühl has already pointed out that most of these new periodicals were founded and run by only a small number of persons because many of the so-called newly established titles were just newspapers that changed their names for various reasons, including censorship, (state) sponsorship, and marketing.12 If we count the number of periodicals that appeared in a certain year – still on the basis of Fritz Blaser’s bibliography from 1958 that has to be consulted with caution – we still find an increase, but it is not that large: whereas the number of new periodicals increased by 300 per cent from 1797 to 1798, the number of periodicals available in 1798 or 1799 increased only by 40 per cent.13 When we take a closer look at the three types of periodicals – newspapers, advertisers, and journals – we will find about ten items of each type during the 1780s. During the 1790s the number of journals declined, the number of newspapers increased, and that of advertisers remained stable. The boost of 1798/1799 was essentially due to newspapers and advertisers, not to journals. This can be accounted for by the three trends of politicization, acceleration, and popularization. Politicization, because the newspapers focused far more on political news than the journals did. Acceleration, because the newspapers were published more often (one to six times a week) than the journals (usually one to twelve issues per year). Popularization, because newspapers were written in a more popular language than the mostly learned and academic journals; the newspapers’ articles were shorter, and newspapers were cheaper than journals as well.

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30

25

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10

5

0 1775

1780

1785

1790

1795 Newspaper

1800 Advertiser

1805

1810

1815

1820

Journal

Graph 3: Types of periodicals in Switzerland, 1781-1815 (N=194)

Let us now have a look at the development of newspapers and advertisers. Up to 1802, more newspapers than advertisers were published. But between 1803 and 1814, the opposite was the case. Advertisers were mostly specialized in local ads that concerned buying or selling goods, offering or searching jobs, hitching lifts, and so on. Some advertisers added local news and even literary supplements. The advertisers also published new laws, official proclamations, and announcements, but they generally lacked news from abroad or political comments. Thus we might say that the politicization process was twofold: the political comments in newspapers were counterbalanced by the state’s increasing output of printed information. In addition, the state also backed private newspapers and made them semi-official or even official newspapers by directly financing the printing costs, guaranteeing a certain amount of subscribers (e.g. officials), disclaiming taxes, or offering free delivery by the state’s postal services. Some members of parliament even produced their own newspapers and thus made sure that firsthand information found its way to the public. All these state activities show that the new authorities considered themselves active participants who were out to win the favour of the public. It also echoes the fact that freedom of the press was not formulated as the individual’s right to learn but as the individual’s right to be taught.14 Besides quantitative changes in the periodical press, there were important qualitative innovations. Up to 1798, due to censorship, periodicals mostly printed news from abroad. After 1798, however, the papers were largely filled with domestic political news. This is another aspect of the

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politicization of the periodicals. They focused on the parliamentary debates and the activities of the government. To present-day readers, these lengthy reports may seem quite boring,15 but for the readers in 1798 they were extremely exciting. For the first time they could get information in printed form on all political issues, arguments, and decisions – and even on the voting behaviour of their representatives. All this information was published in the newspapers. They thus not only served the interest of the public but also the government’s need to inform the people about all the tremendous changes that were going on. By trying to take control over the information flow, the government hoped to control public opinion.16 The newspapers also met the readers’ demand for political news by summarizing the contents of the most important pamphlets, introducing their readers to the political debates that took place in these pamphlets. As they could evade censorship more easily than the newspapers that were published periodically, the discussion in pamphlets was far more free and radical.17 Not only the content of newspaper articles but also the style in which they were written changed dramatically in 1798. The articles became more critical, more polemic, more satirical, and more radical. This change not only affected the periodicals that were founded from 1798 onwards but also those that had survived from the Old Regime.18 The era of lengthy, neutral reports without any editorial opinion that had dominated the newspapers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was over. Now every newspaper tried to improve its profile by pointed and critical contributions as well as comments. Especially the conservative and counter-revolutionary journalists, who ideologically denied that freedom of the press was a human right, based their satirical statements about the failures of everyday revolutionary politics on the establishment of this very freedom of the press. These attacks from the conservative party deeply troubled the partisans of the Enlightenment who had become members of the Helvetic government. They soon felt urged to restrain the freedom of the press and thus violate their own principles. Even if these discussions did not really affect the constitutional status of the freedom of the press – considered ‘sacred’19 in many parliamentary debates – already in November 1798 the parliament promulgated a law against the ‘misuse’ of the freedom of the press.20

Reintroducing censorship Early in April 1798 the Helvetic government encouraged the press to conform to the new order, but of course ‘Sans que par là on veuille le moins du monde

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porter atteinte à la liberté de la presse.’21 Nonetheless, the French military commanders in Switzerland felt compelled to proclaim the following in June: gazetiers, journalistes, auteurs et redacteurs de feuilles publiques qui se permettraient de parler ou d’écrire d’une manière à aigrir les habitants de l’Helvétie contre les Français et vice-versa, à calomnier l’armée, ses chefs et les agents du Gouvernement français; à répandre astucieusement des plaintes, griefs et autres réclamations qui viseraient à déprécier l’ordre et la discipline, à soulever le peuple contre les Français par la relation de faits quelconques […]; tous ces individus ainsi désignés seront saisis et arrêtés sur-le-champ, jugés militairement comme perturbateurs de la tranquillité publique, et les presses et instruments d’imprimerie seront brisés.22

In spite of some criticism against this proclamation,23 the parliament started its deliberations about the so-called misuse of the freedom of the press already in July 1798.24 This discussion was partly evoked by an article in the Helvetischen Annalen, a well-known conservative periodical run by Karl Ludwig von Haller, who would become famous with his book Die Restauration der Staatswissenschaften (1816). In the summer of 1798, Haller had been provoking the authorities for quite some time, but when he published the news that Switzerland would have to supply 20,000 soldiers for the French army, the government prohibited the publication of his journal.25 Though the news turned out to be true, Haller preferred to leave the country. He settled in Augsburg, Germany, where he published a new periodical that continued to criticize the Helvetic authorities.26 In order to avoid such calamities, the parliament produced a new law that subjected the press to the control of the police. The publishers had to deliver some copies of each issue to the authorities.27 In 1799, when the eastern parts of Switzerland were conquered by Austrian and Russian troops, the death penalty was added to the list of sanctions for so-called misuse. Foreign newspapers were suppressed because they reported the Austrian victories that forced the Helvetic government to move from Lucerne in central Switzerland to Bern in the west.28 All the acts of legislation restraining the freedom of the press culminated in the omission of this very freedom in the second constitution of the Helvetic Republic enacted in May 1802. However, in contrast to the situation in the Old Regime, censorship was no longer a generally accepted reality after 1798. The eighteenth-century de-

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bates on censorship had been the business of some intellectuals within more or less learned but small circles, but during the Helvetic Republic the issue was largely discussed by a wider public. Although most of the responsible authorities in the Republic advocated enlightened principles and therefore supported the freedom of the press – at least theoretically – some of them tended to forget this principle in the face of massive, polemic, and powerful critique uttered by conservative authors. This constellation provoked heated debates in parliament whether or not to restrain the freedom of the press. Some rated conservative criticism as high treason, while others wanted to grant the right to publish whatever opinion also to their enemies.29 As the parliamentary debates on the freedom of the press were reported by the newspapers, a growing number of readers joined the discussion and were somewhat confused by the quarrels within the parliament. The members of parliament, on the other hand, sometimes raised issues or made longer statements that were not really intended to solve a legislative problem but rather to be heard or read by the public. This phenomenon, of course, led to new parliamentary debates about the nature of parliamentary debates.30 Such discussions also brought up the topic whether or not it was acceptable that members of parliament were at the same time publishers or even authors of political newspapers. This debate was triggered by a specific case. The government wanted to censor a parliamentary speech reported by the newspaper Neues Helvetisches Tagblatt. The publisher, Paul Usteri from Zurich, defended this article in his paper, arguing that it was the paper’s duty to report parliamentary debates accurately. What was at the heart of the case, however, was that his paper quoted Usteri’s own speech, which he had given as a member of parliament.31 Another problem of censorship was its inconsistency. As the laws had to be executed by local authorities that were confronted with many new duties while being scarcely or not at all paid, it frequently occurred that a certain article was censored in one newspaper but not in another. Of course, the affected newspapers took the opportunity to complain loudly about such cases of apparent injustice. The journalists took advantage of this inconsistency by arguing that incriminated articles had been quoted from other newspapers.32 In the early years of the Helvetic Republic, censorship primarily concerned conservative newspapers and journals. The paper that was run by Haller and later by the printer Ochs, for example, was banned five times during the three years of its existence. Each time the newspaper was prohibited, it reappeared under a slightly different title the next day.33 Paul Usteri’s liberal newspaper suffered the same fate. He changed the title of his paper six times within

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about five years – but for very different reasons. One of them was that his paper became the government’s mouthpiece in July 1799. But later on, when the government had changed hands from the liberal centralists (‘Unitarians’) to the conservative federalists, he had to change the title in order to be able to continue his work.34 A second strategy used by Usteri to fight censorship was the following. When pre-censorship was introduced in October 1801, he printed those parts of his texts incriminated by the censors as white spaces in order to make the censorship visible. He even promised his readers to print the omitted parts as soon as freedom of press was re-established.35 In conclusion, we can say that the press did grow during the Helvetic Republic despite the severe problems posed by censorship. In contrast with the communis opino, even the more repressive circumstances during the two following periods of Swiss history – the Napoleonic Mediation (1803-1814) and the Restoration after the Congress of Vienna (1815-1830) – did not significantly reduce the number of periodicals.36 Admittedly, and this point has been emphasized most often by historians, the pressure of foreign powers triggered laws of censorship in 1812 (urged by France) and 1823 (mainly due to Austria).37 But it is also true that freedom of the press was finally established in the canton of Geneva in 1814, then in most of the cantons in 1830/31, and nationwide by the new constitution of 1848.

Public opinion The new dynamic of the political contests during the Helvetic Republic was triggered by the remarkable increase in the production of newspapers, journals, and pamphlets as well as by the significant changes that the political press underwent with regards to both contents and style. It would be far too simple to explain these changes by solely referring to the end of the policy of secrecy, the principle of the public sphere, or the switch from primarily oral discussions to printed debates. The instruments of censorship under the Helvetic Republic make clear that information continued to be spread by oral communication.38 Censorship therefore targeted opportunities of communication. Gatherings in taverns and inns, club assemblies, the spread of rumours by face-to-face conversation as well as theatre plays and sermons were monitored and – sometimes – prohibited.39 Especially in the Catholic areas of Switzerland, priests were estimated to be the most eager adversaries of the new regime, since some of them considered the Helvetic Constitution to be devilish because it guaranteed freedom of press as well as freedom of religion. 40 At the same time, it has been shown that

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even revolutionary circles like the one in Basel preferred ‘interpersonal’ to ‘medial’ communication in order to stage their revolution. 41 Public opinion was not only influenced by sermons and rumours. The printed periodicals did contribute to shaping public opinion, but the latter also helped to shape the former. The voice of the people can also be ‘heard’ in the countless petitions submitted by individuals, groups, and corporations at all levels of the Helvetic Republic. 42 As both the constitution and the government facilitated, at least in the beginning, the submission of petitions, the culture of written articulation of interests grew remarkably (as is well documented). 43 As was the case in the Old Regime, petitioners referred to everyday problems like the tiresome quartering of foreign soldiers or expressed specific wishes regarding social welfare (alms, indemnities, etc.). 44 In addition, they self-confidently demanded the implementation of all the rights guaranteed by the constitution: the right of settlement, economic freedom, equality, and even a new or revised constitution. 45 Finally, petitions were increasingly used as a political instrument. Mass petitions with hundreds or thousands of signatures, only rarely used before 1798, became frequent. Sometimes pre-printed forms were used or reprinted in newspapers so that the village assemblies only had to fill in the place and the date and to add the signatures.46 Mass petitions as well as individual ones were exhaustively discussed in the parliament and featured prominently in the newspapers. In the index that Paul Usteri provided for his newspaper in 1799, the entries for petitions (Bittschriften) covered about 15 per cent of its pages. The large number of written (and printed) petitions may serve as further proof of the politicization of the population. This phenomenon had its roots in the Old Regime, but the favourable constitutional situation, the revolutionary promises, and the media echo created a greater dynamic of political developments. At the same time, the state also increased its presence in the media. Besides the traditional forms of publishing new laws – by publicly reading them out after church services or on the marketplace and by pinning the placards with the text on the church or town hall door – the Helvetic Republic introduced an official collection of all laws and governmental proclamations, to be printed in the three national languages (German, French, and Italian) and also a periodical newspaper that not only published new laws but also provided explanations of those laws and examples. These publications were intended for both the (local) authorities as well as for all citizens willing to subscribe to them. The great interest the Helvetic authorities showed in raising its profile through the printing press even led a Swiss contemporary to call his state the ‘République en papier’ or ‘paper republic’. 47

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Conclusion The introduction of the freedom of the press following the French model and the Swiss authorities’ compliance with French measures triggered a real boom in new periodicals and printed pamphlets. But as many of the periodicals did not even survive their first year, the number of available newspapers (and journals) did not increase by as much as has been suggested by past research. The qualitative innovations with regards to content and style were of much greater importance. The emergence of critical journalism with its polemic, propaganda, and criticism created a break with the existing newspapers that had up to that point reported in a mostly neutral style, avoiding editorial comments. The Helvetic Republic also saw the end of secret legislation. From 1798, the members of parliament debated before the reading public – and journalists as well as readers joined the debate. The nature of censorship changed as well. During the Old Regime, censors tended to do their work with the firm conviction that they were fighting for the truth. The Helvetic politicians were mostly partisans of the Enlightenment and therefore theoretically opposed to any attempt to control the freedom of the press. In everyday politics, however, they often saw no alternative to censorship in order to stop counter-revolutionary and conservative propaganda and to favour the spread of (their) truth. These ‘enlightened censors’ followed a communicative concept of truth, whereas the censors of the Old Regime were mostly indebted to a normative concept of truth. 48 The introduction of the freedom of the press seems to have had a catalytic effect not only on the production, content, and style of the periodicals but also for the self-image of journalists and censors. The new criticism that was spread by the printed press contributed to a new form of public opinion or public sphere.



Liberty of press and censorship in the first Cisalpine Republic Katia Visconti

The misfortune of the Cisalpine Republic has often been acknowledged, especially by historians. In the collective imagination, the Cisalpine Republic represents an example of acquiescence to the military protectorate of France. Such a representation is rooted in the dramatic weeks of spring 1799, when Austro-Russian forces invaded the territories of the Republic and the Cisalpine government chose to follow the French ambassador François Rivaud, finding a safe haven in Chambery, and leaving to their fate the patriots and soldiers who chose to defend the republic. 1 French control of the Cisalpine political classes has always been highlighted, with the latter being perceived as puppets in the hands of the French emissaries.2 The fate of the press is one of the ways in which historiography has sought to demonstrate that control, focusing particular attention on the heavy censorship of the numerous newspapers that spread during the years of Napoleonic hegemony.3 The goal of this contribution is to correct these common misunderstandings by revealing that the Cisalpine legislative and executive bodies were not the prototype of a puppet government, fearful of incurring the disapproval of the government in Paris and ready to support its every desire. Rather, the two bodies, especially within the framework of the Peninsula that was threatened by war, tried to pursue an autonomous policy. This policy encouraged particular civil liberties, which were extended to the press. In this chapter the various laws concerned with the press during the eighteen months of the first Cisalpine Republic will be analyzed, leading to a different picture than the one painted in traditional accounts. These months – especially the one that preceded the collapse of the Republic – saw a relatively free press, or at least one that could withstand governmental checks, complaints, and suspensions. Thanks to the initiative of the same government authorities, the dissemination of periodicals, broadsheets, and journals was abundant and, in relative terms, characterized by freedom of the press. Other historians, and particularly Carlo Capra in his now classic study of journalism during the revolutionary and Napoleonic era, have reconstructed the dynamics behind the journalistic explosion during the spring of 1796,

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especially with respect to politics, in the Cisalpine Republic and across the entire Italian peninsula. French invasion was followed everywhere by the abandonment of existing laws about the press. The ‘Committees of constitution’ of the various interim governments immediately focused their attention on the fundamental problem of freedom of expression. 4 An animated debate followed which ended only with the Cisalpine Constitution, itself a product not of a constituent assembly but rather of Napoleon himself. It is not the case that the articles 354 and 356 of the Cisalpine Constitution were identical to the articles 353 and 355 of the French Charter of the Year III.5 Rather, it was an independent and solemnly avowed consecration of the right to liberty of expression. This victory, however, was immediately followed by a significant reaction. Napoleon, concerned about an excess of liberty, found it necessary to constrain the liberties that Cisalpine journalists had been enjoying. The criticisms and frontal attacks of the press against the institutions and men called to manage the new state appeared to Napoleon to be a danger to stability. Accordingly, just three days after its institution, the Cisalpine Directory gave notice to all the printers to deliver to the authorities the first twelve copies of every publication from their presses.6 After a few weeks, a new law (the 16 Thermidor law) enabled the Cisalpine government to regulate the press. The primary aim of this law was the general protection of the public order. It provided penalties of up to two years in prison for those who were caught disclosing prints or writing speeches directly aimed at promoting insubordination against the government and against authority.7 The radicalization of political debate, both on the left and on the right, increased the concerns of the Cisalpine, and especially the French authorities, about the capacity of the new state to maintain itself in an era of recently achieved liberty. On 21 August, for example, just a few weeks after the foundation of the republic, Napoleon sent a note to the Cisalpine Directory about press freedom and the ways to prevent its abuse. At the same time, he suggested that his letter be sent immediately to the Committees of constitution. The message seemed to be more than a suggestion and more like a draft law. In the note, Napoleon set out the necessary steps for the establishment of a particular court, the tribunale correzionale tipografico. That organ would be invested with the authority to issue certificates of good citizenship and proper conduct. Only the writers and the printers provided with the certificate would have the ability to publish any work. Napoleon’s suggestion would have imparted that court with many other functions: to judge the quality of published writings and, above all else, to withdraw the certificate of citizenship and of good conduct from those

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who were deemed authors of inappropriate writings designed to upset society, to corrupt morals, to defame public persons, and to degrade the current authorities. This last measure assumed a very significant meaning because each ‘inappropriate’ author would lose the right to publish for good. Finally, this ‘special court’ would have the authority to impose penalties for press abuse that ranged from the payment of a considerable fine to a year of prison.8 The same day that Napoleon proposed his draft law, the Directory wrote a report to the Committees that emphasized how the Napoleon proposal was perfectly in accordance with the dictates of the constitution. It did not go deeply into the matter of ‘press freedom’ but rather, with an eye on the constitution, delegated to the law the ability to determine in which cases the citizens could be held responsible for what they said, wrote, or published. For this reason, the Cisalpine Directory seconded Napoleon’s request and asked the Committees to formulate a law to conserve the public order – a law that had as its first aim the destruction of anarchy and the protection of freedom against the licentiousness that was damaging the public interest.9 The Directory wanted the Committees to issue the law before the departure of Napoleon so that the general could sign it. The reply was swift. The day after, on 22 August, the Committees replied by rejecting the possibility of the immediate establishment of the ‘court’ suggested by Napoleon, on procedural grounds.10 Instead, the Committees proposed the convening of an annual commission appointed by the Directory that would be responsible for assessing the ethical, political, and administrative writings in order to report in national journals those deserving a ‘honourable mention’ for having promoted the public interest.11 The position of the Committees seemed very clear. The solution to the problem of press abuse was not the creation of institutions restricting the rights granted by the constitution. Rather, the solution was to emphasize the good things that freedom could promote. The idea of the Committees was to try to overturn the spirit of the measure suggested by Napoleon. In order to do so, they submitted an alternative project to the Directory. The proposal – legitimized by the constitution and in accordance with the provisions of the 16 Fructidor law against the enemies of public order – sought to regulate press freedom by introducing only a single limitation. On the one hand the Committees’ proposal reiterated the right of anyone to propagate his own writings without obligation to submit them to any prior censorship. On the other hand, the measure required that printers only publish signed articles so that it would always be possible to identify an author. The Committees’ draft law stipulated that in case of anonymous

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publications, the printer was responsible for the contents of the publication. The punishment for those who had provided such publications, and who declared themselves to be unable or unwilling to submit the name of the author, could amount to two years of prison. The Committees were convinced that this provision would help to put a significant brake on press abuses, because it would deter any printer from lending his services to seditious writers. To support this argument, the Committees appealed to France; to gain support, the Committees claimed that the proposed law followed the provisions of the Law 28 Germinal Year IV (17 April 1796)12. This law was still strongly favoured by the government of Paris and was largely accepted by the members of the legislative body, as demonstrated by the comments that dominated the columns of the Moniteur.13 The Committees’ position delayed the turn of the screw, desired by the authorities, for a few months. But the pressure for censorship increased significantly during the autumn of that year, helped by the chorus of protests that broke out against the clauses of the Campo Formio Treaty.14 It was at the beginning of November 1797 that Napoleon, nearing the time of his departure, managed to impose a law on the Cisalpine Directory concerned with the institution of a special control of the press. The law, entitled Law 16 Brumaire, did not impose the establishment of a body specifically responsible for press control and verification but, in accordance with article 356 of the constitution, it placed the press under the direct supervision of the government for one year.15 This was a measure that followed French legislative developments. In particular, it traced the provisions of the article 35 of the Law 19 Fructidor, introduced by the Council of Five Hundred in September 1797 after the coup d’état organized with the support of the army.16 Ten days later, a proclamation by the Minister of Justice imposed more checks on printers and even stronger limits on press freedom.17 The new regulation was in fact intended only for the Cisalpine people. The ‘foreigners’ who wanted to publish within the territories of the Cisalpine Republic would have to submit their works for review and approval by the city administrative bodies, who would then edit them. It is not difficult to read between the lines the true aim of the law: the measure was intended to stifle the voice of the politicized journals, especially the ones in which the southern Italian exiles were active. In such a political climate, Napoleon’s fears about the inability of the new state to support the development of freedom could become reality. This was proven by the events of the days following Napoleon’s departure. On 26 November, just five days after their official convening, the Legislative Councils questioned the recent introduction of the press restrictions. The

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Councils challenged both the Law 16 Brumaire on press control and the justice minister’s subsequent proclamation. On 30 November they repealed these measures, claiming that they were unconstitutional.18 This behaviour confirms the rapid acceleration in political autonomy even within the governing Cisalpine bodies. Military force had been the driving force behind the birth of the Cisalpine Republic. The military occupation that came after the war created a Republic that, thanks to the freedoms guaranteed by the constitution, witnessed a deep process of political radicalization, which was in turn encouraged by the explosion of public debate carried by the press. This explosion reached its peak between the end of 1797 and the beginning of the following year, when the desire for independence and the expansion of the revolutionary process increased. Thus, in the midst of an increasingly explosive situation, France tried to control the new Republic by using the imposition of a treaty of alliance and trade. However, the operation obtained the opposite result because it sparked even more attacks against French power and, above all, against the Cisalpine authorities who were accused of being the weak instruments of French rulers. In the light of what has been outlined so far, it is possible to conclude that ‘the’ France that imposed the treaty was a France always thinking in terms of military occupation with respect to its ally. France did not contemplate the possibility that the Cisalpine people had strongly changed their minds and started to seek independence. The demonstration of this took place at the beginning of March 1798, when a significant dispute erupted around the issue of freedom of expression. This debate, arising from the benches of the Legislative Councils, caused considerable tensions between the legislative and executive powers. The Directory, under pressure from French military forces,19 asked the legislative body to adopt a law that would confront the unbridled impudence of the counter-revolutionary and anarchic journals which, in the name of the freedom of expression, attacked the Cisalpine and French governments. Such journals were accused of undermining the true liberty of the Republic. Council members shared the concerns of the Directory about the damage that could result from a licentious press, but they sought a remedy that would not compromise the inviolability of press freedom. They therefore strongly opposed any restrictive law.20 But the continuing attacks and, not least, the pressure that came from the French military, forced the government to react. On 24 March, the Directory ordered the suppression of the periodicals that were considered the most seditious and insurrectionary and commanded heavy measures against various legislative representatives and some of the more prominent printers

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and writers.21 These measures were strong but not definitive because, after some months had passed, both the accused writers and the newspapers quickly resumed their activities. This, for example, was what happened to the Giornale senza titolo that was suppressed in March but resumed after two months. A more sudden measure was taken in the summer when France, after having imposed with difficulty the unanimous and definitive approval of the Treaty of Alliance, decided to send Ambassador Claude-Joseph Trouvé to Milan.22 Trouvé had a particular mission. He was specifically instructed to monitor the conduct of the Republic and, above all, to implement a constitutional reform to strengthen the executive power and to tighten the links between the France and its Cisalpine ally even more. The story of these events has been amply documented. Whereas numerous accusations of violation of the constitution had already been submitted to the Councils since mid-August,23 they increased after the Trouvé operation, which occurred on 30 August. That night the French ambassador called some of the delegates to his house and presented them with the text of the new constitution. Like the one recently introduced in the Roman Republic, it increased the executive powers over the legislative, including control over the press. Thus the old article 354 of the Cisalpine Constitution was replaced by a new one (348): the press continued to be protected from any type of prior censorship, and every author remained personally responsible for what he had published. But the new constitution expressly delegated to the Directory the authority to proceed against calumnious and seditious writing. On the morning of 31  August, Trouvé explained to the Legislative Councils the reasons that justified the reform. The French Constitution, as applied to the Cisalpine Republic, had proved to be so ‘disproportionate and oppressive’24 that it had plunged the republic into disorder, according to Trouvé. The French Directory therefore considered it necessary to introduce changes in order to give the Cisalpine government the authority to efficiently manage the new state. Concerning this, it seemed crucial that the Directory should manage the press and directly intervene in cases where the press was threatening public order. The Cisalpine Republic had to follow the example of France when, after the coup d’état of 18 Fructidor, it had found its ‘wise freedom’ through the Law 19 Fructidor, the law that put the press under the direct control of the executive power for one year.25 The new Cisalpine Constitution was immediately followed by another measure (the Law 15 Fructidor) that reintroduced the Law 16 Brumaire that had been repealed by the Councils after the departure of Napoleon. As in

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France, the new legislation placed all magazines, newspapers, journals, and printing presses under the direct control of the government for a year.26 The turn of the screw was completed in the first week of September by another order issued to all the printers through a ministerial memorandum: the newspapers were to be subjected to the censorship of the Minister of Police before being printed. It was the legitimization of the preventive censorship.27 There were some immediate consequences: the same day in which the ministerial memorandum was published, a Directory decree claimed the abolition of Il Censore, the journal edited by Melchiorre Gioia, for having criticized the Trouvé reform with the slogan ‘Either the Constitution or death!’28 . At the same time the French ambassador requested and obtained another decree by which several ‘foreigners’ – like Giovanni Fantoni, Giovanni Antonio Ranza, and the same Gioia – were expelled as dangerous enemies of public order. These were very strong measures, but they did not entail the end of the freedom of the press. The survival of strongly politicized journals such as Il Termometro politico29 and Il Giornale senza titolo demonstrates this very well. The two journals had been under attack since July, when Trouvé asked Paris for permission to suppress them. Against all odds, they continued. Even if the tone of their political utterances was modified, they continued to be printed until the end of 1798. Evidence that the Trouvé reform did not mean the end of freedom of expression is further shown by the events of autumn of that year. After the coup de main of General Brune, democratic journalism drew its breath and immediately began to agitate for the repeal of the restrictive laws imposed after the introduction of the new constitution. At the beginning of December a new ambassador, François Rivaud, was sent to Milan with a specific mission. He had to restore the ‘political honour’ of the institutions and the men called to government by his predecessor. And among his instructions was, of course, the order to muzzle the Cisalpine press – especially those publications considered hostile to the French government. From mid-December to the end of the year, many of the journals that expressed dissatisfaction with Cisalpine politics were forced by the Minister of Police to close. The presses of the Termometro politico and the Giornale senza titolo, printed in Milan, and even those of the Monitore Bolognese, were sealed by the Directory. A specific prohibition was issued forbidding the editors to print or publish further writings because they would disturb public order.30 Periodicals in the surrounding province were also subject to censure but in a different manner, largely due to the more cautious writing of their

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editors and, above all, the remoteness of their presses from the capital. Although this did not guarantee their safety, they were encouraged to suspend their journals voluntarily, which allowed them to quickly start a new periodical under a different name but with the same editorial line. This was what happened to the Giornale democratico, for example, a periodical published in Brescia by the editor Giovanni Labus. After being repeatedly singled out by the authorities for persuading people to lose confidence in their government, the periodical was voluntarily closed by its editor in January 1799. Labus immediately substituted it with another periodical named L’Iride, which would be free, impartial, and educational, as Labus wrote in the first issue. Furthermore, it would continue the work of the Giornale democratico.31 In short, the restrictions imposed by Rivaud managed to stop neither political debate nor the battle around the freedom of expression. Rather, free speech, imbued with a patriotic spirit, continued to spread until the end of the first Cisalpine state. Change was once again due to the particular climate created at the beginning of 1799 by the rekindling of war. The political developments that the conflict with Naples and Piedmont had started significantly influenced the traditional balance between the Cisalpine and French republics. The Cisalpine government began to follow a more autonomous policy with respect to the directives that Paris continued to issue. Once more, the policy that the Directory pursued toward the press was revealing. In the light of the new situation in Italian international relations and especially the perceived need to restore consensus between the patriotic parties, the Directory opted for greater tolerance towards ‘expressed opinion’. War between the Cisalpine Republic and the King of Naples was formally declared on 4 January. On 16 January, the Cisalpine Directory reaffirmed the Law 15 Fructidor – putting periodicals, journals, and presses under the direct inspection of the government – but it also abolished preventive censorship. The Directory was convinced that it had become essential to stimulate, through association and financing where necessary, the publication of periodicals and journals that would serve the government by informing citizens about the deliberations and measures taken for the public good.32 This occurred, for example, when the Directory became aware of the publication of a new periodical, the Gazzetta nazionale della Cisalpina, by Melchiorre Gioia. The Directory ordered the distribution of one thousand copies among central commissioners and departmental and local administrations. The changing course of the Cisalpine government did not mean the end of press checks and censorship. Journalism, and above all political journalism, continued to be controlled. The story of the Gazzetta nazionale Cisalpina

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demonstrates this very well. After only five issues, the periodical that had been started by the Directory as an official government journal was suppressed. The view that the journal frequently criticized the French Army and Minister of War Martin Vignolle led the latter to put pressure on the Directory to suppress the periodical. The Gazzetta was suspended. At the same time, and using the same presses, Melchiorre Gioia published (with continuous numbering) another periodical, the Giornale filosofico politico. Gioia even obtained from the Directory compensation for damages suffered as a result of the sudden closure of the Gazzetta. This was of fundamental importance because it immediately enabled Gioia to finance the printing of the new periodical.33 The Gioia experience was not an isolated case. The same tenacity was demonstrated by many other editors. I have already mentioned the events that led the Brescian Giovanni Labus to decide to ‘freely suspend’ the Giornale democratico and to immediately replace it with a new journal, the Iride. The new periodical began to appear on 24 January 1799, two days after the suppression of the Giornale democratico. However, after less than a month, Labus was held to account by the police inspector. The renewal of the war led to the perception that the French and Cisalpine governments were being attacked. On 8 March, the Directory ordered the suppression of the periodical. Just two days later, using the same presses, Labus published another journal, Il Circospetto. The arguments of the police inspector in defense of the need to implement the Directory decree on the Iride on this new periodical did not work. The Minister of Justice, urged on by the Directory, immediately intervened, reaffirming what he had already decided regarding Melchiorre Gioia. In his opinion, the periodical Il Circospetto was not written in violation of the Directory decree concerning the Iride because that measure did not challenge the freedom of an author to print any other periodical under a different name. Thus Il Circospetto continued to be published until the beginning of April, when the gradual progress of the Austro-Russian forces had already decided the fate of the Cisalpine Republic. These examples underline the ‘paradox of freedom’: the French Army contributed to the establishment and dissemination of political liberties, and then sought to curb them within the Cisalpine Republic. The French Army was the driving force behind the birth of the Republic and its democratic credentials. The same force, fearing the rapid growth of sentiments favouring political independence, and fearing the instability that accompanied civil liberty, did not hesitate to put on the brakes. However, such attempts were not successful because the ongoing war offered both the Cisalpine authorities and Cisalpine intellectuals the possibility of withdrawing from

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their relationship with France. In the process of working out what their relationship with France ought to entail, they enjoyed significant margins for political manoeuvre (limited only by military defeat), as is apparent from the disagreement about the nature of press freedom. The extent of the Cisalpine republic’s independence with regard to internal policy concerning civil rights has not been appreciated in traditional accounts.

5. The Sister Republics and France



Small nation, big sisters Pierre Serna

It is a truth now acknowledged, which the future will have trouble reversing: not only is France no longer a great nation, but in the not so distant future it will no longer be a nation at all. Especially within the European project, her illusions of grandeur have been clearly overtaken. This simple factual statement is far from pessimistic. On the contrary, it is utterly optimistic, because historians rewrite the past in the light of what they make of the times they live in. The perspectives on the Helvetic, Batavian, and Cisalpine republics, presented by Annie Jourdan, Antoine Broussy, and Antonino de Francesco, all confirm and uphold this rule. As it turns out, the Swiss, Dutch, and Italian peoples have not exactly been ruled by French agents. France did not simply occupy territories, pillaging the wealth of her neighbours, whereas the patriots in southern and northern Europe did not passively subdue to French manipulations. It is possible to sustain that France’s slow retreat from the first ranks in world politics and its transformation into a beacon of human rights is precisely what makes new approaches possible; approaches that shed a different light on the complex history of interaction and exchanges, historical transfers and shared political experiences between the Sister Republics and the Directory. Now that France is reduced to a second-rank power, it no longer has to be afraid of weakening a reputation it no longer has. This is the message of the introductory remarks on the following three articles, which remind us of the nineteenth-century historiographies that were written when France was the country where it had all originated: the imperial order, revolutionary disorder, the terror of liberty, and the happiness of equality. France is no longer what it has once been, so the history of the French revolutionaries and their counterparts in other countries can be written differently, without provoking too virulent a reaction in France.1 It is therefore time to rediscover the specificity of the different republican experiences, which have, as foundational realities, had major consequences for the political modernity of all three examples here presented. In this introduction, I will attempt to demonstrate how the experience of war disturbed and yet transformed these republics into something other than what historians have recently portrayed in the historiographical debate about modern versus classical republicanism.2 Consequently, I will reflect on the foundations of a supranational, legally-defined European order that

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the European republicans experienced, opposing the Terror and legitimizing representative democracy while constructing a new definition of citizenship in the process. In the Italian case, Antonio de Francesco breaks away from Fascist and post-Fascist readings that were born out of the national sentiments of the risorgimento, denying any French influence, but also from the Marxist interpretation that declared the patriots of the triennio adherents of the French ideology of the Year II. As demonstrated with great flair by De Francesco, the Italians attempted to overcome the problem of revolutionary violence, and quite early on reached political maturity in the conduct of their affairs, while remaining aware of the weaknesses of the Directory, but also conscious of the crucial questions that political modernity imposed on them.3 The strong links between French and Italian democrats, the shared war effort, and especially the Italian importation of the Constitution of Year III, not as a sign of servility but confident of the universality of the republican model, are but three examples that show that the Cisalpine government considered the Cisalpine Republic equal to France. We see the same happening in the Helvetic republic. As becomes clear from the contribution of Antoine Broussy, the Swiss patriots in favour of unif ication of the Helvetic republic did not simply copy the French model but truly believed that the country could only survive if it were modernized.4 As in Italy, the French presence triggered internal oppositions between moderates and radicals, but the French did not start nor control this debate. In her contribution about the Batavian Republic, Annie Jourdan in turn demonstrates how Batavian patriots dissociated themselves from the French while integrating some French elements into their own model. Jourdan discusses the examples of the Batavian parliamentary procedure, the adaptation of new political concepts, and the introduction of national representation. In all three Sister Republics, republican institutions were founded and grounded on the Constitution of the Year III, which was adapted and reformulated in the various national contexts.5 War became the determining factor in understanding the complex diplomatic logic linking these republics to France, and in explaining their internal troubles. Let us stop going on about the violence of the Terror, about the nasty Jacobin revolution, about the supposed matrix of twentiethcentury totalitarian regimes. Let us formulate real questions for eighteenthcentury historians, about the radically new types of war these republics were confronted with: how can we comprehend the totally new types of paroxysmal – there is no point in masking it – violence?6

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We can detect two phenomena, one in Antonio de Francesco’s chapter, and the other in those of Annie Jourdan and Antoine Broussy. De Francesco points to a radically new modernity, which had possibly been glimpsed at in England and which had been feared in the United States, but which released its full potential in Latin Europe: this was the power of the politicized army and the danger inherent in the triumph of the victorious general, precursor of the modern democratic dictator who was supposedly born in Italy circa 1796 or 1797.7 Without losing sight of the immense complexities of the Lombardy Sister Republic and its highly complicated rapport with the idea of revolution, and the French Revolution in particular, we can say that herein lies the modernity of the territories that were to be the hub and, by no means coincidentally, cradle of Italian fascism.8 Those in the military who were gripped by ideology took power, and neocesarism was born out of these republican experiences in the various Italian Sister Republics. Much more than the Italian patriots, the Directory grew wary of its generals, being well aware of the potential threat they represented. Thus two, even three, modern experiences originated in the Italian republics: the martial and cesarian republic, the republic of unitarian and representative patriots, and the passive republic.9 In the Swiss and Dutch cases, the Sister Republics were real testing grounds for political modernity. Here, aside from the ubiquitous war with England or Austria, the internal tensions seem to go in opposite directions. In Switzerland, there was a risk of a new kind of civil war, a civil war on ideological grounds that deeply divided the regions under threat, a new war of religion, but this time a godless one, that preceded the political modernity of nineteenth and twentieth-century Europe. The opposite we discern in the Dutch revolutionary practice. There, in response to the French Terror, the Revolution became a model for non-violent republicanization. As Annie Jourdan explains, the Dutch patriots were convinced of the counter-productivity of state violence and paranoia. Thus, in contrast to Italian and Swiss revolutionaries, the Dutch showed the will – at whatever cost – to avoid civil war or political repression. This is indicative not only of a northern European attitude or Dutch composure but of a political maturity that includes the awareness that a republic entails agreement in disagreement. It is precisely this awareness that makes the modern sister republic, distinguishing itself from both the classical and the Jacobin republic.10 This leads us to the third aspect I wish to highlight after reading the three contributions presented here, which is about the diplomatic hierarchy of the republics. It is true that the Directory pursued a most unjust, at times even humiliating, policy towards its Sister Republics, often treating them

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as mere vassal states. The war and the belief among the French that they were the very embodiment of the revolution ruined a unique opportunity to found a truly large republic.11 It was Napoleon who was to bring the republics together, but only to integrate them in an imperial union. These contributions provide an opportunity to remind us once again that a European federation of republics was once the ultimate revolutionary project, which would then be irreversibly undermined by first the Second Coalition, and then Napoleon’s excessive personal ambition. This all happened well before the Second World War left Europeans with practically no other solution than to start cooperating. It is not a Europe of merchants that we need, and if the experience of the Sister Republics proves one thing, it is that it is the absence of a Europe of citizens that makes us gravely ill, but this volume is already a first and potent remedy.



