Engineering the Lower Danube: Technology and Territoriality in an Imperial Borderland, Late Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries 9789633865804

Citation preview

HISTOR ICA L STUDIES in Ea stern Europe a nd Eura sia Volu m e I X SERIES EDITORS

A lexei Mi l ler, A lfred R ieber, Marsha Siefert

Published in the Series: Ȇ Robert J. Abbott, Policemen of the Tsar: Local Police in an Age of Upheaval (2022) Ȇ Georgiy Kasianov, Memory Crash: Politics of History in and Around Ukraine, 1980s–2010s (2022) Ȇ Victor Taki, Russia on the Danube: Empire, Elites, and Reform in Moldavia and Wallachia, 1812–1834 (2021) Ȇ Darius Staliūnas and Yoko Aoshima, eds., The Tsar, the Empire, and the Nation: Dilemmas of Nationalization in Russia’s Western Borderlands, 1905–1915 (2021) Ȇ Andrei Cusco, A Contested Borderland: Competing Russian and Romanian Visions of Bessarabia in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century (2017) Ȇ Darius Staliūnas, Enemies for a Day: Antisemitism and Anti-Jewish Violence in Lithuania under the Tsars (2015) Ȇ Anu Mai Koll, The Village and the Class War: Anti-Kulak Campaign in Estonia (2013) Ȇ Burton Richard Miller, Rural Unrest during the First Russian Revolution: Kursk Province, 1905–1906 (2013)

Technology and International Cooperation in an Imperial Borderland Luminita Gatejel

C ent ra l E u rop e a n Un i ver sit y Pre s s B ud ap e s t–Vien n a– Ne w York

Copyright © by Luminita Gatejel 2022 Published in 2022 by Central European University Press Nádor utca 11, H-1051 Budapest, Hungary Tel: +36-1-327-3138 or 327-3000 E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.ceupress.com All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the permission of the Publisher. ISBN 978-963-386-579-8 (hardback) ISBN 978-963-386-580-4 (ebook) ISSN: 2306-3637

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available Names: Gatejel, Luminita, author. Title: Engineering the lower Danube : technology and international cooperation in an imperial borderland / Luminita Gatejel. Description: Budapest ; New York : Central European University Press, 2022. | Series: Historical studies in Eastern Europe and Eurasia, 2306-3637 ; volume IX | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022047262 (print) | LCCN 2022047263 (ebook) | ISBN 9789633865798 (hardback) | ISBN 9789633865804 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: River engineering--Danube River--History. | River engineering--Danube River Delta (Romania and Ukraine)--History. | River engineering--International cooperation. | Danube River Delta Region (Romania and Ukraine)--History. | BISAC: HISTORY / Europe / General | HISTORY / Modern / 19th Century Classification: LCC TC495.D35 G38 2022 (print) | LCC TC495.D35 (ebook) | DDC 627/.1209496--dc23/eng/20221205 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022047262 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022047263

To the memory of my aunt Vica and to my cousins Carmela, Gigi, and Iuli who taught me to love the Danube

C on t e n ts

Acknowledgements   List of Figures   List of Acronyms and Abbreviations  

Introduction  Engineering International Cooperation on the Lower Danube  Building Infrastructure along the Lower Danube  Sources and Outline 

ix xi xiii 1 7 13 19

Chapter 1

Exploring the Danube  Knowledge and the Imperial Appropriation of the Lower Danube  Luigi Marsigli and Austrian Expansionism on the Lower Danube  The First Habsburg Economic Enterprises on the Lower Danube   State Support and Renewed Attempts to Upgrade the Danube Route   New Habsburg Assessments at the Turn of the Century  Why Did the Shipping Connection on the Danube Fail?   Russia’s Steady Advance to the Lower Danube  Russia’s “Enlightened” Projects Along the Lower Danube   Conclusion  

25 27 31 34 45 56 63 66 68 78

Chapter 2

Connecting the Danube with the Sea Physical and Symbolic Boundaries at the Iron Gates  Military Surveys at the Iron Gates  Technical Assessments of the Iron Gates  Negotiating the Passage to the Lower Danube  First Engineering Breakthrough at the Iron Gates   Traveling through the Iron Gates  Delays and Damage on the Sulina Channel  Circumventing the Danube Delta   Conclusion 

81 84 89 92 95 100 106 111 118 125

Chapter 3

From Confrontation to Cooperation: The Crimean War and Its Aftermath  War as an Opportunity at the Iron Gates   The Danube Delta During the Crimean War  The Failed Riverine Commission  Engineering Breakthrough at the Mouth of the Danube  Hartley’s Provisional Project at the Sulina Bar  The Inauguration of Hartley’s Piers  Conclusion 

129 132 138 141 154 163 171 177

Chapter 4

The Danube Delta: A Success in International Ruling  Provisional Regulations for the Delta  The Public Act on Navigation  Budget Constraints   On the Way to Permanency   Consolidation Works at Sulina  Straightening the Sulina Channel  Conclusion 

181 184 191 200 204 217 223 233

Chapter 5

The Iron Gates Torn Between Imperial, International, and National Interests  The Engineer Versus the Entrepreneur   The Limited Influence of the International Commission   A New Commission of Foreign Experts  Public Engineering Debates in Vienna   The Regulation of the Iron Gates as a Hungarian State-Building Measure  Impact and Consequences of the Regulation Project   Conclusion  

Conclusions 

237 239 248 258 260 266 278 288 291

Bibliography  

303

Index

323



Ac k now l e dg m e n ts

It took a long time to write this book. Many people helped me in the various stages of the project. Ulf Brunnbauer, the director of the Leibniz Institute for East and Southeast European Studies (IOS), where I have been working for the past ten years, accompanied this process from its very first start. I am indebted to him for championing the project and for providing valuable new insights and comments on the manuscript, including the very detailed and useful review he wrote for the German Habilitation. By providing all the necessary resources to conduct research in several countries and financial support for language editing and proofreading, the IOS proved to be the perfect place to conduct such a lengthy research endeavor. My dear colleagues here in Regensburg heard me out multiple times, helping me to strengthen my argument and commenting on the many drafts. I am particularly grateful to Stefano Petrungaro, Natali Stegmann, Brigitte LeNormand, Friederike KindKovács, Sabine Rutar, Adrian Grama, Svetlana Suveica, Heike Karge, Edvin Pezo, Ezster Varsa, Konrad Clewing, Guido Hausmann, and Pieter Troch. For providing useful comments and critique, I further want to thank Maike Lehmann, Walter Sperling, Theodora Dragostinova, Mary Neuburger, Madalina Veres, Steven Jobbitt, Stefan Dorondel, Corina Dobos, Márta Fata, Olivia Spiridon, Klaus Gestwa, Ingrid Schierle, Alexa von Winning, Christian Maner, Jan Kusber, Maren Röger, Irina Marin, Daniel Brett, James Koranyi, Dietmar Neutatz and Michel Abeßer. Constantin Ardeleanu was essential in guiding me through the maze of the Romanian archives and let me partake in his vast knowledge about the Lower Danube. I am deeply grateful for his help. Rainer Liedtke, Oliver Jens Schmitt, Susanne Schattenberg, and Hannes Grandits accompanied the Habilitation process and I want to thank them for their notes and reviews that helped me turn ix

the manuscript into a book ready for submission. I am equally grateful to Constantin Iordachi and Robert Nemes for reviewing the book for CEU Press and for sharpening my arguments. Karin Taylor and Rachel Trode proofread earlier drafts, greatly improving my academic English. Marsha Siefert enthusiastically supported this book project from its early stages and included it into this series. I further want to express my gratitude to the editorial team at CEU press, particularly to József Litkei and Linda Kunos, for taking such good care of my manuscript. This book couldn’t have found a better home. My final words of thanks go to my family, my parents Elena and Paul in Romania, Andreas and Paul in Regensburg who always make me laugh and although at times disturb my work, they always remind me that there is a great life outside of books and screens. Parts of chapter 2 of this book first appeared in “Overcoming the Iron Gates: Austrian Transport and River Regulation at the Lower Danube, 1830s–1840s,” Central European History 49 (2016): 162–80; parts of chapter 3 were first published in “Building a Better Passage to the Sea: Engineering and River Management at the Mouth of the Danube, 1829–61,” Technology and Culture 59 (2018): 925–53; and finally, parts of chapter 4 were first published in “Imperial Cooperation at the Margins of Europe: The European Commission of the Danube, 1856–1865,” European Review of History/Revue Européene d’Histoire 24 (2017): 781–800. I am grateful to the editors of these journals for their permission to integrate this material into the book.

x

L i s t of Figu r e s

Figure 1. Navigational map of the Danube   xiv Figure 2. Excerpt of the navigational map of the Danube: The Lower Danube   xvi Figure 3. The Iron Gates. The dangerous passage on the Danube below Orsova   41 Figure 4. Map of the Iron Gates   49 Figure 5. Map of the Danube Delta   55 Figure 6. Map of Moldavia   70 Figure 7. Portrait of the young István Széchenyi at the Iron Gates   96 Figure 8. A published copy of Spratt’s delta map from 1865   140 Figure 9. Hartley’s piers of 1861   171 Figure 10. Map of the cuts completed on the Sulina branch between 1868 and 1902   233 Figure 11. Wex’s engineering plan at the Iron Gates, including the new navigation canal    242 Figure 12. The temporarily drained Danube   271 Figure 13. The Iron Gates Canal   277

xi



Ac ron y m s a n d A bbr e v i at ions

At-OeStA Österreichisches Staatsarchiv AVA Allgemeines Verwaltungsarchiv CED Commission Européenne du Danube DDSG First Danube Steamboat Shipping Company ECD European Commission of the Danube GStA Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz HHStA Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv IHC International Health Council KA Kriegsarchiv KPA Karten und Plansammlungen LB Länderbeschreibungen MdÄ Ministerium des Äußeren RDC Riparian Danube Commission

xiii

Figure 1. Navigational map of the Danube, Vienna 1837. Source: Carte du cours du Danube depuis Ulm jusqu’ à son embouchure dans la mer Noire, ou Guide de voyage à Constantinople, sur le Danube avec indication de tout ce qui a rapport à la navigation des Pyroscaphes sur cette route, Artaria, 1837, Gallica Digital Library, Wikipedia Commons.

xv

Figure 2. Excerpt of the navigational map of the Danube: The Lower Danube.

xvi

Introduction

“C

ommercially speaking, the Danube flows the wrong way, from West to East.” This statement has been attributed to Hungarian Count István Széchenyi, German Chancellor Otto von Bismarck, and later even to some anonymous Hungarian, Romanian, or Austrian. Variations of this statement, whether real or fictitious, hint at the fact that the Danube could never fully deliver on the promise that it would become a cheap, fast, and lucrative waterway.1 Széchenyi elaborated on this statement by saying that the Danube flowed away from Western markets where Hungarian agricultural products were being sold. Moreover, it ran into the sea—almost a dead end.2 In addition to the alleged wrong direction of its flow, the Danube encountered many physical and artificial obstacles on its way to the sea, such as mountain ridges, shallow spots, border controls, quarantine regulations, and customs duties. To make matters worse, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries a prolonged state of war along the emerging HabsburgOttoman-Russian border put shipping traffic repeatedly on hold.3 Under these circumstances, it is all the more puzzling that many state officials and private entrepreneurs, first from the Habsburg Monarchy and later from other empires, tried to establish the Danube as one of the main

Stephan Széchenyi, Ueber den Credit (Leipzig: Georg Maret, 1830), 98; Otto Weber-Krohse, Hans Lothar von Schweinitz: Der Botschafter Wilhelms des Ersten als Charakter und Staatsmann (Hann. Münden: Klugkist, 1937), 46; Christina Linsboth, “The Danube Flows in the Wrong Direction: Waterways as a Form of Transport with Obstacles,” in The World of the Habsburgs, http://www.habsburger.net/en/chapter/danube-flows-wrong-direction-waterways-form-transport-obstacles (January 21, 2019). 2 Széchenyi, Ueber den Credit, 98. 3 Alfred J. Rieber, The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands: From the Rise of Early Modern Empires to the End of the First World War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 314–30; Brian L. Davies, Empire and Military Revolution in Eastern Europe: Russia’s Turkish Wars in the Eighteenth Century (London: Continuum, 2011), 123–27. 1

1

I ntroduction

shipping connections linking the Occident with the Orient. Széchenyi himself was directly involved in upgrading the Danube route. There are several reasons why these actors embraced a seemingly lost cause. First, given their expansionist policies along the Danube, the river became part of the commercial and strategic reorientation of the Habsburg and Russian Empires. Second, in the 1830s steam technology enabled ships to travel upstream for the first time. And third, demand for grain in Britain and other European empires set in motion several initiatives to extract supplies from the principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia via the Danube and the Black Sea.4 However, reflections on the poor economic prospects of the Danube and their possible improvement were primarily a matter of perspective. Ottoman voices are conspicuously absent from this negative assessment, as the Danube was well integrated into the imperial transport network.5 In other words, mostly those states looking eastwards at the flow of the Danube noticed its shortcomings and tried to correct its course. Following this perspective, this book examines how imperialism and technology transformed the Danube during the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and virtually made it into a different river. It focuses on the Lower Danube—the stretch between the former Habsburg-Ottoman border, today the Romanian-Serbian border, and the confluence with the Black Sea—where the expansionist tendencies of the Habsburg and British Empires encountered rival Ottoman and Russian imperial projects. By the end of this process, the Lower Danube had become an international waterway ruled by free trade policies and whose course increasingly resembled an artificial canal ensuring a smooth passage for shipping. In terms of the overall purpose of this transformation, the Lower Danube underwent the same transformation as other major European water arteries.6 However, there were signifi4 Constantin Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube: The Sulina Question and the Economic Premises of the Crimean War, 1829–1853 (Brăila: Muzeul Brăilei, 2014), 100–117; Bogdan Murgescu, România şi Europa: Acumularea decalajelor economice, 1500–2010 (Iaşi: Polirom, 2010), 114–23; Gelina Harlaftis, A History of Greek Owned Shipping: The Making of an International Tramp Fleet, 1830 to the Present Day (London: Routledge, 1996). 5 Rossitsa Gradeva “Shipping Along the Lower Course of the Danube (End of the 17th Century),” in The Kapudan Pasha: His Office and His Domain, ed. Elizabeth Zachariadou (Rethymno: Crete University Press, 2002), 301–23; Alan Mikhail, Nature and Empire in Ottoman Egypt. An Environmental History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 149–60. 6 David Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature: Water, Landscape, and the Making of Modern Germany (New York: Norton, 2007); Mark Cioc, The Rhine: An Eco-Biography, 1815–2000 (Seattle: University of

2

I ntroduction

cant differences concerning how this makeover was put into practice, when it took place, and who were the main actors pushing for change. Simply put: the eastward orientation of the Danube determined the way the river was remade. The so-called Eastern Question, namely the ongoing debate among the European Great Powers on whether to dissolve or secure the integrity of the Ottoman Empire, deeply influenced the course of action taken along the Lower Danube.7 Thus, the Ottoman Danube became a space prone to the intervention of the Concert of Europe and where international bodies could more easily assert influence. In other words, the main impulses for transformation were not generated by the territorial powers; rather, non-riparian states pushed forward the internationalization of the Lower Danube. The remaking of the Danube took place on two different, though interrelated, levels. First, military conflicts and the ensuing peace treaties changed the nature of sovereignty over the Ottoman Danube. The Peace of Westphalia (1648) was the first international treaty to deal specifically with shared waters, leaving a mixed legacy. On the one hand, it introduced to international law the idea of modern sovereignty, meaning the full empowerment of a state within its given territory.8 On the other, it implemented the idea of free navigation on the Rhine, framing trade between the riparian states as a common good and a shared interest that should restrict the absolute power of the sovereign.9 This was the starting point of a process that detached the Rhine, and later other international rivers, from their shores and in the aftermath of the Congress of Vienna (1815) placed them under the international jurisdiction of river commissions.10 Thus, the post-Vienna Washington Press, 2002); Donald Worster, Rivers of Empire: Water, Aridity, and the Growth of the American West (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992); Sara B. Pritchard, Confluence: The Nature of Technology and the Remaking of the Rhône (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011), Christopher Morris, The Big Muddy: An Environmental History of the Mississippi and Its Peoples from Hernando de Soto to Hurricane Katrina (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Mikhail, Nature and Empire in Ottoman Egypt. 7 Matthew S. Anderson, The Eastern Question, 1774–1923: A Study in International Relations, 8th edition (Houndmills: Macmillan, 1991); Lucien J. Frary and Mara Kozelsky, eds., Russian-Ottoman Borderlands: The Eastern Question Reconsidered (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2014). 8 Charles S. Maier, Once Within Borders: Territories of Power, Wealth, and Belonging since 1500 (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2016), 9. 9 Terje Tvedt, Owen McIntyre and Tadesse Kassa Woldetsadik, “Sovereignty, the Web of Water and the Myth of Westphalia,” in A History of Water, series 3, vol. 2, Sovereignty and International Water Law, ed. Terje Tvedt, Owen McIntyre, and Tadesse Kassa Woldetsadik (London: I.B. Tauris, 2015), 6–9. 10 Ibid., 10; Cioc, The Rhine, 1–2.

3

I ntroduction

order managed to pacify the Rhine following the violent conflicts of the Napoleonic wars by prescribing cooperation to the riparian states under the banner of mutual commercial gain.11 In contrast, the Vienna Final Act had virtually no impact on the Danubian space where the Ottoman, Habsburg, and Russian Empires continued to clash violently over access to the river. Furthermore, the other Great Powers used the apparent weakness displayed by the Ottoman Empire during these conflicts as an excuse to intervene and regulate river rights. The formal internationalization of the Danube was initiated late, after the Crimean War, when two Danube commissions were created in 1856 to guarantee the principle of free navigation and ensure cooperation among the riparian and non-riparian states. The ill-fated Riparian Danube Commission (RCD, frequently called the Riverine Commission) and the much more stable European Commission of the Danube (ECD) acted as umbrella institutions that not only had an international legal status, but also took over the administration of the river.12 Thus, the concerted intervention of the Great Powers forced the Ottoman Empire and later its successor states to give up more territorial rights than the riparian states on other transboundary rivers. On the one hand, the ECD was able to enforce such far-reaching internationalization to become the primary ruling body on the river because the concerted action of the Great Powers thwarted any resistance coming from individual powers. On the other hand, the ECD picked up the idea of the river as a “common good” to convince the riparian states of the benefits of an equally shared river, hinting mostly at commercial profit. Thus, the eastward flow of the Lower Danube through the Ottoman Empire determined a certain type of internationalization which allowed the other European powers to obtain unrestricted access to the river. Along with the process of internationalization, a second transformation of the Danube took place. The free navigation regime along the Lower Danube had far-reaching consequences for the physical shape of the river. From the eighteenth century, state officials, engineers, and entrepreneurs, first from the neighboring empires and later from other European states, started to 11 Robert Mark Spaulding, “Revolutionary France and the Transformation of the Rhine,” Central European History 44, no. 2 (2011): 218–21. 12 Edward Krehbiel, “The European Commission of the Danube: An Experiment in International Administration,” Political Science Quarterly 33, no. 1 (1918): 38–55.

4

I ntroduction

envision the Danube as a connecting waterway across borders. Although the first initiatives to improve the Danube’s navigability mostly stemmed either from private entrepreneurs or state officials, engineers and their specialized knowledge offered concrete plans to divert the course of the river and optimize its use.13 In addition, international cooperation schemes and river commissions offered them new arenas in which they could put their knowledge to work.14 Setting smooth and steady shipping traffic as their goal, engineers started to remove certain physical features of the river, such as stone barriers, shallow spots, sand bars, islands, and bends. At the turn of the nineteenth century, they further adapted the river in order to accommodate steam navigation and a regular steamboat service, building a comprehensive river infrastructure. Ultimately, the river regulation projects reassembled the Danube into a straight, uninterrupted connection between Central Europe and the Black Sea, and from there to any destination in the world. Here again, the eastward course of the Danube determined its transformation. Projects to improve navigation conditions focused on two spots on the Ottoman Danube in particular: the stone ridge of the Iron Gates (a gorge today situated on the border between Serbia and Romania) and the delta. Both spots were highly complicated from a hydrologic point of view and were territorially contested among the empires.15 Due to the fact that they were situated at the margins of the Ottoman Empire where territorial jurisdiction not only overlapped but also frequently shifted, engineers and other experts from the neighboring empires were able to venture into Ottoman 13 On water infrastructure in general and on the Danube in particular, see Terje Tvedt and Eva Jakobsson, eds., A History of Water, series 1, vol. 1, Water Control and River Biographies (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006); Martin Kohlrausch and Helmuth Trischler, Building Europe on Expertise: Innovators, Organizers, Networkers (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 50–52; Julia Obertreis, Imperial Desert Dreams: Cotton Growing and Irrigation in Central Asia, 1860–1991 (Göttingen: V&R Unipress, 2017), 33–47; Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature, 7–8; Lyubomir Pozharliev, Florian Riedler and Stefan Rohdewald, “Introduction to the Special Issue: Transottoman Infrastructures and Networks across the Black Sea,” Journal of Balkan and Black Sea Studies 3, no. 5 (2020): 13–18. 14 Davide Rodogno, Bernhard Struck, and Jakob Vogel “Introduction,” in Shaping the Transnational Sphere: Experts, Networks and Issues from the 1840s to the 1930s, edited by Davide Rodogno, Bernhard Struck, and Jakob Vogel (New York, NY: Berghahn, 2015), 2. 15 The name Iron Gates refers to the seven cataracts that separated the Middle from the Lower Danube and marked the border between the Habsburg Monarchy and the Ottoman Empire in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In the delta, where Ottoman, Russian, and Habsburg spheres of influence overlapped, sand accumulation at the bar threatened to seal off the only navigable channel connecting the river with the Black Sea. See Ellen Wohl, A World of Rivers: Environmental Change on Ten of the World’s Great Rivers (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2011), 127–34.

5

I ntroduction

territory to survey the river, collect data, and even to conduct essential construction work. In addition, the Danube commissions and the internationalization process they set in motion put the physical alteration of the two spots on the agenda of the Concert of Europe. With the goal of easing shipping, engineers began to rework these spots by eliminating shoals and ridges, straightening bends, and removing the sand bar at the confluence. As a consequence, engineers and scientists from all over Europe became responsible for the physical remaking of the Ottoman Danube. The main goal of this transformation was to build a first-rate shipping canal, tailored after the commercial needs of the Great Powers. At the junction of this double transformation process, we find technical expertise and international cooperation schemes. This monograph argues that transnational actors such as engineers, commissioners, and entrepreneurs were the driving force behind the remaking of the Lower Danube. It offers new insights into the “black box” in which international cooperation emerged and technical expertise was produced, shedding light on a specific historical and geographical context in which these actors joined forces to transform this part of the river. It reveals that “internationalization” meant two different things at the outer margins of the Lower Danube. The mouth of the Danube came under the direct jurisdiction of the Great Powers who promoted free trade policies that aligned the river with the needs of international navigation. Meanwhile, the Habsburg Monarchy kept this type of international intrusion away from its borders. A more straightforward form of imperialism took shape at the Iron Gates where the monarchy ventured into neighboring territory to secure its commercial interests—expansion that was later sanctioned by international law. Engineers occupied a key position in the coalition that pushed the internationalization of the Danube forward. They were able to convert visions into concrete technical projects and often kept them alive even when decisionmakers lost interest or lacked resources, waiting for an appropriate moment to bring them back to the agenda. Furthermore, engineers were essential to the internationalization process because they used their professional connections to gather knowledge and expertise from all over the world. In addition, as most of these professionals had an official position or a governmental mandate abroad, they were able to influence or set agendas in river management. Working abroad in an international context, they learned to adapt for6

I ntroduction

mal knowledge to local conditions, acting as “mediators” between various political, financial, and environmental constraints.16 As such, one important aspect of their work was to conceive of engineering constructions as an extension of the natural environment, thus actively blurring the boundaries between human and non-human actors. Engineering International Cooperation on the Lower Danube An in-depth history based on modern theoretical approaches has yet to be written for the Danube, one of the most important rivers in Europe.17 Most of the existing literature dates back to the beginning of the twentieth century and only records legal and technical developments without analyzing how these changes happened.18 Likewise, a recent monograph on its history spans three thousand years and, while being very useful, has no analytical goal but is merely descriptive.19 In recent years, however, important progress has been made. Scholars have started to tease out the strategic and economic importance of the Lower Danube. Several studies have focused on the delta as a highly contested site both now and in the past.20 Engineering the Lower Danube is distinct from all these publications both in scope and purpose. It offers an overarching view of the Lower Danube’s transformation over one and a half centuries, explaining this with the help of a combined transnational history and science and technology studies methodology. This study makes an important contribution to the growing literature on experts working in an international setting and on building transboundary river infrastructure. Recently, the emergence of global governance has 16 The term “mediator” is borrowed from Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to ActorNetwork-Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 39–42. 17 Matthew Evenden, “Beyond the Organic Machine? New Approaches in River Historiography,” Environmental History 23, no. 4 (2018): 698–720. 18 To name just a few: Henri Hajnal, Le Droit du Danube International (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1929); Henry Hajnal, The Danube: Its Historical, Political and Economic Importance (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1920). 19 Michael W. Weithmann, Die Donau: Geschichte eines europäischen Flusses (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2012). 20 Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube; Constantin Iordachi and Kristof van Assche, eds. The Bio-Politics of the Danube Delta: Nature, History, Policies (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2015); Stefan Dorondel and Veronica Mitroi, “Nature, State and Conservation in the Danube Delta: Turning Fishermen into Outlaws,” in The Nature State: Rethinking the History of Conservation, eds. Wilko Graf von Hardenberg et al. (London: Routledge, 2017), 194–212.

7

I ntroduction

attracted the attention of numerous scholars interested in studying connections and circulation beyond the boundaries of the state.21 Historians in particular have looked at how and why international organizations proliferated in the mid-nineteenth century. According to Akira Iriye, internationalism in the sense of cooperation between states had always existed, but the formation of a “global community,” which he defines as a web of transnational connections and networks that cut across national frontiers, is a much more recent phenomenon that started with the creation of the first international organizations.22 International organizations reflected the interconnectedness of the world brought about by new developments in production and transport technologies, dealing with issues that transcended the competence of single states, such as access to world markets or issues of public health.23 By establishing common rules and standards that protected shared interests and regulated interstate exchanges, they institutionalized “internationalism” and promoted global governance.24 In particular, the early-stage formation of international organizations has been the focus of several books that brush over river commissions.25 Thus, this monograph makes a compelling case for a thorough examination of river regulation commissions as a laboratory for new forms of international cooperation, anticipating developments that expanded at the turn of the twentieth century. For instance, these commissions shaped one of the first cohorts of international bureaucrats who shared loyalties both to their governments and to an international organization. Under these circumstances, the book explores the agency of these international actors—political representatives and technical experts—who did not simply implement the goals of the Great Powers but defined through their work what international cooperation meant on the ground. In addition, the technical personnel working 21 Sandrine Kott, “International Organizations: A Field of Research for a Global History,” Zeithistorische Forschungen/Studies in Contemporary History 8, no. 3 (2011): 446. 22 Akira Iriye, Global Community: The Role of International Organizations in the Making of the Contemporary World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 7–10. 23 Madeleine Herren, “International Organizations, 1865–1945,” in The Oxford Handbook of International Organizations, edited by Jacob Katz Cogan, Ian Hurd, and Ian Johnstone (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 91–92. 24 Martin H. Geyer and Johannes Paulmann, “Introduction: The Mechanics of Internationalism,” in The Mechanics of Internationalism: Culture, Society, and Politics from the 1840s to the First World War, edited by Martin H. Geyer and Johannes Paulmann (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 3. 25 Herren, “International Organizations,” 91–92.

8

I ntroduction

at the Iron Gates and at the river’s confluence formed “epistemic communities” in the making by exchanging cross-imperial knowledge and producing new expertise.26 Still, when writing about building infrastructure across borders, most scholars credit (nation-)states with the implementation of such projects, while asserting that international organizations held little decision-making powers, their role being merely to coordinate between various national interests or to set common standards for existing infrastructures.27 This study sets out to amend this claim by underlining the special legal status of the Lower Danube that empowered international river commissions to plan engineering projects on their own. Still, the ECD was in this context a unique exception, as it not only built but also administered water construction collectively. Thus, it is all the more puzzling that the ECD’s unique contribution to fostering international cooperation has attracted so little scholarly attention. The literature consists mostly of brief descriptive overviews or of rather outdated studies that date back to the beginning of the twentieth century.28 There are a few exceptions. Guido Thiemeyer’s article that surveys the process of European integration in the longue durée briefly mentions the importance of the ECD in shaping international cooperation on the river.29 Constantin Iordachi’s piece links the economic development of the mouth of the Danube after the Crimean War to overarching maritime connections and networks. He analyzes the various attempts to institutionalize these networks, both as “effective means of regional hegemony and of successful integration into the 26 Peter M. Haas, “Introduction: Epistemic Communities and International Policy Coordination,” International Organization 46, no. 1 (Winter 1992): 1–35. See also Wolfram Kaiser and Johan Schot, Writing the Rules for Europe: Experts, Cartels and International Organizations (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 9; Rodogno, Struck, and Vogel “Introduction,” 6–7; Mai’a K. Davis Cross, “Rethinking Epistemic Communities Twenty Years Later,” Review of International Studies 39, no. 1 (2013): 137–60. 27 Erik van der Vleuten and Arne Kaijser, “Networking Europe,” History and Technology 21, no. 1 (2005): 21–48; Erik van der Vleuten et al, “Europe’s System Builders: The Contested Shaping of Transnational Road, Electricity and Rail Networks,” Contemporary European History 16, no. 3 (2007): 321–47. 28 Alexandru Ghișa, “Stages in the Institutional Establishment of Danube Cooperation: From the European Commission of the Danube to the Danube Commission,” Transylvanian Review 19, no. 4 (2010): 130–40; Bob Reinalda, “The Relevance of International River Commissions: the Danube Commission of 1856,” in Routledge History of International Organizations: From 1815 to the Present Day, ed. Bob Reinalda (London: Routledge, 2009), 107–11. For a complete list of the historical literature on the Danube commissions, see Constantin Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 1856–1948: An Experiment in International Administration (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 18–23. 29 Guido Thiemeyer, “Die Integration der Donau-Schifffahrt als Problem der europäischen Zeitgeschichte,” Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 49 (2009): 303–18.

9

I ntroduction

world market.” Thus, he emphasizes the geopolitical rivalries in the region, pinning the post-1878 modernization of the Dobrudja region (situated southwest of the delta) under a national Romanian paradigm against the common European intervention on the Danube under the umbrella of the ECD, for which he coined the term “collective imperialisms.”30 Furthermore, the study that provides the most comprehensive treatment of the ECD’s important role in shaping internationalization is Constantin Ardeleanu’s recent monograph that examines the commission’s institutional history as part of “Europe’s nascent security cooperation.”31 It captures the metamorphosis of the ECD into a functioning international organization that became a source of stability in a highly contested imperial borderland.32 When it comes to the Lower Danube, a very specific form of international cooperation took shape. Overall, there were multiple motivations for international cooperation in the nineteenth century and the expectation of economic benefit was the most obvious among them. Many internationalists were avid defenders of free trade because they believed it would bring unprecedented wealth. However, these purely economic motives often became intertwined with political and moral considerations.33 The Industrial Revolution created economic and military asymmetries between the European powers and the rest of the world, which these states used to expand their economic interests.34 The doctrine of free trade, understood as commercial exchange without customs, promoted these interests and made a case for open markets and an international policy that would abolish tariffs.35 At the same 30 Constantin Iordachi, “Global Networks, Regional Hegemony, and Seaport Modernization at the Lower Danube,” in Cities of the Mediterranean: From the Ottomans to the Present Day, ed. Biray Kolluoğlu and Meltem Toksöz (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2010), 167–69; Constantin Iordachi, Citizenship, Nation- and State-Building: The Integration of Northern Dobrogea into Romania, 1878–1913 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2002), 1–2. 31 Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 8. The monograph expands on his previous work that analyzed the activity of the British representatives in the commission: Constantin Ardeleanu, Evoluția intereselor economice şi politice britanice la gurile Dunării, 1829–1914 (Brăila: Muzeul Brăilei, 2008). 32 Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 10. 33 Geyer and Paulmann, Mechanics of Internationalism, 21. 34 Ronald Findlay and Kevin H. O’Rourke, Power and Plenty: Trade, War, and the World Economy in the Second Millennium (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007), 387–88. 35 Wolfram Kaiser, “Cultural Transfer of Free Trade at the World Exhibitions, 1851–1862,” Journal of Modern History 77, no. 3 (2005): 564–65; David Todd, Free Trade and its Enemies in France, 1814–1851 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2015), 1–5.

10

I ntroduction

time, proponents of free trade (particularly its British variant) argued that it was a vehicle for “world bettering,” claiming that it would encourage moral regeneration and allow economically backward countries to capitalize on their resources and reform their outdated economic systems.36 However, this impetus to improve the world was underscored by the belief in the superiority of European civilization and in the moral obligation of the European powers to intervene in societies they considered inferior.37 A large number of international bodies initiated by the European Great Powers specifically targeted the Ottoman Empire. These various forms of interference were possible because the Europeans perceived the Ottoman Empire both as a sovereign state and a legitimate object of intervention.38 While the principle of sovereignty prevented interference in the internal affairs of foreign states, European states considered themselves politically and even morally obliged to prevent or cure internal disorder on Ottoman territory.39 This highly complex and often contradictory relationship between the European Great Powers and the Ottoman Empire justified several experiments in international governance which replaced local administration.40 It is quite striking that several straits situated at the margins of the European continent, bordering the Ottoman Empire, like the Dardanelles, the Bosporus, and the newly built Suez Canal, were internationalized during the nineteenth century. Specifically, what becomes clear from this list is that points of passage to the sea became the focus of an interventionist policy through which the Great Powers hoped to foster quicker

36 Martin Lynn, “British Policy, Trade, and Informal Empire in the Mid-Nineteenth Century,” in The Oxford History of the British Empire, vol. 3, The Nineteenth Century, ed. Andrew Porter (London: Oxford University Press, 1999), 102–3. 37 Sebastian Conrad and Jürgen Osterhammel, eds., Wege zur modernen Welt, 1750–1870 (Munich: Verlag C.H. Beck, 2016), 339–40; Davide Rodogno, Against Massacre: Humanitarian Interventions in the Ottoman Empire, 1815–1914 (Princeton and New York: Princeton University Press, 2012), 12. 38 Herren, “International Organizations, 1865–1945,” 95; Conrad and Osterhammel, Wege zur modernen Welt, 340–43. 39 Lucien J. Frary and Mara Kozelsky, “Introduction: The Eastern Question Reconsidered,” in RussianOttoman Borderlands: The Eastern Question Reconsidered, edited by Lucien J. Frary and Mara Kozelsky (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2014), 4. 40 Valeska Huber, “The Unification of the Globe by Disease? The International Sanitary Conferences on Cholera, 1851–1894,” Historical Journal 49, no. 2 (2006): 463; Sylvia Chiffoleau, “Entre initiation au jeu international, pouvoir colonial et mémoire nationale: le Conseil sanitaire d’Alexandrie, 1865–1938,” Égypte/Monde arabe 4, no 1. (2007): 55–74.

11

I ntroduction

and more reliable trade connections with various parts of the world.41 Thus, commercial interests, as much as moral considerations, motivated this policy. In this context, the book examines how trade imperialism shaped various international cooperation schemes along the Lower Danube, transforming the river in such a way that the European Great Powers could pursue their economic interests. Still, sharing economic and political goals did not mean that the Great Powers spoke with one voice, as common agreements often emerged from bitter struggles. In addition, it mattered to the outcome of attempted cooperation where along the Danube it was initiated, with the Habsburg Monarchy being particularly successful in protecting its borders from European intrusion. These asymmetric power relations between the European Great Powers and the Ottoman Empire are just one side of the story. Although cooperation projects and international organizations were most often instruments of coercion directed at non-Western states, they also “made it possible for states not belonging to the exclusive club of the so-called Concert of Europe to participate in imperialist projects or to share political power in a way not known before.”42 This state of affairs was all the more true for the Lower Danube, where the river commissions gave the riparian states of Serbia, Moldavia, and Wallachia an international voice even before these three provinces were fully emancipated from the Ottoman Empire. Likewise, after Romania gained its independence, it joined the ECD as a full member working closely with the other Great Powers. Thus, allegedly minor actors on the European stage learned that even if they had to give up some territorial rights, international schemes could help them to promote their own interests. Similarly, the Ottoman Empire, which also had an ambivalent position among the European Great Powers, used its membership in international cooperation schemes to influence decision-making and participate in a common European policy.

41 Johannes Paulmann, “The Straits of Europe: History at the Margins of a Continent,” Bulletin of the German Historical Institute Washington 52 (2013): 26–28; Valeska Huber, Channelling Mobilities: Migration and Globalisation in the Suez Canal Region and Beyond, 1869–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 26–30. 42 Herren, International Organizations, 94.

12

I ntroduction

Building Infrastructure along the Lower Danube The desire to control nature also motivated the interest of the European Great Powers in the Lower Danube.43 Linked to free trade policies, mastery over nature would allow the manipulation of the river in such a way that the waterway could sustain a steady flow of ships. Moreover, being able to “improve” the flow of the Danube underscored the technical mastery of the Great Powers and justified interventions on foreign territory. Their technical involvement was based on the assumption that the riparian states (particularly the Russian and the Ottoman Empires) neither had the technical knowledge nor the means to improve the river on their own. This was another dimension of the European civilizing mission in relation to the Lower Danube that underpinned the technological superiority of the western European empires. This technical intervention was based on asymmetrical power and knowledge relations, best described by the term “hydroimperialism.”44 In other words, powerful actors built water infrastructure on the Lower Danube to “cement” their political and economic power.45 For instance, the Habsburg Monarchy, and later Hungary, used their influence inside the Concert of Europe to ensure that they would be solely in charge of the engineering works completed across the border on Ottoman and Serbian territory respectively. They underscored this endeavor with the claim that they possessed the best river specialists to complete this task. Moreover, the infrastructure that emerged at the Iron Gates was considered Hungarian property and the Hungarian government had the exclusive right to set the terms of its use. In the delta, the ECD as an institution enabled the Great Powers to impose their technical power on the riparian states. In this way, technical expertise and water management practices helped to foster uneven forms of

43 Joanne Yao, “‘Conquest from Barbarism’: The Danube Commission International Order and the Control of Nature as a Standard of Civilization,” European Journal of International Relations 25, no. 2 (2019): 335–59. 44 Sara B. Pritchard, “From Hydroimperialism to Hydrocapitalism: ‘French’ Hydraulics in France, North Africa, and Beyond,” Social Studies of Science 42, no. 4 (2012): 591–615; Sara B. Pritchard, “Toward an Environmental History of Technology,” in The Oxford Handbook of Environmental History, edited by ­A ndrew C. Isenberg (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 234. 45 Ashley Carse, Beyond the Big Ditch: Politics, Ecology, and Infrastructure at the Panama Canal (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2014), 6.

13

I ntroduction

political and economic power along the Lower Danube, improving access for certain groups of actors and restricting it for others. However, this assumption of technical superiority was only partly justified. Both the Russian and the Ottoman Empires proved more than capable of building complex river infrastructures, having both the technical expertise and the administrative capabilities to implement similar projects elsewhere.46 There were several reasons why they did not exert their technical proficiency on the Lower Danube. From an Ottoman point of view, the stone barrier at the Iron Gates protected Ottoman trade from Habsburg competition, hence the government had no reason to remove it. For the Russian Empire, the strategic value of the delta was far more important than its economic significance, preventing any massive investment in commercial infrastructure. As a consequence, the Russian administration of the delta avoided taking any substantial measures to improve navigability. European intervention after the Crimean War changed this state of affairs by co-opting the two empires into the international cooperation arrangements that targeted the Lower Danube. As members of the ECD in the delta and of various international expert commissions that dealt with the Iron Gates, Russian and Ottoman representatives shaped the way the new river infrastructure was built. Often overlooked in research literature is the remarkable contribution made to river regulation projects by French-educated engineers, frequently employed by the Ottomans. In this context, the book examines how international cooperation affected the technical regulation of the Lower Danube, namely by acknowledging that while uneven power relations between the riparian and non-riparian states determined water management practices, the international framework gave riparian states plenty of influence in establishing concrete action plans. Asymmetries of power deeply influenced the building of infrastructure, but they were certainly not the only factor to shape the outcome. It further involved reaching an understanding between various parties, not only between local and foreign powers. This process of finding a compromise shows that building river infrastructure was a negotiated and often contested historical process in which various actors voiced various views and pursued various interests. This is all the more true when dealing with infrastructures 46 Mikhail, Nature and Empire in Ottoman Egypt, 242–90; Guido Hausmann, Mütterchen Wolga: Ein Fluss als Erinnerungsort vom 16. bis ins frühe 20. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt: Campus Frankfurt, 2009), 145–62.

14

I ntroduction

that crossed political boundaries and where the voices of stakeholders quickly multiplied.47 In addition, opening up the river to foreign experts brought to its shores diverse, and often conflicting, engineering knowledge and expertise. Although civil engineering was a fairly recent profession, engineering schools had already established very distinct approaches and methodologies in dealing with spots that endangered navigation.48 Given these circumstances, the engineers, while representing their states’ interests and engineering tradition, additionally had to navigate various forms of knowledge, political influence, public opinion, economic priorities, and financial constraints in local contexts. This also meant, as Martin Reuss aptly put it, that engineers often spent more time planning and negotiating than building.49 Besides, building infrastructures was seldom a straightforward process. As Sara Pritchard points out, to present exclusively “the path taken” by a certain technological development creates a sense of inevitability or even a teleological representation of the past. By looking at developments and alternatives that never materialized, historians of technology can show that the way a certain technology was implemented was not always the result of a rational choice.50 Furthermore, Erik van der Vleuten and Arne Kaijser have remarked that most infrastructure projects built during the twentieth century were “missing links” of the infrastructure in previous centuries.51 Visions and plans existed long before concrete construction work began.52 As such, many infrastructure projects have long traditions that date back to the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries in which plans and ideas were passed from one generation to another. In this process, old ideas and techniques were repurposed, rebranded, or simply replaced, while new concepts and motivations were added to the existing ones.53 47 Pritchard, Confluence, 13; van der Vleuten and Kaijser, “Networking Europe,” 24. 48 Kohlrausch and Trischler, Building Europe on Expertise, 32–39. 49 Martin Reuss, “Seeing Like an Engineer: Water Projects and the Mediation of the Incommensurable,” Technology and Culture 49, no. 3 (2008): 531. 50 Pritchard, Confluence, 5. 51 van der Vleuten and Kaijser, “Networking Europe,” 22. 52 Ibid., 39–40; Jiří Janáč, European Coasts of Bohemia: Negotiating the Danube-Oder-Elbe Canal in a Troubled Twentieth Century (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2012), 235–36. 53 David Biggs, “Breaking from the Colonial Mold: Water Engineering and the Failure of Nation-Building in the Plain of Reeds, Vietnam,” Technology and Culture 49, no. 3 (2008): 599–623; Janáč, Coasts, 15; van der Vleuten and Kaijser, “Networking Europe,” 32; van der Vleuten et al, “Europe’s System Builders,” 321–47.

15

I ntroduction

Taking this into consideration, the book argues that the process of assembling and deciding on technical projects along the Lower Danube was just as significant as their execution. It traces several alternative visions and unfulfilled engineering plans for river regulation in order to show that the way the Lower Danube was shaped was just one of many possibilities. Alternatives to the solution ultimately put into practice reveal that while one of the options was “objectively” the best, various technical approaches served a number of political and economic interests. In this context, it is all the more important to explain which combination of factors and actors prevailed and moved these projects forward, and which lost influence over time, thus determining the specific infrastructural reshaping of the Danube. In addition, many of these alternatives were not simply lost in the process; rather, forgotten ideas resurfaced in a different context. Simply put, the legacy of past visions lingered on and shaped the course of the decisionmaking process. Since each river regulation project that was completed contained various layers of knowledge and expertise, one purpose of this book is to unpack the latter and trace the adaptation processes that enabled the projects’ execution. Ever since James C. Scott published his seminal work Seeing Like a State, scholars have been debating the role of experts in large-scale development schemes and the question of whether experts contributed to their failing. Such projects were mostly introduced to local circumstances by foreign professionals who excluded local knowledge and know-how.54 More recent literature, while acknowledging the intrusive nature of such projects, has portrayed engineers and other professionals as more subtle in their behavior and as well aware of the complexities they encountered on site. Yet, even when infrastructure projects benefited from local support, they did not always fare better. Moreover, being locally embedded did not prevent these schemes from turning destructive.55 Thus, state-driven technological development was “not simply a case of high modernist bullying run amok, but a more complicated affair in which compulsion, persuasion, and large and

54 James C. Scott, Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), 5–7. 55 Frederic Cooper, “Writing the History of Development,” Journal of Modern European History 8, no. 1 (2010): 8–9.

16

I ntroduction

small-scale technologies each played a part.”56 Particularly specialists operating in foreign, imperial contexts have been in part redeemed of their bad reputation. Colonial and foreign experts did not stay outsiders for long— due to the extended periods of time spent on site they became intimately familiar with their workplaces and developed in-depth knowledge about the objects of their study.57 This book finds inspiration in critique that emphasizes a more historical and localized view of how infrastructure development occurred. It follows the engineers who came to the Lower Danube on a stint to appropriate the river in the name of foreign powers but ended up spending decades studying certain spots on the waterway, becoming intimately familiar with the objects of their study. These professionals learned to adapt their formal training to local conditions. In doing so, they had to master a high degree of instability, finding compromises that enabled these projects to move forward. Much uncertainty stemmed from the contested nature of the space they operated in, where several empires competed with each other for jurisdiction and influence. Thus, frequent military confrontations impeded their work. At the same time, war also posed an opportunity for engineers, as it enabled them to venture into foreign territory to conduct surveys. In addition, they faced hazards and unpredictability resulting from the geographical conditions of the river. Devastating storms, strong currents, and unpredictable sand movements rendered the completion of regulation projects uncertain. And finally, tight budgets and unreliable cash flows often delayed the progression of engineering activities even more. As David Biggs’ research on the Mekong Delta has highlighted, engineers working under volatile military, financial, and environmental conditions had little control over the implementation of their projects. These projects suffered many setbacks or took a different course than the one originally predicted.58 Engineers aiming to master nature achieved this by constantly readjusting plans or repurposing older regulation schemes. What seems to be specific 56 Suzanne Moon, Technology and Ethical Idealism: A History of Development in the Netherlands East Indies. (Leiden: CNWS Publications, 2007), 5. 57 William Beinart, Karen Brown, and Daniel Gilfoyle, “Experts and Expertise in Colonial Africa Reconsidered: Science and the Interpenetration of Knowledge,” African Affairs 108, no. 432 (2009) 413–33. 58 Biggs, “Breaking from the Colonial Mold,” 603–4; David Biggs, Quagmire: Nation-Building and Nature in the Mekong Delta (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010), 5–6.

17

I ntroduction

to their experience was the degree to which they resorted to approximation and experimentation in their supposedly exact science. In a slow-moving and open-ended process, marked by long periods of standstill, engineers working in the delta or at the Iron Gates deviated from their initial calculations in order to complete the projects. They ultimately achieved their goal of controlling nature not by following a plan, but by testing out hypotheses and correcting errors along the way. The resulting infrastructure, motivated by the imperial drive to subordinate the river to the needs of international navigation, could be completed because engineers modified their abstract plans in such a way as to fit them to local complexities. Another reason why the technical remaking of the Lower Danube advanced so slowly was because the Danube often refused to “yield” to human constraints. In this context, many environmental historians have argued for considering the role of nature as a historical actor.59 The “agency” of a river manifests itself through its flow, its intensity and changing shape, the underwater pressure it builds up, the sand accumulation it produces, and the speed it develops when overcoming rock blockages. Much of the “doings” of rivers are seasonal, such as freezing in winter, flooding in spring, and dropping to low water levels due to evaporation in summer. Other events, such as storms, are less predictable. In order to understand how the remaking of the Lower Danube occurred, one has to look closely at the interactions between humans and the environment.60 Furthermore, much like the environment, the technical artifacts built on the waterway had their own “agency.” For instance, dikes and locks not only forced the water to flow in certain ways, they also changed patterns of erosion and silting, blurring the lines between “action” stemming from humans, water, and technical objects.61 In relation to this aspect, this study scrutinizes the way in which the first larger artificial constructions blended into the Danube’s environment, arguing that river engineers actively pushed for the blurring of boundaries between the river and the 59 Mikhail, Nature and Empire in Ottoman Egypt, 21–22; Stefan Dorondel, Stelu Serban, and Daniel Cain, “The Play of Islands: Emerging Borders and Danube Dynamics in Modern Southeast Europe (1830– 1900),” Environment and History 25, no. 4 (2019): 521–47; Joachim Radkau, Nature and Power: A Global History of the Environment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 90–93. Specifically, on the “agency” of rivers, see Pritchard, Confluence, 19; Richard White, The Organic Machine: The Remaking of the Columbia River (New York: Hill and Wang, 1996). 60 Radkau, Nature and Power, 124. 61 Pritchard, “Toward an Environmental History of Technology,” 244–45.

18

I ntroduction

newly built artifacts. They designed their constructions with the “doings” of the river in mind, as extensions of the natural environment. Sometimes, they simply submerged structures in the water, waiting to see if the river “accepted” them or if they required adjustment. In other cases, construction disrupted the flow of the river or produced unintended consequences, making them difficult to use. Hence, engineers had to “correct the effect of corrections”—a reason why building river infrastructure was such a time-consuming process.62 Only when natural and technical forces complemented each other would the new dam and canal systems work properly. Based on long term observation, engineers also came to understand that this equilibrium of forces was a temporary state because nature and technology never ceased to interact. Thus, artificial constructions were in constant need of repair. Sources and Outline Based on original work in archives in Romania, Germany, and Austria, as well as on the extensive reading of research and engineering literature in English, German, French, and Romanian, this book analyzes a variety of primary sources. Peace treaties, trade agreements, records of meetings, and the minutes of the two Danube commissions provide useful information on how international negotiations shaped the legal and administrative status of the Lower Danube. Personal and official exchanges between the involved actors (diplomats as well as a growing number of technocrats) highlight the channels through which they promoted international cooperation on the river. The technical literature revolving around the regulation projects offers valuable insights into how specialist knowledge and water management practice developed on the Lower Danube. In this context, the correspondence between engineers, politicians, diplomats, and entrepreneurs involved in these projects is also important because it reveals the various influences that shaped the remaking of the river. Progress reports, journals, and diaries shed light on the way engineers and constructors dealt with financial, political, and environmental constraints. And finally, public lectures and inauguration ceremonies convey how meanings attached to the new river infrastructure were communicated to the general public. 62 Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature, 14.

19

I ntroduction

The five chapters of this book trace the remaking of the Lower Danube chronologically, and alternate between the Iron Gates and the delta in order to emphasize common points of reference as well as differences between the two spots. The first chapter deals with the initial explorative missions to assess the potential of the Lower Danube in the changing geopolitical situation at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries. Following military conquest, state officials, scientists, and entrepreneurs—first from the Habsburg Monarchy and later from the Russian Empire—began to envision new uses for the Danube. Military cartographers and engineers appropriated the Lower Danube in order to render this route “legible” and to systematize knowledge surrounding the river. Their governments further used this knowledge to pursue commercial interests, prepare wars, and implement state-building measures. There was a significant difference between Habsburg and Russian policies regarding the Lower Danube: while Habsburg engagement with the river was primarily economically motivated, for the Russian Empire, its strategic importance prevailed. Thus, Habsburg subjects promoted the idea of the Danube as an international export avenue for the first time. However, physical obstructions in the river, technical limitations, a lack of investment, and military confrontations thwarted any attempt to exploit this connection and put their ideas into practice. What these efforts did achieve was a connection on paper, as cartographers drew an uninterrupted line that linked the Habsburg Danube to its lower course and the Black Sea. The second chapter is set in the 1830s and 1840s, when due to physical and administrative obstacles the integration of the Danube into international trade and transport networks only partially succeeded. The 1829 Treaty of Adrianople opened the Black Sea to international shipping traffic and lifted the Ottoman export embargo on products from the Danubian Principalities. As a result, ports on the Lower Danube became new hubs for grain exports and the First Danube Steamboat Shipping Company (DDSG) established the first regular steamboat connection from Vienna to Constantinople. However, the cataracts of the Iron Gates and silting at the confluence of the river with the Black Sea hindered the smooth passage of shipping. Thus, the Habsburg authorities organized a first attempt at improving the passage through the Iron Gates. Similarly, pressured by grain traders and foreign consulates, Russian authorities in the delta took half-hearted measures to contain 20

I ntroduction

the silting at the bar. In addition to physical barriers, border checks and quarantine regulations further obstructed shipping traffic. These first attempts to manipulate the flow of the Danube revealed that isolated interventions had a limited impact on improving navigation conditions. They also highlighted that the Lower Danube needed a comprehensive solution that simultaneously tackled administrative, legal, and engineering problems. The third chapter focuses on the Crimean War and its aftermath, which marked a watershed in administrating the Lower Danube. By creating two river commissions—the European Danube Commission (ECD) for the delta and the Riparian Danube Commission (RDC, or the Riverine Commission) for the rest of the Lower Danube—the European Great Powers internationalized this stretch of the river. The two commissions set out to dismantle commercial and physical barriers, allowing equal access in order to uphold the principle of “free navigation.” While the RDC worked on an international legal catalogue, the ECD aspired to improve navigation conditions. The two international undertakings had different outcomes. The RDC was caught up in a conflict between the riparian and non-riparian states over how to define “free navigation,” de facto leading to its indefinite suspension. Technical cooperation was more fruitful in the delta, leading to the first successful engineering project to contain the silting at the Sulina bar. The British engineers of the ECD succeeded in both mobilizing technical expertise from all over Europe on the one hand, and in adapting this knowledge to local conditions and environmental constraints on the other. The Crimean War marked a different kind of turning point for the Iron Gates, as the Habsburg Monarchy began to claim sole authority in relation to the regulation of the cataracts. The fourth chapter looks at how the ECD evolved from being a temporary solution to fix the silting at the bar to become a fully-fledged international organization that managed the legal, administrative, and technical affairs of the maritime Danube up until the First World War. Capitalizing on the engineering breakthrough at Sulina, the commission was able to implement an international ruling that took over all decision-making powers from the riparian states. Furthermore, international bank loans and a new toll at the bar gave the ECD the financial independence to expand its engineering works by consolidating the piers at the mouth of the river and sealing off dangerous bends. The “free navigation” regime implemented by the ECD finally removed the administrative and physical choke points on 21

I ntroduction

the river one by one. Under the influence of the commission and its technical staff, the maritime Danube was transformed into a straight, streamlined channel that served the needs of transportation almost exclusively. In other words, the ECD succeeded in simplifying the Danube in both form and purpose. The fifth and final chapter traces the lengthy negotiation process that shaped the comprehensive regulation project at the Iron Gates, cementing Habsburg and later Hungarian economic expansionism in relation to the Lower Danube. Since the Riverine Commission failed to institutionalize technical cooperation at the Habsburg-Ottoman border, state and private actors in the Habsburg Monarchy took matters into their own hands. Their involvement enabled a different kind of internationalization, namely the creation of more-or-less ad hoc expert commissions and committees that brought together know-how from the neighboring Habsburg and Ottoman Empires as well from other European countries and the United States of America. These commissions produced a myriad of expert voices that promoted diverse ideas of how and why the Iron Gates should be improved. Over the course of what seemed a never-ending debate, a significant shift occurred: the Hungarian government assumed full control of the regulation, turning it into a symbol of national identification. This outcome shows that the Habsburg Monarchy managed to deter an institutionalized form of international cooperation from operating within its borders. It also underlines the limitations that international ruling bodies were subject to in the nineteenth century when joint imperial projects were usually confined to the Ottoman Empire. Nevertheless, after completing the canal system at the Iron Gates, the Hungarian government had to restart negotiations with Serbia and Romania to agree on new navigation standards. What emerges from this story is that in their quest for power and prosperity, the European Great Powers resorted both to force and cooperation, radically altering the legal status and the physical shape of the river in the process. The book concludes that imperial policies concerning the Lower Danube led to an internationalization process that aligned the river with the needs of international navigation. Second, building infrastructure in an imperial borderland where political and economic competition was particularly high entailed frequent disruptions to both planning and construction activities. Engineers working in this international setting learned to navi22

I ntroduction

gate the troubled waters of the Danube, slowly taking apart and reassembling the two most dangerous spots. The legacy they passed on to future generations of river experts was a penchant for ever grander interventions and the knowledge that in order to keep pace with the “doings” of rivers and developments in shipping technology, river infrastructure was in constant need of improvement. From this double transformation, a commercial highway emerged that connected the Lower Danube to global trade.

23

Ch a p t e r 1

Exploring the Danube

T

he waves got bigger long before one could see the stone ridge. Then the roar of the water became so loud that we couldn’t hear the boatmen shouting anymore; they had to use signs to communicate. I was sitting in the back of the boat and could see the mighty stone ridge and how the water was trying to find its way into the narrow channels. The boat shot ahead at full speed, first straight and then it turned across the channel; meanwhile high waves crashed against the boat on all sides. No sooner did we cross over a whirlpool, a new one appeared ahead; the crossing lasted almost a quarter of an hour. During this time, I couldn’t hear anything but the roar of the waves and a ceaseless “Allah, Allah!” We couldn’t have been happier when a boatman called out that it was all over.1

In the 1770s, Nikolaus Ernst Kleemann was believed to be the first German to have ever crossed the Iron Gates, the cataracts that separated the Habsburg Monarchy from the Ottoman Empire.2 He certainly was one of many European travelers to consider crossing the Iron Gates a rite de passage from well-known and familiar territory into a terra incognita.3 This chapter compares the Austrian and Russian explorative missions that targeted the Ottoman Danube specifically. These missions were part of the strategic and commercial reorientation of the Habsburg and Russian Empires which extended along the Danube. Both empires approached the lower 1 2 3

N. E. Kleemann, Tagebuch der Reisen (Prague: Schönfeld, 1783), 32–33. Ibid., 347. Edit Király, “Die Donau ist die Form”: Strom-Diskurse in Texten und Bildern des 19. Jahrhunderts (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2017), 179–81.

25

Chapter 1

course of the river, a space mostly outside their state borders, in the form of various explorations, expeditions, surveys, scientific voyages, and mapmaking projects. Exploration usually targeted unfamiliar, far away territories for the purposes of trade, conquest, and colonization.4 These missions suggest that although the Lower Danube was situated in the immediate proximity of their borders, both governments considered it in many respects a remote and unfamiliar territory. Thus, all these forays into Ottoman territory were aimed at producing a systematized body of knowledge about the river and its floodplains so that it could be easily accessed and exploited.5 Or in the words of James C. Scott, both empires were striving to make the Danube “legible” and assess its practical potential so that they could use the river for their own purposes. Moreover, both governments aimed to store this collection of data in order to be able to access it whenever necessary. In this context, I argue that the documents that resulted from these explorative missions were not neutral depictions of the Ottoman Danube, but projections that anticipated the major transformation of the river in the nineteenth century. Thus, the two empires ascribed new meanings and purposes to the river. One such projection envisioned the Danube as an international waterway, linking Vienna to the Black Sea basin by overcoming the stone blockage at the Iron Gates. The government in Vienna aimed to utilize the river as a trade avenue for shipping manufactured products to the Black Sea. Meanwhile, Hungarian representatives within the monarchy also held high hopes for the future economic development of the Danube, envisioning it as an outlet for Hungarian agricultural products. In contrast, the Russian Empire primarily linked military goals to the Lower Danube, hoping that one day Russia would conquer this Ottoman line of defense. Thus, the reconnaissance missions conducted by Russian officers along the river aimed at gathering strategic information to be used in future Russo-Turkish wars. These missions also targeted the territories north of the Danube in an attempt to ensure the loyalty of their elites toward Russia. Moreover, the Russian government also regarded the Lower Danube as a defense line and 4 5

Dane Kennedy, “Introduction: Reinterpreting Exploration,” in Reinterpreting Exploration: The West in the World, ed. Dane Kennedy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 2. On expeditions and knowledge production in general, see Martin Thomas, “What is an Expedition? An Introduction,” in Expedition into Empire: Exploratory Journeys and the Making of the Modern World, ed. Martin Thomas (London: Routledge, 2015), 2.

26

E xploring the Da nube

used the data collected by surveyors to project security infrastructure along the river that would regulate border crossings. Finally, each peace treaty ending a new Austrian-Russian-Ottoman conflict represented a new step toward codifying the Lower Danube as an international waterway guaranteeing equal rights to all ships using the river irrespective of their flag. As such, the peace treaties anticipated a future status quo for the Lower Danube that would be jointly governed by the European Great Powers at the expense of the actual territorial power, the Ottoman Empire. All these projections for the Lower Danube, sometimes envisioning divergent uses, constituted the intellectual preconditions for the dramatic physical and legal reshaping of the river that took place in the course of the nineteenth century. Knowledge and the Imperial Appropriation of the Lower Danube Up until the eighteenth century, the Lower Danube had been a closed Ottoman waterway, important for the internal circulation of goods. Together with the Black Sea, where the navigation of foreign ships was also prohibited, it formed an important transportation route for carrying provisions, mainly grain, from the regions to Constantinople.6 The expansionist tendencies of the Habsburg and Russian Empires revoked the exclusive Ottoman hold on the river. As a consequence, the Lower Danube was turned into a site of conflict over the course of the eighteenth century, though it also became a site of exchange between the three neighboring empires. Their competing imperial projects clashed over the control of territory and populations along the river, as well as over commercial and navigation rights.7 Due to the frequent military confrontations, Virginia Aksan has described the emerging northern Ottoman border along the Danube, from Orsova (Orșova) near the

6 Gábor Ágoston, “Danube River,” in Encyclopedia of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Gábor Ágoston and Bruce Alan Masters (New York: Facts on File, 2009), 173–74; Virginia H. Aksan, “Whose Territory and Whose Peasants? Ottoman Boundaries on the Danube in the 1760s,” in The Ottoman Balkans, 1750– 1830, ed. Frederick F. Anscombe (Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers, 2006), 62–64. 7 Virginia H. Aksan, Ottoman Wars 1700–1870: An Empire Besieged (Harlow: Pearson Longman, 2007), 33–36; Aksan, “Whose Territory and Whose Peasants?” 75–78; Victor Taki, Tsar and Sultan: Russian Encounters with the Ottoman Empire (London: I.B. Tauris, 2016), 6–9; Irina Marin, Contested Frontiers in the Balkans: Habsburg and Ottoman Rivalries in Eastern Europe (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 21–38.

27

Chapter 1

Iron Gates to the Black Sea, as a zone of death.8 However, during the brief moments of peace, the empires cooperated economically and joined forces to contain epidemic diseases and control migration.9 Thus, it is best described as a “complex frontier,” to use Alfred J. Rieber’s term, where the interplay of physical geography, warfare, and cultural change caused the river to morph into a specific ecological system.10 Various imperial encounters transformed the border region along the Danube into a transimperial space marked by numerous shifts in sovereignty which slowly hardened below the Iron Gates into a stable border with the Ottoman Empire at the beginning of the nineteenth century.11 From the Ottoman vantage point, the Danube remained an essential internal trade connection, but its importance grew as a line of defense.12 From the perspective of the European empires, the Lower Danube as a “boundary of Europe” increasingly became a demarcation line for the Ottoman Other.13 Furthermore, the Habsburg Monarchy (and later other states) discovered the commercial potential of the Lower Danube as an international traffic artery, linking Central Europe to the Orient. Lying at the crossroads of various imperial interests, the two Danubian Principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia were key factors in this process of rearranging territorialities along the Danube. The intermediate status of the principalities underlined the fluidity of the border region during the eighteenth century: although still formally part of the Ottoman Empire, the two provinces gained more and more political autonomy, a process accelerated by the expansionist tendencies of the Austrian and Russian Empires.14 Toward the end of the cen8 Virginia H. Aksan, “Military Reform and its Limits in a Shrinking Ottoman World, 1800–1840,” in The Early Modern Ottomans: Remapping the Empire, ed. Virginia H. Aksan and Daniel Goffman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 121. 9 Andrew Robarts, Migration and Disease in the Black Sea Region: Ottoman-Russian Relations in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017), 169–83. 10 Alfred J. Rieber, “The Comparative Ecology of Complex Frontiers,” in Imperial Rule, ed. Alexei Miller and Alfred J. Rieber (Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2005), 179–80; see also: Andrei Cusco, A Contested Borderland: Competing Russian and Romanian Visions of Bessarabia in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century (Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2017), 6–7. 11 Robarts, Migration and Disease in the Black Sea Region, 29. 12 Aksan, “Military Reforms,” 120–21. 13 Palmira Brummett, Mapping the Ottomans: Sovereignty, Territory, and Identity in the Early Modern Mediterranean (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 97–98. 14 Robarts, Migration and Disease in the Black Sea Region, 19–21; Taki, Tsar and Sultan, 11.

28

E xploring the Da nube

tury, they became less (or only temporarily) a target of conquest, and more a place where the two empires exerted their “civilizing missions.”15 As Larry Wolff has stated, for the representatives of the European Enlightenment, Ottoman Europe was not only a matter of arms and annexation, but also a philosophical and geographical challenge.16 To achieve all of this, Austrian and Russian empire builders set out to survey, explore, and describe Ottoman Europe in an attempt to transform incomprehensible lands into well-ordered territories. These missions followed strategic, economic, and ideological objectives, such as the gathering of up-to-date information for future military confrontations and assessment of the commercial and economic potential of these areas. Thus, exploration was directly linked to imperial projects in which science served as a means of imperial control.17 Next to practical reasons for venturing into Ottoman territory, these operations aimed at underscoring the superiority of Habsburg and Russian enlightened rule vis-à-vis the Ottoman form of government by popularizing knowledge about a little-known European region and initiating direct state-building measures, such as administrative reforms and the better exploitation of resources.18 Thus, the Habsburg and Russian Empires did not treat these territories in a significantly different way from how other empires treated their overseas colonies.19 In this imperial context, exploration was extractive and exploitative because it produced an unequal form of knowledge that foreign governments used to obtain better access to, and control over, the explored regions.20 15 Larry Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), 204; Taki, Tsar and Sultan, 145; Klemens Kaps, “Creating Differences for Integration: Enlightened Reforms and Civilizing Missions in the Eastern European Possessions of the Habsburg Monarchy (1750–1815),” in Enlightened Colonialism: Civilization Narratives and Imperial Politics in the Age of Reason, ed. Damien Tricoire (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017), 133–55. 16 Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe, 166. 17 Robert A. Stafford, “Scientific Exploration and Empire,” in The Oxford History of the British Empire, vol. 3, The Nineteenth Century, ed. Andrew Porter (London: Oxford University Press, 1999), 295–301. 18 Viktor Taki, Russia on the Danube: Empire, Elites, and Reform in Moldavia and Wallachia, 1812–1834 (Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2021), 4–5. 19 Matthew H. Edney, Mapping an Empire: The Geographical Construction of British India, 1765–1843 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 1–6. 20 Stafford, “Scientific Exploration and Empire,” 302; Joseph M. Hodge, “Science and Empire: An Overview of the Historical Scholarship,” in Science and Empire: Knowledge and Networks of Science across the British Empire, 1800–1970, ed. Brett M. Bennett and Joseph M. Hodge (Houndsmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 5.

29

Chapter 1

Exploration produced systematic data collections often represented in the form of maps. Maps served as a basic framework for organizing geographical, topographical, and statistical information, providing a requisite for state intervention.21 Thus, cartography became the tool of “good government,” generating the necessary knowledge to administer a territory in a just manner. During the eighteenth century, all European empires embarked upon large mapping projects that would represent and assess the vastness and diversity of their ruled territories.22 The Ottoman Empire joined these efforts only on a very limited scale, such as when French military cartographers surveyed and mapped parts of the Lower Danube and the Black Sea at the end of the eighteenth century.23 On the basis of this imbalance in knowledge extraction, European governments regarded the Ottoman possessions in Europe as uncivilized and backward territories where resources remained uncultivated and the economy underdeveloped. Under these circumstances, it is no surprise that the determination with which “enlightened” European cartographers were trying to map Ottoman Europe coincided with the emergence of the “Eastern Question” and its early political agenda of driving the Turks out of Europe.24 In other words, “enlightened” or “Western” scientists produced their own body of knowledge that their governments later used to control these regions, underlining their superiority over local populations. But even those historians who regarded exploration as outside intervention acknowledged that explorers were never alone, but relied heavily on local helpers and intermediaries.25 Explorers were accompanied by translators, local aides who carried their instruments and helped them to perform measurements, and fellow countrymen who had settled in the surveyed area.26 Sometimes they did 21 Hodge, “Science and Empire,” 7–8. 22 David Buisseret, ed., Monarchs, Ministers and Maps: The Emergence of Cartography as a Tool of Government in Early Modern Europe (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1992); Madalina Valeria Veres, “Putting Transylvania on the Map: Cartography and Enlightened Absolutism in the Habsburg Monarchy,” Austrian History Yearbook 43 (2012): 141–64; Christopher Alan Bayly, The Birth of the Modern World, 1780–1914 (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004), 274–77; Maier, Once Within Borders, 82–83. 23 Jean Bérenger, “Les vicissitudes de l’alliance militaire franco-turque (1520–1800),” in Guerres et paix en Europe centrale aux époques moderne et contemporaine, ed. Daniel Tollet (Paris: Presses du l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 2003), 322–28. 24 Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe, 149. 25 Stafford, “Scientific Exploration and Empire,” 307–8. 26 Kennedy, “Introduction: Reinterpreting Exploration,” 11–12.

30

E xploring the Da nube

more than rely only on local information, and also appropriated their skills and techniques.27 When Austrian and Russian explorers traveled down the Danube, they tended to develop biased relations to the local people. On the one hand, they relied on assistance which they either purchased or extracted by force, indicating that the knowledge produced by these exchanges represented a synthesis rather than the imposition of the Western gaze. On the other hand, explorers ordered and codified the knowledge they gained according to abstract scientific principles and disseminated it through their own networks, shielding it from local authorities.28 This chapter analyzes the activities of Habsburg and Russian explorers, the knowledge they generated, and the different purposes it served. Luigi Marsigli and Austrian Expansionism on the Lower Danube Scientific exploration and expansionist policies are mutually intertwined. The Habsburg Empire started its expansionist policy toward the Lower Danube with clear territorial targets in mind. The Treaty of Karlowitz of 1699 marked a first military success that brought central Hungary and Transylvania under Habsburg rule.29 After the conquest, military cartographers immediately set out to survey and integrate the new possessions into the empire while simultaneously casting an imperial eye on the remaining European possessions of the Ottomans.30 The most important outcome of this endeavor to assess and describe the new borderlands was the mapping project of scientist and soldier, Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli. He published a vast and richly illustrated work about the Danube in 1726, focusing on the stretch from Vienna to the confluence with the Yantra in today’s Bulgaria.31 27 Kapil Raj, Relocating Modern Science: Circulation and the Construction of Knowledge in South Asia and Europe, 1650–1900 (Houndsmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 80–81. 28 Ibid., 11–13; Vanessa Smith, “Joseph Banks’s Intermediaries: Rethinking Global Cultural Exchange,” in Global Intellectual History, ed. Samuel Moyn and Andrew Sartori (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 81–109. 29 James Koranyi and Bernhard Struck, “Space: Empires, Nations, Borders,” in The Routledge History of East Central Europe Since 1700, ed. Irina Livezeanu and Árpád von Klimó (New York: Routledge, 2017), 36. 30 Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe, 165. 31 Martin Knoll, Die Natur der menschlichen Welt: Siedlung, Territorium und Umwelt in der historischtopographischen Literatur der Frühen Neuzeit (Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag, 2013), 137–40.

31

Chapter 1

Marsigli came to the Danube for the first time during the Great Turkish War and would spend a considerable amount of time measuring, mapping, and observing the river and its surroundings. Moreover, as an army engineer and bridge builder, he fulfilled his assignment, which was to guide troops over the river and the surrounding marshland.32 Between the years 1689 and 1690, he camped at the Iron Gates and conducted a very thorough inspection of the rocky area of the cataracts. He not only measured the depth and speed of the water and the profile of the riverbed; Marsigli was equally interested in the Roman history of the area and in the life of the fishing communities. While conducting these investigations, he decided to compile a comprehensive work on the Danube that combined historical, geographical, geological, and biological aspects—a manuscript which he would be able to finish only toward the end of his life.33 During his active military career, he was required to use his knowledge to provide concrete information and make decisions on pressing political matters, which kept him from scientific work. Moreover, he was also assigned the task of building a new military road to circumvent the Iron Gates along the Danube’s right bank. In order to cut through the high cliffs and rock, he demanded one thousand workers—a request rejected by the Imperial War Council. Hence, Marsigli was only able to build a new pontoon bridge over the Danube at Orsova, which the Austrian troops used to attack the Ottomans.34 Marsigli was the first Habsburg scientist to try to overcome the blockage of the Iron Gates by designing a parallel land road. Over the next two centuries, many more would follow his footsteps in finding a way over the cataracts. His most important military accomplishment on the Danube was to determine the new Habsburg-Ottoman border as stipulated in the Treaty of Karlowitz. As the designated Habsburg representative in the boundary commission, he traveled—together with his assistant, cartographer Johann 32 John Stoye, Marsigli’s Europe, 1680–1730: The Life and Times of Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, Soldier and Virtuoso (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 74–76. 33 Ibid., 79–86; Luigi Ferdinando Marsili, Danubius Pannonico-Mysicus. Observationibus geographicis, astronomicis, hydrographicis, historicis, physicis perlustratus et in sex tomos digestus (Hagae Comitum: P. Gosse, R. Chr. Alberts, P. de Hondt, 1726). 34 Ibid., 93–94; Jelena Mrgić, “Tracking the Mapmaker: The Role of Marsigli’s Itineraries and Surveys at Karlowitz and Passarowitz,” in The Peace of Passarowitz, ed. Charles Ingrao, Nikola Samardžić, and Jovan Pešalj (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2011), 221–27; Madalina Valeria Veres, “Constructing Imperial Spaces: Habsburg Cartography in the Age of Enlightenment,” unpublished dissertation (University of Pittsburgh, 2015), 216–18.

32

E xploring the Da nube

Christian Müller—along the whole stretch of the new border from Belgrade to Bosnia and Croatia and back to Transylvania between April 1699 and March 1701. Along the route, he met many times with his Ottoman counterpart, Silahdar Ibrahim Pasha, to settle contentious spots along the border. Next to the practical task of drawing the exact demarcation line between the two states, Marsigli and Müller drew a very detailed map of the entire border region. Müller had joined Marsigli on the Danube during the war, bringing his state-of-the-art measuring devices from Nuremberg, which enabled them to make preliminary maps of the battlefield area. The joint border commission now gave them the opportunity to complete this task.35 While traveling along the border, Marsigli also began to consider how the new borderline would impact relations between the two empires. First, he reflected on the trading activity between the two states. He looked especially into the commercial potential of the Danube as a communication route between Vienna and Constantinople. In his plans, the preferred trading route between the two empires would follow the course of the Danube as far as Rustchuk (now Ruse, Bulgaria) and then continue overland to the Habsburg Adriatic ports. Marsigli perceived the route over the delta and the Black Sea only as an underexplored alternative to this main communication line.36 Second, while reflecting on future traffic over the border, he realized that these exchanges were likely to bring infectious diseases into the Habsburg lands. He understood that river traffic in particular would be hard to control. Consequently, he suggested that several quarantine posts be stationed along the border to prevent the spread of disease. In this way, the new territorial demarcation would also function as a cordon sanitaire that would not only enable traffic but serve as a preventive measure.37 In sum, Marsigli’s extensive activity in the area of the Lower Danube would have a significant impact on the way contemporaries and future generations of Habsburg subjects would view Ottoman Europe. His maps, surveys, and descriptions were instrumental in establishing a firm Habsburg territorial presence on the Lower Danube but also in defining the further purposes of its eastward expansion. His reports and publications significantly improved the 35 Luigi Ferdinando Marsili, Relazioni dei confini della Croazia e della Transilvania a Sua Maestà Cesarea, 1699–1701, vol. 2 (Modena: Mucchi Editore, 1986); Stoye, Marsigli’s Europe, 178–82. 36 Ibid., 195–96. 37 Ibid., 199–200.

33

Chapter 1

knowledge about this new border region, revealing its commercial and economic potential. Marsigli’s outlook on the Danubian borderland anticipates many of the later discussions on how the Habsburg Monarchy should treat the neighboring territories still under Ottoman rule. Marsigli’s reports contained not only strategic information to be used in the case of a new war, but also considerations on how to improve communications with the Ottoman Empire. His surveys thus linked recent conquests with the territories beyond the border, underlining the importance of maps for military and administrative purposes alike.38 On the one hand, his surveys and maps encouraged state-building measures at home, for example, by assessing and cataloging the (natural) resources of the newly conquered territories. For this purpose, his fellow cartographer, Müller, in 1709 published the first complete map of Hungary using the sketches and drawings he had made during his journeys with Marsigli.39 On the other hand, Marsigli’s forays across the border provided detailed information that the Habsburg government could exploit to penetrate Ottoman territory. In other words, drawing on his combined experience as a soldier, engineer, and cartographer, the information Marsigli compiled was vast and could serve multiple purposes in war and during peace. After retiring from active duty, he catalogued the data he had collected, publishing not only a systematic work on the Danube, but also using his experience in combat to write about the Ottoman art of war.40 The First Habsburg Economic Enterprises on the Lower Danube In 1718, the Treaty of Passarowitz further extended Habsburg territory to include Belgrade and the Banat of Temesvár (Timișoara), stretching down to Lesser Wallachia on the Danube.41 Although the next peace treaty, signed 38 Zsolt Győző Török, “Revising, Rectifying and Regulating the Danube: Cartographic Reconstructions of the River and the History of Maps of South-Eastern Europe in the Sixteenth to Eighteenth Century,” in Dissemination of Cartographic Knowledge: 6th International Symposium of the ICA Commission on the History of Cartography, ed. Mirela Altic et al. (Cham: Springer, 2016), 202. 39 Ibid., 204. 40 Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe, 168. 41 Nikola Samardžić, “The Treaty of Passarowitz, 1718: An Introduction,” in The Peace of Passarowitz, ed. Charles Ingrao, Nikola Samardžić, and Jovan Pešalj (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2011), 15.

34

E xploring the Da nube

in Belgrade in 1739, forced the Habsburg rulers to retreat from Belgrade and Lesser Wallachia, the military balance on the river between the two empires shifted in favor of the Habsburgs.42 In addition to territorial gains, the Treaty of Passarowitz also reconfigured trade relations between the Ottoman and Austrian Empires. For the first time, an international peace treaty opened the Ottoman Danube for Austrian vessels.43 Although the Austrian negotiators also demanded free access to the Black Sea, the ensuing bilateral trade agreement only allowed Austrian merchants and ships to travel the Lower Danube up to its mouth. If they wanted to continue their journey into the Black Sea, the Austrian merchants had to transfer their merchandise onto Ottoman ships. However, in practice, commercial travel down the Danube was not entirely “free” for Austrian vessels because each vessel crossing into Ottoman territory needed the formal approval of the Ottoman authorities in the form of a special permit (firman).44 Nevertheless, with these new benefits, the Habsburg Monarchy joined the three other European states, namely the British, French, and Dutch Empires, which had already secured for themselves similar advantageous trade agreements.45 Although the Black Sea would remain off-limits to Austrian ships for the next few decades, the trade conditions agreed at Passarowitz were overall very favorable to the Habsburg Monarchy. Austrian merchants were allowed to travel to any other part of the Ottoman Empire and there were no restrictions regarding the type and quantity of merchandise they could carry, with the exception of weapons and gunpowder. Moreover, Ottoman authorities refrained from collecting any other tax, except a customs duty of three percent, paid in kind or in cash.46 These favorable trading conditions led to the complete reconfiguration of Habsburg commercial relations with the Ottoman Empire. The Austrian government aimed at establishing two distinct trading routes 42 Koranyi and Struck, Space: Empires, Nations, Borders, 37; Rieber, The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands, 325–27; Karl A. Roider, Austria’s Eastern Question, 1700–1790 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982), 5–6. 43 Samardžić, “The Treaty of Passarowitz,” 23. 44 Hans Halm, Österreich und Neurußland, vol. 1, Donauschiffahrt und-handel nach dem Südosten, 1718– 1780 (Breslau: Thiel und Hintermeier, 1954), 69. 45 Jovan Pešalj, “Making a Prosperous Peace: Habsburg Diplomacy and Economic Policy at Passarowitz,” in The Peace of Passarowitz, ed. Charles Ingrao, Nikola Samardžić, and Jovan Pešalj (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2011), 145–46. 46 Ibid., 147.

35

Chapter 1

that would complement each other: next to seeking a regular shipping connection via the Danube to the Black Sea, it also pushed for a land connection over the Balkans to the Adriatic Sea, where the ports of Trieste and Fiume received the status of free ports in 1719.47 In addition, the Habsburg state started to pursue a new form of mercantilist policy that gave migrants from the Ottoman Empire the right to settle in the monarchy, along with tax privileges in exchange for carrying out commercial activities with the Ottoman Empire.48 This policy targeted Orthodox settlers that came to be known under the collective term of “Greek merchants.”49 A large number of these merchants settled along the Danube and particularly on the border stretch between Zemun (now part of Belgrade), Orsova, and Vidin, but not further down the Danube because the main bulk of trade followed the land road southwards to the Adriatic. As mentioned above, one reason why the Danube route was rarely used was due to the lack of access to the sea. This situation changed in 1774 after the peace of Küçük Kaynarca when the Russian Empire gained control of the northern Black Sea and negotiated a settlement with the Ottoman Empire granting access to foreign ships.50 As a consequence, similar diaspora colonies also settled on the Lower Danube and in the delta.51 However, even under these much improved conditions for Austrian subjects, navigation on the Ottoman Danube would, until the beginning of the nineteenth century, remain almost exclusively in the hands of Ottoman sailors and navigation companies.52 In addition to restricted entry to the sea, there were several other reasons why Habsburg officials and trade did not use the Danube route. The lack of reliable information about navigation on the Lower Danube was certainly an important factor. Furthermore, Habsburg subjects had no experience of sailing the Lower Danube and the barges they used were too frail to endure the journey on the Lower Danube where navigation conditions differed sig47 Samardžić, “The Treaty of Passarowitz,” 24. 48 Olga Katsiardi-Hering, “Greek Merchant Colonies in Central and South-Eastern Europe in the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries,” in Merchant Colonies in the Early Modern Period, ed. Victor N. Zakharov, Gelina Harlaftis, and Olga Katsiardi-Hering (London: Pickering & Chatto Publishers, 2012), 134–39. 49 Traian Stoianovich, “The Conquering Balkan Orthodox Merchant,” Journal of Economic History 20, no. 2 (1960): 234–313. 50 Aksan, Ottoman Wars, 158–59. 51 Katsiardi-Hering, “Greek Merchant Colonies,” 130–31. 52 Ibid., 131.

36

E xploring the Da nube

nificantly to those on the Habsburg Danube. Habsburg ships were ill-suited for crossing the row of cataracts at the Habsburg-Ottoman border and had to be towed upstream. Besides, Austrian merchants had no reliable business partners along the Ottoman Danube. The “Greek” merchants had familial and long-established commercial ties to Ottoman subjects, but these business networks, though spread over the entire Balkan Peninsula, seldom connected the Habsburg Danube with the Black Sea.53 But probably the most important reason why the Lower Danube remained off-limits to Austrian commercial ships was the occurrence of frequent military confrontations between the Austrian, Russian, and Ottoman Empires that took place along or in proximity to the river.54 Well aware of these hardships and barriers, the Habsburg government implemented several policies that intended to improve the balance of trade with the Ottoman Empire in general and with the Lower Danube in particular. These measures belonged to a larger reform program that the two monarchs Maria Theresa and Joseph II pursued as part of an “enlightened” form of government. Their mercantilist policies aimed to improve the exploitation of resources and increase productivity internally to produce surpluses that would then enable the development of foreign trade.55 Seen within a larger context, geopolitical constraints also influenced this new special emphasis on trade with the Ottoman Empire. Since the loss of Silesia to Prussia in 1741, resulting in restricted access to the seas in the north, the Habsburg Monarchy decided to reorient the main bulk of its trading activity to the Balkans and the Levant.56 Nevertheless, the two enlightened monarchs also recognized the Ottoman Empire as a new market to which manufactured goods could be reoriented, and as a new source for raw materials. In order to convince trading houses to open up new business on Ottoman territory, the Habsburg government implemented a generous financial assistance system in the form of subsidies and bonuses. In addition, it constructed a comprehensive support system for merchants operating in the Ottoman Empire. During 53 Ibid., 131–32. 54 Harald Heppner, Österreich und die Donaufürstentümer (Graz: Universität Graz, 1984), 17; Rieber, The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands, 325–27. 55 David F. Good, The Economic Rise of the Habsburg Empire, 1750–1914 (Berkeley: University of California University Press, 1984), 27–34. 56 Pieter M. Judson, The Habsburg Empire: A New History (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2016), 32.

37

Chapter 1

the second half of the eighteenth century, the Habsburg state was able to build an extensive network of embassies and consulates across the Ottoman lands. Furthermore, in 1754, Maria Theresa founded the Oriental Academy (Orientalische Akademie) in Vienna where students had the unique opportunity to learn the languages and acquire knowledge about the cultures of the Orient. Graduates would serve as official envoys or translators in order to represent and protect the monarchy’s state and business interests.57 Another important support measure followed in 1763 after the end of the Seven Years’ War, when Maria Theresa founded a new shipyard in Klosterneuburg, near Vienna, to improve the military and commercial Danube fleet. For this purpose, she hired master shipbuilder Johann Matthäus Heppe from Mainz on the Rhine to construct strong ships able to navigate upstream. Heppe stayed in Vienna for several years where he built und personally steered many ships downstream over the Habsburg-Ottoman border. However, he was unable to build a single ship that could return on its own up the Danube.58 In spite of this comprehensive support package, the development of trade with the Orient failed to meet the state’s expectations. During the 1760s, the Austrian government finally admitted that Habsburg entrepreneurs had not been able to take full advantage of the generous stipulations of the Treaty of Passarowitz. Moreover, it had to acknowledge that due to the consecutive military defeats in 1739 against the Ottomans and in 1742 during the Austrian Succession War when it lost Silesia to Prussia, the monarchy did not have the necessary strength to impose the trade regulations that were still in place. Realizing that the Ottoman authorities were not abiding by the Passarowitz rules, the Austrian ambassador in Constantinople, Franz Maria von Thugut, took it upon himself to remind the Ottoman government of its contractual obligations. He even insisted that the two states should sign a new trade agreement in order to reinforce the old contract.59 However, these new negotiations took place in a completely different context. Since Passarowitz, the Habsburg Monarchy had switched from a foreign policy aimed at pushing the Ottoman Empire back behind the Danube line to a containment policy that was directed against southward Russian expansion. In this new context, the Habsburgs undertook the first steps toward cooperation with the Ottomans 57 Heppner, Österreich und die Donaufürstentümer, 16–17. 58 Halm, Österreich und Neurußland, 102–3. 59 Heppner, Österreich und die Donaufürstentümer, 18.

38

E xploring the Da nube

to stop the Russian advancement into Southeastern Europe. However, this containment policy was only partially successful and the Russian Empire continued its advancement until 1829 when it conquered the Danube Delta. During this time, the monarchy maneuvered between the two other empires in an effort to impose its interests in the Balkans.60 Expanding trade relations in the region was a recurring priority for Austria during that period. In the 1750s, private entrepreneurs started to follow the government’s call to use the Danube route. In 1757, a Bohemian merchant with the surname Palm was the first to transport glass products over the Danube to Constantinople. His success was soon forgotten in the turmoil of the Seven Years’ War.61 Thus, the next commercial journey along the Danube would only take place in 1768. Young Nikolaus Ernst Kleemann was commissioned by the trading firm of Baron Rüdiger von Starhemberg to bring a ship loaded with goods down the Lower Danube and across the Black Sea to Crimea. This trip would not be forgotten as, after returning safely to Vienna, Kleemann published several accounts of his travels; the last and most comprehensive of these accounts was published in 1783, more than fifteen years after his journey.62 His travel accounts became very popular among German readers and were translated into several other European languages.63 Little is known about his life prior to the trip. He was born near Nuremberg, and was expected to study theology in Halle like his father. In 1762, due to accumulated debts, he had to give up his studies and flee the city. As a consequence, he traveled south over the Bohemian lands and further to Vienna in search of employment. Nothing in his prior life or background would have guided him toward the Lower Danube. Under these circumstances, it can be assumed that his mission posed the best opportunity for a man without any special qualification and lacking any other means of subsistence. Both Kleemann and his employer hoped that the trip would initiate regular business exchanges between their firm and trading partners on the Crimean Peninsula. However, the trip began under the worst of cir-

60 Roider, Austria’s Eastern Question, 151–69. 61 Halm, Österreich und Neurußland, 73–74. 62 Kleemann, Tagebuch der Reisen. 63 Halm, Österreich und Neurußland.

39

Chapter 1

cumstances.64 In 1768, a new war broke out between the Habsburg, Russian, and Ottoman Empires that would last until 1774, with several battles taking place along the Danube and in the Black Sea area. Although Kleemann did not cross any battlefield, the general political uncertainty in the entire region was unfavorable for establishing durable trade relations. What is more, Kleemann started his trip in October, a season during which heavy rains and cold weather often endangered the whole operation. Later, the onset of winter would further delay his progress. On October 6, 1768, Kleemann left Vienna on a ship full of merchandise heading toward Crimea. He does not provide his reader with any detailed information about the merchandise he was carrying and we only find out from later passages that the ship was transporting ironware, particularly sickles, as well as porcelain and canvas.65 Kleemann was accompanied by two Armenians—the first, born in Crimea, acted as a translator, while the second was a merchant who had decided to join the trip. He was further accompanied by two imperial cadets and a few apprentices. All passengers had valid passports and Kleemann also held a special firman (official permit) from Ottoman Sultan Mustafa II allowing him to convey goods on land and on water across the Ottoman Empire.66 In Zemun (Zimony, in German Semlin), he changed ships. Coming across a vessel the French ambassador had left behind in the harbor, he realized that it was stronger and more sturdy than his.67 In nearby Belgrade, he also changed the crew, hiring Wallachian sailors and a janissary for protection. The new crew immediately added eight oarsmen and a helmsman in order to prepare the ship for the dangerous passage over the cataracts at the Iron Gates. Without any difficulties, they passed over the first whirlpools and waterfalls, reaching the fairly large town of Orsova situated on the border between Habsburg and Ottoman territory.68 There, they were advised not to cross the last and largest of the cataracts (the actual Iron Gate) on their own, but to wait for the return of a crew of Turkish sailors that had just left to steer an Ottoman ship. When the four pilots returned, they inspected Kleemann’s ship and added a couple of stronger oars. Now all was set for the dangerous 64 Ibid., 109–10. 65 Ibid., 120–21. 66 Kleemann, Tagebuch der Reisen, 1–6. 67 Ibid., 18. 68 Ibid., 29.

40

E xploring the Da nube

Figure 3. The Iron Gates. The dangerous passage on the Danube below Orsova. Source: Nikolaus Kleemann, Tagebuch der Reisen von Wien auf der Donau bis an das schwarze Meer (Prague: Schönfeld, 1783), 32.

voyage. What followed was one of the most publicized descriptions of a passage through the Iron Gates, a journey that would become highly significant in the context of Danube travel literature in the nineteenth century. Kleemann described November 3, 1768, the day on which they crossed the cataracts, as terrifying. High waves beat against the boat long before the first rocks pierced the water’s surface. The roaring of the water was so loud that soon he could no longer hear the pilots’ commands. They had to use signs to communicate. The ship darted forward at full speed only to veer sideways a few times. No sooner had they passed through a whirlpool, were they caught in another. Finally, the thundering of the water grew softer and the waves slowly calmed. Looking back at the cataracts, Kleemann could not believe that his ship had passed through such a narrow and dangerous channel. Just after the falls, the water became very shallow and the ship got stuck on a sandbank. It took the crew half a day and the help of several local peas41

Chapter 1

ants to get it afloat again. Kleemann’s published diary contains a drawing of the ship navigating the high waves and rocks at the Iron Gates. His engraving bears the title “The Iron Gates. The dangerous passage on the Danube below Orsova,” and shows his ship in distress sailing the cataracts, towered over by the Carpathian Mountains on the left bank (see figure 3). Like his narration, this visual representation gained iconic character as one of the few depictions of a passage over the cataracts before any attempt began to improve navigation conditions and regulate the water course.69 After the Iron Gates, the Danube flowed smoothly on to the delta. In Rustchuk, the crew discovered that war had broken out. All people they encountered advised them to end their trip there, and Kleemann decided to sell his products in Wallachia on the left bank of the Danube and continue north to Bucharest. However, his Armenian translator convinced him to continue his journey downstream after hearing that the khan of the Tatars was planning to meet the French ambassador to the Ottoman Empire within a few days in the town of Ismail (Izmail) on the delta. In order to continue his journey, Kleemann changed ships again. This time he did not buy a new vessel, but hired a Turkish boat.70 The voyagers benefitted from favorable winds and passed quickly through Silistra, Ibraila (Brăila), and Galatz (Galați), finally reaching Isaccea in the immediate proximity of the delta on November 24. After waiting for a storm to pass, the boat continued its journey to Ismail where Kleemann was very displeased to discover that the khan and ambassador had already left. Under these circumstances, he had no other reason to stay in Ismail and went on to Kilia (now Kiliia in Ukraine) or Kilianova, on the mouth of the Danube where the vessel arrived on November 30 after avoiding another storm.71 Kleemann spent twenty days in Kilia where he encountered several problems. First, Ottoman customs officers seized all his merchandise to search for rifles and other prohibited goods. They also asked him to pay customs duties. When he told the officers that the merchandise was destined for the Crimean Khanate, they asked to see an official permit from the khan. They would release the goods only once he showed them the permit. Under 69 Robert Nemes, Another Hungary: The Nineteenth-Century Provinces in Eight Lives (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2016), 79. 70 Kleemann, Tagebuch der Reisen, 42–44. 71 Ibid., 49–54.

42

E xploring the Da nube

these circumstances, he had no other choice but to send his translator to the khan to request the document. In the meantime, the ongoing war put him in a precarious situation. His European clothes led the residents of Kilia to believe that he was Russian. To avoid trouble, he started to dress in a more oriental style. When his translator arrived with the permit, he was allowed to leave, but the officers again demanded the customs tariff. With the help of a local Jewish merchant, he managed to extricate his goods without paying customs a second time, as he had already paid duties in Belgrade upon entering Ottoman territory. On December 20, Kleemann and his crew took the land route north to the Crimean Khanate.72 During his stay in Kilia, he had time to observe the shipping traffic and the organization of trade, and to record geographical details. He described the Danube as having five branches that flow into the Black Sea, dismissing previous descriptions according to which the Danube parted into seven. Only two of the five branches were navigable: the left arm on which Kilia was situated, and one in the middle which he did not name. He also noted that the Kilia arm was very busy; large Ottoman three-masted ships frequently sailed back and forth. His published memoirs also contain a drawing of Kilia seen from the water with several boats in the foreground. Minarets scattered all over the city indicate its Muslim character, but Kleemann also mentions two Armenian churches. It can be assumed that the flourishing trade across the Black Sea attracted a large Armenian merchant community.73 Kleemann spent the next nine months on the Crimean Peninsula and then traveled back to Vienna via Constantinople, Smyrna, and Trieste.74 It is difficult to establish whether his trip was a success or not. From a financial point of view, the journey seems to have been worthwhile. He was able to sell all of his merchandise at a profit. He was, however, less successful in establishing more durable trade relations with merchants along the Lower Danube or on the Crimean Peninsula. On the one hand, he explained this failure with the raging war. On the other, he indirectly blamed the Habsburg government for not doing more to promote trade with the Orient, allowing Ottoman subjects to dominate trade on the Danube. After publishing his travelogue, he became aware that he was the 72 Ibid., 56–68. 73 Ibid., 54–55. 74 Ibid., Appendix.

43

Chapter 1

only “German” of his generation to have traveled down the Lower Danube up to its mouth, and speculated about why that was so.75 He believed that the physical barrier of the Iron Gates discouraged many. In addition, lack of knowledge and political protection kept merchants away from the river. Kleemann also realized that the Danube ships built in the monarchy were poorly equipped for the journey eastward. Given these circumstances, he even went so far as to acknowledge that the route over the sea via Trieste was longer, but safer and more comfortable.76 In the introduction to his last published travel account, he stated that he had traveled as a merchant and not as a scholar, meaning that his main interest had been to gather information which would help him and other merchants to establish regular trading relations along the Danube and the Black Sea.77 Although his interest was not scientific, he had found it necessary to arrange the data he obtained during the journey in a methodical way so that future merchants could profit from his experience. Thus, he compiled a large appendix in which he provided extensive information on the regions that he traveled through. He described clothing, eating habits, customs, and religious practices, as well as provided lists of local currencies, measurement units and weights, together with detailed information on tolls, tariffs, commercial courts, and the required official papers. He even put together a list of items that he thought would easily sell in Crimea.78 Further observations referred to the navigation conditions along the Ottoman Danube that differed from those above the Iron Gates. Because the Danube grew wider and faster, he advised merchants to take into account that they should change their ships several times. To this end, he made a list of the variety of vessels available on the Lower Danube which were most suitable for which segment, and for what kind of merchandise. And finally, he underlined another important aspect that had facilitated his journey: the assistance and protection he had received from his crew and associates. Most of the men he had hired as translators, seamen, and security guards had been either former or current Ottoman subjects familiar with the Lower Danube and the Black Sea. Without their knowledge and connections, he could not have 75 76 77 78

Ibid., Preface. Ibid., 357–66. Ibid., Preface. Ibid., 376–88.

44

E xploring the Da nube

completed his journey. Thus, Kleemann’s account of his journey along the Ottoman Danube used several of what were to become tropes of exploration literature, such as the ordeals and suffering of the lone explorer, the real dangers he had to overcome, and the important role of intermediaries.79 What he ultimately accomplished was to show that a shipping connection via the Lower Danube was not only possible but could be profitable too. Moreover, his published memoirs made this route popular with a German-speaking readership, as proven by the fact that they were published in three editions over a period of twelve years.80 State Support and Renewed Attempts to Upgrade the Danube Route After Kleemann’s lonely voyage to the Black Sea, attempts to establish regular trading relations along the Lower Danube intensified. The expeditions that took place toward the end of the eighteenth century were joint enterprises that combined official endorsement and private initiative, as well as the skills and knowledge of various experts. Mapmakers, graduates from the Oriental Academy, and merchants worked together to bring ships and merchandise safely to their destinations along the Danube and the Black Sea. In spite of such cooperation, these missions followed different purposes, including the pursuit of material gain, the establishment of a shipping infrastructure, and the assessment of Ottoman military potential on the Lower Danube. The main impulse, however, came from the imperial government and involved the graduates of the Oriental Academy. The most prominent among them, Peter Philipp Herbert, Baron von Rathkeal, served as internuncio (ambassador) to Constantinople between 1779 and 1788, during which he actively promoted the Danube as a transportation route to the Orient. But even earlier, as an official at the state chancellery in Vienna, he had pushed for the development of Habsburg-Ottoman trade. In a proposal to Chancellor Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz, he suggested the creation of a new Oriental trading company that would generate its capital by selling state bonds to private investors.81 Although the chancellor did not follow up on his proposi79 Kennedy, Reinterpreting Exploration, 3. 80 The first edition of Kleemann’s travelogue was published in 1771, the second in 1773, and the third in 1783. 81 Halm, Österreich und Neurußland, 138.

45

Chapter 1

tion, the idea emphasized Herbert’s approach on how to promote exchanges with the monarchy’s Ottoman neighbor; namely, that it would not be wise to wait for private initiatives to organize new trading expeditions. The state should guide entrepreneurs in the right direction with the help of comprehensive support measures. Although this particular proposal did not go forward, Herbert’s outlook was very much in line with the interventionist policy on foreign trade in general, and on trade with the Ottoman Empire in particular, which the government had initiated.82 As ambassador in Constantinople, Herbert was finally in a position to exercise direct influence over the organization of this trade. On his trip to take office in the summer of 1779, he drew attention to the Danube as a connecting waterway between the monarchy and Constantinople. He started his journey in Vienna on the Danube, sailing as far as Rustchuk, and from there traveled further by road to Constantinople. By choosing the Danube as his route, he decided against the more common journey over the Balkan Peninsula to Trieste. It was his personal ambition to establish the Danube connection as the best travel option when heading to the Black Sea.83 On this official trip, he was accompanied by several other passengers who would play an important role in making the Danube route more accessible to future travelers. The first was military engineer (Pontonierhauptmann) Georg Ludwig Lauterer, who would provide a detailed survey of the Lower Danube and the first complete map. The second was Johann Matthäus Willeshoven, a translator and graduate of the Oriental Academy, who would conduct two other exploratory missions to the Black Sea on Herbert’s behalf. A third member of the crew, Ignaz Lorenz von Stürmer, served as a translator for Herbert and later became the next Austrian ambassador in Constantinople.84 Thus, this trip inaugurated a new era in which the Danube would gain new prominence in the official Habsburg efforts to improve communications and trade relations with the Ottoman Empire. Herbert chose Lauterer to accompany him on his mission because of his experience in navigating the Danube. Trained as a marine cadet in the Netherlands, he changed in 1771 to the bridge-building battalion (Pontonierbataillon) on the Danube. There, he was one of the first to try out 82 Good, The Economic Rise of the Habsburg Empire, 25–30. 83 Halm, Österreich und Neurußland, 202. 84 Ibid., 191–92.

46

E xploring the Da nube

the new ships built by Matthäus Heppe at the shipyard in Klosterneuburg, navigating downstream as far as Zemun.85 Accompanying Herbert, he assumed the important task of steering the ship, thus ensuring the safety of the ambassador and his crew. In addition, he was charged with gathering topographic information in order to provide a systematic description of the Danube and its shores to be used as a guide by future navigators. As instructed, he provided several detailed accounts of this journey in various forms, writing a daily journal about his trip, and giving an overview of the Ottoman shipping traffic traveling on the Danube. Based on these observations, he also drew a map of the Danube between Belgrade and Rustchuk, embellishing it with a comprehensive description.86 In this way, what had started out as a firsthand account of a personal travel experience, similar to that produced by Kleemann, turned into a more scientifically compiled body of knowledge. On July 20, 1779, Herbert and his entourage departed with six ships from Vienna. The first three were “Kehlheimer”—large, flat-bottomed ships used for transport on the Habsburg Danube—and three smaller boats for storing provisions and equipment. Lauterer had the opportunity to be one of the first sailors to navigate a ship built in the Habsburg Monarchy through the Iron Gates. Previously, Kleemann had not considered the vessels robust enough to cross the cataracts undamaged, but Lauterer had no trouble steering the ships through the troubled waters. Neither navigator provided information on the depth of the water, so we do not know if Lauterer crossed the cataracts at a time when the water was particularly high, this being the reason why the passage went so smoothly. But his successful crossing could also mean that the Habsburg master shipbuilders had improved their techniques. What we do know is that Lauterer could not have accomplished the passage without the help of several experienced Wallachian helmsmen he had hired in Orsova precisely for this purpose. These specialized pilots would remain instrumental in enabling the smooth navigation of the Iron Gates until an artificial canal was cut through the rocks at the end of the nineteenth century. The ambassador himself did not 85 Ibid., 222. 86 Nicolae Docan, “Exploraţiuni austriace pe Dunăre la sfârşitul veacului al XVII-lea,” in Analele Academiei Române, series 2, no. 36 (1913/1914), 612–13.

47

Chapter 1

cross the Iron Gates on board, but walked along the shore—the option that seemed safest before the launch of the trip.87 The journey thereupon proceeded without any difficulties, and the party reached Rustchuk on August 29. From there, Herbert and Lauterer parted ways, the former continuing his itinerary overland to Constantinople and the latter returning, also by land, through Wallachia and the Banat to his border regiment.88 Lauterer compiled two reports of the trip: a logbook and a far more detailed description of the Danube and its shores. The difference in scope can be explained by the purpose the two reports were written to serve. The journal was intended to document this important journey as a contribution to improving the bilateral relations between the Habsburgs and the Ottomans, whereas the description of the Danube was to provide information to military superiors and the chancellery on the strategic and commercial importance of this route. The information delivered by Lauterer referred to the use of the Danube both for defensive and offensive purposes. For this reason, Lauterer here concentrated his attention on the Iron Gates. The gorge’s proximity to the monarchy made it a particularly vulnerable spot—Lauterer perceived it both as an obstacle to the development of shipping traffic and as a point of access through which the Ottoman army could launch an attack against the monarchy. Thus, he made a complete inventory of all the fortifications the Ottomans had positioned along the river, including forts, fortified islands, and watchtowers.89 Further, Lauterer provided a detailed topographic description of the cataracts and the way the shipping passage was organized. He described the Iron Gates as a row of rocks and waterfalls crossing the waterway. Between the rocks there was an opening of about 600 feet, wide enough for ships to pass downstream when the waters were high. At lower levels, ships could descend only partially loaded. The upstream passage was much more difficult, as the ships had to be towed against the current. Towmen pulled the boats upstream over a narrow, shallow stretch of the river close to the right 87 Journal über die Abführung des k. k. Herrn Internuntius Baron v. Herbert auf der Donau von Wienn bis Ruschtuk in Bulgarien und zwar vom 20-ten July bis 29-ten Augusti 1779, in Docan, “Exploraţiuni austriace pe Dunăre la sfârşitul veacului al XVII-lea,” 614–15. 88 Ibid., 617. 89 Beschreibung deren Eilf Plans der Donau von Belgrad bis Ruschtuk in Bulgarien, in Docan, “Exploraţiuni austriace pe Dunăre la sfârşitul veacului al XVII-lea,” 619–28.

48

E xploring the Da nube

bank. Lauterer even offered an opinion on how to improve the passage, namely to deepen this shallow stretch so that ships could avoid the nearby waterfalls altogether.90 As it turned out, future engineers would indeed focus on this shallow spot of the river to build an artificial canal along the riverbed. Lauterer further noted that without the guidance provided by experienced local men, the movement of vessels would not have been smooth, and all ships passing through the gorge relied on them. Thus, the villages of AltOrsova (Orșova Veche) for the descent, and Kladovo for the ascent, were the usual places to hire pilots and towmen. In his concluding remarks, Lauterer

Figure 4. Map of the Iron Gates. Source: Navigationskarte der Donau von Semlin an bis zu ihrem Ausfluss ins Schwarze Meer (Vienna 1789). Bayrische Staatsbibliothek.

considered what type of Austrian vessel could pass the cataracts in the case of war with the Ottomans. He expressed confidence that Habsburg patrol boats could move back and forth at any water level. Large war ships could pass unhindered downstream when the water was very high, but he was skep-

90 Ibid., 620.

49

Chapter 1

tical whether they could make their way up at the same high water level.91 The map Lauterer drew showed the Iron Gates as a narrow spot on the river, but not blocked by the high mountains flanking it (see figure 4). In sum, Lauterer delivered a very different account of the Iron Gates to that of his predecessor, Kleemann. Lauterer presented a panoramic view of the cataracts and their surroundings, while Kleemann narrated his personal experience of being carried over this dangerous stretch of water. This difference in perspective is also reflected in the graphic representations they added to their accounts. The drawings illustrating Kleemann’s story show the Iron Gates from the level of the water, where the protagonist’s ship is a mere small husk painted against huge waves and mighty mountain ridges. In contrast, Lauterer’s survey presented the first complete map of the Lower Danube. It shows the flow of the river, including information on the depth and width of the riverbed, the islands, rocks, and sandbanks it contained, as well as all settlements in its immediate proximity. In this way, the firsthand observations made by Lauterer and his team were converted into a systematic and scientific description of the river. 92 While on the road, Lauterer received new instructions from the Aulic Council (Hofkriegsrat) ordering him to accompany the ambassador to Constantinople and then return on his own via the Black Sea and the Danube Delta, and to continue his journey on the Pruth River to Jassy (Iași) in Wallachia and enter the Habsburg Monarchy at Kronstadt (Brașov) in Transylvania. On his way, he should record all military objects and note anything else of exceptional interest. The guidelines given to Lauterer from the onset stated that the Black Sea was not a military target; nevertheless, the state should be informed about certain issues, such as shipping, commercial maritime activity, the types of ships in use, the inhabitants of the delta, and their relations with the Ottoman authorities. A long list of questions addressed the topography of the delta: for instance, how many arms the Danube branched into, how many of them were navigable, as well as how many islands and side channels existed. Furthermore, the general staff of the Habsburg army wanted 91 Ibid., 621. 92 Navigations-Karte der Donau von Semlin an bis zu ihrem Ausfluss ins Schwarze Meer zur genauesten Kentnis aller in derselben befindlichen Inseln, Sandbänke, Wirbel, Klippen u.s.w. so wie aller an den beiderseitigen Ufern gelegenen Städte, Dörfer und andere Ortschaften, wobei zugleich die verschiedene Breite und Tiefe des Stroms bestimt angegeben ist (Vienna: Kurtzbekische Buchhandlung, 1789).

50

E xploring the Da nube

to know about Ottoman military capabilities in the delta, namely whether the Ottoman army used pontoon bridges to traverse it. An equally detailed questionnaire referred to the Pruth river and the land route to Transylvania.93 However, because the order was sent late, it did not reach Lauterer on his arrival in Rustchuk from where he immediately returned to his battalion. His superior, Colonel Karl von Magdeburg, realizing the confusion, informed the Aulic Council that unfortunately Lauterer was already at his garrison. Magdeburg seized the opportunity to express his opinion about the new instructions. While acknowledging the need for a thorough survey of the delta, he also remarked that coming back from Constantinople over the Black Sea and the delta was a very unusual route for an Austrian traveler to take. Travelers returning from Constantinople usually took the land route back. Magdeburg remarked that since the last war, the Ottoman authorities had been on high alert, observing every suspicious traveler on their territory. Therefore, he thought it best that in future Lauterer travel in the company of merchants downstream in order not to raise any suspicion.94 In 1782, Lauterer had another opportunity to explore the Lower Danube. He joined Matthäus Willeshoven, a former translator in Constantinople whom he knew from his previous Danube travels, on a commercial trip to Kherson. In 1781, Willeshoven had asked the internuncio to relieve him from his diplomatic duties and allow him to establish the monarchy’s first trading house in Constantinople.95 During the preparations for the voyage, he slowly moved from his original goal and directed his attention to the port city of Kherson, which had come under Russian rule in 1774. His change of mind was most likely influenced by the ongoing negotiations between the Habsburg and Russian governments on signing a first trade agreement.96 In June 1782, Willeshoven and his crew set out on the Danube on board two ships of the Kehlheim type. The ships carried cloth, canvas, glassware, porcelain, leather, and ironware. The official purpose of the trip was to introduce Russian merchants to a variety of export products from the Austrian 93 Hofkriegsrath to Lauterer, Vienna, August 26, 1779, in Docan, “Exploraţiuni austriace pe Dunăre la sfârşitul veacului al XVII-lea,” 695–97. 94 Magdeburg to the Hofkriegsrath, Vienna August 24, 1779, in Docan, “Exploraţiuni austriace pe Dunăre la sfârşitul veacului al XVII-lea,” 698–99. 95 Hans Halm, Habsburgischer Osthandel im 18. Jahrhundert: Österreich und Neurußland, vol. 2, Donauhandel und -schiffhart 1781–1787. (Munich: Isar-Verlag, 1954), 12. 96 Ibid., 48–50.

51

Chapter 1

Empire, so they could order the merchandise they wanted from the Habsburg Monarchy. Lauterer was at the helm of the first ship, the Patriot, not as a military officer but in the guise of a merchant.97 On this new voyage, Lauterer continued his detailed description of the Danube shores from Rustchuk to the Black Sea. He followed his instructions, recording the fortifications and military bases he encountered. In addition, he kept an eye on commerce and noted the flourishing trade being conducted at the ports of Ibraila and Galatz. He also inspected the shipyard in Galatz that built large, three-masted maritime vessels.98 From a nautical point of view, he was very much interested in the navigation conditions in the delta. He noticed that the Danube first parted into two arms in the proximity of Isaccea where he saw several loaded ships docked in the harbor. From there on, the right branch parted again into three small arms. Based on these observations and on conversations with local people, he concluded that the Danube had four mouths, known as Kilia, Sulina, Kiderlias, and Bortiza. He also remarked on several smaller side channels, as well as the lakes and islands situated on them. This presented quite a different picture from the rumors circulating in the Habsburg Monarchy, which spoke of five or even seven mouths. Nevertheless, from his description it was difficult to differentiate between an actual channel and the surrounding wetlands. Besides, the environment of the Danube Delta was constantly changing, meaning that it was possible that former mouths had recently been sealed off by sandbanks. The most useful piece of information Lauterer gathered was that large ships crossing to and from the Black Sea currently used the Sulina branch and not the Kilia, as previously indicated in Kleemann’s report.99 In September 1782 the Patriot crossed the delta, making it the first Habsburg ship to have made it all the way to the Black Sea. Looking back on the journey, Lauterer estimated that in good weather the entire voyage from Vienna would take roughly thirty-five days, or five weeks. However, due to poor weather and numerous pauses on the way, the trip had taken over 97 Ibid., 54–55. 98 Beschreibung des bey der Abführung des Willeshofischen Commertien Transports, von Russzug bis Sulina an das schwarze Meer weiters aufgenommenen Donau Planes, mit denen übrigen diese Reise betreffenden Relationen, Vienna, March 12, 1783, in Docan, “Exploraţiuni austriace pe Dunăre la sfârşitul veacului al XVII-lea,” 634–35. 99 Ibid., 637.

52

E xploring the Da nube

eight weeks. While Lauterer was in Sulina, he had time to observe how ships crossed the bar. He noted that at the end of the channel there was a shallow spot in the sea that was barely eleven feet (Schuh) deep. Thus, an Ottoman pilot guided the ships over this dangerous point and also marked its outline with buoys. In order for larger ships to cross, the harbor in Sulina provided several flat vessels that could carry the load over the bar.100 In Sulina, the Austrian merchandise was transferred aboard a Russian seafaring ship which brought it over the Black Sea to Kherson. Writing about the passage, Lauterer commented that while the sea had certainly not been rough, the Ottoman seaman were inexperienced and could neither use a compass nor read a nautical chart.101 Lauterer returned from Kherson in January 1783. As soon as April, he started out on another journey to the Lower Danube, guiding a second transport for Willeshoven’s company. After the success of the first voyage to Kherson, Willeshoven opened a new firm for shipping products down the Danube and further to the Black Sea. This time, however, the state chancellery and Joseph II himself intervened more closely in the organization of the trip. For cost reasons, Willeshoven had planned to once more hire smaller river boats, but the emperor was eager to try out a newly built and larger seafaring ship. The new frigate Österreicher was chosen for the trip. In exchange, Willeshoven asked for a state loan, which was granted by Joseph II.102 Furthermore, the emperor entrusted Lauterer with a special mission, namely to complete and refine the map he had drawn during his last two journeys down the Danube, focusing particularly on the delta.103 This time he was given two assistants, Lieutenant Mihanovich and Captain Redange, from his own bridge-building battalion (Pontonierbattailon), who would in their turn undertake to survey (recognoscieren) and draw a map of the river. All three officers would travel dressed as merchants and were instructed not to divulge the real purpose of their mission under any circumstance, not even in their private correspondence, as this could be intercepted by Ottoman officials.104 100 Ibid., 640. 101 Ibid., 641. 102 Halm, Habsburgischer Osthandel im 18. Jahrhundert, 86–87 and 98–105. 103 Ibid., 106. 104 Magdeburg to Hofkriegsrath, Vienna, April 12, 1783, in Docan, “Exploraţiuni austriace pe Dunăre la sfârşitul veacului al XVII-lea,” 701–2.

53

Chapter 1

This time, it was Mihanovich who provided the Aulic Council with a full description of the travel itinerary.105 His account of the Iron Gates did not differ from the one Lauterer had delivered previously, using almost identical wording.106 The same holds true for the description of the delta in which he also described the four branches of the Danube and confirmed that the Sulina branch was the only one navigable to the Black Sea.107 In the delta, he independently conducted a first reconnaissance of the Porticza branch.108 In the meantime, Lauterer and his companion, Captain Redange, inspected the Kilia branch and then crossed into the Sulina arm in order to compare both outlets. After talking to local Ottoman authorities, Redange expressed his conviction that Kilia Nova could be turned into an important commercial hub for the Habsburg Monarchy by connecting Bessarabia, Constantinople, and Kherson to his homeland. After proving that the new Austrian frigate was able to navigate as far as Kilia Nova, he subsequently realized that such ships could not return upstream and had to be sold at the end of the trip. Further, he recommended that Habsburg merchants should acquire a small commercial maritime fleet based in Kilia Nova, which Austrian traders could use to transport their merchandise over the Black Sea. According to locals, when the winds were favorable, the journey to Kherson lasted only two days, and to Constantinople, four days.109 The most valuable item produced by Lauterer and his team was the first complete map of the Ottoman Danube from Zemun to the Black Sea. A description of the main harbors and of the most dangerous spots on the waterway complemented the map. It also included a vast number of settlements along the Danube, listing even small hamlets. And more importantly from a nautical point of view, the map also indicated all the islands and sandbanks the three men had recorded on their journey. As such, the map was a collective 105 Relation über die Reise des Hauptmanns Georg Lauterer und Unterleutnant Franz Mihanovich, beide vom Pontomiebataillon, von Konstantinopel bis Durazzo nebst der Fortsetzung des letzteren von Durazzo nach Semlin, 1783, in Österreichisches Staatsarchiv (hereafter AT-OeStA), Kriegsarchiv (hereafter KA), KPS LB K I a, 11 E. 106 Beschreibung des Donaustroms mit seinen Ufern von Peterwardein bis zur Mündung bei Sulina zu dem auf hohen Befehl aufgenommenen Plan, July 20, 1783, AT-OeStA/KA KPS LB K I a, 10 F, 12-13. 107 Ibid., 32–33. 108 Beschreibung des Porticza Bogaz oder des vierten arms des Donau Strohms, AT-OeStA/KA KPS LB K I a, 10 F, 36–37. 109 Fortsetzung der weiteren Relation über die auf hohen Befehl von Galatz nach Akkamann vorgenommene Reise, AT-OeStA/KA KPS LB K I a, 12 E, F.

54

E xploring the Da nube

Figure 5. Map of the Danube Delta. Source: Navigationskarte der Donau von Semlin an bis zu ihrem Ausfluss ins Schwarze Meer. Bayrische Staatsbibliothek.

work that combined their observations. Regarding the delta, the map focused on the Sulina branch as the main shipping artery, together with its confluence with the Black Sea. However, the reduction of the delta’s wetlands and its maze-like water network to a single, well-defined channel, conveyed to future navigators the unrealistic and almost delusive impression of a straight, uninterrupted shipping passage to the sea. Also, in the area of the Iron Gates, the map did not indicate how the flow of the water was interrupted in the gorge.110 Above all, these two difficult navigation spots—not portrayed accordingly— suggest that the map was not an accurate description but rather a projection of how the surveyors envisioned the Danube: as a direct waterway connecting the Habsburg lands and the Black Sea (see figure 5). In conclusion, Lauterer and his companions proved that navigating the entire Danube on Habsburg ships was not only possible but also relatively safe, and they considered their map an invitation for other navigators to follow in their path. Thus, their explorative missions went beyond Kleemann’s first-person account and delivered a systematized repository of knowledge containing a multitude of geographical, commercial, and strategic information. Also striking about Lauterer’s expeditions was that although he was certainly the most important actor on the respective voyage, he did not act alone but was part of a team of state officials, merchants, and military officers. This combination of forces underlined that the exploratory journeys 110 Navigations-Karte der Donau von Semlin an bis zu ihrem Ausfluss ins Schwarze Meer.

55

Chapter 1

pursued different goals relating to peace and wartime. On the other hand, they revealed that while private and official stakeholders followed different interests on the Lower Danube, significant synergies could arise from cooperation. Moreover, the semi-official and semi-private character of such missions would remain a feature of the future projects conducted by the monarchy along the river, such as the foundation of the Danube Steam Navigation Company and the early engineering projects at the Iron Gates. While Lauterer’s map would remain an important point of reference for future Danube navigators, Willeshoven’s company barely survived a year in Kherson. Around Christmas 1783, he fled the city leaving his accumulated debt behind. A combination of factors had caused the bankruptcy, including the lack of commitment of Russian merchants, their limited monetary resources, and an outbreak of plague that had curtailed any shipping traffic.111 The ambivalent results of the joint Lauterer-Willeshoven enterprises show that establishing flourishing trade relations between the Habsburg lands and the Black Sea powers via the Danube was far more difficult than drawing an accurate map of the route. While the map was a necessary precondition for trading ships to safely reach their destinations, steady traffic depended on reliable river infrastructure and secure cash flows. Over the following years, several official and private initiatives tackled these shortcomings. New Habsburg Assessments at the Turn of the Century On the one hand, Lauterer’s expeditions and mapmaking project were successful in gathering reliable knowledge about the Danube route and bringing it into a standardized form. The news of the successful completion of his mission to survey the river reached Vienna in the midst of negotiations with the Ottomans on a new trade agreement. The Habsburg government realized that its citizens were not profiting in any way from the Russian advancement to the Black Sea in 1774, which breached the Ottoman dominance in the area. Moreover, the government noted that most of the provisions of the trade agreement signed in Passarowitz in 1718 (for instance, the free movement of Habsburg merchants and a unified customs duty) were not being 111 Hans Halm, “Donauhandel und Donauschiffahrt von den österreichischen Erblanden nach Neurußland (1783),” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 2, no. 1 (1954): 18–37.

56

E xploring the Da nube

met by the Ottoman authorities. The new trade agreement, which reinforced the free use of the Lower Danube, also included the right of Habsburg subjects and ships to navigate the Black Sea, a request that the Ottoman government granted in 1784.112 On the other hand, Willeshoven’s failed business venture demonstrated that international trade relations needed far more than systematic knowledge regarding the travel route. The bankruptcy also put a hold on any further financial involvement on the part of the emperor. Moreover, Joseph II became more reluctant to use state resources to back private trade initiatives to the Black Sea. When Austrian merchant Ignaz Rutter, backed by several large investors, attempted to take over Willeshoven’s business in Kherson, the emperor did not get personally involved this time and even refused to award the new company exclusive trading rights for the Danube route.113 This rather defensive attitude to the new initiative, however, did not mean that Joseph II had revoked his entire support for trade along the Lower Danube. What changed was his outlook on how the Habsburg government should further promote this business opportunity. He regarded the new trade agreement with the Ottomans as an opportunity for the monarchy’s Danubian trade to thrive without the financial support of the state. Thus, he initiated a comprehensive promotional campaign to popularize the benefits of the agreement in order to attract new private investors, his hope being that the trade would finally emancipate itself from the state’s supervision.114 Furthermore, the rapprochement between the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires, which culminated in the new agreement, added a new destination to the shipping connection via the Danube. In addition to transporting commercial goods to the Russian Black Sea ports, Joseph II envisaged a regular shipping connection between Vienna and Constantinople to increase exchange between the two capitals. Again, he expected that a private initiative would implement this idea.115 112 Halm, Habsburgischer Osthandel im 18. Jahrhundert, 144–45. 113 Halm, “Donauhandel und Donauschiffahrt,” 44–49. 114 Handlungseinverständniß zwischen dem kaiserl. königl. Hofe, und der ottomanischen Pforte zum Vortheile der österreichischen Handlung unter dem Namen Sined, oder Einverständniß geschlossen den 24. Hornung 1784 (Vienna: Sebastian Hartl, 1785). 115 Hans Halm, “Wegbereiter des Großhandels auf der Donau bis zur Zäsur des Krieges 1787,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 2, no. 3 (1954): 266.