The national dimension in the Batavian Revolution Political discussions, institutions, and constitutions Annie Jourdan

Traditional historiography has always denied the Dutch character of the Batavian Revolution. Greatly influenced by the politics of ‘forgiving and forgetting’ of the Orange monarchy (founded in 1813) and by nineteenthcentury nationalism, its narratives have tried to erase the nation’s revolutionary moments from Dutch memory. Yet, since the 1980s it is well known that the Dutch experienced a first revolutionary sequence during the 1780s, one that was absolutely independent.1 The second revolution, between 1795 and 1801, only succeeded with the aid of the French army.2 This army remained in the country until 1813 and intervened in Dutch politics several times, as did several French agents or ministers. Minister François Noël, for instance, reminded the Dutch that they ought to enforce national unity, while Minister Charles Delacroix suggested the implementation of the 1798 constitution without popular approval.3 From these facts, Dutch historians concluded that the Batavian Revolution was anything but Dutch. 4 This is, however, an oversimplification that dodges the problem of interaction between the two allies. A new generation of scholars has already brought some qualification to this one-sided view. One can think of Simon Schama’s work, based on Cornelis de Wit’s study. But even here, things are not always conclusive and often too teleological. Both authors argued that the Patriot Revolution foreboded the Batavian Republic and the Thorbeckian constitution of 1848.5 Yet, this interpretation is just another way of denying the originality of the Batavian Revolution. Furthermore, both authors interpreted the political events of the 1790s as democratic and, like R. R. Palmer, did not stress enough that the democracy was in reality rather limited. It would have been better to say that it was the very beginning of representative democracy. The people gained the right to elect their representatives but were not allowed to participate directly in high politics, except during a short power vacuum in 1798.6 To be able to discover what the national dimension of the Batavian Revolution is and what it is not, the best approach may be to carry out a brief survey of the Patriot Revolution (1781-1787) and its aims; then to

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study the Dutch exiles in Paris during the French Revolution, their political contentions and relations with their colleagues in the Netherlands; and finally the Batavian Revolution or Batavian Republic (1795-1806) and its achievements. This is far too much to cover for a chapter of this length, so I will be compelled to focus on some issues and to leave others aside. This chapter therefore will not be comprehensive but illustrative. It highlights some features I did not treat earlier and assesses the transfer approach of earlier chapters and books.7

The Dutch Patriots and their thirst for reforms In the 1780s, the Patriots were the first in the Netherlands to devise new constitutions. Like the Americans some years before, they strove to reform their governments and ground them on a number of basic principles, called natural rights of man. In contrast to the Americans, however, they did not invoke the whole range of rights, and like political writers and philosophes such as Joseph Priestley, Richard Price, and Francis Hutcheson, they were more eager to emphasize political and civil liberty than equality, happiness, safety, and property.8 Their aim was to reform their local governments, not to found new ones. They criticized the electoral system and the arbitrary nature of the stadholderate – their hereditary executive who increasingly nominated his confidants to official positions. Consequently, the Patriots asked for more control over public affairs, including finances and taxes. But reform often leads to revolutionary measures, as Hannah Arendt has rightly pointed out.9 From one reform, others follow. For instance, thinking about broadening the franchise, as the Patriot lawyer Rutger Jan Schimmelpenninck did in 1784, entailed rethinking the entire Dutch electoral system. And from this mere idea it ensued that Schimmelpenninck had to imagine who was a true citizen and who was not, and which principles were to be used to explain the genuine meaning of citizenship. To do so, he referred to the American state constitutions and hence popularized this first modern revolution in the Netherlands.10 The unintended consequences of reform are even more clear in the Constitutional Restoration of the Netherlands, written in 1784-1785, wherein the Patriot authors devised reforms to strengthen their country so that it would recover from the crisis.11 They too were inspired by America and its principles, although neither they nor Schimmelpenninck considered abolishing their provincial and local governments or their corporate society, let alone a revolution. On the contrary, the American Revolution persuaded them that the federal Republic of the

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United Provinces was still viable. However, the Constitutional Restoration of the Netherlands contended that a well-formed republican government had to be grounded on the natural rights of man and had to be ‘a popular government by representation’, that is a representative democracy. Here again, they had to work out what this precisely meant.12 The Patriots did not have enough time to implement their new constitutions. Admittedly, these ‘government regulations’ were still municipal and federal, and based on corporations, ranks, and orders. They did not intend to abolish the old society. To vote and to be elected, for instance, one had to be a member of a burgher militia and thus a citizen. Mere inhabitants or residents did not have this right.13 That the Patriots did not intend to revolutionize their fatherland is suggested by the fact that some of them recalled that the American political system was inspired by their own 1579 constitution14 – a belief that made them proud of their past and eager to recover what they considered to be lost. Thus, the point was to restore and thus to reform but certainly not to revolutionize, at least not in a modern sense.15 It is also interesting to take a closer look at what the Patriots did not ask for. First, they did not ask for unity, even though they began to see their country as one nation and intended to reform the whole and not only their home province. Furthermore, they did not try to enforce an egalitarian franchise but instead continued to exclude some (social, gender, and religious) categories. They also did not consider separating church and state. Few of them intended to make all religions equal.16 The Reformed Church remained the official religion. Corporate bodies were maintained. And except for Deventer, a town in the province of Overijssel, nowhere was a true bill of the natural rights of man proclaimed.17 The Patriots did not wish to reform the judiciary civil laws either, even though the more progressive Grondwettige Herstelling (Constitutional Restoration) proposed to publish a civil codification in the future. Its authors were particularly concerned by cultural reforms. But these had been on the Dutch reforming agenda since the 1730s.18

‘Revolutionary high school’? In 1787, many Patriots were forced to leave their country. The Prussians put the Stadholder back in power and persecuted those Patriots who had remained in the Netherlands. Four thousand of them emigrated to France, where troubles had just broken out. During the following years, the Dutch

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emigrants experienced the 1789 revolution. Not only did they participate in French discussions and popular clubs, they also tried time and again to export the revolution to their own country, with the help of the French. This ambition inspired their own revolutionary and constitutional drafts. It explains why most of them resembled the French ones. So, two months after the first French constitution was proclaimed, an influential Patriot, Johan Valckenaer, published a draft grounded on unity – for the first time in a Dutch draft – and on a constitutional monarchy – an inconceivable idea in the Netherlands.19 As far as the second point is concerned, the Dutch reactions from the home front are telling; the idea was immediately rejected. The same cannot be said, however, about the idea of unity. Nicolas van Staphorst, an influential banker and Patriot who had remained in the Netherlands, did not disapprove of this great change. Indeed, he argued that the 1579 constitution had to be completely destroyed and replaced by a new republican regime. Thus, in November 1791, some Dutch Patriots were seriously thinking of a united country based on human rights and a broad franchise.20 Yet the drafts did not propose modifying the status of the Reformed Church or granting civil rights to the Jewish nation.21 All these plans suggest that beside some kinship with France, there were also fundamental differences. During the following years, however, Dutch drafts continued to be at least inspired by the French ones. When the Bourbon monarchy was abolished, Valckenaer and his friends no longer spoke of a Dutch constitutional monarchy but of a united and centralized republic. In a new draft, provinces were to be abolished and replaced by departments. The new Dutch republic would have to be nationalized, that is, adapted to the Dutch nation, which was a colonial empire and a commercial country. Therefore, the new draft contained articles about the colonies and the navy, and it was highly concerned with the prosperity and the commerce of the republic. They also intended to abolish all corporations and trade companies and dismiss foreign mercenaries in order to make a fresh start. This November 1792 draft was indeed more a plan of government, including positive laws and civil rights, than an exposition of abstract and universal principles. Meanwhile two other Patriots, Johannes Huber and Jan van Hoey, had devised their own draft, which shocked everyone, including the French general Dumouriez, because they still made a distinction between citizens and maintained the privileges of the Reformed Church. In short, their draft violated natural equality.22 A new draft from February 1793 shows a further shift in the Patriots’ political thought: it proclaimed the ‘eternal principles of human rights’ and

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the equality of religions, putting forth the idea of a popular government by representation with a one-house legislature. This draft seemed to be more consonant with French conceptions, most notably with a draft that Condorcet had recently presented to the Convention Nationale.23 What differed, however, was the innovation that the executive would have the right to examine the laws before promulgating them. Not only is this draft further evidence that the Dutch were nurturing their own views, it also shows how opportunistic the Patriots were or had to be, in the hope that France would help them to revolutionize their country. To be sure, the Dutch desired both an actual Dutch constitution and a text that would please the French government. This task was difficult to fulfil and makes it difficult for the historian to discover their true aims. Be that as it may, several influential Patriots who were to be elected in the first Dutch National Assembly learned many things from their stay in France. In this sense only, the French Revolution was a ‘revolutionary high school’.24 First of all, it taught them that revolutions often devoured their own children and that some achievements had to be avoided if the Dutch wanted to be spared the French tragedies. Second, they learned that national unity was necessary to strengthen state power and stimulate national prosperity. Third, it provided them with a technical language to name new institutions and creations. It revealed to them some legislative practices, such as distinctive signs and a parliamentary protocol or regulation.25 These last points have been largely ignored until now, although they were of the utmost importance in the implementation of the Batavian Republic and the functioning of the first Dutch National Assembly. Another new insight inspired by the French Revolution and deriving from national unity was that deputies represented the people at large instead of specific corporate interests.26 In the long run, this in turn discredited the corporate bodies. Obviously, not every Dutchman shared these viewpoints. This would become clear very soon, after the convocation of a Dutch Convention, or rather during the elections for this Convention in the first months of 1796, when heavy conflicts tore the country apart. Most of the Dutch provinces had no intention of giving up their sovereignty, and two provinces altogether refused to send representatives to the National Assembly.27 The French army had to intervene and force all provinces to participate. Furthermore, the National Convention was to be regularly confronted with political factionalism, each faction riding its own hobby-horse. Not only did they quarrel about unity or federalism, they also fought over the question of popular interference and about the precise measure of national unity – absolute, relative, or none at all.

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The Batavian Revolution and the creation of a new republic Meanwhile, an alliance treaty had been signed in May 1795 between the French Republic and its ‘small sister’, and the Dutch were free to make their own constitution. But because of the dissenting provinces – Friesland and Zeeland particularly – the National Assembly could not convene before March 1796.28 By then, not every province had sent its deputies. They arrived in dribs and drabs during the next months. Before their deposition, the States-General had formulated a Reglement with tasks and duties for their successor. The National Assembly was to draft a national constitution; in the meantime, provincial sovereignty was to be upheld. The Reglement was ambiguous and would thence remain a bone of contention.29 The legislators produced a 900-article-long constitutional draft, which was revised between February and May 1797 and presented to the people the following August. I have argued elsewhere that this original draft was quite democratic in its principles, but the radicals and unitarists, who wanted the people to have more direct influence, disagreed with the contents. So did the conservatives and the Orangists, for different reasons. Thus, it was rejected by the people and a new draft had to be written. The length of the draft and its rejection suggest that French influence in this process was minimal. The French texts were far shorter and not always implemented democratically.30 After the rejection of the constitution, the radical unitarists tried to abolish the Reglement so that they could get rid of provincial sovereignty and enforce national unity. Legalists, federalists, and moderates prevented this. In January 1798, the latter were still arguing against any infringement of the ‘founding text’ of the assembly. All this is already well known. It can be read in Schama’s book or in mine, even if we do not share the same conclusions. Schama argues that a coup was not necessary to break the deadlock. I conclude that it was, because the federalists were still too strong and could count on the legalists’ support. To enforce a unitary constitution, the radicals had to be in power and protected by the French minister. This happened on 22 January 1798, when they launched their coup. They did not lose time: the constitution was completed in April and presented to the people on 1 May. It was accepted by a large majority and would remain the official text until September 1801. This text, often deemed by historians to be a mere copy of the French constitution, is anything but French. Admittedly, some articles had been imposed by the French legislators, but as a whole, it is genuinely Dutch.31 Moreover, some of its articles inspired the French constitutional expert Pierre Daunou, who used them in his draft constitution for the Roman Republic.32

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As I already have written on this matter elsewhere, I will focus here on the very beginning of the National Assembly, that is on the Dutch Convention from March 1796, when it had to form itself and devise its new institutions and laws. This will allow me to explore how Dutch the Assembly was or tried to be from the outset and what the role of the French Revolution was. It will also allow me to highlight some issues such as the representatives’ references, their parliamentary language, and their revolutionary technical and practical devices.

The founding of a National Assembly First, the very fact that the representatives were called to draft a written constitution stimulated them to draw a parallel between their revolution and their tradition or history. The latter was alternatively described as all wrong or all good, depending on the purpose. One of their favourite topics was to depict their old government and to emphasize its faults, so that they were able to conclude that it had to be destroyed completely. The same went for the princes of Orange: they had always been an abnormality in the Dutch republic and had committed atrocities, such as the assassination of Johan van Oldenbarnevelt, the revered statesman from the seventeenth century. But, and in contrast to the French past, Dutch history presented a republican tradition that was still valid and ought to be resuscitated. The revolt against Spain remained a source of pride and convinced the Batavians (as they called themselves) that their revolution would easily succeed. The only thing to do was to revive their ancient republican qualities, to enhance their everlasting patriotism, and to modernize their government. The Dutch legislators liked to recall their glorious past and boasted that once the wrong political system was abolished, they would return to a Golden Age, far better than the one in the seventeenth century, not in the least because the Netherlands was now allied with the strongest republic in the world. This promised the country a fantastic future and the most splendid revenge against the ‘perfidious Albion’! France had no such splendid history ending in a peaceful revolution; on the contrary, it inherited absolutism and experienced revolutionary atrocities. This was frequently emphasized in the Dutch Assembly. The French disorders, the troubles, and the murders were fresh in people’s memory and had to be avoided. Obviously, this gave rise to the question of how to change the whole government and its institutions without provoking such tragedies. Like their American and French predecessors, the Dutch believed

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from the outset that they had numerous enemies inside and outside and were not spared the fear of conspiracy. Some were still terrified by the treatment of 1787 and now felt threatened by the émigrés converging on the German border. The people and some deputies believed that internal and external conspirators would try to introduce a bone of contention in the republic. Thus, the Batavians created municipal and provincial committees of safety that investigated who was a real friend of the revolution and who was not. Betrayers of the revolution would not be prosecuted but excluded from official jobs. From the outset, indeed, several deputies insisted that a republican government had to be gentle with all its citizens and that the best way to win over the Orangists was to tolerate all of them, provided they did not take up arms or commit crimes against the new regime. At that point, the representatives prided themselves on their long-standing republicanism, on the simplicity, moderation, independence, and courage of their free ancestors that would make it possible for the Dutch to succeed where the French had failed.33 Had France, after all, not exchanged royal arbitrariness for Jacobin tyranny? And what about the French national character? The French were characterized by quickness of mind and enthusiasm, features that could easily lead to violence. If the Dutch representatives are to be believed, the Dutch were too slow, the French too speedy. That was the key to their tragedy.34 Whereas they tried to emphasize their national peculiarities and to recall their national history, the Dutch revolutionaries were confronted with a new task, which required a new language. Not only did they have to formulate their views in an idiom that could be understood by ordinary people, they also had to name practices or concepts that had been unknown until then. One of them was the appel nominal, that they used as such from 1796 up to the end – a French expression coming from Paris. Others were translated from the French, such as the inalienable rights of man and citizen, or the motto ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity’, which they turned into ‘Equality, Liberty, Fraternity’, since liberty would be grounded on natural equality.35 Like the Americans and the French, they also designed an oath and swore ‘to save the fatherland or to die in office’ – a modified transfer from the well-known French ‘Liberty or Death’. Their committees of safety too are reminiscent of these two preceding revolutions, even though it is difficult to know if they really fulfilled the same tasks in all three countries.36 Finally, one of their first decrees concerned the ‘distinctive signs’ to be worn by the deputies, a priority that had also preoccupied the French legislators, while the radical ambition to establish ‘unity and indivisibility’ in a federal republic is clearly inspired by the French Revolution.37 However, to say that

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the Batavians were inspired by the French on such issues is not to say that they were simply imitating. As is suggested above, the Dutch modified and interpreted what they borrowed and in principle made it Dutch, the appel nominal being the exception that proves the rule.38 The same is true for the Assembly regulations. As in France, there was a temporary president as well as rules on speaking and being heard, but, unlike the French legislators, the representatives did not work on Sundays and rarely in the evening, and they did not even always convene on Saturdays. Moreover, they opened each session with a prayer.39 They started at 11 a.m. and stopped at 4 p.m., while the French convened from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. before meeting again in the evening. That means that the Dutch tempo was slower and more peaceful, the more so since the Assembly included only 126 representatives whereas the French Convention had 749 deputies. 40 When a new representative arrived in The Hague, he had to draw a seat number by lot before swearing the oath and going to his seat. This means that the representatives could not sit where they wanted to sit – near a friend or a political ally – and could not form visible and compact factions. 41 As in France, the Assembly had tribunes where the public could attend the sessions, but the people had to keep silent during the discussions. 42 Lessons had thus been drawn from the French experience. The Dutch thought they could do better, and so they tried. Be that as it may, some important changes were introduced. Elections were now individual. As the Assembly was national, each member was to become a representative of the people and no longer of his province of origin. Each deputy was concerned with the common good of the Dutch people at large. The French Revolutionaries had argued in a similar way. This decision entailed another one: petitions no longer could be made in the name of a corporate body. Every citizen could petition individually or collectively, but only as citizens and not as corporations, provinces, townships, or political societies. 43 When he talked about this issue, Jan van Hooff, an influential deputy who had been exiled in France and imprisoned during the Terror, knew very well what he was speaking about. His memory was full of ‘Jacobin tyranny’. Another novel point introduced as soon as 6 March 1796 by a reformed minister, IJsbrand van Hamelsveld, was the question of the separation of state and church. 44 In this context, deputies reminded their colleagues of the American and French precedents and of the excellent results that had ensued. This was an often-used strategy to persuade the hesitating representatives to accept a specific decree. Thus, on the one hand, French examples were dissuasive, especially the factional struggles and popular interferences or violence, and on the other hand

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they were persuasive when it came to their principles and some of their institutions, especially when they followed the American precedent. In this first Dutch assembly, there were indeed influential representatives who had been in France during the Revolution. I already mentioned Van Hooff, but others had resided in France for varying lengths of time: Johan Valckenaer, Bernardus Blok, Jacob Hahn, Jan Bicker, Gerard Bacot, Coert van Beyma, Johan Huber, Hugo Gevers, Cornelis van der Hoop, and Johan van Leeuwen. 45 They had been members of popular societies and had petitioned the Assemblée Nationale and the Jacobins. Even the first president and revolutionary leader, Pieter Paulus, had visited France during the 1788 crisis, where he had met Thomas Jefferson and the Marquis de La Fayette. The Patriots who had remained in the Netherlands had followed the tumultuous events in papers and pamphlets and had convened in literary clubs where they discussed political issues. 46 The Dutch representatives, then, knew quite well what was going on in France and how to behave in a parliamentary assembly. 47 The French precedent inspired their own parliamentary regulations. Moreover, it helped them to formulate their own views, which did not automatically resemble the French. A good example is the prayer they decided to say at the beginning of each session or their introduction of an attendance list. 48 From the outset, they only intended to borrow from France what was compatible with the Dutch character, as they called it. First, as I said above, they had to modify some features to avoid French discord and tragedy. That was their argument for not immediately abolishing slavery, for instance.49 The Dutch representatives understood very well that hasty transformations could lead to rebellion, because the people had to become accustomed to the new principles and understand their consequences for their personal life. Even the radical leader Pieter Vreede suggested implementing measures quickly but progressively and before the constitution was completed, so that the people could become used to them.50 Moreover, instead of legitimating the new regime by quoting the abuses of the old one, as had been done in the very beginning and as still happened in popular discourses and petitions, some representatives increasingly emphasized the fact that there was no longer a struggle between factions, and that every citizen ought to participate if he was a virtuous and good citizen. As early as 29 May 1796, Van Hamelsveld even concluded that there were no longer Orangist enemies. Thus, the legislators tried to overcome the obsession with conspiracy, which was so typical of eighteenth-century revolutions, while they also refused to implement coercive measures.51 Obviously, their optimistic assumptions and moderate behaviour were not

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shared by everyone. The ordinary people, some popular revolutionaries and newspapers, and returned refugees nurtured more radical ideas on the issue and dreamed of revenge. But the Assembly’s moderation was shared by most of the townships – despite the local popular revolutionaries, who asked for despoilment of enemies’ properties. The official aim was reconciliation and not repression – in the name of the common good, national trade, and credit.52 However, after the great Amsterdam uprising in the first days of May 1796, the National Assembly believed that it had more to fear from the popular radicals than from the Orangists. This uprising against the township, which involved some three hundred gunners from the Amsterdam citizen militia, shocked the representatives because of its violence.53 But it also revealed that the Dutch militias, which until then were considered the fatherland’s best defence, could not be trusted.54 It turned out that they nurtured other ambitions than the officials. The Ghost of the Terror had reached the Netherlands, the moderates lamented. An investigation had to be conducted, even more so because a conspiracy had just been discovered in France.55 For a while, the Dutch Convention felt threatened by this so-called conspiracy, but as it turned out, there was none. It was only the result of popular discontent about the municipal authorities and about the few advantages the ordinary people had gained from the revolution.

Radical terror and the return to legality In January 1798, after the radicals had seized power, there was a shift toward official repression.56 The French minister in The Hague, Charles Delacroix, stimulated this policy. The Dutch executive council even felt compelled to put the brakes on his repressive drive, which did not fit the so-called Dutch tradition. Nevertheless, the radical government put its rivals in custody, enforced purges in the primary assemblies, censored newspapers, and decided to purge the Dutch regents of 1787, whether innocent or guilty. They went further: they perpetuated themselves in power and did not proclaim legislative elections.57 That was enough for many Dutch politicians to interpret the radical policy as a revival of French terror, and as such, it was considered unfit for a country that was so proud of its legendary moderation. Moreover, it was a new threat to national prosperity and credit. The finance minister, Isaac Gogel, who otherwise was certainly not moderate, warned his colleagues that all regents and wealthy citizens would leave the country.58 He was not wrong, since some of them had already emigrated to

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England. Thus, six months after the January coup, a second one occurred, executed by the same men – the generals Joubert and Daendels – and most of the ministers. The new government maintained the radical constitution but put its authors in custody, purged the townships, and, last but not least, organized elections. Once again, a technical device – the military coup – was inspired by the French,59 but it was used in order to impose a typically Dutch option: a legal assembly chosen by the people, with a legal constitution that had already been approved. The so-called moderates reacted against their rivals with less moderation than could have been expected. Not only did they put the national leaders in jail, they also jailed the municipal radicals, including Amsterdam’s mayor, and the commander and the colonel of the Amsterdam citizen militia.60 Even worse, the so-called moderates refused several times to release the radical leaders, even though Paris asked them to do so. Thus, their incredible fear of ‘terror’ drove them to become more terrorist than their rivals.61 But they were lucky enough to be supervised by the French,62 who had learned their lesson. At the end of the year, and thanks to the French Directory, no political prisoners were left in jail in the Batavian Republic.

Conclusion: Subtle interaction The Batavian Revolution was thus a subtle mixture of old and new, of Dutch and French (and American). There were a number of political transfers from France to the Netherlands, a country that had, however, already been a republic with a glorious past. The task of the Dutch was different from that of the French, who had always had an absolute and Catholic king and a feudal and aristocratic society. Revolutionary France could not turn its eyes toward its past history, as there was nothing they could be proud of. The Revolution itself had been tarnished by the Terror.63 This is not to say that the Dutch could rest on their laurels. Several representatives complained that the current Dutch spirit was too commercial and not martial enough. And since in a true republic, citizens had to be soldiers and soldiers had to be citizens, the Batavian republic planned to implement a citizen army – or better yet, citizen militias. Although this national army looked like that of France and its creation was in a way stimulated by the French victories in Belgium and later on in Italy,64 this institution was not borrowed from France, for it had been a Dutch tradition since the Revolt, which had been revived during the Patriot revolution. For once, the Dutch could reverse the situation and boast that the French at last had imitated them, not only

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in organizing a national army of citizens but also in creating a popular republic. The interactions between both republics during these revolutions were thus far more complicated than historians have contended. It was a series of actions and reactions, of shifts and qualifications, improvements and adaptations, interpretations and translations, and of refusals or unconscious imitations.65 Because of their glorious past and their long-lasting republicanism, the Batavian revolutionaries didn’t consider themselves inferior to their ‘French brothers’ for a single moment. After a while, they even succeeded in translating the French political idiom into the Dutch language. In 1798, for instance, even though they still used appel nominal, their founding text was no longer a ‘constitution’, but a Staatsregeling – or State Regulation – for the Batavian people, while instead of a declaration of rights, they proclaimed a preamble with more than 70 ‘Fundamental principles’ and ‘Civil and Political Principles’.66 Although they were compelled to nominate ministers instead of committees, they innovated when they created a ministry of national education and called their ministers ‘agents’. Thus, the genuinely national dimension of the Batavian Revolution included not only historical references, republican principles, institutions, and laws. In the course of this revolution, the Dutch legislators also created an original language while progressively implementing innovative practices and devices, positively or negatively inspired by the French Revolution and modified in such a way that better suited their specific context, culture, and character.67



The constitutional debate in the Helvetic Republic in 1800-1801 Between French influence and national self-government Antoine Broussy

Though the historiography of the Helvetic Republic has been re-evaluated over the last decades, one must admit that its outlines have long been influenced by the traditional interpretations of nineteenth-century historians.1 They mostly considered the Helvetic Republic a parenthesis in a long history of independence which had started in the fourteenth century. This observation might appear to be too sharply drawn, but it can be exemplified by three assumptions shared by most standard Swiss historiography. First, the stay of the French army until 1803 was interpreted as proof that La Grande Nation regarded the Helvetic Republic far less as a sovereign state and an ally than as an occupied country. Second, this period was thought to be marked by internal disorder, as shown by the confrontation between the political parties. And finally, although the main narrative of this time was constructed in a context of nation-building by historians close to the Swiss Radical Party who did not consider the Helvetic Era to have been a time of darkness, and although several historians were convinced that this government opened a path towards modernity, they all wanted to anchor in the Swiss public opinion the fact that the modern Swiss state only began with the constitution of 1848.2 According to this viewpoint, the state model, based on unity, which had been created by the French Directory, was inapplicable to Switzerland because of the country’s cantonal tradition and the variety of religions and languages. As a consequence, the Helvetic Republic was said to have never been accepted by the Swiss people. Therefore, there was no use in examining the national dimension of the political debates of this time. I would certainly not contest the fact that the French government applied pressure on the Helvetic Republic and its leaders. But in this context, was there any scope left for the politicians to hold a debate on national political issues? To be able to answer this, one should investigate how the values of the Helvetic Republic were considered and how the statesmen attempted to include them into a national political project. Additionally, in order to explore their national dimension, one should scrutinize the French

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influence in these debates. To answer these questions, I will focus on the period between January 1800 and May 1801, when intense discussions about constitutional problems arose.

Introducing a sequence of constitutional revisions: The coup d’état of January 1800 On 7 January 1800, a coup d’état practically put a end to the political system that had followed from the Helvetic Constitution, written by Peter Ochs and proclaimed on 12 April 1798.3 This constitution had been built on human rights, and its first article stated that the new Helvetic Republic was ‘one and indivisible’. 4 However, the country rapidly became the theatre of the war against Austria and had to support the material needs of the French army. At the same time, the new liberal economic system had disrupted the economic balance of the nation. This situation increased the exasperation of the people and weakened the authority of the government. In December 1799, Frédéric-César Laharpe and Philippe Secretan, hesitantly supported by Urs Viktor Oberlin, tried to find a way to reinforce the power of the Directory against the Republic’s legislative councils.5 To do so, Laharpe planned to adjourn the latter, in accordance with article 106 of the constitution. He counted on the help of France, stipulated in the alliance treaty signed in September 1798, to ease the reluctance of the councils. He then wanted to declare war on Austria, as he thought that fighting side by side with the French army would give him leverage to ask for its withdrawal after a victory. In his mind, the defence of the country would increase national patriotism, bring the people together, and free the land from foreign troops. In France, however, the government had changed after 18 Brumaire, which meant that Laharpe failed to gain its support. Additionally, the moderate republican party in Switzerland succeeded in dismissing the three Directors who were considered to be too ‘Jacobin’. After this first coup d’état, which took place without any violence or French assistance, a provisional council substituted the previous Helvetic Directory. This turned out to be the beginning of a temporary government whose aim was to write a new constitution while facing the great difficulties of the moment. The fall of the Directory symbolized the failure of the first attempt to build a centralized system. According to the testimonies of contemporaries, the regime had become more and more unpopular because of the deprivations of the war.6 Later on, these observations would be used to explain why a unitary Republic had been a historical misunderstanding.7 At the

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time, however, things were not so obvious: during 1800-1801, there was still a fairly strong sense of unity among a large portion of the population. There was still a Unitary party, which was divided into two camps: the ‘Patriots’ and the ‘Moderates’. At the opposite end of the political spectrum, the Federalist party mostly represented a conservative camp that had been trying to revive the old confederation and that had at times been prepared to join the moderate Unitarists if this meant that their interests would be better served.8 The fall of the Directory was in fact a victory for the Moderates, led amongst others by Usteri, Bay, and Luthar in the Senate and Koch, Kuhn, Escher, and Zimmerman in the Great Council. In late December 1799, they convinced the majority of the Council to create a commission that was to assist – i.e. supervise – the Directory; the ten members elected into this commission were all devoted to the Moderate Party.9 Then, on 7 January 1800, Dolder, together with Savary, decided to resign from the Directory while Kuhn in the Great Council asked for its complete suppression. All these opponents maintained that the people no longer supported the current political organization because of the war and because the Directory did not seem to have been of any help against the French army’s requests and requisitions. Moreover, they accused Laharpe of trying to forcefully dismiss the legislative councils, and they declared that the constitution had already been made void. They also maintained that the Directory had lost its authority and that changing the constitution would be the only way to prevent the country from sliding into civil war.10 As a result, a provisional order was proclaimed on 8 January 1800 and a new executive power was erected in the form of a commission made up of seven members elected by the Senate and the Great Council.11

A provisional order balanced between unitarism and federalism It now became urgent to think about a new constitution, for the one of 1798 had obviously been made void by the fall of the Directory. Although the political order had not been overturned (the two councils were still in place), the executive commission now resembled the ‘Small Councils’ of some old aristocratic cantonal constitutions. It might therefore be interpreted as a first step towards political reaction, but in fact, its creation reveals the national dimension of the nature of the debates about the future constitution. There appears to have been a middle ground between two extremes. On the one hand, the Patriots believed that only absolute unity involving

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a strong and centralized power could save the principles of the Revolution, strengthen national unity, and prevent the return of the ancien régime. This viewpoint was actually shared by a large portion of the people, because it related to the old economic and political divisions between the country and the urban cantons. Many people, mostly in the subject territories, appreciated that the centralized system had promoted civic equality and had put an end to privileges. They were also grateful for the end of the tithes and rents. That is why most of the peasants had joined their ranks. At the same time, the old Landsgemeinde cantons, which had considered themselves real democracies, fiercely opposed the new order created in 1798. The urban aristocracies or oligarchies, which had since lost their power, were also embittered. All these opponents supported the Federalist Party, demanding the return of the old order. In between, the Moderates seemed to promote a new political order based on a mixture of unitarism and federalism. This is confirmed by the fact that some members of the executive commission were linked to the Revolution and others to the ancien régime.12 On 14 January 1800, the Great Council passed a law according to which only constitutional drafts based on unity would be examined.13 The following day, a ‘constitutional committee’, which the Senate had already created on 12 December 1799, presented two drafts.14 The first draft was prepared by the majority of the commission, namely Usteri, Lüthi, and Muret. The second one was written by the minority, which was composed of Krauer and Kubli.15 Only the latter draft would be discussed in the Council. But the differences that appeared between the two proposals show that they were driven by national concerns, even if they were partly inspired by the French constitution of the Year VIII. The two drafts outlined the same concern about preserving both the representative system and the principle of the unity of the Republic. The draft supported by the majority centred on the thought that the country would have to be ruled by educated representatives in order to prevent revolutionary violence.16 Its makers copied the idea of universal suffrage from the French constitution of the Year VIII while at the same time invalidating its action: several filters were created to exclude the common people from being elected. At the lower level, all the citizens of a commune could participate in primary assemblies, but they could only choose 25 ‘eligible citizens of the communes’, amongst whom the local magistrates would be elected. This mechanism echoes the seventh article of the French constitution. The selected citizens would assemble at the district level and choose amongst them the ‘eligible citizens of the Republic’.17 From these citizens, a National Jury would choose the members of the Legislative

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Chamber (and some civil servants).18 The 45 members of parliament would be elected for 15 years. Thus, even if the electoral basis was much larger than at the time of the old confederation, the procedure is reminiscent of the old system in the sense that an ‘electoral aristocracy’ was created at every level. This could appear as a regression because the jury evoked the ancien régime institution of the Small Council. As Switzerland lacked educated people who were able to rule the country, it seemed quite obvious that, with this procedure, the eligible citizens would have constituted a new political class that would have monopolized the government and the administration. This draft constitution was soon rejected because it was not considered democratic enough.19 Its fiercest opponents were Jean-Jacques Cart, Jules Muret, and Pierre-Léon Pettolaz, all of them close to the Patriots.20 The draft proposal of the minority was based on different assumptions. In its introduction, Krauer explained that he first wanted to find a balance between popular sovereignty and the risk of anarchy, and then prevent the return of the oligarchy by defending popular sovereignty.21 Krauer reminded his colleagues that the nation did not want a constitution drafted by foreigners but a constitution that was written by the people. He wanted a constitution that was based on the principle of unity and with respect for the representative system, but also a constitution that stayed as close as possible to the ideal of a pure democracy.22 He tried to find a middle way between the previous Helvetic constitution – and the French principles that had inspired it – and the old institutions of the Helvetic Confederation. Contrary to the plan of the majority, his plan was based on popular sovereignty and rejected the idea of a national jury, which he called the most dangerous authority that a constitution could have. Krauer thought that the representatives, who embodied the sovereignty of the people, were much better suited to determine whether or not the government strayed too far from the constitution. His confidence in the people and its representatives made his plan more democratic. Krauer’s plan included several levels of political participation. The first level of the primary assembly, which came closest to a ‘pure democracy’, was accessible to every citizen. The primary assemblies elected local judges, city councilmen, and five electors for the second level, the electoral assemblies. The primary assemblies also proposed candidates for the national legislative and executive powers and ratified changes to the constitution and the wages of civil servants. It thus established a form of local democracy. This could be interpreted as a concession to the Federalists, who wanted more local autonomy. However, to avoid the risk of radicals being elected to power, a second level of eligibility was created to compose the legislative

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and executive power. The electoral assemblies named the ninety national representatives and the eighteen members of the government. They also elected district judges.23 While they preferred Krauer’s plan to the plan of the majority, the Patriots still thought that it was not democratic enough. And as they held the majority in the councils, the constitutional debates went very slowly. During the spring, the hostility between the Patriots and the Moderates grew, while the Federalists were also becoming more offensive. This led to the dismissal of the legislative councils by the executive commission on 7 August 1800. A new and still provisional political order was erected: a single legislative council of 43 members substituted the Great Council and the Senate. Seven of these members were chosen to compose a new executive council. The political system had now become very similar to the old form of government of the aristocratic cantons. The outcome of this second coup d’état was that it had become more difficult for the Moderates to achieve their goals through legal and democratic methods. This situation was a consequence of the divisions within public opinion as well as between the political elites. All were truly divided when it came to the goals of the Revolution in Switzerland, and the opposition still mirrored the opposition at the time of the ancien régime. In fact, the only thing all parties agreed on was the negative effects of the war and the need for the restoration of neutrality. All members of parliament used the same arguments: they wanted to save the country, they wanted its independence and its autonomy, and they wanted to realize the ambition of the first confederates. But the proposals to build a future regime remained vague. Furthermore, each party believed that conciliation with its political opponents was too dangerous. The Patriots thought that it would mean the end of the Revolution and the return of the old privileges and forms of domination. The Federalists refused to accept the end of the primacy of the bourgeoisie. Finally, the Moderates could not convince either of them because they did not succeed in finding an intermediate position. The majority of the representatives in the legislative and executive councils actually agreed on the principle of unity. The Moderates and the Patriots disagreed on the meaning of the term ‘democracy’. The Patriots were quite close to the French viewpoint but, since 18 Brumaire, the Swiss and French political elites had considered them too demagogic. The Moderates, for their part, would have preferred a more aristocratic constitution, but that was opposed by the Patriots, who held the majority in the councils before 7 August 1800. This situation explains why all the parties were trying to win the support

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of the French in order to impose their views. This consequently weakened democratic rule in Switzerland and enabled France to interfere in Swiss politics.

French influence in the constitutional debate It has often been written that the French Directory, and later on the Consulat, ruled everything in the Helvetic Republic. This seemed obvious because of the war and because La Grande Nation was more powerful than the Helvetic government. It was true that the French Directory had strategic and political interests in Switzerland. The Swiss territory had become a battlefield for the Austrian, Russian, and French armies until the peace of Luneville on 9 February 1801. The Coalition seemed to be winning, which strengthened the position of the Federalists. But although the diplomatic correspondence shows that the French government was aware of the fact that only the Patriots had supported it at the beginning of the Swiss Revolution, it did not come to the help of Laharpe when he planned his radical measures to fight both internal and external enemies. Since at least September 1799, the French Directory had noticed that being a ‘friend of the new order’ no longer necessarily meant being a ‘friend of France’, even for those Swiss citizens who had supported the principles of the French Revolution from the beginning.24 Moreover, the current French chargé d’affaires to Switzerland, Perrochel, sent letters to the French Directory in which he blamed Laharpe for the internal dissent within Swiss politics because of his plans to take radical and violent measures.25 Finally, the French Directory did not appreciate the constant complaints of the Helvetic Directory about the stationing of French troops in Switzerland and the subsequent requisitioning. This analysis could explain why the French government chose to support the Moderates against the Helvetic Directory. Nevertheless, this does not hide the fact that the Moderates also needed French support to overthrow the Patriots in the government and in the councils. When the first coup d’état was decided on, everything had been set up in close collaboration with Pichon, the new French chargé d’affaires. Thus, Laharpe did not get any help from the French divisional Müller when he asked him to protect the majority of the Helvetic Directory against the Reaction.26 In this case, it seems that the Moderates were under French influence. In the constitutional debates that followed in 1800, this influence was no longer apparent. Sources reveal no evidence that the drafting of a new

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constitution was led by France.27 Even if one admits to the similarities with the French Constitution of the Year VIII, it is more likely that the Moderates tried to please the French Directory in order to be able to advance their own plan for a constitution. Besides, it does not seem to have mattered very much to the French government, which was more interested in the war and the internal conflicts. For example, in July 1800, Talleyrand sent a report to Napoleon saying that the best way to reduce the influence of both extreme parties would be to come back to the constitution of 1798, then to reintroduce a Directory and adjourn the councils.28 But this solution was never imposed on the Swiss leaders, as evidenced by the result of the second coup d’état. Not long afterwards, Napoleon expressed his satisfaction with the fact that the councils had been adjourned and replaced by a new legislative council.29 He repeated that he would only approve of a constitution based on the principle of unity. But the new political order remained unable to pacify the political oppositions in society or to produce a new constitution. In October, Talleyrand said that the weak Swiss government formed a problem because the provisional situation complicated the recovery of the country and its position as an ally. By December, France had gotten the upper hand in the second coalition. All Swiss parties started to draft constitutions that they thought would be acceptable to the French. So, in February, Glayre was sent to Paris on behalf of the executive commission with a plan that was based on the plan that had been written by Krauer. The French minister Reinhard, who favoured the Swiss Federalists, tried to cause this unitary project to fail.30 Although Napoleon repeated that Switzerland had been confirmed as a free state in Lunéville, he finally proposed his own plan for a constitution: the constitution of Malmaison. Though it was drafted by the French government, Glayre, Stapfer, and Haller were allowed to modify this plan. The draft was then presented to the Swiss councils, where it was discussed and corrected again.31 When Napoleon looked at the plan that Glayre presented to him, he found that institutions proposed in it had been copies of the French institutions; he had considered this too intricate for Switzerland. He also wanted it to be more democratic, thereby going against the single consensus between the Unitarists and the Federalists, who both wanted to eliminate the possibility for non-educated people to be elected and to rule the nation. The plan that was finally adopted on 23 October 1801 was much more complicated than the one proposed by Napoleon. It was closer to the plan that had been sent from Switzerland in February, and it was more aristocratic.