57

Chapter 1

In the light of these changes, Wenzel von Brognard, an official at the state chancellery—the son of a former internuncio in Constantinople and therefore familiar with Ottoman Europe—traveled in 1786 along the Lower Danube and across the Black Sea to document the progress of navigation. Herbert, the Austrian ambassador in Constantinople, again initiated the trip, giving Brognard specific instructions on the way. Thus, he was to look out for new Ottoman fortifications along the Black Sea coast, assess how the presence of a Russian fleet had changed the organization of Ottoman shipping, and, finally, deliver up-to-date information on navigation conditions on the Black Sea. In addition, Herbert raised the question of a possible new use for the waterway, asking Brognard to investigate whether the export of Hungarian wood and grain down the Danube and further across the Black Sea would be feasible.116 Following these instructions, Brognard focused on the delta and the sea, starting his report by enumerating all the dangers lurking in this area. In addition to strong winds and currents, he also mentioned the plague, pirates, rough locals, and hostile janissaries.117 He began his journey convinced that since the Black Sea was finally open to ships and merchants of the Habsburg Monarchy, international trade would flourish on this route, but after the crossing he grew more skeptical about the potential success of commercial activity. Yet, he strongly believed that some of the mentioned hazards could be easily avoided. To this end, Habsburg traders needed better information. First and foremost, they needed an accurate map of the entire sea, drawn according to the latest astronomical measurements. Like Lauterer, he was also convinced that the sea passage would be far less dangerous if Ottoman captains had exact cartographic knowledge that would, for instance, enable them to find the nearest shelter in the case of a storm. He described the Greek sailors and pilots, who steered most Ottoman ships, as unreliable since they depended exclusively on experience and local information. He also mentioned contemporary rumors that French engineers had taken astronomical measurements of the Black Sea, but had kept this information secret.118 116 “Gehorsamster Bericht über meine Beobachtungs Reise von Konstantinopel längst der westlichen Küste des schwarzen Meers, über Sunia nach Gallatz,” in Gheron Netta, Expansiunea economică a Austriei şi explorările ei orientale (Bucharest: Cartea Românească, 1930), 220–21. 117 Ibid., 221–22. 118 Ibid., 259–51.

58

E xploring the Da nube

Crossing from the sea into the narrow Danube branch of Sulina (Sunnia in German documents), Brognard came across another potential hazard for Austrian traders that earlier travelers had not mentioned. Both Kleemann’s and Lauterer’s team had remarked that the passage from and into the river was difficult because the water was only a few feet deep. They also mentioned that large ships had to unload their goods in order to cross the sandbar. But they did not discuss the deterioration of the passage due to increased silting. Brognard heard that merchants and seamen had started to complain that navigation conditions were growing worse, more ships were forced to unload prior to crossing, and the waiting time for ships to be able to leave the Danube was also extending into days. All these delays, uncertainties, and the extra services of pilots and stevedores only pushed freight rates up. In response to these accumulating complaints, the Ottoman government sent two French military engineers to conduct an assessment and recommend an engineering project that could improve the confluence. The project proposed the building of a wooden dam along the northern bank that would be some 400 fathoms (Klafter, toises de France) long. The dam would protect the last houses of Sulina and then extend out into the sea where it would end in a casement. The main purpose of the dam would be to stop the ongoing erosion of the shore that increased the silting. Halfway across the dam, the French engineers suggested the building of a lighthouse. A second dam should be built on the opposite, southern bank in which the integration of a fort (redoute) would provide ships with a safe harbor while waiting for favorable winds to cross into the sea. The overall purpose of the construction was first to deepen the water level at the bar and then keep it constant, while at the same time protecting the ships crossing it.119 Brognard further informed his superiors that local informants had told him that after Ottoman officials came to Sulina to look at the French plans, they dismissed the project because they found it too expensive and difficult to build. They then commissioned “a Moldavian architect” to design a new construction. It was more limited in scope and aimed at closing all side channels of the main branch with the help of wooden stakes. In addition, the plans also included two wooden dams that would prolong the shores into the sea. However, like the French project, these significantly cheaper plans were 119 Ibid., 234.

59

Chapter 1

never put into practice. Following the delivery of a large quantity of wood to Sulina and the arrival of a master builder from Constantinople in the spring of 1786, the builder was ordered to return later in the same year and the wood was shipped away. Brognard could not find an official explanation for this change of heart, but the locals he talked to assumed that the new expedition to Egypt had exhausted the financial resources in Constantinople. In this context it is worth mentioning that Brognard, commenting on the second plan, had referred to it as drawn in a “Turkish manner,” most probably meaning that it was not as thorough and reliable as the French design. He further noticed that the representation of the shore at Sulina was inaccurate (unrichtig aufgenommen) in a typically “oriental way,” namely drawn by approximation instead of by reproducing details in an exact manner.120 This type of criticism came up several times in Brognard’s depiction of Ottomans whom he viewed as completely dissociated from modern scientific knowledge. This was a current trope with other Habsburg travelers who ventured to the Black Sea: Ottoman sailors were not familiar with contemporary navigation instruments such as the compass, and could not read a nautical chart or perform accurate measurements on land or on sea. They were portrayed as the opposite of the “enlightened” individual, still groping in the dark. Brognard concluded his report by emphasizing that over the past years much had been accomplished to improve communications on the Danube and on the Black Sea. He especially mentioned Lauterer’s mapping project as an important step toward improving the available knowledge about the region in the Habsburg Monarchy. However, during his travels he had also become aware of several shortcomings. Thus, his recommendations went in several directions. First, he advised that the available information regarding trade and navigation be collected in a booklet and handed out to all ship captains. Second, he argued in favor of subsidies for those engaged in trading activity. Finally, he urged for more comprehensive measures to intensify trade, including the removal of the physical obstructions on the Danube, the building of sufficient storage facilities in the ports, the insurance of merchandise, and improvement in the quality of transportation.121 In other words, Habsburg shipping activity along the Lower Danube was ready to 120 Ibid., 235–37. 121 Ibid., 254–55.

60

E xploring the Da nube

enter a new phase of development in which a more regular and institutionalized form of commerce would emerge. It seems that the emperor followed Brognard’s recommendations to develop a regular shipping connection along the Lower Danube that guaranteed merchants the safe and timely arrival of their goods at various destinations in the Black Sea basin. In June 1787, he awarded two Austrian merchants, Domenicus Dellazia and Andreas Breghenti, the privilege of being the only company in the monarchy to provide transport services between Zemun and Galatz on the Danube for the next twelve years. In exchange, the company agreed to operate at least five trips between the months of April and August.122 However, a long-lasting period of war in Europe in which the Austrian Empire was directly involved curtailed this endeavor and any further attempts to exploit the Danube route. In 1787, the Habsburg Monarchy joined the Russian Empire in a new war against the Ottomans that lasted until 1792. Immediately afterwards, the monarchy participated in the alliances against revolutionary France and the ensuing campaigns against Napoleon.123 Only after the Congress of Vienna did the Habsburg state and private entrepreneurs resume their efforts to re-evaluate the Danube route and learn from past failures. In 1820, Hungarian publicist Wenzel August Wersak addressed a report to the city council in Pest, emphasizing that it was the Danube port that would profit most from expanding trade on this route.124 Wersak promoted the trading route along the Danube as a specifically Hungarian project, focusing on the export of commodities from Hungary toward the Orient and less on the shipping of manufactured goods from the Hereditary Lands. This emphasis shows that interest in revitalizing the Danube route shifted geographically inside the monarchy. In terms of commerce, Hungarian entrepreneurs, and increasingly state officials, started to take an avid interest in the river as an international waterway. A decade later, this group would 122 “Verführung auf der Donau nach den schwarzen Meere N. VI.,” in Handbuch aller unter der Regierung des Kaisers Joseph II. für die K.K. Erbländer ergangenen Verordnungen und Gesetze in einer sistematischen Verbindung, vol. 14, ed. Joseph Kropatschek (Vienna: Joh. Georg Moesle, 1789), 19–26. 123 Aksan, Ottoman Wars, 160–67. 124 Wenzel August Wersak, Einige Bemerkungen über die Wichtigkeit des Handels auf der Donau, nach dem schwarzen Meere und über dieses hinaus, für das Königreich Ungarn und die übrigen erbländischen Provinzen, vorzüglich aber für die Kommerzialstadt Pesth (Pest: Joh. Thom. v. Trattnerschen Lettern, 1820).

61

Chapter 1

be the first to introduce concrete measures to improve the navigability of the Danube. Wersak’s report, however, highlighted the advantages for the monarchy, and particularly for the Hungarian lands, if Danube trade were to finally pick up, without making concrete proposals for how to ensure this would happen. Wersak considered the Danube the Habsburg Monarchy’s natural path to the Black Sea, stating that nature itself had sketched out the way for use by the monarchy’s subjects.125 In his opinion, only force of habit had prevented trade on the Danube from developing, because merchants were accustomed to directing their commercial activities toward the Adriatic and Mediterranean seas. This was why Hungarian merchants should keep up efforts to export their goods via the Danube, until finally business partners in the Black Sea region would realize that using the Danube as a transport route was easy, quick, and advantageous.126 Wersak seemed unaware of the many hazardous spots on the river that a ship had to overcome in order to deliver goods to the Black Sea ports. The knowledge gathered by his predecessors seemed lost for the moment. He also did not mention the fact that Austrian merchants needed to rely on transport infrastructure along the Lower Danube that did not always suit their needs, or would have to build the corresponding facilities. It was as though Wersak had chosen the most direct connection from the monarchy to the Black Sea without taking into consideration the geographic difficulties and infrastructural deficiencies along the way that were well known to the informed public. Still, in spite of its naivety, there were two reasons why this report was significant. First, it perceived the Danube as the “natural” route to the Orient, suggesting that it was just a matter of time until the waterway would become what it was meant to be. This outlook concealed the fact that humans would have to make the Lower Danube navigable, transforming parts of the river into artificial canals in order to realize the vision of a reliable transport corridor. Paradoxically, the “natural” character of this connection would be most frequently cited to justify massive human intervention into the course of the river. And second, the statement was one of the first to present the navigability of the Danube up to the Black Sea as a Hungarian project. While the central military and civil authorities still maintained an interest in the Lower 125 Ibid., 52 and 244. 126 Ibid., 253.

62

E xploring the Da nube

Danube, in this period a distinct Hungarian project to improve the Danube connection emerged that was both complementary and opposed to Viennese interests. Hungary, a land situated at the confluence of several rivers, needed the Danube as an outlet to the sea. This scheme put Budapest instead of Vienna at the center of a wider trading network designed to enable the export of Hungarian raw materials via the Danube to the Black Sea.127 Thus, it marked a shift from the first coalition of interests centered on shipping out products from the industrialized parts of the monarchy—putting the Lower Danube on the trading map for the first time—toward a Hungarian endeavor that would also contribute to ultimately reshaping the course of the river. Why Did the Shipping Connection on the Danube Fail? Despite several attempts to establish a regular shipping connection from the Habsburg Monarchy to the Black Sea, this project would only be achieved in the 1830s when steamboats could travel up and down the entire navigable Danube. Nevertheless, this chapter shows that plans and visions for such connections existed long before steam technology was able to propel ships downstream at regular intervals, and back upstream for the first time. Within the general context of Austrian trade policy toward Ottoman Europe, the route along the Danube represented a paradox. In theory, the river connection was not only the shortest, but presumably the easiest and cheapest connection to Ottoman Europe and the Black Sea basin. Some observers even described it as the only natural path from the Habsburg Monarchy to the Ottoman Empire. But although several private and state-sponsored endeavors targeted this route, these initiatives failed to produce steady trade along the Danube. However, this did not mean that the monarchy’s oriental trade was stalled in general; it only remained underdeveloped along the Lower Danube. The upper course of the Danube from Vienna to Belgrade turned into a busy transport artery from where manufactured goods were conveyed by land over Niš to Constantinople and to Trieste. There were several reasons why the presumably more difficult and longer land route was a better choice than the “direct” Danube connection. First, Habsburg trade with the Ottoman Empire was organized by the so-called “Greek” merchants, former Ottoman 127 Ibid., 66–68.

63

Chapter 1

subjects of Greek Orthodox faith who cooperated with relatives and members of their religious community in the Balkans and Constantinople. In the eighteenth century, they conducted flourishing trade, though it consisted of small-scale transactions of the type that could be sustained by a family business. Second, as it expanded trade into Ottoman territory, the Habsburg government not only supported shipping on the Danube, but also the development of the ports of Fiume and Trieste as its two major trade outlets to the east. However, the route along the Lower Danube and the overland one to the Adriatic were not mutually exclusive because they connected different territories with the monarchy. While the route via the Adriatic ports represented the fastest connection to the Mediterranean, the course along the Danube primarily targeted the new Russian trade colonies on the Black Sea. Still, the Russian trading towns were operating in the middle of a war zone, which may have further impeded the Danube connection. Only at the beginning of the nineteenth century were they able to build up stable commercial exchanges with the Habsburg Monarchy. Habsburg merchants faced numerous obstacles and setbacks in their first attempts to establish a regular shipping connection along the river. Austrian ships first encountered a major physical barrier at the Austrian-Ottoman border. The cataracts of the Iron Gates with their rapid current and shallow spots represented a terrifying experience for those crossing into the Ottoman Empire. Below the Iron Gates, the Danube was wider and deeper, so that larger ships were better suited for this portion. From Galatz to the Black Sea, the Ottomans employed large seafaring ships that were able to carry goods as far as Constantinople. Still, the passage though the delta was full of unpredictable obstacles and ships had to be unloaded in order to pass over the bar. Given these circumstances, what kind of vessels were most suitable? The boats usually in use on the middle section of the Danube were manufactured from soft timber with flat bottoms not robust enough to withstand the Iron Gates. Besides, for such a long trip on the Ottoman Danube, these boats seemed small and feeble. Thus, merchants were confronted with the question of whether it was more lucrative to buy Ottoman vessels or to improve the quality of the Austrian boats. The first travelers made use of both solutions. The other, more challenging, problem was the return trip for which ships and boats had to be towed upstream. This meant that all ships leaving the Habsburg lands had to be sold after a certain point because the effort of 64

E xploring the Da nube

bringing them back upstream was not worthwhile. Yet, the need to sell the ships created several other uncertainties, namely finding a buyer for the first ship and then a suitable replacement. A further problem was the lack of shipping infrastructure, such as wharves and sufficient storage facilities for merchandise. In addition, Kleemann had already realized that trade along the Danube would be a seasonal endeavor because snow and ice in winter would hinder the journey. More specifically, if Hungarian agricultural products were exported, shipping could only be conducted in autumn until the waters of the Danube froze. These very different problems ultimately combined to hinder the development of a regular shipping connection to the Black Sea. Only when stream power enabled ships to navigate the entire Danube, cross into the Black Sea, and return on the same route, was the Lower Danube truly connected with the Habsburg lands. In sum, the Habsburg Monarchy did not capitalize on the right for its ships to navigate freely on the Lower Danube and the Black Sea. The abovementioned projects remained singular endeavors. By the time a new enterprise set out to sell goods in the Black Sea region, earlier trading companies with the same intention had either gone bankrupt or given up on further attempts to sustain this line of business. New companies practically had to start from scratch. Moreover, the Habsburgs failed to establish viable shipping infrastructure that would sustain regular commerce. For instance, Brognard’s proposal that the monarchy acquire a small fleet of marine vessels to be stationed in a delta port or its proximity so that merchants could rent or buy them to carry goods over the sea was never put into practice. What these missions did achieve was to improve knowledge about navigation along the Lower Danube. Those interested in conducting such a trip could consult a variety of information, from first-hand accounts to more synthesized data compilations. In addition, the few journeys to the Black Sea produced a group of so-called “Danube experts” who gathered very different kinds of knowledge and expertise. State officials, diplomats, merchants, adventurers, military officers, and navigators belonged to this group, most of them serving in a double capacity. Support from the state proved instrumental in bringing together these various actors who pursued diverse goals in charting the connection over the Danube. This blending of official and private interests would remain a characteristic feature of future Habsburg efforts to develop communications along this route. In other words, the cre65

Chapter 1

ation of this coalition of Danube experts not only put the Lower Danube on the map of the monarchy, but also provided the starting point for an interventionist policy that aimed to make the Danube the waterway connection many of these pioneers hoped it could be. Russia’s Steady Advance to the Lower Danube During the eighteenth century, the Russian Empire steadily advanced southward where it encountered the rival Ottoman and Austrian imperial projects. Russian-Ottoman military clashes were first concentrated in the Azov area and at the confluence of the Danube and Pruth rivers. A first peace treaty signed in 1700 in Constantinople aimed at a balance of power between the two empires. As part of the negotiations, the Russian Empire left the antiOttoman alliance of the Holy League that had signed the Treaty of Karlowitz in 1699, and in exchange the Ottomans agreed to recognize the Russian possessions in the Azov region. But already in 1711 the treaty was nullified after an unsuccessful Russian military campaign on the Pruth River that pushed the Russians back from the Sea of Azov.128 Over the course of the next few decades, the Russian army organized numerous military campaigns and expeditions into Ottoman territory. While these incursions did not bring any substantial territorial gains, they did not end in a debacle as had occurred in 1711 either. On the contrary, the campaigns helped the Russian military command to develop appropriate strategies to fight the Ottomans and to secure provisions for their soldiers in the case of a prolonged war. In addition, compared to the Austrian and Ottoman Empires, Russia proved more capable of quickly shifting military resources to its southern frontiers—maneuvers that anticipated its military success in the 1770s.129 The Russo-Turkish War of 1768 to 1774 significantly altered the geopolitical situation in the Black Sea basin. During a successful campaign in the summer of 1770, the Russian army advanced quickly to the Danube and forced the Ottoman fortresses between the Dniester and the Danube Rivers (at Ismail, Kilia, Akkermann, and Bender) to surrender one by one. Moreover, Russian troops occupied the two Danubian Principalities for the next four years. In 128 Davies, Empire and Military Revolution in Eastern Europe, 123–27. 129 Ibid., 242–43.

66

E xploring the Da nube

1773 and 1774, Russian troops further crossed the Danube at Silistra, forcing the Ottoman Empire into a truce.130 The prolonged Russian occupation of the principalities and possible further expansion worried the Habsburg government which protested against this state of affairs. In order to prevent a possible Habsburg-Ottoman rapprochement, Catherine the Great gave up on her pledge to grant independence to Moldavia and Wallachia, withdrawing Russia’s troops from the two provinces at the end of the war.131 In the ensuing Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca signed in 1774, the Russian Empire extended its rule in the northern Black Sea over the ports of Azov, Kherson, and Kerch on the Crimean Peninsula. Furthermore, Russian merchants not only gained access to the Black Sea, but also received the right to free navigation though the Straits and on the Lower Danube.132 Another stipulation granted Russia the right to protect the Christian churches within those territories inside the Ottoman Empire which its troops had occupied during the war, such as the Danubian Principalities and the Aegean islands. Soon after signing the treaty, Russian empress Catherine the Great overemphasized these very specific stipulations, claiming that the Russian Empire should act as the sole protector of all Christian subjects in the Ottoman Empire.133 The Russo-Turkish wars at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries brought further significant territorial gains to the Russian Empire. In 1783, Russia took the Crimean Peninsula into its possession; in 1792, it obtained a common border with Moldavia, followed in 1812 by the annexation of the northeastern part of Moldavia (Bessarabia). Finally, in 1829 after the Treaty of Adrianople, Russian expansion reached its climax when Russia managed to oust the Ottoman Empire from the northern Black Sea and claimed rule over the Danube Delta.134 Having pushed the Ottomans back behind the Danube line, the Russian Empire established a protectorate over the two Danubian Principalities. Thus, Moldavia and Wallachia became the target of several “enlightened” projects.135 However, Russia’s civilizing mission on the Lower Danube 130 Ibid., 268–72. 131 Ibid., 272. 132 Douglas A. Howard, A History of the Ottoman Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 221. 133 Ibid., 222. 134 Rieber, The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands, 326–27 and 335–37. 135 Taki, Russia on the Danube, 47–49.

67

Chapter 1

revealed a fundamental tension between Russia—itself having been the object of a Western civilizing mission—and its application of the same policy toward the Ottoman possessions in Europe. Consequently, Russian monarchs spared no efforts in trying to earn the recognition of the European monarchs as enlightened rulers. In other words, Russia’s ongoing Westernization went hand in hand with pursuing an overt civilizing mission in the European Ottoman Empire.136 By reforming and reshaping the principalities, the Russian government could prove to the other European states that it was capable of uplifting “backward” and “uncultivated” provinces. As a result, Russian cartographers and empire-builders arrived in the principalities to survey the territories, assess the collected data, and introduce new policies. Several of these missions focused on the Lower Danube, evaluating its strategic and economic potential. Russia’s “Enlightened” Projects Along the Lower Danube During the Russo-Turkish War of 1768 to 1774, the four-year occupation of the Danubian Principalities enabled the Russian army commanders to familiarize themselves with the newly conquered territories. Just like the Austrian army in their confrontations with the Ottomans at the end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth centuries, the Russian troops crossing into Ottoman territory seized the opportunity to survey, record, and evaluate the front line. These actions were meant to provide strategic advantages on the battlefield, but also aimed at gathering certain kinds of information which would allow Russian empire-builders to influence the internal affairs of these lands. Army surveyors also compiled current information on the political and economic characteristics of the two territories.137 Under the leadership of General Friedrich Wilhelm von Bauer (Baur or Bawr), they put together the first complete cartographic and statistical surveys of the two provinces.138

136 Ibid., 72. 137 Ibid., 58. 138 Friedrich Wilhelm von Bauer, Memoires historiques et geographiques sur la Valachie, avec un prospectus d’un atlas géographique et militaire de la dernier guerre entre la Russie et la Porte Ottomanne (Frankfort: Chez Henry-Louis Broenner, 1778).

68

E xploring the Da nube

Bauer, a Prussian officer and engineer who came to serve under Catherine the Great, produced a series of geographical descriptions and cartographic surveys that went beyond the purpose of merely documenting the course taken by the war. In the introduction to his survey of Wallachia, he mentioned the lack of reliable information concerning the two provinces as the main impetus for his work. This was a recurring theme among Russian officers fighting on Ottoman land. The army general Pyotr Alexandrovich Rumyantsev explained in a letter to Catherine the Great that one could not fight a war against the Ottoman Empire like a European war. Once his army had ventured onto the right bank of the Danube, he had come to realize that the existing maps and geographical information at his disposal were unreliable. Even as late as the campaign of 1812, and in spite of the periodic warfare between the two states, high-ranking officers such as I. P. Liprandi still spoke of European Turkey as terra incognita for the Russian army.139 In the very first sentence of the published version of his survey, Bauer acknowledged the effectiveness of high-quality maps in contributing to the exact knowledge of a country. He further wrote about his own experience during the war when he had come to realize that the existing maps of the two provinces were incomplete and full of mistakes. Thus, he had taken upon himself the task of improving and correcting what previous surveyors had overlooked or done wrong (négligé ou malfait).140 His intention was to create the most precise maps possible while the ongoing war permitted. To achieve this, he relied on information provided by local informants and on measurements of latitude and longitude delivered by the Russian Imperial Academy which enabled him to calculate the exact coordinates of several important cities in the area (see figure 6). In addition to great astronomical precision, he also triangulated the exact distances between locations. And finally, after consulting various written sources and speaking with several informants, among them most prominently the prince and the chancellor of Wallachia, he provided alongside the map a description of the country that also included extensive historical, political, and economic information.141 In terms of geography, General Bauer emphasized the “natural advantages” of the Wallachian network of rivers, specifically the fact that most 139 Taki, Tsar and Sultan, 118. 140 Bauer, Memoires historiques et geographiques sur la Valachie, 1. 141 Ibid., 2–3.

69

Chapter 1

Figure 6. Map of Moldavia. Source: Friedrich Wilhelm von Bawr, Carte de la Moldavie pour servir à l' histoire militaire de la guerre entre les Russes et les Turcs (Amsterdam, 1769–1771). Bibliothéque Nationale de France.

tributaries of the Danube were navigable without the help of artificial canals. Given these conditions, Bauer was surprised to observe that although this wide river network should be favorable to trade, the actual state of commerce in the principalities was disappointing. He admitted that the war was a cause of stagnation. However, in his opinion, the real reason for the principalities not being able to profit from their advantageous geographic position and abundant natural resources was due to what he called the “lethargy” of the local governments.142 Bauer included a whole chapter on government in Moldavia and Wallachia. His views reflected those of an educated individ142 Ibid., 25–30.

70

E xploring the Da nube

ual looking at a “primitive” and barbarian form of government. He blamed the Ottoman rulers for the deplorable state of the two provinces and for not knowing how to govern them in a way that would make them enlightened, rich, and flourishing (éclairé, riche et florisssant.) Furthermore, the princes of the two provinces, who mainly paid attention to Constantinople intrigues, were far from establishing a just form of rule. They were neither guided by the principle of seeking happiness for their people nor actively sought the means to fulfill this goal, though it was obvious to Bauer that this was the only way to free their unfortunate countries from the Ottoman yoke.143 However, in spite of his belief in the exactness of his survey, the practical results of his comprehensive mapping project remained very limited. What he was able to produce with the help of his staff was a very schematic overview of the two provinces. For instance, in the section representing the Danube Delta, only the three main branches of the river were sketched without showing the highly intricate maze of wetlands, lakes, and side channels.144 An explanation for the rather poor result was that precision, as a scientific ideal, often could not be applied in practice. Although at the end of the eighteenth century, triangulation was considered the most precise cartographic method, it was seldom applied to large surfaces because it was a very costly and time-consuming activity. Matthew E. Edney has shown for British India that the epistemological ideal of triangulation could never be implemented for a large surface, and surveyors had to resort to a very imperfect combination of terrestrial and celestial measurements.145 Thus, it was highly unlikely that Bauer would have been able to strictly apply such a complex measurement technique amid a raging war. Nevertheless, Bauer supervised the Russian Empire’s first comprehensive attempt to map and describe the Danubian Principalities. The result was a detailed description of the two provinces that would not only be useful for military operations, but also provided a vision for the future transformation of the principalities according to the Enlightenment principles of good governance. Bauer, as a true scholarly ambassador of science and enlightenment, 143 Ibid., 3. 144 Ştefan Constantinescu, “Various Approaches to the Danube Delta. From Maps to Reality,” in The BioPolitics of the Danube Delta: Nature, History, Policies, ed. Constantin Iordachi and Kristof van Assche (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2015) 168. 145 Edney, Mapping an Empire, 17–18.

71

Chapter 1

was interested in bringing the provinces closer to the light of European civilization. Thus, under his supervision, a process of appropriation was initiated on the Lower Danube similar to the one in which Habsburg cartographers integrated the recently conquered territories of Transylvania and the Banat. The main difference was that although Russian expansion constantly pushed the borders of the empire southward, forcing the Ottoman authorities to retreat, the Russian Empire never claimed full rule over Wallachia and Moldavia. Their role on the imperial mental map was that of a buffer zone closely tied to the Russian Empire that would keep the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires at bay. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the Russian Empire succeeded in getting a tighter grip on the principalities by annexing Bessarabia (northeastern Moldavia) in 1812 and the Danube Delta in 1829.146 The Treaty of Adrianople signed in 1829 in many ways marked a turning point in Russian imperialist policies toward the Lower Danube. While in the period from 1812 to 1829 the Russian government had concentrated its efforts on integrating Bessarabia into the empire, following 1829 it pursued a policy of actively shaping the administration of Moldavia and Wallachia. Thus, after again occupying the two provinces, the Russian military command started to implement the principles of good governance envisioned by General Bauer after his survey. This time, the Russian army did not retreat following the peace agreement, but stayed to supervise a reform program that would transform the nature of government in the two provinces. The commander-inchief of the occupying army, General Pavel Kiselev, was appointed PresidentPlenipotentiary of the principalities in September 1829.147 After negotiations with the local political elite, he issued the first constitution, known as the Organic Statutes. Next to introducing the rule of law, he implemented several administrative measures to improve the efficiency of the government of the principalities and to discipline the population.148 The frontier along the Danube played a key role in these improvement efforts. One such Russian policy was to establish systematic quarantine regulations. During the military campaigns between 1768 and 1774, the Russian army had suffered numerous casualties due to a plague epidemic which 146 Rieber, The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands, 218–19 and 336. 147 Taki, Russia on the Danube, 191. 148 Ibid., 219–29.

72

E xploring the Da nube

spread throughout the principalities. Thus, after 1828, the Russian military administration was keen to implement stricter and more comprehensive prevention and protection measures. The quarantine line on the Danube consisted of four main stations in the ports of Giurgiu, Ibraila, Galatz and Kalafat and of a few other secondary stations. 1,500 soldiers secured the line, working closely with the newly established medical administration in case of an outbreak.149 The period of confinement varied between four to 24 days. Before entering the quarantine lazaretto, both people and merchandise were either fumigated, washed, or in the case of perishable goods simply exposed to air. Quarantine measures were imposed to all ships coming from the Ottoman Empire irrespective of the epidemic situation. Ships returning from Constantinople and going to the Habsburg Monarchy did not stop at the Russian stations but continued their way to Orsova at the Iron Gates where they went through Habsburg quarantine procedures which were similar to the above mentioned.150 However, these measures were also applied for reasons that went beyond medical purposes. On the one hand, after reinforcing quarantine measures on the Danube, the Russian administration was able to relax the same measures on the Pruth, thus facilitating communication between Bessarabia, southern Russia, and the principalities. In this way, the cordon sanitaire contributed to reshape trade relations between the provinces north of the Danube that were under Russian influence.151 On the other hand, quarantine measures made it significantly more difficult for the local population to cross the Danube. In this way, the quarantine posts not only implemented anti-disease measures but turned into all-purpose border posts that checked the movements of persons and goods.152 However, this was hardly a unique practice. As Andrew Robarts has pointed out, the Ottoman administration also employed quarantine measures as a means to assess and monitor all traffic over the border in this region.153

149 Victor Taki, “Between Polizeistaat and Cordon Sanitaire: Epidemics and Police Reform during the Russian Occupation of Moldavia and Wallachia, 1828–1834,” Ab Imperio 9 (2008): 98–99. 150 Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube, 68–73. 151 Ibid., 304–14. 152 Robarts, Migration and Disease in the Black Sea Region, 161. 153 Ibid., 137.

73

Chapter 1

Furthermore, the Russian administration sought to increase its geographic knowledge of the principalities. For this purpose, a new large-scale cartographic project was already launched during the war, which aimed at thoroughly mapping the entire territories of Moldavia and Wallachia. Like Bauer’s project, it had the primary goal of representing the theatre of war during the Russo-Turkish conflict-time of 1828 and 1829. Yet, this new cartographic project did not stop after the ceasefire, since the Russian occupation of the principalities enabled the military cartographers to continue their survey until 1833.154 The first version of the map was published in 1835 in St. Petersburg and a second updated edition was issued in 1853 just before the outbreak of the Crimean War.155 Hence, it differed greatly from the previous project which had also aimed to provide a truthful representation of the principalities, but for which data collection had been accomplished hastily during the war. In terms of the amount of geographical detail and due to the elaborate method of compiling the information, the new map was the most comprehensive cartographic representation of the two territories to date.156 The compiled data was spread over eighty-two sheets depicting the entire territory of the principalities. As such, this map was significantly more detailed than Bauer’s map of Moldavia which had only eight sheets. Like most maps of that time, it also contained various other forms of knowledge in the form of an atlas, including an overview of natural resources and trading potential, and an inventory of all settlements.157 The Lower Danube figured prominently in this survey. Members of the Russian army even travelled upriver to Orsova to inspect the border with the Habsburg Monarchy and examine the Iron Gates. They noted all the height differences along the river as far as the delta. In addition, they included all the wetlands, lakes, and side channels along the main branch of the river. The representation of the delta attempted to deliver an accu154 “Karta teatra vojny v Evrope 1828 i 1829 godov, 1835,” in Constantin C. Giurescu, Principatele romîne la începutul secolului XIX (Bucureşti: Editura Ştiinţifică, 1957). 155 Voenno-statisticheskoe obozrenie gosudarstv i zemel, prilezhashchikh k Rossiiskoi imperii. Kniazhestvo Moldaviia. St. Petersburg: Tipografiia Departamenta Generalnogo Shtaba, 1853. http://elib.shpl.ru/ ru/nodes/8969-voenno-statisticheskoe-obozrenie-gosudarstv-i-zemel-prilezhaschih-k-rossiyskoy-imperii-voenno-statisticheskoe-obozrenie-knyazhestva-moldavii-v-2-h-ch-spb-1853#mode/inspect/page/11/ zoom/4 (May 7, 2019). 156 Giurescu, Principatele romîne la începutul secolului XIX, 30. 157 Ibid., 17.

74

E xploring the Da nube

rate picture of the very intricate aquatic landscape as well as measurements of the water levels of the branches leading into the Black Sea.158 It further mentioned the types of settlements, their estimated number of households, and whether they had any fortifications. Because the principalities were under Russian rule, the Russian cartographers relied extensively on support and information provided by the local authorities. The State Council issued an order to all local governors to assist Colonel Ditmars and his subordinated officers in their mapmaking project. For instance, the local authorities were to provide them with food and accommodation.159 On site, Russian cartographers also requested translators, assistants who could provide topographic information, and means for transporting their instruments.160 Along the Danube, they also managed to secure the permission of the quarantine authorities to continue their journey downriver without completing the mandatory waiting time.161 Without this local support, the Russian cartographers could not have measured such broad territory in such detail. General Kiselev intended to use this very thorough map as the prime repository of knowledge for the continuation of the reform program. However, in 1834 the Russian army was ordered home and the occupation of the two principalities was formally ended.162 Kiselev complied with this order, though he thought it a mistake and that the Russian Empire should retain the two provinces. To him, the Danube was still the boundary of the empire.163 Indeed, though the troops retreated and only later did the delta came under Russian rule, this perception of the two provinces as an informal part of the empire lingered on. This special bond became all the more clear when the military statistical atlas of the Russian Empire was published in 1853, which included sections on Moldavia and Wallachia. Thus, so far, Russian policy on the Lower Danube had focused on improving its topographic representation while using the river as a buffer zone or cordon sanitaire to keep the Ottomans at bay. While some of the car158 Ibid., 30–31. 159 Ibid., 292–304. 160 Ibid., 305. 161 Ibid., 312–13. 162 Keith Hitchins, A Concise History of Romania (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 82–83. 163 Rieber, The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands, 221.

75

Chapter 1

tographic surveys and geographic descriptions mentioned the river’s benefits for trade, it was not their purpose to assess this potential. When Kiselev initiated such an inquiry, he came to realize that compared to the commercial activity of the Austrian Empire, the Russian influence in the principalities was insignificant.164 Kiselev did not have the capacity to improve Russia’s trade performance, but the flourishing Austrian commercial activities caught the attention of authorities in New Russia, the province neighboring the Black Sea and the Danube Delta. Moreover, the advent of steam navigation on the Danube contributed to further increase Austria’s commercial presence in the Black Sea area. Given these circumstances, in 1834 the governor of New Russia, Mikhail Semyonovich Vorontsov, sent one of his underlings, Julius Hagemeister, to visit the Black Sea region and the Lower Danube in order to record the current situation. His main task was to report on the economic and commercial activities in the region, looking attentively at trade in the ports.165 He started by reviewing the commercial activity of the port of Odessa where he remarked that since 1819, when the city was granted the status of a free port, exports—mainly of grains—had grown exponentially.166 He then compared Odessa with the other Russian Black Sea ports and concluded that due to its favorable geographic location, it had become the busiest Russian Black Sea outlet.167 Looking at the ports on the Lower Danube, he also noted that a large number of vessels—up to 600 a year—entered the mouths of the Danube. Large maritime ships carrying grain could only travel upriver as far as the ports of Galatz and Brăila. The amount of merchandise handled by the two ports had increased since the Treaty of Adrianople, when the principalities were permitted to export goods outside the Ottoman Empire. In comparison, his assessment of the performance of the two Russian Danube harbors, Reni and Izmail, was very pessimistic concerning future development because they faced both internal Russian competition and that of Galatz and Brăila. In contrast, he predicted a bright future for the two ports in the principalities because they belonged 164 Alexander Bitis, Russia and the Eastern Question: Army, Government and Society, 1815–1833 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 456. 165 Julius de Hagemeister, Report on the Commerce of the Ports of New Russia, Moldavia and Wallachia, Made to the Russian Government, in 1835 (London: Effingham Wilson, Royal Exchange, 1836), VII-VIII. 166 Ibid., 14–25. 167 Ibid., 73–76.

76

E xploring the Da nube

to a “rich and extensive country” whose land was mostly uncultivated, a situation which international trade would help to improve.168 In his conclusion, Hagemeister employed the same discursive trope used by other representatives of the Russian Enlightenment, defining the principalities as an underdeveloped economic space with unexploited resources—the only difference being that he also noted the positive changes of the last few years. What he did not address was the possible rivalry between the two ports in the principalities and Odessa. In terms of the quality of the exported wheat, Hagemeister considered the exports from Odessa far superior to the Danubian grains.169 In his report, he dealt with the Russian ports versus those in the principalities as representing the economies of two different countries. His main conclusion was that Odessa indisputably was the most important port in the region. However, he hinted that the overall superiority of Odessa, as well as the trade through Galatz and Brăila in the principalities, would endanger the Russian Danube ports such as Izmail and Reni. Russia’s commercial involvement in the Lower Danube at that time was almost exclusively limited to the exchanges between Bessarabia and Moldavia. In sum, the Lower Danube was essential to Russian expansionist policy. After the Treaty of Adrianople, Russian troops controlled the entire right bank of the Danube and the delta—new positions which gave them a significant strategic advantage vis-à-vis Constantinople. The surveys and measurements conducted by Russian officers on several occasions generated a large repository of knowledge which the government used to access and appropriate the river. Military success at the beginning of the nineteenth century made Russian intervention in the Lower Danube region bolder. Administrative reforms under the banner of “good government” aimed at detaching the two provinces north of the Danube from Ottoman territory and linked them to the Russian sphere of influence. In this new geopolitical constellation, the Danube fulfilled several functions for the Russian Empire: First, it became the state border that separated it from the Ottoman Empire and the main theatre of war between the two empires. Second, it grew into a symbolic demarcation line that divided “civilized” Europe from the Ottoman other. And finally, by introducing quarantine regulations, 168 Ibid., 93–94. 169 de Hagemeister, Report on the Commerce of the Ports of New Russia, 105.

77

Chapter 1

the river became a cordon sanitaire that halted unwanted mobility from the Ottoman right bank. Thus, Russia seizing the right bank of the Danube upset the previous Ottoman grip on the river and transformed it into a space that was equally shared and contested. Conclusion During the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the expansionist policies of the Austrian and Russian Empires significantly altered the balance of power on the Lower Danube. While the Ottoman Empire retreated behind the Danube line, the Austrian Empire established a strong hold on the Iron Gates region and the Russian Empire eventually claimed the right bank and the delta. The river in between attracted various empire-builders from the two new riverine powers who crossed their respective state’s borders to collect new knowledge and establish various imperial policies in the Lower Danube region. They perceived the territory of the Lower Danube, with its shifting sovereignties and spheres of influence, as an ideal space in which to implement their particular version of a civilizing mission. Although they also feared each other’s rising influence along the river, the Austrian and Russian representatives mainly imposed these policies at the expense of the Ottoman Empire. By ascribing new meanings and purposes to the Lower Danube, they set out to prove their superior use of the river and its banks, bringing them closer to the enlightened European civilization. The Habsburg and Russian Empires assessed the Lower Danube from various points of view. They examined the strategic potential of the river, both for defensive and offensive purposes. In the initial phase of expansion, the two empires made territorial claims along the Lower Danube only to settle for more subtle forms of control in an attempt to preserve a fragile balance of power. In the Austrian case, the subtler way of governing revolved around economic penetration, while in the Russian case, it manifested itself through the administration of the principalities. Science served here as a means of imperial control. Both approaches used maps, surveys, and descriptions as a source of information. This material provided not only wide-ranging data sets but also rendered the Danube and its banks “legible” to any reader able to access this information. It systematized, ordered, and to a certain extent simplified the river in order to facilitate its representation and enable various 78

E xploring the Da nube

forms of intervention under the banner of reform and progress. Moreover, the maps which resulted from this endeavor did not simply record geographic realities but also contained what surveyors wanted to see: a projection for the future development of the Lower Danube area. Austrian cartographers already saw a straight route from Vienna to the Black Sea, while their Russian counterparts perceived the territories north of the Danube as “well ordered” and justly administered. Over the next century, the three empires continued to clash over the river’s practical and symbolic uses. The complete mapping of the Danube and the various endeavors that targeted the river increasingly pushed back Ottoman dominance. The Ottoman government responded to these appropriations of the Lower Danube with a policy of containment, defending the empire behind a chain of fortresses along the right bank of the Lower Danube. Despite the Austrian efforts to establish a regular shipping connection from Vienna over the Black Sea to Constantinople (or alternatively to Southern Russia), Ottoman merchants still dominated riverine commerce. The Ottoman government saw no need to influence the trading activity because it fulfilled its purpose of provisioning the capital without facing any serious competition from Vienna. Still, it managed an increasingly frail status quo that would soon be upset by new shipping technologies. Seen from this vantage point, the cartographic and economic appropriation of the Lower Danube set in motion the major transformation of the river in the nineteenth century when it became an important European waterway, demanding the renegotiation of the influence of the three competing empires.

79

Ch a p t e r 2

Connecting the Danube with the Sea

I

n 1836, the steamboats of the Erste Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft (First Danube Steamboat Shipping Company, or DDSG) established a direct connection between Vienna and Constantinople via the Danube. This connection was interrupted at two spots: the cataracts of the Iron Gates and at Sulina, on the mouth of the river. In 1840, British traveler Charles Vane, the third Marquess of Londonderry, on his way to Constantinople, provided a detailed description of how the passage over the two dangerous spots was negotiated. Under the title “Disagreeable Voyage,” he described how the company used barges and flat boats to carry passengers and luggage over the cataracts whose raging waters hindered the passage of steamers: “The bank of the Danube, in the passage to Orsova, were high romantic cliffs, and steep and craggy mountains, tumbled together, flanking the tortuous course of the mighty river; which, in this its region of separation between Austria and Turkey, seems to have taken the singular caprice to entirely changing its hitherto navigable nature.”1 After Nikolaus Kleemann first introduced his readership to the Iron Gates, subsequent travelers popularized it as one of the wildest spots along the Danube.2 Further downstream, Vane described the difficult crossing from the river to the sea: We got down the river to the embouchure of the Danube at nine o’clock on the following evening, on November 2. The day had been pouring in 1 2

Charles W. Vane, A Steam Voyage to Constantinople, by the Rhine and the Danube, in 1840–41, vol. 1 (London: Henry Colburn, 1942), 119–20. Guy Arnold, “Danube River,” in Literature on Travel and Exploration, vol. 1, ed. Jennifer Speake (New York: Fitzroy Dearborn, 2003), 315.

81

Chapter 2

torrent incessantly, and the gale freshened so much in the evening, that the captain of the vessel, on arrival at the outlet point, found it would be very dangerous to cross the bar of sand formed at the entrance of the river. It seems there are three principal channels into it from the Black Sea, two are practicable for small craft alone; the center one is the only large passage, and even this can be attempted only in moderate weather at Sulina Point.3

Thus, the main physical obstacles here were sandbanks and bad weather, which hindered ships from crossing the bar. This chapter focuses on the early efforts to make the Lower Danube navigable and connect it to its upper course. After failed attempts in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, two new developments helped to improve international shipping on the river: a new Russo-Turkish peace agreement and the advent of steam navigation. First, the Treaty of Adrianople, signed by Russia and the Ottoman Empire in 1829, changed the status of the Lower Danube from a de facto closed Ottoman river to an international waterway on which navigation was declared free to all ships irrespective of their flag. Also, the Danube Delta came under Russian rule—a change that opened the Black Sea to international traffic.4 Furthermore, the treaty opened up the Danube frontier to foreign trade, generating new wealth by boosting the export of agricultural products.5 The treaty lifted the export embargo on the Danubian Principalities, allowing foreign trading companies to settle in the ports of Galatz and Brăila. Thus, it laid the grounds for a flourishing grain trade that linked the two ports on the Lower Danube with the rest of Europe.6 Second, a group of entrepreneurs and high-ranking officials of the Habsburg Monarchy seized the opportunity offered by steam navigation to 3 Vane, A Steam Voyage to Constantinople, 153–54. 4 “Treaty of Adrianople, September 14, 1829,” in Peace Handbooks, vol. 3, ed. the Historical Section of the Foreign Office (London: Scholarly Resources, 1920), 68–71. 5 Jürgen Osterhammel, The Transformation of the World: A Global History of the Nineteenth Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014), 908; Bayly, The Birth of the Modern World, 129. 6 Bitis, Russia and the Eastern Question, 349–77; Alexander Bitis, “The 1828–1829 Russo-Turkish War and the Resettlement of Balkan Peoples into Novorossiia,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 53, no. 4 (2005): 506–15; Matthias Schulz, Normen und Praxis: Das Europäische Konzert der Großmächte als Sicherheitsrat, 1815–1860 (Munich: Oldenbourg Wissenschaftsverlag, 2009), 97; Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube, 53–55; Nicolae Ciachir, “The Adrianople Treaty (1829) and its European Implications,” Revue des études sud-est européennes 17, no. 4 (1979): 706.

82

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

found a company that offered regular trips from Vienna to Constantinople, and later to Odessa.7 In the history of transportation, as Jürgen Osterhammel has aptly put it, a mild form of technical determinism cannot be avoided.8 Steam technology revolutionized shipping travel, making it faster, widerreaching, and more lucrative. But more importantly, it provided an impetus for several major changes in water management practices. The previous efforts of monarchs and administrators to develop and rationalize territory during the eighteenth century had left “natural frontiers,” such as mountains and rivers, untouched. Now there was a new, growing conviction that the natural divisions of space could and should be overcome in order to extend the reach and authority of states.9 Thus, technical innovation, besides speeding up all forms of circulation, also led to a remastering of geographical spaces with the aim of adapting them to human needs. In this vein, inland waters were modified to sustain international shipping traffic and provide support for military operations.10 The new mobility promised to the Lower Danube by the Treaty of Adrianople and steam navigation took time to materialize. Declaring the river “free” did not mean that all obstacles suddenly disappeared. On the contrary, due to the increased traffic on the river, those places that stalled and delayed navigation came under intense scrutiny. The Iron Gates and the mouth of the Danube were primarily physical barriers to the free movement of shipping. In addition, the quarantine regulations and administrative checks in these border regions further slowed down traffic. This chapter analyzes various schemes and initiatives that aimed to reshape the two barriers in order to ensure a seamless shipping connection on the Danube. These initiatives involved multi-layered negotiations that accommodated the demands of governments, trading houses, shipping companies, local authorities, and border patrols. In this context, I argue that the intricate political, legal, and topographic situation of the two spots shaped the outcome of these first attempts to overcome the fragmentation of the Danube. Transforming 7 Johannes Binder et al., Rot-Weiss-Rot auf blauen Wellen: 150 Jahre DDSG (Wien: Erste Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft, 1979). 8 Osterhammel, The Transformation of the World, 712. 9 Maier, Once Within Borders, 190–91. 10 Per Högselius, Arne Kaijser, and Erik van der Vleuten, Europe’s Infrastructure Transition: Economy, War, Nature (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 278; Osterhammel, The Transformation of the World, 911.

83

Chapter 2

the vision of a free and navigable Danube into reality had always been a slowmoving process that had to tackle a multitude of factors, both locally and internationally. The 1830s provided the first opportunity to young graduates of the recently founded technical institutes to prove their skills. Working closely with state representatives who sought the knowledge and expertise of engineers and other practitioners, they laid the grounds of a durable partnership that in time changed the physical shape of the river.11 Physical and Symbolic Boundaries at the Iron Gates Habsburg officials and entrepreneurs perceived the Treaty of Adrianople as an opportunity to improve and expand river navigation all the way to the Black Sea. In 1829, two Englishmen, John Andrews and Joseph Pritchard, founded the First Danube Steam Navigation Company and subsequently convinced not only important Viennese bankers and Hungarian magnates to buy stocks but also Klemens Wenzel Lothar von Metternich, Archduke Joseph, and Crown Prince Ferdinand. In 1831, the company’s first steamship, Franz I, navigated the Middle Danube; a regular connection to Constantinople was later established in 1836.12 The company’s importance to the government was underscored by a privilege act (Privilegium) in 1830 that gave the company the exclusive right to use steamboats on the Danube.13 The new international status of the Lower Danube functioned as an incentive for the Austrian government and stockholders of the DDSG to invest in improving navigation conditions beyond the Habsburg territories. In fact, the founding of the company marked the beginning of a public-private cooperation that would change the face of Austrian river navigation. The first report by the DDSG administration underlined the mutual interest of shareholders and the Austrian government in improving steam navigation on 11 Kohlrausch and Trischler, Building Europe on Expertise, 6; Bayly, The Birth of the Modern World, 317– 20; Dirk van Laak, Alles im Fluss: Die Lebensadern unserer Gesellschaft—Geschichte und Zukunft der Infrastruktur (Bonn: Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung, 2019), 35. 12 Ronald E. Coons, Steamships, Statesmen, and Bureaucrats: Austrian Policy Towards the Steam Navigation Company of the Austrian Lloyd, 1836–1848 (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1975), 18–19; Herbert ­Matis, “Technologietransfer in den frühen Phasen der Industrialisierung: Zur Rolle britischer Immigranten für die Wirtschaftsentwicklung der Habsburgermonarchie,” in Unternehmertum im Spannungsfeld von Politik und Gesellschaft: Unternehmerische Aktivitäten in historischer Perspektive, ed. Herbert Matis, Andreas Resch, and Dieter Stiefel (Vienna: Lit, 2010), 57. 13 Binder et al., Rot-Weiss-Rot auf blauen Wellen, 40.

84

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

the Danube.14 Another report compiled in 1838 revealed a division of tasks between the private company and the government; whereas the former was responsible for organizing the transport of goods and people, the latter was in charge of regulating the river and removing natural obstacles.15 In several cases, this meant that persons acting in an official capacity were also stakeholders in the company. This close connection to the government enabled the DDSG to establish a monopoly on the transportation of passengers, freight, and postal services over the entire course of the Danube, a monopoly that would last virtually until the dissolution of the Habsburg Monarchy in 1918.16 In addition, the establishment of the German Customs Union (Zollverein) in 1833 compelled Chancellor Metternich to give priority to the Danube. Austria’s exclusion from the Zollverein marked the beginning of a gradual decline in Austria’s economic and political influence in the other German territories. To compensate for this loss, the Habsburg government elevated the eastward Danube route to its primary export outlet.17 Metternich became personally involved in making this route navigable for Austrian steamers by negotiating terms with the Ottoman government to remove the stone barrier at the Iron Gates. From the perspective of high politics, the story of this regulation project conveys the flawed impression that “the removal of the natural obstacles, including those at the Iron Gates was possible, not difficult and not expensive.”18 In contrast, the local perspective demonstrates the complex and conflicting nature of this undertaking. Although plans for connecting the Middle with the Lower Danube were hatched on the drawing boards of engineers as well as in the cabinets of government officials in Vienna and Pest, local circumstances changed their outcome when put into practice. 14 Bericht der Administration der ersten Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft über die Leistungen des Donau-Dampfbootes Franz I. im Laufe des Jahres 1831 (Vienna: Straußel & Sommer, 1831), 3. 15 Sitzungs-Protocoll der General-Versammlung der k.k. priv. ersten Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft vom 29. Jänner 1838 (Vienna: Straußel & Sommer, 1838), 12–13. 16 Binder et al., Rot-Weiss-Rot auf blauen Wellen, 44–73; Franz Dosch, 180 Jahre Donau-DampfschiffahrtsGesellschaft (Erfurt: Sutton, 2009); Karl Bachinger, “Das Verkehrswesen,” in Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, vol. 1, ed. Alois Brusatti (Vienna: Verlag der österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1973), 308–9; Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube, 18–20. 17 Miroslav Šedivý, Metternich: The Great Powers and the Eastern Question (Pilsen: University of West Bohemia, 2013), 606–11; Miroslav Šedivý, “From Hostility to Cooperation? Austria, Russia and the Danubian Principalities, 1829–40,” The Slavonic and East European Review 89, no. 4 (2011): 645–49; Manfred Sauer, “Österreich und die Sulina-Frage, 1829–1854, Erster Teil.” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchiv 40 (1987): 216–20. 18 Šedivý, “From Hostility to Cooperation?,” 647–48.

85

Chapter 2

An in-depth look at the first attempt to regulate the Iron Gates allows for an analysis of the negotiations and local adaptations that were necessary to bring this project to completion. In doing so, it brings new insights into several debates about Austrian history and the history of technology. The success of this operation relied on close cooperation among hydrologic experts, state representatives, and entrepreneurs—all of whom had different stakes in the project yet shared a common interest in making the river navigable. The most prominent actors in this project were Hungarian representatives of the Habsburg Monarchy—Archduke Joseph, Palatine of Hungary, and Count István (Stephan) Széchenyi—who also were private entrepreneurs. Both the archduke and the count were shareholders in the DDSG, and Széchenyi was even appointed Royal Commissioner for the Danube (Königlicher Kommissar für die Donau) in 1833. Among the other shareholders were high-ranking Viennese officials, including Metternich himself—a fact that underlines a peculiarity of Habsburg industrialization, namely that it was primarily spurred by noblemen and high-level state officials rather than the urban bourgeoisie.19 As a result, cooperation between the state and private actors was much closer in the Habsburg Monarchy than in other European empires. The regulation of the Iron Gates demonstrates, in a nutshell, that the same individuals assumed double functions in the framework of the same project. This meant that high-profile investors like Széchenyi and Metternich had to harmonize their official and entrepreneurial activities. Since the same persons represented various and often conflicting interests, the potential for disagreement among the parties was higher. The first such conflict to arise between the Hungarian magnates and Chancellor Metternich is significant for historiographical debates about the cohesion of the Habsburg Monarchy in the decades before the AustroHungarian Compromise of 1867.20 Although Viennese and Hungarian interests were, in theory, aligned in this project, the Hungarians (Széchenyi in particular) looked at the Danube primarily in terms of how to develop Hungary’s economic revenues. In contrast, Metternich and his diplomatic corps were primarily concerned with the position of the Habsburg Monarchy 19 Alen Sked, The Decline and Fall of the Habsburg Empire, 1815–1918 (London: Longman, 1989), 68–69; Good, The Economic Rise of the Habsburg Empire, 64–69. 20 Robert J. W. Evans, Austria, Hungary, and the Habsburgs: Essays on Central Europe, c. 1683–1867 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 173–92.

86

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

in the Concert of Europe, which meant that they wanted to avoid overtly provoking the Ottoman Porte. Széchenyi risked upsetting his relations with the chancellor when he agreed to supervise the engineering works without Metternich’s official endorsement. Previous scholarly literature has focused mainly on the rise of national sentiment and on the formation of a distinct cultural Hungarian identity to explain the divergences between Viennese authorities and the Hungarian elite, and less on disagreements concerning various economic priorities.21 The difference of opinion between Metternich and Széchenyi about how to proceed at the Iron Gates related to the bigger issue of whether Hungarian or Viennese authorities should have control over economic decisions in the Hungarian part of the monarchy. The regulation project also sparked another conflict: one between the administration of the Iron Gates, part of the Austrian military border (Militärgrenze) and thus under military rule, and Széchenyi, the civilian commissioner for the Danube. Széchenyi, as the head of the project, cultivated close contacts with civil engineers in Budapest, including Pál (Paul) Vásárhelyi, a graduate of the Institutum Geometrico-Hydrotechnicum in Pest (the predecessor of the Technical University), whom he chose to serve as chief engineer.22 This was not an uncontroversial decision, for civil engineering was still a new discipline at the university level and lacked prestige. Sending a civil engineer to this territory to perform regulatory work led to numerous disagreements between the newly arrived civilians and the military experts who were already on site. The daily frictions between these two groups shed light on the process of the professionalization of civil engineers in Hungary and the Habsburg Monarchy. Vásárhelyi’s breakthrough at the Iron Gates gave his team of civilian engineers the requisite professional prestige necessary to set themselves successfully apart from military experts.23 Furthermore, his activities at the Iron Gates also illustrate the interrelated 21 Laurence Cole and Daniel L. Unowsky, “Introduction,” in The Limits of Loyalty: Imperial Symbolism, Popular Allegiances, and State Patriotism in the Late Habsburg Monarchy, ed. Laurence Cole and Daniel L. Unowsky (New York: Berghahn Books, 2009), 1–3. 22 Béla Gonda, Vásárhelyi Pál élete és művei (Budapest: Magyar Mérnök- és Építész-egylet, 1896), 52; Imre Dégen, “Pál Vásárhelyi, der Ingenieur des Reformzeitalters, 1795–1846,” Periodica Polytechnica/Civil Engineering 28, nos. 1–4 (1984): 115–23. See also: Nemes, Another Hungary, 72–72. 23 Irina Popova, “Representing National Territory: Cartography and Nationalism in Hungary, 1700– 1848,” in Creating the Other: Ethnic Conflict and Nationalism in Habsburg Central Europe, ed. Nancy M. Wingfield (New York: Berghahn Books, 2003), 22–23.

87

Chapter 2

process of knowledge circulation among hydraulic experts across imperial borders, and the way in which such knowledge was adapted to the specific requirements of this regulation project. After completing the blasting operations, Vásárhelyi had to revise his initial engineering plans in order to slow the strong currents that had been caused by the removal of the rock—a development that demonstrates the extent to which the early days of civil engineering in Hungary involved “learning by doing.” After the project’s completion, a different type of negotiation process occurred as travelers on Austrian steamboats took advantage of this newly created shipping passage. Wendy Bracewell has argued that the cultural background of travelers determined where the physical demarcation line between the “Self” and the “Other,” the “Occident” and the “Orient,” and “Europe” and “Asia” was set. In line with their personal predispositions, Western travelers situated this boundary somewhere between Central Europe and the Near East. Yet, this transition was often a fluid one, as they added more and more “oriental” features to the scenery they described.24 In contrast to these gradual transitions, the passage to the Iron Gates added a physical dimension to Central European “orientalism.” For many travelers, passing through the gorge literally meant stepping out of the Occident and into the Orient. The regular steamboat connection between Vienna and Constantinople nevertheless altered, at least in part, this perception of the Iron Gates as a clear-cut cultural boundary. The Iron Gates remained an important point of cultural transition, but travelers also started to perceive the spot as a junction between the long-separated Habsburg and Ottoman lands. In other words, the establishment of a shipping connection on the Danube from Vienna to the Black Sea was the result of a (fragile and shortlived) alignment of interests between Széchenyi, Metternich, Vásárhelyi, and local Ottoman authorities at Vidin; of a careful match between theoretical and practical engineering knowledge; and, finally, of the ability to overcome the mental separation between “Orient” and “Occident.”

24 Wendy Bracewell, “The Limits of Europe in East European Travel Writing,” in Under Eastern Eyes: A Comparative Introduction to East European Travel Writing on Europe, ed. Wendy Bracewell and Alex Drace-Francis (Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2008), 61–120.

88

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

Military Surveys at the Iron Gates The Iron Gates were located directly on the Habsburg military frontier (Militärgrenze) which was secured by the Wallachian-Illyrian border regiment.25 A battalion of border river sailors, the Tschaikists (Šajkaši), was in charge of monitoring the flow of the river.26 In 1762, Maria Theresa had founded this battalion, with its general staff based in Titel in the Banat, as part of the eastward orientation of Habsburg commercial and military policies. The battalion’s trademark vessels were long and narrow wooden boats, the chaikas (called Tschaiken or šajka), which were used to navigate the Danube and Sava rivers.27 The changing economic and international relations brought about on the Lower Danube by the Treaty of Adrianople prompted the high army command to again assess the river area bordering the Ottoman Empire. As a result, the commander of the Hungarian troops, Archduke Ferdinand Karl von Österreich-Este, ordered a new survey of the cataracts on both sides of the border—a mission which he planned to conduct himself together with the crews of four other boats.28 In May 1832, the archduke started his journey in Buda on a steamboat made available to him precisely for this mission. It was the first attempt to cross the Iron Gates by steamer. In Zemun, he met Colonel Jankovics of the border battalion who would accompany him on the trip and report on the survey.29 On their way to the border, they took advantage of being on one of the first steamboats to 25 Claudio Magris, Danube (London: Harvill, 1989), 59; Karl Kaser, Freier Bauer und Soldat: Die Militarisierung der agrarischen Gesellschaft an der kroatisch-slawonischen Militärgrenze, 1535–1881 (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 1997), 303–7, 371–73; Barbara Jelavich, History of the Balkans, vol. 1, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 145–47, 160–61. 26 Carl Bernhard von Hietzinger, Statistik der Militärgränze des österreichischen Kaiserthums: ein Versuch, vol. 2 (Vienna: Gerold, 1820), 82–85. 27 Horst F. Mayer and Dieter Winkel, Auf Donauwellen durch Österreich-Ungarn (Vienna: Österreichische Staatsdruckerei, 1989), 124–25; Manfred Rauchensteiner, “Austro-Hungarian Warships on the Danube: From the Beginning of the Nineteenth Century to World War I,” in Southeast European Maritime Commerce and Naval Policies from the Mid-Eighteenth Century to 1914, ed. Apostolos E. Vacalopoulos, Constantinos D. Svolopoulos, and Béla K. Király (Highland Lakes: Atlantic Research and Publications, 1988), 154–56. 28 Jankovics to Archduke Ferdinand Carl, Titel, February 23, 1833, AT-OeStA/KA KPS LB K VII k, 152 F, 1–2. 29 Relation über die-bei Gelegenheit der im May 1832 von Sr. Kgl. Hoheit dem durchlauchtigsten Erzherzog Ferdinand Carl von Österreich-Este, damaligen commandierenden Generalen in Ungarn nunmehrigen General-Gouverneur in Galizien unter Begleitung eines aus 4 Csaiken bestandenen-zur Wasserübungsfahrt, AT-OeStA/KA KPS LB K VII k, 152 F, 1.

89

Chapter 2

sail below Zemun to record the navigation conditions for steamboats up to the cataracts. They measured the water depth at several spots and concluded that a steamboat could safely navigate the river from Zemun to Moldova Veche where the Iron Gates started.30 While traveling further downstream from Moldova Veche, Jankovics and a few other sailors prepared a detailed plan of the cataracts, consisting of six sheets. The mapmakers marked the water levels on various spots on the river and drew the best navigable course for steamboats. Furthermore, the sailors also compiled a table of the water velocity at the various waterfalls. And finally, they noted all possible dangers to shipping, such as shallow spots, sandbanks, and rocks piercing the water’s surface. Based on their observations, they recommended that ships should keep strictly to the marked course and use experienced local pilots for the passage. They considered the rock at Greben the most dangerous spot, suggesting that ships should keep as close as possible to the shore. The best solution would be to remove the Greben rock barrier altogether, and while they did not consider this task impossible, they estimated that the sum needed to complete such a project would be immense (ungeheuer). Besides, the spot was situated very close to the Ottoman border and such an engineering project would alert the Ottoman authorities.31 Archduke Ferdinand Karl accompanied the sailors only up to the border town of Orsova from where he returned on the land route via Temesvár to Budapest. However, before leaving, he ordered the team to continue the investigation of the cataracts into Ottoman territory without securing the approval of the Ottoman side. While he did not say so explicitly, it would have been hugely inappropriate for a high-ranking Habsburg officer to take part in such a clandestine foray into Ottoman territory. The four Tschaikists used flat boats to cross the last and most dangerous part of the cataracts, using Wallachian pilots for guidance. Commenting later on the cartographic work, Jankovics admitted that the team could only approximate the depth of the water in some spots because the swift journey over the rapids had not allowed for a thorough investigation. They had also observed how a loaded Ottoman ship crossed over this cataract in five minutes without difficulty. 30 Ibid., 4. 31 Ibid., 5–6.

90

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

In the following paragraphs, Jankovics described in great detail the passage over the cataracts, giving practical suggestions for future navigators. He also pointed out that this was not the first time that he had crossed into Ottoman territory on the Danube; at least once a year, his regiment launched a similar reconnaissance mission across the border. He further suggested that these exercises be extended in the future.32 The next issue investigated by Jankovics and his team was navigation upstream with the help of towmen. Jankovics considered the absence of a proper path along the shore a major hindrance to the development of commercial shipping. Thus, he proposed that the most protruding rocks on the banks be removed, that iron rings should be attached to the steep mountain face in order to provide some sort of anchor for the towmen, and that wooden planks should be laid to cover uneven ground. His final remarks referred to the work of Hungarian engineer Vásárhelyi, who had started his inspection of the cataracts during the summer of 1832 with the explicit purpose of removing the obstructing rocks. Although Jankovics refrained from judging these plans, he was skeptical about whether they could be physically implemented and if they were feasible from an economic point of view. He clearly underlined that his mission and that conducted by Vásárhelyi, though not mutually exclusive, were two distinct operations.33 Jankovics’s survey of the Iron Gates was one of many attempts conducted in the early 1830s to collect more accurate data on the cataracts and find ways for ships to overcome these obstacles. Although primarily a military mission to collect strategically valuable information, it was spurred by recent developments in commercial shipping in the monarchy. As the army unit most familiar with the cataracts, the Tschaikists were sent out to calculate the safest navigable course over the waterfalls, determine the depth and velocity of the water, and warn pilots away from the most dangerous spots. In doing so, they became important providers of knowledge in the process of making the Danube navigable beyond the Habsburg border. However, over the next few years, many civilian newcomers would increasingly challenge their exclusive hold over the Iron Gates.

32 Ibid., 7–9. 33 Ibid., 10–12.

91

Chapter 2

Technical Assessments of the Iron Gates Vásárhelyi’s arrival on the banks of the Danube announced a new perception and approach to handling the Iron Gates. With future steam traffic on the Danube in mind, he set out to calculate the amount of rock that would have to be removed from the riverbed in order to improve navigation conditions. Thus, his task was not only to observe but mainly to change the physical features of the cataracts. The information collected by the river sailors on their mission came in handy. Still, Vásárhelyi had to conduct his own surveys in order to find the best way to proceed with the blasting operations. A comparison of the sets of data produced by the two endeavors shows that the sailors used them to caution ship captains about the hazards, while the Hungarian engineers intended to remove these hazards altogether. What both had in common was a reliance on exact mathematical calculations that assessed natural phenomena quantitatively. Engineers and scientists were the new heroes of an era marked by the belief that “nature” could be measured and “optimized.”34 With regard to rivers, correction was highly popular at the beginning of the nineteenth century when steam navigation began to create new challenges for hydraulic engineers. Contemporaries considered the Rhine the best example of how to turn a “wild” river into a navigable artery for steamers in just a few decades. In the 1820s, engineer Johann Gottfried Tulla carried out one of the most famous hydraulic works, which involved straightening the riverbed on the Upper Rhine in the Grand Duchy of Baden.35 But the project that bore the greatest similarity to the regulation of the Iron Gates was that of the Middle Rhine, led by Prussian engineer Eduard Adolph Nobiling. His goal was to increase navigation by creating a steady water flow and uniform water depth.36 The Bingen reef, an underwater rock barrier flanked by steep canyon walls on both sides of the river, posed the greatest engineering challenge for this project. Between 1830 and 1832, Nobiling’s team managed to carve a gap twenty-three meters wide into the rocks with the help of gunpowder and a large chisel-like device.37 34 Nemes, Another Hungary, 76. 35 Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature, 85–119. 36 Cioc, The Rhine, 55–56. 37 Ibid., 58.

92

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

These few examples show that the role of civilian engineers changed significantly in the first half of the nineteenth century, as they started to successfully replace military professionals and their significance to state policies grew steadily. Governments and other ruling bodies harnessed their “useful” knowledge and practical skills in order to redefine the whole domain of the state.38 As so called “experts,” they became closely tied to political stakeholders through patronage ties, position that enabled them to reshape, in the name of progress, states territories and power relations.39 Rivers become key objects of such interventionist practices since regulation projects were particularly well suited to pursue policies that would increase the well-being of the population living near-by and of the whole political body. The relationship between experts and political stakeholders evolved to become mutually dependent and impersonal, laying the ground for the modern state that changed river courses by applying scientific criteria and top-down control.40 Széchenyi as Danube commissioner, caught up in the fervor of river regulation, was particularly passionate about removing the Iron Gates, a project he referred to as “his favorite idea.”41 This almost Romantic fascination with the gorge made him concentrate his efforts almost exclusively on removing the stone barriers from the Danube. While preparing to take on the Iron Gates, Széchenyi and Vásárhelyi closely followed the progress being made in Bingen on the Rhine, but several other projects provided inspiration as well.42 In January 1834, both men embarked on a month-long continental journey with the purpose of gathering useful information and exchanging ideas and experiences related to their project. River regulation was still a new area of expertise in Hungary at the time, making Széchenyi and Vásárhelyi reliant on the knowledge of foreign colleagues who had already been directly involved in river transformation. Their itinerary took them through Bavaria, France, down the Rhine, and, finally, to the British Isles. They spoke with 38 Lothar Schilling and Jakob Vogel, “State-Related Knowledge: Conceptual Reflections on the Rise of the Modern State,” in Transnational Cultures of Expertise: Circulating State-Related Knowledge in the 18th and 19th Centuries, edited by Lothar Schilling and Jakob Vogel (Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg 2019), 1–3. 39 Kohlrausch and Trischler, Building Europe on Expertise, 14. 40 Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature, 88–98. 41 Andreas Oplatka, Graf Stephan Széchenyi: Der Mann, der Ungarn schuf (Vienna: Paul Zsolnay, 2004), 227. In his search for a technical solution, he published a series of articles about this challenge; see Széchenyi, Donauschiffahrt, 44–60. 42 Gyula Viszota, ed., Gróf Széchenyi István naplói, vol. 4 (Budapest: Magyar Történelmi Társulat, 1934), 475–76.

93

Chapter 2

King Ludwig I in Munich about the planned Danube-Main-Canal between Kehlheim and Bamberg.43 At their next stop, floods around Strasbourg prevented them from inspecting the canal that connected the Rhine with the Rhône. They met several times in France with the minister of trade and public works, Adolphe Thiers, to collect information about the progress of engineering on the Rhône, Loire, and Garonne. In Paris, they also met with a Russian count, Peter von Meyendorff, sent by his government on a similar mission to France (i.e., to collect useful technical data) and who shared with them his knowledge about an 1832 project to make the Dnieper river navigable over the cataracts at Poltava. They remained in England until April 1834, touring the entire country up to Liverpool. Széchenyi even commissioned engines for new DDSG ships in Birmingham, where he also bought a dredging machine—which he christened Vidra (otter)—for removing sand at the Iron Gates. In addition, he purchased the most up-to-date engineering equipment, including cranes and diving bells. Finally, Széchenyi was determined to find at least one experienced operator who knew how to use such equipment.44 Vásárhelyi, for his part, used his time in England to discuss his plans with several British hydraulic engineers, from whom he collected valuable input. The most famous of these was Colonel John By, who had just finished building the Rideau Canal in Canada.45 With the information and modern equipment they had acquired abroad, Széchenyi and Vásárhelyi returned in June 1834 to begin their work at the cataracts where the latter conducted blasting operations on Habsburg territory at Izlas, Tahtalija, Greben, and Jutz. Following Vásárhelyi’s instructions, workers also built a dam across the riverbed, which they secured with stones on one side and fascines on the other.46 After exploration work and taking measurements, Vásárhelyi and his men began blasting the rocks. The water level was low that year due to a drought—many of the rocks had risen 43 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1 (Budapest: Athenaeum Irodalmi és Nyomdai Rt., 1889), 344; Daniel Gürtler and Markus Urban, Der Main-Donau-Kanal: Idee, Geschichte und Technik (Nürnberg: Sandberg-Verlag, 2013). 44 This was not an easy task, as experienced operators were disinclined to accept short-term contracts abroad. Eventually, Széchenyi hired John Dewar, a seaman familiar with operating cranes and diving bells. See Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 346, 348–49, 412, 431. 45 Ibid., 359, 412; Viszota, Gróf Széchenyi István naplói, vol. 4, 465; Daniel MacFarlane, Negotiating a River: Canada, the US, and the Creation of the St. Lawrence Seaway (Vancouver and Toronto: UBC Press, 2014), xvii-xviii. 46 Gonda, Vásárhelyi Pál élete és művei, 60–64.

94

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

above water and were thus easily removed. To deal with those below water level, so-called safety fuses brought from England were used that could ignite underwater.47 Most of the workers were either local villagers or miners summoned by the military authorities to serve the regulation project. Relying on unskilled and reluctant workers on top of a tight budget, Vásárhelyi was forced to deal with a plethora of practical issues that stalled the engineering works.48 Notwithstanding these setbacks, the work made significant progress at the seven waterfalls situated on Habsburg territory. But before Vásárhelyi was able to venture across the border, Széchenyi had to convince the Ottoman authorities to give up their resistance to the regulation project. Negotiating the Passage to the Lower Danube The shipping connection from Vienna to the Lower Danube had to pass through the gorge at the Iron Gates. The political geography of this location was extremely complicated because it was situated at the juncture of the spheres of influence of several states and administrative units. The border between the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires ran across the Iron Gates near the city of Orsova. Downstream on the Ottoman side, the Danube separated Wallachian territory on the left bank from Serbia on the right. To complicate matters further, Serbian territory ended just a few miles past the Iron Gates where the Ottoman province (pashalic) of Vidin began.49 This political fragmentation meant that Széchenyi—whom Archduke Joseph had put in charge of the efforts to improve navigation—had to receive the endorsement of all the states whose territories abutted the Iron Gates.50 In order for this project to take shape, he had to initiate multilateral negotiations with all parties, thus elevating the regulation of the Iron Gates to an act of international cooperation. 47 Paul Vásárhelyi, “Haupt-Bericht des Dirigirenden Ingenieurs Paul Vásárhelyi an den Königlichen Commissar Graf Stefan Széchényi,” Periodica Polytechnica Civil Engineering 28, no. 1–4 (1984): 140. 48 Nemes, Another Hungary, 80–81. 49 Josef Wolf, “Von der Innen- und Binnengrenze zur Außengrenze. Die Kartographie des Banater Abschnitts der Donau 1690–1740,” in Die Donau und ihre Grenzen. Literarische und filmische Einblicke in den Donauraum, edited by Olivia Spiridon (Bielefeld, Transcript Verlag, 2019), 163–201. 50 Béla Majláth, ed., Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 237–39; Eduard Wilczek, “Die Donauregulirung beim ‘Eisernen Thor,’” Zeitschrift für Eisenbahnen und Dampfschiffahrt der Österreichisch-Ungarischen Monarchie 5, nos. 17–18 (1892): 273–78; 289–95.

95

Chapter 2

Figure 7. Portrait of the young István Széchenyi at the Iron Gates. Tivadar Alconiere, Allegorical Riding Portrait (1831), Public domain.

Because of his extensive business and personal contacts in Europe, Széchenyi was particularly well suited for this assignment which required diplomatic skill and a mercantile spirit.51 As a Hungarian landowner, Szé­ chenyi had a personal interest in ensuring that Hungarian agricultural products could reach new markets downstream on Ottoman territory.52 In addition, he had maintained an interest in the Lower Danube since his youth, and in 1830 had led an expedition on a ship built precisely for a voyage on the Danube to the Black Sea (see figure 7).53 Lastly, he saw this daunting proj51 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 343–50; Viszota, Gróf Széchenyi István naplói, 1830–1836, vol. 4, 485; George Barany, Stephen Széchenyi and the Awakening of Hungarian Nationalism, 1791–1841 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1968), 253–54. 52 Stephan Széchenyi, Über die Donauschifffahrt (Ofen: Gyurián u. Bagó 1836), 30, 38. 53 Oplatka, Graf Stephan Széchenyi, 227.

96

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

ect as an opportunity to modernize his native land and lead it toward a better future. As one of the most prominent representatives of the “Hungarian age of reform,” he channeled his efforts into projects aimed at combatting the perceived backwardness of his country and increasing its strategic importance.54 To that end, and now in order to regulate the Iron Gates, he employed the latest technology—something that had fascinated him his entire life.55 He was nevertheless acutely aware of the difficulty of his task: the obstacles “hindering the course of the mightiest river in Europe, which could not be overcome for so many centuries and have given so many of us food for thought, will not be so easily removed. I consider it a gigantic project (Riesenwerk).”56 For this assignment, Széchenyi not only had to navigate the troubled waters of the Danube, but also deal with several political conflicts stirred up by the project—beginning with the hostile attitude of the Ottoman authorities. Border patrols stopped his crew of engineers and workers the very moment they tried to cross the border to take initial measurements of the area in July 1833.57 In response to this challenge, Széchenyi deployed all his resources and connections to convince the local authorities to let his men work on the Ottoman side of the border.58 Austrian diplomats in Constantinople attempted to secure official approval at the same time, but despite pledges that Austria would cover all the costs, the Porte’s response was negative.59 A number of religious and strategic concerns were behind the Porte’s opposition to interventions on the riverbed. Reportedly, the Ottoman authorities were afraid to defy God by removing stones that had lain in the river since the world’s creation. More importantly, they feared the possibility of a military attack along the Danube.60 Facing a potential political defeat, Metternich and his diplomatic staff called on Tsar Nicholas I to 54 Gábor Vermes, Hungarian Culture and Politics in the Habsburg Monarchy, 1711–1848 (Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2014), 237; Barany, Stephen Széchenyi and the Awakening of Hungarian Nationalism, 246–48; Evans, Austria, Hungary, and the Habsburgs, 185–87; Robert J. W. ­Evans, “Széchenyi and Austria,” in History and Biography: Essays in Honour of Derek Beales, ed. Timothy C. W. Blanning and David Cannadine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 127–29. 55 Széchenyi, Donauschiffahrt, 95–97. 56 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 239. 57 Ibid., 268. 58 Ibid., 270–73. 59 Šedivý, “From Hostility to Cooperation?,” 646–48. 60 Ibid., 649; Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 2, 21–24.

97

Chapter 2

help defuse Ottoman opposition. The Porte showed first signs of acquiescence following a series of trilateral negotiations, and finally gave permission for the start of hydraulic works in late 1834.61 The situation on the ground, as Széchenyi’s correspondence and diary reveal, was much more complex. Although the Porte’s firman permitting construction works across the Austrian border was the most important document needed by Széchenyi and his men, it was not the only approval they sought. As a result of the Treaty of Adrianople, the relationship between the Porte, Serbia, and Wallachia had changed to the benefit of the latter. The stipulations of the treaty were nevertheless so general that it took several years to assess their exact implications. Many practical matters remained unclear: for instance, Széchenyi wrote to Archduke Joseph asking for the exact location of the demarcation line between Ottoman and Serbian territory in order to determine under whose jurisdiction the Iron Gates fell. He had hoped for a more accommodating attitude on the part of the Serbs toward his project, but was well aware that Constantinople was in charge when it came to questions of foreign policy.62 Securing the approval of the Wallachian and Serbian princes was a simple formality, by contrast, because they were both interested in intensifying their economic relations with the monarchy.63 Széchenyi also had to take into account the fact that the Russian Empire had become a riparian state in 1829, and the Danubian Principalities were still under its occupation. Metternich addressed the regulation of the Iron Gates in correspondence with the tsar, while Széchenyi wrote to Pavel Kiselev, the commander of the two principalities, trying to convince him of the mutual economic benefits of this project.64 During these negotiations, Széchenyi was confronted with the new geopolitical realities created by the Treaty of Adrianople. He acknowledged the improved international status of Serbia and the Danubian Principalities, which had reinforced their partial autonomy from the Porte. Yet, from the standpoint of international relations, the three political entities were not entitled to pursue policies different from those embraced by the Ottoman government. Széchenyi thus realized that he had to focus on the Ottoman 61 Šedivý, “From Hostility to Cooperation?,” 650. 62 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 249, 284–85. 63 Ibid., 267–69, 503–5, 549–51. 64 Ibid., 260–62.

98

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

authorities in order to secure their approval. A key figure in these multilayered negotiations was Hussein Pasha of Vidin, the local governor under whose jurisdiction the Iron Gates fell. At first, persuading the pasha seemed an easy task. New in this position, the pasha submitted to the Hungarian count and agreed not to meddle in the work of the engineers. However, in autumn 1833 when the Austrian engineers were about to move into Ottoman territory, he changed his mind, only allowing exploration on the Wallachian bank of the river.65 Confining access to the Wallachian bank was of no use to the engineers, however, who needed to collect data from both sides of the river to complete their mapping of the area. Széchenyi attempted to obtain the pasha’s official approval several times, but failed. Yet, his visits and correspondence were not entirely in vain: the pasha finally signaled that he would not interfere when works were set to resume in 1834.66 Later that year, consent finally arrived from the Porte. It was not the promise of future economic prosperity that ultimately brought about this change of heart on the part of the Ottoman government, but rather diplomatic pressure from the Habsburg and Russian Empires, i.e., the two other major actors on the Lower Danube. The Ottoman authorities paid little attention to economic gain as they were more interested in the strategic value of the area. Having lost control of the mouth of the Danube to Russia as a result of the Treaty of Adrianople, the Porte was not keen to relinquish control over another important strategic site.67 But this was essentially what the Austrian representatives were requesting: the right to utilize the river for their own country’s benefit, a clear instantiation of so-called “hydroimperialism.”68 The decision to allow engineering work to proceed was ultimately a local one. While the governments in Vienna, St. Petersburg, and Constantinople were engrossed in power games, testing the extent of their influence, local actors found a modus vivendi without any help from their superiors. For the Palatine of Hungary, the Royal Commissioner for the Danube, and the local governor in Vidin, improving the navigability of the Danube was more 65 66 67 68

Ibid., 268. Ibid., 479–80, 493; Šedivý, “From Hostility to Cooperation?,” 649–50. Šedivý, “From Hostility to Cooperation?,” 648. The allure of potential economic benefit was an important means of persuasion in relation to the newly established Wallachian and Serbian authorities, who hoped that economic gain would help to strengthen their demands for independence from Constantinople. See ibid., 644.

99

Chapter 2

important than the international position their countries occupied in the Concert of Europe. Given the historic chance to improve the course of the river, they interpreted official orders to suit their own ends. Széchenyi, in particular, put his personal interests as a stakeholder in the DDSG, and as a representative of Hungary, before those of his chancellor. His move away from Metternich suggests that, at this early stage, the steamboat connection on the Lower Danube was more of a “Hungarian” project than one backed by the entire monarchy. At the same time, his successful negotiations with Hussein Pasha in Vidin made the project a joint, transnational one. In short, local and regional interests and support had a greater impact on the development of the Iron Gates passage than did the macropolitical transformations brought about by the Treaty of Adrianople. First Engineering Breakthrough at the Iron Gates Armed with the pasha’s tacit agreement, the exploration party was ready to continue its work on Serbian and Wallachian territory in 1834. Due to the favorable meteorological conditions that year, prospects for success appeared high. Following a dry summer, the water level had sunk to an unprecedented low, uncovering many of the rocks that had remained hidden in previous years. The shallow water not only allowed for a better assessment of the rocks, but would also make their removal easier and much cheaper. Seeing an opportunity to eliminate this major blockage of the Danube, Széchenyi pushed the Austrian authorities for a decision. The archduke finally responded by granting permission to proceed with the blasting—even without formal Ottoman authorization.69 But Széchenyi then received different instructions from Metternich, namely to restrict his activity to the Austrian side of the border until Constantinople issued its official consent.70 Relying on the archduke’s endorsement, Széchenyi requested that Metternich allow him to pursue the project under false pretenses, suggesting they tell the Porte that the company merely wished to find a suitable location for the DDSG ships to spend the winter—when, in fact, the engineers would pursue the

69 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 482. 70 Ibid., 476.

100

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

regulation project.71 The officials in Vienna did not expressly prevent him from doing so, but did not provide an endorsement either. In the end, the Ottoman military did not interfere when Széchenyi’s engineering crew crossed the border in September 1834, but closely monitored its activities.72 This unfolding of events shows that the building of river infrastructures was not the result of meticulous planning and careful coordination between the involved actors, but rather benefited from so-called “ad hoc power constellations” (Augenblicks-Konstellationen), namely small windows of opportunity that enabled these projects to move forward.73 The removal of rocks from the riverbed continued through the entire autumn of 1834. Széchenyi and Vásárhelyi were enthusiastic about the progress they were making: “It is true that in six weeks more was accomplished than could have been done in ten years—and only at much higher cost.”74 Vásárhelyi’s final report, issued in December 1834, was much more restrained, however. He confirmed the success of the blasting operation, which was, when compared to a similar undertaking in Bingen, more successful and cheaper than the one on the Rhine.75 At the same time, he admitted that navigation remained difficult at the Iron Gates: enough rocks had been cleared, allowing the water to reach an appropriate depth to accommodate steamers, but the current and rapids had grown stronger as a result—an unintended consequence of the blasting. He proposed an additional plan to deal with this challenge, which involved building a canal alongside the Serbian riverbank with two locks, one at the entrance and another at the exit.76 Next to his work on the Danube, Vásárhelyi built a road running parallel to the cataracts on Habsburg territory up to the border. The border regiment’s military engineer corps was traditionally in charge of construction activities in the area. Thus, the local military engineers considered the arrival of the civil engineering team at the Iron Gates an affront to their authority, even though the incoming engineers still had to rely on the coopera71 Ibid., 478; Széchenyi to Metternich, Pest, August 20, 1834, AT-OeStA, Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv (hereafter HHStA), Ministerium des Äußeren (hereafter MdÄ), AR F38-2. 72 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 493; Viszota, Gróf Széchenyi István naplói, vol. 4, 497. 73 van Laak, Alles im Fluss, 13. 74 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 545; Gonda, Vásárhelyi Pál élete és művei, 58. 75 Vásárhelyi, “Haupt-Bericht des Dirigirenden Ingenieurs,” 140–41. 76 Ibid., 141.

101

Chapter 2

tion and manpower of the military. At the time, the road was not seen as an improvement over river navigation, but rather as a prestige project that would improve communication between the Habsburg Monarchy and its new neighbors.77 It was nevertheless used by the DDSG after its completion in 1837 as an alternative route for transporting goods and passengers in order to avoid the gorge, which was still considered dangerous.78 During the construction of the road, there was a serious conflict between the civilians and the military engineers who resented Vásárhelyi’s being in charge of supervising the project. Afraid that the frictions would get out of hand, Széchenyi asked the Imperial War Council (Hofkriegsrat) to intervene by ordering the military personnel to work under Vásárhelyi’s command.79 Even after such an order arrived from Vienna, the head engineer continued to limit the involvement of the military, relying instead on his men to carry out the project—and even requesting that more civil engineering experts be sent to the Lower Danube. In fact, Vásárhelyi never even mentioned the military in his reports to Széchenyi and Archduke Joseph.80 The feeling was apparently mutual, for the military engineers distanced themselves from Vásárhelyi as well. After construction at the Iron Gates stopped in 1834 and Vásárhelyi returned to Pest, Count Karl von Pidoll, a member of the War Council, drafted a report upon returning from a visit to the border regiment in which he recommended a series of prospective improvements on the Danube: the extension of the road from Moldova Veche to Basias, the building of a canal running alongside the Iron Gates on the Serbian side, the regulation of mountain torrents flowing into the Danube, and, finally, the postponement of all further blasting. These improvements were very similar to those Vásárhelyi had suggested in his report to Széchenyi, yet the Hungarian engineer and his works were not mentioned even once in Pidoll’s report.81 The fact that the civilian and the military engineers had chosen not to acknowledge the contribution made by the other group was 77 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 2, 326–27, 337–38. 78 John Murray, Handbook for Travellers in Southern Germany: Being a Guide to Bavaria, Austria, Tyrol, Salzburg, Styria &c., the Austrian and Bavarian Alps and the Danube from Ulm to the Black Sea (London: John Murray and Son, 1837), 378–79. 79 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 462. 80 Gonda, Vásárhelyi Pál élete és művei, 63–64. 81 Schiffbarmachung der Donau, Hofrath von Pidoll, Vienna, December 27, 1837, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F38-2, 157–58.

102

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

no accident. Both reported to different superiors in different administrative units within the Habsburg Monarchy—they described only their own activities and could, as a result, claim success for the operation. For Vásárhelyi, as one of the first civilian hydraulic engineers, this was a useful reference for future assignments—one that he was not willing to share with his military counterparts. His success at the Iron Gates helped him to assert his professional standing and thus build a career for himself later on. In fact, the regulation of the Iron Gates created demand for a new engineering specialization that the civil engineers were able to fulfill. Vásárhelyi and his team had passed the test: not only by breaking through the stone barrier, but also by proving themselves capable of overseeing such operations without assistance from the military. The passage through the gorge remained one of the most dangerous spots on the Danube, yet Széchenyi and his engineering team had accomplished their task by facilitating a connection by ship between the Middle and Lower Danube. Beginning in 1834, a regular steamship service was established on the Danube from Vienna to Galatz and, two years later, to Constantinople. As work to clear the riverbed continued, the Danube Steamboat Company established three stations—at Drencova, Orsova, and Skela Cladova (Schela Cladovei)—where passengers could change ships or even rest for the night. When the first steamer navigated the cataracts going downstream on November 1, 1834, this was hailed as a great accomplishment for the engineers, the company, and the ship’s crew alike.82 It would take another three years (until August 1837) for a steamship to cross the Iron Gates going upstream.83 Still, this connection was often interrupted at the Iron Gates. When steamers could not pass the cataracts, passengers were transported downstream on rowing boats on the route between Skela Cladova in Austria and Drencova in Wallachia. In Drencova, another streamer picked them up and carried them to Galatz and further. Upstream passengers most often had to take the land route. From late autumn until spring, the route was closed altogether.84 Vásárhelyi’s regulation project was, in many respects, a provisional undertaking; in fact, several of his technical suggestions were only implemented toward the end of the century. Navigation consequently remained at an 82 “Schreiben aus Alt-Moldova,” Vereinigte Ofener-Pester Zeitung, December 4, 1834. 83 Ibid., August 31, 1837. 84 Mayer and Winkel, Auf Donauwellen durch Österreich-Ungarn, 36–37.

103

Chapter 2

intermediate stage, for the journey through the Iron Gates was undertaken either in flatboats or over the land road—not aboard steamships, as originally planned. Steam navigation nevertheless thrived over the following years, finally making the Danube an important artery for passenger and freight transport. The DDSG had started small with only five steamers in 1835, but that number would rise to twenty-two vessels by 1842. The number of passengers and the amount of cargo transported on these ships increased significantly during this period as well: from 17,727 voyagers in 1835, to just over 200,000 in 1842, and from 43,152 quintals85 in 1835, to over 400,000 in 1842.86 Passengers (and freight) still had to change ship as often as four times on their way to the Black Sea, but a continuous connection now existed on the Lower Danube for the first time. This regular service gave travelers the opportunity to assess the engineering constructions and reflect on the meaning of the new connection. Soon, the enthusiasm that had accompanied Vásárhelyi’s project faded away. The operators of the DDSG realized that more comprehensive measures were needed for steam navigation to run smoothly over the eight cataracts in the Iron Gates region. During the next decades, several measures were taken to achieve this goal. First, a thorough geographic and hydrologic exploration of the cataracts began. Second, the DDSG continued Vásárhelyi’s work by repeatedly blasting the underwater reefs. And third, more engineers came to the Iron Gates in search for technical solutions that went beyond the mere removal of the underwater barriers. Next to the physical difficulties, the political tensions between Austria, the Ottoman Empire, and its vassal states Serbia and Wallachia lingered on and often hampered the progress of the technical works. The extent to which the rectification project carried out at the Iron Gates during the early 1830s was successful is difficult to assess. A tired traveler whose journey was interrupted by the passage through the narrow gorge might have given a negative response.87 By contrast, a representative of the DDSG would have likely left aside the tumultuous ride over the cata85 Also referred to as centner or hundredweight, corresponding to about 100 kilograms. 86 Hajnal, The Danube, Its Historical, Political and Economic Importance, 148; Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube, 26. 87 See, for example, William F. Cumming, Notes of a Wanderer, in Search of Health, through Italy, Egypt, Greece, Turkey, up the Danube and down the Rhine, vol. 2 (London: Saunders and Otley, 1839), 214.

104

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

racts and instead emphasized the great accomplishment his company had achieved, namely the establishment of a regular connection between Vienna and Constantinople.88 For their part, the engineers who continued the regulation of the Iron Gates over the next decades considered Vásárhelyi’s project to have been only a partial success.89 The more time passed, even those most enthusiastic about the shipping connection had to admit that the passage over the cataracts was far from perfect. After making do with the imperfect conditions that Vásárhelyi’s regulation project had left behind, the DDSG resumed regulation works at the Iron Gates. In 1847, the company assigned the task of blasting away several cliffs rising from the riverbanks to one of its most experienced employees, Captain Rodler. The blasting activity went on for ten days in a row until it was stopped by heavy rains. Twelve miners summoned to the Danube from a nearby coal mine together with several other day laborers and sailors carried out the work. Due to persisting high waters, the works were interrupted for almost one year. The blasting activity was finally resumed in December 1848 when the water level decreased again, and continued until the end of January 1849. This time, forty-two miners were employed to detonate rocks at fourteen different spots on the riverbed. During both sessions, approximately 830 cubic meters of stone were removed from the river. The purpose of the operation was to widen and deepen uneven areas on the riverbed in order to slow several violent torrents. The removal of the rocks enabled ships to take a new path at the Stenka cataract that was less winding than the previous one. There were further improvements in sight. Up to that point, tugboats—both loaded or empty—had been carried upstream by oxen. But in 1848, a steamboat managed to transport empty tugboats upstream for the first time. The DDSG would continue to remove rocks from the riverbed during the following years, but without the intensity of the blasting operations of 1847 and 1848.90 However, none of these interventions had the scale and impact of Vásárhelyi’s project.

88 Binder et al., Rot-Weiss-Rot auf blauen Wellen, 32–38. 89 Gustav Wex, “Über die Schiffbarmachung der Donau am Eisernen Thore und an den sieben Felsbänken oberhalb Orsova,” Zeitschrift des Österreichischen Ingenieur-Vereines 24, no. 10 (1872): 281–90. 90 “Felsensprengungen am eisernen Thor,” Allgemeine Bauzeitung 15, Notizblatt der Allgemeinen Bauzeitung 1, no. 9 (1850): 279–81.

105

Chapter 2

Traveling through the Iron Gates Travel literature provides a valuable source for assessing the effects that river regulation had on transport along the Danube, offering not only a myriad of eyewitness details about the way in which steam navigation developed during its early phase, but also providing useful insight into how perceptions of space and cultural identity changed once Vienna was linked by water to Constantinople.91 As one of the wildest and most romantic spots along the Danube, the Iron Gates fascinated many travelers: “Returning to Orsova, we re-embarked in boats provided by the navigation company, and proceeded to encounter the perils of the Eisern Thor—the Iron Gates of the Danube— which is so apt to be associated in the stranger’s imagination with something of real personal risk and adventure.”92 Even after the improvements were completed, passing through the gorge remained a complex and sometimes nerve-racking endeavor. The schedules of the two steamboats on either end of the defile had to be synchronized, and travelers often had to wait several days until they could continue their journey. In addition, the transport of passengers and luggage had to be done separately, and the latter frequently arrived with great delay.93 Both carriages and flatboats had to be ready when the steamboats arrived, for the passage was conducted simultaneously on land and by water.94 The less dangerous option for travelers was the land route, but it took longer and was less spectacular. Descriptions of the actual passage by water through the Iron Gates were usually similar: the steep walls, the roar of the rapids, and the enormous rocks in the riverbed impressed the passenger, whose boat seemed to be heading toward imminent danger—only to be rescued at the last moment by the skilled Wallachian pilots and rowers: 91 For an overview of literature on “mental maps,” see Frithjof Benjamin Schenk, “Mental Maps. Die Konstruktion von geographischen Räumen in Europa seit der Aufklärung,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 28, no. 3 (2002): 493–514; Wendy Bracewell and Alex Drace-Francis, eds., Under Eastern Eyes: A Comparative Introduction to East European Travel Writing on Europe (Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2008). 92 William Beattie, The Danube: Its History, Scenery, and Topography (London: George Virtue, 1844), 217–18. 93 Cumming, Notes of a Wanderer, 215–16. 94 Ibid., 214; Michael J. Quin, A Steam Voyage Down the Danube: With Sketches of Hungary, Wallachia, Servia, Turkey, Etc. (Paris: Baudry’s European Library, 1836), 100–101.

106

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

We did not feel quite at our ease, nevertheless; for we felt that one touch on the rock would dash the boat in pieces. Once or twice destruction seemed imminent: we were rushing end on to jagged rocks by which there appeared to be no passage: we looked anxiously to the helmsman and felt our confidence in him sensibly diminish. We were on the point of touching, when by a sudden twist of the oars used for the rudder, the boat turned half around, nearly losing her equilibrium as her broadside met the current, then, recovering herself, shot swiftly into a deeper channel. Again we breathed freely.95

As late as 1844, ten years after steam navigation first began, the passage through the Iron Gates still reminded one traveler of Odysseus’s mythological journey between Scylla and Charybdis.96 Surviving the dangerous waters was a special attraction for travelers, yet the symbolic significance of the passage was even greater: crossing the border between the Habsburg lands and the Ottoman provinces meant stepping from the Occident into the Orient.97 Especially for those en route from the German-speaking Habsburg Monarchy, the Iron Gates represented a physical demarcation between their “own” territory and a “foreign” one. Whereas the Austrian military border was seen as “a colorful mixture of nations . . . all of a sudden the scenery assumed a foreign character” once the traveler arrived on Ottoman territory.98 On one side of the border, religious and cultural difference co-existed, yet on the other it stood for separation. The mental maps of Austrian travelers encouraged a perception of familiarity right up to the border—with the fascinating, though “alien,” Orient starting immediately after the line of demarcation. The idea that this transition toward the “Orient” was a gradual one did not fit conceptions of their own identity, as they would have had to admit to certain shortcomings they preferred to attribute to the “other”—more precisely, to an “uncivilized” or “semi-civ95 Adolphus Slade, Travels in Germany and Russia: Including a Steam Voyage by the Danube and the Euxine from Vienna to Constantinople, in 1838–39 (London: Longman, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1840), 174–75. Similar accounts include Vane, A Steam Voyage to Constantinople, 118–23; Quin, A Steam Voyage Down the Danube, 100; Cumming, Notes of a Wanderer, 213–14. 96 Beattie, The Danube, 209. 97 Arnold, “Danube River,” 316–17. 98 E. W. B, “Reise mit den Österreichischen Dampfschiffen auf der Donau und auf dem Schwarzen Meere, von Wien nach Constantinopel. (Forsetzung.),” Wiener Zeitung, August, 12, 1836.

107

Chapter 2

ilized” society. The difficulty of the border crossing through the Iron Gates only reinforced this sense of difference and separation. The perception of the Iron Gates as a clear-cut boundary also had something to do with the specifics of water travel: the traveler only caught glimpses of the changing scenery during the actual journey, but upon disembarking from the ship, the differences in behavior and the surroundings seemed all the more noteworthy. Yet, once a regular steamboat service was established between Vienna and the Ottoman capital, with thousands of passengers traveling aboard Austrian steamers, the image of the Iron Gates as a point of separation in the collective imaginary of travelers was bound to change. Increased traffic made the old fortified border more permeable, but did not immediately wipe away the deep-rooted mental and cultural divisions. Széchenyi traveled extensively to the region before and after the hydraulic works were completed, and his attitude toward the border itself and the provinces beyond remained ambivalent. On the one hand, he thought of the space before and after the border as a binary opposition: on one side, the civilized Habsburg lands; on the other, backward, uncultivated territories.99 He saw himself as a bearer of modernity to this benighted region—in the form of modern transport and engineering skills—only to find himself rejected by superstition and narrow-mindedness.100 On the other hand, he was one of the first travelers to perceive the Danube as a single entity, and not split into regional and political sections. As we have seen, Széchenyi set out to transform the Iron Gates from a barrier into a junction. He regarded the Lower Danube (the river itself, not the territories attached to it) as a natural extension of the Habsburg Monarchy up to the Black Sea, and mused about Budapest’s future as a maritime port.101 Other chroniclers of the first Danube voyages also helped to weaken the perception of persistent antagonism between the Occident and Orient by emphasizing the connectivity between the two spaces: “The Orient is now connected by an unbroken chain with Germany, the heart of Europe.” Establishing this link was portrayed in heroic terms as a conquest—a victory

99 Széchenyi, Donauschiffahrt, 88. 100 Majláth, Gróf Széchenyi István levelei, vol. 1, 244; Barany, Stephen Széchenyi and the Awakening of Hungarian Nationalism, 268. 101 Széchenyi, Donauschiffahrt, 92.

108

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

over both nature and human ignorance.102 It was also at this time that the Danube began to be perceived not as separated into upper, middle, and lower parts, but rather into navigable and unnavigable sections.103 The Iron Gates remained an important point of transition, but only one stop of many on the now navigable Danube. It was not only the anticipated exotic encounter with the Orient that lured travelers on board the steamers: the promise of a “modern” experience was equally attractive to many who embraced speed and acceleration as a new experience of time and space. The prospect of reaching Constantinople—a destination that had once seemed so distant—in less than two weeks was a powerful incentive to embark upon the journey. In addition, many found the steam company’s careful planning of the trip fascinating: the tight schedule, and the solutions its managers found to overcome technical and physical obstacles.104 As Széchenyi wrote from Orsova on June 18, 1836: “We left Zemun at 3 a.m. and reached Drencova at noon. And left again at 1 p.m. on the Tünde [a small cutter] and afterwards changed to a rafting boat; we spent one hour at Kazan, then continued our journey and arrived here at 9 p.m. We have come a long way since we started this endeavor!”105 For similar reasons, some travelers were explicitly interested in viewing the hydraulic works and assessing their impact on the river, often framing Vásárhelyi’s engineering project in a narrative of triumph over the forces of nature. His interventions into the riverbed were made visible to the observer, and their positive effects on improving the navigability of the Danube were held in high esteem.106 But even the most enthusiastic and laudatory travelers could not overlook the fact that navigation conditions remained difficult, even dangerous, when passing through the gorge.107 They had started out aboard the most advanced form of shipping, only to end up on an ancient means of transport on the most dangerous part of the journey. When chang102 E. W. B, “Reise mit den Österreichischen Dampfschiffen auf der Donau und auf dem Schwarzen Meere, von Wien nach Constantinopel,” Wiener Zeitung, Aug. 10, 1836. 103 Ludwig von Forgatsch, Die schiffbare Donau von Ulm bis in das Schwarze Meer (Vienna: Fr. Beck’sche Universitätsbuchhandlung, 1849), 46. 104 Slade, Travels in Germany and Russia, 176; Quin, A Steam Voyage Down the Danube, 112–13. 105 Széchenyi, Donauschiffahrt, 176–77. 106 Alois W. Schreiber, Die Donau-Reise von der Einmündung des Ludwig-Kanals nach Constantinopel (Heidelberg: Joseph Engelmann, 1839), 7–11; Forgatsch, Die schiffbare Donau von Ulm bis in das Schwarze Meer, 45–46. 107 M. M., “Steam Navigation of the Danube,” The Morning Chronicle, December 10, 1834.

109

Chapter 2

ing from the steamer to a flatboat, for many the difference between “modern” and “backward” seemed to blur—something perhaps best expressed in the ambivalent image of the Wallachian rowers and pilots. The diligent and reliable employees of the steam company were contrasted with the “lazy” Wallachians, who took a nap the moment they were left unsupervised. Yet, travelers soon realized that without their navigational skills and knowledge of the cataracts, the whole operation would have come to a halt.108 Where modern horsepower proved useless, manpower took up the slack—yet another example of how modernity and tradition clashed at the Iron Gates, only to be integrated later into a more eclectic view. It is particularly striking that the advent of steam navigation did not make manual labor in the form of rowing, carrying, and towing obsolete, but on the contrary, without these operations which had been performed for centuries, the DDSG could not have provided a connection along the Danube from Vienna to Constantinople. Passengers traveling past the Iron Gates shared a complex experience of adventure, modernity, and symbolic crossing. Passing from the Habsburg lands into the Ottoman Empire meant renegotiating their own identity, as well as their perception of the foreign places through which they were traveling. When the steamers of the DDSG began to tour the Danube on a regular schedule, the journey influenced how travelers perceived this mighty river: for the first time, the Danube was seen as an entity, regardless of the political and ethnic fragmentation of its surroundings. Austria’s successful economic exploitation of the Lower Danube encouraged the monarchy to view the segment beyond the Iron Gates as an extension of its own territory—as a space in which it could exercise power and influence, without formal annexation. Only then was the Habsburg Empire rightfully called the “Danube Monarchy.” Flawed as the passage through the Iron Gates was during the early era of steam navigation, it nevertheless opened up new channels of communication between the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires. First, economic exchanges along the Lower Danube intensified once the shipping connection between Vienna and Constantinople allowed for a constant flow of goods and people between the two capitals. Second, the route along the Lower Danube became a tourist attraction for many Europeans. As a result, the boat sta108 Ibid.; Beattie, The Danube, 209; Quin, A Steam Voyage Down the Danube, 114.

110

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

tions established by the navigation company along the Danube grew into small towns that provided necessities for passing travelers. Finally, postal communications between the two empires improved significantly by the end of the 1830s—the Habsburg consuls stationed in the Balkans, especially, started to use DDSG ships to deliver their correspondence faster to Vienna. Besides enabling better communication across the border, the connection also established a different kind of linkage—a mental one that tied the region beyond the Iron Gates closer to Central Europe and Vienna. As a result, steam navigation from the Habsburg Monarchy to the disbanding Ottoman Empire eventually pushed the boundaries of “Europe” further downstream to include the Lower Danube. After the first breakthrough at the Iron Gates, Habsburg commercial activity now stretched along the entire navigable Danube. However, from the 1840s, just as connectivity over the cataracts was improving, the situation at the mouth of the Danube began to deteriorate as the complex nautical and political situation in the Danube Delta posed more and more obstacles to shipping traffic. Delays and Damage on the Sulina Channel The Russian Empire gained an important strategic position when it annexed the mouth of the Danube in 1829. This small territorial gain of just a few miles meant that the Russian Empire de facto controlled the entire shipping traffic on the Lower Danube. Since the Treaty of Adrianople lifted the export ban in the two Danubian Principalities, the main economic activity revolved around exporting raw materials, mainly grains, via the Danube and the Black Sea to European markets. In order to attract foreign merchants and shipowners, the Wallachian port of Brăila and Galatz in Moldavia were turned into free ports.109 As a consequence, international shipping traffic increased considerably on the Lower Danube and the passage to the Black Sea became one of the busiest junctions in European waters. In terms of quantity, grain exports rose year by year, so much so that in the period between 1837 and 1842 wheat exports from Brăila nearly tripled from 667,909 to 1,862,909 109 Emil Octavian Mocanu, Portul Brăila de la regimul de porto franco la Primul Război Mondial (1836–1914) (Brăila: Ed. Istros a Muzeului Brăilei, 2012), 23–40; Constantin Buşe, Comerţul exterior prin Galaţi sub regimul de port franc (1837–1883) (Bucharest: Ed. Acad. Republicii Socialiste România, 1976).

111

Chapter 2

quarters. In Galatz the rise was steadier, increasing only by five percent in the same period, from 815,356 to 859,568 quarters.110 While the Russian Empire pursued a policy toward the Lower Danube aimed at territorial expansion, Habsburg and British involvement in the area followed economic interests. The Austrian merchant marine in Trieste, and particularly Austrian Lloyd, transported large quantities of grain from the principalities across the Black Sea and the Mediterranean.111 British traders also gradually penetrated the Lower Danube. During the 1830s and the early 1840s, the British Empire initially used the Ionian trade fleet to extract Danubian grain.112 The repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846 amplified British involvement. As a result, the number of British ships crossing between the Black Sea and the Danube rose from around twenty to at least one hundred per year, turning the British Empire into one of the most important destinations for grains from the principalities.113 However, the growing shipping traffic on the Lower Danube and the physical obstruction at the mouth of the river caused many bottlenecks on the stretch between the river and the sea. Shortly before the Danube passed into the Black Sea, it divided into three branches: Kilia, Sulina, and St. George. Steamboats and big cargo ships could only enter the Black Sea through the middle arm, Sulina. This was the only navigable channel, yet the passage was often hindered by whirlpools, sandbanks, and strong currents that regularly caused accidents and even shipwrecks. During wintertime, ice and snow sealed the channel altogether. In summer, when winds were still, ships sometimes queued for several weeks in Sulina waiting for a favorable moment to cross into the sea. Sometimes, the only solution was to transfer the load onto smaller ships in order to pass the bar, and quite often goods were either lost or damaged in the process.114 Moreover, the Austrian envoy to the delta, Major Mayerhofer von Grünbühl, noted that the entire fleet of small boats used to unload cargo ships belonged to a Greek merchant

110 Ardeleanu, “Russian-British Rivalry,” 167–68. 111 Sauer, “Österreich und die Sulina-Frage, Erster Teil,” 214; Šedivý, “From Hostility to Cooperation?,” 644–46; Šedivý, Metternich, 603–11. 112 Harlaftis, A History of Greek Owned Shipping, 3–38. 113 Ardeleanu, “Russian-British Rivalry,” 165–68. 114 Eichhoff to Haus-, Hof- und Staatskanzelei, Vienna, February 2, 1835, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2, 31f.–32f.

112

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

from Izmail—a monopoly which kept prices artificially high.115 In the same vein, the Austrian consul in Galatz, Christian Wilhelm Huber, described the unloaders as speculators and a true calamity for trading activity.116 As a result, the charges for transporting the load over the bar went up. Although the purchase price for grains in the ports of the Danubian Principalities was the cheapest in the region, delays and frequent accidents on the Sulina channel increased costs.117 Meanwhile, the Russian administration was prone to stalling traffic. Merchants and ship captains often complained to their consulates that Russian officials deliberately delayed foreign ships. This hostile attitude supposedly aimed at hindering the grain trade on the Danube as it competed with similar exports from the Russian Black Sea ports. Although these accusations were never confirmed, several Austrian consular reports made clear that the Russian administration was doing little to help ships in distress. Furthermore, merchants and diplomats accused Russian officials of using the quarantine regulations to delay the ships even more. They also mentioned several other forms of harassment like demands for additional taxes and formalities that hampered a swift passage.118 But the greatest worry of all was the depth of the water at the immediate passage from the river to the sea. When the Russian administration took over, the Sulina channel was already in deplorable shape. Under these circumstances, ships sometimes waited days or even weeks for favorable winds that could carry them over the bar. At the end of the 1830s, the depth of the water at the bar ranged between ten and twelve and a half English feet, depending on the year. In Ottoman times, it had been fourteen to sixteen English feet deep. As the water level decreased by an average two feet per decade, the passage of fully loaded cargo ships was obstructed. Merchants and shipowners feared that the silting at the mouth would continue, making

115 Mayerhofer von Grünbühl to Timoni, Rustchuk, September 5, 1843, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2. 116 Abschrift eines Berichtes des Consuls Huber an den Agenten für die Moldau, Galatz, July 30, 1845, ATOeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2. 117 Ardeleanu, “Russian-British Rivalry,” 169–73; Correspondence with the Russian Government Respecting Obstructions to the Navigation of the Sulina Channel of the Danube Presented to Both Houses of Parliament by Command of Her Majesty (London: Harrison and Sons, 1853), 14–15. 118 Eichhoff to Haus-, Hof- und Staatskanzelei, Vienna, November 6, 1836, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2.

113

Chapter 2

it impractical even for smaller ships to pass.119 Under the above-mentioned conditions, transport on the Lower Danube became unpredictable and dangerous. One decade after the Danube was opened up to international traffic, navigation was facing collapse. Delays and damage affected all the shipping companies navigating the Lower Danube, but had a particularly strong impact on the Austrian and British companies which kept larger fleets. Interestingly enough, the Austrian and British consular representatives at the Lower Danube were at the same time merchants involved in the grain trade, meaning that the commercial and political interests of the two empires were intertwined. Although they were competitors in the grain trade, the silting at the Sulina mouth made clear that common action would be beneficial to both empires. With the backing of their governments, they jointly urged the Russian administration to act and improve the shipping passage at Sulina. Earlier, the international community of grain merchants in Galatz und Brăila had tried to solve the problem locally by dealing directly with the Russian local authorities but to no avail. As a consequence of these interventions, the Russian administration took first measures to clear the bar. They employed a rather archaic device, placing a two-foot iron harrow between two pontoons just before the bar in order to clear the sand floating toward the estuary. On each pontoon, ten men operated the harrow. The main problem with this mechanical device was that the sand elevated in one place was moved to another nearby, from where the current carried it back again to the bar.120 The harrow had no positive effect on the water depth and even endangered the passing ships. In 1843, Mayerhofer von Grünbühl drew a map of the Sulina mouth, showing not only the two pontoons as a possible hindrance to navigation, but also several shipwrecks in the proximity of the bar that hampered the passage.121 The merchant community in Galatz and Brăila closely monitored the progress of the harrow device. While the Russian authorities kept the machine stubbornly in place, the Austrian vice-consul, Christian Wilhelm 119 Jean Baptiste Puthon, Note sur l’ensablement des bouches du Danube, Vienna, January 14, 1839, ATOeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2. 120 Huber to Haus-, Hof- und Staatskanzelei, Galatz, July 23, 1842, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2. 121 Mayerhofer von Grünbühl to Timoni, Sulina, September 5, 1843, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F37-2, 29–49.

114

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

Huber, in 1839 noted the futility of this method of removing the sand from the bar and proposed that a dredging machine replace it, which could transport the sand away altogether. Together with the English vice-consul, Charles Cunningham, he decided to convince the other merchants to establish a stock company that could acquire a dredger. Both were confident that the merchants, who were currently paying unloading fees at the bar, could be easily convinced to invest in a machine that would make the unloading procedure obsolete. Moreover, Huber hoped that grain importers in Trieste would also show interest in this initiative. Similarly, Cunningham promoted the idea of a stock company to deal with the silting at Sulina to British officials and entrepreneurs.122 However, both consuls were well aware that the Russian government would not easily accept their proposal, perceiving it as foreign involvement on state territory. They both hoped that the intervention of their own governments would encourage the Russians to accept the plan. Besides, Huber pointed out that the dredger would operate on an international river declared “free” in the Final Act of the Congress of Vienna, and not on Russian soil. In spite of this argument, the Russian government rejected the initiative on grounds of interference in internal affairs.123 While the local solution of a stock company to clean the bar failed, the governments in Vienna and London pursued separate approaches to the possible shutting down of navigation at the mouth of the Danube. The representatives of the Habsburg Monarchy tried to solve the problems in the delta by cooperating with the Russian administration and offering assistance. With so much at stake, the administration of the DDSG became the prime advocate of comprehensive measures to clear the passage. In 1839, two DDSG board members, Johann Baptist von Puthon and J. B. Benvenuti, wrote a report regarding the current state of the Sulina mouth and containing several recommendations to the Austrian government. They first proposed an official agreement between the two states to deal with the physical and administrative obstacles in Sulina. In their opinion, diplomatic efforts had so far remained ineffective, so that a legal document was needed to provide a framework for further action. Second, they urged the Austrian consuls and other state officials to stop praising the achievements of the former Ottoman 122 Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube, 183. 123 Ibid., 184.

115

Chapter 2

administration and blaming the Russians for all shortcomings. Dealing on a daily basis with the problems at Sulina, the representatives of the DDSG were able to collect valuable information on how the current state of affairs had occurred. While it was true that at the beginning of the century water levels had been two feet higher than in the 1830s, the number of ships passing the bar at that time was significantly lower than after the Treaty of Adrianople. The clearing of the passage had been entrusted to several local villages that were exempt from all other taxes and obligations to the state. Over several decades, a row of wooden piers had been constructed and consolidated by the locals. Frequent military confrontations and the change in administration had led the piers to decay, and they were finally swallowed by the waters. As the new Russian administration had no ties to the local communities, the two petitioners proposed a different approach. They recommended that the former Ottoman lighthouse be rebuilt, the silting of the Sulina channel be stopped with the help of a steam-powered dredging machine, and finally, that quarantine procedures be expedited.124 Indeed, in 1840 a new trade agreement between the Austrian and Russian Empires was signed reminding the latter of its responsibility to ensure free trade and traffic at the mouth of the river. The document included all the above-mentioned recommendations. In the preamble, both empires stated their wish to cultivate mutually beneficial trade relations and particularly to develop navigation on the Danube.125 To achieve this goal, the Russian Empire agreed to undertake the necessary works to stop the silting of the Sulina mouth and make the passage practicable again. It also agreed to build a lighthouse in Sulina and allow towing on the left bank between the islands of Leti (Letea) and Tschetal (Cetal). To cover the expenses, Austria agreed that its ships passing the bar at Sulina would pay three piasters for the dredging works plus an additional piaster as a lighthouse tax. Furthermore, Russia agreed to accelerate quarantine procedures: for example, DDSG steamers sailing from the Habsburg Monarchy down the Danube and heading for a Russian Black Sea port would be exempt from respecting the quarantine period in the Danube Delta.126 124 Puthon and Benvenuti to Metternich, Vienna, April 28, 1838, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2. 125 Convention entre L’Autriche et la Russie, concernant la Navigation du Danube: Signé à St. Pétersbourg, le 25 Juillet 1840, in British and Foreign State Papers 28 (1839–1840): 1060–61. 126 Ibid., 1062–63.

116

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

The signing of the convention was considered a great coup for Austrian diplomacy, but ten years later, when a possible extension of the treaty was debated between the ministry of trade, commerce, and public works, and the ministry of foreign affairs in Vienna, it became clear that the situation had improved little at the Sulina mouth. The silting could not be contained and the Austrian consuls in the Danubian Principalities expressed their fears that before long a complete blockage of the passage to the sea would occur. In 1845, the Austrian consul in Galatz, Huber, reported the depth of the water at the bar as twelve English feet in April and only nine and a third at the beginning of July—it was constantly decreasing.127 In 1850, a report by the ministry of trade analyzing the impact of the convention on Austria’s Danube navigation mentioned not only the worsening situation at Sulina, but also highlighted a particular disadvantage it had brought to Austrian ships. They were the only ones obliged to pay the clearance tax, as stipulated in the bilateral convention, while all other ships could pass the bar without any charge. In other words, though Austrian ships were paying for the dredging works, the water depth at Sulina was not improving.128 Given these conditions, the Austrian ministry of trade did not recommend the convention’s prolongation.129 The shallow waters at Sulina also alarmed the British government who chose to pressure the Russian administration into taking the necessary steps to improve navigation conditions at the mouth. From the early 1830s, the British consuls at the Lower Danube had complained in their reports about the physical and political obstructions at Sulina, which they interpreted as ill will directed against British commercial interests. Their reports convinced the British foreign secretary, Lord Palmerston, and after 1851 Lord Clarendon, that the Russian administration was willfully interfering in Britain’s economic interests on the Lower Danube. Consequently, both secretaries intensified their pressure on the Russian government. Ultimately, the tensions concerning the Sulina passage added to the already strained relations between the two empires.130 127 Abschrift eines Berichtes des Consuls Huber an den Agenten für die Moldau, Galatz, July 30, 1845, ATOeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2. 128 Abschrift des Erlasses des Handelsministeriums an den Präsidenten der Central Seebehörde, Triest, May 22, 1850, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2. 129 Handelsministrium to Schwarzenberg, Vienna, August 22, 1851, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-2. 130 Ardeleanu, “Russian-British Rivalry,” 178–79.

117

Chapter 2

The Habsburg and British governments thus chose to address the situation differently. Eventually, both strategies made the Russian authorities act and the government ordered a dredging machine from England to excavate the mud at the mouth.131 The machine arrived in Sulina in October 1850, but could not be used because the local administration had no qualified personnel to operate it.132 When dredging started in the spring of 1851, though it pulled out several tons of mud from the river, the depth at the bar did not improve. Strong underwater currents and passing ships again pushed the sand back toward the bar. Aside from this, the dredging machine could be used only when the waters were still, otherwise the winds drove it away. When it became clear that dredging had failed, too, the Russian administration did not search for another solution. Due to the rising tensions between the Russian, Ottoman, English, and French Empires leading to the Crimean War, the local administration halted any attempts to improve navigation.133 Circumventing the Danube Delta From the mid-1830s, when it first became clear to the Austrian and British governments that the physical and administrative obstructions at Sulina were diminishing their economic revenues, the two administrations searched for alternative solutions to the dangerous passage. Due to its longestablished military and economic connections to the principalities and the Lower Danube, the Habsburg Monarchy was first to work out concrete alternatives to Sulina. One was an artificial canal to connect the Danube and the Black Sea over the territory of Dobrudja, under Ottoman rule. The greatest advantage of this proposed link was that it would bypass the Danube Delta and its complicated political and topographical situation. In 1837, the route between Cernavoda on the Danube and Kustendje (Constanţa), a small port on the Black Sea, was first explored with a view to a possible canal project by two Prussian officers stationed in the Ottoman Empire, Karl von VinckeOlbendorf and Helmuth von Moltke. After conducting reconnaissance in the region, the officers argued against the canal, primarily due to the lack 131 Correspondence with the Russian Government, 27–32. 132 Chiari to the Austrian Ministry for Trade, Galatz, October 7, 1850, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F381, 93f. 133 Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube, 213­.

118

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

of water reserves in the area that would be needed to carry large steamships. They also considered the steep coastline an insurmountable obstacle for a future canal. And finally, they questioned whether the port of Kustendje, which was situated on a flat, sandy beach, would be able to accommodate large cargo ships and steamers.134 One year later, in 1838, Austrian military engineer Karl von Birago studied this report, reaching a completely different conclusion. He based his verdict on the description made by the two Prussian officers without conducting his own survey of the area. In his opinion, the report provided enough evidence in favor of the prospective canal. While von Vincke and von Moltke based their conclusions exclusively on empirical observation, Birago compared their findings to other canals that had recently been completed. For instance, he noted that the builders of the Canal du Midi in the French Languedoc and the Caledonian Canal in Scotland had overcome steep cliffs before reaching the sea. Regarding the lack of water, he mentioned not only the numerous lakes in the area but also the limestone soil, indicating additional reserves of underground water.135 Thus, he concluded: “The result of the reconnaissance, based on a correct assessment of the local conditions, should not put an end to the hopes for a canal, but on the contrary, should provide enough reasons for the feasibility of such a project.”136 Birago was so convinced that this endeavor would be successful that in October 1844 he took a trip down the Danube to conduct his own survey.137 His observations fortified his belief in the technical feasibility of the channel.138 However, Birago died in 1845 and the canal project disappeared for several years as Austrian officials instead focused on improving the Sulina channel. In the meantime, Britain caught up with the Austrians. In 1851, the project resurfaced in the publications of David Urquhart, a Scottish politician famous for his Russophobia.139 The British government also picked up 134 Karl Friedrich von Vincke, “Das Karassu-Thal zwischen der Donau unterhalb Rassowa und dem schwarzen Meere bei Küstendschi,” Monatsberichte über die Verhandlungen der Gesellschaft für Erdkunde zu Berlin 1, no. 10 (1839–1840): 179–86. 135 Bericht Birago, Vienna, February 28, 1839, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-1, 1-10f. 136 Ibid., 11. 137 “Wallachey,” Wiener Zeitung, no. 308, November 6, 1844. 138 Manfred Sauer, “Österreich und die Sulina-Frage, 1829–1854, Zweiter Teil,” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchiv 41 (1990): 101. 139 David Urquhart, The Mystery of the Danube: Showing How through Secret Diplomacy, that River Has Been Closed, Exportation from Turkey Arrested, and the Re-opening of the Isthmus of Suez Prevented

119

Chapter 2

the idea, sending engineer Thomas Wilson to the Lower Danube who provided the Ottoman authorities with technical plans and a financial memorandum for the prospective canal.140 The Crimean War, however, impinged on any further action. The debate concerning the feasibility of a canal shows that an interdependent relationship emerged between officials and scientists as they brought technical expertise and political decision-making together. It also illustrates that knowledge passed across imperial borders and became enlarged and amended in the process. But despite this crossing of state boundaries, exchange within the national space was the main factor to advance these projects. Such was the case when Birago convinced the Austrian authorities to finance his trip down the Danube, and the British government instructed Wilson to assess the conditions for a possible canal. Furthermore, Austrian and British officials took turns in promoting the project, whereby the Austrians were first to realize that they must intervene in order to protect their interests. They were followed roughly a decade later by the British in the context of the outbreak of the Crimean War. The war, ultimately, gave the two empires the opportunity to become involved simultaneously at the Lower Danube. While military engineers were debating the merits of a future canal, the management board of the DDSG took immediate action to protect its vessels from the risks at the Sulina mouth. Just as Birago was planning ahead, the company applied a timely solution by diverting the route of the steamers on their way back from Constantinople to the port of Kustendje. From the summer of 1840, the steamers of the DDSG followed an alternating schedule, traveling one week via the delta and the next through Kustendje.141 The trip was organized as follows: one company steamer brought passengers over the Black Sea and another picked them up in Cernavoda on the Danube; the passengers rode in carriages over the stretch of land in between. In May 1840, Danish author Hans Christian Andersen and English physician and scientist Francis Ainsworth were among the first to return to Vienna on this new (­ London: Bradbury & Evans, 1851), 107–26. See also Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube, 192–93. 140 Thomas Wilson, The Low-Lands of the Danube: Their Reclaimation by a Canal from Rassova to K ­ ustandje, Forming a New Mouth on the Black Sea (London: E. Wilson, 1855), 74–80. 141 Allgemeine Zeitung, no. 150, June 29, 1840, 1198.