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Conclusion Until now, French influence in the Helvetic Revolution has mostly been viewed in the context of the war. It has been argued that Switzerland’s powerful neighbour imposed its views without really allowing the Swiss to create their own rules. The Helvetic Republic was, of course, in the sphere of influence of La Grande Nation. But the scope for autonomy was particularly impaired by fierce internal opposition within the republic. The main difficulty was the incapacity of all parties to accept the basic principle of a democracy, i.e. the rule of the majority. In turn, each of them, by trying to impose their own view, sought the support of the French government: first the Patriots, then the Moderates, and even the Federalists. This consequently weakened the authority of the successive governments and institutions and allowed France to preserve its interests and keep a close eye on its ‘ally’.



An unwelcome Sister Republic Re-reading political relations between the Cisalpine Republic and the French Directory Antonino De Francesco

In the Italian historical and political tradition, it is rather commonplace to emphasize the decisive role of revolutionary France in the genesis of modern Italy. In the depiction of the triennio – from Napoleon’s descent in 1796 to the overthrow of the Italian republics in 1799 – there are several critical evaluations of the French occupation, which focus on two different aspects of this occupation. First, the Parisian Directory is said to be guilty of introducing an oppressive fiscal system, plundering Italian resources and appropriating Italy’s extraordinary artistic heritage. And second, France is said to have hindered Italy’s political modernization by interfering with efforts made by the Italians themselves. Both these accusations have different origins that need to be briefly explained. The first critique originates from the counter-revolutionary political discourse following the Catholic denunciation of 1789. It remained alive throughout the nineteenth century and re-emerged during Italy’s fascist period, especially in the ultra-nationalistic criticism of France.1 However, it is the second accusation – the obstruction of Italy’s political independence – that has gained the most attention. The denunciation of French oppression fomented the national movement in the nineteenth century; in the aftermath of Italian unification, it sustained the pretence of an Italian Sonderweg to modernity.2 From this very aspect rose the assumption of originality: the Italian eighteenth-century patriots were no longer depicted as base imitators of the French model.3 This explains why the Parisian Directory has always been represented as a foreign system that repressed the national aspirations of the Italian patriots. The persistence of this emphasis on the anti-Italian aspect reached its climax during the fascist era and broke down after the Second World War. 4 In the historiographical debate after the overthrow of fascism, the Jacobin years now became crucial, because in the triennio it was possible to find an alternative Italian political tradition that was democratic and republican. It is true that this tradition was eventually defeated by the Napoleonic system, but even this breakdown could be put to use to explain the democratic asphyxia of contemporary Italian political culture. 5

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Consequently, despite its dramatic defeat, the triennio now seemed to present an extraordinary opportunity for civic renewal because in those years, for the very first time, a ruling class seemed to subordinate Italian unity to social change.6 This interpretation has several weaknesses: it hinted that the French constitution of the Year III favoured civic renewal, whereas the French historiographical tradition argues to the contrary. This incongruity was overcome by suggesting that the Italian patriots had much in common with the French Jacobins of Year II. This meant that the revolutionary dimension of the triennio was upheld and that all responsibility for its breakdown was shifted to the repressive political action of the Directory. By comparing Italian patriotism directly to Robespierrism, national historians could explain why Italian Jacobinism had been defeated. In Italy, many conservatives had in fact worked closely together with the Parisian government to prevent the social revolution pursued by the more radical groups.7 It is worth noticing that the traditional criticism, which originated in most nationalist historiography of the French years in Italy, was kept alive even after 1945.8 In the Marxist interpretation of the triennio, animosity towards the French Directory persisted. And yet, it is exactly the transmission of this prejudice from the nationalistic to the post-war interpretation that creates a dilemma. It suggests that although the interpretation of the French revolutionary years in Italy had radically mutated during the twentieth century, this never led to a revision of the political action of the Directory. The Parisian government is still portrayed as an oppressive regime animated by corrupt and authoritarian politics that inevitably led to wars of conquest and plundering.9 However, now that we have moved beyond the era of nationalist historiographies, there is cause for a new interpretation. It is important to emphasize what linked the Italian patriots to the political culture of France during the Directory instead of what divided them. In other terms, the time has come to reflect upon the direct consequences of the French invasion, highlighting its importance for the birth of democracy in Italy. The invasion entailed new categories and new political practices that could be employed in novel ways. Initially, these revolutionary tools were made available by the French armies. The invasion immediately created a political solidarity across both France and Italy. In fact, the military occupation proved decisive because from the very beginning, the French troops, more than officers of the Directory, organized political life in Italy. The armée d’Italie stimulated the circulation of patriotic newspapers, promoted the openings of constitutional societies, and favoured a cultural system legitimating the new revolutionary order.10

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It is well known that the Directory officers attempted to limit the political action of the army because, following precise prescriptions from Paris, the same army pressed on the traditional Italian ruling class to join the new political order. However, the diametrical opposition of the civil and military powers, which would influence the whole triennio, did not tip the fragile political balance of revolutionary Italy. Moreover, their contraposition favoured political liberty, because it facilitated the birth of different political parties in the Italian Sister Republics from 1797 to 1799. All the different Italian republics seemed to follow the same political dynamics: on the one hand, the Directory officers attempted to impose the Parisian will on local authorities, while on the other hand the army came to the support of those politicians who were excluded from local power. The revolutionary politicization of Italy arose from this conflict. Until 1799, the armée d’Italie had a competitive relationship with the Parisian Directory, and it often supported the opposition both in France and in Italy in an attempt to prolong the war. These strained relations had a profound impact on Italian revolutionary politics, because they determined the formation of conservative and radical parties and their particular relations with the Parisian Directory. Any analysis of this political process requires an accurate comparison of French and Italian political events. It is worth noticing that Italian democratization took place between Babeuf’s imprisonment – coinciding with Napoleon’s arrival in Milan – and the Fructidor revolution of Year V, which occurred just a few weeks after the French Constitution of the Year III had been implemented in the Cisalpine Republic. Consequently, the military invasion in Italy, and shortly after that the creation of the first Cisalpine Directory, took place when the French left-wing revolutionaries relied on the army to prevent the Parisian government from degenerating into a counter-revolutionary tyranny. The Italian patriots welcomed this course of events, because it enabled the armée d’Italie to promote the war as a weapon that was needed to revive the revolutionary spirit.11 These are the origins of the political alliance between the French democratic republicans and the Italian patriots, which historians have judged correctly.12 It is precisely the military operations in Italy that enforced the link between the French Jacobins and the Italian anarchists, which French civil servants and diplomats so often complained about in their letters to the Parisian Directory.13 This allows for a reinterpretation of how the Italian patriots saw the French revolutionary developments. An excellent example is supplied by the attitudes of the Cisalpine patriots towards the Constitution of the Year III.14 The

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most radical factions first withheld their support for the constitution. After Fructidor, however, they changed their minds. The purge of the two legislative councils and the Directory, creating a leftist majority in favour of Napoleon’s decision to introduce the 1795 constitution in the Cisalpine Republic, turned most Italian patriots into adamant supporters of this constitution.15 This change of perspective has long been underestimated by Italian historians, who even today see the support for the 1795 constitution as an example of political duplicity. This misunderstanding, which is caused by a one-sided view of the Italian political reality, has obstructed a proper understanding of how the Italian acceptance of the Year III constitution was in reality a reaction to French political events.16 The French democratic republicans had challenged their conservative opponents’ violation of political liberties. In France, they were greatly rewarded for it at the elections for the renewal of the councils. In Italy, they equally won the support of the radicals. If this is overlooked, it becomes difficult to explain why after Fructidor, the Year III constitution became a milestone even for the more radical Italian groups. As the Cisalpine patriots strongly supported the revolution in Italy, thus following the French example, they now praised its constitutional order. This is why, in Italy, the revolutionary sociability manifested itself in the creation of a political sphere, where democratic principles ensued from the constitutional defence. Clear evidence of this is provided by Giuseppe Compagnoni’s lectures on constitutional rights, published in 1797. In his book, Compagnoni repeatedly praises representative democracy, reasoning that it is the only form of government that does not prevaricate popular sovereignty. It is worth mentioning that Compagnoni’s book was dedicated to the Cisalpine Directory, which in the words of the author protected both ‘liberty and constitutional order’.17 This dedication expresses the favourable attitude of the Italian patriots towards a political system they should have mistrusted. A non-ideological historical analysis of Compagnoni’s book demonstrates that there was no intrinsic conflict between the Italian patriots and the Directorial political system throughout the triennio. In this light, it is interesting to analyze relations between the Italian patriots and the French Directory somewhat further. These relations reveal the importance of the Italian question for French revolutionary politics. All this clearly emerges from the close intertwinement of Cisalpine and French politics. Three examples support this interpretation: the close attention the patriots paid to the French political struggle; the fact that they always sided with the army in order to continue the war in Italy; and, last but not least, their closeness to the French republican democrats in their principal refusal of a war of conquest.

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In short, the Cisalpine political process confirms that historians should distinguish between the Directory as a political institution that was created by the Constitution of Year III and the various and different Directories that were in power from 1795 to Brumaire. These Directories made divergent and sometimes contradictory political choices. Moreover, as they were collective bodies, political differences could exist even within the same Directory. The Italian patriots had to adapt to these different Directories, and it seems rather obvious that their political behaviour at a given moment depended on the specific political attitudes within the Directory then in power. This allows us to re-interpret the political stance of the various groups of Cisalpine patriots more in relation to French politics. The more conservative Italian patriots not only feared a social revolution, they also favoured a politics of peace that would mean a consolidation of the power they had acquired. This made them supporters of the outcome of the Congress of Rastadt, and this is why they aligned themselves with the French Directories who held the same position. This opportunistic loyalty towards Paris – that would earn them the reputation of being servants of the Directory – was rewarded by the French government. From 1797, the different Directories showed signs of hostility towards those Italian radical patriots who deplored the subjection of the Cisalpine Republic to France. The radicals, who were excluded from local power and blamed the Parisian Directory for their misfortune, sided with the armée d’Italie and the French democratic republicans in an attempt to break French control over the Cisalpine Republic. They advocated the territorial expansion of the Cisalpine Republic and the resumption of the war in Italy, hoping that this would create a new political order and offer them a chance to remove their conservative opponents from power. The Parisian Directories did not want to alter the political balance drafted in Campo Formio. It is well known that only the unscrupulous action of the armée d’Italie forced them to establish the Roman Republic in 1798 and to suffer, obtorto collo, the birth of the Neapolitan Republic at the beginning of 1799.18 Their Cisalpine allies were just as worried because they knew that war would destroy the political balance that had been established in Campo Formio. The Parisian government and its Cisalpine allies were very distrustful of the armée d’Italie: the French generals never gave up their political independence and often clashed with the civil officers about their desire to break the truce with Austria. The French generals were backed by the Cisalpine radicals, who regarded war as a means to end their political insignificance.

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The Cisalpine patriots and the French Directories differed not only on the question of independence but also on the question whether the revolutionary war should be used as a weapon to destroy the social and political balance of the old regime. Evidence for this is supplied by the foreign policy of the Cisalpine Republic: the Milan government formally respected the Parisian guidelines but often contradicted these guidelines in practice, for instance by supporting the upheavals organized in Milan, Genoa, the Canton of Ticino, Lucca, and in Piedmont in 1798.19 The Parisian Directories were not against the territorial expansion of the Cisalpine Republic, but they were afraid that the ambitions of the Milanese government would be supported by the growing political and military opposition in France. In other words, the Parisian government feared a French-Cisalpine axis dominated by French and Italian leftists and generals.20 It is no coincidence that a major political crisis between Paris and Milan occurred in the spring of 1798, when the French Directory denied the Cisalpine Republic territorial expansion, preferring the establishment of the Roman Republic. The Roman Republic was very different from the Ligurian and Cisalpine Republics, because the Roman constitution was to be more restrictive than the Constitution of Year III; the Roman Republic was therefore no sister republic but simply a vassal republic. Only a few months later, the new French ambassador in Milan, Claude-Joseph Trouvé, purged the Cisalpine Directory and imposed a new constitution that was directly modelled on the Roman example.21 These specif ic events have reinforced the interpretation that the Cisalpine republic had been a mere pawn in the Directory’s hegemonic politics. However, this hypothesis is largely refuted by successive events which confirm the political role that was played by the armée d’Italie. In October 1798, General Brune, chief of the French army in Italy, overthrew the government and reinstalled its predecessor, doing so with the consent of Fouché, the new French ambassador in Milan. In December 1798, General Joubert, the new chief of the armée d’Italie, forced the King of Piedmont to resign. And in January 1799, after a sweeping victory over the King of Naples, Joubert’s deputy Championnet founded the Neapolitan republic without even asking the Parisian Directory for permission. The political action of the French army in Italy was so reckless that the French Directory was obliged to take decisive action. In Piedmont, the French Directory prevented the union with the Cisalpine Republic that was proclaimed by Italian patriots; in Milan, it deposed Fouché and ordered the new ambassador Rivaud to return power once again to the men who were close to Trouvé. The order was peremptory: all those who were ‘impatiens de secouer ce

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qu’ils appellant le joug des français’22 had to be dismissed. In December 1798, Rivaud staged a coup d’état and installed yet another new Cisalpine Directory.23 According to an authoritative interpretation, Rivaud’s coup d’état shows that the French Directory had become tired of the political experiment of the Sister Republics and from then on considered them subjected dominions.24 However, as many facts show, this interpretation is dominated by hindsight: it takes into account the military defeats that would force the French to abandon all the Italian republics in 1799; the exile of many Italian patriots who as soon as they arrived in France aligned themselves with the leftist opposition and blamed the French Directory for the Italian fiasco;25 and last, but not least, the enthusiasm the Italian patriots would show for Brumaire and the subsequent dissolution of the Directory.26 However, one should bear in mind that the military defeats in Italy, the breakdown of the Italian Sister Republics, and the Brumaire coup were absolutely unimaginable during the first months of 1799. In fact, at the beginning of this same year, the military and political prospects were completely different. The failure of the Congress of Rastadt and the resumption of the war tipped the Cisalpine political balance. The party that favoured war, which was dominated by the radicals, changed the position of the pawns on the Italian chessboard: it helped create the Piedmontese and the Neapolitan Republics and brought about the military occupation of Tuscany. All these seemed favourable to the idea of a single Italian Republic, all the more so because the military operations prevented the French Directory from showing hostility towards the Italian republics. The change in events even forced the authoritative Directory to dust off the topic of a revolutionary war. The evidence is clear when one reflects upon the Cisalpine political events that followed Rivaud’s coup d’état. This very episode, which has always been defined as the climax of an anti-Italian attitude, was in fact insignificant, because Joubert pressured Rivaud into forming a government in which the radicals were included as well.27 The new Cisalpine Directory took advantage of the situation and asked for territorial expansion in exchange for financial support in the war against Austria. The French government had little choice but to accept this request. A military defeat was needed to put a stop to this alliance. An Austro-Russian invasion led to the overthrow of the Cisalpine Republic, forcing the Milanese Directory to follow Rivaud to France. Many Italian patriots, who were themselves forced to go into exile, considered this flight dishonourable. Most of the Italian patriots settled in Grenoble, where they supported the French democratic republicans against the Parisian Directory and eagerly anticipated the dissolution of the Cisalpine Directory that was exiled in Chambery.28

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From Prairial Year VII – when a new pro-war French Directory was established – until Brumaire, the Italian question was central to the French political debate. The Italian refugees, who were appalled by the Italian politics conducted by the Directory, were quick to give their support to the Brumaire coup d’état. The negative image of the Directory that has dominated Italian historiography ever since stems precisely from this episode. Considering, however, the arguments that I have presented above, a reassessment of relations between the French Directory and the Italian patriots is called for. It would be worthwhile to go beyond simple contraposition and to speak instead of a discors concordia, given the fact that the tension between France and the Cisalpine Republic was the direct result of the political discord between different Italian parties that the French had themselves introduced.29 Napoleon now understood that the political instability of the Sister Republics was caused by the fact that the Constitution of the Year III had been applied in countries that had very different historical traditions. It is significant that the Constitution of Year VIII was not proposed again in the other republics, where Napoleon imposed different constitutions that reflected the specific historical and political background of the conquered territories. In the Batavian Republic, Napoleon pressured the government into revising their constitution of 1798 in order to stop the violent contraposition between radicals and moderates. In the Italian Republic, the successor of the Cisalpine Republic, he introduced a new constitution that was to bring about collaboration between the new order and the traditional elite. Finally, in Switzerland, he favoured the Mediation Act, which restored federalism to that republic. It is worth noticing, however, that all these different choices reflect a single political project. By giving the allied republics different constitutions, Napoleon put an end to the political experiment of the Sister Republics that had arisen in Directorial France. The new republics were no longer ‘sisters’ but instead became simple allies of Napoleonic France. Their constitutional diversity ensured that they were separate entities and thus each linked individually to France. In other words, Napoleon wanted to erase the similarities of the political systems, both with France and among the Sister Republics, that had been created during the Directorial years.30 If until 1799, the voluntary imitation of the French constitutional model had been presented as a requirement for political independence, after Brumaire the new constitutions, drafted specifically for the allied republics, were signs of their subjection to French hegemony. Thus the decline of a common revolutionary political vision resulted in strained relations among the allied republics and favoured only France.

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List of contributors

Silvia Arlettaz is titular professor at the Université de Fribourg (Switzerland). Her fields of interest are the Helvetic Republic, Swiss history (nineteenth to twentieth centuries), the history of Valais, citizenship, nationality, the federal politics of the immigration and integration of foreigners, and public opinion. Together with Gérald Arlettaz, she wrote La Suisse et les étrangers (Lausanne: Antipodes, 2010). Antoine Broussy is agrégé d’histoire and PhD candidate at the Université de Paris I Panthéon-Sorbonne. Simon Burrows is professor of history at the University of Western Sydney in Australia. The author of innovative studies of journalism and print culture, he has headed a path-breaking digital project on the French Book Trade in Enlightenment Europe. He has also held positions at Leeds (UK) and Waikato (NZ). Malcolm Crook has spent his academic career at Keele University in the UK, where he is emeritus professor of French history in the School of Humanities. Having specialized in the study of the French Revolution, he is currently writing a general history of voting in France entitled How the French Learned to Vote. Valeria Ferrari is researcher of the history of political institutions at the Political Science Department at the University of Rome “La Sapienza”. Biancamaria Fontana is professor of the history of political ideas at the Institut d’Etudes Politiques et Internationales of the University of Lausanne and a member of the Centre Walras Pareto for interdisciplinary research on the history of thought. Antonino De Francesco is professor of early modern history at the University of Milan and chercheur associé at the Institut d’Histoire de la Révolution Française. He is a specialist in the cultural and political history of eighteenth and nineteenth-century France and Italy. His most recent works are L’Italia di Bonaparte (Turin: UTET, 2011) and The Antiquity of the Italian Nation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).

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André Holenstein is professor of Swiss history of the late Middle Ages and early modern times at the University of Berne (Switzerland). Pasi Ihalainen is professor of general history, especially comparative early modern and modern European history, at the University of Jyväskylä in Finland. He has studied the secularization of the concept of the political party, the modernization of national identities, and the redefinition of democracy in constitutional debates in parliaments in a comparative northwest European perspective. Erik Jacobs is a PhD candidate and lecturer at the University of Amsterdam. Andrew Jainchill is associate professor of history at Queen’s University and the author of Reimagining Politics after the Terror: The Republican Origins of French Liberalism (2008). His research focuses on the intellectual and political history of eighteenth-century France and the French Revolution. Annie Jourdan is research fellow at the Department of European Studies at the University of Amsterdam. She has published several books on the French Revolution and on the First Empire, including La Révolution, une exception française? (Paris: Flammarion, 2004 and 2006); La Révolution batave entre la France et l’Amérique (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008). She is co-editor of L’Empire napoléonien: une expérience européenne? (2014). Mauro Lenci is a researcher in history of political thought at the Department of Political Science at the University of Pisa. He is a member of “Reimagining Democracy in the Mediterranean, 1750-1860”, a project based at the University of Oxford. Joris Oddens is a researcher and lecturer at Radboud University Nijmegen and the University of Amsterdam. He recently published a book on the first Dutch parliament: Pioniers in schaduwbeeld. Het eerste parlement van Nederland 1796-1798 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2012). He is currently co-editing a history of the Dutch lower house (Tweede Kamer) from 1815 to the present. Mart Rutjes is research fellow and lecturer at the University of Amsterdam. He recently published Door gelijkheid gegrepen, Democratie, burgerschap en staat in Nederland 1795-1801 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2012) on the political thought of the Batavian Republic. He is currently working on a project on public debates about the separation of church and state in the Netherlands since the 1960s.

List of contributors

247

Pierre Serna is professor at the Université de Paris I Panthéon-Sorbonne, director of the l’Institut d’Histoire de la Révolution française, vice-president of the commission internationale d’histoire de la Révolution française, and director of the online journal La revolution française. Cahiers de l’IHRF (revues.org). He works on the history of republican revolutions and more particularly on the internationalization of the republic in theory and practice. He is the editor of Républiques soeurs: Le directoire et la Révolution atlantique (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2009). Wyger Velema (1955) is Jan Romein Professor of History at the University of Amsterdam. He has published widely on the history of eighteenth-century political thought. Most recently, he was co-editor of Het Bataafse experiment. Politiek en cultuur rond 1800 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2013). Katia Visconti is a researcher in early modern history at the Università degli Studi dell’Insubria in Italy. She has published essays on the political and social life in the state of Milan in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Currently she is conducting research on the political culture in the Napoleonic age. Her most recent publication is L’ultimo Direttorio: La lotta politica nella Repubblica cisalpina tra guerra rivoluzionaria e ascesa di Bonaparte, 1799-1800 (Milan: Guerini e Associati, 2011). Urte Weeber is a lecturer in early modern history at the University of Heidelberg. In 2014 she defended her PhD thesis, Die Zukunft gestalten. Venedig, die Vereinigten Provinzen der Niederlande und die Eidgenossenschaft als Fluchtpunkte des Sagbaren in einem politischen Reformdiskurs der Frühaufklärung. Andreas Würgler is a professor in Medieval and Early Modern Swiss History at the Historical Institute of the University of Geneva, Switzerland. His research includes the political and social history of revolts, the cultural history of media and communication, as well as comparative approaches to petitions and representative institutions.

Notes The political culture of the Sister Republics 1. 2.

3. 4.

5.

6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12.

Simon Schama, Patriots and Liberators. Revolution in the Netherlands, 17801813 (New York [etc.]: Knopf, 1977); Joris Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld. Het eerste parlement van Nederland 1796-1798 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2012). “Mémoire pour servir d’instructions au citoyen Charles Delacroix, ministre plénipotentaire de la République française près la République batave, 2 December 1797,” in De Staatsregeling van 1798. Bronnen voor de totstandkoming, vol. 1, ed. L. de Gou (The Hague: Bureau der Rijkscommissie voor Vaderlandse Geschiedenis, 1988-1990), 567-571. Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld, 302-317. Holger Böning, Der Traum von Freiheit und Gleichheit. Helvetische Revolution und Republik (1798-1803). Die Schweiz auf dem Weg zur bürgerlichen Demokratie (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1998); Christian Simon, “Die Basler Revolution 1798,” in Basel 1798. Vive la République Helvétique, ed. Beat von Warburg (Basel: Christoph Merian, 1998), 13-60. F. Flouck et al., eds., De l’ours à la cocarde. Régime bernois et révolution en pays de Vaud (1536-1798) (Lausanne: Payot, 1998); Marc H. Lerner, “The Helvetic Republic. An Ambivalent Reception of French Revolutionary Liberty,” French History 18.1 (2004): 50-75; Marc H. Lerner, A Laboratory of Liberty. The Transformation of Political Culture in Republican Switzerland, 1750-1848 (Leiden [etc.]: Brill, 2012); and the contribution of Antoine Broussy in this volume. Lerner, “The Helvetic Republic,” 68. Beatrice Maschietto, “Cultura e politica nell’Italia giacobina. Spunti dall’esperienza cisalpine,” Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome. Italie et Méditerrannée 108.2 (1996): 731-740, there 736. F. M. Agnoli, Le Pasque veronesi. Quando Verona insorse contro Napoleone (Rimini: Il Cerchio, 1998). C. Montalcini and A. Alberti, eds., Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 2 (Bologna: Zanichelli, 1917), 128 and 149. Carlo Zaghi, Il Direttorio francese e la Repubblica cisalpine, vol. 1 (Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per l’età moderna e contemporanea, 1992), 123-30; idem, L’Italia di Napoleone dalla Cisalpina al Regno (Turin: UTET, 1986), 141-45; Antonino de Francesco, “La constitution de l’an III et les Républiques jacobines italiennes,” Atti del convegno internazionale Repubbliche Sorelle. Istituto Olandese a Roma, 13-16 maggio 1998 = Mededelingen van het Nederlands Instituut te Rome 57 (1998): 97-106. Zaghi, L’Italia di Napoleone, 189; idem, Il direttorio francese, vol. 1, 302. Zaghi, Il direttorio francese, vol. 1, 302 ff and vol. 2, passim.

250 

13.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

To repeat the famous characterization by R. R. Palmer, who is mentioned below in this article. 14. See on the notion of Sister Republics: Patrice Higonnet, Sister Republics. The origins of French and American Republicanism (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 1988); Jean-Louis Harouel, Les républiques soeurs. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1997; Nicolaas van Sas, “Sister Republics. The Enlightened Impulse, the Constitutional Moment, the National Reflex,” Atti del convegno internazionale Repubbliche Sorelle, 9-20; Marc Belissa, “Hégemonie ou Républicanisme cosmopolitique? Le nouvel ordre européen sous le Directoire et le Consulat,” in In the embrace of France. The law of nations and constitutional law in the French satellite states of the revolutionary and Napoleonic age (1789-1815), eds. B. Jacobs, R. Kubben, and R. Lesaffer (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2008), 117-125; Pierre Serna, ed., Républiques soeurs. Le Directoire et la Révolution atlantique (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2009); Annie Jourdan, “Buitenbeentje tussen de zusterrepublieken. De Bataafse Republiek in internationaal perspectief,” in Het Bataafse experiment. Politiek en cultuur rond 1800, eds. Frans Grijzenhout, Niek van Sas, and Wyger Velema (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2013), 155-185. 15. Raymond Kubben, Regeneration and Hegemony. Franco-Batavian Relations in the Revolutionary Era, 1795-1803 (Leiden and Boston: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 2011), 271-72. 16. Ibid., 272-75. 17. Andreas Fankhauser, “The Political Structure and Revolutionary Potential of the Helvetic Republic (1798-1803),” Atti del convegno internazionale Repubbliche Sorelle, 162-163. 18. The debate on the importance of the French Revolution started in 1789 and is still far from over, but as Peter McPhee stated in the most recent overview of the period, ‘historians, like those who lived through those years, have agreed on the unprecedented and momentous nature of these and other acts of revolution in the months between May and October 1789’: Peter McPhee, ‘Introduction,’ in: A Companion to the French Revolution), ed. Peter McPhee (Malden and Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), xv-xxiv, there xv. See also section IX in this volume, ‘Change and continuity in France’, on the debates on the meaning of the French Revolution for French history. 19. Mike Rapport, “The International Repercussions of the French Revolution,” in A Companion to the French Revolution, ed. McPhee, 381-396, there 381-382; Joseph Klaits and Michael H. Haltzel, “Introduction,” in The Global Ramifications of the French Revolution, eds. Joseph Klaits and Michael H. Haltzel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 1-7; for the recent historio­ graphy on the global context of the Age of Revolution, see notes 30 and 31. 20. See E. O. G. Haitsma Mulier, “De geschiedschrijving over de patriottentijd en de Bataafse tijd,” in Kantelend geschiedbeeld. Nederlandse historiografie sinds 1945, ed. W. W. Mijnhardt (Utrecht [etc.]: Het Spectrum, 1983), 206-227 and 352-355; N. C. F. van Sas, “De Nederlandse revolutie van de achttiende eeuw,”

Notes

251

Bijdragen en Mededelingen betreffende de Geschiedenis der Nederlanden 100.4 (1985): 636-646; Wyger R. E. Velema, “The Dutch, the French and Napoleon. Historiographical Reflections on a Troubled Relationship,” in Da brumaio ai cento giorni. Cultura di governo e dissenso politico nell’Europa di Bonaparte, ed. Antonino de Francesco (Milan: Guerini e Associati, 2007), 39-51. 21. On the more recent Dutch historiography on the Batavian Republic, see Willem Frijhoff and Joost Rosendaal, “La révolution régénérée. Nouvelles approches et nouvelles images de la Révolution néerlandaise,” in L’image de la Révolution française, ed. Michel Vovelle, vol. 1 (Parijs [etc.]: Pergamon, 1990), 543-561; Annie Jourdan and Joost Rosendaal, ‘Introduction. La Révolution batave à l’entrée du troisième millénaire. Nouveaux problèmes, nouvelles approches, nouveaux objets,” Annales historiques de la Révolution française 326 (2001): 2-23. 22. Michele Luminati, “Die Helvetische Republik im Urteil der schweizerischen Geschichtsschreibung,” Zeitschrift für Neuere Rechtsgeschichte 5 (1983): 163175; Christian Simon, “Die Helvetik in der nationalen Historiographie,” in Blicke auf die Helvetik = Regards sur l’Helvétique, ed. Christian Simon (Basel: Schwabe & Co., 2000), 239-263; 23. Luminati, “Die Helvetische Republik.” 24. Cfr. Daniel Schläppi, ed., Umbruch und Beständigkeit. Kontinuitäten in der Helvetischen Revolution von 1798 (Basel: Schwabe, 2009); Antoine Broussy, “Rethinking Republicanism in Switzerland during 1798-1801: Between Rupture and Continuity,” La Révolution française online (2011), lrf.revues. org/344. See also the contribution of Urte Weeber in this volume. 25. Anna Maria Rao, “Lumieres et révolution dans l’historiographie italienne,” Annales historiques de la Révolution française 334 (2003): 83-104; Antonino de Francesco, “La Révolution française hors de France. Quelques perspectives de recherché sur l’historiographie italienne entre XIXe et XXe siècle,” Annales historiques de la Révolution française 334 (2003): 105-118. 26. See, for example, Eugenio di Rienzo, “L’ ‘histoire de si’ et l’ ‘histoire des faits’. Quelques perspectives de recherche à propos de l’historiographie italienne sur la période révolutionnaire, 1948-2000,” Annales historiques de la Révolution Française 334 (2003): 119-138; Vittorio Criscuolo, “‘Vecchia’ storiografia e nuovi revisionismi nella ricerca storica sull’Italia in rivoluzione,” in Vittorio Criscuolo, Albori di democrazia nell’Italia in rivoluzione (1792-1802), 25-178 (Rome: FrancoAngeli, 2006). 27. Chris Lorenz, “Comparative Historiography. Problems and Perspectives,” History and Theory 38 (1999): 25-39, there 28. 28. R. R. Palmer, The Age of the Democratic Revolution. A Political History of Europe and America, 1760-1800 vol. 1, The Challenge (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1959), 4. The second part of The Age of the Democratic Revolution, subtitled The Struggle, on the period following the French Revolution, was published in 1964.

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The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

29. Jacques Godechot, France and the Atlantic Revolution of the Eighteenth Century, 1770-1799 (New York: The Free Press and London: Collier-MacMillan Publishers, 1965), 7-27. 30. Palmer, The Age of the Democratic Revolution, vol. 1, 4-5. 31. Manuela Albertone and Antonino de Francesco, eds., Rethinking the Atlantic World. Europe and America in the Age of Democratic Revolutions (Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009); Wim Klooster, Revolutions in the Atlantic World. A Comparative History (New York: New York University Press, 2009). 32. David Armitage and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, eds., The Age of Revolutions in Global Context, c.1760-1840 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010); C. A. Bayly, The Birth of the Modern World, 1780-1914. Global Connections and Comparisons (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004); Suzanne Desan, Lynn Hunt, and William Max Nelson, eds., The French Revolution in Global Perspective (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2013). 33. Van Sas, “Sister Republics.”; Jourdan, “Buitenbeentje tussen de zusterrepu­ blieken.” 34. There is, of course, a vast historiography on the revolutionary history of Europe and on the impact of the French Revolution on European history, but this body of work is not concerned with the perspective offered here: the extent to which contemporaries saw the revolutions in France and the Sister Republics as part of a wider European project or revolutionary moment with the notion of a shared experience. 35. Jacques-Vincent Delacroix, Constitutions des principaux États de l’Europe et des États-Unis de l’Amérique. 6 vols. (Paris: Buisson, 1791-1801), trans. into English and German; Matteo Angelo Galdi, Discours sur les rapports politiques-économiques de l’Italie libre avec la France et les autres États de l’Europe, trans. L.-P. Couret-Villeneuve (Paris: Baudouin, 1798). 36. See the contribution by Malcolm Crook in this volume. 37. See the contribution by Biancamaria Fontana in this volume. 38. Deborah Cohen and Maura O’Connor, “Comparative History, Cross-National History, Transnational History – Definitions,” in Comparison and History. Europe in Cross-National Perspective, eds. Deborah Cohen and Maura O’Connor (New York and London: Routledge, 2004) ix-xxiv, there xi-xii. 39. Stefan Berger, “Comparative History,” in: Writing History. Theory and Practice, eds. Stefan Berger, Heiko Feldner and Kevin Passmore (London: Arnold, 2003), 161-179, there 165-166. 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid; see also Heinz-Gerhard Haupt and Jürgen Kocka, “Comparative History. Methods, Aims, Problems,” in Comparison and History, eds. Cohen and O’Connor, 23-41. On the theoretical and methodological difficulties of comparative conceptual history, see Iain Hampsher-Monk, Karen Tilmans, and Frank van Vree, eds., History of Concepts. Comparative Perspectives (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1998).

Notes

253

42. Henk te Velde, “Political Transfer. An Introduction,” European Review of History 12.2 (2005): 205-221, there 205. Political transfer is a variety of the more general method of Transfergeschichte. For an overview of the different types of transnational or crossnational histories including the histoire croisée, see Haupt and Kocka, “Comparative History,” 23-41. 43. Apart from the different articles in this volume, see Annie Jourdan, “The Batavian Revolution. Typical Dutch, Typical French or Just Atlantic? A Study of Political and Cultural Transfers,” Dutch crossing 31 (2007): 271-288. 44. Jourdan, “Buitenbeentje tussen de zusterrepublieken.” 45. See the contributions by Annie Jourdan and André Holenstein in this volume. 46. For the current debate on the transformation of republican thought from the late eighteenth century, see the works by Andreas Kalyvas and Ira Katznelson, Liberal Beginnings. Making a Republic for the Moderns (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008); Andrew Jainchill, Reimagining Politics After the Terror. The Republican Origins of French Liberalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008); Annelien de Dijn, French Political Thought from Montesquieu to Toqueville. Liberty in a Levelled Society? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 47. See the contribution by Andrew Jainchill in this volume. 48. Instructien voor de Agenten van het Uitvoerend Bewind der Bataafsche Repu­ bliek (The Hague: ’s Lands Drukkery, 1799), 83. 49. For a comparative study of the role of public education in the Batavian, French, and American Revolutions, see Annie Jourdan, La Révolution ba­ tave. Entre la France et l’Amérique (1795-1806) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008), 269-435. 50. Keith Michael Baker, Inventing the French Revolution. Essays on French Political Culture in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 4. 51. François Furet, Penser la Révolution française (Paris: Gallimard, 1979); Lynn Hunt, Politics, Culture and Class in the French Revolution (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984); Keith Michael Baker et al., eds., The French Revolution and the Creation of Modern Political Culture, 4 vols. (Oxford [etc.]: Pergamon, 1987-1994); Rolf Reichardt and Eberhard Schmitt, eds., Die Französische Revolution als Bruch des Gesellschaftlichen Bewuβtseins (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1988); Rolf Reichardt, Das Blut der Freiheit. Französische Revolution und Demokratische Kultur (Frankfurt: Fischer, 1998); For a critical assessment of this approach, see James Livesey, Making Democracy in the French Revolution (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 2001). 52. Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht, Funktionen parlementarischer Rhetorik in der Französischen Revolution. Vorstudien zur Entwicklung einer historischen Tekstpragmatik (Munich: Fink, 1978); Paul Friedland, Political Actors. Representa-

254 

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tive Bodies and Theatricality in the Age of the French Revolution (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2002). 53. Robert Darnton and Daniel Roche, eds., Revolution in Print. The Press in France 1775-1800 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989); Jeremy D. Popkin, Revolutionary News. The Press in France 1789-1799 (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1990); Roger Chartier, The Cultural Origins of the French Revolution (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1991); Hannah Barker and Simon Burrows, eds., Press, Politics and the Public Sphere in Europe and North America, 1760-1820 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 54. Otto Brunner, Werner Conze, and Reinhart Koselleck, eds., ­Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe. Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-sozialen Sprache in Deutsch­ land, 8 vols. (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1972-1997); Rolf Reichardt et al., eds., Handbuch politisch-sozialer Grundbegriffe in Frankreich, 1680-1820, 20 vols. (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1985-); Melvin Richter, The History of Political and Social Concepts. A Critical Introduction (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995); W. R. E. Velema, “Nederlandse begripsgeschiedenis. Ten geleide,” in Vaderland. Een geschiedenis van de vijftiende eeuw tot 1940, ed. N. C. F. van Sas (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1999), ix-xvii; Quentin Skinner, Visions of Politics, vol. 1, Regarding Method (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 55. An exception for the Netherlands is the research project The First Dutch Democracy: the Political World of the Batavian Republic (1795-1801) which started in 2007. The project has thus far led to the publication of three books on aspects of the political culture of the Batavian Republic: Mart Rutjes, Door gelijkheid gegrepen. Democratie, burgerschap en staat in Nederland 1795-1801 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2012); Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld; Grijzenhout, Van Sas, and Velema, Het Bataafse experiment. For the outline of this project, see Wyger R. E. Velema, “Rethinking the Batavian Revolution,” in Dutch Studies in a globalized world, ed. Margriet Bruijn Lacy (Münster: Nodus, 2009), 11-24. 56. Franco Venturi, Utopia and Reform in the Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 90. 57. Reinhart Koselleck, “Einleitung”, in Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe, volume 1, eds. Brunner et al., xiii-xxvii, especially xv. 58. Rolf Reichardt, “Einleitung”, in Reichardt et al., Handbuch politisch-sozialer Grundbegriffe, volume 1, eds. Reichardt et al., 2-108.