120

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

route.142 In August 1841, Englishman Robert Snow, a member of the Royal Astronomical Society, traveled to Constantinople on the Dobrudja route.143 All three travelers, next to emphasizing the backward and exotic character of the region, gave abundant details on the organization of the trip. In Kustendje, the DDSG owned a large building that served as modest accommodation for the passengers.144 No such building existed in Cernavoda, and from Snow’s report it remains unclear whether passengers slept outside, on the steamer, or found a local host.145 In any case, passengers coming from either side had to spend the night at the location where they disembarked. Once the ship had docked, the luggage was immediately unloaded onto a couple of wagons pulled by oxen.146 Carriages drawn by Wallachian horses picked up the voyagers early the next morning and carried them over the land stretch in approximately seven hours.147 The local DDSG representatives were instrumental in the success of this land operation. Travelers spoke of their friendly and affable behavior. They were intimately familiar with the logistics of the trip and in most cases accompanied the passengers from the Danube to the sea. In addition, they negotiated with local authorities when problems arose. For instance, Snow recounted how an agent by the name of Marenovitch negotiated with the officials in Kustendje when news spread about plague infections in Constantinople. On August 12, 1841, the authorities in Kustendje stopped the steamer Ferdinand from entering the port for fear of contamination. The consequences of not being able to dock would have been frustrating for the passengers on their way to Constantinople because Kustendje had no quarantine station of its own. Thus, the steamer would have had to travel across the delta, go through the quarantine procedures, and continue its journey to the port of Galatz. The passengers would have had to return to Cernavoda and travel downstream to meet the steamer in Galatz. Fortunately for those 142 Hans Christian Andersen, A Poet’s Bazaar (New York: Hurd and Houghton, 1871), 266–75; Francis Ainsworth, “The Communication between the Danube and the Black Sea,” The Mirror of Literature, Amusement and Instruction 2, no. 10 (1842): 152–54. 143 Robert Snow, Journal of a Steam Voyage down the Danube to Constantinople, and Thence by way of Malta and Marseilles to England (London: Moyes and Barclay, 1842), 37–42. 144 Ainsworth, “The Communication between the Danube and the Black Sea,” 152. 145 Snow, Journal of a Steam Voyage Down the Danube, 37. 146 Andersen, A Poet’s Bazaar, 269. 147 Snow, Journal of a Steam Voyage Down the Danube, 39.

121

Chapter 2

waiting in Kustendje, the agent was able to convince the port authorities to let them on board.148 In this manner, the agents of the company acted as important mediators between travelers and locals. Like the passage through the Iron Gates, the land route from Kustendje to Cernavoda and back relied on numerous manual laborers to carry persons and luggage from one steamer to the other. On these short distances, the formidable horsepower of the steam engine was replaced by actual horses. Modern technology and archaic transport blended to serve travelers on this long-distance river connection. Some of these travelers provided interesting insights into the ongoing public debates concerning future engineering projects on this route. Andersen in particular focused on how it would be best to improve communications between the Danube and the sea. He mentioned the canal project as well as an alternative idea being discussed in the press: the building of a much cheaper railway route. But for the time being, both projects were stalled by the Ottoman government.149 With no improvements in sight, the DDSG stopped offering this service in 1842.150 Although it shortened the average duration of the voyage by two days, the hardships of the land journey and the lack of transport infrastructure moved the management of the DDSG to cancel the Kustendje-Cernavoda connection, but without giving up the prospect of reopening it when a railway or canal became available. In 1851, when the idea of an artificial canal resurfaced in the British press, the director of the DDSG, Peter Erichsen, tried to persuade the Habsburg government to initiate a new attempt to build this connection. Because the situation at the Sulina mouth had worsened in the late 1840s, Erichsen pressed for a solution that involved finding alternative ways for ships to enter the Black Sea.151 He had traveled to the Lower Danube on behalf of the company’s executive board to inspect the silting of the Sulina channel. After his tour, Erichsen feared that due to the large sand accumulation this mouth would soon be closed to traffic. In a letter addressed to the ministry of trade, he reminded those responsible of the important role played by the DDSG in making the Lower Danube navigable: “At high cost and with sacrifices that 148 Ibid., 42. 149 Andersen, A Poet’s Bazaar, 273. 150 Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube, 25. 151 Erichsen to Ministerium des Handels, Vienna, July 16, 1851, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F38-3, 272–78.

122

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

were out of proportion [außer Verhältnis stehender Opfer] for a private company, the DDSG was able to make the waterway in question accessible and therefore has a keen interest in its endurance.”152 He further underlined the importance of the Danube route for the Habsburg Monarchy through its connecting Vienna via the Balkans to the Orient. But since no progress had been made at Sulina in the last ten years, navigation conditions had constantly deteriorated. He urged the ministry of trade to look into another solution for the passage to and from the Black Sea. The kind he envisioned should be able to operate free of contingencies (von allen möglichen Eventualitäten unabhängig zu machen). Such a connection would have to circumvent the Sulina channel. The first alternative route he proposed followed the Cernavoda to Kustendje path along which either a canal or a railway could be built. The second solution aimed at making the St. George mouth navigable because it was wider than Sulina. However, Erichsen admitted that he and the other members of the board lacked the necessary expertise to choose between these projects. He therefore asked the government to support the DDSG in finding the best solution for shipping. Furthermore, he urged for close cooperation with the British government and entrepreneurs because all shared a common interest in making the Danube navigable.153 It was only partially true that the Ottoman government stalled these projects. Presented with so many different proposals, with some containing a railway and others not, it had the difficult task of choosing the most suitable one. In 1856, in the immediate aftermath of the Crimean War, it gave a mixed coalition of foreigners a concession to build the so called “Abdülmecid Canal,” renamed after the sultan. However, shortly after the Ottoman authorities started expropriating the land along the planned course of the canal, the foreign investors asked to change the term of the concession to build a railway instead.154 Following the same route from Cernavoda to Kustendje, the railway project went forward under the supervision of the British engineer John Trevor Barkley, opening for business in 1860.155

152 Ibid., 273. 153 Ibid., 278. 154 Florian Riedler, “Integrating the Danube into Modern Networks of Infrastructure: The Ottoman Contribution,” Journal of Balkan and Black Sea Studies 3, no. 5 (2020): 109–10. 155 Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 172–73.

123

Chapter 2

Like the route over Dobrudja, the St. George mouth as an alternative to Sulina had increasingly come to the attention of Habsburg traders. A first reconnaissance mission took place in October 1850 after an agent of Austrian Lloyd in Sulina instructed the captain of the steamboat Danubio, Pietro Marassi, to conduct a survey of the St. George branch in order to determine whether it could be made navigable for large cargo ships and steamers. Marassi’s report to the board of administration contained a comprehensive description of navigation conditions accompanied by a detailed map.156 First, he confirmed that the St. George branch was one and a half times larger than Sulina and deep enough to carry large cargo ships and steamers. However, in his words: “All that is beautiful changes when one reaches the mouth.” There, a large sandbank obstructed the passage into the sea, dividing it into two smaller mouths. To deal with this blockage, he proposed closing one of the outlets, so that the entire water would flow through the other. He put forward a rather creative solution to achieve this, namely to fill wrecked ships with stones and sink them in the proximity of the bar.157 The outbreak of the Crimean War in 1853 impeded any further action, while the debate on whether to improve navigability at the Sulina mouth or to search for an alternative would go on with heightened intensity after the ceasefire. Until the war, several solutions circulated among the involved actors and some were put into practice, but none had significantly improved the shipping passage from the Danube to the sea. The connection was frequently interrupted and even steamers had to give way to means of transportation propelled by animals or sails. Local pilots, coachmen, unloaders, and other manual laborers were instrumental in keeping this international connection in place. But in spite of all these efforts, those crossing from the Danube into the Black Sea perceived the passage more as an obstacle than a link. Not only sand, mud, and a lack of shipping infrastructure impeded a smooth connection. Political frictions as well as diverging interests and priorities also hindered the passage. International trade and transport connections to and from the Black Sea depended very much on the financial support and political goodwill of the Russian Empire. The Russian government, in turn, feared that international enterprises supported by foreign govern156 Verwaltungsrath des Österreichischen Lloyd, Vienna, November 25, 1850, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F37-1, 202. 157 Rapporto Marasi, Trieste, November 25, 1850, AT-OeStA/HHStA, MdÄ AR F37-1, 204f–205f.

124

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

ments would interfere with territorial sovereignty. This was the main reason why it rejected or delayed the initiatives taken by merchants and transport companies to improve navigation conditions. At first, the Sulina question developed into a controversy between the Russian and the British governments. In the early 1850s, the Habsburg and French Empires were also antagonized by the non-cooperative Russian attitude. The resurgent conflict on how to handle the lack of depth at the mouth of the Danube did not cause the Crimean War, but it remained a major disagreement between the Western cabinets and Russia throughout the confrontation. After the war, the principle of freedom of navigation on the Lower Danube appeared on the agenda of the peace negotiations.158 Conclusion The Treaty of Adrianople offered the political framework and steam shipping the technical precondition for making the Danube navigable from Vienna to the Black Sea. However, establishing an uninterrupted connection over the Iron Gates and the delta proved a difficult task. Physical barriers, quarantine regulations, and political fragmentation were some of the obstacles facing shipping companies. Despite similar hitches, the situation diverged significantly at two spots: the Iron Gates and the Sulina mouth. The navigability of the Iron Gates was primarily a Habsburg-Ottoman conversation in which the Austrians took the initiative and the Ottomans tried to limit foreign involvement on their territory. The result was a river regulation project completed in haste and that showed significant engineering and organizational flaws. Nevertheless, due to its adaptability to the imperfect navigation conditions, the DDSG established a connection over the cataracts that enabled travelers to cross on a fixed schedule from Habsburg into Ottoman lands. This project would be just the first step in a longer process in which representatives of the DDSG and of the Habsburg government together claimed the regulation of the Iron Gates as their own area of jurisdiction, pushing their 158 Ardeleanu, International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube, 239–40; Richard Charles Frucht, “War, Peace, and Internationality: The Danube, 1789–1916,” in Southeast European Maritime Commerce and Naval Policies from the Mid-Eighteenth Century to 1914, ed. Apostolos E. Vacalopoulos, Constantinos D. Svolopoulos, and Béla K. Király (Highland Lakes: Atlantic Research and Publications, 1988), 85.

125

Chapter 2

influence further downstream. At the other end of the Lower Danube, several empires competed to access the narrow and shallow mouth of Sulina. The grain trade transformed the delta into a commercial hub that attracted merchants and entrepreneurs from all over Europe. Thus, increased traffic to and from the Black Sea augmented the congestion at the mouth of the Danube. And due to the lack of interest of the Russian authorities, shipping traffic frequently stalled. Thus, even if the Lower Danube was connected to Vienna and via the Black Sea to the entire world, in terms of fluidity and speed it significantly lagged behind other major fluvial traffic arteries. However, in spite of the interrupted shipping flow, the 1830s and 1840s brought two new approaches on how various actors perceived the imperfect state of the Lower Danube. For the first time, engineering interventions at the two spots aimed at reshaping geographical spaces in ways that fitted human needs. This approach was inherently different from the stocktaking or even the visions of connectivity generated in the late eighteenth century. Spurred by technological innovation, engineers and other practitioners did not shy away from the goal of removing stone blockages and sand barriers from the riverbed. This heightened trust in technical capabilities often went hand in hand with the display of superiority that particularly the Habsburg and British representatives showed towards their Ottoman and Russian counterparts. However, only at the Iron Gates did Habsburg actors manage to enact something best described as “hydroimperialism,” namely to impose technical power on their Ottoman neighbors. The success of such an endeavor depended on the key figure of the engineer who proved capable of converting political visions into concrete regulation plans, laying the grounds for a durable partnership between technical experts and political decision-makers that would completely change the shape of the river. Vásárhelyi’s relationship to his political benefactor Széchenyi, which was still very much structured on patronage ties, also documented the rise of academically trained engineering experts inside the state bureaucracy. However, the application of scientific principles did not make Vásárhelyi’s project an apolitical or neutral endeavor, but a technical solution carefully tailored after the interests of the Habsburg Monarchy. Another significant change that occurred in these two decades before the Crimean War was that the Lower Danube became the target of expansionist policies coming from non-riparian states which led to intensified conflicts 126

Connecting the Da nube w ith the Sea

between various imperial interests. The Treaty of Adrianople opened up the mouth of the Danube to international traffic, but it failed to implement certain rules of conduct that would mitigate between often aggressive imperialist policies. As a consequence, attempts to ease out the differences were usually bilateral and small-scale. For instance, by forging local and personal relations across the Habsburg-Ottoman border, Széchenyi extricated himself from Vienna’s official foreign policy, successfully bringing the first regulation project at the cataracts to its completion. This way of moving forward shows not only that the technical remaking of the river did not follow an elaborate masterplan, but also that the two empires claiming the Iron Gates were not yet ready to coordinate their actions in a larger cooperation scheme. However, the British commercial presence had far-reaching consequence for the way in which improvement projects moved forward, turning navigation at the mouth of the Danube from a contentious issue among riparian states into one of continental importance. Thus, regulation projects became more closely tied to the politics of the Concert of Europe and the way it handled its relationship with the Russian and Ottoman Empires. Amid the tensions that led up to the Crimean War, it became clear that navigation on the Lower Danube needed a comprehensive settlement that tackled administrative, legal, and engineering problems at once. It seemed that only a European congress at which all powers had a stake in navigation on the Danube could negotiate such an overarching compromise. The Paris Peace Conference of 1856 that settled the Crimean War offered such an opportunity.

127

Ch a p t e r 3

From Confrontation to Cooperation: The Crimean War and Its Aftermath

E

ven before the map of Europe was corrected, English, Spanish, French, American, Sardinian, Tuscan, Sicilian, Vatican, Austrian, Turkish, Greek, Russian, Swedish, Norwegian, Danish, and Prussian flags were flying in a colorful medley together with those of Serbia and Wallachia, and the bull’s head of Mecklenburg amiably greeted the red Moldavian bull.1

In 1856, Karl Hermann Bitter came from Mecklenburg in Prussia to Galatz in Moldavia to take his seat on the European Commission of the Danube (ECD). In his travel memoirs, he often reflected on the commission’s impact on navigation and on European trade relations along the Danube. In his opinion, the work of the commission not only significantly improved shipping traffic between the river and the Black Sea, it also helped to link this “otherwise quiet nook of Europe” with all other ports on the continent.2 As shown in the previous chapter, before the commission was founded, cargo ships from all over Europe were frequently stuck between the Danube and the sea because the only navigable channel through the delta was slowly closing down due to moving sandbanks. Furthermore, the tensions between the Russian Empire, which occupied the delta in 1829, and the Ottoman Empire, which felt threatened by Russian expansion, hampered commercial exchange. Shipping traffic even 1 2

Karl Hermann Bitter, Gesammelte Schriften (Leipzig: Friedrich, 1885), 193. Ibid., 179.

129

Chapter 3

came to a complete standstill when the Crimean War broke out in 1853.3 In the aftermath of the war, though the delta again came under Ottoman rule, an international body was assembled to supervise the Danube outlet. The main task of the new commission was to execute technical works at the mouth of the Danube in order to ensure the best possible navigation conditions in the delta. Or, in Bitter’s words, the commission had no lesser duty than “to correct” the map of Europe by providing a stable shipping connection between the Danube and the Black Sea. The Crimean War was a major turning point in the history of the Lower Danube. Some of the changes concerned Ottoman relations with the European Great Powers; others were connected to the specific geo-political situation along the river. For the first time, the British and French Empires supported the Ottoman army to contain Russian expansion. This unusual coalition had two major consequences. First, the Ottoman Empire became an equal member in the European family of states.4 Second, after the lost war, the Russian Empire was forced to retreat from the Danube’s shores but remained part of the Concert of Europe in order to keep the balance of powers on the continent intact.5 Furthermore, the Habsburg Empire, which had remained neutral during the war, used the conflict as an opportunity to expand its influence beyond its eastern borders. After occupying the Danubian Principalities in 1854, it was able to control navigation on the Lower Danube and deployed this position of strength in the postwar negotiations. However, the peace treaty compelled the monarchy to retreat to its prewar borders, and the Danube below the Iron Gates again came under Ottoman rule.6 Next to these geopolitical adjustments, the Crimean War also represented a significant watershed in the way in which the European Great Powers handled the Lower Danube. Prior to the outbreak of the military conflict, and even during the war, each state had either tried to secure its own 3 4

Sauer, “Österreich und die Sulina-Frage, Zweiter Teil,” 130–32. Fikret Adanir, “Turkey’s Entry to the Concert of Europe,” European Review 13, no. 3 (2005): 408; Cadan Badem, The Ottoman Crimean War, 1853–1856 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 403–12. 5 Schulz, Normen und Praxis, 354. 6 Marija Wakounig, “Dissens versus Konsens: Das Österreichbild in Rußland während der FranzsikoJosephinischen Ära,” in Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, vol. 6, Die Habsburgermonarchie im System der internationalen Beziehungen, ed. Adam Wandruszka and Peter Urbanitsch (Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1993), 447–53.

130

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

interests along the river through bilateral negotiations or seized the opportunity to impose its own policy. The Paris Peace Conference designed a postwar order that aimed to overcome the previous physical, legal, and territorial fragmentation of the Danube for the first time. The peace treaty was the first document to uphold the principle of free navigation on the entire navigable Danube, to which all seven Great Powers committed. In order to implement this goal, the signing parties created two commissions that would dismantle the existing impediments to navigation. One commission was to reunite the riparian states and establish a unitary regulation favorable to trade and any other kind of exchange, while the second, to which all the Great Powers sent a representative, primarily had a technical goal, namely to reverse the silting at the mouth of the Danube.7 In addition, major engineering projects like the one at the Iron Gates became a matter of European public law, and progress was to be carefully monitored by the Concert of Europe. Thus, seen from the vantage point of the Lower Danube, the Crimean War set in motion not only fighting battalions but also an army of engineers and diplomats whose mission was to improve the connectivity of the river. Already at the start of the war, engineers and cartographers started to assess such difficult spots as the Iron Gates and the delta. The main difference between the two sites lay in the fact that the former was exclusively a Habsburg concern, while the mouth of the Danube was subject to explorative journeys by the British, French, and Habsburg empires, each independently. After the war, the European Great Powers elevated the regulation of the mouth of the Danube to an absolute priority, while the regulation of the Iron Gates was left to be handled by the riparian states. However, the riparian states focused first on establishing unitary status for the Danube and postponed any decision regarding the cataracts. Thus, after the intense exploration conducted during the war, only the regulation of the delta went forward. Nevertheless, the stipulations of the Paris Peace Treaty impacted on the Lower Danube as a whole, even if it shaped the river’s legal and engineering transformation differently.

7

“General Treaty of Peace between Great Britain, Austria, France, Prussia, Russia, Sardinia, and Turkey: Signed at Paris, 30th March, 1856,” in The Great European Treaties of the Nineteenth Century, ed. Augustus Oakes (London: Oxford University Press, 1930), 179–80.

131

Chapter 3

War as an Opportunity at the Iron Gates The Crimean War brought increased human presence at the Iron Gates. Although the Austrian Empire remained neutral in this military confrontation, its army occupied the Danubian Principalities in 1854. While the main bulk of troops was stationed further down the Danube in the proximity of the delta to ensure the neutrality of the river in the conflict zone, the newly organized Pioneer and Flotilla Corps on the Danube (Pionierund Flotillencorps an der Donau) was sent to inspect the Iron Gates. Thus, the new war in the Orient gave Austrian authorities an unexpected opportunity to explore and intervene on Ottoman territory. Previous attempts to survey the Iron Gates had failed because the Ottoman government had been reluctant to allow the Austrians to even measure the depth of the rapids. After the outbreak of war, the Habsburg authorities realized that they had the possibility to intervene at the Iron Gates without the approval of the neighboring state. During the years of conflict between 1854 and 1856, human activity at the Iron Gates was very intense. In addition to the pioneer corps, the ministry of trade sent several engineers to explore, measure, and evaluate the cataracts. Furthermore, the local representatives of the First Danube Steamboat Shipping Company (DDSG) assisted the civilian and military experts with local knowledge and offered their experience in steering ships over the waterfalls. The result of this concerted offensive into Ottoman territory was threefold: the engineering experts gathered new and more accurate topographic information; they continued to remove rocks that pierced the water; and finally, they elaborated new technical plans aimed at removing the blockage in the Danube once and for all. The Iron Gates would see exceptional interaction in which civilian and military experts worked alongside representatives of the DDSG, exchanging information in perfect harmony. Although this opportunity came, to a certain extent, unexpectedly, intervention was more carefully planned than Vásárhelyi’s operations in the 1830s. A thorough and accurate exploration of the underwater topography was a precondition for all future engineering work. Thus, in October 1854, under the supervision of engineer Josef Meusburger of the ministry of trade, the pioneer corps once more measured the profiles of the cataracts and pro-

132

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

duced a new and more detailed map of the riverbed in the border area.8 These new findings made Vásárhelyi’s underwater surveys obsolete. The immediate purpose of this new exploration was to gather accurate information in order to more carefully choose future spots for detonation. Implicitly, this was also a criticism of the previous blasting campaigns that had been more or less random, covering wide surfaces. Analyzing the last twenty years of almost haphazard detonations, Meusburger and his team realized that blasting away rocks from the riverbed had not always improved navigation conditions. Thus, his main goal was to identify those rocks clusters that when removed would ease navigation. Meusburger’s reports testify to the difficult conditions in which the pioneers conducted their work. In order not to interfere with the shipping traffic, they could only enter the cataracts when navigation paused during the winter months. In addition, the pioneers could only inspect the underwater reefs when the water level was low. Thus, the best time to pursue their operations was from late autumn until January, when the water of the Danube started to freeze. From January onwards, work halted until the following November. But even in this favorable season, work was frequently interrupted and even postponed, for instance by heavy rainfall.9 Engineer Meusburger reported in January 1856 to the ministry of trade that on December 22, the water level had risen from six inches below zero at Orsova to four feet above zero, meaning that the water level was too high to continue further exploration. In addition, he remarked that it was steadily getting colder.10 As a result, by the end of the war in 1856, the pioneer corps led by engineer Meusburger had gathered many useful details but had not been able to produce a complete topographic map of the Iron Gates. When planning new regulation projects, future engineers would rely on this information though never fail to mention its incompleteness. The second line of activity, also led by Meusburger, focused on removing several stone blockages. Because time was short, he organized the blastAnton von Mollinary, Sechsundvierzig Jahre im österreich-ungarischen Heere, 1833–1879 (Zürich: Orell Füssli, 1905), 230. 9 Meusburger to the Ministry of Trade, Orsova, December 12, 1855, in Actenstücke zur Regulirung der Stromschnellen der Donau zwischen Moldova und Turn-Severin (Vienna: Verlag des Donau-Vereines, 1880), 42. 10 Meusburger to the Ministry of Trade, Orsova, January 2, 1856, AT-OeStA, Allgemeines Verwaltungsarchiv (hereafter AVA) Handel HM Präs A 862. 8

133

Chapter 3

ing alongside the exploration activity. The moment he had identified specific spots to be removed, work proceeded. During all these sessions, both exploring and blasting, he was assisted by DDSG ship captain Alphons Dinelli, who had navigated the Iron Gates multiple times.11 In February 1856, assistant engineer Rinaldi reported to the ministry of trade that several blasting operations had been successful. At the same time, he emphasized how dangerous this mission had been. Members of the military assigned to place the mines under the rocks had risked their lives in the roaring current. Their unfailing spirit of courage had ensured the success of the entire operation. To the many skeptics who doubted that the fuses would ignite underwater, or that the detonations would remove a significant amount of stone, Rinaldi responded with the stunning results of the operations so far and was even more confident about the outcome of future blasting. Only six packs of dynamite had already removed over twenty cubic fathoms (Kubik Klafter) of rock mass.12 Austrian civil engineer Gustav Wex pursued a different mission at the Iron Gates from those of his colleagues. On December 26, 1854, he set foot in Orsova for the first time, a moment which would mark the beginning of a decade-long involvement in the regulation of the cataracts. His assignment was not to plan more blasting but to envision a more comprehensive solution to boost shipping traffic on the Danube, following in the footsteps of his predecessor, Vásárhelyi, who had already proposed the construction of an artificial canal close to the Serbian riverbank. From the outset, Wex was skeptical that further blasting would automatically improve navigation conditions. In his opinion, removing a large quantity of underground rock could have damaging effects on steam navigation because it might either steepen the slope or increase the speed of the water. Thus, the main engineering concerns were to even out the height differences along the waterway and soften the water velocity. In this vein, he recommended the construction of a canal completely separated from the riverbed. In his report to the ministry of trade, finished in January 1855, Wex proposed two alternative routes. The first was a longer canal alongside the left riverbank on Wallachian territory, separated from the river by high stone dams. Because the entire left bank was rocky, he esti11 Ibid., 39–41. 12 Rinaldi to the Ministry of Trade, Eisernes Thor, February 17, 1856, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HM Präs A 862.

134

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

mated the duration of the work, if no machines were used, at around eight years. The costs would be accordingly high, estimated at about 2.47 million florins. The alternative, a considerably easier and cheaper project, would be to build the canal on the Serbian right bank. He calculated that the completion of this canal would take five years and cost only 1.8 million florins.13 At first glance, it seemed odd that he would propose these two alternatives when the latter was so much easier and cheaper to build. However, though not explicitly stated, Wex probably understood that while his recommendation assessed the problems from a technical point of view, the decision-makers in the Viennese ministries would also take other factors into account when choosing a regulation project. Building a canal so close to the border and further on into foreign territory meant that military considerations were as important as technical feasibility. From a strategic point of view, the choice between Wallachia and Serbia as foreign partner in the canal project could have diverse consequences. Thus, it was no surprise that the ministry of war took part in all further consultations concerning the regulation of the Iron Gates, becoming directly involved in the decision-making process. Because of these broader implications for the canal project, whether financial or military, Wex knew that he could not take the decision alone but only advocate for his preferred choice. Since these engineering solutions were designed while the central Ottoman authorities were occupied with the Crimean War, Habsburg engineers were free to discuss the projects directly with local authorities. As they clearly favored the project on the right riverbank, Meusburger and Wex asked Serbian officials for a meeting. On December 31, 1854, accompanied by the Austrian major general of the Banat army corps, Gabriel Baron von Buday, the two engineers asked the Serbian governor of the county of Krainska— based on his local experience—for his opinion concerning the route of the proposed canal. He agreed that a canal on the Serbian riverbank would be easier to build, adding that the local authorities would help in any way they could by providing workers and construction material. He also assured the Austrian delegation that the Serbian prince himself supported the canal 13 Gustav Wex, “Der Donaustrom als Hauptverkehrsstrasse—nach dem Orient nach erfolgter Beseitigung der Schifffahrtshindernisse am Eisernen Thore und an den sieben Stromschnellen oberhalb Orsova,” ­Österreichische Revue 4 (1863): 88–89.

135

Chapter 3

project.14 Upon returning to Vienna in January 1855, Wex sent his plans to the chief inspector of the DDSG, J. A. Masjon, who agreed that a canal on the Serbian shore would be the better option.15 After the end of the war in March 1856, the situation returned to the status quo ante, meaning that the Habsburg army retreated behind the last cataract at the Iron Gates and the Ottoman authorities again became the main negotiating partner in connection with future regulation. In practice, this also meant that the pioneer corps ceased any further activity in the border region.16 There was uncertainty regarding how the international political situation at the Lower Danube would evolve after the ceasefire. Therefore, the Austrian minister of the interior, Josef Lasser von Zollheim, ordered that all maps and engineering projects resulting from the recent explorations must be locked in a safe place in anticipation of a more suitable moment to begin new negotiations with the Ottoman neighbor.17 In sum, the activities during the Crimean War produced valuable information that would affect the course of further negotiations but did not significantly improve navigation conditions over the rapids. This episode in the long history of the regulation of the Iron Gates shows that military conflicts increased the output of cartographic and engineering knowledge. The specific nature of this moment was that various types of activity were implemented at the same time, in perfect harmony. Civilian and military experts complemented each other, and the local experience of the DDSG comprised an essential part of this output. The most obvious reason for the alignment of interests was the unexpected opportunity generated by the war to explore the territory across the border. Because none of the experts working at the cataracts knew how long this opportunity would last, they were all inclined to work together and share their skills. Moreover, the frictionless cooperation between the ministry of trade and the ministry of war, which both regarded the conflict as a unique opportunity to intervene unhindered on Ottoman territory, helped to foster mutual understanding on the ground. However, the prime reason for this synergy among various 14 Wex to the Ministry of Trade, Orsova, January 8, 1855, in Actenstücke, 34–35. 15 Ibid., 38. 16 Mollinary, Sechsundvierzig Jahre, 231. 17 Florian Ritter von Pasetti, Notizen über die Donauregulierung im österreichischen Kaiserstaate bis zu Ende des Jahres 1861 (Vienna: Staatsdruckerei, 1862), 38–39.

136

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

professionals was that all performed groundwork at the cataracts in order to assess the amount of work still ahead of them. The various types of operation were able to progress simultaneously without focusing on a single goal. Thus, all the involved actors knew that they would profit from each other’s work. Everybody relied on the water measurements taken by the pioneer corps. For their part, the pioneers needed the mathematical precision of the trained engineers to deliver accurate measurements. The DDSG was satisfied with the resumption of the blasting operations because its board members considered this type of intervention the most effective in improving the shipping passage. This moment of harmony among Habsburg officials and specialists would remain an exception. Over the next few decades, military experts, civilian engineers, the DDSG as a private company, and the government would often disagree on the best course of action at the Iron Gates. In addition, negotiations with Ottoman partners would complicate things further. But a truly new aspect after the Crimean War was that the regulation of the Iron Gates became a matter of international law. Article 17 of the Treaty of Paris, which ended the conflict in March 1856, gave the future Riverine Commission the task of removing the physical obstructions on the river up to the delta.18 In its Navigation Act of 1857, the Riverine Commission ordered a thorough exploration of the river to prepare for further regulation projects, mentioning the Iron Gates explicitly in article 37.19 Until the Crimean War, the Habsburg Monarchy had been the only state to take an active interest in the regulation of the rapids. In the meantime, the fame of this monumental blockage on the mighty Danube had grown with every new tourist on board a DDSG ship on the Lower Danube. Also, after gaining a foothold in the delta, representatives of the non-riparian Great Powers ventured further upstream, extending their influence to the Iron Gates. In September 1857, the newly created European Commission of the Danube (ECD), charged with the regulation of the Danube Delta, sent a delegation to study the cataracts. The encounter between the French, Prussian, and Russian commissioners of the ECD, who were accompanied by Prussian engineer Eduard Nobiling and the Habsburg border authori18 “General Treaty of Peace, 30th March, 1856,” 179. 19 “Donauschifffahrtsakte,” in Verhandlungen der Württembergischen Kammer der Abgeordneten in den Jahren 1856 bis 1858 (Stuttgart: Metzler’schen Buchdruckerei, 1858), 822.

137

Chapter 3

ties, revealed how highly sensitive this spot was in the monarchy’s defense system. The Habsburg commissioner was conspicuously missing from the delegation. Shortly after the delegates arrived, they asked Martin von Cassian, a secretary of the DDSG stationed in Orsova, to provide them with maps and plans of the area. Cassian politely denied their request. Moreover, the field marshal stationed at the Habsburg-Ottoman border, Johann Coronini-Cronberg, received orders from the ministry of foreign affairs that the guests should be treated politely and according to their status but under no circumstances be allowed to carry out any technical inspection on Austrian territory.20 In other words, the Habsburg state was determined to improve navigation conditions over the cataracts, but only if its own experts carried out the project. This incident highlights the limits of professional collaboration and knowledge exchange among the European empires. Two factors motivated the Habsburg authorities’ refusal to let the international expert group inspect the Iron Gates. First, the Habsburg government was highly confident that it would be able to remove this blockage without technical assistance from another state. In other words, mastering the situation at the Iron Gates was a matter of national pride. Second, the Habsburg authorities refused to allow an examination of the border region for security reasons. The Iron Gates was an essential element in the defense concept of the monarchy, hence foreign surveyors were unwelcome. Furthermore, the changing geopolitical situation at the mouth of the Danube and the creation of the ECD affected the way in which the Habsburg government handled access to the Iron Gates passage. Thus, the initial Habsburg reaction was to limit the commission’s influence, keeping the non-riparian states away from its borders. This attitude would also decide the fate of the Riverine Commission. The Danube Delta During the Crimean War In October 1854, when Austrian troops occupied the Danubian Principalities, the main goal of military involvement was to restore commercial traffic on the river and protect Austrian commercial interests along the entire course

20 Toggenburg to Buol Schauenstein, Vienna, October 8, 1857, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-50.

138

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

of the Danube.21 Thus, the new Austrian commander of Sulina, Major von Dervent, made the clearing of the passage his top priority. He even claimed to the captain of the battleship Taurus, Wilhelm von Tegetthoff, that he would remove the sand at the bar within only 120 working hours.22 In letters to his father, Tegetthoff described the attempts made by Dervent and his soldiers. After discovering that the previous Ottoman administration of the delta had used a harrow to remove the sand and mud at the bar, he built a similar device that he let sweep over the mouth. But with no rapid improvement in sight, Dervent even ordered his men to blow up the sand in a desperate attempt to meet his target.23 In other words, the first Austrian attempts to clear the Sulina channel replicated the fruitless experiments conducted by the Russian administration. Although the Austrians intervened actively, navigation at Sulina failed to improve. The ensuing surveys led by Austrian military engineers and geographers represented more comprehensive attempts to gain valuable information on the topographic conditions of the Danube Delta and its surroundings. One such mission, led in 1855 by Colonel von Ghilain of the Pioneer and Flotilla Corps, focused on the St. George arm of the delta.24 A different type of mapping activity was performed in 1855 by the Engineer and Geographers Corps, namely the triangulation of the territory of Wallachia and the Ottoman province of Dobrudja. The results of the triangulation were used to create a detailed map of the area, linking this information to the already existing maps of the Habsburg provinces of Banat and Transylvania.25 The Austrian government was also the first to commission a project to assess the engineering works needed to clear the bar at Sulina. In 1856, shortly before the end of the Crimean War, engineer Gustav Wex of the imperial office of public works in Vienna completed his report. He suggested further dredging at the bar, the consolidation of the river banks, and building a pier from the bar 21 Boul to Bruck, in Baumgart, Akten, 507–8; Sauer, “Österreich und die Sulina-Frage, Zweiter Teil,” 131–33. 22 Adolf Beer, Aus Wilhelm von Tegetthoff’s Nachlass (Vienna: Carl Gerold’s Sohn, 1882), 122. 23 Ibid, 123 and 127. 24 Mollinary, Sechsundvierzig Jahre, 232. 25 Alfons Grafen Wimpffen, Erinnerungen aus der Walachei während der Besetzung durch die österreichischen Truppen in den Jahren 1854–1856 (Vienna: Carl Gerold’s Sohn, 1878), 207–8; Béla Kovács and Gábor Timár, “The Austro-Hungarian Triangulations in the Balkan Peninsula (1855–1875),” in Cartography in Central and Eastern Europe, ed. Georg Gartner and Felix Ortag (Berlin and Heidelberg: Springer-Verlag, 2010), 535–44.

139

Chapter 3

Figure 8. A published copy of Spratt’s delta map from 1865. Source: “Das Donau-Delta: reducirt auf ⅓ des Längenmaßstabs nach der von der Britischen Marine unter Capt. T. Spratt 1856-57 aufgenommenen und 1865 berichtigten Karte (Delta of the Danube).” Deutsche Digitale Bibliothek.

into the sea. However, he saw the regulation of the St. George arm as the more promising undertaking because it was the widest of the three branches and carried the most water.26 Although the course of the Danube was under Austrian military occupation, the country’s neutral status in the Crimean War allowed French and British experts to conduct their own exploratory missions on the Lower Danube. A French group of civil engineers led by Léon Lalanne conducted a survey of the area between Cernavoda on the river and Kustendje on the Black Sea. After the French rejected the idea of a canal linking the two waterways due to the huge cost, they built the first road linking the two settle-

26 Gustav Wex, “Darstellung der physischen Schifffahrtshindernisse an der Ausmündung des Donaustromes in’s schwarze Meer und Mittel zur Beseitigung derselben,” Zeitschrift des Österreichischen Ingenieur-Vereines 9, nos. 11–12 (1857): 223–40.

140

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

ments.27 In addition, British ship captain and cartographer Thomas Spratt surveyed the entire area affected by the Crimean War, producing very detailed maps of the Danube Delta and the stretch of the prospective canal in Dobrudja (see figure 8).28 After the ceasefire, the map of the delta figured prominently in the deliberations of the ECD, representing not only the most accurate and detailed map of the area, but also the state-of-the-art in map-making in general. Similarly to the situation at the Iron Gates, war favored scientific surveys and expeditions at the confluence of the Danube and the Black Sea. It gave the Austrian, English, and French governments the opportunity to intervene directly on the Lower Danube. Surveys and measurements were conducted by each state separately. The scientists were aware that colleagues from other states were also touring the area, but the uncertainty of war hindered them from exchanging information. Only after the conflict ended did the 1856 Treaty of Paris offer a common framework in which to explore new forms of cooperation, to trade knowledge, and even to conduct joint engineering projects. However, the international order that emerged after the war came with its own limitations regarding cooperation across empires. The Failed Riverine Commission In order to understand how river commissions transformed the Danube, one must look at the Rhine as the first European river to see institutionalized cooperation among riparian states. The 1815 Treaty of Vienna was the first international peace treaty to codify the principle of “freedom of navigation” on international waterways. In order to ensure this principle, riparian states would create, by common consent, joint commissions to codify certain rules of conduct on these rivers. For instance, they would establish regulations for policing the river and settle a common tariff to be valid for

27 Camille Allard, Souvenirs d’Orient: La Bulgarie orientale (Paris: Adrien Le Clere et Cie, 1864), 14–15; Alexandre Kostov, “Les Ponts et Chaussées français et les pays balkaniques pendant la seconde moitié du XIXe et au début du XXe Siècle: Les Cas de la Roumanie, de la Serbie et de la Bulgarie,” Quaderns d’ història de l’enginyeria 10 (2009): 367–81; Iordachi, “Global Networks, Regional Hegemony, and Seaport Modernization at the Lower Danube,” 157. 28 Constantinescu, “Various Approaches,” 155–81.

141

Chapter 3

its entire course.29 The main reason for setting these rules was to encourage commerce among riparian and non-riparian states alike. The European Great Powers realized that major waterways, the preferred means of transportation at the time, were economically far too important to allow riparian states to hinder international navigation. This was the reason why rivers crossing more than one country were declared “entirely free, and shall not, in respect to commerce, be prohibited to anyone.” The unitary character of the regulations should be “as favorable as possible to the commerce of all nations.”30 Furthermore, except for a unitary tariff, shipping traffic on any such river should not be burdened with additional duties.31 With the goal of facilitating international trade and travel, the states bordering transboundary rivers should commit themselves to keeping their towpaths in good order and remove any physical obstacles on the riverbed that may hinder navigation. This was the very first peace treaty to address physical obstructions on international rivers as an issue of continental importance and not only of concern to the states on whose territory the obstacles were located. These stipulations, comprising articles 109 to 116 of the Final Act of the Congress of Vienna, were kept very general without reference to any particular river. Only the subsequent article, 117, mentioned the need for unitary navigation regulations for the Rhine specifically.32 In the aftermath of the Vienna congress, the seven riparian states created the Central Commission for the Navigation of the Rhine whose main task was to draft a common convention for navigation on this river. Their deliberations resulted in the Treaty of Mainz (Mainzer Akte) of 1831 and its later revised version, the Treaty of Mannheim (Mannheimer Akte) of 1868.33 The first article of the convention recognized the principle of free navigation, meaning that navigation on the navigable Rhine “from Basel to the open sea either down or upstream shall be free to the vessels of all nations

29 “General Treaty Between Great Britain, Austria, France, Portugal, Prussia, Russia, Spain, and Sweden: Signed at Vienna, 9th June, 1815,” in The Great European Treaties of the Nineteenth Century, ed. Augustus Oakes (London: Oxford University Press, 1930), 89–99. 30 Ibid., 89. 31 Ibid., 89. 32 Ibid., 99. 33 Revised Convention for Rhine Navigation of October 17, 1868, http://www.ccr-zkr.org/files/conventions/convrev_e.pdf (accessed March 20, 2017).

142

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

for the transport of merchandise and persons.”34 However, further articles distinguished between “vessels belonging to the Rhine navigation,” meaning between those vessels under the flag of a riverine state, and those who belonged to non-riverine states. This distinction was important because only ships of riverine states were authorized to sail between two ports on the river, while ships under the flag of a non-riverine state were to travel only between a port on the Rhine and the open sea. In other words, navigation between two Rhine ports, termed “inland navigation,” was the exclusive right of the riparian states, setting a clear limitation on how the commission defined “freedom of navigation.” Ships belonging to non-riparian states were free to navigate the Rhine only if they came from or were heading to the sea.35 The freedom of navigation on the entire navigable Danube was first mentioned in 1856 at the Paris Peace Conference which settled the Crimean War. As a means to improve international traffic on the Danube, the seven European Great Powers decided to institute two river commissions which had different, though complementary, tasks. The first commission was the European Commission of the Danube (ECD), to which the Habsburg Monarchy, the Kingdom of Sardinia, the French, Prussian, Russian, British, and Ottoman Empires all sent a representative. Its jurisdiction started below Isaccea, where the Danube entered the delta, and from there down to the Black Sea.36 Its main task was to supervise regulation works at the mouth of the Danube in order to improve the navigability of the passage between the river and the sea. The mandate of the ECD was sanctioned by economic reasoning, underlining the importance of the Danube Delta for international trade relations. At first, the existence of the ECD was limited to a two-year period, by when the regulation project was to be completed. After that, having no further responsibilities, it would cease to exist. Unlike the Central Commission for Navigation on the Rhine, or the analogous commissions on the Weser and Elbe rivers, the members of the ECD did not exclusively come from states bordering the waterway.37 The 34 35 36 37

Ibid., 2. Ibid., 2. “General Treaty Peace, Paris, 30th March, 1856,” 1257–58. Spaulding, “Revolutionary France and the Transformation of the Rhine,” 218–21; Verhandlungen der Elbe-Stromschau-Commission der betreffenden Uferstaaten über die Schiffbarkeit der Elbe und deren Verbesserung (Hamburg: Langhoff’sche Buchdrukerei, 1850); Christian Friedrich Wurm, Fünf Briefe über die Freiheit der Flußschiffahrt und über die Donau-Akte vom 7. Nov. 1857 (Leipzig: Gustav Mayer, 1858), 20.

143

Chapter 3

ECD was the result of intervention by the Great Powers which exploited the weakness of the Ottoman and Russian Empires to impose an international regime in the Danube Delta. To strengthen cooperation among the riverine states themselves for the benefit of everybody using the river, a second commission was founded called the Riparian Danube Commission (La Commission Riverain) in which Württemberg, Bavaria, the Austrian and the Ottoman Empires received a seat, while Serbia, Wallachia, and Moldavia (states still under Ottoman suzerainty) each sent an observer.38 Its main task was to prepare regulations for navigation and to form a river police that would ensure a fluid shipping traffic. This second commission, commonly known as the Riverine Commission, was to be permanent and was to take over the administration of the delta from the ECD after the completion of the technical works. It would thus preside over the entire navigable Danube from Ulm in Württemberg to Sulina on the Black Sea.39 In other words, only the riverine states (independent or semi-independent states) were to elaborate a unitary regulation for the entire course of the Danube, though for the time being the Danube Delta was placed under the special regime of the Concert of Europe. The seven commissioners of the Riverine Commission met for the first time at the end of 1856 in Vienna to begin drafting guidelines for navigation. About one year later, on November 7, 1857, the final text of the Danube Navigation Act (Donauschifffahrtsakte) was made public. Its first article proclaimed navigation on the Danube along its entire navigable course up to the Black Sea as entirely free (völlig frei), restricted only by the stipulations of the Navigation Act and the regulations concerning the river police.40 However, the Navigation Act imposed several limitations on the proclaimed absolute “freedom of navigation.” A first important limitation referred to the distinction between navigation restricted to the river itself (or inland navigation) and travel between Danubian ports and the open sea. As was the case on the

38 Die Donauschiffahrts-Frage in ihrer Entwicklung von dem Wiener Congresse bis zum Abschluß der Donauschiffahrts-Acte vom 7. November 1857 dargestellt in einer Sammlung der betreffenden völkerrechtlichen Acte (Stuttgart: J. B. Wetzler’schen Buchhandlung, 1858), 24–26. 39 “General Treaty of Peace, 30th March, 1856,” 179–80. 40 “Donauschifffahrtsakte,” 817.

144

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

Rhine, article 8 defined inland navigation between two Danube ports as the exclusive right of the riverine states.41 A second restriction regarded customs duties. In a memorandum written by Austrian commissioner Franz Serafin von Blumberg to his fellow colleagues, he spoke out against the removal of customs duties on the Danube.42 He referred to free ports as a necessary fiscal instrument to boost sea trade but as an unsuitable status for river ports. And while agreeing that dismantling tolls and tariffs was beneficial for the development of trade in general, he emphasized the importance of the revenue generated by the Habsburg customs facilities on the Danube, mentioning that in 1856 it had amounted to 107 million gulden. Thus, taking the Rhine as an example, where there were fifteen customs offices upstream and eighteen downstream, he urged for customs duties to be maintained in such a way that they would not hinder the free flow of shipping.43 In his opinion, article 12 of the Navigation Act interpreted the principle of “freedom of navigation” to mean that customs duties in each riverine state should be simplified and unified as much as possible in order not to hamper navigation.44 Finally, article 34 acknowledged the special status of the delta under the jurisdiction of the ECD. As long as the ECD existed, it would supervise navigation in the delta. After its mandate ended, the Navigation Act would also become valid on this last stretch of the Danube.45 In sum, the Navigation Act was a very ambivalent document. On the one hand, it established a unitary set of rules that aimed at increasing international traffic on the Danube. On the other, it bestowed special rights on the riverine states, such as inland navigation and customs duties. In November 1857, when the commissioners were about to sign the Navigation Act, a conflict broke out that had been simmering for a while. The contentious issue was whether the three Danubian semi-independent 41 Ibid., 818; see also Emil Palotás, “The Problems of International Navigation on the Danube in AustroHungarian Politics During the Second Half of the Nineteenth Century,” in Southeast European Maritime Commerce and Naval Policies from the Mid-Eighteenth Century to 1914, ed. Apostolos E. Vacalopoulos, Constantinos D. Svolopoulos, and Béla K. Király (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 102. 42 Votum des österreichischen Abgeordneten über die Frage des Zollverfahrens, Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz (hereafter GStA), III. Hauptabteilung (hereafter HA), Ministrium des Äußeren (hereafter MdÄ) II, Nr. 5740, 201–13. 43 Ibid., 207. 44 Ibid., 820. 45 Ibid., 821.

145

Chapter 3

states (Serbia, Wallachia, and Moldavia) were entitled to sign the document. The Ottoman representative, Garabed Artin Davoud-Oghlou, insisted on one signature for the entire Ottoman Empire. However, the three principalities asked for the right to sign the Navigation Act. Austrian representative Blumfeld, as president of the commission, tried to mediate between the conflicted parties, only to realize that this issue exceeded the competence of his mandate.46 His superior, Georg von Toggenburg, the Austrian minister of trade, summarized the incident and its legal consequences as follows: the three principalities had asked the commission to provide them with an official copy of the Navigation Act because they considered themselves entitled to sign the document and even present it to their governments for approval. The Ottoman side claimed that because the three states were still formally under Ottoman rule, they did not have this right which belonged exclusively to the Ottoman government. Toggenburg conceded that the relationship between the Porte and the principalities left room for interpretation, but warned the commission not to get involved in territorial disputes of the Ottoman Empire. Thus, he recommended that the commission should issue only four official copies of the Navigation Act, instead of seven, to be ratified by the governments of the four sovereign states. Therefore, the Ottoman government should sign the act for the entire Ottoman state including the principalities.47 The territorial dispute was thus settled to the detriment of the principalities and the Navigation Act was officially signed only by the representatives of Württemberg, Bavaria, the Habsburg and the Ottoman Empires. Nevertheless, the three principalities would keep asking for full representation on the Riverine Commission, a status which they would finally achieve in 1878 at the Congress of Berlin as part of the independent states of Romania and Serbia. Even if the three provinces had failed to impose their demands, an honorary membership in the commission still enabled them to assert their interests before the Great Powers. In this vein, international organizations gave less powerful actors a voice in the international arena. After this power game within the commission was settled, a second, more serious, conflict broke out between the riverine and the non-riverine states. During the summer of 1858, the plenipotentiaries of the pow46 Blumfeld to Rosetti, Vienna, March 3, 1858, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-51. 47 Toggenburg to Boul Schauenstein, Vienna, September 2, 1857, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-50.

146

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

ers involved in the Treaty of Paris, namely Britain, France, Prussia, Russia, Austria, Sardinia, and the Ottoman Empire, met again in Paris to monitor the peace process. At the meeting on August 9, 1858, the French ambassador asked his Austrian and Ottoman colleagues if they could present to the plenum the work of the Riverine Commission. Baron Alexander von Hübner, seconded by Mehmed Fuad Pasha, specified that unlike the work of the European Commission of the Danube, the deliberations of the Riverine Commission were not subject to the approval of the Great Powers. However, his government had authorized him to show his colleagues the final version of the Navigation Act. The French, British, Prussian, and Sardinian representatives, in their turn, insisted that they wanted to read the document before expressing their opinion.48 The discussion was resumed at the next meeting on August 16, 1858. After examining the Danube Navigation Act, British ambassador Lord Cowley conveyed several concerns expressed by his government regarding the way the principle of “freedom of navigation” was treated in the document. His main criticism referred to the fact that the Navigation Act defined inland navigation as an exclusive right of the riverine states. He further criticized that the document did not make any reference to the Final Act of the conference of Vienna that had first codified the principle of free navigation on international rivers.49 In his interpretation, this principle meant that all ships irrespective of their flag should have unrestricted access to the entire Danube and its infrastructure. Thus, he considered any exclusive right of the riverine states an infringement of European public law, requesting that such provisions be struck from the document. The representatives of France, Prussia, Russia, and Sardinia seconded his opinion.50 In reply, Baron Hübner defended the position taken by the commission and rejected Cowley’s arguments one after another. First, he pointed out that the very first article of the Navigation Act endorsed the principle of free navigation on the entire navigable Danube. However, to interpret the freedom of navigation in absolute terms was not common legal practice. Baron Hübner referred to the Treaty of Mainz signed by the Rhine Commission, 48 Conférence intergouvernementale de Paris, Séance du 9 aout 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5739, 22. 49 Ibid., 26. 50 Ibid., 27.

147

Chapter 3

which also declared inland river navigation an exclusive right of the riverine states. Still, nobody had ever accused the Rhine Commission of not complying with the Final Act of Vienna. More broadly, he concluded that article 109 of the Final Act could be interpreted in various ways. The Riverine Commission had interpreted this article to mean that inland navigation was an exclusive right of the riverine states, while navigation from the river to the Black Sea was free to all states. In this sense, the Navigation Act also complied with the Treaty of Paris of 1856 which made the same distinction between the mouth of the Danube, where all states had equal navigation rights, and the rest of the navigable river, where the riparian states retained certain exclusive rights.51 Nevertheless, because all other European ambassadors, except for the Ottoman envoy, protested against this interpretation, Baron Hübner relented and sent his government the commission’s objections, awaiting new instructions.52 Meanwhile, the Ottoman ambassador gave in to the pressure of the Great Powers. Although he shared Austria’s standpoint, he agreed to advise his government not to ratify the Danube Navigation Act until all the states represented in the Treaty of Paris had reached a common interpretation.53 It was not the first time that British and Austrian representatives disagreed on this issue. In January 1858, prior to the Paris meeting, Lord Clarendon, the British secretary of foreign affairs, had discussed the authority of the Riverine Commission with Rudolf Count Apponyi, the Austrian ambassador in London.54 Clarendon put forward several arguments against the Austrian position which maintained that the powers involved in the Treaty of Paris had no right to interfere with the work of the commission. In his opinion, the Riverine Commission only had the right to prepare regulations concerning navigation on the river. All the other contracting powers represented at the Paris Peace Congress had to sanction the regulations in order for them to become valid. This procedure made sense for an international commission that derived its existence from the congress alone. Furthermore, the Danube was different from other international rivers because it “required the intervention of the Congress to throw open the 51 52 53 54

Ibid., 31–33. Ibid., 34. Ibid., 36. Clarendon to Seymour, London, December 30, 1857, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5737, 159–66.

148

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

navigation.”55 It was the British assumption that without access to the open sea, the exclusive right to inland navigation was of little value to the riverine states. Finally, Lord Clarendon criticized the “unnecessary and unexplained mystery” surrounding the activity of the Riverine Commission.56 After the Paris meeting, the Prussian ministry of foreign affairs issued a memorandum on the Danube Navigation Act, specifying how the principle of freedom of navigation had been defined and applied with regard to the Lower Danube since the Congress of Vienna.57 It reached the conclusion that, in regard to the principle of freedom of navigation, the Danube Navigation Act was more restrictive than previous international agreements. In the decades prior to the Crimean War, Ottoman authorities had allowed foreign ships to participate in inland water transport. As such, Prussian ships had traveled freely from one Ottoman Danube port to another, not only between Ottoman ports and the open sea.58 The Prussian government was therefore relieved when the Ottoman government decided to put the ratification process on hold. The fact that the Austrian government had already ratified the Navigation Act had no practical consequences for navigation on the Lower Danube, because only Austrian vessels ventured through the Iron Gates into Austrian territory.59 In other words, the Prussian government accepted this pragmatic arrangement even if it did not settle the conflict. As long as the Ottoman Empire dissociated itself from the Navigation Act and agreed to share equal navigation rights with all the European powers, the Prussian government declined to challenge the validity of the agreement. This further meant that the Navigation Act did not annul the treaties which the Ottoman Empire had signed with the European powers prior to the creation of the Riverine Commission; the status quo in place before the Crimean War remained in force. With regard to the Danube, Prussia’s greatest fear was that once the European powers gave up joint jurisdiction over the delta, Austria would exploit Ottoman military and economic weakness to transform the Danube into an Austrian river.60 55 Ibid., 162. 56 Ibid., 164. 57 Denkschrift betreffend der Donauschiffahrts-Akte vom 7. November, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5739, 93–202. 58 Ibid., 198. 59 Ibid., 200. 60 Bitter to Manteuffel, Galatz, November 14, 1857, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5716, n.p.

149

Chapter 3

While waiting for the Austrian response to their objections, the nonriparian Great Powers were also satisfied with this arrangement. In correspondence with the Prussian ambassador in Turin, Joseph de Saint-SimonVallade, the Sardinian prime minister, Camillo Benso, Count of Cavour, expressed his conviction that the Ottoman government would never ratify the Navigation Act in its present form because of its gratitude to the European powers for their military aid during the Crimean War and for the technical support received in making the mouth of the Danube navigable. Furthermore, Cavour was confident that the latter reason would also encourage Austria to change its mind, because no other country had profited more from the joint efforts of the European powers to improve the navigability of the river at the mouth of the Danube.61 In sum, the Ottoman representatives yielded to the pressure of the non-riverine Great Powers while Austria defended its position against the coalition. Yet, to characterize the Ottoman attitude toward the Great Powers as compliant, or the Habsburg attitude as dismissive, would oversimplify the complicated and constantly shifting relations among the signing parties of the Paris Peace Treaty. After the Treaty of Paris pushed Russia’s imperial borders away from the Danube shore, the Habsburg Monarchy and the Ottoman Empire remained the only riparian states among the Great Powers. In the aftermath of the Crimean War, the Habsburg Monarchy used its influence both among the Danubian states as well as in negotiations with the Great Powers to promote its own interests on the river. For instance, in dealing with the other powers, Habsburg diplomats spoke in the name of Württemberg and Bavaria, the two riverine states not represented in the Paris Peace Treaty. Ambassador von Hübner asked Count Alexandre Walewski, the French minister of foreign affairs, whether he considered it fair that an assembly in which the two Danubian states were not represented should decide a matter concerning their status as sovereign states.62 With this policy, the Habsburgs tried to constrain the influence of the Great Powers on the Habsburg Danube, while at the same time endorsing their intervention along the Ottoman Danube. The Ottoman Empire was in an even more precarious position regarding the delicate balancing act between its interests on the Danube and its 61 Saint-Simon-Vallade to Matteuffel, Turin, September 26, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5737, 57–58. 62 Hübner to Boul, Paris, December 7, 1857, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5740, 25.

150

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

international responsibilities. Although the Ottoman Empire was among the winners of the Crimean War, it owed its victory to a large extent to the military support provided by French and British troops. To characterize the Ottoman attitude toward its allies as “grateful” was probably an exaggeration; nevertheless, the Ottoman representatives were painfully aware that they needed international support to abate future territorial conflicts along the Danube. In addition, the empire faced harsh economic competition on the Lower Danube from the other European powers involved in the grain trade. While the Habsburg Monarchy could seal off its Danube border, the Ottoman Empire was under constant pressure from the other powers who demanded free access to its waters. This was the reason why, prior to the war, it had already conceded equal navigation rights on its stretch of the Danube to several other European states. To revise or even cancel these rights at a time when the Danube Delta was under international authority and the grain trade was flourishing was impossible.63 Yet, this did not mean that the Ottoman authorities did not make several attempts to re-gain their sovereignty, at least partially, over the Danube. The Riverine Commission offered the perfect institutional context to pursue this goal. On January 7, 1857, Davoud-Oghlou, the Ottoman representative at the Riverine Commission, presented an aide-mémoire on how his government understood the principle of free navigation, meaning equal rights for all riverine states and an attitude favorable to commerce.64 Like his Austrian counterpart, he supported his government’s efforts to maintain tolls and customs duties on the Danube, particularly since the Treaty of Paris had entrusted the riverine states with the task of keeping the Danube navigable. To him, the principle of free navigation did not mean unrestricted access for all ships navigating the Danube because such an interpretation would not only be entirely new to international river management, but would also place the Danube in an exceptional and inferior situation (placer la Danube dans une situation excéptionelle et inférieure) compared to all other European rivers.65 However, the Ottoman representative never went so far as to claim inland navigation on the Lower Danube as an exclusive right of the Ottoman 63 Ardeleanu, Evoluția intereselor economice şi politice britanice la gurile Dunării, 117–27. 64 Mémoire présenté par le délegué de la S. Porte à la Commission riveraine du Danube, January 7, 1857, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5740, 20–25. 65 Ibid., 24.

151

Chapter 3

Empire, though he personally signed the Navigation Act which instituted this right. Already at this early stage of negotiations, the Ottoman Empire tried a less aggressive approach to the question of free access by demanding charges from ships sailing on the Ottoman Danube under a non-riparian flag, rather than by closing off its ports. After facing the full opposition of the other Great Powers at the Paris meeting, the Habsburg Monarchy responded with a more conciliatory stance. As a consequence, on March 1, 1859, six additional articles were added to the Navigation Act.66 The preamble mentioned that several articles of the document had caused controversy, so the purpose of the newly added paragraphs was to specify the meaning and scope of these articles. The first additional paragraph specified that all ships could make several stops along the Danube if they were on their way to or returning from the open sea. The second paragraph made reference to article 8 of the Navigation Act and allowed riverine states to adopt their own specific navigation rules on their segment of the waterway. Riverine states were thus entitled to give preferential treatment to any other state or honor previous contracts that had already granted such favors.67 The third paragraph mentioned that quarantine measures would only be enforced if a ship was suspected of being contaminated with the plague. And finally, the additions to the act stated that the Navigation Act would not endorse stipulations that were incompatible with the Final Act of the Congress of Vienna. This was exactly the reference that the British ambassador had previously found missing.68 None of the appended articles mentioned the Ottoman Empire explicitly. However, a memorandum from the Prussian ministry of trade to the Prussian minister of foreign affairs, Alexander von Schleinitz, acknowledged that the additions had been drafted with the Ottoman Danube in mind. The memorandum again urged for a clear distinction between the Lower Danube and the rest of the navigable river, because only this last segment of the Danube was relevant for international traffic. The Prussian authorities were reassured that the Navigation Act did not cancel the bilat66 “Additionalartikel zur Donauschifffahrtsakte vom 7. November 1857,” in Verhandlungen der Württembergischen Kammer der Abgeordneten in den Jahren 1856 bis 1861 (Stuttgart: Metzler’schen Buchdruckerei, 1858), 1581–82. 67 Ibid., 1581. 68 Ibid., 1582.

152

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

eral trade contract which had allowed Prussian and North German ships access to the Lower Danube. Furthermore, the memorandum even went so far as to consider the paragraphs appended to the Navigation Act as a first step toward a general agreement between the Ottomans and the European powers which would eventually replace the existing bilateral trade contracts.69 And finally, the memorandum welcomed the relaxation of quarantine procedures which represented a major hindrance to trade. It linked the changes on the Danube to the involvement of the European Great Powers in the Ottoman sanitary authority in Constantinople, where similar regulations were implemented that were friendly toward trade.70 By drafting the additional paragraphs to the Navigation Act, the Habsburg Monarchy responded to the criticism of the non-riverine powers. The new articles represented a compromise that suited all involved actors. First, the riverine states on the upper course of the Danube maintained their exclusive rights concerning inland navigation. Second, the revisions codified a special status for the Ottoman Danube whereby ships under a non-riparian flag could take part in inland navigation. In other words, although the Navigation Act should have established a unitary regulation for the entire Danube, it divided the navigable Danube into two separate parts. Even without a special mandate, the European Great Powers managed to extend their influence along the entire Ottoman Danube from the Iron Gates to the Black Sea. Thus, the commission became a hub for negotiation of the “Eastern Question,” imposing a legal system that underpinned an asymmetry of power between the Ottoman Empire and the other Great Powers. In other words, although each of the Great Powers pursued its own policies on the Lower Danube, all agreed that stripping the Ottoman Empire of its sovereignty rights on the river was the best way to proceed. Faced with such formidable opposition, the Ottoman government had no other choice but to surrender more and more sovereignty rights to the non-riverine states. However, the government tried to postpone the adoption of the additional articles. Fuad Pasha, the Ottoman minister of foreign affairs, explained to Anton von Prokesch-Osten, the Austrian ambassador in 69 Von der Heydt to Schleinitz, Berlin, April 4, 1859, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5739, 284. 70 Ibid., 285. On the overall evolution of quarantine regulations in the Ottoman Empire, see Birsen Bulmuş, Plague, Quarantines and Geopolitics in the Ottoman Empire (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012), 138–49.

153

Chapter 3

Constantinople, that ratifying the revised act was not a priority for his government. He would rather let the previous bilateral agreements between the Ottoman Empire and the European powers settle navigation rights on the Lower Danube. Besides, he feared that the additional articles would not satisfy the Great Powers and they would ask for more concessions. Thus, he proposed to resume this matter only once the ECD had completed its work and its closure was imminent. Sealing his argument, he reassured the Austrian ambassador that the Ottoman Empire would not give up on the Navigation Act and would remain active in the Riverine Commission. As a member of the commission, his government would play an active role in applying a unitary status to the Danube.71 Eventually, only the Habsburg Empire and the two German states of Bavaria and Württemberg adopted the additional clauses. For the Lower Danube, the status quo prior to 1856 was restored. In this way, the Danube would further remain a fragmented river. The Iron Gates, marking the Ottoman-Habsburg border, came to represent not only a physical barrier but also a legal demarcation line which set the Ottoman Danube apart from the rest of the navigable waterway. Furthermore, the three Danubian principalities, Serbia, Wallachia, and Moldavia, took this as a sign that they should continue to question Ottoman authority along their shores on the Danube. Thus, as the Ottoman foreign minister had suggested, the Riverine Commission suspended its activity and waited for the ECD to complete its technical task. Engineering Breakthrough at the Mouth of the Danube Given the utmost importance of the passage to the sea for the Great Powers, the ECD resolutely tackled the lack of depth at the bar in Sulina. For this purpose, two dredging machines were employed at the mouth to excavate the sand.72 At first, the newly established commission continued what the Russian and Austrian authorities had tried to do since the early 1830s, namely to use mechanical devices to extract the sand from the bar. Only this 71 Prokesch-Osten to Buol Schauenstein, Constantinople, February 11, 1859, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-52. 72 Commission Européenne du Danube (CED), Protocole No. V (November 29, 1856).

154

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

time they relied on the power of two dredgers.73 This approach is all the more surprising since the main reason for the Concert of Europe internationalizing the delta was the inefficient river management of the Russian administration. As the argument went at the Congress of Paris, it was not only the obligation of riparian states to maintain international waterways for the benefit of interstate exchanges, but it was the ability to “tame” nature that gave states and organizations the authority to govern an international river. This was the reasoning that legitimized the ECD taking over the regulation campaign at Sulina.74 In what would be the beginning of a new handling of the delta, the ECD called for an international expert assessment of all three branches in the delta, so that the commission could choose an enterprise best suited to conduct regulation works.75 Of the seven representatives of the ECD, only the English commissioner was a hydraulic engineer and understood the challenges of this assignment. On his recommendation, the commission appointed Englishman Charles Hartley as its chief engineer.76 Next to Hartley’s opinion, the commission sought the advice of Prussian engineer Eduard Nobiling and British cartographer Thomas Spratt. In their reports, all three men recommended a different branch of the three existing Danube branches for regulation. After providing a very detailed map of the Danube Delta, Spratt dared to suggest the first branch of the Danube, Kilia, for prospective regulation work.77 Chief engineer Hartley made a different proposal. After thoroughly inspecting all three branches of the Danube and having declared the Kilia arm as completely unsuitable, he decided in favor of St. George as the channel best suited for large-scale rectification: “The uniform depth of the St. George, its great width, and its freedom from shoals, prove it to be far beyond comparison superior to Sulina.”78 He repeated the arguments put forward by 73 74 75 76 77

CED, Protocole No. LVIII, Annexe No. II, Sur le travaux de la CED (August 1, 1857), 5. Yao, “‘Conquest from Barbarism,’” 340. CED, Protocole No. V (November 29, 1856). Ibid., 63–64. Thomas Spratt, “Reports on the Comparative Conditions of the Different Mouths and Branches of the Danube by Captain Spratt,” in Projects for the Improvement of the Lower Danube, ed. European Commission of the Danube (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1856), 26–27. 78 Charles A. Hartley, “Report of C. A. Hartley, Esq., C.E. Engineer-in-Chief to the Commission, on the Improvement of the Navigation of the Lower Danube,” in Projects for the Improvement of the Lower Danube, ed. European Commission of the Danube (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1856), 41.

155

Chapter 3

Gustav Wex who had surveyed the three branches of the Danube during the war and had also advocated the St. George arm. Like his Austrian colleague, Hartley was aware that the almost complete closure of the mouth by a wide sandbank presented the biggest challenge to the St. George project.79 Nevertheless, he was convinced that a sustained improvement of navigation conditions in the Danube Delta could be achieved only if the St. George mouth was regulated.80 In his report, however, he acknowledged that the amount of time needed to complete the works on the St. George would be double that required for the regulation of the Sulina.81 A further opinion was offered by Prussian civil engineer Eduard Nobiling, in charge of the regulation of the Rhine at Koblenz, who submitted five memoranda containing proposals for improving navigation in the Danube Delta. In spring 1857, he traveled to the Lower Danube and spent a few weeks observing the area.82 Unlike Hartley, he found another impediment on the St. George branch. Although the riverbed was deep and wide enough to carry steamers and large cargo ships, its winding course slowed the vessels down. To remedy this obstacle, he proposed cutting across several of the large curves in the river, which would allow ships to speed up when passing through the channel.83 But on the whole, he agreed with Hartley’s opinion that the St. George branch offered the best prospects, while emphasizing the high costs and time investment required to execute the proposed works. He estimated that it would take at least seven years and cost over 1.2 million ducats for the first large ships to be able to cross the bar, and up to fifteen years for the entire project to be completed.84 Hence, his recommendation was to continue with the regulation of the Sulina branch: “For my part, with regard to the greater power and greater width of the St. George canal, which the Sulina could hardly match. . . . I would like to strongly plea for the navi79 80 81 82

Ibid., 44. Ibid., 44–45. Ibid., 45–46. Eduard Nobiling, “Mémoire No. III. Ueber den Sulina-Kanal mit seiner Ausmündung ins Schwarze Meer,” in Projects for the Improvement of the Lower Danube, ed. European Commission of the Danube (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1856), 1. 83 Eduard Nobiling, “Mémoire No. V. Die Schiffbarkeit und weitere Schiffbarmachung des rechtseitigen Stromarmes der Donau (der St. Georgs-Kanal) mit seiner Ausmündung ins Schwarze Meer betreffend,” in Projects for the Improvement of the Lower Danube, ed. European Commission of the Danube (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1856), 5–8. 84 Ibid., 21.

156

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

gability and maintenance of the St. George-mouth; but bearing in mind the higher costs and in the interests of shipping, I cannot advise you to abandon the preservation and improvement of the Sulina-mouth or to turn immediately and with all strength to improve the St. George-branch.”85 During a series of hearings that lasted from December 1857 until April 1858, the commission tried to settle upon one branch. The St. George seemed to be the preferred branch, as all three engineering proposals considered it to have the best prospects for navigation. However, Sulina was regarded as easier to “fix.” But even Kilia found its supporters among the Moldavian authorities. After the Crimean War, the left bank of the Kilia arm was incorporated into the Principality of Moldavia, prompting its foreign minister to ask the commission to consider this branch. He also informed the commission that his state was willing to provide a contingent of prisoners to help with the works.86 While this consideration was strictly strategic, Captain Spratt offered a nautical argument in favor of Kilia. As an experienced cartographer and sea captain, he ventured a hydrologic prediction on the future state of the three Danube branches. He strongly believed that most of the mud accumulated on the lower two branches of Sulina and St. George came from the upper Kilia arm. In his opinion, even if one of the lower branches was regulated, the silting would not stop. For this reason, he considered Kilia the best choice as the silting there could be reversed permanently.87 Hartley rejected this argument, providing calculations demonstrating that the sand and mud that originated from Kilia had little effect on the silting at the bars in Sulina and St. George. In the end, the commission sided with Hartley and accepted his expertise as chief engineer of the ECD.88 It was much more difficult to achieve a consensus within the commission regarding the two remaining branches. Although in theory both engineers acknowledged that St. George was the deepest and widest of all three arms, only Hartley recommended its regulation. Nobiling argued against the St. George because he estimated the amount of time necessary for 85 86 87 88

Ibid., 21. CED, Protocole No. XXX (June 1, 1857). CED, Protocole No. LXVI (December 11, 1857). CED, Protocole No. LXVI (December 11, 1857); Charles W. S. Hartley, A Biography of Sir Charles Hartley, Civil Engineer (1825–1915): The Father of the Danube (Lewiston and New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1989), 136–37.

157

Chapter 3

clearing this branch at about fifteen years.89 Hartley tried to minimize the time factor, showing confidence in the idea that only a regulation of the St. George branch would provide a permanent solution for the navigation of the Lower Danube.90 Thus, the two engineers did not disagree in principle but in regard to the practicability of the choice. Experience was on Nobiling’s side; due to his many years of work on the Rhine, he knew how slowly river engineering advanced.91 The commission’s first reaction to these different opinions was that the Prussian commissioner supported Nobiling, while the British commissioner agreed with Hartley. Each justified his decision not on the basis of “national” reasoning but by relying on “objective” facts. The Prussian commissioner, Bitter, referred to Nobiling’s “many years of practical experience in hydraulic engineering,” emphasizing that he “shed more light on the matter in question than the so far only available elaborations of the English technicians.”92 Sir John Stokes, the British commissioner, contested Nobiling’s arguments on the grounds that he was less familiar with the specific hydraulic conditions in the Danube Delta: “M. Nobiling arrived earlier in the spring, and proved a thorn in the sides of Hartley and myself, for he was a gentleman of cut and dried notions, who immediately, without sufficient data, framed projects for the different engineering works, which he declared to be necessary for the improvement of the Danube. Hartley on the contrary, declined to make a project until he had satisfied himself as to the general conditions and correctness of the surveys of the river.”93 In other words, Stokes accused the Prussian engineer of developing his project without properly inspecting the delta. He even feared that the well-written proposal would appeal to “the untechnical gentleman who knew nothing at all about engineering,” though it lacked viability.94 Not once did Stokes mention Nobiling’s long professional experience in river regulation.

89 Nobiling, “Mémoire No. V,” 21. 90 Hartley, “Report of C. A. Hartley,” 41–44. 91 Cioc, The Rhine, 55–59. 92 Bitter to the Königliche Civil-Kabinet, GStA, I. HA Rep. 89, Nr. 13294 Donauschiffahrts-Kommission in Galatz (February 24, 1858). 93 John Stokes, Autobiography, 1825–1902, private publication by Ken Stoakes. See https://archive.org/details/SirJohnStokes1825-1902Autobiography (last accessed on May 30, 2022), 67. 94 Ibid., 67.

158

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

It becomes clear from these statements that it was not different engineering traditions or approaches that set the two apart, but primarily a certain cultural bias. Commissioner Stokes considered his Prussian colleague arrogant or “very much inclined to take the Prussian view of everything.”95 Another reason why Stokes dismissed Nobiling’s proposal was that he wanted Hartley, as the ECD’s appointed chief engineer, to take decisions regarding the future engineering works in the delta and not to leave these to an external consultant.96 And finally, the two engineers had varying degrees of familiarity with the specific geographic and nautical conditions at the mouth of the Danube. Hartley spent much more time observing and comparing the branches of the Danube than Nobiling, who had to return quickly to his duties in Koblenz. Ultimately, this would prove to be Hartley’s main advantage over any other engineering proposal from outside. When the plans were discussed by the plenum of the commission, both engineers found supporters. In addition to the Prussian representative, the Russian and French commissioners agreed with Nobiling. However, they were less lured by his writing skills than driven by pragmatism in their choice, as of the three branches, Sulina would cost the least and the works could be finished within five years.97 The other commissioners embraced Hartley’s proposal as a long-term improvement for navigation on the river. Or, as the Sardinian commissioner, Marquis Alessandro d’Aste Ricci, put it: “. . . il ne hesitait pas à donner la preférénce au St. Georges, comme voie répondant à la grandeur du Danube.” The marquis further pointed out that although this project would initially cost more than Sulina, an improved St. George channel would provide far greater benefits for future trade and navigation on the river.98 Both sides had their line of reasoning, and in February 1858 the commission reached a deadlock. In March, the ECD commissioners asked Hartley to conduct a provisional regulation project on the Sulina with the purpose of resuming traffic on the Lower Danube until a final solution was found. Hartley proposed the building of two parallel piers from the river into the sea, and work started soon afterwards, in April 1858.99 95 96 97 98 99

Ibid., 62. Ibid., 66. CED, Annex II au Protocole No. LXII. CED, Annex III au Protocole No. LXII. CED, Protocole No. LXVI (April 8, 1858).

159

Chapter 3

The standstill in the commission prompted the British foreign office to take action. John Burgoyne, chief of the British Royal Engineers and Stokes’s superior, explained in a letter to the new foreign secretary, James Harris, 3rd Earl of Malmesbury, the commission’s impasse. His first remark noted that the commission still lacked valuable engineering expertise: “The Commission itself is composed of Gentlemen of seven different nations and with the exception of Mr. Stokes, who is a military engineer, no other member is believed to have any professional knowledge to guide him, and the eminents as diplomatists or with other qualifications, they may consequently be assumed to be quite incapable of forming a correct judgment amidst these conflicting opinions.”100 Second, he highlighted the complex nature of the works to be conducted in the Danube Delta—a complexity that was underestimated when the commission started its deliberations: “When such a Commission was first instituted with authority to carry out at once the necessary works for opening the entrance into the Danube, it was no doubt contemplated that the operation was one of ordinary character, that it would be performed within a reasonable time and a reasonable outlay.”101 Third, he argued in favor of a scientific rather than a political solution: “It is presumed that the Governments associated for the purpose will find it necessary to obtain further general opinions from professional men with experience, for which the information that has been gained may perhaps suffice.”102 The British foreign secretary accepted Burgoyne’s proposal and asked the other European Great Powers to provide additional expertise to the commission: The Commission will not possess sufficient scientific knowledge in regard to the question to enable them to decide authoritatively what course should be adopted. Under these circumstances, Her Majesty’s Government would suggest for the consideration that it would be desirable that each of the Powers’ parties to the Treaty of Paris should invite one professional person of eminence wholly recommended with the Commission and that the person then named should meet in Paris as soon as are con100 Burgoyne to Malmesbury, London, February 23, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5717. 101 Ibid. 102 Ibid.

160

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

venient and consider all plans and suggestions and that after having done so they should report to the assembled Conference their joint opinion.103

Austria’s representatives deemed this suggestion inappropriate. The Austrian minister of trade, Georg von Toggenburg, insisted that any decision concerning the regulation works in the Danube Delta should be taken by the ECD alone and not by any other committee: “No other institution than the Danube Commission can be considered more competent, more qualified and more able to take the decision regarding the necessary works and any attempt to delegate this decision to a superior body would further deflect this matter from its target instead of settling it.” Thus, he concluded, moving such a decision to Paris would constitute a serious violation of the Paris Treaty.104 The Austrian ambassador, Alexander von Hübner, brought forward an objection of a different kind. In a conversation with the French minister of foreign affairs, Count Alexandre Walewski, he wondered how a new commission situated far from the Danube could find consensus on a topographic problem that not even the experts on site had yet been able to solve.105 Thus, the Austrian government did not recognize the authority of the new technical commission and refused to send a delegate. In the end, only the British, French, Prussian, and Sardinian governments sent an engineer to the new International Technical Commission that assembled in Paris in June 1858. Its final report, which recommended the regulation of the St. George channel, was made public in August of the same year. The commission’s four members based their judgment solely on the available maps and engineering surveys and never traveled to the Lower Danube themselves.106 To remove the sand blockage at the mouth, the engineers proposed building a lateral channel from the Danube to the sea that would be secured with a lock between the river and the start of the new waterway. The commission cited the regulation works conducted on the riv103 Malmesbury to the Prussian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, London, March 14, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5717. 104 Note from the Ministry of Trade to Boul-Schauenstein, Vienna, March 24, 1858, AT-OeStA/HHStA) MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-51. 105 Baron Hübner to Buol-Schauenstein, Vienna, April 18, 1858, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34S.R.-51. 106 Rapport de la Commission technique internationale convoquée à Paris pour l’examen des questions relatives à l’amélioration des bouches du Danube, 88–91.

161

Chapter 3

ers Vistula, Elbe, and Rhône in support of their recommendation.107 Based on this proposal, Lord Malmesbury instructed Stokes to start preparations for regulating the St. George arm: “I have at the same time to state to you that it is the wish of HMG that the works now in progress for the provisional improvement of the Sulina Channel should be brought to a conclusion with as little delay as possible, and that all the energies and resources of the Commission in Galatz should be unremittingly applied to the works to be undertaken for completing a navigable channel thro’ the St. George branch of the Danube and the proposed channel to the sea.”108 The technical commission’s report was met with mixed feelings in the ECD. On the one hand, British commissioner Stokes and engineer Hartley were happy with the decision because it confirmed their choice of the St. George, but on the other, they were less pleased by the new engineering proposal. With the intention of finding new arguments in favor of Hartley’s jetty project, Stokes departed in December 1858 on an official mission to survey the regulation works on the Vistula and Elbe. In Danzig, he concluded that the mouth of the Vistula could not be taken as an example because the river itself had created a new mouth in 1840. In the previous winter, a thick layer of ice had opened a new passage to the sea which the Prussian engineers secured the next spring with a concrete dam, thus creating a lateral canal branching off the original riverbed. However, in Stokes’s opinion, the ECD could not wait for the Danube to carve another mouth of its own, making further regulation works dependent on an event that might never happen.109 Things looked different on the Elbe. There, the lateral canal at the mouth was small and less of a success, which prompted Stokes to see no need to follow this recommendation. The technical commission also referred to the Rhône which he did not visit but also dismissed as a model for the Danube regulation works. At the mouth of the Rhône, a system of parallel piers into the sea was destroyed by strong winds that blew straight into the sides of the constructions. Stokes defended Hartley’s jetty project, pointing out that the winds in the Sulina channel blew across the mouth, keeping it open.110 After completing this trip, he left for London 107 Ibid., 88–89. 108 Malmesbury to Stokes, London, November 14, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5719. 109 Stokes, Autobiography, 74. 110 Ibid., 75.

162

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

and in January 1859, at an audience in the foreign office, Stokes “begged for permission to continue the provisional works at Sulina, to carry them to their proper termination, and to leave the other question in suspense until our experience should show the best system.”111 Hartley’s Provisional Project at the Sulina Bar By the time the International Technical Commission’s report came out, not only Stokes but all the commissioners felt reluctant to stop the ongoing Sulina works as it had taken so much time and so many discussions to come up with this temporary solution. In his first plans, Hartley proposed the building of two jetties into the sea as a prolongation of the bar. The foundation of the jetties would be made of so called “piers perdus,” namely stones scattered on the seabed that would form a tight grip holding the jetties in place.112 The amount approved by the commission was set at eighty thousand ducats, less than half of the initial costs Hartley had calculated.113 The budget was tight because the commission relied exclusively on the charges collected from each vessel passing the bar. In order to begin the regulation work, the commission had to take out loans from the Ottoman Empire. The Ottoman government in turn borrowed money from European banks who agreed to these loans only in cases where other European states guaranteed the transaction.114 Having so little money at his disposal, Hartley had to alter his initial plans to reduce expenditure. He decreased the length of the original piers to less than half, building them in such a way that they could withstand the storms of the Black Sea for at least five or six years. In the meantime, he hoped that either the piers at Sulina could be extended or that the regulation of the St. George arm would have started.115 These serious limitations with regard to time and the funding of the provisional project shaped Hartley’s engineering philosophy. While working for 111 Ibid., 77. 112 Hartley, “Report of C. A. Hartley,” 22. 113 CED, Protocole No. LXXVI, Annexe No. I, Rapport adressé à la CED par Mr. Hartley (April 8, 1858), 1–8. 114 In several cases, such as during negotiations with the Nord Deutsche Bank in 1862, the loan was not endorsed by any other Great Power, leaving the commission’s finances in dire straits. CED, Protocole No. CLIV, Annexe No. 1, 2. 115 Hartley, A Biography of Sir Chales Hartley, 147–51.

163

Chapter 3

the ECD, he believed that man-made structures could not be permanent, crediting rivers with a powerful agency that would erode any type of construction: “The art of man is powerless to contend against the never-ceasing operations of nature: to abate the evil, not to destroy it, is all he can hope to achieve.”116 As he undertook his surveys, he became aware that the silting at the mouth of the Danube could not be stopped, only temporarily contained: “I believe that few will attempt to maintain that a perfect cure can be affected by any mode of treatment whatever.”117 Nevertheless, he was convinced that “a system of parallel piers is the best method that can be devised to overcome the inconveniences at the embouchures of a large river entering a tideless sea.”118 At the same time, he rejected previous methods of sand removal at the bar. First, he utterly dismissed the Ottoman “rake method” as unsuitable. The Ottoman authorities had dragged a large iron rake over the bar to remove the sand; operations which, in his opinion, only stirred the sand at the bar without removing it.119 Further, the previous Ottoman authorities had recruited local fishermen and villagers familiar with the flow of the river to perform this duty.120 Instead, Hartley relied exclusively on his measurements and calculations, and recruited engineers and technicians who had completed professional training as his assistants.121 In doing so, he rejected the local population’s vernacular knowledge of the river. Second, he considered modern, steam-powered sand removal as an insufficient method. He himself used dredging to stabilize the newly built piers, but only as a secondary means to achieve the needed water depth.122 Thus, he distinguished between two different systems of river management: inefficient dredging or raking, and the more effective parallel piers. These two systems resorted to different forms of knowledge and expertise. Raking and dredging were mainly ordered by civilian and military administrators, while the piers could only be designed by an engineer with formal training. Hartley’s choice of the pier system also marked a shift in best prac116 Hartley, “Report of C. A. Hartley,” 21. 117 Ibid., 21. 118 Ibid., 22. 119 Ibid., 20. 120 Édouard-Philippe Engelhardt, “Les embouchures du Danube et la commission instituée par le congrès de Paris,” Revue Des Deux Mondes 88, no. 1 (1870): 102. 121 Hartley, A Biography of Sir Charles Hartley, 135. 122 Hartley, “Report of C. A. Hartley,” 38.

164

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

tice at the mouth of the Danube, namely from mechanical devices (either pre-modern or modern) to more comprehensive interventions into the riverbed. At the same time, it symbolized a significant gain in prestige for the engineering profession, and for Hartley in particular. However, while Hartley embraced formal engineering knowledge, he did not believe in a permanent solution to the silting at the Sulina bar. A common assumption in literature is that the rising prominence of engineers also changed the practices of river management, as these formally trained professionals aimed to find more enduring solutions for persistent hydrologic problems. In other words, where local structures and practices were temporary and needed constant reinforcement, engineers set out to replace them with stable, even permanent constructions.123 Hartley seems to elude this dichotomy, as he believed only in the temporary effectiveness and reliability of man-made systems. He found himself at a point of transition in engineering thought that rejected traditional practices while retaining skepticism about the enduring effects of engineering constructions. Accordingly, he conceived of the relationship between man and nature as a dialogue or negotiation between two powerful forces. Furthermore, working conditions at the Sulina bar could only reinforce Hartley’s conviction that his engineering constructions were as volatile as the setting in which he operated. The construction of the piers advanced slowly and was marked by numerous setbacks. To start with, tensions and military conflicts between the European Great Powers, such as the Italian War of Independence in 1859, slowed down the work of the commission. Further, border controls and poor transportation infrastructure often delayed the arrival of construction materials.124 Hartley’s team consisted of an assistant engineer from Prussia and several English foremen and mechanics.125 It was much more difficult to find common laborers willing to keep up the intensive work pace. Stokes’s explanation for the lack of suitable workers was that locals were not accustomed to steady working hours and regular employment. In 1858, when the construction works started, most of the 123 Wim Ravesteijn, “Between Globalization and Localization: The Case of Dutch Civil Engineering in Indonesia, 1800–1950,” Comparative Technology Transfer and Society 5, no. 1 (2007): 42–47. 124 While stone came from the nearby city of Tulcea, timber sometimes had to be shipped from Odessa or even Belgrade. Hartley, A Biography of Sir Charles Hartley, 156. 125 John Stokes, “The Danube and Its Trade,” Journal of the Society of Arts 38, no. 1954 (1890): 567.

165

Chapter 3

workers came from Transylvania and Hungary, but in later years more and more locals were hired.126 The young Prussian engineer, A. J. Jakobson, who worked at the Sulina bar during the summer of 1858, noted that construction advanced only slowly due to the poor work ethic of the laborers. In his opinion, daily wages enticed workers to be idle, as they received the same amount of pay at the end of each day. He proposed a payment system that rewarded the amount of work completed in a day, yet was well aware that the commission did not have the funds to pay lucrative wages.127 The situation eventually improved on its own as the construction site lured a growing number of local workers and only those who worked hard kept their employment.128 Moreover, some of the hired Greeks and Turks proved very valuable because they were accustomed to working in rough seas.129 In addition to unreliable workers, the tight budget, and political frictions, Hartley and his team were confronted with further instability: the unpredictable hydrologic and meteorological conditions. Numerous torrents and storms interrupted their work for many days in a row. The unfinished piers were constantly submerged and part of their footing swept away. Assistant engineer Jakobson believed that the plans should be revised to allow for a stronger stone foundation for the dams to withstand the water pressure. During the winter, construction came to a halt as ice deposits around the unfinished wooden dams threatened to break them.130 In the course of the next year, three ships sank in the immediate proximity of the construction sites, again putting the project on hold.131 These frequent interruptions and occasional setbacks led Hartley to change the way he proceeded with the construction of the piers. In his initial plans, he had envisioned two parallel piers that would direct the Danube into the Black Sea. For the provisional project, he only reduced the lengths of the piers. However, after the unfinished stone piers were submerged, he began to reconsider the use of materials. Especially once he realized that the stones were easily swept away by the water, thus forming dangerous submarine reefs, he decided 126 John Stokes, “On the Mouths of the Danube, and the Improvement of the Mouths of Rivers in Non-Tidal Seas,” Papers on Subjects Connected with the Duties of the Corps of Royal Engineers 13 (1864): 40. 127 Jakobson to Bitter, Sulina, June 23, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5719. 128 Stokes, “On the Mouths of the Danube,” 40. 129 Stokes, “The Danube and Its Trade,” 567. 130 Jakobson to Bitter, Sulina, June 23, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5719. 131 Hartley, A Biography of Sir Charles Hartley, 157–58.

166

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

to replace the previous stone piers with a construction that had a stone footing and an upper part made of timber. Besides being cheap, wooden piers had two other advantages: they could be easily fixed onto the footing and be quickly replaced in the case of partial destruction by a storm.132 In making these adaptations, Hartley reacted to the agency of the river and offered responses to its future impact on his construction. Thus, his piers of wood and stone were firm enough to withstand the currents at the bar, while simultaneously being flexible enough to survive the force of the area’s water pressure. Additionally, when destroyed by a storm, the piers could easily be repaired. These changes proved successful. In March 1860, after completing one of the piers, the water at the bar deepened to sixteen English feet. However, in the course of the same year, new mud and sand deposits lowered the level to thirteen feet.133 The next year, a second pier was added and the water level rose again. Finally, the completion of the provisional works was celebrated in August 1861 when the two piers were inaugurated.134 Hartley summarized his achievement as follows: The evidence is encouraging for the future, and sustains the position that has been so much insisted upon by the Commission, that the system of parallel piers, as applied at the mouth of the Sulina branch, is the best, that under the circumstances, could have been devised for an improved sea entrance to the Danube, even with the certainty attached to it— which is not denied—that to maintain the improvement, and to keep pace with the formation of new sandbanks, or the growth of old ones, the guiding works must eventually be prolonged.135

In his assessment, he acknowledged both success and future uncertainties. On the one hand, he emphasized that certain contingencies, which he summarized as “giving the speediest relief to navigation, in the cheapest manner,” had shaped the rather modest outcome of the project.136 On the other 132 Charles A. Hartley, “Description of the Delta of the Danube, and of the Works, Recently Executed, at the Sulina Mouth,” Minutes of Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers 21 (1862): 268–88. 133 Stokes, Autobiography, 80. 134 Ibid., 83; “Tagesbericht,” Wiener Zeitung, no. 195, August 26, 1861, 1–2. 135 Hartley, “Description of the Delta of the Danube,” 291–92. 136 Ibid., 185.

167

Chapter 3

hand, he saw the construction at the Sulina mouth as work in progress to be improved in the future and given a more permanent shape.137 Hartley was not the only engineer of his time to make such remarks. French engineer Jacques Rénaud, who surveyed the Mekong delta in 1879, considered the canals and other constructions he inspected as “work in progress” and lamented that the new French colonial administration was not doing enough to maintain them.138 However, the work that Rénaud would finally conduct in the Mekong delta would be much more intrusive and aimed at a more enduring result than Hartley would have thought possible.139 Each man in his own way experienced a shift toward a more modernist approach in engineering, accompanied by ambivalent feelings. The completion of the provisional project had long-lasting consequences for future engineering projects at the mouth of the Danube by providing opponents of the St. George regulation with further arguments against its implementation. At a meeting in June 1863, the commission put the regulation of the St. George arm on permanent hold.140 In spite of their provisional character, Hartley’s piers managed to make the Sulina branch navigable again, though the number of ships wrecked in the channel remained high.141 As Hartley had predicted, the provisional project was not the end but rather the beginning of more ample engineering works in the Danube Delta. It was the first attempt to improve the connection between the Danube and the Black Sea through engineering, but it would not be Hartley’s last mission at the mouth of the Danube. Like most river choke points that hinder navigation, the Sulina turned into a permanent construction site where the outcomes of previous projects were adapted to the developing needs of navigation and the “doings” of the river. In this way, infrastructure represented an extension and alleged improvement of the natural environment, morphing into a new system in which the boundaries between human and non-human actors blended into each other.142

137 Ibid., 192. 138 Biggs, Quagmire, 5. 139 Ibid., 36–38. 140 CED, Protocole No. CLIV, (December 10, 1862), 1–9. 141 CED, Protocole No. CLIV, Annexe No. I, Proposition au subject du l’amélioration du St. Georges (December 10, 1862), 3. 142 White, The Organic Machine, 38; Pritchard, Confluence, 19.

168

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

This complicated decision-making process regarding the regulation of the Sulina channel informs us on the role of engineering experts in the early-stage formation of international institutions. The regulation of rivers in general requires highly specialized technical knowledge. Looking at the evolution of engineering on the Rhône and the Rhine rivers during the nineteenth century, the rising importance of technical specialists in these projects comes to notice. However, in contrast to the political situation at the Lower Danube, the artificial “remaking” of the two rivers is captured in literature in terms of a state-building process, namely as an attempt to centralize state power and to integrate (remote) provinces along a major artery.143 These state-sponsored projects endowed engineering experts with an official bureaucratic position that increased the prestige of the engineering profession. States also created new possibilities for institutionalized higher education, such as at the Karlsruhe Polytechnic in Baden, or the École Politechnique in Paris, which were among the top training centers for river engineering at that time.144 A similar development can be observed on the international scene. Experienced engineers were employed by international institutions such as the ECD because diplomats had to rely on engineering specialists to understand the complicated physical conditions on site and make informed decisions on how to proceed. In these cross-imperial settings, engineers and other professionals learned to cope with often conflicting national, transnational, and universal demands. Quite often before embarking on new projects, engineers would visit recently completed construction sites and exchange opinions with their peers even if these were located in foreign states. In addition, international associations and scientific journals helped disseminate abstract knowledge and new practical insight across borders.145 This theme of “inextricable nationalism and transnationalism,” as Kohlrausch and Trischler put it, accompanied experts on their career paths, not as two opposite forces, but as interconnected points of reference that channeled their work.146 This being said, it must be considered whether the engineering experts from various empires formed a transnational “epistemic community” in 143 Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature, 95; Pritchard, Confluence, 9–11. 144 Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature, 92; Kohlrausch and Trischler, Building Europe on Expertise, 30–31. 145 Kohlrausch and Trischler, Building Europe on Expertise, 44–45. 146 Ibid., 6.

169

Chapter 3

the making. The International Technical Commission in Paris was indeed a transnational community of experts that brought together two civil and two military engineers from Britain, France, Sardinia, and Prussia. It met most criteria identified by Ma’ia Davis Cross as prerequisite for a loose group of experts to turn into a coherent “epistemic community.”147 The commission was set up to provide guidance to European governments on how to deal with the emerging crisis inside the ECD. Thus, the close relationship with a state institution explains its creation. Also, the authority of the commission based on the training and professional experience of its members was beyond reproach.148 The decision to regulate the St. George branch with the help of a lateral channel reflected the ability of this culturally heterogenous group to agree on common scientific principles and professional standards. The crucial question in this context concerns the degree of influence that the commission, based in Paris, was able to deploy on the infrastructural remaking of the mouth of the Danube. Although it seemed to have all the necessary powers to determine the course of action in the delta, it had the obvious flaw of acting at a great distance from the site it sought to influence. Thus, while the Technical Commission was deliberating far away in Paris, the commissioners of the ECD and its chief engineer Hartley established a new alliance around an alternative regulation project. This explains why the reports of the Technical Commission, apparently the highest authority on the matter, ultimately had little impact on how the regulation works were carried out. What this “epistemic community” lacked was direct involvement in the day-to-day business of the ECD. In contrast, those engineers working for the ECD on the Danube shaped the outcome of the regulation works. British commissioner Stokes had a highly privileged position as he combined technical expertise with a seat on the ECD. Hartley’s influence was also important, as he conducted the fieldwork, gathered empirical information, and tested out hypotheses. Stokes also traveled throughout Europe to draw inspiration from other engineering works accomplished in river deltas. During these years, both men came to represent the interests of the commission, sometimes even following a path that initially contradicted the instructions they had received from the foreign office. In doing so, 147 Cross, “Rethinking Epistemic Communities,” 144–45. 148 Ibid., 153–54.

170

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

Figure 9. Hartley’s piers of 1861. Source: Charles A. Hartley, Birdseye View of the Sulina Mouth of the Danube, showing the works of improvement lately carried out under the European Commission of the Danube by Charles A. Hartley, ESQ., C.E., Engineer in Chief to the commission, 1861. Romanian Academy Library, Wikicommons.

Stokes and Hartley became the ECD’s first technical bureaucrats and their new allegiance to the commission enabled the completion of the Sulina regulation project. The success of the Sulina piers convinced the governments of the Great Powers that the best way to improve navigation in the delta was to trust the experts on the spot (see figure 9). As a consequence, the ECD itself was on the way to becoming an “epistemic community,” combining political influence with hydraulic knowledge and technical expertise. The Inauguration of Hartley’s Piers On September 3, 1861, the ECD organized a festive inauguration to celebrate the successful completion of the first regulation project in Sulina. The public ceremony was to generate the most publicity possible. For this purpose, not only persons directly linked with the Danube Delta received an official invitation but also representatives of the European cabinets.149 The new Prussian commissioner, Jules Alexander Aloyse de Saint Pierre, was well 149 Mohler to Saint Pierre, Berlin, August 1, 1861, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5722.

171

Chapter 3

aware that most of the ECD’s work had taken place behind closed doors and that it was time for the public to be informed of the commission’s important accomplishments.150 He further explained to his superiors in Berlin that the commission was searching for different ways to make its activities known, mentioning for the first time that it was preparing a final act that should popularize its results.151 After several years of intense negotiations and often forceful debates, he agreed on one thing with his colleagues: the ECD had achieved a work of European importance.152 The most stunning success was Hartley’s pier structure, which had finally opened up the mouth of the Danube to large cargo ships. At the ceremony, the Austrian commissioner, Karl Franz von Becke, gave the official toast on the part of the commission. In his speech, he first thanked Rashid Pasha, the representative of the Ottoman Empire and governor of the delta, for the support he had given to the commission.153 He further praised Hartley’s skills and zeal that had enabled the successful completion of the regulation project.154 As part of the ceremony, Hartley received the Mejidie Order for his service to the Ottoman state and a silver vase as an honorary gift. Becke emphasized the continental dimension of Hartley’s project—a success that had surpassed all expectations. Since the creation of the ECD and despite many setbacks, navigability through the Sulina arm had constantly increased. Finally, the future of the Lower Danube looked bright.155 The belief that technical achievements and the improved infrastructure of waterways would bring about wealth and prosperity was a common trope used at the inauguration ceremonies of large river constructions.156 In assessing the mission of the ECD at the mouth of the Danube, Becke dwelt on these tropes of improvement and development. He mentioned the Treaty of Adrianople as a wake-up call for the countries on the Lower Danube after 150 Saint Pierre to Schleinitz, Galatz, August 21, 1861, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5722. 151 Ibid. 152 Ibid. 153 Toast du Commissaire d’Austriche, Galatz, September 8, 1861, ATOeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34S.R.-53, 233. 154 Ibid., 231. 155 Ibid., 235. 156 On the inauguration of hydropower dams on the Rhône in postwar France, see Pritchard, Confluence, 55–57 and 197.

172

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

decades of slumber. The European powers which had come to trade had also brought civilizing ideas to the region. Moreover, the activities of the European commission had assimilated the Lower Danube into European civilization.157 Thus, he employed one of the most common tropes used by contemporaries to justify commercial expansion, namely as a means of bringing progress to places in and outside Europe considered backward by representatives of the Great Powers. Furthermore, the ECD provided an institutional framework for the introduction of the rule of law to the Lower Danube area. By upholding the principle of freedom of navigation, the commission had inaugurated a new era of commerce. However, Becke went on, it was not enough to introduce this principle; the physical conditions at the mouth of the Danube had to be secured to allow for free passage into the sea. He declared emphatically that due to Hartley’s successful project, the Sulina bar, which had hindered navigation for so long, had ceased to exist. As a consequence, free trade could finally prosper. These economic opportunities now elevated the countries on the Lower Danube from economic backwardness. He praised the Lower Danube as an artery of commerce that many European states could share without rivalry. Finally, he ended his speech with a toast to the future prosperity of Danubian commerce.158 Becke envisioned a European continent connected by trade. Moreover, under the direct influence of the European powers, he predicted economic abundance for the Danubian states. He saw free trade as a mutually beneficial form of exchange between the grain producers along the shores of the Danube and the mostly foreign shipping companies that brought the cereals to ports all over Europe.159 This is just one example of how the doctrine of free trade, which had encountered numerous opponents, particularly in Central Europe, became widely accepted. At the end of the 1840s, even the rather cautious Habsburg government led in this matter by its finance minister, Karl Ludwig von Bruck, decided to increase trade with its neighbors by diminishing tariffs.160 Becke’s speech praising free trade at the mouth of the Danube can be seen as an instantiation of the Habsburg Monarchy’s embrace of free trade. His speech also established a strong link between free 157 Yao, “‘Conquest from Barbarism,’” 336–37; Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 126–28. 158 Toast du Commissaire d’Austriche, 233. 159 Ibid., 235. 160 Judson, The Habsburg Empire, 230.

173

Chapter 3

trade, economic development, and European civilization. He considered the development of trade relations not only as a factor of stability in the region, but also as a means of gaining access to European ideas that would eventually change local societies for the better. Many advocates of free trade policies believed they would bring social and political change to those regions made accessible to European markets. The fact that the dismantling of economic barriers could also give rise to unequal economic partnerships between international trading houses and local grain exporters, and even encourage economic exploitation, often remained unaddressed.161 Also missing from his speech was a reference to the uneven power relations between local authorities and the European Great Powers whose influence the ECD had helped to foster.162 However, it remained unclear what exactly Becke meant when he said that the countries on the Lower Danube would change under the influence of European civilizing ideas. Did he simply mean that the profits generated by trade would manifest themselves in more comfort, better provision with goods, changes in lifestyle through wider access to manufactured wares, and less poverty? Or was he implying that social emancipation, political liberalism, and even independence for the provinces along the Danube— still formally part of the Ottoman Empire—were in store? The influence of “European civilization” on the Lower Danube was addressed in vague terms in order to avoid any political implications. Becke kept his remarks very general because as a representative of the ECD he tried to avoid alienating the Ottoman Empire by seeming to encourage a broad socio-political transformation in the Danubian provinces that could eventually induce them to leave the empire. He carefully avoided any reference to the political context in which the inauguration took place. He overlooked not only the ongoing conflict over jurisdiction between the Ottoman administration of the delta and the ECD, but also the dispute between the principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia and the Ottoman Empire. From 1859, the principalities elected the same government and strove for recognition as a single sovereign state.163 161 Lynn, “British Policy, Trade, and Informal Empire in the Mid-Nineteenth Century,” 103–4. 162 Edhem Eldem, “Ottoman Financial Integration with Europe: Foreign Loans, the Ottoman Bank and the Ottoman Public Debt,” European Review 13, no. 3 (2005): 431–33. 163 Keith Hitchins, The Romanians, 1774–1866 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 293–94.

174

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

In contrast, the next speech made explicit reference to this unresolved international issue. Apostol Arsache, the Romanian minister of foreign affairs, pleaded for the union between Wallachia and Moldavia to be recognized by the European Great Powers. Although, like the Austrian commissioner, Arsache made references to “European civilization” and free trade, he linked them to aspirations of independence for his country. He described Hartley’s piers as an outstanding civilizing work (oeuvre éminamment civilisatrice) that had opened up the Danube and enabled Romania to become Europe’s breadbasket (le grenier de l’Europe).164 Just before the ceremony began, news spread that the ruling prince of the United Principalities, Hospodar Alexandru Ioan Cuza, had lifted all export duties.165 Arsache explained to the international guests how this decision should be interpreted. Although the lifting of trade tariffs entailed fewer revenues for his country on the short term, it was meant as a gesture of goodwill toward the Great Powers by extending the regime of free trade from the river to the neighboring territories. However, this was a quid pro quo understanding of free trade, namely no customs duties in exchange for international support in the quest for political independence. Furthermore, Arsache and his government believed that dismantling trade barriers and opening up the markets of the principalities to European products would bring prosperity to their country, but under the assumption that only state independence, or, as Arsache called it, “a complete union” of Moldavia and Wallachia, could bring about the economic regeneration of the principalities. He thanked the European powers for their past support for the cause of the principalities while urging for one final endorsement.166 However, on this last point Becke could not disagree more. In a letter addressed to his superiors at the ministry of foreign affairs in Vienna, he called Arsache’s speech tactless. The festivities were not an appropriate occasion to debate the political future of the principalities.167 Since the Austrian government was the only Great Power to have fiercely opposed the union between 164 Discours par M. A. Arsaki [Arsache], Ministre des Affairs Etrangères de Roumanie, Galatz, September 8, 1861, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-53, 232. 165 Becke to Rechberg Rothenlöwen, Galatz, September 8, 1861, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-53, 231. 166 Discours par M. A. Arsaki, 232. 167 Becke to Rechberg Rothenlöwen, 231.

175

Chapter 3

the two principalities, the Austrian commissioner was particularly annoyed by Arsache’s plea for more sovereignty rights.168 But generally, the commissioners tried to keep controversy out of the official program. After Arsache’s speech, to use Becke’s words, “no further dissonance or disturbance occurred” and the ceremony ended with toasts to Sultan Abdulaziz, Governor Rashid Pasha, Hospodar Cuza, and the Treaty of Paris. Accompanying the toasts, warships fired cannon salutes. A mullah and the local Greek bishop performed a joint religious ceremony, providing the audience with an uplifting proof of tolerance.169 All other participants visibly made efforts to create an atmosphere of harmony at the mouth of the Danube. Despite their agreement on the positive developments in the delta, the speakers used the ceremony to state their own political interests. Commissioner Becke, who spoke for the entire commission, did not fail to add an Austrian touch to his talk by emphasizing the importance of the Treaty of Vienna in establishing international river commissions. As he later explained to his superiors, his intention had been to underline the exceptional status of the ECD and remind the audience that the management of the Danube, like that of any other international river, should lie exclusively in the hands of the riverine states.170 This was just a side remark, nevertheless it reflected the core of Austrian policy toward the ECD in its early years. The Romanian foreign minister went even further, building his whole speech around the plea for territorial sovereignty. It can be assumed that Arsache deliberately risked upsetting some of his listeners, since this was one of the few opportunities for a Romanian minister to address such a distinguished group of international representatives all at once. However, the spirit of mutual understanding at the inauguration was more than an act put on by the participants to show a united commission representing a new international order at the Lower Danube. Hartley’s success had silenced many of his critics, both among his peers and in the diplomatic corps, boosting the international standing of the commission.171 Thus, the involved actors were more than willing to forget what now seemed minor or past disagreements and to fully embrace the common cause of making the 168 Schulz, Normen und Praxis, 427–39. 169 Ibid., 230. 170 Ibid., 231. 171 Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 129–30.

176

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

Danube navigable. The most obvious bond they shared was a belief in the beneficial effects of free trade. Although the concept of free trade started out as a policy that primarily served the interests of the British Empire, the Lower Danube created a context in which the other Great Powers convinced themselves that dismantling trade barriers was particularly advantageous for importing large quantities of grain. It was also the most efficient way to administer trade in a region that lacked an efficient administrative body. Increased trade revenues provided the European powers with an incentive to find a mutually acceptable international system of rule in the Danube Delta. And because free trade was also perceived as having broader emancipatory effects, such as advancing “backward” regions socially and economically, the government of the principalities embraced it as an opportunity to obtain access to its own resources and reorganize the economy. Thus, the newly found harmony at the ceremony was not just a performance for the audience, but displayed the mutually shared conviction that free trade would bring benefits to all. Conclusion The Crimean War was an important turning point in the history of the Lower Danube. At first, just like previous confrontations along the Danube, it significantly boosted the production of knowledge about the river. Engineers, hydrologists, and cartographers accompanied the European armies taking part in the war, surveying and describing the Iron Gates and the delta. Furthermore, war was again a unique opportunity for outsiders to obtain unrestricted access to the Danube without supervision or restrictions imposed by the territorial powers. These forays aimed not only to assess the status quo on the river and increase knowledge about certain spots, but to alter physical conditions and even build new infrastructures. However, due to the brevity of the war, these interventions remained very localized, such as the blasting operations at the Iron Gates. The most valuable output of these endeavors was a highly concentrated and specialized body of knowledge that was more detailed than previous surveys and would serve as a basis for future, more comprehensive, engineering interventions. The most significant postwar change concerned the commitment of the Great Powers to the Danube. While the Final Act of Vienna of 1815 had 177

Chapter 3

singled out the Rhine as the first river on which international cooperation would be enforced, the Crimean War brought the Danube to the attention of the Concert of Europe. However, the Treaty of Paris of 1856 diverged from the way in which the Final Act had laid down the rules for cooperation on the Rhine. The British and French governments used their military victory in the Crimean War to increase their influence in the region. By formally accepting the Ottoman Empire into the Concert of Europe, the other Great Powers took the liberty of prescribing certain rules of conduct to the new member. They guaranteed the Ottoman possessions on the Lower Danube, including the delta, but at the same time pressured the Ottoman government into accepting two international commissions on the river. In other words, although the European Great Powers moved toward more cooperation on the Lower Danube, the type of cooperation institutionalized by the river commissions was not an equal partnership but sanctioned the interventionist policy of the Concert of Europe on Ottoman territory. Thus, the emergence of a liberal international order on the Lower Danube followed an imperialist thinking. The goal of the first commission, the Riverine Commission, was to foster cooperation among the riparian states and to ensure the freedom of navigation. To achieve this, the commission elaborated a unitary status for the Danube that dismantled trade barriers and at the same time protected certain exclusive rights of the riparian states, such as specific tariffs and inland navigation. This balancing act between local interests and international concerns met with fierce opposition from the non-riparian Great Powers which perceived the new Navigation Act as a threat to their trade interests on the Lower Danube. Faced with such formidable opposition, the commission dropped the Navigation Act, failing to institute a common regulation for the river. In addition, the Ottoman Empire gave up any further attempt to protect its territorial rights on the Lower Danube, allowing all states unrestricted access. Consequently, the other Great Powers enforced this special status on the Ottoman Danube, setting it not only apart from the waterway’s upper Habsburg course, but also from the way other international rivers, like the Rhine, were managed. The ECD, the second commission, placed the challenge of regulating the mouth of the Danube into the hands of a transnational community of hydraulic experts. In this way, the Danube Delta ceased to belong to the 178

From Confrontation to Cooperation: T he Crimea n War a nd Its A f termath

Russian, Ottoman, or Habsburg sphere of influence, but became a space where diplomats and technical specialists from all across Europe met and exchanged ideas. While trying to solve the engineering problems at the confluence, diplomats and engineers from different states learned to work together, pushing for a common agenda that sometimes contradicted the instructions they had received from their governments. Increasingly, they identified with their work in the ECD to gradually become its first cohort of bureaucrats. Thus, technical cooperation at the confluence was more successful than the initial attempt to create a unitary legal status for the entire navigable Danube. Under the initiative of British representatives, cooperation between the empires worked here because the ECD provided a platform for a new type of imperialism that managed navigation very differently to a territorial power. Under the banner of free trade, the European Great Powers set out to internationalize a physical and administrative choke point in order to enable the free flow of goods and ships. By improving the water depth at the bar, the ECD transformed the mouth of the Danube into a point of access for the European Great Powers through which they could pursue their economic interests. As such, the commission did not follow a centralizing goal—i.e., to consolidate the territorial power of one state—but increased the connectivity of the Lower Danube through enabling transcontinental shipping for the benefit of all the European Great Powers. However, fixing the passage between the river and the sea was just one piece in the puzzle of ensuring a steady flow of shipping. A far more difficult task that the ECD tackled next was to impose a new legal status that would authorize the commission to be solely in charge of the maritime Danube and consequently institutionalize an international free trade regime. Like in the previous chapter, the key figure in the aftermath of the Crimean War was also an engineer, namely Charles Hartley, the technical manager of the ECD. The completion of his piers boosted the international prestige of the newly founded and openly questioned commission. His operation succeeded because he positioned himself as a “mediator” among the various interests and claims that were attached to the project. Working in a volatile setting, he proved capable of adapting his original designs to the shifting political, financial, and environmental constraints that pressured him to new solutions. Hartley thrived because his technical solutions catered to the needs of the non-territorial powers in the delta and was a first step 179

Chapter 3

in the internationalization of this commercial hub. In addition, he worked alongside “nature” at the bar in order to erect constructions that were complementary to the natural forces at play there. If the technical mission of the ECD had been “to conquer” the mouth of the Danube and the power of his engineers laid in their ability to “tame” nature, Hartley’s method emphasized a cooperative approach that let “nature” contribute to the outcome. This did not mean that the new piers were not invasive, only that the physical reshaping of the Lower Danube advanced after a lengthy negotiation process overseen by Hartley. Besides, there was a key distinction to the way his Habsburg peer, Vásárhelyi, succeeded at the Iron Gates. While they both shared the same close tie to political decision makers and the ability to exploit a favorable moment to their advantage, Hartley had the benefit of working from within an international organization that enabled him, as the next chapter will show, to convert this momentum into a long-term working program.

180

Ch a p t e r 4

The Danube Delta: A Success in Internationa l Ruling

O

n May 2, 1890, Čedomilj Mijatović, the Serbian ambassador in London, attended a session of the Royal Society of Arts and listened to a lecture by Lieutenant-General Sir John Stokes, the former long-time British commissioner at the ECD. Stokes praised the accomplishments of the commission during its more than forty years of existence, focusing mainly on how engineering works had improved international trade on the Danube. Mijatović thanked the commissioner for his positive appraisal of the ECD, reminding the audience that the commission had faced very little prospect of success when it was founded in the aftermath of the Crimean War: Sir John Stokes had narrated very clearly what had been accomplished by the Commissioners, but as he [Mijatović] had the honor of representing Servia at the Conference of 1871 in London, on the Danubian and Black Sea question, it necessitated his making himself acquainted with the working of the European Commission on the Sulina, and he was much struck with the difficulties which presented themselves, and the small amount of faith in the success of the undertaking which was displayed by the Great Powers. Sir John Stokes, however, could well afford to forget the difficulties experienced at the beginning, in view of the magnificent results which had been attained. He hoped the river Danube, which from the time of the Emperor Trajan up till now had been mostly known in connection with war, and the crossing and recrossing of great armies, would in future be more connected with the

181

Chapter 4

progress of civilization, and with the commerce which the engineering arts had now rendered possible.1

The following chapter traces the thorny path of the commission to becoming the single ruling body on the maritime Danube. The ECD, as one of the first international organizations founded to pacify a region after a major armed conflict, had a clear-cut mission: to improve the shipping passage between the river and the sea. The Treaty of Paris that settled the Crimean War gave the commission a two-year term to fulfil this goal. The seven commissioners started their work in the belief that reversing the silting at the mouth of the Danube would be enough to ensure smooth shipping traffic. After the successful completion of the first engineering project at the Sulina mouth in 1861, the commission was to be dissolved. Against this backdrop, this chapter shows that the longer the members of the ECD spent on the shores of the Lower Danube, the more they realized that in order to guarantee suitable conditions for free trade, they needed to replace their “informal” control of navigation with a formal form of rule in the delta. In the following years, a growing number of commissioners started to argue that the ECD should stay in place and a comprehensive settlement be adopted to tackle legal and administrative issues. The outcome of this discussion was the so-called Public Act, adopted in 1865, in which the ECD codified navigation rules for the Danube Delta. In many ways, it emulated the path taken by the Central Commission of the Rhine, where the delegates of the riverine states handed over to the commission the authority to implement policies and enforce rules across national borders.2 During the first ten years of its activity, the ECD evolved from an organization with only technical and financial responsibilities into a body that also had legislative power and administrative duties. However, unlike the commission on the Rhine in which only the riverine states shared responsibilities, the Public Act for the delta strengthened the rights of the European See discussion part in John Stokes, “The Danube and Its Trade,” Journal of the Society of Arts 38, no. 1954 (1890): 583. 2 Robert Mark Spaulding, “Institutional Antecedents of European Integration,” in Zentralkommission für die Rheinschifffahrt, https://www.ccr-zkr.org/11010200-de.html (accessed on May 21, 2019); Guido Thiemeyer and Isabel Tölle, “Supranationalität im 19. Jahrhundert? Die Beispiele der Zentralkommission für die Rheinschifffahrt und des Octroivertrages 1804–1832,” Journal of European Integration History 17, no. 2 (2011): 177–96. 1

182

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

Great Powers while limiting the influence of the Ottoman Empire, the only territorial power at that time. Even after 1878, when the delta came under Romanian rule, the ECD continued to be the only administrative body to handle navigation on the maritime Danube, stifling any attempts by the new territorial power to claim the river as its own. In other words, the type of cooperation introduced to the shores of the Danube by the ECD endorsed the economic and strategic interests of the Concert of Europe to the detriment of the local sovereign states, namely the Ottoman Empire and its successors. In order to legitimize their control of the delta, the European Great Powers considered themselves harbingers of order and civilization to the region.3 However, the non-territorial powers were careful not to rule by force, but to forge compromises whenever possible and award incentives for “good behavior.”4 In general, the work of the ECD reflected the commitment of the Great Powers to manage problems and often divided interests collectively in Europe.5 In this context, I argue that while the governments of the Great Powers provided the commission with a robust backing, it was the work of the commissioners in Galatz that determined the fate of the ECD. Specifically, the initiative to codify “rules of conduct” for ships and people in the delta resulted from their understanding that in order to ensure fluid traffic on this busy river segment, a direct form of government was the only viable solution. Eventually, the institutionalization process that started within the commission transformed the ECD into a fully-fledged international organization. By tracking this process, this chapter offers insights into the “inner workings” of the ECD as an international organization and the conditions under which the first generation of commissioners were able to agree on an international settlement that reorganized Danubian shipping traffic. And although the “internationalization” of the Lower Danube was forged locally, it was one that pinned international linkages against local concern. 3 Yao, “‘Conquest from Barbarism,’” 335–37. 4 Matthias Schulz, “Cultures of Peace and Security from the Vienna Congress to the Twenty-First Century: Characteristics and Dilemmas,” in Securing Europe After Napoleon: 1815 and the New European Security Culture, edited by Beatrice de Graaf, Ido de Haan, and Brian Vick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 22. 5 Beatrice de Graaf, Ido de Haan and Brian Vick, “Vienna 1815. Introducing a European Security Culture,” in Securing Europe After Napoleon: 1815 and the New European Security Culture, edited by Beatrice de Graaf, Ido de Haan and Brian Vick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 5.

183

Chapter 4

This international grip on the maritime Danube not only introduced a new form of government to the delta but also institutionalized the ensuing technical transformation of the river. The initial engineering success and administrative continuity gave the technical employees of the ECD time to establish complex river management and the opportunity to experiment with more daring schemes to improve navigability. The concepts of “free trade” and “free navigation” provided engineers with an ideological framework in which they could shape the river in such a way that it “complied” with the needs of navigation, namely to increase the speed and capacity of ships crossing from the river to the sea. The ECD imposed an international mandate that aimed at rebuilding the last segment of the Danube to form an artificial canal where humans could control the river’s flow, ensuring the fluidity of traffic. Thus, besides enabling the integration of Danubian trade into larger commercial networks, the technical interventions together transformed the river itself into a unit of infrastructure whose main purpose was to convey ships in a fast and reliable manner. Provisional Regulations for the Delta During its first two-year term, the ECD did not deal with any administrative issues in the delta. Its only task, as stated in the Treaty of Paris, was to conduct technical works to improve navigation in the confluence. The ECD was created as a provisional institution that within two years would make place for the Riverine Commission to permanently administer navigation on the entire navigable Danube.6 In other words, while the ECD was searching for the best technical solution to improve navigation in the delta area, the Riverine Commission drafted a first administrative regulation designed to impose binding rules for all ships navigating the river. At first, none of the representatives of the Great Powers felt the need to alter the division of tasks between the two commissions. However, when in 1859 the ECD’s term was extended for another two years, the European cabinets became aware that the commission might be in place for longer than previously assumed. In addition, the ECD commissioners realized they could not continue their technical work without establishing at least some temporary rules of con6

“General Treaty of Peace, 30th March, 1856,” 179.

184

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

duct for the ships passing through the delta. Due to the increased shipping traffic at the mouth of the Danube, the lack of administrative regulations had turned into a problem. This problem intensified when several European cabinets refused to recognize the first version of the Navigation Act drafted by the Riverine Commission.7 The controversy surrounding the Navigation Act and uncertainty about the future of the Riverine Commission induced the members of the ECD to issue provisional rules for pilots and the river police, as well as port regulations. The process of establishing specific rules of conduct for ships crossing the delta started very cautiously in 1857, and it took several years for the first regulations to be drafted. In early 1857, the British foreign secretary, Lord Clarendon, voiced his conviction that the ECD should adopt navigation regulations for the delta: “HM Government further considers that it is most desirable to assume that the duty of preparing a permanent regulation touching the navigation of the Danube is one of the functions of the European Commission although it is hardly to be collected from the words of the treaty.”8 Clarendon argued that such a legal document should invest the ECD with the authority to oversee shipping passing from the river to the sea.9 Reacting to Clarendon’s letter and the attached memorandum, the Austrian minister of trade, Georg von Toggenburg, stated that the British suggestion infringed on the provisions of the Paris Treaty. He added that Austria could not accept such a change which would mean that the ECD would assume a prerogative reserved exclusively for the riverine states.10 Because the ECD had no official mandate to set up administrative rules, several commissioners opposed this endeavor. Austrian commissioner Becke tried, and partially succeeded, to obstruct the negotiations by referring to the Paris Peace Treaty that gave the ECD no legislative authority.11 The drafting process was further delayed due to the fierce opposition of the Ottoman commissioner and the local Ottoman administration of the delta. While negotiating a contract with the Ottoman Empire as the territorial power, a difference of opinion arose between the British commissioner, 7 See chapter 3. 8 Clarendon to Seymour, London, April 29, 1857 (copy), AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-50. 9 Ibid. 10 Toggenburg to Buol, Vienna, May, 20, 1857, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-50. 11 Bitter to Manteuffel, Galatz, November 27, 1857, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5716.

185

Chapter 4

Stokes, who thought that the costs of the police and port administration should be paid by the “navigation,” in form of a shipping toll, and the ECD and the Ottoman commissioner, Omer Fevzi Pasha, who insisted that costs should be paid directly by the Ottoman state. Finally, it was Austrian Becke who mediated between the British and Ottoman positions by reminding his colleagues that the ECD was limited to a two-year mandate. In practice, this meant that although the commission was not charged with seeking a permanent remedy, it could draft provisional regulations to ensure the smooth operation of navigation for the time being.12 Further, the Prussian commissioner, Bitter, accused the Ottoman commissioner of “territorial formalism” (Territorialformalismus), meaning that he was attempting to block any decision of the ECD that could infringe the territorial sovereignty of the Ottoman Empire.13 In other words, while the Ottoman diplomats were very cooperative in their dealings with the Great Powers when the proceedings of the peace treaty were discussed in Paris, during the day-to-day negotiations in the ECD the Ottoman commissioner opposed any regulation that could potentially restrict the empire’s sovereignty. Commissioner Bitter reminded his Ottoman counterpart that the ECD had not been established because the Ottomans allowed it, but was endorsed by a European peace treaty and thus sanctioned by European public law.14 In his opinion, the Ottoman delegate had only one vote out of seven and must accept the decisions of the majority on the delta. Bitter also accused his Ottoman counterpart of behaving in a dictatorial manner that was unworthy of a person in an international position.15 However, the relationship between the Ottoman state as the territorial power, and the ECD, in which the Ottoman government had just one representative among seven, was far more complicated than the Prussian diplomat cared to admit. The main problem was that due to the temporary mandate of the ECD, the Treaty of Paris did not clearly specify the rights of the commission vis à vis the local authority. The other powers, for example, clashed with the Ottoman representative over a new provisional regulation for the work of pilots. The Prussian representative had asked for a Navigation Act 12 CED, Protocole No. XXII (April 8, 1857). 13 Bitter to Manteuffel, Galatz, March 12, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5717. 14 Bitter to Manteuffel, Galatz, November 27, 1857, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5716. 15 Ibid.