‘The political passions of other nations’ 1.

For an overview of the notion of ‘sister republics’, see Jean-Louis Harouel, Les républiques soeurs (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1997).

Notes

2. 3.

4. 5. 6.

7.

8.

9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14.

255

On the advent of the notion of ‘modern republic’, see Biancamaria Fontana ed., The Invention of the Modern Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). Istvan Hont, “The Permanent Crisis of a Divided Mankind: ‘Contemporary Crisis of the Nation State’ in Historical Perspective”, in John Dunn ed., Contemporary Crisis of the Nation State? (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 166-231; Biancamaria Fontana, “The Napoleonic Empire and the Europe of Nations”, in Anthony Pagden ed., The Idea of Europe, From Antiquity to the European Union (Woodrow Wilson Center Series, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 116-129. Madame de Staël, De la littérature, eds. G. Gengembre and J. Goldzink (Paris: Garnier- Flammarion, 1991). Madame de Staël, De l’Allemagne, ed. Simone Balayé, 2 vols. (Paris: GarnierFlammarion, 1968). On Staël’s life, political experience, and connections, see Christopher Herold, Mistress to an Age: The Life of Mme de Staël (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1958); Ghislain de Diesbach, Madame de Staël (Paris: Perrin, 1997); Maria Fairweather, Madame de Staël (London: Constable, 2005); Michel Winock, Madame de Staël (Paris: Fayard, 2010). The best source on Staël’s attitude towards the possibility of a European war in 1791-92 is her correspondence: Madame de Staël, Correspondance générale, ed. Béatrice W. Jasinski (Paris: J-J Pauvert, 1960-62), vol. 1 (1777-1791) part 2, and vol. 2, parts 1 and 2 (1792-1794). See also her pamphlet of 1794-95: Réflexions sur la paix, adressées à M. Pitt et aux français (1794), in Madame de Staël, Oeuvres complètes de Mme de Staël, ed. Lucia Omacini (Paris: Ho­ noré Champion, 2009), vol. 3, 1, pp. 69-119. Cf. Staël’s unpublished essays Réflexions sur la paix intérieure (1795) and Des circonstances actuelles qui peuvent terminer la revolution et des principes qui peuvent fonder la république en France (1798) in: Staël, Oeuvres complètes, vol. 3, 1, pp. 133-182 and 183-549; in particular the introduction by Bronislaw Baczko, ‘Opinions des vainqueurs, sentiments des vaincus’. Bernard Manin, Principes du gouvernement représentatif (Paris: CalmannLevy, 1995). Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Considérations sur le gouvernement de Pologne (1772), in idem, Oeuvres complètes, eds. Bernard Gagnebin and Marcel Raymond, vol. 3 (Paris: Gallimard, 2003), pp. 951-1041, 960 (my translation). Madame de Staël, Considerations on the Principal Events of the French Revolution, ed. Aurelian Craiutu (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2008), 418. Cf. Mario Turchetti, La France et les républiques soeurs en 1798: invasion ou libération? (Geneva: Georg, 2005). Staël, Considerations, 417-21. Staël, Considerations, 491-94 and 516-22. Jacques Godechot, La grande nation (Paris: Flammarion, 1983); Jean Tulard, Le grand empire, 1804-1815 (repr. 1982 Paris: Albin Michel, 2009); Stuart

256 

15.

16. 17.

1.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Woolf, Napoleon’s Integration of Europe (London: Routledge, 1991); Kurt Kloocke and Simone Balayé, eds., Le Groupe de Coppet et l’Europe, 1789-1830 (Lausanne: Institut Benjamin Constant, 1994). On the post-1815 debate, see Biancamaria Fontana, “A New Kind of Federalism, Benjamin Constant and Modern Europe”, in M. Albertone and A. De Francesco, eds., Rethinking the Atlantic World, Europe and America in the Age of Democratic Revolutions (London: Palgrave MacMillan, 2009), 163-79. Staël, Considerations, 491. Madame de Staël, Dix années d’exil, eds. Simone Balayé and Mariella Via­ nello Bonifacio (Paris: Fayard, 1996), 140 (my translation).

The transformation of republicanism

The transformation of republicanism in the Sister Republics 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7.

On scholarly discussion of the extent to which modern republicanism still incorporated elements of the early modern classical-republican tradition, see the literature cited in the articles below. Franco Venturi, Utopia and Reform in the Enlightenment (Cambridge [etc.]: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 90. Quoted by Wyger Velema, below. The essential work remains J. G. A. Pocock, The Machiavellian Moment. Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic Republican Tradition (Princeton: Princeton University Press 1975). David Wootton, “Liberty, Metaphor, and Mechanism. ‘Checks and Balances’ and the Origins of Modern Constitutionalism,” in Liberty and American Experience in the Eighteenth Century, ed. David Somersley (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2006), 252-53. See Charles Eisenmann, ‘‘La pensée constitutionnelle de Montesquieu,’’ Cahiers de philosophie politique 2–3 (1984-85): 35-66 (originally published in 1952). As David Wootton has argued, the concept of ‘checks and balances’ actually unifies ‘analytically and historically distinct traditions’: “Liberty, Metaphor, and Mechanism,” 243. See Bernard Manin, The Principles of Representative Government (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1997); and Hanna Fenichel Pitkin, The Concept of Representation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967).

‘Republic’ and ‘democracy’ in Dutch late eighteenth-century revolutionary discourse 1.

The Sattelzeit hypothesis is formulated in Reinhart Koselleck, “Einleitung,” in Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe. Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-sozialen

Notes

2. 3. 4.

5.

6. 7. 8.

9.

10.

257

Sprache in Deutschland, eds. Otto Brunner, Werner Conze, and Reinhart Koselleck, vol. 1 (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1972), xiii-xxvii. Martin van Gelderen, The Political Thought of the Dutch Revolt 1555-1590 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). E.g. E. H. Kossmann, Political Thought in the Dutch Republic. Three Studies (Amsterdam: KNAW, 2000), 53-83. Jonathan I. Israel, Radical Enlightenment. Philosophy and the Making of Modernity 1650-1750 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) and Enlightenment Contested. Philosophy, Modernity, and the Emancipation of Man 1670-1752 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). R. R. Palmer, The Age of the Democratic Revolution. A Political History of Europe and America, 1760-1800, vol. 1 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1959), 324-341; John Dunn, Setting the People Free. The Story of Democracy (London: Atlantic Books, 2005), 84-87. See, apart from the literature cited in the previous note, e.g. R. R. Palmer, “Notes on the Use of the Word ‘Democracy’ 1789-1799,” Political Science Quarterly 68 (1953): 203-226. Franco Venturi, Utopia and Reform in the Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 90. J. G. A. Pocock, The Machiavellian Moment. Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic Republican Tradition (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975). For a more recent discussion of early modern European republicanism, see Martin van Gelderen and Quentin Skinner, eds., Republicanism. A Shared European Heritage, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). The most explicit formulation of this thesis may be found in J. G. A. Pocock, “Virtues, rights and manners: A model for historians of political thought,” in idem, Virtue, Commerce and History. Essays on Political Thought and History, Chiefly in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 37-50. For the mixed use of these two languages, see, e.g., Lance Banning, “Jeffersonian Ideology Revisited: Liberal and Classical Ideas in the New American Republic,” William and Mary Quarterly 43 (1986): 3-19; Ronald Hamowy, “Cato’s Letters, John Locke, and the Republican Paradigm,” History of Political Thought 11 (1990): 273-294; S. R. E. Klein, Patriots Republikanisme. Politieke cultuur in Nederland (1766-1787) (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1995). Two recent studies arguing for the importance of classical republicanism in the genesis of modern liberal and representative democracy are Andreas Kalyvas and Ira Katznelson, Liberal Beginnings. Making a Republic for the Moderns (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008) and Andrew Jainchill, Reimagining Politics after the Terror. The Republican Origins of French Liberalism (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2008). Needless to say, there are also scholars who continue to emphasize the profound differences between republicanism and liberalism. In recent

258 

11. 12. 13. 14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

years, the distinction has been reformulated in terms of non-domination/ dependence versus non-interference theories of liberty. See, e.g., Philip Pettit, Republicanism. A Theory of Freedom and Government (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997); Quentin Skinner, Liberty Before Liberalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Quentin Skinner, Hobbes and Republican Liberty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). The same point, albeit from a somewhat broader perspective, is made in David Wootton’s review of Dunn’s Setting the People Free: Times Literary Supplement, 23 September 2005, 7-10. On the various eighteenth-century Dutch definitions of a republic, see Wyger R. E. Velema, Republicans. Essays on Eighteenth-Century Dutch Political Thought (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007). For this standard argument see, e.g., [L.F. de Beaufort], Verhandeling van de Vryheit in den Burgerstaet (Leiden and Middelburg: Samuel Luchtmans, 1737). Despite all profound conceptual changes during the revolutionary era, this view seems to have had a long life in European and American political thought. Thus between 1802 and 1804 there could still appear a journal in Baltimore entitled The Republican; or, Anti-Democrat. Robert W. Schoema­ ker, “‘Democracy’ and ‘Republic’ as Understood in Late Eighteenth-Century America,” American Speech, 61 (1966): 83. The best Anglophone treatment of the political history of the Netherlands in the final decades of the eighteenth century is still Simon Schama, Patriots and Liberators. Revolution in the Netherlands, 1780-1813 (New York: Collins, 1977). A good recent overview of the Dutch Enlightenment is Joost Kloek and Wijnand Mijnhardt, 1800. Blauwdrukken voor een samenleving (The Hague: SDU Uitgevers, 2001). On the impact of the American Revolution in the Dutch Republic, see Jan Willem Schulte Nordholt, The Dutch Republic and American Independence (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1982). Grondwettige herstelling, van Nederlands staatswezen zo voor het algemeen bondgenootschap, als voor het bestuur van elke byzondere provincie, etc., vol. 1 (Amsterdam: Johannes Allart, 1784), 442-443. The same redefinition of a republic as a democracy can also be traced in the well-known Leyden Draft of 1785 and in countless other contemporary pamphlets and periodicals. One of the earliest instances of this crucial conceptual move may be found in two pamphlets written by Pieter Vreede in 1783: Waermond en Vryhart. Gesprek over de Vryheid der Nederlandren; en den Aert der waere Vryheid (In Holland, 1783) and Beoordelend en ophelderend Verslag van de Verhandeling over de Vryheid. Gedrukt by Johannes Allart, 1783 (s.l., s.d. (1783). Ontwerp om de Republiek door ene heilzaame vereeniging der belangen van regent en burger, van binnen gelukkig en van buiten gedugt te maaken (Leiden: L. Herdingh, 1785), 46.

Notes

19.

20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25.

26.

27. 28. 29.

30.

259

Theories of political representation are discussed in Hanna Fenichel Pitkin, The Concept of Representation (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1967); Bernard Manin, The Principles of Representative Government (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) and Nadia Urbinati, Representative Democracy. Principles and Genealogy (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2006). For a general discussion of Patriot political thought, see Klein, Patriots republikanisme. The story of the Patriots between 1787 and 1795 is told in Joost Rosendaal, Bataven! Nederlandse vluchtelingen in Frankrijk 1787-1795 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2003). [Elie Luzac], Lettres sur les dangers de changer la constitution primitive d’un gouvernement public. Ecrites à un Patriote hollandois (London: s.n., 1792), 360-361. Johan Meerman, De burgerlyke vryheid in haare heilzaame, de volks-vryheid in haare schadelyke gevolgen voorgesteld, inzonderheid met betrekking tot dit gemeenebest (Leiden: S. and J. Luchtmans, 1793), 45. Similarities and differences between the American, French, and Dutch revolutions of the late eighteenth century are discussed in Annie Jourdan, La Révolution batave entre la France et l’Amérique (1795-1806) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008). On the importance of parliamentary debates for the study of the history of political concepts, see Pasi Ihalainen, Agents of the People. Democracy and Popular Sovereignty in British and Swedish Parliamentary and Public Debates, 1734-1800 (Leiden: Brill, 2010) Both these journals need to be thoroughly analyzed. See, however, Herman de Lange, “De politieke actie van een bewuste publieke opinie,” De Gids 134.8 (1971): 505-515 and Simon Vuyk, “De Republikein van Jan Konijnenburg (februari 1795-augustus 1797),” in Stookschriften. Pers en politiek tussen 1780 en 1800, ed. Pieter van Wissing (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2008), 217-229. [Jan Konijnenburg, ed.] De Republikein, No. 2, 15. Dagverhaal der Handelingen van de Nationaale Vergadering representeeren­ de het Volk van Nederland, vol. 1 (The Hague: Van Schelle en Comp., 1796), 523-524. Gerard Dumbar is best known for his commentaries on the Dutch edition of the American constitution: De oude en nieuwe constitutie der Vereenigde Staten van Amerika, uit de beste schriften in haare gronden ontvouwd, 3 vols. (Amsterdam: J. A. Crajenschot, 1793-1796). Jan Willem van Sonsbeeck authored the Rousseauist treatise Verhandeling over het nadeel eener nationaale conventie en daar uit voordspruitende eenheid van bestuur voor de Nederlandsche republiek (s.l.: s.n., s.d. [1795]). [J. H. Swildens], Gelykheid-Vryheid-Broederschap. 1795. Politiek Belang-Boek voor dit Provisionele Tydperk. Gewigtig tans, Gedenkwaardig hierna (Amsterdam: Joannes Roelof Poster, 1795), 179.

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31.

[J. H. Swildens], Zesdaagsche Staats-Brief over ’s Lands Hoogste Zaak aan den Burger Vitringa, etc. (Amsterdam: Joannes Roelof Poster, 1796), 17 and 30. 32. [Swildens], Zesdaagsche Staats-Brief, 28-30. On Swildens, see W. B. S. Boeles, De patriot J. H. Swildens, publicist te Amsterdam, daarna hoogleeraar te Franeker: zijne arbeid ter volksverlichting geschetst (Leeuwarden: s.n., 1884); N. C. F. van Sas, De metamorfose van Nederland. Van oude orde naar moderniteit, 1750-1900 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2004), 281-284; Barry J. Hake, “Between patriotism and nationalism: Johan Hendrik Swildens and the ‘pedagogy of the patriotic virtues’ in the United Provinces during the 1780s and 1790s,” History of Education 33 (2004): 11-38. 33. Dagverhaal, vol. 4 (The Hague, 1796), 932. On Van Manen, see P. A. J. van den Berg, “Nationalisme, soevereiniteit en representatie: de politieke opvattingen van Jacob van Manen Adrz. (1752-1822),” Theoretische Geschiedenis 26 (1999): 380-396. 34. Dagverhaal, vol. 4, 651. 35. Ibid., 58. 36. [Bernardus Bosch], Over de constitutie, constitutioneele magten en regeringsvorm, toepasselyk op, en voor ons vaderland (Amsterdam: H. Brongers, 1795). The quotation is on p. 109. On Bosch, see H. F. J. M van den Eerenbeemt, “Bernard Bosch: Nutsfiguur, schrijver en politicus,” De Gids 134.8 (1971): 489-499. 37. E.g. Vrijheid, volksstem, en nationale repraesentatie, in het waare daglicht geplaatst, en met betrekking tot het Bataafsch gemeenebest beschouwd; in brieven, voor den meerkundigen ter overweging, voor den minkundigen ter voorlichting. Belangrijk voor dit gewigtig tijdstip (Amsterdam: Wessing and Van der Hey, 1795). 38. The constitution of 1798 may be found in G. W. Bannier, Grondwetten van Nederland. Teksten der achtereenvolgende staatsregelingen en grondwetten sedert 1795, met verschillende andere staatsstukken, historische toelichtingen en eenige tabellen (Zwolle: Tjeenk Willink, 1936), 44-53.

New wine in old wineskins 1. 2. 3.

4. 5.

John G. A. Pocock, The Machiavellian Moment. Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic Republican Tradition (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975). See, for example, ibid., vii-ix. Also: Werner Sewing, ‘John G. A. Pocock und die Wiederentdeckung der republikanischen Tradition,’ introduction to: John G. A. Pocock, Die andere Bürgergesellschaft. Zur Dialektik von Tugend und Korruption (Frankfurt and New York: Campus Verlag, 1993), 7-32. Quentin Skinner, The Foundations of Modern Political Thought, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978); Quentin Skinner, Liberty before Liberalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). Skinner, Liberty, 1.

Notes

6.

7. 8.

9.

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

261

For instance: Cécile Laborde and John Maynor, ‘The Republican Contribution to Contemporary Political Theory,’ in Republicanism and Political Theory, ed. Cécile Laborde and John Maynor (Malden and Oxford: Blackwell, 2008), 1-28; Concerning scholarly use of republicanism, see also Eric Nelson, ‘Republican Visions,’ in Oxford Handbook of Political Theory, ed. John S. Dryzek (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 193-210, 193. Pocock, Machiavellian Moment, Chapter XIV. besides Pocock, also see Iain Hampsher-Monk, ‘From Virtue to Politeness,’ in Republicanism. A Shared European Heritage, vol. 2, The Values of Republicanism in Early Modern Europe, eds. Quentin Skinner and Martin van Gelderen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 85-105. Manuela Albertone, ‘Democratic Republicanism. Historical Reflections on the Idea of Republic in the 18th century,’ History of European Ideas 33 (2007): 108130; Jonathan Israel, ‘The Intellectual Origins of Modern Democratic Republicanism (1660-1720),’ European Journal of Political Theory 3/1 (2004): 7-36. Here and below, Thomas Maissen, Die Geburt der Republic. Staatsverständnis und Repräsentation in der frühneuzeitlichen Eidgenossenschaft (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht, 2008). ibid., 579; Simone Zurbuchen, Patriotismus und Kosmopolitismus. Die Schwei­zer Aufklärung zwischen Tradition und Moderne (Zurich: Chronos, 2003), 9-10. Here and below, Béla Kapossy, ‘Neo-Roman Republicanism and Commercial Society: The Example of Eighteenth-century Berne,’ in Republicanism, vol. 2, eds. Skinner and van Gelderen, 227-247; Simone Zurbuchen, ‘Die Schweizer Aufklärung,’ in Enlightenment in Europe: Unity and diversity, ed. Werner Schnei­ders (Berlin: BWV, 2003), 71-84; Michael Böhler et al., eds., Republikanische Tugend. Ausbildung eines Schweizer Nationalbewusstseins und Erziehung eines neuen Bürgers (Geneva: Slatkine, 2002). Zurbuchen, ‘Schweizer Aufklärung,’ 79. Ibid., 78. For Iselin, also Béla Kapossy, Iselin contra Rousseau. Sociable Patriotism and the History of Mankind (Basel: Schwabe, 2006). Kapossy, ‘Neo-Roman Republicanism,’ 236. See also Rudolf Bolzern, ‘The Swiss foreign service and Bernese reform politics in the late eighteenth century,’ History of European Ideas 33 (2007): 463-475. Zurbuchen, Patriotismus und Kosmopolitismus, Chapter: Patriotismus und Nation. Der Schweizerische Republikanismus des 18. Jahrhunderts. ‘Eröffnungsrede des Präsidenten Usteri,’ 4. October 1798, printed in: Actensammlung aus der Zeit der Helvetischen Republik (1798-1803), eds. Johannes Strickler and Alfred Rufer, 16 vols. (Bern: Stämpfli and Freiburg: Fragnière, 1886-1967 – hereafter ASHR), vol. 3, 66-69. For a short biographical introduction, Wolfgang von Wartburg, Die grossen Helvetiker. Bedeutende Persönlichkeiten in bewegter Zeit, 1798-1815 (Schaffhausen: Novalis, 1997), 108-118; For a full biography, Gottfried Guggenbühl, Bürgermeister Paul Usteri. Ein

262 

19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32. 33.

34.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

schweizerischer Staatsmann aus der Zeit der französischen Vorherrschaft und des Frühliberalismus, 2 vols. (Aarau: Sauerländer, 1924 and 1931). Ibid., 68. Ibid. Ibid: ‘Es waren nun nicht mehr papierne Documente von alten, durch Usurpation verlorenen Freiheiten, die wieder gefunden und in Anspruch genommen wurden; es waren die ewigen Freiheiten, die wieder gefunden und in Anspruch genommen wurden; es waren die ewigen und unveräußerlichen Menschenrechte, vor deren Licht das Reich der zahllosen Privilegien in ewige Nacht zurücksinken musste’. Ibid., 68-69. Ibid., 67. Ibid., 67-69: ‘Sei gepriesen, du Gott unserer Väter, seit Jahrtausenden Schützer von Helvetiens Freiheit; du rufst den erlöschenden Geist der helvetischen Freiheit wieder hervor.’ Ibid., 68: ‘[…] den neuen Schweizerbund; er ist der Bund unserer Väter, den wir wiederholen,- der Bund für Freiheit und Ruhe; die Formen nur sind, dem Zeitbedürfnisse gemäß, geändert, und in eine eine (sic) sind die hundert ma­ nigfaltigen Verfassungen geschmolzen’. According to Eric Godel, it was ‘revolutionary topos’ to speak of the Helvetian change as reiteration. Eric Godel, Die Zentralschweiz in der Helvetik (1798-1803). Kriegserfahrung und Religion im Spannungsfeld von Nation und Region (Münster: Aschendorff, 2009), 248. Ibid., 68: ‘[…] eben die Tugenden und eben die Grundsätze, die einst diese letztern in ihrer Reinheit gestiftet und sie lange erhalten haben, die sollen auch des neuen Bundes Geist und Leben sein.’ ‘Eröffnungsrede zur ersten Sitzung des großen Rathes in Lucern, gehalten von dem Präsidenten Escher,’ 4. October 1798, printed in: ASHR, vol. 3, 59-65. For a short biographical overview, Wartburg, Die grossen Helvetiker, 90-107. Escher, ‘Eröffnungsrede,’ 59 and 62. ‘[…] den großen Schritt in der Cultur, welchen nun ganz Helvetien gethan hat, - und dieser Schritt von der Abhängigkeit von bleibenden Herrschern zur Freiheit, sowie der Schritt von der Ungleichheit der Rechte zur Gleichheit ist groß und wird immer eine der wichtigsten Epochen in der Geschich­te der Menschheit ausmachen.’: ibid., 64. Ibid., 59 and 60. For more information concerning these different aspects of Swiss history and historiography, see the relevant entries in the Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz: www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/index.php. Ibid., 64. Ibid., 64-65: ‘Dagegen sind wir in einer andern Rücksicht weit hinter den andern gebildeten Völkern Europens zurück, und gerade in einer Rücksicht, die uns Stellvertretern des Volkes besonders drückend und beschwerlich ist, nämlich in der Kenntnis der Staatswissenschaften, und unter diesen besonders der Staatswirthschaft.’ Ibid.

Notes

263

35. Ibid. 36. Escher speaks of an ‘ächt aufgeklärten republikanischen Geist’: ibid., 60. 37. On the Helvetic Society, see Ulrich im Hof, Die Helvetische Gesellschaft. Spät­ aufklärung und Vorrevolution in der Schweiz, 2 vols. (Frauenfeld and Stuttgart: Huber, 1983); Daniel Tröhler, ‘Republikanismus als Erziehungsprogramm: Die Rolle von Geschichte und Freundschaft in den Konzepten eidgenössischer Bürgerbildung der Helvetischen Gesellschaft,’ in Republikanische Tugend. Ausbildung eines Schweizer Nationalbewusstseins und Erziehung eines neuen Bürgers, eds. Michael Böhler et al. (Geneva: Slatkine, 2000), 401-421. 38. ‘Aus der Boschaft Stapfers zum Entwurf eines Schulgesetzes,’ Lucerne, 28. November 1798, printed in: Wartburg, Die grossen Helvetiker, 86-88. 39. Ibid., 87. 40. Ibid., 88: ‘Der Staat ist nur Mittel zu diesem Zweck und soll dem Bürger zu seiner Erreichung verhelfen.’ 41. Here and below, Daniel Tröhler, Republikanismus und Pädagogik. Pestalozzi im historischen Kontext (Bad Heilbrunn: Klinkhardt, 2006). 42. Ibid., 34; 441-460; as well Petra Korte, ‘Selbstkraft oder Pestalozzis Methode,’ in Der historische Kontext von Pestalozzis ‘Methode’. Konzepte und Erwartungen im 18. Jahrhundert, eds. Daniel Tröhler, Simone Zurbuchen, and Jürgen Oelkers (Berlin [etc.]: Verlag Paul Haupt, 2002), 31-46. 43. also Maissen, Geburt der Republic, 587. Looking at the local protest in the canton of Zurich, Barbara Weinmann speaks of a ‘dynamic sampling’ of the classical form of republicanism: Barbara Weinmann, Eine andere Bürgergesellschaft. Klassischer Republikanismus und Kommunalismus im Kanton Zürich im späten 18. und 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht, 2002), 24. 44. Text printed in Memorial und Stäfner Handel 1794/95, ed. Christoph Mörgeli (Stäfa: Gemeinde Stäfa, 1995), 127-138. On the constitution, the authors write: ‘Gebt uns eine Konstitution, die den Bedürfnissen des Landes angemessen ist, und sorget für derselben Garantie’: ibid., 128. On the ‘Stäfner Memorial,’ Leonhard von Muralt, Alte und neue Freiheit in der helvetischen Revolution (Zurich: Schulthess, 1941); Christoph Mörgeli, ‘Einleitung,’ in Memorial und Stäfner Handel, ed. Mörgeli, 11-28; Thomas Maissen, Geschichte der Schweiz (Baden: hier+jetzt, 2010), 151-153. 45. The Memorial starts with the question: ‘Did love for liberty die in its country of its origin? No! We would be unworthy grandchildren to our ancestors, if we did not consider sacred this precious good, which they have acquired with so much sacrifice, and if we didn’t keep it intact for our offspring.’ (‘Sollte demnach die Liebe zur Freiheit in ihrem eigentümlichen Vaterlande erstorben sein? Nein! Wir würden unwürdige Enkel unserer Ahnen sein, wenn wir nicht jenes teure Gut, das sie uns mit soviel Aufopferung erworben haben, heilig hielten und es unverletzt unseren spätestens Nachkommen aufbehielten’): Stäfner Memorial, ed. Mörgeli, 127. 46. Ibid., 128 and 134. 47. Ibid., 134-138.

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48. Peter Stadler, ‘Pestalozzi im Stäfner Handel. Der ungehörte Mahner,’ in Memorial und Stäfner Handel, ed. Mörgeli, 241-246; Peter Stadler, Pestalozzi: Geschichtliche Biographie (Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 1988), I, 389-407; Dietfried Krause-Vilmar, Liberales Plädoyer und radikale Demokratie. Heinrich Pestalozzi und Stäfener Volksbewegung (Meisenheim am Glan: Hain, 1978). For the ‘Stäfner Handel’, Memorial und Stäfner Handel, ed. Mörgeli; Werner G. Zimmermann, ‘Der Stäfner Handel,’ in Zürich im 18. Jahrhundert, ed. Hans Wysling (Zurich: Berichthaus, 1983), 30-34. 49. Johann Kaspar Pfenninger, for instance, became governor (Regierungsstatt­ halter) of Zurich. Others became senators and deputies. See Mörgeli, ‘Einleitung,’ 28. 50. Godel, Zentralschweiz, 260; see also Benjamin Adler, Die Entstehung der direkten Demokratie. Das Beispiel der Landsgemeinde Schwyz 1789-1866 (Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 2006), 42-48. The text of the Helvetic constitution of 12 April 1798 is printed in: Quellenbuch zur neueren Schweizerischen Verfassungsgeschichte. Vom Ende der Alten Eidgenossenschaft bis 1848, ed. Alfred Kölz (Bern: Stämpfli+Cie AG, 1992), 126-152. 51. Rolf Graber, Zeit des Teilens. Volksbewegungen und Volksunruhen auf der Zürcher Landschaft 1794-1804 (Zurich: Chronos, 2003), 62 and 435-450. 52. also Godel, Zentralschweiz, 258. 53. Ibid., 262. 54. ibid., 247; Holger Böning, Der Traum von Freiheit und Gleichheit. Helvetische Revolution und Republik (1798-1803). Die Schweiz auf dem Weg zur bürgerlichen Demokratie (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1998), 208-209; Rolf Graber, ‘Zur Einführung der Verfassung der Helvetischen Republik: Republikanismus der Eliten – Republikanismus des Volkes,’ in Republikbegriff und Republiken seit dem 18. Jahrhundert im europäischen Vergleich. Internationales Symposium zum österreichischen Millenium (Schriftenreihe der Internationalen Forschungsstelle ‘Demokratische Bewegungen in Mitteleuropa 1770-1850, Bd. 28), ed. Helmut Reinalter (Frankfurt a.M. [etc.]: Lang, 1999), 101-119, 110; Maissen, Geschichte der Schweiz, 160. 55. Only recently have scholars begun to map the shift from a language of virtue to a language of rights. See, for example, Andreas Kalyvas and Ira Katznelson, Liberal Beginnings. Making a Republic for the Moderns (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 56. Wyger R. E. Velema in this volume. 57. On the historiography of the Helvetian Republic, see Andreas Fankhauser, ‘Helvetische Republik,’ in Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz (Basel: Schwabe, 2007), VI, 258-267; André Holenstein, ‘Die Helvetik als reformabsolutistische Republik,’ in Umbruch und Beständigkeit. Kontinuitäten in der Helvetischen Revolution von 1798, ed. Daniel Schläppi (Basel: Schwabe, 2009), 83-85; Michele Luminati, ‘Die Helvetische Republik im Urteil der schweizerischen Geschichtsschreibung,’ Zeitschrift für Neuere Rechtsgeschichte 5 (1983): 163-175. 58. Holenstein, ‘Die Helvetik,’ 85-86 and 101.

265

Notes

2.

Political concepts and languages

Revolutionary concepts and languages in the Sister Republics of the late 1790s 1.

2.

3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8.

Pasi Ihalainen, Agents of the People: Democracy and Popular Sovereignty in British and Swedish Parliamentary and Public Debates, 1734–1800 (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2010); Pasi Ihalainen, Michael Bregnsbo, Karin Sennefelt, and Patrik Winton, eds., Scandinavia in the Age of Revolution: Nordic Political Cultures, 1740-1820 (Aldershot: Ashgate 2011). Renée Waldinger, Philip Dawson, and Isser Woloch, eds., The French Revolution and the Meaning of Citizenship, (Westport and London: Greenwood Press, 1993); John Dunn, Setting the People Free: The Story of Democracy (London: Atlantic Books, 2005); Ihalainen, Agents of the People. See Olivier Meuwly, ed., Frédéric-César de La Harpe 1754-1838 (Lausanne: Société Académique Vaudoise, 2011). Pasi Ihalainen & Anders Sundin, “Continuity and Change in the Language of Politics at the Swedish Diet, 1769–1810,” in Scandinavia in the Age of Revolution: Nordic Political Cultures, 1740-1820, eds. Pasi Ihalainen, Michael Bregnsbo, Karin Sennefelt, and Patrik Winton (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Limited, 2011), 169-192. (here 174, 181). Wyger R. E. Velema, Republicans: Essays on Eighteenth-Century Dutch Political Thought (Leiden: Brill, 2007). See also Velema in this volume. Annie Jourdan, La Révolution batave entre la France et l’Amerique (1795-1806) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008). Ihalainen & Sundin, “Continuity and Change,” 179. Pasi Ihalainen, “Parlamentsdebatten und der Aufstieg ausserparlamentarischer Medien im späten 18. Jahrhundert. Schweden, Grossbritannien und die Niederlande“, in Jörg Feuchter and Johannes Helmrath, Parlamentarische Kulturen vom Mittelalter bis in die Moderne. Reden – Räume – Bilder (Düsseldorf: Droste Verlag, 2013), 97-113.

Useful citizens. Citizenship and democracy in the Batavian Republic, 1795-1801 1.

Manfred Riedel, “Bürger, Staatsbürger, Bürgertum,” in Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe. Historisches Lexicon zur politisch-sozialer Sprache in Deutschland, eds. Otto Brunner, Werner Conze, and Reinhart Koselleck, vol. 1, A-D (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1972), 672-725. For the Netherlands, see Maarten Prak, “Burghers into Citizens. Urban and National Citizenship in the Netherlands During the Revolutionary Era (c. 1800),” Theory and Society 26 (1997): 403420.

266 

2.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Raymonde Monnier, “La figure du citoyen contribuable,” in Citoyens et ci­ toyenneté sous la Révolution francaise, ed. Raymonde Monnier (Paris: Société des études robespierristes, 2007), 115-129, there 115. 3. Prak, “Burghers into Citizens,” 416. 4. Ibid., 405-406. 5. Ibid., 407. 6. Following the seminal work of J. G. A. Pocock, The Machiavellian Moment. Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic Republican Tradition (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2003). For the Dutch case, see W. R. E. Velema, Republicans: Essays on Eighteenth-Century Dutch Political Thought (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 6; Joost Kloek and Karin Tilmans, eds., Burger. Een geschiedenis van het begrip ‘burger’ in de Nederlanden van de Middeleeuwen tot de 21ste eeuw (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2002), 3 and 5. 7. Joost Kloek and Wijnand Mijnhardt, 1800. Blauwdrukken voor een samen­ leving (The Hague: Sdu Uitgevers, 2001), 174-175, chapter 7. 8. Kloek and Mijnhardt, Blauwdrukken, chapters 5 through 8; N. C. F. van Sas, De Metamorfose van Nederland. Van oude orde naar moderniteit 1750-1900 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005), 71-72. 9. Velema, Republicans, 121-129; S. R. E. Klein, Patriots republikanisme. Politieke cultuur in Nederland (1766-1787) (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1995), 167. 10. Klein, Patriots republikanisme, 286-287. 11. Ibid., 288-289. 12. For a detailed account of the events during the Patriot and Batavian Era in English, see Simon Schama, Patriots and Liberators. Revolution in the Netherlands 1780-1813 (London and New York: Vintage Books, 1977). 13. J. C. Boogman, “The Union of Utrecht, its Genesis and Consequences,” in J. C. Boogman, Van spel en spellers. Verspreide opstellen (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1982), 53-83; Schama, Patriots and Liberators, 216-217 and passim. 14. Van Sas, Metamorfose, 111-113. 15. For a general discussion of the political transfer between France and the Batavian Republic, see for example Annie Jourdan, La revolution batave. Entre La France et l’Amérique (1795-1806) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008) and Joost Rosendaal, Bataven! Nederlandse vluchtelingen in Frankrijk 1787-1795 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2003). 16. Van Sas, Metamorfose, 281. 17. Representative Guljé, Dagverhaal der handelingen van de Nationaale Vergadering representeerende het Volk van Nederland (The Hague: Van Schelle & Comp., 1796-1798), vol. 1 (session 20 April 1796), 316. 18. Representative Hahn, Dagverhaal vol. 4 (session 25 January 1797), 638. 19. Dagverhaal vol. 8 (session 2 December 1797), 46. 20. G. W. Bannier, Grondwetten van Nederland. Teksten der achtereenvolgende staatsregelingen en grondwetten sedert 1795, met verschillende andere staats­ stukken, historische toelichtingen en eenige tabellen (Zwolle: Tjeenk Willink,

Notes

21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

29.

30.

267

1936), 13-17. See also W. J. Goslinga, De Rechten van den Mensch en Burger. Een overzicht der Nederlandsche geschriften en verklaringen (The Hague: A. J. Oranje, 1936) and F. H. van der Burg and H. Boels, eds., Tweehonderd jaar rechten van de mens in Nederland. De verklaring van de rechten van de mens en van de burger van 31 januari 1795 toegelicht en vergeleken met Franse en Amerikaanse voorgangers (The Hague: F. M. van Asbeck Centrum voor Mensenrechtenstudies and Leiden: Sdu Uitgeverij, 1994). P. A. J. van den Berg, “Wie behoorde tot het ‘Bataafse Volk’? Opvattingen over Bataafs burgerschap en politieke participatie in de eerste jaren van de Bataafse Republiek (1795-1798),” Pro Memorie 7.2 (2005): 211-250, there 221-223. Staatsregeling des Bataafschen Volks (The Hague: ’s Lands Drukkerij, 1798) and Staatsregeling des Bataafschen Volks (The Hague: ’s Lands Drukkerij, 1801). Dagverhaal vol. 1 (session 24 May 1796), 562. Dagverhaal vol. 4 (session 19 January 1797), 560. Staatsregeling 1798, 18. Women were not explicitly excluded in the Constitution of 1798. Staatsregeling 1798, 17. This percentage is based on the figures for a constitutional plebiscite held in 1801, showing a total of 416,419 eligible voters: L. de Gou, De Staatsregeling van 1801. Bronnen voor de totstandkoming (The Hague: Instituut voor Nederlandse Geschiedenis, 1995), 292. The total population is based on the national census held in 1795, which showed 1,880,463 people: Volkstellinge in de Nederlandsche Republiek, uitgegeven op last der commissie tot het ontwerpen van een plan van constitutie voor het volk van Nederland (The Hague: ’s Lands Drukkerij, 1796), 131. For a discussion of the Batavian voting system, see D. A. J. Overdijk, “Regeling en praktijk van het algemeen kiesrecht in Nederland in de jaren 17951798,” in De Bataafse omwenteling en het recht, eds. O. Moorman van Kappen and E. C. Coppens (Nijmegen: GNI, 1997), 55-77. On the relationship between political economy and revolutionary political thought, see for example Michael Sonenscher, Before the Deluge. Public Debt, Inequality, and the Intellectual Origins of the French Revolution (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007); John Shovlin, The Political Economy of Virtue. Luxury, Patriotism, and the Origins of the French Revolution (Ithaca and Londen: Cornell University Press, 2006); Jonathan Israel, A Revolution of the Mind. Radical Enlightenment and the Intellectual Origins of Modern Democracy (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2010), chapter III, “The Problem of Equality and Inequality: The Rise of Economics’. And on the concept of utilité publique, see Monnier, “La figure du citoyen contribuable’. Ida Nijenhuis, “De ontwikkeling van het politiek-economisch vrijheidsbegrip in de Republiek,” in Vrijheid. Een geschiedenis van de vijftiende tot de

268 

31. 32.

33. 34. 35. 36.