186

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

(Schiffahrts-Acte) with comprehensive stipulations regulating the maritime traffic on the Lower Danube and the delta, but settled for much less.16 In February 1858, the ECD finally adopted a provisional regulation for the pilotage service (Réglement provisoire de pilotage).17 The Ottoman commissioner, Omer Fevzi Pasha, accused his colleagues of having adopted the new rules behind his back while he was on leave in Constantinople.18 Next to this informal protest, he also submitted an official complaint in which he emphasized that organizing the pilotage service was the exclusive right of his government. He further specified that the service could not hire foreign pilots, nor could another foreign body interfere with its work, and only the Ottoman port captain of Sulina was entitled to name pilots without the approval of the ECD.19 In response to his complaint, the ECD’s administrative committee (to which the French, Prussian, and Austrian commissioners belonged) accepted that only Ottoman subjects would be hired as pilots. Furthermore, the committee agreed that all pilots were to be subordinated to the Ottoman port captain. However, the committee rejected claims that the ECD had no right to interfere in the activity of the pilots and emphasized the commission’s role in reorganizing the pilot corps after the Crimean War. The ECD had imposed the use of the pilotage service at the bar in Sulina as mandatory and compiled a first general catalogue of their duties. Thus, it would be unfair not to mention the commission’s pivotal role in setting up a reliable pilotage service. The ECD would reserve the right to monitor the proper working of the service in the future.20 All in all, the response conveyed a very conciliatory attitude toward the Ottoman Empire. In a personal exchange with Bitter, Omer Pasha admitted that he had been instructed by his government to protest vehemently against the ECD’s interference in the pilotage service, but he personally chose a much milder tone than used in his instructions. He further told Bitter that his government was worried that the two river commissions infringed on the territorial rights of the Ottoman Empire. His government feared not only the growing European influence, but particularly the power exercised by Austria over the 16 Ibid. 17 CED, Protocole No. LIX (October 9, 1857). 18 Bitter to Manteuffel, Galatz, March 12, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5717. 19 CED, Annexe no. 1 au Protocole No. LXXVIII (February 27, 1858). 20 CED, Annexe no. 2 au Protocole No. LXXVIII (March 13, 1858).

187

Chapter 4

entire navigable Danube.21 It seemed that the common front formed by the two riverine states (the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires) against the nonriverine states in the Riverine Commission was not that united. This discrepancy can be explained by the fact that in the Danube Delta, Austria, like the other members of the ECD, was a non-riverine state. In the fierce battle that would follow between the Ottomans, trying to protect their territorial rights, and the ECD, imposing its authority in the delta, the Habsburg Empire started to side with the non-territorial European powers. This dispute further coalesced around the authority of the port captain. The following incident that occurred on June 3, 1858, in the port of Sulina shows in a nutshell the nature of this conflict. After returning from the sea to the Sulina harbor, Prussian commissioner Bitter found his Austrian colleague Becke aboard the Sardinian warship Anthion. Becke informed him that the port captain of Sulina had refused to come on board to meet him and pay his respects. In his reply, the captain insisted that instead Becke should come to his office and register his return.22 Bitter was outraged by the captain’s behavior as he considered him an official subordinated to the commission. He then sent one of the commission’s secretaries to the captain’s office requesting a meeting at the earliest convenience. Bitter described the captain, Kostachi Sartinsky, who left this request unanswered, as able but extremely rude.23 As it happened, Omer Pasha was away in Constantinople and after his return refused to get involved. Finally, on July 23, the administrative committee decided to lodge an official complaint against the port captain—the letter was also signed by the British commissioner. In response, Omer Pasha defended the port captain and made his future stay in the commission dependent on whether the captain would retain his position. In Bitter’s opinion, the conflict came down to the issue of whether it was acceptable for two members of the commission to be offended by the insolence (Anmaßung) of a local Ottoman official. At first glance, this conflict seems trivial. Nevertheless, the incident exemplifies the tensions between the Ottoman authorities and the commission. It also shows that both parties had a different understanding of this relationship. The port captain saw himself as an Ottoman official subordinated only 21 Bitter to Manteuffel, Galatz, March 12, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5717. 22 Bitter to Manteuffel, Galatz, August 3, 1858, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5717. 23 Ibid.

188

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

to higher Ottoman authorities. Hence, he regarded Omer Pasha as his superior, but not the other commissioners. Bitter noticed that whenever Omer Pasha arrived in Sulina, the port captain came out to greet him officially.24 He did not treat the other commissioners with the same respect. Judging from this behavior, the Austrian and Prussian commissioners concluded that the captain did not recognize the authority of the commission to its full extent.25 Whether or not the port captain was ultimately discharged remains unclear from this correspondence, however, Omer Pasha softened his opposition toward his colleagues and agreed to a limited degree of involvement on the part of the ECD in administrative decisions. For instance, while he still considered the regulation of the pilotage service an exclusive territorial right, he accepted—on a temporary basis—the ECD’s participation in the choice of the pilots.26 Subsequently, the ECD unanimously adopted several other provisional regulations that settled issues such as the use of the towpath and the dues at the bar.27 A more comprehensive attempt to provide navigation in the delta with its own international legislation was adopted on June 27, 1860, in the form of the new provisional river police regulation, after a long and controversial debate.28 During the dispute, Prussian commissioner Bitter acknowledged that the ECD had no explicit mandate to draft such a regulation—a task that was entrusted exclusively to the Riverine Commission.29 However, the Riverine Commission had failed to complete this task, moreover, the Navigation Act of 1857 was incomplete und utterly inappropriate for regulating traffic in the delta. Bitter and his colleagues were well aware that the lack of international recognition for the Danube Navigation Act had weakened the ability of the Riverine Commission to administer river navigation on its own.30 Thus, he urged that the ECD should take over this task, at least until the jurisdiction of navigation in the Danube Delta was settled permanently. He further hinted 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid. 26 CED, Annexe au Protocole No. LXXXVII (September 1, 1858). 27 CED, Annexe No. II au Protocole XC (November 24, 1858). 28 Provisorisches Reglement, betreffend die Schiffahrts-Polizei auf der unteren Donau zwischen Isaktscha und Sulina, Preußisches Handelsarchiv: Wochenschrift für Handel, Gewerbe und Verkehrsanstalten (Berlin: Decker, 1861), 280–83. 29 Bitter to Schleinitz, Galatz, February 10, 1860, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5722. 30 Ibid.

189

Chapter 4

at the weakness of the Ottoman administration, which in his opinion had failed to control river traffic since it took over the delta after the ceasefire in 1856. The increasing number of ships crossing the bar within the past years had only highlighted the inability of the local authority to impose binding rules for navigation. The high number of shipwrecks in particular, and various cases of insurance fraud, had caught the attention of the ECD, so that finally the Ottoman commissioner agreed to a new police regulation, as long it remained temporary.31 The result was an exhaustive document that covered a wide range of issues, including rules of conduct for passing ships and for the use of towage services, and a standardized procedure for dealing with stranded or sunken vessels.32 The local Ottoman authority was in charge of upholding this regulation, but was to be assisted by the warships of the Great Powers stationed in the proximity of the Sulina bar.33 The commission’s ambition was to establish a regulation that tackled all navigational challenges specific to the delta.34 In upholding territorial rights, the Ottoman commissioner became increasingly isolated among his peers who argued in favor of granting the ECD administrative powers in order to protect international shipping traffic. By the early 1860s, Ottoman resistance had been slowly worn down and Omer Pasha joined his fellow delegates in endorsing a comprehensive though provisional river police regulation, allowing the ECD to extend a firm grip over the delta. The work of any commissioner, and in particular that of Omer Pasha, was a delicate balancing act between the interests of his government and the smooth running of the commission’s affairs. The conciliatory attitude he displayed toward his colleagues was just a first hint that he perceived his role in the ECD not exclusively as an envoy of his government but also as a diplomat representing an international organization. As the following shipping accident on the Sulina channel would show, the other commissioners also increasingly identified themselves with the international institution whose interests they upheld in the delta. Furthermore, this incident provided new evidence that navigation in the delta needed strong legislation to ensure the fair treatment of all involved parties. 31 Ibid. 32 Provisorisches Reglement, betreffend die Schiffahrts-Polizei, 280–83. 33 Ibid., 283. 34 Bitter to Schleinitz, Galatz, February 10, 1860, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5722.

190

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

The Public Act on Navigation The following incident proved how important the regulation of shipping was. On the evening of November 21, 1860, the Austrian towing steamer Mars collided in the Sulina channel with the steamer Smyrna belonging to the Greek Oriental Company registered in Galatz. The Mars was heavily damaged and started sinking shortly after the collision. The Austrian Danube Steam Navigation Company, to whom the steamer belonged, blamed the crew of the Smyrna for the accident and asked for compensation to the amount of 22,000 pounds sterling. Because the propeller was traveling under a British flag, the claim was handled by the British consulate in Galatz. With the British consul acting as the sole judge, the trial started with some delay in June the next year.35 The charge brought forward by the Austrians was that the propeller had disregarded article 7 of the provisional police regulation adopted by the ECD, which stipulated that when two vessels coming from different directions approach each other, both should give way to the right. However, the main contentious issue was not whether the crew of the propeller had violated this law, but rather whether a British court was obliged to recognize this international regulation. The British lawyer defending the crew of the propeller argued that British subjects could only be prosecuted according to British law, even if the offense had taken place in a different state. He further added that Britain had not yet ratified this particular regulation. And finally, he pointed out that the ECD was not entitled to issue administrative documents pertaining to the delta in the first place.36 The Austrian lawyer then called the British commissioner at the ECD, Major Stokes, to the stand who declared under oath that he had been authorized by his government to negotiate and adopt such a regulation. He further emphasized that the ECD was not entitled to issue permanent regulations, only temporary ones, which were none the less binding. He therefore recommended that the court recognize the river police regulation adopted by the ECD. However, his plea was not accepted by Judge Ward, who insisted that the case should be tried according to British law only and rejected the charge against the Greek and Oriental Company.37 35 Becke to Rechberg-Rothenlöwen, Galatz, October 16, 1861, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-53, 716–720. 36 Ibid., 722. 37 Ibid., 224.

191

Chapter 4

After the lost trial, the Austrian commissioner, Becke, advised his superiors in the ministry of foreign affairs to protest this arbitrary decision. As a result, in December 1861, the Austrian ambassador in London, Count Apponyi, presented a memorandum to John Russell, the British secretary of state for foreign affairs, regarding the validity of the police regulations issued by the ECD for navigation in the Danube Delta. Russell replied that he had submitted the matter to the law officers of the Crown and would immediately communicate their report to the Austrian ambassador.38 It would take almost three years for the Austrian authorities to receive an official reply. The report informed the Austrian government that in March 1862, the British government had recognized the validity of the provisional police regulations issued by the ECD. However, the collision of the Mars and the Smyrna had occurred prior to this date and thus the regulations had no relevance in that particular case.39 The report also lectured the Austrian government on the British rule of law which prevented the government from giving any directions on how to interpret the law and from directing orders to judges active in the consular courts in the Levant.40 The collision between the Mars and the Smyrna showed that the Danube Delta largely remained an unregulated area where reckless behavior often went unpunished. In this sense, not only the unpredictable physical conditions threatened the safety of ships but also the lack of binding rules of conduct in such a narrow and overcrowded channel. Furthermore, for the time being no institution was strong enough to impose such rules. In the first years after the Crimean War, the ECD and the local Ottoman administration only hindered each other. The ECD interfered more and more in local administrative duties without international backing for such behavior. Even when the commission adopted the much-needed river police regulation, it took several years for these stipulations to be ratified by the seven governments represented in the commission. And once the governments had recognized this international ruling, national laws still took precedence. Although the British reaction gave little hope for the success of the Austrian compensation claim, it highlighted not only several legal loopholes in the delta but also the fact that the ECD was gaining more and more 38 Bloomfield to Mensdorff-Pouilly, Vienna, November 30, 1864, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-53, 796. 39 Ibid., 797. 40 Ibid., 798.

192

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

power locally, alongside international recognition. In the early 1860s, the ECD moved slowly from having the exclusive task of coordinating an engineering project toward assuming combined responsibility that included technical, administrative, and legal duties. Furthermore, these duties took on a more enduring character, turning from provisional stipulations into a more permanent state of affairs. Thus, the success of Hartley’s first regulation project in the summer of 1861 gave way to a comprehensive debate on the future of the ruling administrative mechanism in the delta. Shortly after Hartley’s piers were inaugurated, the commission tackled the thorny issue of whether the mandate of the ECD should be terminated or prolonged.41 Hartley’s success in making the Sulina passage navigable, after so many other experts and administrators had failed before, boosted the commission’s prestige. This technical achievement also increased the commissioners’ leverage with the political decision-makers in their home countries. In addition, the legislative process embarked on by the ECD changed the way the seven commissioners perceived their work. Over the years, they stopped debating exclusively in the name of their governments and took on a stance that endorsed the ECD as an independent, international institution. The negotiations inside the commission that achieved various compromises influenced the way the commissioners perceived their role, namely not only as mediators between various conflicting parties, but also as the representatives of a common European enterprise. This explains why, in a British court, Commissioner Stokes defended the public international law instituted by the commission. Likewise, the Austrian and Ottoman commissioners endorsed these regulations although their superiors had instructed them to limit the actions of the ECD to technical operations. However, though both commissioners agreed that the commission should take up administrative duties, they were highly critical of regarding the ECD as anything but a temporary institution. Hartley’s piers had not even been officially inaugurated when the French commissioner, Edouard Engelhardt, seconded by his Russian colleague, Henrik d’Offenberg, put the question of the dissolution of the ECD on the agenda of a meeting which took place on June 21, 1861.42 The discus41 Becke to Rechberg Rothenlöwen, Galatz, August 10, 1861, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-53, 198. 42 Ibid., 199.

193

Chapter 4

sion among the seven representatives evolved in such a way that they decided to replace the planned closing act or ceremony (acte de clôture) with a public act regarding navigation at the mouth of the Danube (acte public relatif à la navigation des embouchures).43 This change would eventually mark a major turning point in the activity of the commission, but started with a slight shift away from the clear-cut termination of the ECD. The British commissioner, who represented a government most interested in maintaining European control over the Danube Delta, pushed for the change.44 The commission was to finalize its mandate by issuing an overarching legal document that would summarize and unify all the previous regulations adopted by the commission. Most of the commissioners agreed to participate in drafting this document precisely because it was to be its last. Austrian commissioner Becke explained to his superiors that the decision represented a “lesser evil.” He was well aware that the rapid termination of the ECD was out of the question because the Riverine Commission was not in a position to replace it.45 As a matter of fact, the Riverine Commission had not assembled since 1858 when its Navigation Act had been rejected by the non-riverine Great Powers.46 Becke hoped that in the meantime the Riverine Commission would resume its activity and the management of the Danube would return to the riverine states. However, a Danube without any commission was not a desirable state either; Becke believed that only an international body could ensure safety and fair interaction in a place where so many divergent interests overlapped. His goal remained, nevertheless, to make sure that the ECD would be temporary.47 The reasoning of the Prussian commissioner went along the same lines: the temporary extension of the ECD was acceptable given the goal of formulating a navigation act summarizing its past activity.48 All the commissioners were working hard toward a compromise to satisfy both those who wanted to keep the ECD in place and those pushing for its speedy termination. There was a sense that only a unanimous decision was appropriate 43 Ibid., 216. 44 Ardeleanu, Evoluția intereselor britanice, 97–98. 45 Becke to Rechberg Rothenlöwen, Galatz, August 10, 1861 OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-53, 214. 46 Ardeleanu, Evoluția intereselor britanice, 97. 47 Becke to Rechberg Rothenlöwen, Galatz, August 10, 1861, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-53, 215. 48 Saint Pierre to Schleinitz, Galatz, August 21, 1861, GStA, III. HA MdÄ, II Nr. 5722.

194

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

to conclude the ECD’s mission, and none of the commissioners dared to disturb the newly achieved harmony that Hartley’s success had brought about.49 Over the next few months, the commission concentrated all its efforts on preparing the Public Act. Especially the French, Austrian, and British representatives worked under intense pressure so that the document could be presented to the plenum on December 2, 1861. There, it encountered the fierce opposition of the Ottoman representative who thought that the document severely interfered into Ottoman sovereignty.50 Just a few months later, harmony was no longer a priority for Omer Pasha, who refused to sign the act. The resolution of the famously contentious issue of whether the ECD was entitled to interfere in the territorial rights of the Ottoman state went into a decisive phase. The Ottoman commissioner argued from the perspective of the “territorial power” (puissance territoriale), insisting that the navigation inspectors be regarded exclusively as Ottoman subjects. He referred to the Paris Peace Treaty that invested the ECD with several responsibilities, such as clearing the mouth of the Danube, establishing a table of tariffs, and collecting the toll at the bar. In his opinion, however, the ECD was not sanctioned to perform administrative duties in the delta. This right was reserved exclusively for the Ottoman Empire. Accordingly, he asked that the inspectors and other employees in the port of Sulina be appointed by and placed under the command of the Porte.51 In addition, Omer Pasha insisted that the General Inspector, similarly to the official appointed by the Rhine Commission, should only watch over (veiller) the compliance of users with the regulations and not control (surveiller) them, meaning that he should not be allowed to intervene in the name of the ECD when rules were ignored. He again claimed this last prerogative exclusively for the Ottoman Empire.52 In their response, the six other commissioners first rejected any reference to the Rhine Commission as invalid. They explained that while the Rhine Commission was composed only of riverine states, the ECD had placed the mouth of the Danube under a special international regime that justified the intervention of the Great Powers. This joint intervention also accounted for 49 Ibid. 50 CED, Protocole CXL (December 2, 1861), 26–30; Ardeleanu, Evoluția intereselor britanice, 98. 51 CED, Protocole No. CXL (December 2, 1861), 26. 52 CED, Protocole No. CXL (December 2, 1861), 27.

195

Chapter 4

the international status of the commission’s employees. Second, these employees, mainly the river police and the inspectorate, were to be paid directly from the toll rendered by ships passing the bar. This toll, however, was collected by the ECD and not by the Ottoman state, providing a further argument in support of regarding the workers as employees of the commission. Finally, the six commissioners assured Omer Pasha that this decision was not directed against the Ottoman Empire but had the sole purpose of bolstering the authority of the inspectors and the police by placing them under the direct authority of the ECD.53 In this respect, only a group of international bureaucrats could effectively uphold the principle of “freedom of navigation” and ensure the equal treatment of all vessels passing through the delta.54 Similarly, the Ottoman foreign minister, Mehmed Emin Ali Pasha, emphasized in a letter to the Austrian ambassador in Constantinople, Anton von Prokesch-Osten, that the Sublime Porte was well aware that the ECD was authorized to issue regulations because it substituted—on a temporary basis—the absent Riverine Commission until the latter would resume its activity. However, in his opinion, police regulations should not be included in the Public Act because they should be exclusively instituted by the local territorial authority and by neither of the above-mentioned commissions.55 Furthermore, he questioned the validity of the new position of a general inspector for navigation introduced by the Public Act. He explained that according to Ottoman law, the port captain of Sulina was already in charge of navigation in the Danube Delta. Thus, the activity of the general inspector under an international mandate and that of the Ottoman port captain would overlap. Moreover, he called into question the legality of the new inspectorate, describing it as an unwelcome interference in Ottoman waters.56 He concluded that according to the Treaty of Paris, the only legitimate police authority in the Danube Delta was Ottoman.57 The final decision offered a compromise to the Ottomans. The Porte would nominate the inspector general, but he and his team would be placed under 53 CED, Protocole No. CXL (December 2, 1861), 29. 54 “Public Act of the European Commission of the Danube, relative to the Navigation of the Mouths of the Danube: Signed at Galatz, November 2, 1865,” British and Foreign State Papers 55 (1864–1865): 93–94. 55 Ali Pasha to Prokesch-Osten, Constantinople, October 16, 1862, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34S.R.-53, 323. 56 Ibid., 324. 57 Ibid., 327.

196

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

the direct jurisdiction of the commission.58 Although this concerned the employment permits of only a few dozen people, the decision to place them under international law had far-reaching consequences. The British commissioner explained the decision-making process within the ECD as follows The judgements rendered by M. Drigalsky [the Inspector General], in accordance with the regulations of the Commission, were subject to an appeal by offenders against those regulations, to the European Commission of the Danube, as Supreme Court. That body, therefore, held the somewhat unusual position of legislating for the navigation, administering the laws by its agents and, finally, judging the cases on appeal. This system was confirmed and received the authority of all the Powers of Europe. It may appear somehow anomalous but it worked most satisfactorily and has never, so far as I am aware, after 37 years of its operation, given rise to any complaints.59

Simply put, the ECD held full legislative and administrative powers. Or, as stated by the French commissioner, Edouard Engelhardt: “A certains ègards, la commission a quelques-uns des attributs d’un gouvernement autonome.”60 In this sense, after the Rhine Convention, the Public Act was one of the first documents of international law to sanction the supranational character of an international organization. Furthermore, through the Public Act the intervention policy of the Great Powers was transformed into international law. Thus, as an international institution, the ECD practically replaced de facto Ottoman authority. In this respect, it resembled other international institutions created by European states on Ottoman territory, like the Conseil Sanitaire d’Alexandrie and the Conseil Supérieur de Santé in Constantinople, both founded in the mid-nineteenth century to stop the spread of infectious disease over the Mediterranean into Europe.61 The main reason for the establishment of these institutions was the intention of the European Great Powers 58 Stokes, Autobiography, 89; Public Act of the European Commission of the Danube, 100–102. 59 Stokes, Autobiography, 84. 60 Engelhardt, “Les embouchures du Danube et la commission instituée par le congrès de Paris,” 115. 61 Chiffoleau, “Entre initiation au jeu international, pouvoir colonial et mémoire nationale,” 55–74; Huber, “The Unification of the Globe by Disease?,” 453–76.

197

Chapter 4

to reform the Ottoman administration, which they perceived as unreliable, and increase its efficiency with the help of an international administrative body.62 The conclusions of the International Sanitary Conferences concerning disease prevention were first applied in Alexandria and Constantinople where standardized procedures to deal with a spreading disease were introduced.63 Besides seeking efficiency and order, international schemes that targeted the Ottoman Empire had a distinct economic motivation. It is striking that several straits situated in the Ottoman Empire, like the Dardanelles, the Bosporus, and the newly created Suez Canal were also internationalized during the nineteenth century. Specifically, points of passage to the sea became the focus of this intervention policy, underlining the importance of these channels for global commerce.64 To sum up, after the Great Powers ratified the Public Act in 1865, the legal status of the ECD improved significantly. Although it had begun as a provisional endeavor and an anomaly among river commissions, to be taken over within two years by the Riverine Commission, the ECD turned into a fully functioning organization with its own administrative body. The ECD managed to evolve from a commission focusing on a single technical problem into an international institution that supervised navigation at the mouth of the Danube. As an international settlement, the Public Act had a supranational character, meaning that the empires represented in the ECD willingly transferred part of their legislative, executive, and juridical sovereignty to a common institution. This meant in practice that whoever caused harm in the delta was judged by the commission and not in national courts. In the course of this time, the coalition of states that endorsed “freedom of navigation” prevailed and even those commissioners who at first were skeptical about the commission’s work found good reasons to endorse the Public Act. The Austrian commissioner accepted the settlement as long it was confined to the delta and did not challenge Austria’s territorial claims on the upper course of the Danube.65 By doing so, the Habsburg Monarchy repositioned its grip on the Danube from a dominant riverine state to a seem62 Huber, “The Unification of the Globe by Disease?,” 463. 63 Chiffoleau, “Entre initiation au jeu international, pouvoir colonial et mémoire nationale,” 65; Huber, “The Unification of the Globe by Disease?,” 454. 64 Paulmann, “The Straits of Europe: History at the Margins of a Continent,” 26–28. 65 CED, Protocole No. CXL (November 21, 1861).

198

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

ingly neutral Great Power. It was from this latter position that it tried to contain the British influence on the river. Still, by conceding in the first place to the British Empire, it profited from a smoothly functioning navigation in the delta. Even the Russian commissioner supported the coalition; the empire still entertained territorial claims to the mouth of the Danube and maintained economic interests in the region. Russia was among the major grain exporters through the Black Sea, with the majority of its vessels leaving the ports in Odessa or those in the Crimean Peninsula. Since the Danubian ports played only a marginal role in this export activity, commercial reasons did not impede upon the decision to sustain the ECD.66 Besides, from the Russian perspective, it was better for the delta to be under international rule than under sole Ottoman jurisdiction. Thus, economic motivation was decisive for the settlement. The Public Act transformed the mouth of the Danube into a point of access through which goods, news, and people could pass unharmed. Except for a single toll when entering or leaving the mouth, the navigation through the delta faced no other administrative or financial burdens. Further, only in case of an epidemic outbreak did ships have to observe quarantine regulations.67 The vision that united the commissioners was that of free trade and market liberalism. In other words, they “liberated” navigation from the grasp of a single empire to enable the free flow of merchandise. The internationalization of the Lower Danube in practice banished protectionist and territorial claims, replacing them with economic exploitation and integration into continental trade networks. In other words, the Public Act codified joint imperial interventionist policy under the banner of free trade. The British government had initiated this process but was joined by the other empires one by one. Ultimately, the Ottoman Empire was forced to give in to the pressure of the other states represented in the ECD and accept a settlement that restricted its rights as a territorial power.

66 From 1856, when the Russian Empire ceased to be a riparian state on the Lower Danube, its economic involvement in the area decreased. However, ECD statistics show that in 1860 fifty-seven Russian sailing ships passed the bar at Sulina; in 1865, 110 ships. “État Général et Comparatif des de Chaque Nationalité sorti du Danube durant les années 1861–1868,” CED, Protocole No. CCXXXII, Annexe No. 1 (April, 26, 1869). On the situation before 1856, see Valentin Tomuleţ, Basarabia în sistemul economic și politic al Imperiului Rus, 1812–1868 (Chişinău: Cartdidact, 2012), 431–60. 67 Ardeleanu, The European Danube Commission, 107–8.

199

Chapter 4

The work of the seven commissioners in Galatz and Sulina also provides insights into the nitty-gritty of international cooperation. By looking into their correspondence, it is possible to trace step by step how several of the commissioners changed their attitude toward their mission on the shores of the Danube. Due to the fact that they lived in close proximity which enabled frequent exchanges, they were more inclined to work with each other than their instructions permitted them to. During these first years in which the commissioners acquainted themselves with the maritime Danube and the field of hydrology (both unknown territory for most of them), they also started to reflect on their personal roles in rendering the passage to the sea navigable. Thus, most impulses to strengthen the position of the ECD as an institution came from within the commission, not only because the representatives relied on firsthand experience, but mainly because they realized that technical, political, and economic issues were intricately entangled at the mouth of the Danube. Budget Constraints After the Public Act was signed in 1865, the powers involved in the treaty of 1856 met again in Paris to decide on the fate of the ECD. Almost ten years after the end of the Crimean War, the Great Powers decided to prolong the activity of the ECD one last time for five years. During this time span, the commission was to give a permanent shape to Hartley’s provisional regulation project. Furthermore, the Great Powers sanctioned the Public Act and entrusted the commission to implement it within the next five years. Following the request of Lord Cowley, the British ambassador in Paris, the jurisdiction of the ECD was extended upstream to Galatz, the largest port on the Lower Danube.68 Finally, they instructed the commission to contract an international loan on advantageous terms to the amount of 3.3 million francs.69 Besides settling issues concerning the ECD, the Great Powers also discussed the situation of the Riverine Commission. None of the participants questioned the decision of the Treaty of Paris to appoint the Riverine 68 “Protocols of Conferences between the Plenipotentiaries of Austria, France, Great Britain, Italy, Prussia, Russia and Turkey, Protocol No. 3, Conference of 28th March, 1866,” British and Foreign State Papers 57 (1866–1867): 546–53. 69 Or the equivalent of about 350,000 pounds sterling or 250,000 Austrian ducats.

200

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

Commission as the permanent body to administer the traffic on the river. However, the Russian ambassador, Andrey Budberg, noted that since 1858, when the fate of the Riverine Commission was last discussed, the activity of the commission had been suspended. Back then, Prince Metternich had pledged, in the name of his government, to take the necessary measures for the Riverine Commission to resume its activity. The other Great Powers had expected concrete actions within six months, but nothing happened for eight years.70 The new meeting in Paris did not bring the much-hoped-for breakthrough either. This time, the participants could not agree on a specific date for the Riverine Commission to take up its work as they were waiting for the ECD to complete its technical assignment.71 Entrusted with the new five-year mandate, the ECD focused its work on giving Hartley’s provisional regulation project at Sulina a permanent form. And as recommended by the Great Powers, the commissioners began inquiries into securing an advantageous bank loan. However, the task was difficult. The ECD had always operated on a tight budget, but in 1867 it was facing a complete standstill due to a lack of funds. Up to that year, the ECD had either received loans from the Ottoman government through the Ottoman Bank or from the North German Bank in Hamburg.72 In 1865, when the Great Powers greenlighted another loan, the ECD had not yet paid back the previous ones. The ECD’s only revenue was the toll that it charged the ships passing the Sulina bar, and it would have taken years or even decades for the collected sums to cover the debt. In reviewing the ECD’s financial situation, the new Austrian commissioner, Alfred von Kremer, reported back to his government that next to the estimated cost of the new engineering works of 250,000 ducats, the commission already owed the Ottoman Empire 320,000 ducats, and by adding 20,000 ducats for other financial obligations, he calculated that its future debt would amount to 590,000 ducats.73 He further noted that although the commission was in great need of money, it had failed to secure the suggested loan. Consequently, the ECD could not start consolidation works in 1866 and it appeared that it was already too late for 70 “Protocol No. 3, Conference of 28th March, 1866,” 547. 71 Ibid., 551. 72 CED, Annexe No. 3 au Protocole No. CXVI (July 20, 1860), ECD, Protocole No. CXLIV (May 20, 1862). 73 Kremer to Beust, Galatz, February 23, 1867, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-55, 23.

201

Chapter 4

them to start in 1867. The main reason why the ECD was unable to secure the loan was because not all the signing parties of the Treaty of Paris of 1856 had provided a guarantee to support it. As a matter of fact, only the Austrian government had issued such a guarantee.74 The situation was even more critical than the Austrian commissioner had suggested. Already in October 1866, a memorandum issued by the commission stated that finding a bank willing to grant a new loan was highly unlikely.75 All the banks the commission had contacted so far had put forward similar concerns. First, as an international body, the commission eluded all jurisdiction (échappe à toute jurstiction), meaning that no state would take full responsibility if the ECD was unable to pay back its debt. Under these circumstances, banks had practically no means to sanction the commission. Second, the ECD was an institution that operated temporarily. Credit institutions feared that they would not be able to retrieve their money after the ECD’s mandate ended. And third, banks were reluctant to provide a new loan as the ECD had not yet repaid its previous debts.76 Given these circumstances, the commissioners asked the governments of the Great Powers for a collective guarantee in which all seven powers that had signed the Treaty of Paris should underwrite an equal part of the loan to the amount of 78,000 francs annually. Because each power guaranteed a specific sum, the commissioners hoped for more leverage when negotiating the loan. Alternatively, the commissioners suggested another solution: each state using the Sulina channel should directly advance funds to the ECD, which would be repaid within ten years from the dues collected at the bar. The sum to be made available by each government would represent their share in Danubian trade— the commissioners estimated that this sum would not exceed the previously mentioned amount of 78,000 francs annually.77 The French minister of foreign affairs, Lionel de Moustier, supported the idea of each power taking responsibility for an equal share of the loan and asked the Austrian government through its ambassador in Vienna, Antoine

74 Ibid., 21; see also: Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 161–65. 75 CED, Memorandum sur l’emprunt a conclure pour l’amélioration definitive de l’embouchure de Soulina (October 15, 1866), 1–5. 76 Ibid., 4. 77 Ibid., 5.

202

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

de Gramont, for a quick decision.78 The Austrian government took both proposals under consideration but waited for the other governments to react first. It did not entirely give up hope that a bank loan would be guaranteed by the Great Powers, but also accepted making the sum directly available to the ECD if the other governments did so too.79 At this point, the British government clearly favored the new proposition and even embraced a radical version of it. In a letter to the British ambassador in Vienna, Lord John Bloomfield, the foreign minister, Lord Edward Stanley, recommended that only Great Britain, France, and Austria, as the three powers most interested in supporting the ECD, should lend the money directly, without involving the other states.80 Faced with this radical solution, the Austrian minister of foreign affairs, Friedrich Ferdinand von Beust, remained undecided but favored a bank loan.81 After a few more months of negotiations, the seven commissioners signed a convention in which all the states represented in the commission guaranteed a new loan to complete the works at the Sulina mouth.82 The conditions were the following: the loan should not exceed a period of thirteen years and interest should not be higher than five percent. Furthermore, the British government agreed to deposit at the Bank of England the whole sum necessary for payment of the interest.83 In the end, this policy proved successful and in 1868 the ECD contracted a loan of approximately 3.375 million francs from the Bischoffsheim and Goldschmidt bank in London at an interest rate of four percent.84 This complicated and lengthy process of negotiation to secure a loan again underlined the precarious situation of the ECD. Despite constantly renewing its mandate, the Great Powers did not alter its temporary status. The Public Act adopted in 1865 charged the commission with administrative duties, but its main task remained technical. And as the Mars and Smyrna incident had 78 79 80 81 82

Moustier to Gramont, Paris, July 6, 1867, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-55, 116. Kremer to Beust, Galatz, February 23, 1867, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-55, 25. Stanley to Bloomfield, London, August 3, 1867, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-55, 118. Beust to Gramont, Vienna, August 30, 1867, OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-55, 120. “Convention for the Guarantee of a Loan to Complete the Works at the Sulina Mouth and Branches of the Danube, 30 April, 1868,” in British and Foreign State Papers 58 (1867–1868): 7–11. 83 Ibid., 9. 84 Krehbiel, “The European Commission of the Danube: An Experiment in International Administration,” 102–3; Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 158–64.

203

Chapter 4

shown, the ECD was a long way from imposing an international regime on the Lower Danube that was internationally recognized both by states and private companies. In addition, this episode emphasized how vulnerable the commission was financially. Already during its founding years, the commission had decided against the regulation of the St. George branch because of the projected high costs. The monetary situation of the ECD had allowed only for the provisional regulation of the Sulina mouth. And although the commission carefully considered every expense, the debt it accumulated during its first ten years of activity became a burden for its future work. The belated, though very advantageous, loan the commission finally obtained at the end of 1868 marked another major turning point in the history of international relations on the Lower Danube. It was the beginning of a period of financial stability for the ECD. Next to Hartley’s engineering project and the Public Act, the new loan signified a major step toward the commission becoming a fully-fledged institution with its own legal framework, its own staff of officials to exercise executive power, and its own budget. During the negotiation process, the Great Powers—particularly Great Britain, France, and Austria—realized that the ECD needed greater involvement on their part. In order to ensure smooth navigation in the delta, they had to endow the ECD with legal competence and financial independence. Thus, the collectively sanctioned loan boosted the commission’s standing, yet the governments of the Great Powers stopped short of settling the fate of the commission once and for all. On the Way to Permanency A new diplomatic offensive in which the Russian Empire began to question the status quo established after the Crimean War was bad news for the ECD, especially since Russian officials had asked on numerous occasions for the ECD to be terminated. In November 1870, Alexander Gorchakov, the Russian foreign minister, sent a dispatch to all signatories of the Treaty of Paris rejecting the Black Sea stipulations of the treaty.85 Taking advantage of the confusion that the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–1871 caused among 85 Barbara Jelavich, The Ottoman Empire, the Great Powers, and the Straits Question, 1870–1877 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1973), 25.

204

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

the Great Powers, the Russian Empire declared that it no longer recognized the neutrality of the Black Sea. The British government reacted first, defending the treaty of 1856. However, it soon realized that it could no longer count on the support of France, one of the main actors in the peace agreement after the Crimean War and a strong defender of the territorial integrity of the Ottoman state. Consequently, Britain agreed to a new conference of the Great Powers to discuss the Russian concerns.86 Thus, in January 1871, the delegates met in London to renegotiate the status of the Black Sea and the Lower Danube.87 The weakness of France changed the alignments among the Great Powers, leading to the rapprochement of Great Britain and Austria-Hungary, which had so often collided over the stipulations of the treaty. Less interested in the Black Sea, the Habsburg Monarchy feared that the Russian Empire might threaten the post-1856 status quo on the Danube as well. Thus, the monarchy joined the British efforts to contain Russia’s expansionist tendencies toward the Ottoman Empire. The two empires were committed to the same goal of maintaining an international mandate in the delta and tried to agree on a common strategy before the conference started.88 The British commissioner, Major Stokes, traveled to Vienna to consult with Austrian representatives on the matter. Before leaving, he strongly recommended to his superior, the new minister of foreign affairs, Lord Granville, that “the freedom of navigation on the Danube ought not to be sacrificed.” He even went so far as to suggest an enduring arrangement for the ECD. To his mind, it all came down to a simple calculation: his government should concede to Russia’s demands in the Black Sea and request a permanent status for the commission in return. Granville allowed him to carry this idea to Vienna.89 Stokes’s bold proposal was well received by the Austrian representatives. Various high officials, including Chancellor Beust, signaled that he could count on Austrian support, at least with a view to the generous extension of the ECD’s mandate until 1883 when the European guarantee for the loan to 86 Ibid., 26; Stokes, Autobiography, 102. 87 “Protocols of Conferences between Great Britain, Austria, France, Germany, Italy, Russia and Turkey relative to the Inviolability of Treaties, and the Revision of the Treaty of March 30, 1856, so far as regards to the Neutralisation of the Black Sea, the Straits of the Dardanelles and Bosporus, and the Navigation of the Danube. London, January–March, 1871,” British and Foreign State Papers 61 (1870–1871): 1193–1226. 88 Ardeleanu, Evoluţia intereselor britanice, 111. 89 Stokes, Autobiography, 103.

205

Chapter 4

the commission ended.90 Austria’s support for the British cause marked a significant shift from its previously rather cautious approach toward the commission. At its core, the Habsburg’s stance on the Danube was that in the long run the riverine states exclusively should decide its fate. The Austrian cabinet had thus rejected all previous British attempts to limit the prerogatives of the Riverine Commission. For the ECD, this meant that it should cease its activity immediately after having completed its technical assignment. By the mid-1860s, however, the Austrian representatives had come to realize how difficult it was to reinstate the Riverine Commission without international backing. In 1858, following the British-Austrian dispute at the follow-up meeting after the Treaty of Paris, this commission had practically ceased to exist. In other words, although the Habsburg Empire never entirely gave up on the possibility of the Riverine Commission resuming its activity, it also came to appreciate the ECD’s contribution to the improvement of navigation conditions in the delta. Besides, the Habsburg Monarchy had an additional reason to cooperate with Britain. It wanted to use the opportunity of a new international conference to put forward a proposal aiming to secure the sole right to conduct the river regulation works at the Iron Gates.91 The cooperation between the Habsburg and British Empires marked the beginning of a policy that aimed at consolidating the international mandate on the Danube. The Ottoman Empire was conspicuously absent from these bilateral negotiations. The British government was confident that both countries could contain Russia without Ottoman help, while the Habsburg Monarchy rightly felt that the Ottoman authorities would not easily agree to the new Iron Gates proposition which entailed foreign engineering intervention on its territory. In the light of the so-called Eastern Question, which postulated a weak Ottoman state, it can be assumed that the two empires increasingly perceived the margins of the Ottoman Empire as an area where they could easily intervene without necessitating permission. On previous occasions, the Ottoman and the Habsburg cabinets had formed an alliance that had defended the rights of the riparian states against all outsiders. However, regarding the regulation of the Iron Gates, the Ottoman authorities had repeatedly blocked any Habsburg attempt to solve the problem. In 90 Ibid., 104. 91 Ian D. Armour, “The Sensitivities of ‘Small, Backward Nations’: Austria-Hungary, Serbia and the Regulation of the Danube 1870–71,” Canadian Journal of History 47, no. 3 (2012): 529.

206

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

1871, the monarchy sided with the British Empire in the hope of being able to take charge of operations at the gorge. Negotiations during the conference became tense. In relation to the Danube, three proposals were discussed. Lord Granville introduced the first proposal to extend the term of the ECD for another twenty-six years, but stated that his government would prefer an indefinite term. The other ambassadors only accepted prolonging the commission for a fixed term.92 Austro-Hungarian ambassador Rudolph von Apponyi was alone in seconding a new term of twenty-six years, while the other ambassadors agreed to an extension of only twelve years until 1883. This limitation was finally unanimously accepted.93 Even the Russian ambassador accepted the new term without protest since the other Great Powers had already submitted to Russia’s request to station naval vessels in the Black Sea.94 Less successful was the related British suggestion to extend the jurisdiction of the ECD up to the Wallachian port of Brăila, as the point where maritime ships ended their journey. The Ottoman representative successfully blocked this proposal.95 The second issue was directly linked to the decision to revoke the neutrality of the Black Sea. Apponyi hoped that since Russian naval ships would again be allowed to navigate the sea, the number of other naval vessels protecting the mouth of the Danube could be increased. The Treaty of Paris had established that only two naval vessels per empire would guard the entrance to the Sulina mouth. Despite bringing these issues before the congress, Apponyi failed due to the energetic opposition of the Ottoman Empire.96 And finally, the third proposal, also put forward by the Austrian ambassador, asked for the monarchy to be solely in charge of the regulation of the Iron Gates both on Habsburg and Ottoman territory. As anticipated, the strongest opposition came from the Ottoman representative who objected to Austria-Hungary taking over the matter.97 More unexpected was Serbia’s involvement, also opposing the Habsburg initiative. Thus, the conference in London witnessed not only a rapprochement between Austria-Hungary 92 Jelavich, The Ottoman Empire, 61–62. 93 Protocols of Conferences, Protocole No. 5, Séance du 13 mars, 1871, 1222–23. 94 Ardeleanu, Evoluţia intereselor britanice, 112. 95 Ibid., 1223. 96 Jelavich, The Ottoman Empire, 62–63. 97 Ibid., 63.

207

Chapter 4

and Britain but also on this specific issue between Serbia and the Ottoman Empire. Habsburg diplomacy before the London meeting had prompted this unexpected alliance. In the turmoil caused by the Russian denunciation of the Treaty of Paris, Chancellor Beust sent a circular to Bucharest and Belgrade in which he let the two governments know that the Habsburg Monarchy was committed to upholding the treaty. If required, it would deploy the full force necessary to preserve the status quo along the Danube.98 In other words, Beust threatened to stifle any quest for more autonomy coming from the two states. Traditionally, Serbia’s foreign policy was directed against the Ottoman state which had refused on numerous occasions to grant Serbia independence, but in this case the two joined forces to contain the Habsburg attempt to control the Danube. As a vassal state, Serbia was not invited to the deliberations in London, but nevertheless sent an envoy, Čedomilj Mijatović, to take part in behind-the-scenes diplomacy.99 He joined the Ottoman representative in arguing that the regulation of the Iron Gates should be settled by the riparian states in the framework of the Riverine Commission.100 The Habsburg Empire therefore was too isolated on the issue of the Iron Gates to receive the full support of another Great Power. In other words, the ad hoc British-Habsburg alliance to push back Russian and Ottoman influence worked perfectly in the delta but was ineffective at the Iron Gates. Because the main interests of the non-riparian Great Powers were concentrated on the delta, the Iron Gates remained a contentious issue to be settled by the neighboring states alone. Not even Russia and Britain, otherwise very active in the region, were interested in meddling in this affair. As a result, the Iron Gates proposal was dropped.101 One lesson to be learned from this outcome was that first Serbia, and later Romania, would increasingly use their influence to play a role in Danube affairs. In sum, except for the extension of the term of the ECD, the status of the Lower Danube remained unchanged. This was mainly due to the firm stance of the Ottoman Empire, and in particular of its foreign minister, Mehmed Emin Âli Pasha. Even though the Ottoman Empire was unable to prevent the renewed militarization of the Black Sea, it was at least successful in halt98 Armour, “The Sensitivities,” 524. 99 Ibid., 526. 100 Ibid., 530. 101 Jelavich, The Ottoman Empire, 66.

208

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

ing the Habsburg drive for dominance on the Danube. Thus, regarding the river, the London conference was ultimately an Ottoman success. In practical terms, the results of the conference impacted on future engineering work to regulate the flow of the river in two completely different ways. The conference reinforced the international mandate in the delta, thus ensuring that regulation work could go ahead smoothly. It even granted the ECD’s administrative and engineering personnel diplomatic immunity, being the first time that this type of protection was granted to members of an international organization.102 The decisions of the conference had the opposite effect for the Iron Gates. Although the Great Powers preferred an international mandate to the sole action of Austria-Hungary, this meant a setback for the progress of the engineering works because the Riverine Commission remained inactive. Ottoman diplomacy gladly accepted a delay in the regulation work because it had managed to resist outside intervention into its riparian waters. The Treaty of Berlin, signed in 1878, was key to reassembling relations along the Lower Danube. First, the treaty acknowledged the territorial changes that had occurred along the river. The congress officially recognized Romania as an independent state, including the newly acquired territory of the Danube Delta as part of the former Ottoman historical province of Dobrudja. Romania welcomed the new province to its national territory with a concerted modernization effort that aimed at integrating it into the national economy. The Romanian ruling class saw in Dudrodja an opportunity to develop its own export outlet by building a modern harbor in Constanţa that was not under the jurisdiction of the ECD. Improved railway connections and a new bridge over the Danube at Cernavodă were meant to facilitate the transport of grains and other products to the Black Sea coast. This alternative way to the sea became a symbol of Romania’s newly gained economic independence and an articulation of its own rival modernizing project.103 Second, territorial shifts after the congress also affected the international position of the ECD. As a new riverine Danube state, Romania received a seat in the ECD.104 The Russian Empire again became a riparian state in the delta 102 Ibid., 67. 103 Iordachi, Citizenship, Nation and State-Building, 43–45. 104 “Treaty between Great-Britain, Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and Turkey, for the Settlement of the Affairs of the East: Signed at Berlin, 13th July, 1878,” in The Great European Treaties of the Nineteenth Century, ed. Augustus Oakes and Robert B. Mowat (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1918), 356.

209

Chapter 4

by incorporating the left bank of the Kilia channel.105 Second, the congress endorsed the ECD by extending its jurisdiction upstream to the free port of Galatz, a resolution that had failed to achieve a majority in London. On this segment of the Danube, known as the maritime Danube, the ECD would act completely independently from the territorial authorities. In addition, the ECD was entrusted with the important task of elaborating a new regulation for navigation between Galatz and the Iron Gates that would replace the Navigation Act produced by the Riverine Commission—an assignment that it was to complete together with representatives of the riparian states not represented in the commission.106 Finally, the Habsburg Monarchy again put the regulation of the Iron Gates on the table, and this time its bid was successful. Article 56 of the treaty gave Austria-Hungary permission to pursue regulation activities on its own. To cover the costs of the project, it was allowed to collect a shipping toll.107 In exchange for being in charge of engineering at the Iron Gates, the Habsburg Monarchy agreed that the ECD should elaborate the new navigation regulation for the river segment up to the Habsburg border. In other words, the Habsburg Monarchy officially abandoned the idea of reinstating the Riverine Commission and conceded participation in the administration of the entire Lower Danube to the ECD, even beyond its formal jurisdiction.108 These changes provided the ECD not only with more power and international prestige, but also with plenty of work for the next five years. Before April 1883, when its term was to run out, the Great Powers would have to meet again to settle once and for all the affairs of the commission. In the meantime, the ECD concentrated on three lines of activity: first, the revision of the Public Act of 1865 in order to include the changes stipulated in the Treaty of Berlin; second, the elaboration of a new navigation act for the entire Lower Danube up to the Iron Gates; and third, the continuation of the technical works to provide better and safer navigation conditions in the delta. All members of the commission except Russia saw the need for a revised Public Act that would acknowledge the geopolitical changes that had occurred along the Danube. Russia’s representative believed that the 105 Ibid., 354. 106 Ibid., 356. 107 Ibid., 357; Jelavich, The Ottoman Empire, 122–23. 108 Ardeleanu, Evoluţia intereselor britanice, 155.

210

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

ECD had no official mandate to replace the existing Public Act with an improved regulation. But despite the Russian reservations, the commission started to discuss an additional act to be added to the Public Act.109 During the negotiations, several points of conflict came to the fore between the new member state, Romania, and the commission. These clashes were a repetition of previous disputes between the Ottoman Empire and the ECD and centered on whether certain sovereignty rights belonged to the territorial power or to the commission. From a legal point of view, those rights belonged exclusively to the ECD as stipulated in the Public Act of 1865 and were reinforced by the Treaty of Berlin of 1878. The exact phrasing referred to the operations of the ECD on the river segment between the sea and the port of Galatz “in complete independence of the territorial authorities.”110 Under these circumstances, the Romanian representative at the ECD, Eustațiu Pencovici, could only raise specific objections. The first concerned the appointment of the port captain of Sulina. Pencovici argued that the Romanian state should nominate the port authority in what was a Romanian harbor, even if this person would serve as an official employee of the commission. This had been common practice prior to 1878 when the Danube Delta was Ottoman territory. The French commissioner, Jules Herbette, had serious doubts that this practice should be kept in place. Moreover, the German delegate, Johannes Arendt, quoted the text of the Treaty of Berlin that clearly stated that this decision belonged exclusively to the commission. Faced with the common front of the other commissioners, the Romanian representative had to accept that from then on the port captain in the delta would be appointed exclusively by the ECD.111 A related issue concerned the free trade regime in the delta ports. The foreign powers insisted on an absolute exemption from duties on the territory administered by the ECD, a practice that had also existed under Ottoman rule. Although the Romanian government had hoped to introduce certain import and export fees, it again had to submit to the requests of the other members of the commission.112 109 CED, Protocole No. CCCXXXVIII (November 12, 1879), 2–8. 110 “Treaty between Great-Britain, Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and Turkey, for the Settlement of the Affairs of the East: Signed at Berlin, 13th July, 1878,” 356. 111 CED, Protocole No. CCCXL (November 21, 1879), 2–5. 112 Schwegel to Széchenyi, Vienna, September 30, 1879, AT-OeStA/HHStA Diplomatie und Außenpolitik 1848–1918 GKA GsA Berlin 195-1 Donauangelegenheiten, 188–90.

211

Chapter 4

Another contentious issue between the territorial power, Romania, and the ECD concerned the sanitary authority on the maritime Danube. The conflict centered on whether the sanitary inspectors in Sulina should report directly to the Romanian authorities or to the ECD, and who could appoint them. Furthermore, the ECD planned to reorganize the sanitary system in the former Ottoman territories by creating a new international institution based in Bucharest—the International Health Council (Conseil International de Santé)—to replace the former Conseil Sanitaire Superieur in Constantinople. Thus, the ECD intended to place the sanitary service under the jurisdiction of a new international health council instead of handing it over to the Romanian authorities. This new international institution was to cooperate with the commission to keep epidemics at bay without disrupting free navigation. The Romanian government took matters into its own hands and appointed the head physician of the hospital in Sulina, Dr. Vignard, also as director of the sanitary service in Sulina. The decision was taken without informing the other members of the ECD, which found out about the new appointment from the official journal. The other members of the commission did not direct their protest against Dr. Vignard personally, but questioned Romania’s authority to make such an appointment.113 This was the starting point of a lengthy debate within the commission about the appropriate procedures concerning sanitary issues. The discussion also touched upon the phrasing of articles 6 and 7 of the Additional Act that was to be the legal foundation for the future International Health Council (IHC). Romania’s standpoint was straightforward in claiming that an independent state was entitled to set its own sanitary regulations. Besides, Pencovici assured his colleagues that the Romanian state had no interest in adopting rules that hindered free navigation. However, the Romanian delegate could not convince his colleagues that sanitary regulations should be implemented exclusively by the Romanian government. Consequently, article 6 set out the terms for the creation of the IHC, which would introduce sanitary regulations on the maritime Danube, while article 7 required that this new institution should work together with the ECD to oversee these regulations. On December 28, 1879, after a first round of discussions, only France, Italy, Great Britain, and the Ottoman Empire adopted the 113 CED, Protocole No. CCCXXXVII (November 10, 1879), 8.

212

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

Additional Act.114 At the beginning of the next year, Germany and AustriaHungary also endorsed the act, after receiving belated instructions from their governments. The Romanian government was the next state to approve the Additional Act, but not without expressing its deep concern that the articles in question represented an infringement of its sovereignty. Pencovici also insisted that the IHC should settle its relationship with the Romanian state before launching its activity.115 After the other commissioners all approved the new navigation regulation, the Russian representative also grudgingly signed the document.116 This final version of the Additional Act, unanimously endorsed by all the states represented in the ECD, strengthened the position of the ECD vis à vis the new territorial power, Romania. It conferred on the commission absolute control over the Danube between the sea and Galatz, including the ports.117 Next to sanitary services, which still had to be specified, the commission adopted several amendments to the existing regulations on the pilotage service and the police. Article 2 also stated clearly that the commission would appoint the port captain of Sulina, specifying that the person filling this position could hold any citizenship.118 The main revision, however, concerned the decision-making process in the commission: the unanimous vote was replaced by a simple majority vote. And finally, in order to endow the commission with a potent symbol of authority, article 8 gave the commission its own flag—the letters CED in white on a blue background—to be used by all its members and employees.119 Yet, in spite of the unanimous endorsement of the Additional Act, two important issues remained unsettled. The first was the organization of the sanitary service and the second concerned the status of the Kilia channel which was again governed by the Russian Empire, making it once more a riparian state. Romania’s reservations toward the planned IHC worried the other ECD member states who feared that its government would block 114 CED, Annexe du Protocole No. CCCLIII, Acte Additionnelle à l’Acte-public du 2 Novembre 1865, relative à navigation des Embouchures du Danube. 115 CED, Protocole No. CCCLV (January 3, 1880), 1. 116 Ardeleanu, Evoluţia intereselor britanice, 160–61. 117 “Zusatzakte zur Schiffahrtsakte für die Donaumündungen. Vom 28. Mai 1881,” Deutsches Reichsgesetzblatt, no. 13 (1882): 61–65. 118 Ibid., 62. 119 Ibid., 64.

213

Chapter 4

the health council’s operations. In March 1881, the Romanian minister of foreign affairs, Dimitrie A. Sturdza, responded to an Austrian inquiry, explaining his government’s position on the new IHC. Sturdza claimed that the actual sanitary situation along the Danube did not justify the creation of an international institution. He added that although the Romanian state did not need any external help in dealing with future epidemics, it was not the intention of his government to object to joint action by the other states of the ECD. Although he still thought that this international organization infringed Romania’s sovereignty rights, he forwarded several proposals to make the operation of the council on its territory more acceptable to the Romanian side. Hence, the IHC should be composed of the Romanian Superior Health Board and a representative of each member state in the ECD. Further, the international council should convene only once a year, except during epidemics when it would be permanently operative. And lastly, the decisions of the international council were to be implemented exclusively by the Romanian government.120 The foreign powers compromised on these points and accepted the amendments; as a result, the IHC was jointly managed by the Romanian government and the ECD. Russia’s concerns could not be dispelled that easily. It remained the only state represented in the ECD to still question the commission’s authority. The Russian commissioner periodically called for its termination and reluctantly accepted the new prolongations. Besides challenging the very existence of the ECD, the Russian government also raised a very concrete objection to the activity of the commission. In December 1879, the Russian commissioner, Alexander Romanenko, contested the jurisdiction of the ECD over the Kilia channel, the northern branch of the delta and since 1878 the RussianRomanian border. He claimed that since the ECD had never conducted any engineering work on this branch, the commission had de facto renounced its rights to govern it. French commissioner Jules Herbette retorted that the jurisdiction of the ECD extended over the entire delta, irrespective of whether the commission conducted engineering works or not.121 However, this conversation marked the starting point of a comprehensive debate on 120 Copie d’une note verbale du ministère des affairs étrangères roumain, Bucharest, March 5, 1881, ATOeStA/HHStA Diplomatie und Außenpolitik 1848–1918 GKA GsA Berlin 195-1 Donauangelegenheiten, 153. 121 CED, Protocole No. CCCXLV (December 12, 1879), 10–12.

214

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

the status of the Kilia branch. In July 1880, the Austrian ministry of foreign affairs compiled an aide-mémoire on the legal status of Kilia that was circulated among the other foreign ministries. After going through all the international peace treaties since the Crimean War, the author reached the conclusion that the jurisdiction of the ECD extended over the Kilia channel but not onto the left bank of the branch which was exclusively Russian territory.122 In other words, the Great Powers were inclined to meet Russian demands up to a point in order to soften its attitude toward the ECD. After successfully amending the Public Act, the ECD started negotiations on a new navigation regulation for the stretch of the river between the Iron Gates and Galatz. The Austro-Hungarian, German, and Italian commissioners teamed up and compiled a draft document. It stipulated that once the ECD adopted the navigation act, a new commission, called the Mixed Commission, would oversee the regulation’s enforcement. This new commission would have four members: the riparian states of Serbia, Romania, and Bulgaria, and non-riparian Austria-Hungary. In June 1880, when the document was first presented to the ECD, the Romanian commissioner, backed by his government, rejected it.123 He again objected that it severely infringed the sovereignty of the riparian states. Although the Serbian and Bulgarian governments also voiced concerns, Romania, as the only member of the ECD, was in a better position to push for revisions. And in this case, the Romanian authorities did not give in as easily as they had done on prior issues. The English representative, Herbert Siborne, also sided with the riparian states, fearing that Austria-Hungary would seize control over the Lower Danube and disturb British economic interests. Negotiations dragged on for several years, and the Great Powers feared that the conflict could interfere with the next European conference scheduled for spring 1883 in London to discuss the status of the ECD. In this context, Austria-Hungary made it clear to the other European powers that it would make its vote in favor of the ECD’s prolongation dependent on the monarchy’s membership in the Mixed Commission.124 In these tense circumstances, in April 1882 the French commissioner, Camille Barrère, elaborated a compromise. Next to the four permanent 122 Mémoire über die Kilia-Frage, Vienna, July 1880, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F66-1. 123 Ardeleanu, Evoluţia intereselor britanice, 163. 124 Ibid., 164–69.

215

Chapter 4

member states (Austria-Hungary, Bulgaria, Romania, and Serbia), Barrère proposed a rotating fifth member chosen from the commissioners of the ECD. In this way, the vote of the monarchy would not carry such weight. The Romanian commissioner objected to the new proposal on the grounds that a second Austro-Hungarian delegate could be appointed to the Mixed Commission, thus doubling the votes of the monarchy. The fact that this also held true for Romania remained unaddressed. In addition to this dispute concerning membership in the commission, Romania and AustriaHungary clashed over a practical matter. The Habsburg ministry of foreign affairs complained in an official memorandum to the states represented in the ECD that the Romanian port authorities were doing everything they could to hinder the free movement of the monarchy’s ships. Vessels sailing under the Habsburg flag could not leave any Romanian port without the explicit approval of the port captain, and every ship—even small barges— had to present a health permit on its arrival. He concluded that only AustroHungarian membership in the Mixed Commission could put an end to this poor behavior and ensure the free movement of shipping.125 Pressured by the British and French Empires, the Romanian government finally accepted the compromise and on June 2, 1882, the ECD adopted the new Navigation Regulation for the Danube between the Iron Gates and Galatz, which finally replaced the Navigation Act of the Riverine Commission.126 The ensuing Treaty of London of March 1883 gathered all the separate settlements into one comprehensive legal document. It codified the Kilia compromise in article 3 which clearly stated that the collective control of the ECD was limited to the river itself, while the shores belonged exclusively to the riparian states.127 Further, the assembled Great Powers accepted AustriaHungary’s membership in the Mixed Commission and article 7 ratified the new Navigation Regulation.128 After settling these thorny issues, the representatives of the Great Powers unanimously adopted the extension of the ECD for a further period of twenty-one years and endorsed its authority up to the port of Brăila. Moreover, as set out in article 2, this new term corre125 “Mémoire über die Comission mixte, Vienna, November 1881,” AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F66-1. 126 Ardeleanu, Evoluţia intereselor britanice, 172–73. 127 “Treaty between Great Britain, Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and Turkey, relative to the Navigation of the Danube, March 10, 1883,” British and Foreign State Papers 74 (1883–1884): 21. 128 Ibid., 22; Ardeleanu, Evoluţia intereselor britanice, 183.

216

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

sponded to a quasi-permanent status for the ECD, as the commission would be automatically renewed every three years under the condition that none of the signing powers opposed it.129 This marked the end of a long and often tense negotiation process that acknowledged the importance of the ECD for navigation on the Lower Danube. In 1856, the ECD had started out on a two-year assignment to clear the passage to the sea; over the next almost thirty years it turned into a fully-fledged European institution with its own legal framework, its own staff, and its own area of competence. Consolidation Works at Sulina After the success of his provisional project at the Sulina bar, the commission called on chief engineer Hartley to pursue more comprehensive engineering work. The Public Act of 1865 gave the commission enough executive power to initiate more ample technical interventions. And after contracting the Bischoffsheim and Goldschmidt loan in 1868, the ECD had enough money to start several engineering projects at once. The ensuing regulation activity focused, on the one hand, on giving the provisional piers a more permanent character, and on the other tackled the most dangerous spots for navigation on the Sulina channel. In May 1866, Hartley had already put together a consolidation scheme for the piers, but due to the lack of funds the actual work started only in 1868 when the loan came through.130 Hartley used the time in between to experiment and find the best way to strengthen the piers. The main problem was the irregular “piers perdu” base and how to build a more stable structure over it. Another major impediment was the fact that the works had to be carried out in the open sea. His first attempt to pour semi-liquid concrete over the stony foundation failed due to the inadequate mixture of cement, sand, and gravel. Besides, most of the concrete blocks he had immersed during the summer of 1866 had been swept away by the winter storms.131 Given these conditions, he used the next year to find a better concrete mixture by increasing the propor129 “Treaty between Great Britain, Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and Turkey, relative to the Navigation of the Danube, March 10, 1883,” 21. 130 Hartley, “Description of the Delta of the Danube,” 202; ECD, Protocole No. CLXXXIX, Annexe No. 1, 1–2 (October 15, 1866). 131 Hartley, “Description of the Delta of the Danube,” 202–3.

217

Chapter 4

tion of cement. In this second trial, the cement blocks he submerged were firmer and thus more able to withstand the next winter, leading Hartley to conclude that he should increase the amount of cement poured into the mixture of sand and gravel.132 In 1869, after having seen that not even the strongest gales had been able to disperse the blocks immersed at the base of the foundation, he put together the following plan: his workers prepared smaller concrete blocks, eight tons in weight, to be driven between the scattered rocks of the foundation and afterwards secured by wooden planks. Over this new concrete structure, the workers laid another layer of larger concrete blocks weighing eighteen tons each and fixed by filling the gaps between them with fresh concrete. He continued this operation over the next two years until he had succeeded in reinforcing both piers with concrete blocks, thus entirely replacing the wooden planks that were already rotting away underwater. He completed his construction by securing the edges of the piers with several more large blocks.133 In proceeding this way, Hartley applied the initial tactic he had used when first building the wooden piers—a “learning by doing” approach. Looking back on the nine years it had taken him to complete the piers, Hartley evaluated the regulation works an outstanding success. The piers accomplished their task of clearing the sand deposits from the bar by increasing the depth of the water from nine feet in 1857 to twenty feet in 1872. However, Hartley acknowledged that he could have hardly anticipated this positive outcome when he began his work for the ECD. Not even the most optimistic predictions had ever mentioned a constant water depth of twenty feet. In hindsight, Hartley concluded that it would hardly have been possible to adopt a better plan for the mouth of the Danube than the one he had carried out.134 The intricate evolution of this project offers several insights into how engineering knowledge was produced and adapted to the specific context of the Danube Delta. The first challenge the Sulina bar posed to an engineer, and to an English one in particular, was its position at the outlet of a major river into a tideless sea. Hartley’s previous experience had been with structures in tidal waters and he could not draw on any forerunner projects con132 Ibid., 204. 133 Ibid., 205–7. 134 Ibid., 208.