37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43. 44.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

twintigste eeuw, eds. E. O. G. Haitsma Mulier and W. R. E. Velema (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1999), 233-253, there 248-250; idem, “Republican Risks. Commerce and Agriculture in the Dutch Republic,” in The Republican Alternative: the Netherlands and Switzerland compared, eds. André Holenstein, Thomas Maissen, and Maarten Prak (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2008), 259-279. Dagverhaal vol. 4 (session 12 January 1797), 441. P. A. J. van den Berg, “Nederlands staatsburgerschap onder Franse invloed. De teloorgang van het domiciliebeginsel als grond voor de verkrijging van het Nederlanderschap (1795-1838)’ in Groninger opmerkingen en mededelingen: magazijn voor leerstellige rechtsvergelijking op historische grondslag 25 (2008): 13-31. Van den Berg states that the growing importance of the ius sanguinis after 1800 was mainly due to French (Napoleonic) influence on civil and constitutional law. Dagverhaal vol. 4 (session 12 January 1797), 449. Ibid. Ibid. A. Th. van Deursen, “De wereld van de Gouden Eeuw,” in Gestalten van de Gouden Eeuw. Een Hollands groepsportret, eds. H. M. Beliën, A. Th. van Deursen, and G. J. van Setten (Amsterdam: Bakker, 1995), 9-25, there 12, 1415; Kloek and Tilmans, Burger, 6-8. Velema, Republicans, 77-82; Dorothee Sturkenboom, “Merchants on the Defensive. National Self-Images in the Dutch Republic of the late Eighteenth Century,” in: The Self-Perception of Early Modern Capitalists, eds. Margaret C. Jacob and C. Secretan (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 99-125, there 116. Verhandeling over het herstel van landbouw en nijverheid, uitgegaan van het Haarlemsche Committé van Algemeene Welvaart (s.l. s.n.), 1-4. The influence of Rousseau, who is mentioned on the first page, is unmistakable. Staatsregeling 1798, 10. Evert-Jan van Himbergen, De constitutionele denkbeelden en de achtergronden van de leden der eerste Nationale Vergadering 1 maart 1796-31 augustus 1797 (Master’s thesis, University of Utrecht, 1980), 24. Dagverhaal vol. 4 (session 3 February 1797), 766. For the state budgets, see Thomas Pfeil, “Tot redding van het vaderland’. Het primaat van de Nederlandse overheidsfinancien in de Bataafs-Franse Tijd 1795-1810 (Amsterdam: NEHA, 1998), 107-113, 282-285; Wantje Fritschy, De patriotten en de financiën van de Bataafse Republiek. Hollands krediet en de smalle marges voor een nieuw beleid (1795-1801) (Leiden: Stichting Hollandse Historische Reeks, 1988), 86-93. De Republikein, vol. 2 (Amsterdam: M. Schalekamp etc., 1797), no. 69, 140; Staatsregeling 1798, 4. Instructien voor de Agenten van het Uitvoerend Bewind der Bataafsche Repu­ bliek (The Hague: ’s Lands Drukkerij, 1799) 83.

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45. L. de Gou, Het Ontwerp van Constitutie van 1797, vol. 1 (The Hague: Instituut voor Nederlandse Geschiedenis, 1983), xi. 46. For example, Dagverhaal vol. 5 (session 9 May 1797), 1003; Dagverhaal vol. 8 (session 29 December 1797), 255-256; Dagverhaal vol. 5 (session 6 March 1797), 112; De Republikein, vol. 1, no. 7, 53-58, titled ‘Aan mijne Medeburgeressen’ [‘To my fellow Citizenesses’]. 47. For this ‘deliberative’ perspective on representative democracy, see Nadia Urbinati, Representative Democracy. Principles and Genealogy (Chicago and London: Chicago University Press, 2006).

From rights to citizenship to the Helvetian indigénat 1. 2.

3. 4. 5.

6. 7. 8.

Translated by Dr. Michael Routledge, Institute of Linguists London. On the foundations of the Helvetic Republic as a nation-state and on the further development of the points addressed in this article, see Silvia Arlettaz, Citoyens et étrangers sous la République helvétique 1798-1803 (Geneva: Georg, 2005). See also Andreas Frankhauser, “République Helvétique,” in Dictionnaire historique de la Suisse (DHS), www.hls-dhs-dss.ch; Holger Bö­ ning, Revolution in der Schweiz. Das Ende der Alten Eidgenossenschaft und die Helvetische Republik 1798-1803 (Frankfurt [etc.]: Peter Lang, 1985) and idem, Der Traum von Freiheit und Gleichheit. Helvetische Revolution und Republik (1798-1803). Die Schweiz auf dem Weg zur bürgerlichen Demokratie (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1998). André Holenstein, “Habitants,” in DHS. See Rudolf Braun, Le déclin de l’Ancien Régime en Suisse. Un tableau de l’histoire économique et sociale au 18e siècle (Lausanne: Editions d’en bas, 1988), 117ff; Katharina Simon-Muscheid, “Bourgeoisie,” in DHS. Art. 19: ‘Tous ceux qui sont actuellement bourgeois effectifs, soit d’une ville municipale ou dominante, soit d’un village sujet ou non sujet, deviennent par la constitution citoyens suisses. Il en est de même de ceux qui avaient le droit de manence perpétuelle et des manents nés en Suisse’: Actensammlung aus der Zeit der Helvetischen Republik (1798-1803), eds. Johannes Strickler and Alfred Rufer, 16 vols. (Bern: Stämpfli and Freiburg: Fragnière, 1886-1967 – hereafter ASHR), vol. 1., no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril, 571. There was a range of possible causes: loss of papers, extended absence from the home commune, a refusal by the home commune to recognize a citizen, and so on. Art. 27: ASHR, vol. 1, no 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 572-573. Art. 25: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 572. In later attempts to revise the constitution, legislators were to prove to be more circumspect in relation to breaking the contract between the citizen and the nation.

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9.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Art. 20: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 571). On the development of the right to naturalization under the Helvetic Republic, see Arlettaz, Citoyens, 161-203. 10. Art. 2: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 567. 11. Art. 24: ‘De servir sa patrie et la cause de la liberté et de l’égalité, en bon et fidèle citoyen, avec toute l’exactitude et le zèle dont il est capable, et avec une juste haine contre l’anarchie et la licence’: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 572. 12. Art. 27, § 5: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 573. 13. ‘[…] l’opinion publique puisse se former avec calme; que les préjugés, les habitudes serviles, les regrets et les ressentiments s’oublient, et que surtout le principe fondamental de l’égalité des droits politiques ait le temps de prendre racine et de s’affermir’: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Varianten von Ochs, 587. 14. ‘Le peuple suisse a tellement été abruti par son ancien gouvernement qu’il n’est plus susceptible de sentiments patriotiques et généreux. Le sordide intérêt, combiné avec le fanatisme: voilà ce qui le touche; aussi est-il bien difficile de lui faire goûter le nouvel ordre de chose’: La Harpe to Henri Monod, Lucerne, 14 January 1799, in Correspondance de Frédéric-César de la Harpe sous la République helvétique, vol. 3, Le Directeur helvétique 26 juillet 1798 7 janvier 1800, ed. Marie-Claude Jéquier (Geneva: Slatkine, 1998), no. 442, 246. 15. Archives fédérales suisses (AF), B 78b, Minority report for 15 January 1800, 4. 16. The Helvetic Republic implemented two constitutions and discussed ten official plans for constitutional reforms. 17. Art. 39: AF, B 78b, Plan of 8 January and 2 March 1799, 10. 18. The Senate’s final proposal tempered this measure by extending the period of grace to twelve years and by excepting individuals whose infirmity would have made it impossible for them to acquire the required skills. 19. Art. 24: AF, B 78b, Minority report for 15 January 1800, 22-23; AF, B 77, Report of the Senate Commission on the third heading of the Constitution, fol. 200; Bulletin helvétique, vol. 11, Sénat, 14 février 1800, 367-69. 20. ASHR, vol. 6, no. 187, Entwurf du 8 janvier 1801, 533-540. 21. ‘La Constitution reprend, dans les mains du peuple, la trop grande part que l’ancienne lui avait faite dans les élections, et elle la transporte aux autorités constituées […] la Constitution a voulu soustraire le droit d’élire à l’influence démagogique, en conservant à la propriété ses droits, à la liberté sa garantie et au peuple une part dans l’exercice de la souveraineté qui ne le conduit pas à l’anarchie.’: ASHR, vol. 6, no. 202, Observations sur le projet de Constitution helvétique, 568. 22. ‘Nul ne peut être admis à nommer ou être nommé aux fonctions nationales ou cantonales: 1. S’il n’est citoyen Helvétique 2. S’il n’est propriétaire en Helvétie ou exerçant une profession indépendante. 3. S’il ne paye une contribution (chaque canton réglera le quota de cette contribution). Elle doit être pour les Autorités du Canton double de celle de District, et pour les Autorités Nationales triple de celle des Autorités cantonales.’: Bulletin

Notes

23.

24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30.

31. 32. 33.

271

des loix et décrets du Corps législatif, de la République helvétique (Bull. lois), vol. 5 (Lausanne: s.d.) Projet Malmaison (II) du 29 mai 1801, 403: heading V, Conditions of eligibility. The National Jury was to be the final authority in a process of indirect election: Bulletin helvétique, vol. 11, Projet majorité du 15 janvier 1800, 127-28 and 130-31. This plan was violently opposed by a minority of the commission: AF, B 78b, Minority report for 15 January 1800, 8-10. Heading VII, Art. 18: ‘Il y a dans chaque canton un Jury de proposition et un Jury d’élection. […] On n’est point membre du Jury de proposition si l’on n’est propriétaire d’un immeuble, dont le minimum, dans les Cantons les plus considérables, est de dix mille francs, et de deux mille dans le moindre Canton. […] Les membres des Jurys sont inéligibles aux fonctions auxquelles ils sont chargés de nommer. Ils sont à vie.’: Bulletin des arrêtés et décrets généraux de la République helvétique, vol. 6 (Lausanne, s.d.), Seconde Constitution helvétique du 25 mai 1802, 138-139. To this was added the meticulous organization of the procedures for appointing delegates. See in particular the ‘Discours adressé au peuple helvétique, le jour de la prestation du serment civique’, Bulletin officiel vaudois, vol. 3, 135. Thirty years for the Senate, twenty-five years for the Grand Council, and forty years for the Executive Directorate: articles 38, 42 and 72 respectively: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 575 and 578. Anyone elected to the Senate or the Directorate had to be married, to have been married, or to be a widower (ibid.). ‘Counting from the third year inclusive after implementation’ of the Constitution. See, for the Senate, art. 37: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 574-575); for the Executive Directorate: art. 72, ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 578. Directors were appointed by ballot from a list of candidates by an absolute majority of votes. On the method of election, see articles 73-74: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 578-579. ‘Mais à présent et pour toujours, les qualités indispensables pour parvenir aux magistratures, sont la crainte de Dieu sans aucune autre crainte, les bonnes mœurs, la probité et l’esprit public, et pour les places supérieures, des connaissances profondes et l’expérience.’: ASHR, vol. 7, no. 57, Directions du Corps législatif, du 15 juillet 1801, 212. Despite a few improvements in civil rights, in particular with regard to matrimonial rights: Arlettaz, Citoyens, 2005, 213-216; 218-219). See Elisabeth Joris, “Die geteilte Moderne: Individuelle Rechtsansprüche für Männer, ständische Abhängigkeit für Frauen,” Revue Suisse d’Histoire 46.3 (1996): 306-331. The sources that I consulted for my thesis did not deal with, or only marginally touched upon, the status of women. On the historiography, role, and status of women under the Helvetic Republic, see Brigitte Schnegg and Christian Simon, “Die Helvetik in frauen- und geschlechtergeschichtlicher

272 

34.

35. 36. 37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Perspektive. Überlegungen zu einem brachliegenden Forschungsgebiet,” in Dossier Helvétique, ed. Christian Simon, vol. 2 (Basel and Frankfurt: Helbing & Lichtenhahn, 1997), 131-150. ‘Die Frau spielt in der politischen Berichterstattung keine Rolle.’ See Karin Marti, “Das Bild der Frau in deutschsprachigen Zeitungen und Zeitschriften,” in Dossier Helvétique, ed. Christian Simon, vol. 2 (Basel and Frankfurt: Helbing & Lichtenhahn, 1997), 220. If it is mentioned at all, the idea of the political emancipation of women is a subject of derision. See also Véronique Borgeat-Pignat, “Les droits politiques des femmes durant l’Helvétique: le parti d’en rire,” in the same volume, 199-209. Art. 6: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 568. Art. 26: ‘Les ministres d’aucun culte ne peuvent exercer de fonctions politiques ni assister aux assemblées primaires’: ASHR, vol. 1, no. 2, Constitution du 12 avril 1798, 572. ‘Par quelle voie constitutionnelle et légale les distinguera-t-on des autres citoyens? Dans notre religion, leur caractère est délébile, rien ne les distingue des autres chrétiens de l’Eglise réformée calviniste’: Philippe Secretan to Frédéric-César La Harpe, Lausanne, 5 April 1798, in Correspondance de Frédéric-César de la Harpe sous la République helvétique, vol. 2, Le ‘chargé d’affaire’ à Paris (5 mars 1798 - 21 juillet 1798), eds. Jean-Charles Biaudet and Marie-Claude Jéquier (Neuchâtel: La Baconnière, 1985), 245. Bull. lois, vol. 5, Loi sur le serment civique à prêter par les ministres du culte, du 19 septembre 1798, 408-409. The two communities totalled 659 persons in 1780: Robert Uri Kaufmann, “Judaïsme,” in DHS. Böhning, Der Traum, 236-241. See note 8. Johann Ulrich Custor, Bulletin officiel vaudois, vol. 5, Grand Conseil, 12 février 1799, 311. AF, B 201, 17 mai 1798, fol. 5. Ibid., fol. 1. Neues helvetisches Tagblatt, vol. 1, Sénat, 29 août 1799, 356. Joseph Elmlinger, Bulletin officiel vaudois, vol. 5, Grand Conseil, 13 février 1799, 321. ASHR, vol. 2, no. 210, Grand Conseil, 8 août 1798, 875; 17 août 1798, 882. ‘Les Juifs […] dégoûteraient nos citoyens de vivre en Helvétie. Et avons-nous fait des sacrifices à la révolution pour qu’ils jouissent de ses bienfaits’: Da­ niel Scherer, Bulletin officiel vaudois, vol. 6, Sénat, 4 mars 1799, 76. Alois Reding, Bulletin officiel vaudois, vol. 6, 5 mars 1799, 77). However, Reding shared the philanthropic ideas developed by Alphons Pfyffer. For definitions of the rights and freedoms related to citizenship in the areas of civil rights, the rights of residence and establishment, the rights to practise a trade or business, the movement of persons, and the dissemination of ideas, see Arlettaz, Citoyens, 205-384.

Notes

273

The battle over ‘democracy’ in Italian politicalthought during the revolutionary triennio, 1796-1799 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8. 9.

See Eluggero Pii, “La ricerca di un modello politico durante il triennio rivoluzionario (1796-1799),” in Modelli nella storia del pensiero politico, ed. Victor Ivo Comparato, vol. 2 (Florence: Olschki, 1989), 284. Plato, The Republic, §§559 D - 564 A, Aristotle, Politics, §§ 1279a - 1279b. David Hume, Essays Moral, Political, Literary [1771], rev. ed. (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1987), 47-53. Vittorio Alfieri, Della Tirannide [1777], in idem, Scritti politici e morali, vol 1. (Asti: Casa d’Alfieri, 1951), 38-43, 61-62, 71-72, 81, 104. Cesare Beccaria, Dei delitti e delle pene [1764] (Torino: Einaudi, 1965), 28-31. On this aspect of Montesquieu’s theory, see David Williams’ telling remarks in Lectures on Political Principles; the Subjects of Eighteen Books, in Montesquieu’s ‘Spirit of Laws’ (London: Bell, 1789), 131, 135, 140, 233. Gaetano Filangieri, La scienza della legislazione (1780-85), vol. 1 (Venezia: Edizioni della laguna, 2004), 31, 90, 94. See Vincenzo Ferrone, La società giusta ed equa. Repubblicanesimo e diritti dell’uomo in Gaetano Filangieri (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2003), 36-38. Mario Pagano, Saggi politici. Luoghi e varianti della prima edizione (1783-85) rispetto alla seconda (1791-92) e altri scritti etico politici (Napoli: Vivarium, 2004), 241-242. Gazzetta Universale, 2 March 1790, 146. See also the Venetian Gazette, managed by Giuseppe Compagnoni, called Notizie dal Mondo dated 6 March 1790 on the same page. The famous speech by Burke addressed to the House of Commons on 9 February 1790 [The Parliamentary History of England from the Earliest Period to the Year 1803, ed. William Cobbet, vol. 28 (London: Hansard, 1816) 352-371] was even referred to by two Italian magazines, amongst other European journals. Antoine-Louise-Claude Destutt de Tracy promptly refuted the claims of the English member of the House, stating that what had been established in France was not ‘une démocratie,’ that is, a government ‘où tous font les loix, & où tous les font exécuter eux memes,’ but a government in which the representatives were appointed to make laws and the hereditary monarch was obliged to apply them: A.-L.-C. Destutt de Tracy, M. de Tracy à M. Burke (Paris: s.n., 1790), 8-9. The same criticism, again against Burke’s position, is thought to have been pronounced by Thomas Paine in the second part of his Rights of Man: ‘Simple democracy was society governing itself without the aid of secondary means. By engrafting representation upon democracy we arrive at a system of government capable of embracing and confederating all the various interests and every extent of territory and population’: Thomas Paine, Rights of Man: Being an Answer to Mr. Burke Attack on the French Revolution [1791-92] (Indianapolis and Cambridge: Hackett, 1992), 142. See Mark Philp, “Reaching for Democracy in Britain 1760-1830,” in Viaggio nella democrazia. Il cammino dell’idea

274 

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

democratica nella storia del pensiero politico, eds. Mauro Lenci and Carmelo Calabrò (Pisa: ETS, 2010), 112-116. Concerning Burke’s success in Italy during that period, see Roberto Zapperi, “Edmund Burke in Italia,” Cahiers Vilfredo Pareto 10 (1965): 5-62; Mauro Lenci, “La fortuna di Edmund Burke in Italia dalla fine del Settecento ad Alessandro Manzoni,” Il pensiero politico 35 (2002): 163-172. Saverio Scrofani, Tutti han torto ossia lettera a mio zio sulla rivoluzione di Francia [1791] (Palermo: Edizioni della Regione siciliana, 1970), 76, 88-90, 105. Nicola Spedalieri, De’ diritti dell’uomo libri VI. Ne’ quali si dimostra che la più sicura custode de’ medesimi nella società civile è la religione cristiana (Assisi: s.n., 1791), 421-422. See Luciano Guerci, “Democrazia rappresentativa: Definizioni e discussioni nell’Italia del triennio repubblicano (1796-1799),” in L’Europa tra illuminismo e restaurazione. Scritti in onore di Furio Diaz, ed. Paolo Alatri (Rome: Bulzoni, 1993), 231-232. The most conservative Italian gazettes highlighted the democratic danger represented by the revolutionary events and accused supporters of ‘democratic principles’ to ‘want to govern France like the republic of S. Marino’: Marco Cuaz, “Le nuove strepitose di Francia: L’immagine della rivoluzione francese nella stampa periodica italiana (17871791),” Rivista storica italiana 100 (1988): 485-486. Pietro Verri, “Pensieri sullo stato politico del milanese nel 1790,” in idem, Scritti vari, vol. 2 (Florence: Le Monnier, 1854), appendix 31-32, 11. Mario Pagano, Saggi politici. De’ principii, progressi e decadenza delle società (1791-92) (Napoli: Vivarium, 1993), 353-355. Pietro Verri, “Modo di terminare le dispute [1797],” in idem, Scritti vari, vol. 2, appendix 100-101. Melchiorre Cesarotti, “Istruzione d’un cittadino a’ suoi fratelli meno istrutti [1797],” in idem, Opere scelte, vol. 2 (Florence: Le Monnier, 1945), 391. Condorcet, who had been one of the first to use the term ‘representative democracy’ while referring to the American experience in 1788, stopped using it and fell back on the more complex term of ‘representative constitution’: Œuvres de Condorcet, eds. M. F. Arago and A. Condorcet O’ Connor, 12 vols (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1847-1848), vol 9, pp. 84, 536; vol. 1, p. 306; vol. 4, p. 393; vol. 10, pp. 286, 406-407, 434; vol. 12, p 474; Bernard Manin, The Principles of Representative Government (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 1-7, 94-131, Catherine Larrère, “Sieyès: Le modèle démocratique du gouvernment représentatif,” in Comparato, Modelli, 2:189, 191, 200, 205; Pasquale Pasquino, Sieyes et l’invention de la constitution en France (Paris: Odil Jacob, 1998). John Dunn, Il mito degli uguali. La lunga storia della democrazia (Milano: EGEA, 2006), 115-119. See also Ruth Scurr, “The Wager on Virtue: Robespierre Understanding of Democratic Politics,” in Lenci and Calabrò, eds., Viaggio nella democrazia, 89-103.

Notes

19.

275

Maximilien de Robespierre, “Discours sur les principes de morale politique qui doivent guider la convention nationale dans l’administration intérieure de la république [1794],” in Textes choisis, ed. Jean Poperen, vol. 3 (Paris: s.n., 1958), 113. 20. Maximilien de Robespierre, “Discours sur le gouvernement représentatif [1793],” in Poperen, Textes, 2:147. 21. Claudine Wolikow, “1789 - an III: L’émergence de la ‘démocratie représentative’”, in L’an I et l’apprentissage de la démocratie, ed. Rouger Bourderon (Saint-Denis: Éditions PSD, 1995), 54-69. According to Pierre Serna, it took place under the Directory, with Antonelle’s crucial contribution through which the modern concept of representative democracy was really taking form. See Pierre Serna, Antonelle. Aristocrate révolutionnaire 1747-1817 (Paris: Éditions du félin, 1997), 241-244, 252-253, 291-295, 375-387; idem, “Un programma per l’opposizione di sinistra sotto il Direttorio: la democrazia rappresentativa,” Società e storia 20.76 (1997): 322, 326, 328, 331. 22. Lucien Jaume, Le discours jacobin et la démocratie (Paris: Fayard, 1989), 217; François Furet, “Rèvolution francaise et tradition jacobine,” in The French Revolution and the Creation of French Political Culture, eds. Keith M. Baker, Colin Lucas, François Furet, vol. 2 (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1989), 329-339; Kare D. Tønnesson, “La démocratie directe sous la rèvolution française – le cas des districts et sections de Paris,” in ibidem, 295-307; Keith M. Baker, “Transformations of Classical Republicanism in Eighteenth-Century France,” The Journal of Modern History 73 (2001): 43-53. 23. Patrice Higonnet, Goodness beyond Virtue. Jacobins during the French Revolution (Cambridge MA and London: Harvard University Press, 1998), 151. 24. Robert R. Palmer, “Notes on the Use of the Word ‘Democracy’ 1789-1799,” Political Science Quarterly 68 (1953): 220. 25. Pietro Giordani, Lettere inedite di Pietro Giordani a Lazzaro Papi con un frammento inedito di quest’ultimo (Lucca: Baccelli, 1851), 139. See Grazia Tomasi, “Lettura di Lazzaro Papi,” Critica storica 25 (1988): 591-592. 26. Vittorio Criscuolo, ed., Termometro politico della Lombardia (Rome: Istituto storico italiano per l’età moderna e contemporanea, 1989), 412-413. 27. Anna Maria Rao, Esuli. L’emigrazione politica italiana in Francia (1792-1802) (Napoli: Guida, 1992), 61-241; Antonino De Francesco, “Il Saggio storico e la cultura politica italiana fra Otto e Novecento,” in Vincenzo Cuoco, Saggio storico sulla rivoluzione di Napoli (Cosenza: Piero Lacaita Editore: 1999), 93-113; Serna, “La democrazia rappresentativa,” 319-343. Buonarroti, in the wake of Robespierre, didn’t refuse the model of representative democracy in principle: ‘personne ne s’avisa en France d’appeler le peuple entier à délibérere sur les actes de gourvenement’ was his comment years later in his Conspiration pour l’ égalité dite de Babeuf. However, his main reference had been to the 1793 constitution which conceded to the people ‘le droit de délibérer sur les lois’ and made the lawmakers subservient to the orders of

276 

28.

29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

39. 40. 41.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

the people: Filippo Buonarroti, “Conspiration pour l’ égalité dite de Babeuf [1828],” in idem, Scritti politici (Torino: Einaudi, 1976), 18, 22. “Sul governo che conviene all’Italia [1796],” in Alle origini del Risorgimento: i testi di un “celebre” concorso, ed. Armando Saitta, vol. 2 (Rome: Istituto storico italiano per l’età moderna e contemporanea, 1964), 226-229, 237, 243; Girolamo Bocalosi, “Dell’educazione democratica da darsi al popolo italiano [1797],” in Giacobini italiani, eds. Delio Cantimori and Renzo De Felice, vol. 2 (Bari: Laterza, 1964) 21, 41, 59; Mario Battaglini, ed., Il Monitore Napoletano 1799 (Napoli: Guida, 1974), 408; Ugo Foscolo, “I partiti,” Il Redattore italiano, January 18-25, 1800, in I giornali giacobini italiani, ed. Renzo De Felice (Milano: Feltrinelli, 1962), 307; Nicio Eritreo, “Grammatica repubblicana [1798],” in Cantimori and De Felice, Giacobini italiani, (1): 100. Lenci, “Edmund Burke”, 167-172. ‘innesta il jota al democratico. E ne avrai la bellissima parola demiocratico: cioè carneficesco governo. A nuove cose, nuove parole’: Vittorio Alfieri, Il Misogallo (1800), in idem, Scritti politici e morali, 3:365; Ignazio Lorenzo Thjulen speaks of ‘demonocrazia, o sia governo di demoni’ (devils’ government) in Nuovo vocabolario filosofico-democratico [1799] (Milano: Biblioteca di via Senato Edizioni, 2004), 56. Vittorio Alfieri, Epistolario, vol. 2 (Asti: Casa d’Alfieri, 1981), 180-181. Criscuolo,Termometro politico, 89, 107. On Alfieri’s republicanism, see Ferrone, Filangieri, 216-217. Carlo Botta, “Proposizione ai lombardi di una maniera di governo libero [1797],” in Saitta, Alle origini, (1): 18-19, 22-23, 82. Melchiorre Gioia, “Dissertazione sul problema quale dei governi liberi meglio convenga alla felicità d’Italia [1798],” in Saitta, Alle origini, (2): 49, 67. Battaglini, Monitore, 77-78. Vincenzo Cuoco, Frammenti di lettere dirette a Vincenzio Russo [1799], in idem, Saggio storico sulla rivoluzione di Napoli (Milano: Sonzogno, 1806), xi, xxviii, xxxvii, vii. Giuseppe Fantuzzi, “Discorso filosofico-politico sopra il quesito proposto dall’amministrazione generale della Lombardia [1796],” in Saitta, Alle origini, (1): 230. La France vue de l’armée d’Italie, October 7, 1797, in De Felice, I giornali gia­ cobini, 283. On the other hand, these were the recommendations given by the Directory and promptly acknowledged by Napoleon Bonaparte himself in December 1796: Rao, Esuli, 105-106. Gazzetta nazionale della Liguria, 25 January - 15 February 1800, in De Felice, I giornali giacobini, 418. Pasquino, Sieyes, 51. Pietro Custodi, “Testi ad annotazioni del triennio 1796-1799,” in Vittorio Criscuolo, Il giacobino Pietro Custodi (con un appendice di documenti inediti) (Rome: Istituto storico italiano per l’età moderna e contemporanea, 1987), 495, 497.

277

Notes

42. Giuseppe Abamonti, “Saggio sulle leggi fondamentali dell’Italia libera. Dedicato al popolo italiano” (1797), in Saitta, Alle origini, (3): 287-288, 295. 43. Giornale de’ patrioti d’Italia, July 11-13, 1797, in De Felice, I giornali giacobini, 334-335. 44. Eritreo, “Grammatica repubblicana,” 101. 45. Vincenzio Russo, Pensieri politici [1799] (Milano: Fondazione Giacomo Feltrinelli, 2000), 33, 57. 46. Luciano Guerci, Istruire nelle verità repubblicane. La letteratura per il popolo nell’Italia in rivoluzione (1796-1799) (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1999), 187-188. 47. “Sul governo che conviene all’Italia,” 245-247. 48. G. Tirelli, “Quale sia il governo migliore. Dissertazione” (S. D.), in Saitta, Alle origini, (2): 213-215. 49. Giovanni Ristori, “Discorso sopra il quesito quale dei governi liberi convenga meglio all’Italia” (1796), in Saitta, Alle origini, (3): 106-107. 50. “Dissertazione sul programma dell’amministrazione generale di stato di Milano: qual sia tra i governi liberi quello che convenga all’Italia [1797], in Saitta, Alle origini, (3): 259. 51. Salvo Mastellone, “Il dibattito sulla democrazia nel triennio giacobino italiano (1796-1799),” in Il modello politico giacobino e le rivoluzioni, eds. Massimo L. Salvadori and Nicola Tranfaglia (Florence: La nuova Italia, 1984), 159-160. 52. Giuseppe Compagnoni, Elementi di diritto costituzionale democratico [1797] (Florence: Centro editoriale toscano, 1987), 217, 219-220, 222-224. 53. Guerci, “Democrazia rappresentativa.”, 274; idem, Istruire, 207-208.

3.

The invention of democratic parliamentary practices

Parliamentary practices in the Sister Republics in the light of the French experience 1.

2.

See, for example, Manuela Albertone and Antonio De Francesco, eds., Rethinking the Atlantic World. Europe and America in the Age of Democratic Revolutions (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009); and David Armitage and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, eds., The Age of Revolutions in Global Context, c.1760-1840 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010). See also Pierre Serna, Antonino De Francesco, and Judith A Miller, eds. Republics at War, 1776‑1840: Revolutions, Conflicts, and Geopolitics in Europe and the Atlantic World (­Basingstoke [etc.]: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). Robert R. Palmer, The Age of the Democratic Revolution. A Political History of Europe and America, 1760-1800. 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1959-1960); and Jacques Godechot, Les revolutions, 1770-1799, Paris 1963 (trans. France and the Atlantic Revolution of the Eighteenth Century, Free Press, New York, 1965).

278 

3.

4.

5. 6.

7.

8.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Pierre Serna, ed., Les Républiques soeurs: le Directoire et la Révolution atlantique (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2009) and Jacques Godechot, La grande nation. L’expansion révolutionnaire de la France dans le monde de 1789 à 1799 (Paris: Flammarion, 1983; 1st ed. 1956). Andreas Kalyvas and Ira Katznelson, Liberal Beginnings: Making a Republic for the Moderns (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008) and Andrew Jainchill, Reimagining Politics after the Terror: The Republican Origins of French Liberalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008). Annie Jourdan, La Révolution batave entre la France et l’Amérique (1795-1806) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008). Marc H. Lerner, “The Helvetic Republic: An Ambivalent Reception of French Revolutionary Liberty,” French History 18 (2004): 66-71 and idem., A Laboratory of Liberty: The Transformation of Political Culture in Republican Switzerland, 1750-1848 (Leiden: Brill, 2011). Timothy Tackett, Becoming a Revolutionary. The Deputies of the French National Assembly and the Emergence of a Revolutionary Culture (1789-1790) (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 228, and Patrick Brassart, Paroles de la Révolution. Les assemblées parlementaires (1789-1794) (Paris: Minerve, 1988). Jacques-Vincent Delacroix, Constitutions des principaux États de l’Europe et des États-Unis de l’Amérique. 6 vols. (Paris: Buisson, 1791-1801), trans. into English and German, and Matteo Angelo Galdi, Discours sur les rapports politiques-économiques de l’Italie libre avec la France et les autres États de l’Europe, trans. L.-P. Couret-Villeneuve (Paris: Baudouin, 1798).

Making the most of national time 1.

2.

3.

The most important articles Koselleck wrote in the course of four decades, many of which deal with the concept of time, have been translated into English: The Practice of Conceptual History. Timing History, Spacing Concepts, trans. Todd Samuel Presner et al., foreword by Hayden White (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002); Futures Past. On the Semantics of Historical Time, trans. Keith Tribe (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004, German ed. 1979). See especially Koselleck, Conceptual History, chapters 9 and 10; Futures Past, chapters 3, 13 and 14; See also Rolf Reichardt and Eberhardt Schmitt, “La Révolution française – rupture ou continuité? Pour une conceptualisation plus nuancée,” in Die Französische Revolution – zufälliges oder notwendiges Ereignis?; idem, eds. vol. 3 (Munich [etc.]: Oldenbourg, 1983), 3-71; Reinhard Koselleck and Rolf Reichardt, eds., Die Französische Revolution als Bruch des gesellschaftlichen Bewußtseins (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1988). Koselleck, Conceptual History, 165. More generally, much emphasis has been placed on the significance of the revolutionary calendar. See the vast literature on this subject in the bibliographies of Matthew John Shaw, Time and

Notes

4.

5.

6. 7.

8.

9. 10.

279

the French Revolution. The Republican Calendar, 1789-Year XIV (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2011); and Brecht Deseure, Onhoudbaar verleden. Geschiedenis als politiek instrument tijdens de Franse periode in België (Leuven: Universitaire Pers, 2014). Lynn Hunt, “The World We Have Gained. The Future of the French Revolution,” American Historical Review 108 (2003): 6. It must be stressed that the idea of the French Revolution as a rupture in history has been present in Hunt’s work ever since her Politics, Culture and Class in the French Revolution (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984). Her fascination with time, however, seems to be of a more recent nature. See also Hunt, “ ‘No Longer an Evenly Flowing River’. Time, History, and the Novel,” American Historical Review 103 (1998): 1521: ‘Although much remains to be uncovered about “the planes of historicity” [Hunt is referring here to the title of one of Koselleck’s articles] the topic of time is clearly on the agenda’. Ernst Wolfgang Becker, Zeit der Revolution! Revolution der Zeit? Zeiterfahrungen in Deutschland in de Ära der Revolutionen, 1789-1848/9 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999); Peter Fritzsche, Stranded In the Present. Modern Time and the Melancholy of History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004). See also Matthew Rainbow Hale, “On Their Tiptoes. Political Time and Newspapers During the Advent of the Radicalized French Revolution,” Journal of the Early Republic 29 (2009): 191-218. Fritzsche, Stranded, 25. Cf. Andreas Schedler and Javier Santiso, “Democracy and Time. An Invitation,” International Political Science Review 19 (1998): 9. Scholars who have reflected, more in general, on the factor of ‘time’ in politics include J. G. A. Pocock, Politics, Language and Time. Essays on Political Thought and History (New York: Atheneum, 1971); idem, The Machiavellian Moment. Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic Republican Tradition (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003, 1st. ed. 1975); H. J. Rutz, ed., The Politics of Time (Washington DC: American Anthropological Association, 1992); Gisela Riescher, Zeit und Politik. Zur institutionellen Bedeutung von Zeitstrukturen in parlamentarischen und präsidentiellen Regierungssystemen (BadenBaden: Nomos, 1994); Heinrich Bußhoff, Die Zeitlichkeit der Politik. Politik als Mechanismus zur Verzeitlichung der Zeit (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2003); and Jussi Kurunmäki and Kari Palonen, eds., Zeit, Geschichte und Politik. Zum achtzigsten Geburtstag von Reinhart Koselleck (Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä, 2003). See also the work of Linz and Palonen cited below. Juan, J. Linz, “Democracy’s Time Constraints,” International Political Science Review 19 (1998): 19. See also Linz, “Time and Regime Change,” in idem, Robert Michels, Political Sociology and the Future of Democracy (New Brunswick: Transaction, 2006), 81-115. Linz, “Time Constraints,” 20. Kari Palonen, The Struggle With Time. A Conceptual History of ‘Politics’ as an Activity (Münster [etc.]: Lit, 2006), 17, 62-63, 77. See also Jürgen Jekewitz, Der

280 

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Grundsatz der Diskontinität der Parlamentsarbeit im Staatsrecht der Neuzeit und seine Bedeutung unter der parlamentarischen Demokratie des Grundgesetzes. Eine rechtshistorische und rechtsdogmatische Untersuchung (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot 1977), 44-46. 11. G. de Bruin, “De soevereiniteit in de republiek. Een machtsprobleem,” Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis van Nederland 94 (1979): 36-37; A. J. C. M. Gabriëls, De heren als dienaren en de dienaar als heer. Het stadhouderlijk stelsel in de tweede helft van de achttiende eeuw (Den Haag: Stichting Hollandse Historische Reeks, 1990), 13. 12. Gabriëls, Heren, 13-16. 13. Gabriëls, Heren, 43-54; N. M. Japikse, “De Staten-Generaal in de achttiende eeuw (1717-1795),” in 500 jaren Staten-Generaal in de Nederlanden, eds. S. J. Fockema Andreae and H. Hardenberg (Assen: Van Gorcum & Comp., 1964), 110. 14. Cf. Palonen, Struggle, 17. 15. On the Patriot Era, see S. R. E. Klein, Patriots republikanisme. Politieke cul­ tuur in Nederland (1766-1787) (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1995); N. C. F. Van Sas, De Metamorfose van Nederland (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2004), 173-274; Joost Rosendaal, De Nederlandse Revolutie. Vrijheid, volk en vaderland, 1783-1799 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2005), 17-56; Wyger R. E. Velema, Republicans. Essays on Eighteenth-Century Dutch Political Thought (Leiden [etc.]: Brill, 2007), 115-200. 16. Van Sas, Metamorfose, 223-53; Klein, Patriots republikanisme, 261-83. 17. On the Patriots and the French Revolution, see Simon Schama, Patriots and Liberators. Revolution in the Netherlands, 1780-1813 (New York [etc.]: Knopf, 1977), 138-210; Joost Rosendaal, Bataven! Nederlandse vluchtelingen in Frankrijk, 1787-1795 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2003); Annie Jourdan, La Révolution batave entre la France et l’Amerique (1795-1806) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008), 60-78. 18. On the first phase of the Batavian Revolution, see Pieter Geyl, Geschiedenis van de Nederlandse Stam (6 volumes, Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 196162, 1st. ed. 1930-37), 1517-1606; Schama, Patriots, 211-44; Joris Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld. Het eerste parlement van Nederland 1796-1798 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2012), ch. 1. The best contemporary account is by Cornelius Rogge, Tafereel van de geschiedenis der jongste omwenteling in de Vereenigde Nederlanden (Amsterdam: Johannes Allart, 1796). 19. G. W. Bannier, ed., “Reglement, volgens het welk eene algemeene Nationale Vergadering door het volk van Nederland zal worden byeen geroepen en werkzaam zyn (30 december 1795),” in Grondwetten van Nederland: teksten der achtereenvolgende staatsregelingen en grondwetten sedert 1795, met verschillende andere staatsstukken, historische toelichtingen en eenige tabellen (Zwolle: Tjeenk Willink, 1937), appendix B, 34, articles 144 and 145. 20. Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld.

Notes

21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

281

Joost Rosendaal, ed., Staatsregeling voor het Bataafsche volk 1798. De eerste grondwet van Nederland (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2005), 80, article 37. Cf. Jacques Godechot, ed., “Constitution du 5 Fructidor an III (22 août 1795),” in Les constitutions de la France depuis 1789 (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1970), 109, article 53. Linz, “Time Constraints,” 22. Dagverhaal der handelingen van de Nationaale Vergadering representerende het volk van Nederland (9 volumes, Den Haag: Van Schelle & Comp, 1796-98) vol. 1, no. 41 (session 21 April 1796): 325; no. 47 (session 21 April 1796): 372-75. Dagverhaal vol. 1, no. 47 (session 21 April): 372-73. Dagverhaal vol. 1, no. 47 (session of 21 April): 375. G. C. C. Vatebender, Reedevoering over het caracter, de kundigheden en vereischte zielsgesteldheid van eenen waardigen vertegenwoordiger des volks; uitgesproken in het choor der Groote of St. Janskerke te Gouda, wanneer hij op den 26. dec. 1795 van zijnen post, als rector der Latijnse Schoolen aldaar, plechtig afstand deedt (Gouda: H. L. van Buma & Comp, 1796). Koselleck, Conceptual History, 129. This statement may be considered the main impetus of the German Begriffsgeschichte school. It lies at the basis of the two ambitious projects in which the historians connected to this school have participated: Otto Brunner, Werner Conze, and Reinhart Koselleck, eds., Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe. Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-sozialen Sprache in Deutschland (9 volumes, Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 2004) and Rolf Reichardt et al., eds., Handbuch politisch-sozialer Grundbegriffe in Frank­ reich, 1680-1820, 20 vols. (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1985-). On Begriffsgeschichte, see Melvin Richter, The History of Political and Social Concepts. A Critical Introduction (New York [etc.]: Oxford University Press, 1995); Iain Hampsher-Monk, Karin Tilmans and Frank van Vree, eds., History of Concepts. Comparative Perspectives (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1998). [Isaac Gogel and Willem Anthonie Ockerse], eds., De Democraten, vol. 1 (Amsterdam: Crajenschot, 1796), 224. Dagverhaal vol. 1, no. 19 (session of 10 March 1796): 152. Dagverhaal vol. 1, no. 46 (session of 27 April 1796): 365. Dagverhaal vol. 1, no. 12 (session of 16 March 1796): 92. Dagverhaal vol. 1, no. 18 (session of 24 March 1796): 141. Dagverhaal vol. 3, no. 240 (session 8 November 1796): 581-82. “Reglement,” 32, article 111. Dagverhaal vol. 4, no. 296 (session 6 December 1796): 217-18. See footnote 23 for the full reference. Dagverhaal vol. 4, no. 47 (session 21 April): 373. Dagverhaal vol. 2, no. 150 (session 9 August 1796): 582. See A. R. M. Jourdan, “Les minorités politiques dans la République batave,”, in Minorités politiques en révolution 1789-1799, ed. C. Peyrard (Aix-enProvence: Université de Provence, 2007), 159-81; Joris Oddens, “Menistenstreken in het strijdperk. Het eerste parlement van Nederland en de mythe

282 

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

van de moderate middenpartij,” Doopsgezinde Bijdragen 35/36 (2009/2010): 337-61; Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld, ch. 5. Dagverhaal vol. 4, no. 320 (session 11 January 1797) 415; Willem Hendrik Teding van Berkhout, Dagboek van een patriot. Journaal van Willem Hendrik Teding van Berkhout, ed. L. de Gou (Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff, 1982), 134. Fritzsche, Stranded, 25. Hunt, “World,” 6. Rosendaal, Bataven!. The leading figure with respect to Batavian thinking on the differences between the Dutch and French national characters was the prominent revolutionary Willem Ockerse, who completed a study on the ‘general science of character’ in 1797 and addressed the subject in his own political periodical: Ontwerp tot een algemeene characterkunde (3 volumes, Utrecht: G. T van Paddenburg & zoon, 1788-90 and Amsterdam: Johannes Allart, 1797); [Gogel and Ockerse], eds., Democraten, vol. 2, 277-84. See also Van Sas, Metamorfose, 309-11; Willem Frijhoff, “Het zelfbeeld van de Nederlander in de achttiende eeuw: een inleiding,” Documentatieblad Werkgroep Achttiende Eeuw 24 (1992): 23-28. Cf. William E. Scheuerman, Liberal democracy and the social acceleration of time (Baltimore [etc.]: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 31-32. Cf. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London [etc.]: Verso, 2006, 1st. ed. 1983), 24. Koselleck, Futures Past, 50; idem, Conceptual History, 165, 168.

The invention of democratic parliamentary practicesin the Helvetic Republic 1. 2.

3.

I am grateful to my assistant Lorenz Schläfli for a close reading of the edition of the parliament’s records, which served as the basis for this paper. For an exhaustive analysis of the Federal Diet in the long term, see Andreas Würgler, Die Tagsatzung der Eidgenossen. Politik, Kommunikation und Symbolik einer repräsentativen Institution im europäischen Kontext (1470-1798) (Epfendorf: Bibliotheca Academica, 2013); Andreas Würgler, “Tagsatzung”, in Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz. Accessed 21 February 2011. www.hls-dhsdss.ch/textes/d/D10076.php. Holger Böning, Der Traum von Freiheit und Gleichheit. Helvetische Revolution und Republik (1798-1803) - Die Schweiz auf dem Weg zur bürgerlichen Demokratie (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1998); Andreas Fankhauser, “Helvetische Republik,” in Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz, vol. 6 (Basel: Schwabe, 2007), 258-67; Andreas Fankhauser, “Helvetische Revolution,” in Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz, vol. 6 (Basel: Schwabe, 2007), 267-70; Daniel Schläppi, ed., Umbruch und Beständigkeit. Kontinuitäten in der Helvetischen Revolution von 1798 (Basel: Schwabe, 2009).

Notes

4.

5.

6. 7.

8. 9.

283

Raymond Guyot, “Pierre Ochs et le projet de constitution helvétique,” Revue historique vaudoise 11 (1903): 143-50; Markus Christoph Boeglin, Entstehung und Grundzüge der Ersten Helvetischen Verfassung im Lichte des Einflusses der Autorschaft von Peter Ochs und Bemerkungen zur Frage der Gegenwartsbedeutung der Prinzipien der Volkssouveränität, Repräsentation und Gewaltenteilung (PhD dissertation, University of Basel, 1971); Alfred Kölz, Neuere Schweizerische Verfassungsgeschichte, vol. 1, Vom Ende der Alten Eidgenossenschaft bis 1848 (Bern: Stämpfli, 1992). The Basel constitution was adopted in the cantons of Basel, Solothurn, Bern, Oberland, Zurich, Baden, Aargau, Lucerne, Schaffhausen, Thurgau, and Obwalden. Eduard His, Geschichte des neuern Schweizerischen Staats­ rechts, vol. 1, Die Zeit der Helvetik und der Vermittlungsakte (Basel: Helbing und Lichtenhahn, 1920), 26-27. Hans Stadler, “Landsgemeinde,” in Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz, vol. 7 (Basel: Schwabe, 2008), 613-15. Sandro Guzzi, “Widerstand und Revolten gegen die Republik. Grundformen und Motive,” in Helvetik - neue Ansätze, eds. André Schluchter and Christian Simon (Basel: Schwabe, 1993), 84-104; Sandro Guzzi, Logiche della rivolta rurale: insurrezioni contro la Repubblica Elvetica nel Ticino meridionale (1798-1803) (Bologna: Cisalpino, 1994); Rolf Graber, “Die Protestbewegungen zur Zeit der Helvetik und das Projekt der Moderne. Zur ambivalenten Bedeutung der Helvetik für die Entstehung der modernen Schweiz,” in Die Französische Revolution und das Projekt der Moderne, eds. Helmut Reinalter and Anton Pelinka (Wien: Braumüller, 2002), 73-88; Marc H. Lerner, “The Helvetic Republic: An Ambivalent Reception of French Revolutionary Liberty,” French History 18/1 (2004), 50-75; Benjamin Adler, Die Entstehung der direkten Demokratie. Das Beispiel der Landsgemeinde Schwyz 1789-1866 (Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 2006); Eric Godel, Die Zentralschweiz in der Helvetik. Kriegserfahrungen und Religion im Spannungsfeld von Nation und Region (Münster: Aschendorff, 2009); Marc H. Lerner, A Laboratory of Liberty. The Transformation of Political Culture in Republican Switzerland, 1750-1848 (Leiden [etc.]: Brill, 2012). Lerner, “Helvetic Republic,” 66-72. Daniel Frei, Die Förderung des schweizerischen Nationalbewusstseins nach dem Zusammenbruch der Alten Eidgenossenschaft 1798 (Zurich: Juris, 1964); Christoph Guggenbühl, “Biedermänner und Musterbürger im ‘Mutterland der Weltfreyheit’. Konzepte der Nation in der helvetischen Republik,” in Die Konstruktion der Nation. Nation und Nationalisierung in der Schweiz, 18.-20. Jahrhundert, eds. Urs Altermatt, Catherine Bosshart-Pfluger, and Albert Tanner (Zurich: Chronos, 1998), 33-47; Sandro Guzzi-Heeb, “Helvetischer Staat und Nationalisierung der Gesellschaft,” in Altermatt, Bosshart-Pfluger, and Tanner, Konstruktion der Nation, 131-147; Oliver Zimmer, A Contested Nation. History, Memory and Nationalism in Switzerland, 1761-1891 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003).

284 

10. 11.

12.

13.

14. 15.

16. 17.

18.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Würgler, “Tagsatzung”. André Holenstein, “Politische Partizipation und Repräsentation von Untertanen in der alten Eidgenossenschaft. Städtische Ämteranfragen und ständische Verfassungen im Vergleich,” in Landschaften und Landstände in Oberschwaben, ed. Peter Blickle (Tübingen: Bibliotheca Academica, 2000), 223-49. Mario Turchetti, ed., La Suisse de la Médiation dans l’Europe napoléonienne (1803-1814). Actes du colloque de Fribourg (Fribourg: Academic Press, 2005); Victor Monnier, ed., Bonaparte et la Suisse. Travaux préparatoires de l’Acte de Médiation de 1803 (Genève: Helbing und Lichtenhahn, 2002). Articles 36 to 70 of the Helvetic constitution deal with the legislative body. See Actensammlung aus der Zeit der Helvetischen Republik (1798-1803), eds. Johannes Strickler and Alfred Rufer, 16 vols. (Bern: Stämpfli and Freiburg: Fragnière, 1886-1967 – hereafter ASHR), vol. 1, pp. 574-78. Andreas Fankhau­ ser, “Helvetische Republik,” 259. This was true only for the constitutive session of April 1798. Later, a law would be required to distribute the seats in the Great Council according to the size of each canton’s population. Even the different official robes of the Senators and Councillors were to express the different qualities of the two categories of parliamentarian (ASHR, vol. 1, pp. 917; 03.05.1798: ‘Die Verschiedenheit endlich in dem Costüme beider Räthe sollten ein Sinnbild der Verschiedenheiten sein, die zwischen beiden stattfinden; das des grossen Raths soll Einbildungskraft, jenes des Senats Vernunft und Klugheit bedeuten. Darum soll letztrer keinen rothen, eher einen schwarzen Strauss auf dem Hut tragen.’) Both of these procedures took place only once, on 1 August 1800 and 16 September 1799 respectively. Note Klaus Bauer’s revealing observation according to which the Helvetic constitution was not a mere copy of the French constitution of 1795. Rather Merlin, Ochs’ main corrector, would reinforce the centralizing tendency of the preliminary version. ‘Man kann sogar eine Feststellung treffen, die angesichts der hierzu vorherrschenden Ansicht in der Literatur geradezu paradox klingt: Die Schweizer wären froh gewesen, wenn sie eine der französischen Konstitution genau nachgebildete Verfassung erhalten hätten; denn sie versuchen – bewußt oder unbewußt – die ihnen aufoktroyierte Verfassung wieder der französischen anzunähern.’ Bauer also indicates the amendments that the Basel National Assembly added to the Paris draft. See Klaus F. Bauer, Der französische Einfluß auf die Batavische und die Helvetische Verfassung des Jahres 1798 (PhD dissertation, University of Erlangen-Nürnberg, 1962), 57f. Edna Hindie Lemay, ed., Dictionnaire des Constituants 1789-1791, 2 vols. (Paris: Universitas, 1991); Edna Hindie Lemay, ed., Dictionnaire des Législateurs 1791-1792, 2 vols. (Ferney-Voltaire: Centre international d’étude du XVIIIe siècle, 2007); Patrick Brasart, Paroles de la Révolution. Les Assemblées parle-

Notes

19. 20.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

285

mentaires 1789-1794 (Paris: Minerve, 1988); André Castaldo, Les méthodes de travail de la Constituante. Les techniques délibératives de l’Assemblée Natio­ nale 1789-1791 (Paris: P.U.F., 1989); Edna Hindie Lemay and Alison Patrick, eds., Revolutionaries at work. The Constituent Assembly 1789-1791 (Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, 1996); Timothy Tackett, Becoming a Revolutionary. The Deputies of the French National Assembly and the Emergence of a Revolutionary Culture (1789-1790) (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996). Thomas Baumann, Das helvetische Parlament. Parlamentarismus im Lichte des Gegensatzes zwischen aufgeklärter Bildungselite und revolutionären Patrioten (Geneva: Editions Slatkine, 2013), 49-57, 191-211. Hermann Büchi, “Die politischen Parteien im ersten schweizerischen Parlament (12. April 1798 - 7. August 1800). Die Begründung des Gegensatzes zwischen deutscher und welscher Schweiz,” Politisches Jahrbuch der Schweizerischen Eidgenossenschaft 31 (1917): 153-428; Adolf Gasser, “Der Irrweg der Helvetik,” Zeitschrift für Schweizerische Geschichte 26 (1947): 425-55; Edgar Bonjour, “Verfassungskämpfe in der Helvetik,” in Edgar Bonjour, Die Schweiz und Europa. Ausgewählte Reden und Aufsätze, vol. 6 (Basel: Helbing und Lichtenhahn, 1979), 27-84; Rolf Graber, “Die Einführung der Verfassung der Helvetischen Republik: Republikanismus der Eliten – Republikanismus des Volkes,” in Republikbegriff und Republiken seit dem 18. Jahrhundert im europäischen Vergleich, ed. Helmut Reinalter (Frankfurt/M. et al.: Peter Lang, 1999), 101-119. ASHR, vol. 2, pp. 18, 33, 42, 57, 434, 438, 463, 464, 598, 722 and 745; vol. 3, pp. 447, 985 and 1361; vol. 4, pp. 1348 and 1408; vol. 5, pp. 349 and 361. Baumann, “Parlament,” appendix 167-189. Reglement der beyden Räthe, art. 82. See Baumann, “Parlament,” appendix. Paragraphs 54, 57, and 60 of the standing orders only mention these two languages. Deputy Suter’s remark is quoted in ASHR, vol. 2, p. 806. His, Geschichte, 233 (note 37); Guggenbühl, “Biedermänner,” 38. ASHR, vol. 2, pp. 861, 864 and 1116; vol. 3, pp. 805; vol. 4, pp. 83-91, 646 and 658; vol. 5, pp. 75, 599, 1057, 1059 and 1195. Baumann, “Parlament,” 147-148. ASHR, vol. 2, pp. 48, 167, 436, 525f., 526, 722, 735f., 740f., 745 and 861; vol. 3, pp. 446, 814, 815 and 816; vol. 4, pp. 1201f., 1206, 1208, 1220, 1297, 1408 and 1410; vol. 5, pp. 399f., 400, 577, 612, 1039, 1042ff., 1225, 1368, 1508, 1512, 1517 and 1520. ASHR, vol. 2, pp. 14, 33, 112, 166 and 438; vol. 4, pp. 1201f., 1206, 1210, 1216 and 1311f.; vol. 5, pp. 792, 1370 and 1413. Hans Dietiker, Geschichtsbild, Menschenbild und Staatsbild im Denken Albrecht Renggers (Zurich: Weiss, 1949), 62-71; Büchi, “Parteien,”; Alfred Rufer, “Das Problem der Verfassungsgerichtsbarkeit während der Helvetik,” Schweizerische Zeitschrift für Geschichte 5 (1955): 273-304, esp. 288-98; André Holenstein, “Die Helvetik als reformabsolutistische Republik,” in Schläppi, Umbruch, 83-104.

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The Neapolitan republican experiment of 1799 1. 2. 3.

4.

Francesco Mario Pagano, “Rapporto del Comitato di legislazione al governo provvisorio,” in Illuministi italiani, vol. V, Riformatori napoletani, ed. Franco Venturi (Milano-Napoli: Ricciardi, 1972), 998. Quite eloquent from this standpoint is the title chosen by Antonino De Francesco for his volume on the Neapolitan republican experience: 1799. Una storia d’Italia (Milano: Guerini e Associati, 2004). On this broad and complex historiographical debate, here we mention, with no claim to comprehensiveness, some recent critical works: Anna Maria Rao, “Mezzogiorno e rivoluzione: trent’anni di storiografia,” Studi Storici 37.4 (1996): 981-1041; Antonino De Francesco, “L’ombra di Buonarroti. Giacobinismo e Rivoluzione francese nella storiografia italiana del dopoguerra,” Storica 15 (1999): 7-67; Eugenio Di Rienzo, “La ‘storia dei se’ e la ‘storia dei fatti.’ Note sulla storiografia italiana del periodo rivoluzionario, 1945-2000,” L’Acropoli, 3.4 (2002): 442-480; Carlo Capra, “Repubblicanesimo dei moderni e costituzionalismo illuministico: riflessioni sull’uso di nuove categorie storiografiche,” Società e Storia 26.100/101 (2003): 355-371; Vittorio Criscuolo, “‘Vecchia’ storiografia e nuovi revisionismi nella ricerca storica sull’Italia in rivoluzione,” in idem, Albori di democrazia nell’Italia in rivoluzione (17921802) (Milano: Franco Angeli, 2006), 25-178. From the enormous bibliography on the Neapolitan Republic of 1799, we may cite Benedetto Croce, Studi storici sulla rivoluzione napoletana del 1799 (Rome: Trani, 1897); Vincenzo Cuoco, Saggio storico sulla rivoluzione napoletana del 1799, with introduction, notes, and appendices by Nino Cortese (Florence: Vallecchi, 1926); Vincenzo Cuoco, Saggio storico sulla rivoluzione di Napoli, ed. Antonino De Francesco (Manduria: Lacaita, 1998); Pietro Colletta, Storia del Reame di Napoli, ed. Nino Cortese (Napoli: Libreria Scientifica Editrice, 1957); Claudia Petraccone, Napoli nel 1799: Rivoluzione e proprietà (Napoli: Morano, 1989); Mario Battaglini, La Repubblica Napoletana: origini, nascita, struttura (Rome: Bonacci, 1992); Anna Maria Rao, “La Repubblica Napoletana del 1799,” in Storia del Mezzogiorno, vol. 4.2 (Rome: Editalia, 1994), 471-539; Valentino Sani, La Repubblica napoletana del 1799 (Florence: Giunti, 1997); Mario Battaglini and Augusto Placanica, eds., Leggi, atti, proclami ed altri documenti della Repubblica napoletana (1798-1799), 4 vols, (Salerno: Di Mauro, 2000); Anna Maria Rao, ed., Napoli 1799 fra storia e storiografia. Atti del Convegno internazionale (Napoli, 21-24 gennaio 1999) (Napoli: Vivarium, 2002); Augusto Placanica and Maria Rosaria Pelizzari, eds., Novantanove in idea. Linguaggi, miti, memorie. Atti del Convegno di Studi (Salerno-Amalfi, 15-18 dicembre 1999 (Napoli: ESI, 2002); Antonio Cestaro, ed., La rivoluzione napoletana del 1799 nelle province in relazione alle vicende storiche dell’Italia giacobina e napoleonica (1799-1815). Atti del Convegno di Maratea (15-17 novembre 1999) (Venosa: Osanna, 2002).

Notes

5.

6.

7.

287

On Jullien, see Renato Soriga, “Un amico dell’Italia, Marc-Antoine Jullien,” Rassegna Storica del Risorgimento, IV (1917), f. IV, 755-764; Robert Rosewell Palmer, From Jacobin to Liberal: Marc-Antoine Jullien, 1775-1848 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993); Carlo Pancera, Una vita tra politica e pedagogia: Marc-Antoine Jullien de Paris (1775-1848) (Fasano: Schena, 1994); Mario Battaglini ed., Marc-Antoine Jullien, segretario generale della Repubblica napoletana: lettere e documenti (Napoli: Vivarium, 1997); Pietro Gargano, Championnet e Jullien. Due francesi nel corpo di Napoli (Napoli: Magmata, 1999); Eugenio Di Rienzo, Marc-Antoine Jullien de Paris (1789-1858). Una biografia politica (Napoli: Guida, 1999). In just a few months, the legal administration was completely reformed, with the abolition of all the magistracies of the ancien régime and the introduction of a system based on the election of judges and the gratuity of court action; also abolished were the privileges of primogeniture as well as the institution of the trust, aimed at maintaining, in perpetuity, real property in the hands of the same family nucleus. State territory was also subdivided, following the French example, into departments and cantons. Pagano’s international fame was at its peak in the late eighteenth century, as stressed most opportunely by Vincenzo Ferrone: La società giusta ed equa. Repubblicanesimo e diritti dell’uomo in Gaetano Filangieri (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2003), 231. Born in Brienza (Basilicata) in 1748, Pagano showed an early and marked propensity for humanistic studies. From the age of twelve, he studied in Naples where, attracted by the works of Antonio Genovesi, he produced his first writings: Politicum universae Romanorum nomothesiae examen and Disegno del sistema della scienza degli ufizi, published between 1768 and 1769. Having become a renowned lawyer and criminal law instructor at the University of Naples, he reached the peak of his fame with the publication of Saggi politici de’ principi, progressi e decadenza della società (1783) and Considerazioni sul processo criminale (1787). After taking on the defence of Emanuele De Deo, Vincenzo Vitaliani, and Vincenzo Galiani, the presumed ringleaders of the Jacobin plot discovered by the Bourbon police that same year, he came under suspicion of ‘Jacobinism’ and was himself to fall victim to persecution by the Neapolitan government, which removed him from his university professorship and had him imprisoned at Castel Sant’Elmo. Freed in July 1798, but on condition of leaving the Kingdom, he went first to Rome and, shortly afterwards, to Milan. Like many other patriots who actively supported the Republic of 1799, he was hanged in Naples, in the Piazza Mercato, on 29 October 1799. On Mario Pagano’s legal and political thought, see among others Augusto Tedeschi, Il pensiero filosofico e sociale di Mario Pagano e le sue concezioni giuridiche fondamentali (Milano: Giuffré, 1948); Gioele Solari, Studi su Francesco Mario Pagano (Torino: Giappichelli, 1963); Elio Palombi, Mario Pagano alle origini della scienza penalistica del secolo XIX (Napoli: Giannini, 1979); Giuseppe Giarrizzo, “L’ideologia massonica di Mario Pagano,” in Studi in onore di Antonio Petino.

288 

8. 9. 10. 11.

12.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Momenti e problemi di storia economica (Catania: Università di Catania, 1986), 693-700; Nunzio Campagna, Potere, legalità, libertà. Il pensiero di Francesco Mario Pagano (Rionero in Vulture: Calice, 1992); Anthony Pagden, “Francesco Mario Pagano’s Republic of virtue: Naples 1799,” in The invention of modern republic, ed. B. Fontana (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 139-153; Raffaele Ajello, “I Saggi politici di Mario Pagano e il suo tempo”, Il Pensiero Politico (1995): 58-71; Dario Ippolito, Mario Pagano. Il pensiero giuspolitico di un illuminista (Torino: Giappichelli, 2008). Vittorio Criscuolo, “L’esperienza della Repubblica napoletana nel quadro del triennio 1796-1799,” in idem, Albori di democrazia, 410. Vincenzo Ferrone, “L’Illuminismo italiano e la rivoluzione napoletana del 1799”, Studi Storici 4 (1999): 993-1006. Francesco Mario Pagano, “Rapporto del Comitato di legislazione,” 908. In this regard, see Luigi Negri, Genesi storica e giuridica della Costituzione napoletana del 1799 (Lucca: Baroni, 1916); Giuseppe D’Eufemia, “La Censura e l’Eforato nel progetto di Costituzione di Mario Pagano,” Annali della Facoltà di Giurisprudenza 7/8 (1947): 141-151; Carlo Ghisalberti, Le costituzioni ‘giacobine’ (1796-1799) (Milano: Giuffrè, 1973); Maurizio Buonocore Caccialupi, “Istruzione, educazione e cultura nelle costituzioni giacobine italiane e nelle successive carte preunitarie”, Rivista Italiana di Studi Napoleonici, 21.1/2 (1984): 107-159; Mario Battaglini, Mario Pagano e il progetto di Costituzione della Repubblica napoletana del 1799 (Rome: Archivio G. Izzi, 1994); Fernanda Mazzanti Pepe, “F. M. Pagano dai Saggi Politici al progetto costituzionale del ’99: modelli culturali e costituzionali,” Il Pensiero Politico 34.2 (2001): 226-237; Carlo Amirante, “La Costituzione paganiana del 1799: l’eredità illuministica napoletana e il costituzionalismo italiano del secolo XVIII,” Critica del Diritto 1-3 (2004): 272-301; Valeria Ferrari, “Le projet constitutionnel de la République Napolitaine de 1799,” in Separation of powers and parliamentarism. The past and the present. Law, doctrine, practice, 56th Conference of International Commission for the History of Representative and Parliamentary Institutions (Cracow and Radom, 5-8 September 2005) (Warsaw: Sejim Publishing Office, 2007), 134-143. Above all, Pagano showed that he conceived of the principle of equality in terms quite different from the French revolutionary constitutional writers. Disputing Rousseau’s idea of the original and natural equality among men, since in his view nature had endowed men with clearly different physical and moral qualities, the southern jurist considered equality not so much as a right than as a principle and as the basis for all other rights. Moreover, besides the rights of man and citizen, Pagano saw a third category of rights – those of the people, which is to say the right to be endowed with a constitution, to modify it, to make laws, to declare war, and to levy taxes. Also important is the fact that, unlike the French Constitution of the Directory, the Neapolitan Project explicitly established the very right of resistance intentionally expunged by the Thermidorians from the inventory of citizens’

Notes

13. 14. 15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

289

rights. However, in Pagano’s way of thinking, this right did not appear to be a matter of Montagnard influence (‘When the government violates the rights of the people, insurrection is for the people and for each portion of the people the most sacred of rights and the most indispensable of duties’: art. 35 of the Constitution of the Year I), since he legitimated it as a necessary consequence of that right to preserve one’s own existence. Indeed, as early as his Saggi Politici, in Locke’s wake, Pagano showed that he considered it to be one of the fundamental individual rights. Lastly, with regard to duties, Pagano inserted something new in comparison with the French constitutional text by introducing a third category: that of public officials, who were required to safeguard citizens against any form of violation of their rights and to dedicate their lives to the good of the Republic. Francesco Mario Pagano, “Rapporto del Comitato di legislazione”, 913. On the political and cultural climate in which it came into being, see the exhaustive account by Sergio Luzzatto, L’autunno della rivoluzione. Lotta e cultura politica nella Francia del termidoro (Torino: Einaudi, 1994). Commenting on the dynamics of the coup d’état of 18 Fructidor of the Year V, Roberto Martucci speaks in fact of a ‘genetic inefficiency in the Directorial system’: Roberto Martucci, L’ossessione costituente. Forma di governo e costituzione nella Rivoluzione francese (1789-1799) (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2001), 293. Here, we clearly see the influence of Montesquieu, whose warning is well known: ‘may power check power’. On the reception of the thought of the author of Esprit des lois during the Revolutionary period, see, among others, Domenico Felice, ed., Poteri Democrazia Virtù. Montesquieu nei movimenti repubblicani all’epoca della rivoluzione francese, Atti del X Congresso internazionale sull’Illuminismo (Napoli, agosto 1999) (Milano: Franco Angeli, 2000). As shown, among the earliest, by Jacques Godechot, La Grande Nation. L’expansion révolutionnaire de la France dans le monde de 1789 à 1799, 2 vols. (Paris: Aubier, 1956). For a recent reflection on these aspects, see Bernard Gainot, “I paradossi della democratizzazione delle repubbliche sorelle,” in La democrazia alla prova della spada. Esperienza e memoria del 1799 in Europa, ed. Antonino De Francesco (Milano: Guerini e Associati, 2003), 33-43. The Progetto included a two-tier electoral system in which the primary assemblies, which were convened by canton, elected secondary assemblies, comprising one elector for every 200 citizens entitled to vote (art. 29), following the French model. These included the proposal, presented by Jacques-Marie Rouzet in February 1793, of establishing an 85-member body of ephors invested with a power of preventive review over the constitutionality of laws prior to their approval by the Assembly, and the proposal by Emmanuel Joseph Sieyès, made in August 1795, for introducing a jury constitutionnaire endowed with a triple responsibility: 1) ‘qu’il veille avec fidélité à la garde du dépôt constitutionnel’; 2) ‘qu’il s’occupe, à l’abri des passions funestes, de toutes

290 

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

les vues qui peuvent servir à perfectionner la constitution’; 3) ‘qu’il offre à la liberté civile une ressource d’équité naturelle dans des occasions graves ou la loi tutélaire aura oublié sa juste garantie’. On this topic, see, among others, Albert Desjardins, Sieyès et le jury en matière civile (Aix: Imprimeur de la Cour Impériale, 1869); Paul Bastid, Sieyès et sa pensée (Paris: Hachette, 1939); Jean-Denis Bredin, Sieyès. La clé de la Révolution française (Paris: Editions de Fallois, 1988); Luca Scuccimarra, La sciabola di Sieyès. Le giornate di brumaio e la genesi del regime bonapartista (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2002); Lucien Jaume, “Sieyès et le sens du jury constitutionnaire: une réinterprétation,” Droits 18.36 (2002): 115-134; Marco Fioravanti, “Sindacato di costituzionalità delle leggi e Rivoluzione francese. Sieyès e il jury constitutionnaire,” Le Carte e la Storia 11 (2005): 175-188. 20. On this issue, see Mauro Cappelletti, Il controllo giudiziario di costituziona­ lità delle leggi nel diritto comparato (Milano: Giuffré, 1968). 21. Francesco Mario Pagano, Saggi politici de’ principi, de’ progressi e decadenza della società, edizione seconda corretta ed accresciuta (1791-1792), eds. Luigi Firpo and Laura Salvetti Firpo (Napoli: Vivarium, 1993), 192.

4.

Press, politics, and public opinion

Censorship and press liberty in the Sister Republics 1.

2.

3. 4.

Mallet du Pan to the abbé de Pradt, undated letter [early 1798], in A. Sayous, ed., Mémoires et correspondance de Mallet du Pan pour servir à l’histoire de la révolution française, 2 volumes (Paris: s.n., 1851) II, 358; translation from the English edition, Memoirs and Correspondence of Mallet du Pan illustrative of the French Revolution (London: Richard Bentley, 1852), II, 369. Jeremy Popkin, review of Hannah Barker and Simon Burrows, eds., Press, Politics and the Public Sphere in Europe and North America, 1760-1820 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), in History of Political Thought 24: 3 (2003), 533-5. See John Merriman and Jay Winter, eds., Encyclopaedia of Modern Europe from 1914, 5 volumes (New York: Charles Scribner, 2006) IV, ‘1866-73’. James Brennan, The Reflection of the Dreyfus Affair in the European Press, 1897-1899 (New York: Peter Lang, 1998). It should be noted that there have been a few long durée academic studies: Shannon E. Martin and David A. Copeland, eds., The Function of Newspapers in Society: A Global Perspective (Westport CT: Praeger, 2003) is the most ambitious, aiming at global comparative coverage in the long durée. Two works aimed at a more popular audience are not without interest: Anthony Smith, The Newspaper: an International History (London: Thames and Hudson, 1973) and Mitchell Stephens, A History of News 3rd edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). For a comparative study of journalists, Leonore O’Boyle’s “The Image

Notes

5.

6. 7. 8. 9.

10.

11. 12.

291

of the Journalist in France, Germany and England, 1815-1848,” Comparative Studies in History and Society 10 (1968): 290-318, remains useful, despite its dated intellectual frameworks. The enormous literature referencing, adopting, or critiquing Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, transl. by Thomas Burger (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1989), but first published in German in 1962 is too vast to reference here, for Habermas’s book has been described as the most influential doctoral thesis of all time. A collection of essays edited by Craig Calhoun, Habermas and the Public Sphere (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1992), offers a starting point for the critical literature as well as Habermas’s updated ideas, written three decades after the publication of his thesis. The literature has continued to burgeon in the twenty years since Calhoun’s book appeared. Barker and Burrows, “Introduction” in Press, Politics and the Public Sphere, 1-22, quotes at 14 and 15. Nicolaas Van Sas, “The Netherlands,” in Barker and Burrows, Press, Politics and the Public Sphere, 48-68, esp. 53-6. This argument had already been made in my doctoral monograph, Simon Burrows, French Exile Journalism and European Politics, 1792-1814 (Woodbridge: Royal Historical Society, 2000), especially chapter 3. The standard work on Napoleon’s propaganda machine, and hence the impact of his censorship, remains Robert B. Holtman, Napoleonic propaganda (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1950). Written entirely through printed sources, this remains an impressive study. Jean Veycrusse, “La Reception des gazettes de Hollande, une lecture diplomatique,” in La Diffusion et lecture des journaux de langue française sous l’ancien régime, ed. Hans Bots (Amsterdam: APA-Holland University Press, 1988), 39-47. French policing and pursuit of other forms of the printed word beyond Bourbon frontiers is now beginning to attract scholarly attention: see especially Simon Burrows, Blackmail, Scandal and Revolution: London’s French Libellistes, 1758-1792 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006) and Robert Darnton, The Devil in the Holy Water or the Art of Slander from Louis XIV to Napoleon (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010). Louise Seaward, who recently completed a doctorate on the topic under my supervision at Leeds, has been able to add significantly to the picture that these two studies provide. As I have noted elsewhere, even in liberal Britain, insulting foreign diplomats or royalty often provoked exemplary punishment: see Blackmail, Scandal and Revolution. For a recent treatment of the problem of calumny in the revolution, see Charles Walton, Policing Public Opinion in the French Revolution: The Culture of Calumny and the Problem of Free Speech (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).

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1798: A turning point? 1. 2. 3.

4. 5.

6. 7. 8. 9.

Maarten Schneider, De Nederlandse krant. Van “nieuwstijdinghe” tot dagblad (Amsterdam: Van Kampen, 1943), 108. Hereafter: United Provinces. Olga van Marion, “Verboden in de gouden eeuw. Schrijvers, drukkers en hun strategieën,” in Boeken onder Druk: Censuur en pers-onvrijheid in Nederland sinds de Boekdrukkunst, ed. Marita Mathijsen (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2011); Inger Leemans, “Censuur als onmacht. De Omstreden Nederlandse publieke ruimte 1660-1760,” in ibidem; Ingrid Weekhout, Boekencensuur in de noordelijke Nederlanden: de vrijheid van drukpers in de zeventiende eeuw (Den Haag: Sdu Uitgevers, 1998); Ton Jongenelen, Van smaad tot erger. Amsterdamse boekverboden 1747-1794 (Amsterdam: Stichting Jacob Campo Weyerman, 1998); H. A. Enno van Gelder, Getemperde vrijheid. Een verhandeling over de verhouding van Kerk en Staat in de Republiek der Verenigde Nederlanden en de vrijheid van meningsuiting inzake godsdienst, drukpers en onderwijs, gedurende de 17e eeuw (Groningen: Wolters-Noordhoff, 1972); J. van Eijnatten, “Between Practice and Principle. Dutch Ideas on Censorship and Press Freedom, 1579-1795,” Redescriptions. Yearbook for Political Thought and Conceptual History 8 (2004): 85-113; Mr. W. P. Sautijn Kluit, “De geschiedenis van de Nederlandsche dagbladpers, van hare opkomst tot 1813,” Bijdragen tot de geschiedenis van den Nederlandschen boekhandel 7 (1896): 87-284. G. D. Homan, “The Staatsbewind and Freedom of the Press,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 89 (1976): 12-27, esp. 13. W. R. E. Velema, “Politiek, pers en publieke opinie: het debat over de vrijheid van drukpers in de Bataafse tijd,” in Grondwetgeving 1795-1806. Voordrachten gehouden bij de presentatie van “De Staatsregeling van 1805 en de Constitutie van 1806. Bronnen voor de totstandkoming” op 27 maart 1997 te Haarlem (Haarlem: Hollandsche Maatschappij der Wetenschappen, 1997), 65-81; and A. H. Huussen jr., “Freedom of the press and censorship in the Netherlands 1780-1810,” in Too mighty to be free, Britain and the Netherlands vol. 9, eds. A. C. Duke and C. A. Tamse (Zutphen: De Walburg Pers, 1987), 107-126. Velema, “Politiek, pers,” 77. Sautijn Kluit, “Geschiedenis dagbladpers,” 227-228. Also cited by Velema, “Politiek, pers,” 66. Gemeentearchief Den Haag, Rechterlijke archieven ’s-Gravenhage Toegangs­nummer: 0351-01, Register van criminele vonnissen 110, 266-269 (21.8.1795). Hereafter: HGA O.R.A. Even in 1798, no appeal was possible. This newspaper openly sided with the Patriots during the Patriot revolution and reported very positively on the ensuing French revolution: J. W. Berkelbach van der Sprenkel, “De Fransche Revolutie in de contemporaine Hollandsche Couranten,” De Gids (1939): 323-357.

Notes

10.

293

Huussen, “Freedom of the press” 116-117; HGA O.R.A. 0351-01 inv. no. 110, 266-269. 11. Voorheen Stichtsche nu Rhijnlandsche courant (Utrecht: J. Olivier, 1797) no. 59. 12. For example, two of the leading political magazines published on the situation: De Politieke blixem, (Amsterdam: Coster, 1797) No. 6: 41-42 and the Nieuwe post van den Neder-Rhijn (Utrecht: Mulder, 1797) No. 133. 13. Nationaal Archief, Den Haag, Provinciaal Bestuur, 1796-1798, Toegangsnummer 3.02.02, inv. no. 418 (hereafter NL-HaNA). 14. J. P. Gosse, for instance, a printer in The Hague and a fervent supporter of the House of Orange, kept printing newspapers throughout the Batavian period, but his Generaliteits Courant (and its offspring) was officially published under the pseudonym Marguareta van Kolb, and he never published any openly Orangist articles. Gosses consecutive papers were: Generaliteits Courant (1795) (Nieuwe Generaliteits Courant (1795) (Nieuwe Nederlandsche courant (1795-1798) (Nieuwe Haagsche Nederlandse Courant (1798-1803). 15. N. C. F. van Sas, De metamorfose van Nederland: Van oude orde naar moderniteit, 1750-1900 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2004), 334. One of the magazines forbidden by La Pierre in 1802, the Schuimspaan of leesgierige na-courant, was openly in support of the Stadholderate. The radical press, most notably the Burger politieke blixem, were furious about the lack of repression faced by the Orangists who had supported the invaders. 16. The radicals had the upper hand in the written press. Several newspapers were adamant supporters of their cause, for instance the Bataafsche Couranten, Leydsche Courant, Haarlemsche Courant, Haagsche Courant, and Goudsche Courant, as were the most influential magazines of the period, like de Politieke blixem, de Weerligt, Revolutionaire Vraag-al, Janus Verrezen, and Advocaat der nationale vrijheid and to a lesser degree de Democraten, de Republikein, and Nieuwe post van de Neder-Rhijn, although the latter was accused of being more moderate than it had been during the Patriot revolution of the 1780s. For the influence of the different newspapers, see my forthcoming book on the press during the Batavian Republic. 17. Dagverhaal der handelingen van de Nationaale Vergadering representerende het volk van Nederland (The Hague: Van Schelle, 1796-1798, 9 volumes). 18. Myriam Everard, “In en om de (Nieuwe) Bataafsche Vrouwe Courant. Het aandeel van vrouwen in een revolutionaire politieke cultuur,” Mededelingen van de Stichting Jacob Campo Weyerman 24 (2001): 67-87, esp. 68-69. 19. The most influential example is without question Heraclyt en Democryt. 20. Myriam Everard, “Lieve van Ollefen (1749-1816), Catharina Heybeek (1763-after 1805). Een ultrarevolutionaire “loonschryver”, een schrijvende Batavin en een gekwetste Natie,” in Achter slot en grendel. Schrijvers in Nederlandse gevangenschap 1700-1800 ed. Anna de Haas (Zutphen: Walburg Pers, 2002), 207-221 esp. 215. Also mentioned by Huussen, “Freedom of the press,” 119120.

294 

21. 22. 23.

24.

25.

26. 27.

28.

29.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

De Democraten (The Hague: Crajenschot, 1796-1797): 3-4 and 22-23, vs. 205212. The threats of physical violence mentioned above led to the arrest and imprisonment of the newspaper’s editor in chief. Even after 22 January, he was not released from custody. See especially “Ducange aan Van Langen 26 Febr. 1798,” in Gedenkstukken der algemeene geschiedenis van Nederland van 1795 tot 1840, ed. H. T. Colenbrander, vol. 2 (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1906), 732, www.inghist.nl/retroboeken/ gedenkstukken/. To prove his case, his audience would ‘only have to read De Politieke Blixem, Revolutionaire Vraag-al and Constitutioneele Vlieg’. Those who read these magazines would understand the need of the proposed measures. NL-HaNA, Uitvoerend Bewind, 2.01.01.04, inv.nr 14, no. 71 (22.05.1798). Also partly cited in A. Loosjes, Vaderlandsche historie vervattende de geschiedenissen der Vereenigde Nederlanden ten vervolge van Wagenaars Vaderlandsche Historiën vol. 39 (Amsterdam: Allart, 1807), 283-288 (This volume has been made available by Google Books), as well as in Sautijn Kluit “Geschiedenis dagbladpers,” 246-248. Dagverhaal der handelingen van het Vertegenwoordigend Lichaam vol. 1 (The Hague: Swart, 1798), 174-175. The proclamation was a direct statement following complaints by French officials about a magazine called De Constitutioneele vlieg, which was not one of Vreede’s supporters, but he mentioned other titles that were, such as De Politieke Blixem. De Constitutioneele Vlieg would play an important role in the second coup d’état; see Sautijn Kluit, “Geschiedenis Dagbladpers,” 244-246; “Champigny-Aubin aan Talleyrand 17 mei 1798” in Gedenkstukken ed. H. T. Colenbrander, vol.2, 226; Colenbrander Gedenkstukken vol. 2, 409-410 and Loosjes, Vervolg op Wagenaar, vol. 40, 4-5. See below. Dagverhaal Vertegenwoordigend Lichaam, vol. 1 (1798), 564-567 (extraördinaire zitting 19.06.1798). Both decrees were written by Jacob Spoors. The 19 July decree was written within a day. It is therefore hardly surprising that they bear close resemblance. The amount of cases where the decree of 4 march was enacted in The Hague’s judicial archives is limited. The maximum penalty was hardly ever imposed, and in several cases other earlier decrees were used. HGA O.R.A. 0351-01 inv. no. 110-112. There are only two cases of Orangist insurgency in Den Bosch before 1798, both of which were very mildly punished. Aart Vos, “Het Comité van Waakzaamheid: een Bossche Veiligheidsdienst, 1798-1801,” Bossche Bladen (1993): 1-10. Enacted despite protests by several parliamentarians – amongst whom, again, Vitringa, who correctly concluded that the instruction conflicted with the constitution. Instructie voor den Agent van Inwendige Politie (The Hague: ‘s Lands Drukkery, 1799); Huussen, “Freedom of the press,” 121; Dag-

Notes

30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40. 41.

295

verhaal vertegenwoordigend lichaam vol. 2 (1798), 946-954 and 1058-1059. On this Agent, see below. The most important radical magazines, De Weerlicht, Politieke blixem, and Onverwachte courier had all ceased publishing well before 19 July. Huussen, “Freedom of the press,” 121. Any article by Sautijn Kluit concerning newspapers in the Netherlands in the eighteenth century provides several examples. For a recapitulation, see Sautijn Kluit, “Geschiedenis der Nederlandsche dagbladpers,” 87-284. See, for instance, Decreeten van de Provisioneele repraesentanten van het volk van Holland, (The Hague: ‘s Lands Drukkery, 1798) vol. 4-1, 242; ibidem vol. 5-2, 508; ibidem vol. 7-2, 664. This was January 1796. More examples in Sautijn Kluit, “Geschiedenis Dagbladpers,” 233-236. In 1798, the Gazette de Leyde was actually forbidden, due to its critical attitude. This, however, did not put an end to the newspaper; it merely switched publishers and slightly adapted its title. It nonetheless shows that meddling in the business of newspapers and magazines did indeed occur throughout the period. NL-HaNA, Uitvoerend Bewind, 2.01.01.04, inv.no. 14 nr 41 (22.05.1798). I further expound on this theory in my forthcoming dissertation on the Batavian press. Most notably T. A. Ten Berge (1756-1830) and G. J. G. Bacot (1743-1822). Dagverhaal vertegenwoordigend lichaam, vol. 1, 564-567. Simon Schama, Patriotten en bevrijders: Revolutie in de Noordelijke Nederlanden, 1780-1813, trans. Ger Groot (Amsterdam: Agon, 1989), 422-423. Dagverhaal vertegenwoordigend lichaam, vol. 5, 260, 484, 611, 638, 658, 686, 700. There is little evidence of the decree ever being put into practice in court. I have not found any references to the decree in the judicial archives of The Hague, whereas of the 4 March 1795 decree there is ample evidence suggesting the judges at least tried to put that into practice. However, in the course of 1799, two missives by local municipalities (Amsterdam and Enkhuizen) were sent to the National Assembly, complaining about the arbitrariness of the decree. On many points these complaints were dismissed, but on the matter of the infringement on the constitutional freedom of the press, a committee was formed to judge the validity of the complaints. Dagverhaal vertegenwoordigend lichaam, vol. 4, 898-904, vol. 5, 260, 484. Other than: “measures […] to be attributed to the particular circumstances and the spur of the moment”. Dagverhaal vertegenwoordigend lichaam, Vol. 12 (1801), 332, 339, 598-599, cit. on 599. In this case, the objections made by one of the directors, Van Swinden, made in a closed meeting, had been published in De heer politieke blixem (1801) no. 4 p. 33-35, a political magazine written by the former radical parliamentarian Bernard Bosch. This publication of a confidential piece revived the discussion on the freedom of the press, especially since the directors (Uitvoerend Bewind) would like to reform the constitution of 1798,

296 

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

51.

52. 53.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

which eventually needed a coup d’état, because the legislative body refused to do this. Van Swinden’s confidential proclamation had been against this constitutional reform. Dagverhaal vertegenwoordigend lichaam, Vol. 12, 598-599. This struggle is one of the key arguments in Huussen’s article. See Mart Rutjes, Door gelijkheid gegrepen. Democratie, burgerschap en staat in Nederland 1795-1801 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2012), 201. Homan, “The Staatsbewind,” 12. Abraham Jacques La Pierre (often misspelled “de la Pierre”) (1750-1837). Most notably Heer politieke blixem, Politieke blixem, Janus, Heer Janus Januszoon, Oude echte Janus, Oude echte politieke blixem, Nieuwe onverwachte courier, Bogchel Postknecht, Burger en de boer and Schuimspaan. “Gogel aan Canneman, 17 Dec. 1802,” in Gedenkstukken, ed. Colenbrander, IV-2, 396. G. D. Homan, “Adriaan Doom, vertegenwoordiger van de agent bij het Departement van Inwendige Politie in het departement van de Dommel, 1799-1801,” Brabants Heem (1975): 78-85. He was also responsible for handling complaints voiced against these purges – a job he apparently did not carry out very successfully, which is why Van Langen later suggested that he was probably already conspiring against Vreede’s government, although other evidence suggests that La Pierre only defected at the very last instant. Colenbrander, Gedenkstukken, vol. 2, 604 and “Buys aan het Intermediair Uitvoerend Bewind, 26 Juli 1798,” Gedenkstukken II, 698 and 702. The reports on the purges: NL-HaNA, Binnenlandse Zaken, 2.01.12, inv.no. 185-194. G. D. Homan, “Adriaan Doom,” 79; NL-HaNA, Binnenlandse Zaken, 2.01.12, inv.no. 221, p 11 (3.11.1799); Pieter van Wissing, Stokebrand Janus, opkomst en ondergang van een achttiende-eeuws satirisch politiek-literair weekblad (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2003), 320-321. For the missive asking the chiefs of the postal services to open and report on any suspect mail. La Pierre added a list of suspected persons whose correspondence was to be copied and resealed. See also NL-HaNA, Binnenlandse Zaken, 2.01.12, inv.no. 224 where the draft list can be found. After 3 November, chiefs of staff of the postal offices started sending in letters to La Pierre. Before this network could be formed, however, the local committees for internal correspondence had been asked (3 March 1798) to provide lists of the political persuasion of the postmasters. See Gelders Archief, 0016 “Gewestelijke besturen in de BataafsFranse tijd” 04.2.4.2. Commissie tot de binnenlandse correspondentie, inv no. 671. NL-HaNA, Binnenlandse Zaken, 2.01.12, inv.no. 224, esp. letters dated 6 December 1798 and 24 January 1799; NL-HaNA, Binnenlandse Zaken, 2.01.12, inv.no. 73, 28 and 36. See, for instance, NL-HaNA, Binnenlandse Zaken, 2.01.12, inv.no. 231 and 232, in which two letters dating from 1801 are found dealing with this matter.

Notes

297

54. See especially Bernardus Bosch, “Leevens-schets,” in Gedichten van Bernardus Bosch en leevens-schets van den dichter, derde en laatste deel, ed. Idem, (Leyden: P. H. Trap, 1803), 329-330. 55. NL-HaNA, Binnenlandse Zaken, 2.01.12 232, letters dating from 28 June until 5 July. 56. Marita Mathijsen, “Manuscriptkeuringen en boekverboden. Censuur rond de Franse tijd,” in Boeken onder Druk: Censuur en pers-onvrijheid in Nederland sinds de Boekdrukkunst, ed. idem (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2011), 59-75. 57. Ibidem.

Censorship and public opinion 1.

2. 3.

4.

5. 6. 7.

8.

See Andreas Würgler, Medien in der Frühen Neuzeit (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2nd edition 2013), 15; Ernst Bollinger, “Zensur,” in Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz, elektronische Version: www.hls.ch (9.8.2010). I would like to thank my colleague PD Dr Daniel M. Segesser, University of Bern, for linguistic support. And in the mixed city of Chur (Grisons) (10), according to the bibliographical work of Fritz Blaser, Bibliographie der Schweizer Presse, 2 vols. (Basel: Birkhaeuser, 1956-1958). Rudolf Braun, Das ausgehende Ancien Régime in der Schweiz (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984); Andreas Würgler, Unruhen und Öffent­ lichkeit: Städtische und ländliche Protestbewegungen im 18. Jahrhundert (Tübingen: bibliotheca academica Verlag, 1995); Christoph Guggenbühl, Zensur und Pressefreiheit. Kommunikationskontrolle in Zürich an der Wende zum 19. Jahrhundert (Zurich: Chronos, 1996); Würgler, Medien. The constitution of the Helvetic Republic, in Actensammlung aus der Zeit der Helvetischen Republik (1798-1803), eds. Johannes Strickler and Alfred Rufer, 16 vols. (Bern: Stämpfli and Freiburg: Fragnière, 1886-1967 – hereafter ASHR), vol. 1, 567. The bibliographical data provided by Blaser, Bibliographie, presented by Guggenbühl, Zensur, 132. 1798-1802. I do not count the year 1803 because the Helvetic Republic was succeeded by the Mediation already in February of that year. Even the graph that displays all newspapers printed in German shows a considerable peak because of the newly established papers in Germanspeaking Switzerland in 1798. See Martin Welke, “Die Legende vom ‘unpolitischen Deutschen.’ Zeitunglesen im 18. Jahrhundert als Spiegel des politischen Interesses,” Jahrbuch der Wittheit zu Bremen 25 (1981): 161-188, graph 183; Rudolf Stöber, Deutsche Pressegeschichte. Von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart (Konstanz: Universitätsverlag, 2005), 71. Danièle Tosato-Rigo and Silvio Corsini, eds., Bon peuple vaudois écoute tes vrais amis! (Lausanne: Revue Historique Vaudoise, 1999); Marc H. Lerner, A

298 

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Laboratory of Liberty. The Transformation of Political Culture in Republican Switzerland 1750-1848 (Leiden: Brill, 2012); Jasmine Menamkat Favre, Patriotes et contre-révolutionnaires: luttes pamplétaires dans le canton du Léman sous la République helvétique (Lausanne: Bibliotheque historique vaudoise, 2005); Danièle Tosato-Rigo, “I democratici svizzeri e la ‘Grande Nation’: petizioni e comunicazione politica alla vigilia della Rivoluzione del 1798,” in Ballare col nemico? Reazioni all’espansione francese in Europa tra entusiasmo e resistenza (1792-1815) = Mit dem Feind tanzen? Reaktionen auf die französische Expansion in Europa zwischen Enthusiasmus und Protest (1792-1815), eds. Cecilia Nubola and Andreas Würgler (Bologna: Il Mulino and Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2010), 121-139. 9. See for example Guggenbühl, Zensur, 137; Daniel Guggisberg, Das Bild der ‘Alten Eidgenossen’ in Flugschriften des 16. bis Anfang 18. Jahrhunderts (1531-1712) (Bern: Lang, 2000); see also Roland Ruffieux, “La presse politique durant la première moitié du XIXe siècle,” in Festschrift Gottfried Boesch, eds. Gottfried Boesch and Helene Büchler-Mattmann (Schwyz: Staatsarchiv, 1980), 231-244. 10. Ernst Bollinger, “Das Schweizer Zeitungswesen in der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts,” in 1848: Drehscheibe Schweiz. Die Macht der Bilder, ed. Philippe Kaenel (Zurich: Chronos, 1998), 25-41, there 27. 11. Cf. the early statistic survey in Samuel Markus, Geschichte der schweizerischen Zeitungspresse zur Zeit der Helvetik 1798-1803 (Zurich: Rascher, 1910), 70-75, now to be replaced by the figures in Blaser, Bibliographie. 12. Cf. the examples Helvetische Annalen and Der schweizerische Republikaner below. 13. Guggenbühl, Zensur; François de Capitani, “Beharren und Umsturz (16481815),” in Geschichte der Schweiz und der Schweizer, vol. 2 (Basel and Frankfurt am Main: Helbing & Lichtenhahn, 1983), 166. 14. Guggenbühl, Zensur, 91: ‘Pressefreiheit’ als ‘staatlich verordnete Volks­ aufklärung’. 15. André Cabanis, La presse politique vaudoise sous la République helvétique: contribution à l’étude de l’opinion publique (Lausanne: Bibliothèque historique vaudoise, 1979), 137. 16. See for this kind of media usage: Würgler, Unruhen. 17. See for example Helvetische Nachrichten, Helvetische Neuigkeiten and Helvetischer Zuschauer. 18. See Eidgenössische Nachrichten and Zürcher Zeitung (since 1821 Neue Zürcher Zeitung); Bürkli-Zeitung or Freitags-Zeitung. For further information, see the respective entries in Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz, electronic version, www.hls.ch. [All articles in German, French, and Italian]. 19. ASHR, vol. 2, 531 (Lüthi from Solothurn in the Senat, 13 July 1798). 20. ASHR, vol. 2, 529 (Legler in the Great Council, 12 July 1798). 21. ASHR, vol. 2, 555 (Directorium, 21 April 1798).

Notes

22. 23.

24. 25.

26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34.

35. 36.

299

ASHR, vol. 2, 254 (18 June 1798). For other French interventions see ASHR, vol. 16, 89-91; Guggenbühl, Zensur, 183-187. Suter: ‘Rapinat kann die Constitution nicht brechen, also auch kein Verbot der Pressfreiheit ergehen lassen. Wie wäre möglich, dass die Franken selbst wider die Freiheit des Schreibens aufstehen könnten? Ihre Grundsätze sollen ja die ganze Welt umsegeln und bedürfen also dieser Freiheit. Wir wollen wahrlich nicht da anfangen, wo das Unglück der Franken anfing, als durch den Jacobinism und Terrorism diese heilige Freiheit gehemmt ward’: ASHR, vol. 2, 292 (19 June 1798). ASHR, vol. 2, 557 (Direktorialbotschaft 17 July 1798). See for example ASHR, vol. 2, 528-534 (deliberations about the Helvetischen Annalen and the Bürkli-Zeitung from Zurich, 10-14 July 1798; ASHR, vol. 2, 558 (Zimmermann in the Great Council, 23 August 1798); ASHR, vol. 3, 405 (Nucé in the Great Council, 29 October 1798). For what follows, see Christoph Pfister, Die Publizistik Karl Ludwig von Hallers in der Frühzeit 1791-1815 (Bern and Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1975), 15-20. Pfister Publizistik, 19-20. Cf. Markus, Zeitungspresse, 204. ASHR, vol. 3, 424-425 (Direktorium, 7 November 1798). The law from 5 November 1798 focuses more on pamphlets than on periodicals: ASHR, vol. 3, 404-405. On 18 February 1799, these laws were extended for another three months: ASHR, vol. 3, 1210; cf. Markus, Zeitungspresse, 286. Markus, Zeitungspresse, 287-288. ASHR, vol. 2, 528-534 (13 July 1798); ASHR, vol. 3, 404-425 (5-7 November 1798). ASHR, vol. 2, 1077-1079. ASHR, vol. 4, 1114 (9 August 1799); cf. Markus, Zeitungspresse, 289-295. Guggenbühl, Zensur, 253-254. Helvetische Annalen: 5 April 1798 - 10 November 1798; Helvetische Nachrichten: 13 November 1798 - 20 April 1799; Helvetische Neuigkeiten: 24 April 1799 - 29 March 1800; Helvetischer Zuschauer: 1 April 1800 - 30 December 1800; Der Helvetische Zuschauer: 1 January 1801 - 3 February 1801; Der Helve­ tische Zuhörer: 7 February 1801 - 18 February 1801. Der schweizerische Republikaner: 18 April 1798 - 31 July 1799; Neues Helve­ tisches Tagblatt: 25 July 1799 - 16 April 1800 (= official newspaper financed by the government); Neues republikanisches Blatt: 8 January 1800 - 12 March 1800; Der neue Schweizerische Republikaner: 21 May 1800 - 9 November 1801 (outlawed); Der Republikaner nach liberalen Grundsätzen: 10 November 1801 - 27 December 1801 (outlawed); Der Republikaner: 6 January 1802 - 6 August 1803. Guggenbühl, Zensur, 199-206. Cf. Der Republikaner nr. 44, 30 March 1802, 174-175. Bollinger, “Zeitungswesen,” 28: ‘Der politischen Desillusionierung und Entpolitisierung der Öffentlichkeit von 1803 folgte ein starker Rückgang der Zeitungen’: Ruffieux, “La presse politique,” 233, mentions thirty newspa-

300 

37. 38. 39.

40. 41. 42. 43.

44.

45.

46.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

pers in 1798 and sixteen in 1815. Georges Andrey shows that the number of newly founded newspapers declined to zero in 1810, whereas the number of available periodicals remained about the same between 1800 and 1820: “Auf der Suche nach dem neuen Staat (1798-1848),” in Geschichte der Schweiz und der Schweizer, vol. 2 (Basel and Frankfurt am Main: Helbing & Lichtenhahn, 1983), 238. Bollinger, “Zeitungswesen,” 28-29: Pressekonklusum 1812; Presse- und Fremdenkonklusum 14 July 1823. Cf. Rudolf Schlögl, “Politik beobachten. Öffentlichkeit und Medien in der Frühen Neuzeit,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 35 (2009): 581-616. Cf. Guggenbühl, Zensur, 259-260; Christoph Guggenbühl, “‘Redewut’ und ‘Presseflut’ – Kommunikationsstrukturen in der helvet. Revolution”, in Kommunikation und Revolution, eds. Kurt Imhof and Peter Schulz (Zurich: Seismo, 1998), 153-170. Cf. Eric Godel, Die Zentralschweiz in der Helvetik (1798-1803). Kriegserfahrungen und Religion im Spannungsfeld von Nation und Region (Münster: Aschendorff, 2009). Roger Blum, “Mediale und interpersonale Kommunikation in der Basler Revolution 1798,” in Kommunikation und Revolution, eds. Kurt Imhof and Peter Schulz (Zurich: Seismo, 1998), 47-56. Andreas Würgler, “Voices from among the ‘Silent Masses’: Humble Petitions and Social Conflicts in Early Modern Central Europe,” International Review of Social Sciences 46 (2001): Supplement 9, 11-34. See for example ASHR, vol. 3, 737 (8 December 1799). See Andreas Würgler, “Kontinuität und Diskontinuität zwischen Ancien Régime und Helvetischer Republik am Beispiel der Bittschriften,” in Umbruch und Beständigkeit. Kontinuitäten in der Helvetischen Revolution von 1798, ed. Daniel Schläppi (Basel: Schwabe, 1999), 49-64. Andreas Würgler, “Bitten und Begehren. Suppliken und Gravamina in der deutschsprachigen Frühneuzeitforschung,” in Bittschriften und Gravamina. Politik, Verwaltung und Justiz in Europa (14.-18. Jahrhundert), eds. Cecilia Nubola and Andreas Würgler (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2005), 17-52; David M. Luebke, “Participatory Politics,” in A Companion to EighteenthCentury Europe, ed. Peter H. Wilson (Oxford: Blackwell, 2008), 479-494. Würgler, “Kontinuität”; Andreas Würgler, “Dancing with the Enemy? Introduction,” in Ballare col nemico? = Mit dem Feind tanzen?, eds. Nubola and Würgler, 9-22; Andreas Würgler, “Wer hat Angst vor wem? Kulturelle, soziale und nationale Muster in den Beziehungen zwischen Stadtbevölkerungen und Besatzungsarmeen (Schweiz und Deutschland 1792-1815),” in ibid., 141164. See, for example, Jean-Claude Wagnières and Danièle Tosato-Rigo, eds., Louis Reymond l’Insurgé. Ecrits (Lausanne: Editions d’en bas, 1998); cf. Jonas Römer, “Der Umgang mit dem politischen Gegner. Zum Verhältnis der Französischen und der Helvetischen Revolution zur Toleranz”, in Intoleranz im

Notes

301

Zeitalter der Revolutionen. Europa 1770-1848 eds. Aram Mattioli, Markus Ries, and Enno Rudolph (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 2004), 165-181, there 178. 47. Meyer von Schauensee, quoted in Pascal Delvaux, La république en papier: circonstances d’impression et pratiques de dissémination des lois sous la République helvétique (1798-1803), 2 vols. (Genève: Presses d’histoire suisse, 2004), vol. 1, 3. 48. Guggenbühl, Zensur, 254-255; Christoph Guggenbühl, “Pressefreiheit als ‘Quelle der Wahrheit’”, in Revolution und Innovation, eds. Andreas Ernst, Albert Tanner, and Matthias Weishaupt (Zurich: Chronos, 1998), 219-231.

Liberty of press and censorship in the first Cisalpine Republic 1.

2. 3.

4. 5.

6. 7.

Antonino De Francesco, 1799. Una storia d’Italia (Milano: Guerini e Associati, 2003), 65-102; Antonino De Francesco, “Repubbliche sorelle: La Cisalpina e la Napoletana nella temperie del 1799. Note e documenti,” Archivio storico per le Province Napoletane 121 (2003): 269-320. Carlo Zaghi, Il Direttorio francese e la Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 2 (Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per l’età moderna e contemporanea, 1992), 1009-1100. In the years 1796-1799, in the cities of Milan, Bologna, and Genoa more than 90 periodicals started to be published: that was about twice the number that circulated in the second half of the XVIII century. Soon this number was increased by the many periodicals that started to be printed even in the smaller cities like Bergamo, Brescia, Lodi, and Crema. On Cisalpine journalism and censorship, see the by-now classic study of Carlo Capra, “Il giornalismo nell’età rivoluzionaria e napoleonica,” in La stampa italiana dal Cinquecento all’Ottocento, eds. Valerio Castronuovo and Nicola Tranfaglia, vol. 1 (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1976), 373-537. See also Stefano Canzio, “I giornali delle società popolari durante la prima Repubblica Cisalpina,” Rivista letteraria 5 (1930): 1-12, and Stefano Canzio, “I giornali degli immigrati meridionali in Milano durante la prima Repubblica Cislapina,” Rivista letteraria 3 (1931): 1-12; L. Pagani, “Cenni sull’organizzazione dell’apparato censorio negli anni della Repubblica italiana e del Regno italico,” Il Risorgimento 3 (1993): 457-477; Gianluca Albergoni, “La censura in età napoleonica (1802-1814): organizzazione, prerogative e uomini di uno spazio conflittuale,” in Istituzioni e cultura in età napoleonica, eds. Elena Brambilla, Carlo Capra, and A. Scotti (Milan: Franco Angeli, 2008), 184-219. Capra, “Il giornalismo,” 405-407. “Repubblica Cisalpina. Costituzione del 1797,” in Raccolta degli ordini, avvisi, proclami … pubblicati in Milano nell’anno VI repubblicano francese, vol. 3 (Milan: presso Luigi Veladini in contrada Santa Radegonda, 1797); about the French Constitution of Year III, see www.dircost.unito.it. Raccolta degli ordini, vol. 3. “16 Thermidor Law,” in Raccolta degli ordini, vol. 3.

302 

8.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

“Quelques idées sur les moyens de réprimer les abus de la presse, 4 fructidor an V (21 August 21 1797)” in Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, eds. A. Alberti, R. Cessi, and L. Marcucci, vol. 1 (Bologna: Zanichelli, 1940), 136-137. 9. About the Directory’s communication to the Committees of constitutions, 21 August 21 1797, see Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 1, 137-138. 10. Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 1, 139. 11. Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 1, 140. 12. Fernand Mitton, La presse française sous la Révolution, le Cosulat, l’Empire, vol. 2 (Paris: Guy Le Prat Éditeur, 1945), 149-150. 13. Archivio di Stato di Milano, Studi p.a., b. 36. 14. See the Directory proclamation 28 Thermidor Year VI (14 September 1797) in which the Executive exacerbated the penalties laid down by the law 16 Thermidor against the enemies of law and order, in Raccolta degli ordini, vol. 3, 135. 15. The minutes of the V session of the Council of the Seniors, 6 Frimaire of Year VI (26 November 1797) in Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 3, 131. 16. See 18 fructidor. Documents pour la plupart inédits recueillis et publiés pour la société d’histoire contemporaine, ed. Victor Pierre (Paris: Alphonse Picard, 1893), 71. 17. See the text of proclamation 14 November of the minister of justice and police, in Raccolta degli ordini, vol. 4, 22-23. 18. Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 1, 135. 19. Proclamation by Alessandro Berthier, general in chief of Italian Army, headquarters of Genoa, 17 March 1798; message of the brigadier general Le Clerc, headquarters of Milan, 17 March 1798), in Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 3, 444-446. 20. Proclamation of the Directory, Milan, 18 March 1798, in Raccolta degli ordini, vol. 4, 226-227; reply of the Legislative Council, 18 March 1798, in Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 3, 443-444. 21. The Directory decree (24 March 1798) ordered the suppression of the Monitore italiano, the Amico del popolo, and the Giornale senza titolo, but despite the initial intentions, it did not include in the list the Termometro politico and the Giornale dei patrioti italiani. The application of the decree led in April to the arrest of many characters such as the director of the Giornale senza titolo, G. A. Ranza, the printer Carlo Barelle, and Pietro Custodi, the editor of the Monitore Italiano. They all remained in prison for more than 40 days. 22. The transcription of the register of the Department of Foreign Affairs appears significant (23 January 23 - 30 May 1798); see Assemblee della Repu­ bblica Cisalpina, vol. 3, 156-162. 23. Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 7, 54-56; 94-96; 179-191. 24. Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 8, 11. 25. Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 8, 14.

303

Notes

26. Assemblee della Repubblica Cisalpina, vol. 8, 16. 27. Archivio di Stato di Milano, Studi p.a., b. 114, f. 20: preventive censorship, 9 September 1798. 28. Archivio di Stato di Milano, Studi p.a., b. 114, f. 20: preventive censorship, 9 September 1798 and also what Pietro Custodi noted in his Giornale degli avvenimenti Cisalpini dall’8 fruttidoro anno VI (25 agosto 1798) al 3 giugno 1800, ed. C. Vianello (Milan: Giuffrè, 1940), 44. 29. Vittorio Criscuolo, ed., Termometro politico della Lombardia (Rome: Istituto storico Italiano per l’età moderna e contemporanea, 1989), vol. 1, 7-51. 30. Raccolta degli ordini, vol. 6, 168. 31. Archivio di Stato di Milano, Studi p.a., b. 115, f. E: Giornale democratico, n. 32, 16 May 1798. 32. Archivio di Stato di Milano, Studi p.a., b. 116, f. 3: the Cisalpine Directory to the Minister of Interior, 24 January 1799. 33. See the correspondence about the compensation for the abolition of the Gazzetta nazionale della Cisalpina and the publication of the new periodical Giornale filosofico politico in Archivio di Stato di Milano, Studi p.a., b. 116, f. 3: 23 February - 5 March 1799.

5.

The Sister Republics and France

Small nation, big sisters 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

7.

Pierre Serna, “Introduction. Le Directoire, miroir de quelle république?” in Républiques soeurs, le Directoire et la Révolution atlantique, ed. Pierre Serna (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2009), 7-20. Andrew Jainchill, Reimagining Politics after the Terror. the republican Origins of French liberalism (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2008). Antonino de Francesco, 1799, Una storia d’Italia (Milan: Guerini e associati, 2004). See also Silvia Arlettaz, Citoyens et étrangers sous la république Helvétique, 1798-1803 (Geneva: Georg editeur, 2005). Cf. Annie Jourdan, La Révolution batave - Entre la France et l’Amérique (17951806) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008). See Pierre Serna, “Les massacres au temps des Révolutions,” La Révolution française online (2011), lrf.revues.org/250; idem, “Pour un epilogue: Le massacre au XVIIIe siècle ou comment écrire une histoire de l’in-humain des Lumières aux Révolutions, puis à la conquête de l’Algérie,” La Révolution française online (2011), lrf.revues.org/248; Alan Forrest, The Legacy of the French Revolutionary Wars: The Nation-in-Arms in French Republican Memory (Cambridge [etc.]: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Pierre Serna, “Le bonapartisme ou l’invention de l’extrême centre comme point aveugle de l’echiquier politique français,” in Napoleone e il bonapar­

304 

8. 9. 10.

11.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

tismo nella cultura politica italiana 1802-2005, ed. Riosa Alceo (Milan: Guerini e Assosiati, 2007), 87-99. See Zeev Sternhell, Ni droite ni gauche. L’idéologie fasciste en France (Paris: Seuil, 1984). See Antonino De Francesco, Vincenzo Cuoco. Una vita politica (Rome: La­ terza, 1997). Pierre Serna, “In search of the Atlantic Republic: 1660-1776-1799 in the mirror,” in Rethinking the Atlantic world, Europe and America in the Age of Democratic Revolutions, eds. M. Albertone and A. de Francsco (New York: Palgrave, 2009), 257-275. Ibidem.

The national dimension in the Batavian Revolution 1.

2.

3.

On the traditional historiography, see the innovative study of N. C. F. van Sas, De metamorfose of Nederland. Van oude orde naar moderniteit, 1750-1900 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2004). Van Sas is the leading historian on the Patriot revolution. On eighteenth-century Dutch republicanism, see Wyger R. E. Velema, Republicans. Essays on Eighteenth-Century Dutch Political Thought (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007). Apart from Simon Schama’s Patriots and Liberators. Revolution in the Netherlands, 1780-1813 (New York: Knopf, 1977), there is until now no comprehensive study on the Batavian Revolution available in English. For a comparative approach in French, see Annie Jourdan, La Révolution batave entre la France et l’Amérique (1795-1806) (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008). See also two recent books on the first Dutch Parliament and on the history of Batavian concepts respectively: Joris Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld. Het eerste parlement van Nederland 1796-1798 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2012) and Mart Rutjes, Door gelijkheid gegrepen. Democratie, burgerschap en staat in Nederland, 1795-1801 (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2012). Dutch refugees fought alongside French soldiers for the liberation of their country. General Daendels, for instance, led the French-Batavian troops with a French general, while patriots who had remained in the Netherlands were preparing for the revolution that was to come. The Batavian Republic existed from 1795 to 1805 (the regime of Rutger Jan Schimmelpenninck) or 1806 (the monarchy under Louis Bonaparte). On the revolutionary preparations in Holland, see Th. Jorissen, De Patriotten te Amsterdam in 1794 (Amsterdam: G. L. Funke, 1875). This is not to say that the Dutch followed their dictates. Federalists refused unity and their obstinate behaviour provoked the 22 January coup, and against Delacroix’s advice, the radicals put the constitution to a popular referendum. There is thus a discrepancy between French desires and Dutch actions.

Notes

4.

5. 6.

7. 8.

9. 10.

11.

305

H. T. Colenbrander, De Bataafsche Republiek (Amsterdam: Meulenhoff, 1908). To Colenbrander, the Dutch were puppets whose strings were pulled by French hands. Pieter Geyl, La Révolution batave (1783-1798) (Paris: Société des Etudes robespierristes, 1971). Geyl did not include the first revolutionary phase provoked by the publication of Van der Capellen to den Pol’s famous pamphlet Aan het volk van Nederland (To the people of the Netherlands); his revolution ends with the radical coup of 1798. After this date, according to Geyl, the Batavian revolution would be in French hands. Schama, Patriots and C. H. E. de Wit, De strijd tussen aristocratie en demo­ cratie in Nederland, 1780-1848 (Heerlen: Winants, 1965). See also Velema, Republicans and Van Sas, Metamorfose. Robert R. Palmer, The Age of the Democratic Revolution. A political history of Europe and America, 1760-1800. 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1959-1964). This point has also been made by Hannah Arendt in a discussion of the conflict between popular councils, who advocated the direct participation in the public affairs of the country, and groups of professional revolutionaries: On Revolution (New York: Penguin, 1965), 248-275. Jourdan, La Révolution batave; idem., “The Netherlands in the Constellation of 18th century Revolutions,” European Review of History 19 (2011): 199-225. On the influence of dissenters and Scottish philosophers, see M. Evers, “Angelsaksische inspiratiebronnen voor de patriottische denkbeelden van Joan Derk van der Capellen.,” in 1787. De Nederlandse Revolutie?, eds. Th. Van der Zee, J. Rosendaal, and P. Thissen (Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1988), 206-217. The Patriots also asked for freedom of the press and of opinion, and referred to these as being their old liberties. Arendt, On Revolution, 37 and 41-44. Scholars are still quarrelling about which event can be called the first modern revolution. See Michael Walzer, The Revolution of the Saints. A Study in the Origins of Radical Politics (Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1965) and Steve Pincus, 1688. The First Modern Revolution (Yale University Press, 2009); or Marcel Gauchet, La démocratie contre elle-même (Paris: Gallimard, 2002). Gauchet describes modernity as the victory of autonomy over heteronomy and of individualism over communitarianism and corporate bodies, while Pincus sees modernity as technical or financial modernization. But as modernization is a process while modernity is the consequence of this process, it can be doubted whether Pincus is right. Gauchet’s interpretation contributes more to an understanding of the divergence between the seventeenth and eighteenth-century revolutions. The former were still traditional because of their religious dimension, the latter modern due to their secular character. Furthermore, the seventeenth-century revolutionaries referred to their old traditional liberties, while the eighteenth-century revolutionaries referred to the natural rights of man. Since the 1730s, Dutch authors had lamented that there was a crisis in their country due to moral decline and argued for the education of the people.

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The defeat against England in 1780 only confirmed them in this idea. The reforms of the Patriots were intended as a response to this problem. On this topic, see Margaret C. Jacob and Wijnand W. Mijnhardt, eds, The Dutch Republic in the Eighteenth Century. Decline, Enlightenment and Revolution (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1992). 12. Rutger Jan Schimmelpenninck, Verhandeling over eene wel ingerigte volksregeering (Leiden: Frans de Does, 1785); Grondwettige herstelling van Nederlands staatswezen, 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Johannes Allart, 17841786). Concept-Reglement van Regeering van de stad Zwolle uitgebracht door de burgercommitteerden (Zwolle: s.n., 1787); Concept-Reglement op de regeeringsbestelling van de provintie Utrecht (Utrecht: s.n., 1784); ConceptReglement van Regeering der Stad Haarlem (Haarlem: J. Enschedé, 1787). On Deventer, see Wayne Te Brake, Regents and Rebels. The Revolutionary World of an Eighteenth-Century Dutch City (Cambridge and Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989), 97. For a better survey on this topic, see Annie Jourdan, “The Dutch revolutions and the natural rights of man. Political innovation and conceptual changes in a comparative perspective,” (forthcoming). 13. This distinction between burghers can also be found in Switzerland and appeared in the 1782 Genevan Revolution. See Sylvia Arlettaz’s contribution in this volume and Sylvia Arlettaz, Citoyens et étrangers sous la République helvétique (Genève: Georg, 2005). On the United Provinces, see Maarten Prak, Republikeinse veelheid, democratisch enkelvoud. Sociale verandering in het Revolutietijdvak ’s-Hertogenbosch 1770-1820 (Amsterdam: Sun, 1999). 14. Grondwettige herstelling van Nederlands staatswezen I, xv-xvi. 15. On the meaning of revolution before and after the American and French Revolutions, see Keith M. Baker, Inventing the French Revolution (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 203-223. Before 1787 or 1789, indeed, revolution meant restoration – the return to an earlier phase. The Batavians still used this old meaning during the 1790s, when they were speaking of the 1787 revolution. See Archives Nationales de France, AF III69, letter by J. C. de Kock, 7 January 1793. 16. As far as I know, only the Grondwettige Herstelling aimed at accepting all religions into citizen militias – and thus in elections. By contrast, the equally important Leiden Draft (1785), written by citizens from Holland, still excluded dissenters. 17. The Patriot leader Van der Capellen tot den Pol lived in Deventer. He knew John Adams and had corresponded with him. See Te Brake, Regents and Rebels, 47-48. 18. Dutch publicists of the 1740s-1760s had emphasized the need for national education; they shared this ideal with Montesquieu: De l’esprit des Lois. In Oeuvres completes, vol. 2 (Paris: La Pléiade, 1951), 266. 19. Rosendaal, Bataven!, 302. The text is from September 1791. 20. J. A. Sillem, Het leven van Johan Valckenaer (1759-1821), vol. 1 (Amsterdam: Van Kampen, 1883), appendix, 29. Colenbrander published another letter

Notes

21.

22. 23.

24.

25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30.

307

from Staphorst, where the banker was less categorical. His first priority, however, was the destruction of aristocracy and oligarchy: Colenbrander, H. T, ed. Gedenkstukken der algemene geschiedenis van Nederland, 10 vols. (The Hague: s.n., 1905-1922 – hereafter GS), vol. 1, 29-30. On Valckenaer’s draft, GS, vol. 1, 26-27. In this first draft, Valckenaer proposed that all the corporate bodies be abolished. He suggested that all heads of Dutch households be able to vote, except the poor and the servants. Valckenaer’s draft wished to introduce the equality of all citizens without attention to their birth or religion, but his friends, most of them exiled regents, refused to include the Jews. And among the reforms, there was no reference to a possible abolition of the reformed religion’s privileges: GS, vol. 1, 26, footnote. See the drafts in GS, vol. 1, 51-52 (Huber and Van Hoey), 55-56 (Abbema & cie) and 66 (Van Hooff on Huber and Van Hoey). Nicolas de Caritat de Condorcet, Œuvres de Condorcet, eds. A. Condorcet O’Conor and F. Arago, vol. 12 (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1849), 456. In October 1792, the National Convention invited French citizens and foreigners to send in their ideas for a new constitution. On 16 February 1793, this request was repeated. Between October 1792 and May 1793, the Convention received more than three hundreds drafts: Michel Pertué, “Les projets constitutionnels de 1793,” in Révolution et République. L’exception française, ed. M. Vovelle (Paris: Kimé, 1990), 174-195. On this metaphor, see Joost Kloek and Wijnand Mijnhardt. 1800. Blauwdrukken voor een samenleving (The Hague: Sdu Uitgevers, 2001), 562; Peter Altena, Gerrit Paape (1752-1803). Levens en werken (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2012), 555-56; Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld, 238. See Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld, chapter 4. Valckenaer wrote to Nicolas van Staphorst that he liked the idea very much and considered it ‘beautiful’ and ‘profound’: GS, vol. 1, 23. He also mentioned that imperative mandates would be suppressed. A representative had to be the representative of the people and not of a province. This topic, which originated in the early days of the French Revolution, had never been before a point of contention in the Netherlands. Holland and Utrecht were the only provinces to desire unity. The others were divided: L. de Gou, ed., Het Plan van Constitutie van 1796 (The Hague: Rijks Geschiedkundige Publicatiën, 1975). Schama, Patriots and Liberators, 238-243. De Gou, Het Plan van Constitutie van 1796; idem, ed., Het Ontwerp van Constitutie van 1797 (The Hague: Rijks Geschiedkundige Publicatiën, 1983), I, ix-xlix. The 1791 Constitution was implemented without popular consent; the 1793 Constitution was accepted by the people but never implemented; and the 1795 Constitution was also accepted, but the two-thirds decree perpetuating the Thermidorians had been imposed on the electors.

308 

31.

32. 33. 34.

35.

36. 37.

38. 39.

40.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

See “République française, Révolution batave: le moment constitutionnel, ” in Républiques sœurs. Le Directoire et la Révolution atlantique, ed. Pierre Serna (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2009), 301-314; idem, “The Netherlands in the Constellation.” Suffice it to say that, besides unity, the French asked the Dutch legislators to divide the legislative power into two houses, to create an executive of five members, with under them ministers and no committees. Moreover, the Dutch had to make the executive and the legislative powers independent from the judiciary and to suppress popular clubs and societies and transform them into constitutional ‘circles’. He borrowed, for instance, the drawing of lots to settle the voting. In this context, Daunou referred to Rousseau, who contended that it was the most democratic voting device. See Jourdan, “Le moment constitutionnel,” 311. Dagverhaal der handelingen van de Nationaale Vergadering representeerende het Volk van Nederland, vol. 1 (The Hague: Van Schelle, 1796), 5-8 (1 March 1796); and 82-84 (18 March 1796). As is well known, the eighteenth century was the century of national characters. See Annie Jourdan, “La perception des Français aux Pays-Bas. De l’incompatibilité des caractères nationaux,” in L’Europe des politesses et le caractère des nations, ed. Alain Montandon (Paris: Anthropos, 1997), 177-195. This is why, in America and in the province of Holland, equality was invoked as the first principle. The precedence of equality can also be found in Locke. In France, the motto was more often: “Liberty, Equality” or, during the short Jacobin period: “Equality, Liberty”; fraternity was mentioned less often. I have suggested elsewhere that the Dutch concept of fraternity was intended to persuade the Dutch people and the French allies that the two republics were egalitarian ‘brothers’ and not ‘a sister dependent on a mother’. On the Amsterdam Committee of Safety, see Annie Jourdan, Amsterdam en révolution: un jacobinisme batave?, Working paper European Studies, 2006 home.medewerker.uva.nl/a.r.m.jourdan/publications.html. After a debate on the matter, they decided to choose a quite simple sign: a black sash with ‘representative’ written in golden letters, and a tricolour sash for the president: De Gou, Het Ontwerp van Constitutie van 1797 I, xxiixxiii. All this information can be found in Dagverhaal I (March-May 1796). For the 1789 French règlement: Archives Parlementaires, Première série 1789-1799, eds. J. Madival and E, Laurent (Paris: Dupont-CNRS, 1867), VIII, 300-303. The règlement of the French Convention Nationale was inspired by the 1789 règlement and that of the Assemblée legislative, but it held that the representatives would also convene on Sunday. See Louis ­Mortimer-­Ternaux, Histoire de la Terreur, vol. 4 (Paris: M. Levy frères, 1870), 471-477. In principle, there were 126 representatives, but many of them were regularly absent.

Notes

41.

42.

43. 44. 45.

46. 47.

48.

49. 50.

51.

309

I hardly have to recall that in the French National Assembly, there were three factions: the Right (the Monarchiens, the Feuillants, or later the Girondins), the Plain, and the Mountain. Each of these factions had their own space in the parliament: right, middle, and left. In principle, the public had no right to interfere in the French Assembly either, but as is well known, nothing could stop them, and until 1795 the assemblies suffered popular tumults and disorders. This was not the case in The Hague, where the people could not impose their will. There were popular uprisings in the Netherlands as well, but these occurred elsewhere in the country. In France, collective petitions of individuals were forbidden. This is another important divergence with the Batavian Republic. Dagverhaal I, 30-31 (10 March 1796). Dagverhaal I, 48-52 (14 March 1796). See on religion, ibidem, 30-34 and 4446 (10, 11, and 12 March 1796). For more information on the Dutch presence in France, see Rosendaal, Bataven!; especially the CD with the database. The Dutch exiles were living not only in Paris but also in Dunkirk, Saint-Omer, and in the Austrian Netherlands. The exiles in Dunkirk and Saint-Omer in particular were active revolutionaries who participated in clubs and printing pamphlets. However, some returned to the Netherlands, like the radical leader, Pieter Vreede, who had first emigrated to Belgium before going back to Tilburg in Brabant. See De Wit, De strijd tussen aristocratie en democratie, 86-93. Some of them, however, had been members of municipal or provincial councils before the revolution. Van Hooff, for example, had been mayor of Eindhoven; Van Beyma had been a member of the Frisian provincial assembly. They had a certain amount of experience in public office, but not in a National Assembly elected by the people. See Oddens, Pioniers in schaduwbeeld, chapter 3. In the States-General, there had also been a prayer at the beginning of the meetings. In the National Assembly, absentees had to give valid motives for their absence. See De Gou, Het Ontwerp van Constitutie van 1797 I, xx-xxi. Contrary to the situation in France, where two hundred representatives had to be present before the Assembly could start its session, the Dutch National Assembly did not have a quorum. See Pieter Vreede in April 1797, quoted by Angelie Sens, “La Révolution batave et l’esclavage,” AHRF 326 (2001), 68-69. Dagverhaal I, 77-78 (17 March 1796). Vreede was supported by another member, Jan van Hooff. See also Schama, Patriots and Liberators, 253. In truth, Vreede’s motion recalled more the American town meetings, which were consulted on different matters and on a more frequent basis. The French primary assemblies only had the right to elect their representatives. Dagverhaal I, 590 (29 May 1796). On fear and conspiracy during the revolutionary era, see Peter Campbell, Marisa Linton, and Thomas Kaiser, eds.,

310 

52.

53.

54.

55.

56.

57. 58. 59.

60.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Conspiracy in the French Revolution (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007). However, on 30 March 1798, the legislative body decided to despoil the regents and their heirs. The decree was published on 31 March, but the executive intervened on 11 April and revoked this decision, which could cause the regents to leave the republic with their capital and thus ruin the new regime: Jourdan, La Révolution batave, 89-90. Hahn, who was not a moderate, was shocked by the uprising and argued that rebellion and revolt had been legitimate during the Old Regime, but since the true principles had been proclaimed, they no longer were: Dagverhaal I, 481 (1796). By a strange irony of fate, the uprising broke out during the debates on citizen militias, when the representatives were speaking of stimulating the martial spirit of the youth: Dagverhaal I, 433-440 (1796) (on the militias). See also the reactions to the Amsterdam uprising: Dagverhaal I, 469-484 (12 May 1796). The official reactions to the Amsterdam uprising speak volumes about the representatives’ political options. Vreede and Valckenaer, for instance, did not want to judge before having reliable information. By contrast, Guljé established a parallel with the ‘Conspiration des Egaux’ that had been discovered in Paris on 10 May 1796: Dagverhaal I, 483-484 and 589 (1796). The growing discord between the legislators during the constitutional debates explains the use of force. However, they could have left their rivals in liberty. While trying to avoid French excesses, they were tempted to act coercively and to terrorize their adversaries. This is one paradox of the Batavian Revolution. But, as said above, they held a popular referendum about the constitution. In this referendum, however, the constitution was accepted due to the purging of the assemblies. See Archives du Ministère des Affaires étrangères, Paris Correspondance politique, vol. 599 and AN AF III-70. Letters from Champigny-Aubin to Talleyrand, Thermidor an VI. Think of the Parisian coups in Fructidor Year V and Prairial Year VI. The same is true of the repression. Both Dutch coups (January and June 1798) were a kind of Dutch-style Terror: the rivals were not executed but put in jail and treated with severity but humanity. However, the January radicals were less resentful toward their enemies than the June moderates. Repressive radicalism is not the privilege of political radicals. Moderates can be more severe. This is also true in France (after Thermidor) and in America (Alien and Sedition Acts from 1798). See Annie Jourdan, “Les Discours de la Terreur. Etude comparative sur une notion ambiguë 1776-1798,” French Historical Studies 36, no.1 (2013): 51-81. These men had not done anything wrong, but the fact that they were radicals appointed by the radical leaders from The Hague was enough for

Notes

61.

62.

63.

64.

65.

66.

311

them to be prosecuted. The threat that they could do something in the near future led to their custody. The fact that the Amsterdam (radical) authorities refused to give the finance minister an overview of the Amsterdam bank accounts may have contributed to their persecution. See Jourdan, La Révolution batave, 87-96 and 423-434. Moreover, on 19 July 1798 they enforced a coercive law that condemned dissension and popular action as well as impertinent radical papers. Death penalty was one of the possible sentences. This text recalls the French laws from March 1793, which announced the so-called Terror. See the Dutch text in French in Jourdan, “Amsterdam en révolution: Un jacobinisme batave?”. It is now well known that the French army, which was otherwise still republican, disapproved of radical violence and tried to maintain internal peace in the Netherlands. It would be interesting to see if the army behaved similarly in Switzerland and Italy. By contrast, the French were emphasizing their military glory and especially their fantastic Italian victories led by the ‘Italic hero’ Bonaparte. On French glory, see Robert Morrissey, Napoléon et l’héritage de la gloire (Paris: PUF, 2010). As Paulus had argued on the first session: ‘Would the Dutch people have less courage, less firmness, less patriotism than the French or American nations, less than our ancestors in the war against Spain, so that France would have to protect us?’ Dagverhaal I, 7 (1 March 1796). Creating a great national citizen army would have given the Netherlands extra security for their independence. According to Valckenaer, the Netherlands had to create a national army to revive the ancient virtue of their ancestors and protect the dear fatherland. Like France, then, the Batavian Republic would easily vanquish their enemies. Alas, they did not succeed. Dagverhaal I, 437 (6 May 1796). I distinguish here five kinds of transfers: 1) refusal or rejection; 2) acceptance (in part or as a whole, but modified by the national context and culture); 3) illusory or eyewash transfer (no transfer at all, but some resemblance with France. Best example: equality as first principle, not because of Jacobinism but as a legacy of Protestantism); 4) reverse transfer (when France is borrowing from the Netherlands); and 5) unconscious or unintended transfer (that is: same reactions to the same events, such as coercion and ‘terror’ between factions and military coups). To this could be added transfers from third countries (Switzerland or Germany, for instance, in the domain of education). On this issue, see also Jourdan, La Révolution batave, 444-447. In the summer of 1795, when the Convention was drafting its new constitution, a deputy proposed to do the same: that is, to mention the principles at the basis of the constitution in a preamble. It would have been less dangerous than to proclaim the rights of man: Journal des Hommes libres, 16 Messidor Year III, 127.

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67. Such practices included coercion against popular initiatives in order to protect national credit and prosperity and to avoid French tragedies, or tolerance toward regents and Orangists in the hope that the revolution would succeed without bloodshed – in contrast to the French (Barnave, Barrère, Robespierre) or even the Americans (Jefferson), most representatives wanted to avoid bloodshed – but also to avoid emigration, which could be tragic for the public wealth. On the problem of capital mobility or lack of mobility, see Carles Boix, Democracy and Redistribution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Dagverhaal I, 471, 477-478, 481-484 (May 1796). Other typically Dutch features were the prayer that was held at the start of the sessions and the protocol that was followed upon the arrival of new deputies.

The constitutional debate in the Helvetic Republic in 1800-1801 1.

2.

3.

4. 5.

This re-evaluation originates in André Schluchter and Christian Simon eds., Helvetik: neue Ansätze: Referate des Helvetik-Kolloquiums vom 4. April 1992 in Basel = Helvétique: nouvelles approches: actes du colloque Helvétique, le 4 avril 1992 à Bâle (Basel: Schwabe, 1993). See also the series of conferences edited by Christian Simon: Dossier Helvetik - Dossier Helvétique, 6 vols. (Basel and Frankfurt am Main: Helbing & Lichtenhahn and Schwabe, 1995-2000). Other important works include: Holger Böning, Der Traum von Freiheit und Gleichheit: Helvetische Revolution und Republik (1798-1803) - Die Schweiz auf dem Weg zur bürgerlichen Demokratie; Orell Füssli, Zeitgeschichte (Zurich: Orell Füssli, 1998); André Holenstein, Thomas Maissen, and Maarten Prak eds., The Republican alternative: The Netherlands and Switzerland compared (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2008); Daniel Schläppi, Umbruch und Beständigkeit: Kontinuitäten in der Helvetischen Revolution von 1798 (Basel: Schwabe, 2009). See, for example, Carl Hilty, Les constitutions fédérales de la Confédération Suisse. Exposé historique écrit sur la demande du Conseil Fédéral à l’occasion du sixième centenaire de la Première alliance perpétuelle du 1er Août 1291 (Neuchâtel: Attinger, 1891); Johannes Dierauer, Histoire de la Confédération Suisse, 2 vols. (Lausanne: Payot, 1918). About the drafting of the constitution, see Antoine Broussy, “Regards sur la Constitution helvétique. Influences croisées entre la France du Directoire et les patriotes suisses,” in Républiques soeurs: le Directoire et la Révolution atlantique: actes du colloque de Paris, 25 et 26 janvier 2008 (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2009), 333-347. Actensammlung aus der Zeit der Helvetischen Republik (1798-1803), eds. Johannes Strickler and Alfred Rufer, 16 vols. (Bern: Stämpfli and Freiburg: Fragnière, 1886-1967 – hereafter ASHR), vol. 1, 567. All three belonged to the Helvetic Directory and formed a majority against the other two members, Dolder and Savary.

Notes

6.

7. 8.

9.

10. 11.

12. 13. 14.

313

See Henri Monod, Mémoires de Henri Monod: renfermant les détails de sa conduite dans la Révolution qui a fait de ce Pays un des Cantons de la Suisse, les principaux evénemens auxquels il a pris part, et la comparaison de ce qui est avec ce qui était. 2 vols. (Paris: Levrault Schoell et Comp., 1805); Paul Henri Mallet, Histoire des Suisses ou Helvetiens: depuis les tems les plus reculés jusques à nos jours, vol. 4 (Genève: Chez G. J. Manget, Libraire, 1803), 103 ff; Heinrich Zschokke, Histoire de la nation suisse, trans. G. Monnard (Paris: Libraires associés, 1836), 330 ff. Carl Hilty, Constitutions Fédérales, 333; Charles Gilliard, Histoire de la Suisse. Que sais-je? (Paris: Presses Universitairses de France, 1944), 60-67. As the definitions of the political parties are often ambiguous, depending on the sources or the historiography, I follow the classification of Charles Monnard in: Johannes von Müller et al., Histoire de la Confédération suisse. vol. 16 (Paris: Ballimore, 1847), 364-366. The ‘Moderates’ are sometimes called ‘Republicans’, but this disregards the fact that the ‘Patriots’ were also republicans. The ‘Patriots’ were sometimes derogatorily called ‘Jacobins’. Bay, Reding, Mittelhozer, Genhard, and Faton were chosen from the Senate, and Zimmerman, Kuhn, Koch, Gmür, and Anderwerth came from the Great Council. For more details, see ASHR, vol. 5, 548; Anton von Tillier, Histoire de la République helvétique depuís sa fondation en 1798 jusqu’à sa dissolution en 1803 (Geneva and Paris: Cherbuliez et cíe, 1846), 202; Müller, Confédération, XVI, 371-377. ASHR, vol. 5, 524-539; Tillier, République, 204; Müller, Confédération, XVI, 378-379. ASHR, vol. 5, 545-546. The members of this commission were Glayre, Dolder, Savary (former members of the Directory), Frishing (the former paymaster of Bern), Gschwend (president of the cantonal court of Sentis dismissed by Laharpe just before 7 January), Finsler (the former ministry of finance) and Dürler (former head magistrate of Lucerne). These appointments show the conservative tendencies of the Moderate party: Müller, Confédération, XVI, 382. Tillier, République, 221. ASHR, vol. 5, 572. Alfred Rufer, “Das Problem der Verfassungsgerichtsbarkeit während der Helvetik,” Schweizerische Zeitschrift für Geschichte 5 (1955): 288; Rapport présenté au Sénat le 15 janvier 1800 par le Citoyen Usteri, au nom de la Commission de Constitution, [s. l.], followed by Opinion du Citoyen Muret, qu’il a prononcée au Sénat le 15 janvier 1800, comme membre de la commission de constitution, et qui a précédé la lecture des amendements qu’il propose, au projet présenté par une partie de la commission and Rapport fait au Sénat le 15 janvier 1800 par le citoyen Crauer au nom de la minorité de la commission de Constitution composée de lui et du Citoyen Kubli, en lui présentant le plan de changement rédigé par cette même minorité (Berne: Imprimerie natio­

314 

15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

nale, 15 janvier 1800) in: Archives fédérales Suisse (AFS): BO 1000/1483 78b 1799-1802. See the entries on Krauer and Kübli in the Dictionnaire historique de la Suisse: www.hls-dhs-dss.ch/index.php Usteri, Rapport, 1-2. Ibidem, 12-13. Ibidem, 4-15. The proponents of the national jury were inspired by Sieyes: Alfred Rufer, “Verfassungsgerichtsbarkeit,” 277. The plan of the majority was submitted on 3 February and rejected on 7 February: Rufer, “Verfassungsgerichtsbarkeit,” 293-298. Rufer, “Verfassungsgerichtsbarkeit,” 293-298. Crauer, Rapport, 4. Crauer, Rapport, 6. Crauer, Rapport, 23-36. Rapport de Rheinard au Directoire français (27 Fructidor Year VII), in Émile Dunant, Les relations diplomatiques de la France et de la République Helvétique: 1798-1803. Recueil de documents tirés des archives de Paris (Basel: Verlag der Basler buch- und antiquariatshandlung, 1901), 253-255. Perrochel à Reinhard, Berne, 1er jour comp. VII, in Dunant, Relations diplomatiques, 255. Müller, Confédération, XVI, 381. See the constitutional debates in ASHR, vol. 5. Furthermore, it seems that the French Directory followed the observations of Reinhard, who in his turn seems to have taken the idea to replace the legislative chamber and the Senate with one legislative council from the Moderates. See for example Reinhard à Talleyrand, Berne 29 Messidor Year VIII, in Dunant, Relations diplomatiques, 358. Astonishingly enough, this was the solution Laharpe suggested: Rapport de Talleyrand au 1er Consul sur la Suisse, 15 Messidor Year VIII, in Dunant, Relations diplomatiques, 352-355. Talleyrand à Jenner, 2 Fructidor Year VIII, in Dunant, Relations diplomatiques, 372. Müller, Confédération II, 85-88; Tillier, République, 315-316. Müller, Confédération II, 100-120.

An unwelcome Sister Republic 1. 2.

It is worth noticing that the same severe judgment seems to be resurfacing in the recent polemical interpretations of the unitary state modelled on the French example. G. Sorge, Interpretazioni italiane della rivoluzione francese nel secolo decimo nono (Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 1973).

Notes

3. 4.

5.

6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

315

F. Diaz, L’incomprensione italiana della Rivoluzione francese (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 1989); and G. Galasso, “La Rivoluzione incompresa? Storiografia italiana e rivoluzione francese,” Prospettive Settanta 12 (1990): 27-39. Useful overviews are A. Solmi, L’idea dell’unità italiana nell’età napoleonica (Modena: Società tipografica modenese, 1934); E. Rota, Le origini del Risorgimento (Milan: Vallardi, 1938) and R. Soriga, Le società segrete, l’emigrazione politica e i primi moti per l’indipendenza (Modena: Tipografia modenese, 1942). E. Di Rienzo, “L’‘histoire de si’ et l’‘histoire des faits.’ Quelques perspectives de recherche à propos de l’historiographie italienne sur la période révolutionnaire, 1948-2000,” Annales historiques de la Révolution Française 75 (2003): 119- 138. Still useful on this aspect is P. Onnis, “Les études italiennes sur l’histoire de la révolution française de 1940 à 1949,” Annales historiques de la Révolution Française 22 (1950): 358-361. D. Cantimori, Giacobini italiani vol. 1 (Bari: Laterza, 1956), 407-416. An illustration of this historiographical perspective is supplied by the attention that was given to the Italian revolutionist Filippo Buonarroti. See especially A. Saitta, Filippo Buonarroti: contributi alla storia della sua vita e del suo pensiero (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1950-1951); and A. Galante Garrone, Filippo Buonarroti e i rivoluzionari dell’Ottocento, 1828-1837 (Turin: Einaudi, 1951). A. De Francesco, “Crises politiques et changements d’opinion dans l’Italie contemporaine: L’exemple de l’historiographie sur le jacobinisme, 19431956,” Politix 14.56 (2001): 123-133. For a detailed overview, see A. De Francesco, Mito e storiografia della Grande Rivoluzione. La rivoluzione francese nella cultura politica italiana del ‘900 (Naples: Guida, 2006), 171-286. E. Di Rienzo, “Néo-jacobinisme et question italienne à travers les manuscrits de Marc Antoine Jullien de Paris (1796-1801),” Annales historiques de la Révolution française 313 (1998): 493-514. See B. Gainot, “I rapporti franco-italiani nel 1799: tra confederazione democratica e congiura politico-militare,” Società e storia 76 (1997): 345-376. G. Vaccarino, I patrioti ‘anarchistes’ e l’idea dell’unità italiana, 1796-1799 (Turin: Einaudi, 1955). B. Gainot, “Être républicain et démocrate entre Thermidor et Brumaire,” Annales historiques de la Révolution française, 308 (1997): 193-198. For a detailed overview of this aspect, see A. De Francesco, “La constitution de l’an III et les républiques jacobines italiennes,” Mededelingen van het Nederlands Instituut te Rome 57 (1998): 100-104. On the democratic movement under the Directory, see I. Woloch, Jacobin Legacy. The democratic movement under the Directory (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970); P. Serna, Antonelle, aristocrate revolutionnaire, 1747-

316 

16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29.

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

1817 (Paris: Editions du Félin, 1997); and B.Gainot, 1799, Un nouveau jacobi­ nisme? (Paris: CTHS, 2001). B Gainot, “La notion de démocratie représentative: le legs neo-jacobin de 1799,” in L’image de la Révolution française, Congrès mondial du bi-centenaire, ed. Michel Vovelle, vol. 1 (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1989), 523-529; Serna, Antonelle, 343-385. G. Compagnoni, Elementi di diritto costituzionale democratico, ossia principi di giuspubblico universale (Venice: Curti, 1797), chapter 14. For a convenient summary of these events, see A. De Francesco, 1799. Una storia d’Italia (Milan: Guerini e Associati 2004). On these revolutionary upsurges, see A. De Francesco, Rivoluzione e costituzioni: saggi sul democratismo politico nell’Italia napoleonica, 1796-1821 (Naples: Esi, 1996), 29-50. De Francesco, 1799, 45-57. B. Peroni, “La Costituzione o la morte! Il colpo di stato dell’ambasciatore Trouvé nella repubblica Cisalpina,” in Miscellanea in onore di Roberto Cessi, vol. 2 (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1958), 503-516. Archives Nationales, AF III 71, d. 290, letter of Rivaud to the Executive Directory, 10 December 1798. For the events of this period, see C. Zaghi, Il Direttorio francese e la Repubblica cisalpina, vol. 2 (Rome: Istituto storico per l’età moderna e contemporanea, 1992), 473-536. See A. M. Rao, “Républiques et monarchies à l’époque révolutionnaire: une diplomarie nouvelle?,” Annales historiques de la Révolution Française 296 (1994), 267-278. The image that the Directory itself was responsible for the Italian disgrace originated with Napoleon himself. See P. Serna, La République des girouettes (Paris: Champ Vallon, 2005), 453-466. For the events of this period, see A. M. Rao, Esuli. L’Emigrazione politica italiana in Francia, 1792-1802 (Naples: Guida, 1992). A brief summary of the attitudes the Italian refugees showed towards Brumaire can be found in A. M. Rao, “Les exilés italiens et Brumaire,” Annales historiques de la Révolution Française 318 (1999): 713-725. Archives Nationales, AF III 71, d. 290, letter of Rivaud to the Executive Directory, 20 December 1798. De Francesco, 1799, 105-115. See, for example, the French general Dumouriez’s statement on the Cisalpine Republic: ‘[elle] entretient une armée, déjà elle avance une dette de 63 million, déjà elle montre l’inquiétude des peuples libres, déjà elle a besoin de la guerre pour subsister, déjà elle a besoin de piller et de s’agrandir […] les Français semblent avoir dit aux cisalpins: nous voulons que vous soyez libres, nous vous l’ordonnons, mais nous vous défendons de vous arroger le droit d’incorporation réservé à la république mère. La sévérité de cette loi diminuit beaucoup la reconnaissance des cisalpins, qui s’émanciperont

Notes

317

dès qu’ils le pourront, et deviendront un jour les ennemis des fondateurs de leur liberté.’: C-F. Dumouriez, Tableau speculatif de l’Europe (Hamburg: s.n., 1798), 72 and 75. 30. A. De Francesco, “Au coeur du système de pouvoir bonapartiste: La Médiation et la République italienne,” in La Suisse de la Médiation dans l’Europe napoléonienne, 1803-1814, ed. M. Turchetti (Fribourg: Academic Press, 2005), 131-139.

Index Aarau 11, 21, 112, 127, 128 Abamonti, Giuseppe 103 Adams, John 306 Agé, F.J. d’ 146, 152, 153 Albertone, Manuela 58 Alfieri, Vittorio 97-98, 101-102 Algeria 53 Amsterdam 76, 154, 156, 197, 295, 308, 310-311 Arendt, Hanna 188, 305 Aristotle 97 Arlettaz, Silvia 68, 306 Augsburg 165 Austria 10, 167, 185, 202, 215, 217, 309 Babeuf, Gracchus 213 Bacot, Gerard 196, 295 Baden 93 Baker, Keith Michael 301 Barker, Hannah 143 Barelle, Carlo 302 Barnave, Antoine 312 Barrère, Bertrand 312 Basel 11, 18, 20, 59, 127-129, 132, 160, 168, 283-284 Batavian Republic 9-15, 17, 21, 23-24, 30, 56, 68-71, 73, 75-81, 83, 116, 118, 120, 124-125, 146-147, 151, 153, 155-158, 184, 187-188, 191, 198, 218, 304, 309 Baumann, Thomas 132 Blaser, Fritz 162 Beccaria, Cesare 97-98, 101 Becker, Ernst Wolfgang 115 Belgium 198, 309 Bergamo 301 Bern(e) 11, 18, 36, 59, 129, 132, 160, 165, 313 Bern, Republic of, see: Bern(e) Beyma, Coert van 196, 309 Bicker, Jan 196 Billeter, Johann Kaspar 133 Blok, Bernardus 196 Bodmer, Jan Jakob 59 Bologna 9, 10, 301 Bollinger, Ernst 161 Bonaparte, Louis 15, 304 Bosch, Bernardus 56, 295 Botta, Carlo 102 Bourbon, House of 110, 140, 148, 190, 287, 291 Brabant 309 Brescia 178, 301 Brienza 137, 287 Britain 70, 144-145, 291 Broussy, Antoine 183-185 Brune, Guillaume-Marie-Anne 12, 18, 20, 177, 216 Buonarotti, Filippo 101, 275, 315 Burke, Edmund 98, 273

Capellen tot den Pol, Joan Derk van der 305306 Capra, Carlo 171, 301 Cesarotti, Melchiorre 99, 102 Chambery 171, 217 Championnet, Jean Étienne 12, 136, 140, 216 Charlemagne 37 Cicero 57 Cisalpine Republic 10-14, 19-21, 68, 146-147, 171-180, 183-184, 213-218, 316 Colenbrander, Herman 22, 306 Compagnoni, Giuseppe 105, 214, 273 Condorcet, Nicolas de 99, 191, 274 Coppet 35-36 Crema 301 Crook, Malcolm 26 Cuoco, Vincenzo 102-103 Custodi, Piero 103, 302 Daendels, Herman 11-12, 198, 304 Dante 101 Daunou, Pierre 29, 128, 192, 308 De Deo, Emanuele 287 Delacroix, Charles 17, 154, 187, 197, 249, 304 Delacroix, Jacques-Vincent 26, 112 Denmark 21 Destutt de Tracy, Antoine-Louise-Claude 273 Deventer 76-77, 117, 189, 306 Diaz, Furio 24 Ducange, Brahain 154 Dumbar, Gerard 54, 259 Dumouriez, Charles-François 190, 316 Dunkirk 309 Dunn, John 50 Dutch Republic 9, 18, 45, 49, 51-54, 69, 73-74, 76, 79, 80, 112, 117-118, 144-145, 147, 190, 193 Eindhoven 309 Emilia-Romagna 19 Endingen 93 England 39, 57, 76, 117, 143, 185, 198, 306 Enkhuizen 295 Eritreo, Nicio 101, 104 Escher, Hans Conrad 46, 60-64, 203 Europe 20, 25, 29-30, 32-35, 37-39, 43-44, 46, 67, 110, 123, 135, 143, 145, 159, 183, 185-186, 252 European Union 39 Fantoni, Giovanni 177 Fantuzzi, Giuseppe 103 Fayette, Marie-Joseph Paul du Motier, Marquis de La 196 Ferdinand IV, King of Naples 12, 178, 216 Filangieri, Gaetano 98, 101, 104 Floh, Jacob 54

320 

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Fonseca Pimentel, Eleonora 102 Fontana, Biancamaria 27, 32 Foscolo, Ugo 101 Fouché, Joseph 216 France 9-12, 14, 20-22, 26, 28-29, 32-35, 39, 58, 68, 70, 76, 85, 98, 100-101, 105, 109-111, 113, 115, 123, 125, 130, 137, 139, 144-148, 152-153, 167, 171, 174-177, 180, 183-185, 189, 190-191, 193-198, 202, 207-209, 211-218, 252, 273, 275, 308-311 Francesco, Antonino de 19, 183-185, 286 Fribourg 160 Friesland 192 Fritzsche, Peter 115, 123

Hoop, Cornelis van der 196 Huber, Johan 190, 196 Hume, David 97 Hunt, Lynn 115, 279 Hutcheson, Francis 188 Huussen, A.H. jr. 151-152, 154, 158, 296

Galdi, Matteo Angelo 26, 104, 112 Galiani, Vincenzo 287 Gauchet, Marcel 305 Geneva 35, 37, 160, 167 Genoa 216, 301 Genovesi, Antonio 287 Germany 145, 165, 311 Gevers, Hugo 196 Geyl, Pieter 305 Gioia, Melchiorre 102, 177-179 Glarus 133 Godechot, Jacques 25-26, 109 Godel, Eric 63, 262 Gogel, Isaac 197 Gosse, J.P. (pseud. Marguareta van Kolb) 293 Gouda 119 Graber, Rolf 63 Greece 37 Grenoble 217 Greve, Johan 77 Groningen 76 Guerci, Luciano 104-105 Guljé, Petrus 266, 310

Jacobs, Erik 146-147, 151 Jainchill, Andrew 29, 43 Jaume, Lucien 100 Jefferson, Thomas 196, 312 Joubert, Barthélemy Catherine 198, 216-217 Jourdan, Annie 112, 183-185, 187 Jullien, Marc-Antoine 136

Habermas, Jürgen 144, 147, 291 Hahn, Jacob 56, 121, 196, 310 Haller, Karl Ludwig von 165-166, 208 Hamelsveld, IJsbrand van 195, 196 Harpe, Frédéric-César La 89, 202-203, 207, 313-314 Helvetia, see: Helvetica Helvetian Republic, see: Helvetic Republic Helvetica 60, 61, 90, 93, 95 Helvetic Republic 11-14, 18, 20-21, 23-24, 46, 61-64, 68, 85, 89, 93, 95, 111, 127, 129-131, 133, 160-161, 165-169, 183-184, 201-202, 207, 209, 264, 269-270, 297, 312 Higonnet, Patrice 100 Hoey, Jan van 190, 307 Holland (Country) 15, 26, 39, 113, 147 Holland (Province) 152, 155, 304 Holenstein, André 64, 111 Holy Roman Empire 129, Homan, G.D. 151-152, 157-158 Hooff, Jan van 195-196, 309

Ireland 145, 147 Iselin, Isaak 59 Israel, Jonathan 49, 58 Italy 9, 14, 22, 24, 26, 37, 57, 67-69, 97, 100-105, 113, 135-136, 144-148, 184-185, 198, 211-217, 274, 311

Kapossy, Belá 59 Konijnenburg, Jan 54, 77 Koselleck, Reinhart 31, 49, 115-116, 120, 123, 125 Kubli, Johann Melchior 133, 204, 313 Kuhn, Bernard Friedrich 133, 203 Labus, Giovanni 178-179 Lake Zurich 62 Langen, Jan van 296 Lausanne 166 Leeuwen, Johan van 196, 121-122 Leiden 79 Lenci, Mauro 68-69, 97 Lengnau 93 Ligurian Republic 216 Linz, Juan 116, 118 Locke, John 289, 308 Lodi 301 Lombardy 19, 185 Low Countries 74, 109 Louis XVI 34 Lucca 100, 216 Lucerne 59, 60-61, 63, 129, 160, 165, 283, 313 Luzac, Elie 44, 53 Machiavelli, Niccolò 57, 97, 101 Madison, James 45, 98-99 Manen, Jacob van 55-56, 121 Mastellone, Salvo 105 Meerman, Johan 53 Merlin de Douai, Philippe-Antoine 18, 128 Michelangelo 101 Milan 9-10, 20-21, 176-177, 213, 216, 287, 301 Montesquieu 35, 51, 97-98, 101, 273, 289, 306 Müller, Johannes von 123, 207

321

Index

Naples 12, 14, 20, 110, 135-137, 178, 216, 287 Napoleon [Bonaparte] 9, 10, 13-15, 19, 28, 34, 35-39, 68, 100, 113, 130, 145, 148, 172-176, 186, 208, 211, 213-214, 218, 276, 291, 316 Neapolitan Republic 12, 99, 103, 109, 135-137, 140, 215-217, 286 Necker, Jacques 34 Netherlands, The 22, 23, 49, 55-56, 67-71, 73-74, 105, 124, 145, 148, 157, 188-190, 193, 196-198, 254, 258, 265, 295, 304, 307, 309, 311 Noël, François 187 Ochs, Peter (Pierre) 18, 89, 111, 127-128, 132, 160, 166, 202, 284 Ockerse, Willem 282 Oldenbarnevelt, Johan van 193 Olivier, Johannes 153 Overijssel 189 Pagano, Maria 98-99, 110-111, 135, 137-140, 287-289 Paine, Thomas 99, 273 Palmer, R.R. 25-26, 49-50, 100, 109, 187, 250 Palonen, Kari 116 Pan, Jacques Mallet du 143 Papi, Lazzaro 100 Parini, Giuseppe 101 Paris 19-20, 34, 111, 128, 160, 171, 174, 177-178, 188, 194, 198, 208, 213, 215-216, 284, 309-310 Paulus, Pieter 76, 196, 311 Pays de Vaud 18, 36, 129 Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich 61-63 Piedmont 178, 216-217 Piedmontese Republic 217 Pierre, Abraham Jacques La 147-148, 157-158, 293, 296 Plato 97 Pocock, J.G.A. 50, 57 Poland 37 Polybius 45 Price, Richard 188 Priestley, Joseph 188 Prussia 76, 152-153 Ranza, Giovanni Antonio 177 Republic of the Seven United Provinces, see: Dutch Republic Reubell, Jean-François 18 Ristori, Giovanni 104 Rivaud, François 12, 171, 177-178, 216, 217 Robespierre, Maximilien de 24, 100, 102-103, 275, 312 Roman Republic 11, 13, 97, 176, 192, 215-216 Rome (Ancient) 59, 97 Rome (Early Modern) 20, 287 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques Rouzet, Jacques-Marie 289 Rutjes, Mart 70

Saint-Omer 309 Saitta, Armando 24 Sas, N.C.F. van 145, 304 Schaffhausen, canton of 11, 283 Schaffhausen, city of 132 Schama, Simon 192 Schimmelpenninck, Rutger Jan 15, 188, 304 Schneider, Maarten 151, 158 Schwarzkopf, Joachim von 143 Scrofani, Saverio 98 Serna, Pierre 275 Sieyès, Emmanuel Joseph 13, 45, 99, 289, 314 Solothurn, canton of 11 Solothurn, city of 132 Sonsbeeck, Jan Willem van 54, 259 Spain 21, 193, 311 Spedalieri, Nicola 98-99 Spoors, Jacob 294 Staël, Germaine de 27, 33-40, 255 Stapfer, Philipp Albert 61, 208 Staphorst, Nicolas van 190, 307 Strickler, Johannes 23 Sweden 21, 69-70 Swildens, Johan Hendrik 54-55, 260 Swinden, Jean Henri van 295 Switzerland 21, 36-37, 39, 57-59, 67-69, 87-88, 92, 110, 128, 130, 146-147, 159, 161-163, 165, 167, 185, 201-202, 205-208, 218, 297, 306, 311 Schwyz 11, 63, 161 Talleyrand, Charles-Maurice de 20, 208 Teding van Berkhout, Willem Hendrik 123 Tell, William 60, 63 The Hague 9, 17-18, 20-21, 54, 116, 122, 195, 197, 293, 295, 309-310 Ticino 128, 216 Tilburg 309 Tirelli, G. 104 Tripoli 53 Tröhler, Daniel 61 Trouvé, Claude-Joseph 12, 176-177, 216 Tuscany 217 United States of America 39, 113, 139, 185 Usteri, Paul 46, 59-64, 166-168. 203-204 Utrecht 307 Uri 11, 63 Valais 128 Valckenaer, Johan 190, 196, 307, 310-311 Vatebender, Gerard 119-122 Velema, Wyger 43-46, 151-152, 156, 264-265 Venice 54 Venturi, Franco 24, 31, 43, 50 Vercruysse, Jean 148 Verona 19 Verri, Pietro 97, 99, 101 Vignolle, Martin 179 Visconti, Katia 148-149

322 

The Political Culture of the Sister Republics, 1794-1806

Vitaliani, Vincenzo 287 Vitringa, Herman 154, 194 Vreede, Pieter 79, 154, 156-157, 196, 258, 294, 296, 309-310 Weeber, Urte 43, 251 William V (stadholder) 75, 117 Williams, David 98

Wit, Cornelis de 187 Würgler, Andreas 21, 147 Zeeland 116, 192 Zurbuchen, Simone 59 Zurich, city of 59-60, 62-63, 129, 132-133, 160, 166, 299 Zurich, canton of 11, 161, 263, 283