218

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

ducted in other tideless seas. The regulation of the Mississippi delta, a later benchmark, started only in the late 1860s after the end of the American Civil War.135 Thus, it took Hartley several years to observe and examine how the Danube and the Black Sea interacted and how both waters would impact on his constructions. In this respect, Hartley performed pioneering work at the mouth of the Danube, as was widely acknowledged by his peers when he reported back to the British Institution of Civil Engineers.136 Moreover, in 1873, after leaving his job at the commission, Hartley visited the Mississippi delta where he shared his experience with the local engineers. In this way, his American colleagues profited from his knowledge and the mouth of the Danube became a point of reference in their future work.137 Second, several constraints had pushed Hartley to experiment and tinker with possible solutions. Both the provisional character of the first project and the delays due to lack of funding proved beneficial for Hartley. Being steadily employed by the commission and not paid according to progress gave him enough time and resources to observe and experiment without the burden of having to deliver a completed work. It also provided him with a powerful incentive to execute a large number of trials. When he started his tenure as chief engineer, he was under significant pressure to make the passage to the sea navigable as soon as possible; however, due to the lack of funds he was not expected to provide a long-term solution. In the project’s initial phase, he found a way to keep the sand out of the bar by prolonging the natural shores of the Sulina arm into the open sea. By using pliable material like wooden planks and timber, he was able to build a safe harbor for ships passing the bar that was flexible enough to withstand storms and easily replaceable in case of damage. His regulation system was formed by his attitude toward nature and how engineering constructions impacted on it. He thought of the relation between nature and man-made artifacts as symbiotic, and that engineers should not force nature into compliance but search for a solution that complemented its “doings.” Furthermore, he conceived of the art of engineering as a process in which engineers should react to the way nature responded to their projects, for instance by constantly repairing damage. Hartley was also aware of the necessity to mend engineering structures in order to accommo135 Morris, The Big Muddy, 140–68. 136 Hartley, “Description of the Delta of the Danube,” 230–32. 137 Hartley, A Biography of Sir Charles Hartley, 331–59.

219

Chapter 4

date the ever-increasing number of ships with larger capacities.138 This seemingly never-ending process of readjustment meant that engineering works, for Hartley, would remain perpetually unfinished or in a provisional state. The question in this context is how the second part of his project, which aimed to give the piers a more permanent shape, impacted both on his engineering thinking and his practical work. One of the main reasons why the initial piers were successful was their makeshift character. Moreover, if Hartley did not believe in the durable character of engineering constructions, how did he understand the task the commission assigned to him of making the initial constructions permanent (rendre définitives)? To Hartley, this simply meant converting the Sulina piers into more solid structures—though structures that would be far from lasting.139 In 1865, five years after completing the first piers, Hartley knew he must improve his constructions otherwise they would be completely swept away by the sea. Though he believed his new assignment was urgently necessary, he saw it only as a next step in a continuum of improvements. He did not think of his engineering effort as a singular act of “overcoming nature,” but as a recurring process that involved constant monitoring and maintenance. During the work to replace the wooden structures with concrete blocks, he was very much absorbed with the “doings” of nature. He spent a considerable amount of time observing how the river interacted with the sea and how both impacted on the piers. In addition, in the decade that passed since Hartley conducted his first survey of the delta, the commission had gathered an impressive bulk of statistical material and hydrologic observations. Like the headquarters of the DDSG at the Iron Gates, the ECD had become the main repository for information related to the delta. This material gave Hartley a better insight into how to replace the material of the piers in a way that would exploit the water currents for the benefit of the structures. His calculations led him to believe that not all the actions of the water endangered his work; on the contrary, spring floods, for example, cleared the bar of sand that had accumulated during the previous shipping season.140 Another observation he made was that strong waves and storms frequently damaged the upper part of the piers, but never the blocks lying four feet underwater. 138 Hartley, “Description of the Delta of the Danube,” 213. 139 Ibid., 202. 140 Ibid., 211.

220

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

This led him to conclude that the foundation of the piers would remain stable for centuries to come.141 Taking these long-term observations and statistical data into account, Hartley realized that hydrologic conditions changed not only seasonally but also periodically. In summer 1871, he noticed that a sandbank reappeared close to the south pier, exactly like one he had spotted in 1861. Soon afterwards, it started to gradually disappear under the salutary action of the subsequent winter gales.142 All these factors reinforced Hartley’s engineering opinion that he should build not against the forces of nature but in harmony with them. He concluded that engineers should not always hurry to intervene, but first assess if intervention was even necessary. Moreover, he noted that the regulation of rivers, particularly outlets to the sea, should always be guided by the proverb “well should be left alone,” meaning that certain human interventions were not only superfluous but also potentially harmful.143 Nevertheless, Hartley observed that several “actions” of the natural environment had damaging effects on the two piers and in this case he decided to react. Besides aiming to improve their resistance, Hartley was concerned with the length of the piers. In order to keep pace with the erosion process, he prolonged the northern pier by 694 feet. At the same time, the southern pier was extended by 457 feet.144 Thus, the northern pier was significantly longer than the southern one to provide better shelter for ships crossing the bar. Hartley believed that if the piers were of equal length, the water currents of the river would meet the sea winds, spilling sand deposits back between the piers and further toward the bar.145 Prolonging and consolidating the piers were Hartley’s last actions at the mouth of the Danube. In 1872, he left his position as chief engineer at the ECD to pursue various other appointments that ultimately brought him to the Suez Canal. He would, however, maintain his position as a consultant for the ECD, recommending for the vacant position Danish civil engineer Charles Kühl, who became the next chief engineer.146 Kühl’s activity in 141 Ibid., 208. 142 Ibid., 212–13. 143 Ibid., 210. 144 Ibid., 211–12. 145 Ibid., 247–48. 146 Ardeleanu, Evoluția intereselor britanice, 136; Hartley, A Biography of Sir Charles Hartley, 299–300.

221

Chapter 4

the delta would prove that Hartley was right in assuming that the two piers should be adjusted periodically. In 1881, in a report to the British Institution of Civil Engineers, Kühl informed his colleagues that “ever since Hartley left, the depth of the bar remained constant at twenty feet.”147 In 1873, however, the same sandbank appeared again at the end of the southern pier before being swept away completely in spring 1875, only to reappear during the following summer. This time, Kühl decided to intervene and prolong the southern pier to circumvent the sandbank.148 Hartley was still skeptical about whether an extension of the southern pier was really necessary but let his younger colleague pursue the project.149 Consequently, the southern pier was extended by an extra 204 feet, thus reaching the same length as the northern one.150 For the next fifteen years, the depth inside the canal would remain constant without any additional intervention. During the 1890s, the piers were extended again several times. This time hydrologic phenomena were not the cause for the extensions but the need to carry larger ships over the bar. Although the water depth between the piers remained constant at twenty feet, it proved insufficient to carry a new generation of steamers. Thus, Kühl supervised the construction of two parallel dams inside the piers, reducing the width of the canal to 500 feet in the hope of increasing the depth. With the help of some additional dredging, the depth increased to twenty-four feet the next year. As a result, the new canal could accommodate larger steamers, their size increasing from a maximum of 1,462 tons in 1880 to 2,889 tons in 1900.151 Up to the First World War, the piers would be prolonged several times, both seaward and landward, reaching more than treble the length of the original piers of 1861 and finally extending to 9,300 feet (2,835 m).152 At first glance, the transition from Hartley to Kühl seemed very smooth, the latter immediately taking over and continuing the work without delay. 147 Charles Henry Leopold Kühl, “The Sulina Mouth of the Danube,” Minutes of the Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers 91 (1888): 329. 148 Ibid., 329. 149 Hartley, A Biography of Charles Hartley, 401–2. 150 Kühl, “The Sulina Mouth of the Danube,” 319. 151 Charles Henry Leopold Kühl, “Recent Improvements Effected in the Navigable Condition of the Sulina Branch and Outlet of the Danube,” in International Engineering Congress (Glasgow), 1901: Reports of the Proceedings and Abstracts of the Papers Read (Glasgow: William Asher, 1902), 72–73. 152 Hartley, A Biography of Charles Hartley, 537.

222

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

However, Kühl brought a new engineering approach to the mouth of the Danube. His handling of the recurring sediment accumulation in the proximity of the piers revealed, in a nutshell, the difference to his predecessor. Hartley had advanced in small steps, giving the river enough time to react to the new structures. Also, he employed a rather restrained approach, intervening only when it was absolutely necessary and allowing the river to do its share of the “work.” To achieve this, he refrained from—or postponed as much as possible—several adjustments, letting nature take its course and remove certain obstacles to navigation at its own pace. In contrast, Kühl was more daring and less patient toward the river, seeking quicker and more radical results. In practice, Hartley let Kühl lead, but they continued to work together, assembling a regulation system that worked well with the hydrological conditions at the bar. They designed it in such a way that it complemented the water currents and wind pressure to form a new, hybrid technical eco-system where the water level inside the artificial canal could be kept at a constant level of at least twenty feet. Further, Hartley knew that navigation was the main driver of his engineering projects and therefore periodic and substantial intervention was necessary in order to keep pace with the increasing size of cargo ships. In this sense, Hartley and Kühl managed to create a well-functioning “organic machine” (a blend of technical and environmental forces) at the Sulina bar that would remain a perpetual work in progress. Straightening the Sulina Channel In 1857, when Hartley conducted his first survey of the Sulina branch, he recommended not only improvements at the bar but also along its upper course. He mentioned several shoals to be removed from the riverbed and that passages could be carved to eliminate dangerous bends of the channel.153 Similarly, Hartley’s Prussian colleague Nobiling, who conducted his own survey of the delta, suggested even more extensive works along the Sulina branch, namely carving more new channels and the sealing of secondary branches.154 Thus, this early regulation plan did not focus narrowly on clearing the passage from the river to the sea, but explained in part the difficulties 153 Hartley, “Report of C. A. Hartley,” 40–41. 154 Nobiling, “Mémoire No. I,” 7–8; Nobiling, “Mémoire No. III,” 7–9.

223

Chapter 4

occurring at the bar as the direct result of certain problematic upriver spots. Although Hartley and Nobiling disagreed in many aspects, both believed that it was not necessarily the best solution to start with the mouth when regulating the flow of a river, but rather to approach this task by first dealing with the most precarious stretch.155 However, the lack of sufficient finances and the political instability of the ECD gave Hartley no other choice than to perform small-scale intervention that focused exclusively on the bar. The initial plans to tackle certain spots on the Sulina branch that endangered the passage of ships were postponed. But finally, in the late 1860s, the ECD had the financial and political security to press ahead with this costly and timeconsuming task. Over the course of several decades, regulation work would extend along the entire Sulina channel from the point where it separated from the main branch to its confluence with the Black Sea. At the end of this process, the Sulina channel would emerge straighter, narrower, deeper, and shorter; in other words, it would exclusively serve the needs of navigation. Between 1868 and Hartley’s departure in 1872, work focused on improving four spots on the upper course of the channel which he considered most dangerous to shipping: the Chatal point on the St. George arm where the Sulina branch parted, the Argagnis shoal situated 42 nautical miles upstream from the bar, the Gorgova shoal at mile 29, and the first successful shortcut channel at mile 23.156 The improvements largely comprised of building groins and lateral dykes that narrowed the riverbed as a way to deepen the water. The channel at mile 23 was the first successful attempt to remove part of a dangerous section between mile 27 and mile 9, shaped in the form of an “M.” The new channel was first carved manually and later deepened by dredgers. Four groins built at mile 22 helped to catch the alluvium and narrow the channel to 500 feet. The space between the groins was then filled with sand so that a new bank could form.157 There were two reasons why Hartley targeted precisely these spots. One was the increased draft and length of steamers which were now more difficult to steer though the narrow bends and turns of the channel.158 The second resulted from Hartley’s own 155 Hartley, “Description of the Delta of the Danube,” 226. 156 François Philippe Voisin-Bey, “Notice sur les travaux d’amélioration de l’embouchure du Danube et du bras de Soulina, 1857–1891,” Annales des Ponts et Chaussées 5 (1893): 68–69. 157 Hartley, A Biography of Charles Hartley, 272–73. 158 Ibid., 277.

224

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

hydrologic observations. He noticed that on the one hand the strong river floods in spring had a beneficial effect on the water depth at the bar because they spilled most of the sediments out into the sea, while on the other hand they negatively affected the shoals upstream because a great quantity of alluvium carried by the river collected around the existing sandbanks.159 Another spot tackled in the early 1870s was the Chatal of Izmail, 54 miles upstream, where the Kilia arm separated from the main Danube branch. Here, regulation work concentrated on preventing large amounts of water from flowing off into the non-navigable Kilia channel, and on removing the sandbanks that took shape at the bifurcation.160 This rather meagre activity had two completely different causes. First, Hartley decided it was best to assess the impact of the first interventions along the Sulina branch before planning more comprehensive works, applying his proven method of waiting to see how the river reacted to his constructions. Second, and more importantly, the Eastern Crisis of 1875 to 1878 and the subsequent territorial reconfiguration disrupted the activity of the ECD, slowing down the pace of the engineering works.161 The 1880s and 1890s would become the busiest period in the regulation activity of the ECD. The quasi-permanent status of the commission granted by the Great Powers in 1883 and its financial consolidation allowed for the most extensive and radical interventions on the Sulina branch to date. In November 1882, looking back at the tumultuous history of the ECD, Austrian commissioner Carl von Boleslawski emphasized the extremely favorable current financial situation.162 In the course of the 1870s, commerce through the Sulina channel had generated enough revenue for the commission to accumulate a reserve fund. Because the commission saved more than it spent during this flourishing decade, it was able to repay all its debts. In 1882, it returned the loan to the bank in London, and in 1887 completed its payments to the Ottoman government.163 159 Voisin-Bey, “Notice sur les travaux d’amélioration,” 72. 160 Ibid., 74. 161 Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 141–43. 162 Abschrift eines Berichtes des Herrn Ritter von Boleslawski an das k. und k. Ministerium des Äusseren, Galatz, November 27, 1882, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 368. 163 La Commission Européenne du Danube et son oeuvre de 1856 à 1931 (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1931), 36; Dimitrie Alexandru Sturdza, Les travaux de la Commission européenne des bouches du Danube 1859 à 1911: Actes et documents (Vienna: Gerold, 1913), 101–12.

225

Chapter 4

Aware of the vastly improved financial situation, Kühl and Hartley sensed that this was the right moment to present the commission with a comprehensive regulation program that exceeded the already accomplished works by far. In February 1880, the two engineers handed an exposé to the commission which was thoroughly discussed in the plenum.164 This was the first time that the technical experts presented a general plan that took the entire Sulina branch into account, linking existing and projected construction work. Specifically, it aimed at harmonizing the Sulina channel with the piers at the bar, thus reordering the branch as a whole. While the water depth had remained constant at around twenty feet at the bar, it fluctuated along the channel, barely reaching fourteen feet in some problematic spots. The lowest depth measured was 13.3 feet in 1879 at the shoal of Gorgova. Both engineers concluded that for navigation to fully profit from the good conditions at the bar, depth should be at least fifteen feet on the entire channel.165 Thus, they recommended to the commission that the problems on the upper segment of the Sulina branch should be tackled first, between miles 36 (Papadia) and 45 (Chatal of St. George), because this was the stretch of the river where most accidents occurred.166 In order to achieve this goal, Hartley and Kühl proposed two first steps focusing on the Gorgova shoal and the Chatal of St. George, and comprising more radical interventions than any previously. At Gorgova, this meant narrowing the channel to about 450 feet for a length of two and a half miles, while at the Chatal of St. George, the engineers proposed building a new entrance to the Sulina branch.167 At the next meeting, all the commissioners except the representatives of Austria-Hungary and Prussia voted in favor of the plan. However, the two commissioners who voted against stated that they did not oppose the project per se, they simply considered the plan too ambitious.168 Although the commissioners continued to discuss whether the magnitude of the engineering plan required the unanimous approval of the ECD, works started at the Chatal of St. George in June 1880 and lasted for thirty months.169 The section to be carved was 164 Ardeleanu, Evoluţia interselor britanice, 139. 165 CED, Protocole No. CCCLX (21 Mai 1880), 1–2. 166 Abschrift eines Berichtes des Herrn Ritter von Boleslawski, Galatz, 3 Juni 1883. 167 CED, Protocole No. CCCLX (21 Mai 1880), 3. 168 CED, Protocole No. CCCLXI (29 Mai 1880), 1. 169 Hartley, A Biography of Charles Hartley, 475.

226

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

only half a mile long, but cutting through the dense marsh of the delta which consisted of hard clay, peat, and strong reed roots was an extremely difficult task. In order to prevent a large quantity of water from running off through the existing entrance, it was sealed off by a stone barrier.170 Austrian commissioner Boleslawski subsequently acknowledged that this bold approach had increased the depth of the water at the entrance of the Sulina branch, which was crucial for water distribution on the entire channel.171 Further work followed at the same pace, focusing next on mile 36 where the bend of the river was straightened with a vertical line and the old entrance sealed off by a stone dam; construction was completed in 1884.172 However, this first channel at Papadia proved unnecessary because it would be completely eliminated by a much larger shortcut between mile 32 and mile 38 that was executed in the mid-1890s.173 This turn of events shows that even in the 1880s after the commission agreed to a large-scale regulation program, it approved the budget only bit by bit. Thus, the two engineers had not necessarily erred—the early 1880s budget gave them no other choice than to start with small, local interventions. These developments highlight how the complete reconfiguration of the Sulina branch occurred, namely not always according to a neatly designed plan but becoming more daring from one phase of construction to another. Public acclaim for the success of the sealed bends encouraged the engineers and commissioners alike to pursue ever more radical interventions. In other words, in the 1880s Hartley and Kühl set the general parameters of future technical operations by conceptualizing the regulation of the entire Sulina branch, though the specifics of the works would be determined from one spot to the other. Kühl’s plan included several proposed cuts that would seal off dangerous bends. The new program was completed in autumn 1886.174 The engineers took this opportunity to assess the impact of their construction work on navigation. All in all, the straightening of the upper course of the Sulina channel was a success as it eased the passage of ships over previous dangerous bends. 170 Ibid., 476–77. 171 Abschrift eines Berichtes des Herrn Ritter von Boleslawski, Galatz, June 3, 1883, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 368. 172 Abschrift eines Berichtes des Herrn Ritter von Boleslawski, Galatz, June, 3 1883. 173 Hartley, A Biography of Charles Hartley, 514. 174 Hartley, A Biography of Charles Hartley, 479 and 511.

227

Chapter 4

However, they acknowledged that certain spots still needed further improvement. For instance, they were unhappy with the navigation conditions at Papadia. After traveling through the channel carved at mile 36, ships had to follow a dangerous loop up to mile 32. The two engineers disagreed on how to proceed further: Hartley did not consider the large bends on the lower course of the Sulina dangerous to navigation, while Kühl opted to straighten these too. Thus, in May 1889, they submitted two alternative projects to the commission dealing with the first major loop of the so-called “M” (mile 8 to 18). The first project took a more cautious approach based on easing the bend with the help of groins, while the second proposed to seal off the entire curve with a long, straight cut. Kühl clearly favored the second project and after heated discussion in the commission, this project was given preference. At an estimated cost of 3.81 million francs, it was the most expensive project to date.175 Again, the engineers’ difference in approach became evident, and again Kühl’s proposal prevailed. The new passage which extended over a straight line of twelve miles was finished in 1893. It would become a landmark of the river works on the Sulina branch, receiving a lavish inauguration ceremony under the patronage of the Romanian king, Carol I.176 The members of the commission praised the sovereign for leading Romania toward progress and civilization. The king returned the compliment in his inauguration speech and congratulated the members of the ECD for accomplishing the task Europe had entrusted them with in such an outstanding manner. He thanked the ECD for having steadily improved navigation conditions over the last thirty years; this magnificent passage being one of its greatest accomplishments. The king further emphasized that Romania would profit most from this improved shipping connection, which provided an outlet for its agricultural products. He also lavishly praised Hartley and Kühl for their extraordinary feats of engineering.177 The inauguration attracted a large crowd of diplomats and Romanian government officials—the ECD had learned from previous occasions how important publicity was for the commission’s international standing. The international attention and acclaim registered at the grand opening of this first major channel encouraged the ECD to pursue similarly ambitious projects in the future. 175 Ibid., 511–13. 176 Ibid., 515. 177 Sturdza, Les travaux de la Commission européenne, 154–58.

228

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

In October 1897, another new channel was finished between miles 31 and 37 at the former Gorgova bend, and in 1902 the second bend of the “M” (miles 18 to 27) was sealed off. This would be the last major engineering operation until the First World War.178 The inauguration ceremony gave Dimitrie Sturdza, the Romanian prime minister, the opportunity to fervently express his enthusiasm for the work of the ECD, calling it “one of the most beautiful institutions that the civilization of the nineteenth century has created.”179 He further expressed his admiration for all the accomplishments of the commission whose steady efforts now enabled ships as large as five thousand tons to cross between the river and the sea, reminding the guests that when the ECD launched its activity, ships of five hundred tons could barely make it over the bar. His interest in the ECD had not started with the preparations for this speech; he had already shown an avid interest in its accomplishments, publishing details in several volumes and presenting the projects at meetings of the Romanian Geographical Society. His support for the ECD clearly represented a change of heart by the Romanian government after the bitter struggle over sovereignty rights in the delta. Austrian commissioner Hugo Logothetti also noted how Romania had turned from being a vocal critic to a keen supporter of the ECD.180 Sturdza’s positive statements fitted the formula “Romania benefited most from the ECD,” also used by the king in his speech, reflecting the fact that the economic gain from grain exportation had surpassed the political concessions made to the ECD.181 Statistics show that from the 1860s, Romanian grain exports leaving the country via the Danube spiked compared to previous decades, an increase that can be linked to the ECD’s trade policy.182 This policy of internationalization under the banner of free trade capitalism also suited Romania’s political leaders for another reason: as big landowners they had a personal interest in boosting exports and keeping taxation low.183

178 Hartley, A Biography of Charles Hartley, 521. 179 Sturdza, Les travaux de la Commission européenne, 174. 180 Logothetti to Goluchowski, Galatz, November 1, 1897, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2 (1897–1900). 181 Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 148. 182 Murgescu, România şi Europa, 121–23. 183 Irina Marin, Peasant Violence and Antisemitism in Early Twentieth-Century Eastern Europe (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 91–94.

229

Chapter 4

These official ceremonies conveyed an image of harmony between the members of the commission, the technical staff, and the representatives of the territorial power. Unlike previous inaugurations where the ongoing rifts inside the ECD could only be concealed by an engineering breakthrough, these events celebrated a period of mutual understanding between the various actors involved in the ECD. Only one conflict kept on simmering in the background, namely the attempt of the Russian government to terminate or at least limit the ECD’s mandate. The Austrian commissioner reported back to his superiors in Vienna that the Russian commissioner, Nicolai de Lodygenski, had tried to rewrite the 1897 inauguration speech in such a way that after the finalization of work to carve the next major channel, expected for 1904, the ECD would acknowledge that its task was completed. Thus, there would be no reason to further extend the commission’s term. After the British commissioner Henry Trotter protested, this passage was struck from the speech.184 Although the other states involved in the ECD had at various moments in time questioned its authority, they had finally made peace with its existence—the Russian Empire remained the only power to still want its dissolution in spite of the compromises the other empires had offered. It was precisely this broad political support that enabled the almost complete “correction” of the Sulina channel. In addition, Hartley and Kühl were able to rely on political stability, sufficient funds, and locally embedded technical knowledge to pursue this complex plan. However, it materialized in a messier form than the clear lines the engineers had drawn in their designs. Since the Crimean War, the transformation of the Lower Danube had moved at a very slow pace, reflecting the difficulties of remaking the river in the nineteenth century. Carving new channels was both expensive and time-consuming. It took months to finish a small course correction and years to complete a longer passage. One reason was that a large amount of the work was done by hand and digging was only later partially mechanized. Cutting through the thick reeds of the delta was a very labor-intensive task. Moreover, although the two engineers knew the terrain intimately, they were still unable to anticipate many of the effects their structures would have on the watercourse. For instance, they would erect a dam in order to assess its usefulness, only to realize that it had been built in vain. 184 Logothetti to Goluchowski, Galatz, November 1, 1897.

230

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

This slow-moving process suited Hartley’s engineering approach which was shaped by his early experience of general instability when the commission started its activity. Experience led him to form two guiding principles: first, he believed that it was best to start with a small-scale engineering intervention and then gradually expand the scope of the works. Second, he thought that in certain cases intervention was unnecessary because the river found its own ways to remove shoals or other obstacles to navigation. In the case of the Sulina channel, he was committed to applying the same principles he had used when redesigning the bar. Nevertheless, this cautious approach, which he steadily pursued for decades, irreversibly changed the face of the only navigable channel through the delta. Already in the 1880s, the Sulina branch had begun to look more like a straight canal with a single, well-defined bed than the previously tangled and constantly shifting water maze. In other words, even if Hartley championed a more thoughtful engineering approach, he nonetheless believed that his craft would improve nature in order to provide faster and safer navigation conditions. In 1902, the commissioner for Austria-Hungary, Viktorin von Borhek, praised Hartley in an official statement issued by the ECD for accomplishing exactly this.185 Thus, the rectification of the Sulina channel did not follow a neatly elaborated master plan but evolved from one minor intervention to the next. Only in 1880 did the two engineers present a more comprehensive work program. However, eventually these small steps amounted to the complete remaking of the Sulina branch. There were several reasons why the transformation occurred in this way. At the very beginning of the process, the precarious situation of the ECD did not allow for more. In 1861, the first successful intervention at the bar paved the way for bolder constructions along the channel. After completing the first shortcut passages and course corrections, the rectification process gained momentum, giving the engineers greater leverage in negotiations on follow-up projects with the commission. For their part, the commissioners had a keen interest in opening up more construction sites as the best strategy to keep the ECD in place. In addition, popular enthusiasm for the accomplishments of the civil engineers and the praise they received at the inaugurations fed into their vanity and spurred them to continue on the path they had embarked on. 185 Sturdza, Les travaux de la Commission européenne, 163.

231

Chapter 4

Another reason behind the turn toward more radical intervention in the late 1880s was the influence of the new chief engineer, Kühl. His tenure started out differently to Hartley’s since he joined the ECD at a time when it was in a comfortable situation both from a political and financial point of view. Besides, the young engineer took the opportunity of this appointment at the margin of Europe to make a name for himself in the field. Again, in contrast to Hartley and in line with evolving engineering discourse, Kühl favored a more hands-on approach in solving the problems of navigation. As a result, the constructions he proposed were bolder and more daring than those put forward by Hartley. He gave the channel not only a new shape but also the exclusive purpose of sustaining navigation. Thus, the main shipping connection between the Danube and the Black Sea ended up heavily engineered like other busy river stretches, as regulated sections were pieced together. Looking back at more than half a century of engineering on the Sulina channel, it can be concluded that the Danube was successfully “disciplined” and “corrected” to enable the safe passage of shipping, with piers and dams standing like stone fortresses against the forces of nature.186 While this portrayal is undeniably accurate, it represents only part of the story. Despite improving a “defective” environment, extensive hydraulic construction was never able to fully “tame” the waters of the Danube. Moreover, Hartley and (in part) Kühl had never even aimed at such an outcome in the belief that it did not lie within the power of an engineer to completely bring a river under control. Instead, they created a hybrid ecosystem which they closely observed and periodically improved in order to give it the best shape to serve the needs of navigation. It is important to underline that while they both adopted a comprehensive engineering approach, the safety of the steamers always remained at the center of their work. The main purpose of the newly shaped Danube was to be a first-rate highway for navigation. They cared little about the inadvertent consequences on the environment, as long as their constructions were not directly disrupted. One effect of the regulation works performed on the Sulina channel was that with each year less and less water flowed through the St. George arm. Thus, smaller amounts of fresh water reached the lakes

186 Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 124 and 141.

232

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

Figure 10. Map of the cuts completed on the Sulina branch between 1868 and 1902. Source: La Commission Européenne du Danube et son oeuvre de 1856 à 1931 (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1931), 213.

and lagoons next to the sea, diminishing the fish stock.187 Similarly, Hartley might have “respected” the power of a gale that loosened his dams, but he had little consideration for the fishermen who set their traps in a way that slowed down construction work.188 In sum, even as the new projects were being built, it became obvious that by putting a premium on navigation the new water infrastructure would endanger or push back other uses and appropriations of the Danube. At the turn of the century, the environmental and social costs of this large-scale water infrastructure were just starting to emerge and would busy entire generations of experts, decision-makers, members of the local population, and other stakeholders till today (see figure 10). Conclusion After Hartley successfully built the first piers, the work of the ECD gained traction. Fifty years later, the commission managed to reassemble a new Danube from an administrative and physical point of view. After r­ ealizing 187 Grigore Antipa, Dunărea și problemele ei științifice, economice și politice (Bucharest, Carteta Romînească, 1921), 76–77. 188 CED, Protocole No. CCXXII (October 30, 1868), 3–4.

233

Chapter 4

that not only sediment clogged the passage from the river to the sea, but the ships themselves were also responsible for a lot of the congestion on the Sulina branch, the ECD drew up a comprehensive catalogue of regulations that would redefine the rules of navigation in the delta. The ensuing Public Act transformed the commission into a fully-fledged institution with legislative and executive powers. Moreover, the Public Act became one of the first documents to institutionalize supranational governance on the maritime Danube, in the sense that territorial powers handed over sovereign rights to a collective administrative body. As such, the commission as an international organization was one of the legal antecedents to the European Union. The purpose of this internationalization process was for the ECD to institutionalize “the freedom of navigation.” The commission’s first assignment to ensure a smooth and rapid shipping traffic throughout the delta without any disturbances or delays remained valid all through this period. What changed was the dimension and quality of the interventions it was allowed to make. Thus, navigation was freed from unnecessary taxes, administrative bottlenecks, and most importantly, physical obstacles in the river. The international administration of the river greatly impacted on the ongoing engineering work by ensuring political stability amid dramatic geopolitical changes on the one hand, thus making it possible for the work to continue almost uninterrupted over several decades. On the other hand, the ECD provided its engineers with access to funds guaranteed by the Great Powers and powerful ideological backing that allowed for the comprehensive transformation of the Sulina channel. Thus, the ECD was the first international organization made up of mostly non-riparian states to supervise the technical and administrative remaking of a river segment. The new river that emerged from this process was a hybrid piece of infrastructure that merged natural and technical elements in order to serve, above all, the needs of navigation. There were two reasons why this remarkable achievement was possible and such a frail institution thrived throughout the second half of the nineteenth century. First, the commissioners themselves pushed for the continuation of this experiment in international ruling, harmonizing several types of imperial policies towards the delta in a coherent endeavor. The most energetic defenders of institutionalized intervention from the Concert of Europe were the British representatives that lent the ECD the ideological backing 234

T he Da nube Delta: A Success in I nternationa l Ru l ing

for their mission, namely, to protect free trade relations as a vehicle for economic prosperity. In contrast, the initial Ottoman and Habsburg imperial policies aimed at “returning” the Lower Danube to the riparian states. Specifically, the Habsburg Monarchy hoped to exploit the weakness of the other riparian states in order to control the entire navigable river. The later Mixed Commission was a perfect example in this regard. The ECD was able to bridge these different imperial projects not simply by imposing the will of the British Empire—which became the preeminent player in the delta after the Crimean War—but by co-opting the other empires to this enterprise. It was to the merit of the Ottoman and Austrian commissioners to find compromises that did not anger their governments. In a slow-moving process, all seven commissioners began endorsing positions that would strengthen the ECD, even if these were sometimes at odds with the instructions they received from their governments. Second, the progress of the regulation projects was instrumental to the success of the “political” cooperation inside the ECD. The long-term employment of the engineers Hartley and Kühl as technical supervisors of the commission gave them leverage in the decision-making process. While they did not actively take part in the political debates, they pieced together technical solutions that would advance the doctrine of “the freedom of navigation.” In this respect, they proved skilled practitioners who knew how to appease conflicting settings and compensate deficiencies with the purpose of improving the navigability of the last stretch of the Danube. In doing so, they acted as “mediators” between political demands, environmental constraints, and quickly improving technical capabilities, producing a steady stream of projects that created a more fluid traffic in the delta. They were able to bridge differences and conflicts not by resorting to scientific norms and objective criteria, but because their solutions served the Great Powers to control the river. Simply put: the internationalization of the delta was long-lasting because technical milestones complemented imperial agendas.

235

Ch a p t e r 5

The Iron Gates Torn Bet ween Imperia l, Internationa l, and Nationa l Interests

T

his will soon belong to history; a plaque attached to the steep stone wall on the left-hand side already announces that the nineteenth century, after seeing so many technical miracles achieved, claims, too, this monumental work shortly before its completion. The bold Romans gave up on this work [die Arme sinken liessen], but more recently hydraulic engineers from around the world have come to study it. At this very moment, drills rattle, the enormous chisels drone as they smash the rocks, dynamite detonates, crushed stone masses roll into the river and huge excavators clean the debris from the riverbed this struggle left behind.1

The stone blockage at the Iron Gates was to soon disappear. At least this is what Gerhard Luther believed, one of the managers of the firm that oversaw construction works in the 1890s. And indeed, the engineering plans greenlighted by the Hungarian government were to become one of the most outstanding river regulation projects of the nineteenth century. Their most notable technical feature was the open canal, unregulated by locks at either end. On the one hand, the open canals would ease the movement of ships through the former stone barrier, and on the other, would showcase the technical mastery of the engineers and constructors. However, this engineering 1

Gerhard Luther, Die Regulirung der Katarakte in der unteren Donau (Eisernes Thor) (Braunschweig: Johann Heinrich Meyer, 1893), 4.

237

Chapter 5

approach was not without controversy. Many engineers as well as politicians, diplomats, military officers, and entrepreneurs spoke out against this technical solution, emphasizing its flaws. Moreover, opponents of the open canal system promoted their own, alternative projects for the Iron Gates, which aimed to improve shipping conditions. This chapter assesses the complex decision-making process regarding the choice of an engineering plan in light of these disagreements, and its ensuing execution at the Iron Gates under Hungarian command. The section emphasizes that building infrastructure was often a contested process in which various actors voiced different views and pursued different interests. Moreover, their views and interests changed significantly over time, as did the degree of influence certain actors had on decision-making.2 At the turn of the century, more than six decades had passed since engineer Vásárhelyi had first attempted to carve a safe passage for ships over the eight cataracts. There were many reasons for the delays; military conflicts, technical disagreements, and political feuds prevented a prompt solution for the Iron Gates. Over time, several alternative (and sometimes overlapping) visions to improve the passage appeared, advocating different technical solutions. The main actors involved at the Iron Gates were the DDSG administration, the imperial state, and the Hungarian government, who all followed both conflicting and intersecting objectives. Because these projects reached across the Habsburg border, the Ottoman, and later Serbian, authorities added their input to the ongoing debate. The engineers who converted these visions of state-building, free navigation, trade expansion, and modernization into concrete action plans were instrumental in how the regulation of the Iron Gates developed. This chapter argues that the very existence of competing engineering projects suggests that although the involved actors claimed to be searching for the objectively best technical solution for the cataracts, they were in fact looking for an approach that best suited their own interests. The project finally built at the end of the nineteenth century was just one possible solution of several suitable ones. This lack of “objectivity,” combined with the persistence with which the actors continued to search for the “most viable” technical solution, ultimately revealed that it was impossible to arrive 2 Pritchard, Confluence, 13; van der Vleuten and Kaijser, “Networking Europe,” 24.

238

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

at an outcome that suited all parties. Following these conversations, it becomes clear not only how opinions and technical solutions circulated, but also how knowledge, expertise, interests, and influences evolved over time. First, state development schemes replaced private initiatives as the dominant force pushing the regulation of the Iron Gates forward and allowing officially appointed civil engineers to reshape the river. Second, because of the shift in political and administrative power inside the Habsburg Monarchy after the Compromise of 1867, the regulation of the Iron Gates—though it never ceased to be a technical and commercial endeavor to serve the entire empire—fell to the Hungarian government that rebranded it as a national modernization project. Finally, given the controversial formation of the regulation works, the new pieces of infrastructure saw many conflicting uses and attempts at appropriation after their completion. The Engineer Versus the Entrepreneur In the early 1860s, after the Undersecretary at the Ministry of Trade Florian von Pasetti published the maps and surveys taken during the Crimean War, a new debate on the fate of the Iron Gates began. Gustav Wex recognized the opportunity to make the engineering projects he had developed in 1855 public. He introduced the regulation plans in the framework of a long essay that provided an overview of the evolution of Austrian trade along the Lower Danube and the failed attempts to improve navigation over the cataracts.3 He based his estimates on the assumption that the Danube would remain the main transport connection to the Orient. Although passengers sometimes preferred the train connection to the Black Sea, heavy loads would continue to follow the course of the Danube. Thus, it was imperative to finally improve shipping traffic over the Iron Gates, the main choke point on the river.4 He further acknowledged the work of the ECD that had successfully removed the sand blockage at the Sulina bar, making the neglect at the Iron Gates all the more obvious.5 In writing this review, Wex drew on a large pool of information about the navigation conditions at the Iron Gates, summarizing the existing knowl3 Wex, Der Donaustrom, 68–122. 4 Ibid., 68. 5 Ibid., 79.

239

Chapter 5

edge on this river segment. He based his calculations on the notes and maps the DDSG had collected since Vásárhelyi’s first attempt to break through the stone barrier. He started by thoroughly describing the eight cataracts and the dangers they posed to navigation. In this context, he mentioned several shipwrecks: in 1854, the Pollux, and in 1850 the Albrecht, both steamers belonging to the DDSG, were thrown against the steep cliffs and severely damaged. In 1862, an Ottoman naval steamboat was pierced by rocks jutting from the water’s surface. Although the scattered wrecks added new dangers to vessels passing through the gorge, their removal was difficult and expensive. Furthermore, the author noted that the period when the passage at the Iron Gates was closed for navigation had grown longer. Measurements taken between 1855 and 1862 showed that the water level was significantly lower than in the previous decade. Having pointed out that in 1862 steamers could cross the Iron Gates unhindered only between March 1 and May 16 (the shortest period ever recorded), Wex worried that this negative trend could continue. Thus, his essay assessed not only the physical characteristics of the gorge but also dealt with the annual amount of rainfall, the depth of the water, and the velocity of the current. The statistical data allowed him to make a more general estimation of the changing environmental conditions in the area. After reviewing these measurements, he came to realize that not only direct human intervention at the Iron Gates, such as the removal of large amounts of rock from the riverbed, influenced the navigation conditions over the eight cataracts. In addition, extensive regulation work conducted on the upper course of the Danube had an impact on the depth of the water at the Iron Gates. The works were mainly carried out in Bavaria and Austria to prevent floods from affecting the level of the water downstream. After the periodically occurring floods, the water retreated only slowly from the submerged land, keeping the water level at the Iron Gates high for a long period of time. The recently erected dams kept the water inside the new riverbed and transported it at increased speed downstream, meaning that the water level rose and then fell again very quickly. This was why periodic measurements revealed that the water level at the Iron Gates had constantly decreased over the previous eight years. The regulation of the Tisza (Theiß), one of most important tributaries of the Danube, made matters worse by increasing the speed of the water flow even more. And finally, the widespread draining of wetlands diminished the overall amount of water the Danube carried down240

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

stream. At the same time, Wex noticed that the amount of annual rainfall had declined. He linked this decrease to widespread efforts to clear forests and reclaim agricultural land in the proximity of the Danube. Wex estimated that the dramatic decrease in the water depth would have negative effects on navigation over the Iron Gates by making the flow of the river more unpredictable and interrupting shipping traffic even more often. Thus, in his opinion, the recent fluctuations in the water level only increased the urgency of intervention at the Iron Gates.6 To this purpose, he published his previous expert reports which focused on the last, and what he considered the most dangerous, of the eight cataracts, also called the “actual” Iron Gate. He still believed in the accuracy of his proposals of 1855, namely that only an artificial canal separate from the riverbed and built on either the left or right bank of the Danube could enable steamers coming from both directions to cross unharmed over the rocks protruding from the water. He argued that regulation works should tackle the actual Iron Gate first, adding however that navigation conditions would only truly improve if all other seven cataracts were removed as well. He suggested that similar canals separated by stone dams from the original riverbed should be constructed alongside the other rapids. In his opinion, canals were the best remedy to even out the difference in height at the bottom of the rapids and to slow down the water velocity.7 Wex ended his paper by suggesting that a private company should carry out the project and be allowed to collect a toll from the ships entering the canals in order to cover the costs.8 In his essay, Wex analyzed the Iron Gates as a short stretch on a long river. It was the first, and probably only, time in the nineteenth century that an engineer established a direct connection between the multiple human interventions along the Danube and navigation conditions over the cataracts. Thus, he realized that the flow of the Danube at the Iron Gates depended not only on the local physical conditions but was also influenced by seemingly unrelated engineering works on its upper course. It is significant that while compiling this overview, Wex was in charge of straightening the Danube in Vienna.9 6 7 8 9

Ibid., 96. Ibid., 94. Ibid., 120. Willi H. Hager, “Gustav Ritter von Wex, sein Leben und Werk,” Österreichische Wasser- und Abfallwirtschaft 61, nos. 5–6 (2009): 81–88.

241

Chapter 5

Figure 11. Wex’s engineering plan at the Iron Gates, including the new navigation canal. Source: Gustav Wex, “Der Donaustrom als Hauptverkehrsstrasse nach dem Orient nach erfolgter Beseitigung der Schifffahrtshindernisse am Eisernen Thore und an den sieben Schromschnellen oberhalb Orsova,” Österreichische Revue 3 (1863).

Familiar with the entire length of the Danube, Wex understood that while improving a certain part of the river, hydraulic engineering projects could seriously damage other spots on its lower course. Nevertheless, Wex believed that his plan would ensure a smooth passage around the eight cataracts irrespective of the amount of water flowing downstream (see figure 11). After his handling, the Iron Gates would be free of the contingencies that other engineering projects might cause. His essay would remain a singular attempt to link the Iron Gates to the entire flow of the mighty river, unrepeated even in Wex’s future writings. Just as the cataracts narrowed the breadth of the river, the technical experts gazing at the Iron Gates directed their attention exclusively on this exceptional spot, thus virtually separating it from the rest of the river. Their approach can in part be explained by a lack of foresight but it was also driven by (over)confidence about their ability to engineer the Iron Gates in such a way as to render it independent from other regulation projects and unpredictable weather conditions. Martin von Cassian, the new director of the DDSG, was the first to react to Wex’s essay. As a former company agent in Orsova, he was familiar with the difficulties the eight cataracts posed to the vessels of the DDSG. He was confident that the insights he gained during his five years in Orsova 242

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

entitled him to an informed opinion.10 Moreover, the Austrian Chamber of Commerce and Industry (Handels- und Gewerbekammer) asked for his expert opinion in assessing Wex’s technical project.11 In his introductory statement, he declared that he had no greater wish than to see the physical barriers at the Iron Gates removed—an operation that in his opinion was long overdue.12 However, he agreed with Wex only on a few general points. He considered the physical description of the cataracts accurate, and while working in Orsova had made the same observations concerning the constantly falling water level. However, he dismissed Wex’s engineering solution to build canals alongside the waterfalls. Cassian was careful to underline that he did not reject Wex’s project from a technical but from a practical point of view, acknowledging that he wanted a solution best suited to his company and that would increase its revenues. From this perspective, he did not consider the last waterfall—the actual Iron Gate—to pose the greatest hindrance to navigation. The ships of the DDSG had far more trouble crossing the first seven rapids situated on Habsburg territory. Thus, he did not understand Wex’s insistence on primarily solving this obstacle. In other words, the actual Iron Gate might have been the most difficult spot to fix from an engineering point of view, but in practical terms it was just a short bump for the DDSG steamers on their way to the Lower Danube. In Cassian’s opinion, investing a large sum of money to remove or avoid this obstacle was completely unnecessary. Instead of the projected canals, he recommended blasting a narrow passageway through the underwater rocks. This relatively small intervention would allow steamers to pass unhindered over the banks of rock below. He was unable to estimate the costs, but was certain that they would be significantly below the projected 1.4 million francs for the construction of the canal.13 In contrast, Wex opposed carving out a new passageway from the riverbed because if more rocks were removed, the speed of the flowing water would increase rapidly. This would mean that the water would run off faster and the riverbed would not gain any new depth. Cassian rejected this assumption, adding an obser10 Cassian to Bachmayer, Abschrift, Vienna, July 14, 1864, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34-S.R.-54, 120. 11 Stein to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Vienna, July 14, 1864, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR F34S.R.-54, 119. 12 Cassian to Bachmayer, 120. 13 Ibid., 121.

243

Chapter 5

vation from his monitoring of the blasting activity of the DDSG. Every time the workers—under the supervision of the DDSG—succeeded in removing rocks from the riverbed, the level of the water had increased immediately. Thus, he concluded, Wex’s deduction might seem logical on paper, but practice had shown that a different outcome was possible.14 Since the seven waterfalls above Orsova posed a much greater barrier to the DDSG ships, Cassian urged the Viennese authorities to start with the removal of these blockages first. In terms of engineering, he went along with Wex’s proposal to build canals separated by dams from the original riverbed. However, he suggested the construction of only one canal at a time in order to be able to assess how each impacted on navigation. He clearly preferred small-scale interventions because their results could be more easily monitored. He further questioned Wex’s master plan because it was extremely expensive and the works would take several years to complete. He bluntly described the estimated costs of the entire project, set at four million francs, as pure fiction. He knew from experience that the costs of hydraulic construction could be very unpredictable, particularly when underwater blasting was required, and it was easy to underestimate the funds for a large-scale regulation project.15 By way of conclusion, he stated that he did not reject Wex’s engineering proposals per se, but questioned the practical value of his regulation plans for the future navigation over the Iron Gates.16 Faced with these divergent assessments, the Austrian Chamber of Commerce and Industry was at an impasse. While both engineers recommended rapid action at the cataracts, they proposed different technical approaches. Moreover, both pursued the same goal with different stakes in mind. Cassian was thinking of the well-being of his company, while Wex showcased his engineering skills and knowledge by providing an all-round solution for the various impediments to navigation. In essence, Wex offered the “total” regulation of the Iron Gates, which would remove the stone blockage once and for all. Cassian was thinking of more minor interventions tailored according to the needs of the company. Although he never stated it explicitly, Cassian was also thinking of the DDSG’s monopoly concerning navigation on the upper and middle Danube. He was well aware that the com14 Ibid., 120. 15 Ibid., 121. 16 Ibid., 124.

244

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

pany had been able to maintain this monopoly for such a long time exactly because of the stone barriers at the Iron Gates. Being the only company to provide a regular shipping connection between Vienna and Constantinople, the DDSG developed several technical and organizational innovations that enabled its ships to cross this dangerous passage. For instance, the company built several light steamers with a shallow draft, able to navigate the waters of the cataracts. In addition, the company erected a number of boat stations where passengers could change ship or pass the time if weather conditions prevented their further journey. The DDSG was able to make these investments not only because it relied on state subsidies but because it did not have to compete with another shipping firm.17 If the cataracts were removed altogether, other companies would be able to venture into the Austrian Danube. In sum, the director was looking for improvements that would, on the one hand, provide more safety for the company’s ships, and on the other prevent foreign companies from accessing the Habsburg part of the river. After reviewing both proposals, the president of the Chamber of Commerce agreed with Cassian’s suggestion to start improving navigation conditions over the seven waterfalls above Orsova. The reasons were neither technical, economic, nor even navigational—the waterfalls were simply on Habsburg territory and state authorities could launch the works right away. Furthermore, the chamber advised the ministry of foreign affairs to resume negotiations with the other riparian states, as stipulated in the Danube Navigation Act of 1857, in order to find an international solution for the rapids beyond the Habsburg border.18 Things moved slowly from there. In 1872, Gustav Wex held a public lecture at the weekly meeting of the Association of Austrian Engineers and Architects in Vienna in which he again presented the history of the regulation of the Iron Gates. He expressed his deep regret that although state and private stakeholders recognized the economic importance of the Danube for the Habsburg Monarchy, the blockage at the Iron Gates had not yet been removed.19 He informed the audience that after publishing an essay on this matter in 1863, he had mailed it to all interested ministries. He assumed that his proposal had been either rejected or ignored. The only explanation he had 17 Binder et al., Rot-Weiss-Rot auf blauen Wellen, 40–73. 18 Stein to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 120. 19 Wex, “Über die Schiffbarmachung der Donau am Eisernen Thore,” 281–90.

245

Chapter 5

received informally from the ministry of trade was that if loaded ships could travel unhindered between Vienna and the Black Sea, the steamers of the DDSG would face the competition of French and British cargo ships and the Austrian government would have to increase its subsidies for the company.20 His hint at possible competition for the DDSG suggests that Cassian, in favor of a less radical regulation project, had influenced the decision at the ministry of trade. Turning to his engineering plan, Wex reiterated the outline of the regulation project he had developed in 1855 and ended his speech on a hopeful note: since so many years had passed, the political decision-makers would finally understand how important Danube commerce was for the monarchy, and would energetically proceed with the regulation of the cataracts.21 Indeed, Wex had several grounds to be optimistic. In the early 1870s, the regulation of the Iron Gates returned to feature prominently on the international political agenda. At the London Black Sea Conference in 1871, the plans were again discussed among the Great Powers, developing into a contentious issue particularly between the Ottoman Empire and the Habsburg Monarchy. In the end, after harsh debate, the monarchy failed to secure enough international support for its bid to be placed solely in charge of the regulation works.22 Yet again, the monarchy had to reach out to the Ottoman authorities to settle the details of the engineering project and its practical realization. Moreover, since the Austro-Hungarian Compromise of 1867, negotiating a settlement became more complex because the Hungarian part of the monarchy had received an equal vote on this issue. As a direct result of this realignment of forces inside and outside the Habsburg Monarchy an international technical commission was created to which Austria, Hungary, and the Ottoman Empire each sent a member to confer on the best way to improve navigation through the Iron Gates.23 An initiative of the DDSG then moved things further. In 1871, the company commissioned an American engineer, William Jarvis McAlpine, to con20 In 1857, the imperial government provided the DDSG with two million florins in subsidies in order for the company to remain competitive under the conditions of free trade imposed by the ECD. See Robert Shields Mevissen, Constructing the Danube Monarchy: Habsburg State-Building in the Long Nineteenth Century unpublished dissertation (Georgetown University, December 2017), 38–39. 21 Ibid., 289. 22 Jelavich, The Ottoman Empire, 66. 23 Béla Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores und der übrigen Katarakte an der Unteren Donau (Budapest: Országgyűlési Értesítő, 1896), 105–7.

246

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

duct a new study of the waterfalls below and above Orsova.24 His expertise derived from his time as a civil engineer on the Mississippi, and he brought something new to the Danube: a global outlook. While previous actors had looked on the Danube almost exclusively as a link between Central Europe and the Orient, McAlpine saw the regulation of the Iron Gates as an opportunity to divert European trade via the Danube to the Black Sea and down to the Mediterranean. His panoramic gaze even linked the Danube to the Suez Canal and the East Indies.25 He also found that the Danube in many ways resembled the Mississippi river. They were not only the longest rivers on their respective continent, but were obstructed by several rocky cataracts causing great fluctuation in their flow.26 McAlpine’s overarching view of the Danube also influenced his engineering judgement. He started from the premise that the dimensions and details of regulation depended on many factors, most importantly on the future development of trade and the size of the ships that would cross over the cataracts. Regarding the first point, he estimated that after the stone barriers were removed, the amount of freight passing through the Iron Gates would double and the number of passengers increase.27 Considering the size of vessels, he distinguished between sea steamers and the smaller ships used above Orsova. If sea steamers were to cross over the cataracts, the cost of the project would be twice as high. Thus, he proposed that the improved Iron Gates passage should carry only the small type of vessels that circulated on the upper part of the river.28 Over the following years, his reflections would set in motion a long and controversial debate among experts regarding the exact dimensions of the canals and what type of ships they should accommodate. From an engineering point of view, McAlpine tried to achieve as much as possible with the simplest methods. He did not approve of Wex’s canals, proposing instead to carve out several passageways inside the riverbed that would follow the navigation trajectory.29 Thus, his main intention was to

24 William McAlpine, “Report of the Cataracts on the Danube between Moldova and Turn Severin, 1871,” in Actenstücke, 47–62. 25 Ibid., 48–49. 26 Ibid., 47. 27 Ibid., 49. 28 Ibid., 53. 29 Ibid., 51.

247

Chapter 5

improve navigation along the already used “natural” shipping route.30 Only at Greben (one of the seven cataracts) did he suggest two parallel walls to even out the steep incline, while at the actual Iron Gate he recommended several smaller dams to guide more water into the shipping channel used at that time. His expert report fulfilled the main criteria established by the DDSG, namely that the regulation project should be cheap and simple. It is not evident, however, to what extent the company’s board of directors influenced the outcome of his study, or if they chose McAlpine precisely because his engineering approach fitted their expectations. In sum, McAlpine offered not only a different approach to the regulation of the Iron Gates—his recommendations also provided director Cassian with new arguments in favor of a less invasive regulation method. More importantly, Cassian had found an internationally renowned engineer who used similar arguments to his own. McAlpine was the first foreign engineer to inspect the Iron Gates on both sides of the border. However, his report received little attention from the ministries and the other Habsburg engineers. The main reason for this lack of reception was the decision of the Habsburg authorities to follow the recommendation of the London Conference to appoint an international expert commission to handle the Iron Gates matter, with members from the riparian states. Over the next decade, this commission would shape the course of the debate. The Limited Influence of the International Commission In October 1873, the three members of the International Commission, Hungarian engineer Ludwig Bodoki, Austrian engineer Johann Wawra, and a French engineer in Ottoman service, Mugel Bey, met in Orsova and began their survey of the Iron Gates. In April 1874, they produced a final report which they sent to several Austrian and Hungarian ministries as well as to the Ottoman government. The report set out several basic principles for future regulation works. The eight cataracts should be regulated with the help of canals separated from the original riverbed. All the artificial canals should be two meters deep and sixty meters wide. They were to be separated from the riverbed by parallel dams and would not necessarily follow the pres30 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 103.

248

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

ent line of navigation. In order not to obstruct the movement of ships, the canals would remain open without locks at either end. The longest would be built over the last cataract of the actual Iron Gate and would be approximately two kilometers in length. The trajectory of this canal would follow the right Serbian riverbank through the Kazan valley and around the Prigrada rock. The estimated overall costs were set at fourteen million francs.31 Like previous assessments, the International Commission expressed concern about the extremely high speed of the water inside the new artificial canals. The commissioners estimated water velocity at four meters per second. This high speed would not so much affect steamers heading downriver, but would prevent them from passing through the canals back up. In this context, Bodoki, the Hungarian representative, introduced the idea of installing a mechanical traction device (touage) along the shore between Moldova Veche and Turnu Severin. Compared to the existing method of using oxen for traction, a mechanical device would be both quicker and more efficient. Bodoki estimated the required length of the cables at ninety kilometers—with the help of five towboats, they would be able to pull around 500,000 tons over the Iron Gates per year. Towing was expected to cost an additional 0.0105 francs per kilometer for one lifted ton.32 In November 1874, almost a year after the report was completed, the Austrian minister of foreign affairs, Gyula (Julius) Andrássy, realized that both the Austrian as well as the Hungarian authorities had not yet officially addressed the International Commission’s proposals. Andrássy knew that the Hungarian ministry of public works and communications was still reviewing the report and urged the Austrian authorities to examine and quickly approve the regulation project. In this respect, he recommended that the involved ministries (war, trade, and interior) let Undersecretary (Ministerialrat) Gustav Wex evaluate the work of the commission so that the Austrian ministers could make an informed decision. Following Wex’s evaluation, he hoped that the decision-makers in the Austrian part of the monarchy would agree on common action.33 A few months later, in another letter addressed to the Austrian minister of trade, Anton Banhans, Andrássy expressed his astonishment that both 31 Ibid., 105–7. 32 Louis Bodoki, “Programm für eine Kettenschiffahrt, ” in Actenstücke, 91–92. 33 Andrássy to Banhans, Vienna, November 28, 1874, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233.

249

Chapter 5

the Austrian and the Hungarian authorities had still not agreed on a regulation project. He was surprised by this state of affairs as he had assumed that approval would be a mere formality, given that both governments had a representative in the International Commission with whom they were in close contact. After so many delays, he asked for quick action from both parts of the monarchy. More so, because he expected official approval to arrive soon from the Ottoman Empire and feared an embarrassing situation for the monarchy if indeed the Ottoman government was first to greenlight the project. After all, the monarchy had pushed for its realization; thus, he would prefer for Austrian endorsement to arrive earlier. In addition, he mentioned further tedious negotiations lying ahead that would almost certainly postpone the beginning of the actual construction work. For instance, negotiations with Serbia and Wallachia had not yet been completed. Moreover, the International Commission’s project only dealt with technical problems without addressing the distribution of costs between the two empires and within the monarchy. Finally, the Austrian authorities intended to commission a private firm to carry out the project through a public tender, which was bound to be a lengthy process. Taking all these factors into account, the minister asked for the speedy approval of the technical aspects of the regulation project.34 On February 15, 1875, Wex replied to the minister of interior, Lasser von Zollheim, noting that he was well aware of the urgency of the matter.35 He apologized for having taken so long to respond, largely because he was occupied with the regulation of the Danube in Vienna and only had time to examine the report in the evenings. Reading and understanding the text, written in French, had also taken him longer than expected. His first technical remark referred to the hydrographic measurements conducted by the International Commission, which he considered inaccurate, because they had been taken as part of explorations in October 1873 when the water level in Orsova was particularly high. Moreover, these initial explorations had been terminated due to poor weather conditions and left unfinished. The best solution would have been to resume the measurements at a more convenient time. On the basis of his long-standing personal experience at the Iron Gates, Wex was able to deliver an informed opinion on the report of the commis34 Andrássy to Banhans, Vienna, December 31, 1874, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233. 35 Wex to Lasser, Vienna, February 15, 1875, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233.

250

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

sion. In general terms, he agreed with the proposals, but added a few amendments. He was pleased to see that the International Commission had suggested similar improvements to those he had submitted in 1855. Most of his modifications to the proposal were minimal; in some cases, he suggested a slightly different curvature for a canal, requested the extension of another, or suggested a lower height for the separating dams. His main concern, however, was the depth of the canals, originally set at 2 meters but reduced by the Ottoman commissioners to 1.5 meters in order to minimize costs. Wex rejected the reduction, insisting that the canals must be at least two meters deep in order to carry enough water for steamers to cross unharmed. As an alternative way to reduce costs, he suggested that the company performing the regulation work should receive standard prices (Einheitspreise) because it was very likely that changes would occur during the project. He ended his assessment by recommending that Austrian and Hungarian technical experts should first agree among themselves on how to pursue the project, and clear all the details. For this purpose, he requested a meeting in Vienna between the Hungarian and Austrian members of the commission, Bodoki and Wawra, Hungarian engineer Meiszner, and himself.36 The Austrian minister of trade, Banhans, agreed to Wex’s suggestion and called for a meeting between the above-mentioned engineers. On hearing about this new conference, Andrássy expressed astonishment that a new round of negotiations among technical experts seemed necessary.37 In his opinion, any technical disagreements between the monarchy’s two governments should already have been settled by the International Commission. He also noted that the meeting lacked any political representation. In principle, Andrássy argued, he had nothing against new technical discussions, but a joint political decision was urgently needed and not merely a technical consensus that the Habsburg Monarchy could convey to the Ottoman government. Thus, he suggested that representatives of the involved ministries should also be present at the meeting. Andrássy was equally surprised that Banhans intended to invite the director of the DDSG, Cassian, to the consultations. On the one hand, he praised Cassian’s practical expertise which would be an asset during the actual engi36 Ibid. 37 Andrássy to Banhans, Vienna, March 13, 1875, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233.

251

Chapter 5

neering work. On the other, he expressed reservations about his presence at this new round of negotiations, reminding his colleagues that the DDSG, as a private company, pursued different goals to those of the Habsburg government. Several rumors had reached Andrássy that the DDSG would prevent the building of canals at the Iron Gates that would enable the passage of large seagoing vessels. It was assumed that the company opposed such largescale intervention because it feared that its shipping monopoly would be lost to French and British ships traveling from the Black Sea into the Austrian Danube. Andrássy felt that even if these rumors could not be confirmed, it would be best to reduce the influence of the DDSG on the final decisionmaking process. He concluded that a fast agreement was imperative because the Ottoman government had already passed a decision in the council of ministers, and he expected to hear the outcome within a few days. His final proposal seemed at odds with his attempt to speed up decision-making and change the focus of the debate from technical to political: he recommended that István Révy, a Hungarian engineer who had worked for many years in England and North America, take part in the discussions.38 As Andrássy expected, news from the Ottoman side arrived a few days later through Count Zichy, the Habsburg ambassador in Constantinople. However, this was not the anticipated approval but a technical report containing several modifications the Ottomans wanted to introduce to the International Commission’s plan.39 According to the Ottoman statement, the government would approve the regulation project at the last cataract, the actual Iron Gates (situated on Ottoman territory), only if the following amendments were included in the final contract. First, the Ottoman side demanded that the maximum depth of the canal be set at 1.5 meters below water level. Second, the overall costs of the regulation project should be calculated beforehand. Third, the private company executing the regulation work should be paid a piecework rate (accordweise). This would also mean that all maintenance costs should be set before the works started. Finally, the tariff for passing through the canal should be fixed accordingly, so that it would cover all construction costs over a set period.40 38 Ibid. 39 Zichy to Andrássy, Constantinople, March 23, 1875, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233. 40 Ibid.

252

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

The Hungarian side reacted quickly to Andrássy’s proposal for a joint Habsburg meeting. The ministry of public works and communications wrote to the Austrian ministry of trade and agreed to send engineers Meiszner and Bodoki to Vienna to consult with their Austrian colleagues. Furthermore, Andrássy considered this a good opportunity to address the Ottoman statement that suggested several amendments to the report of the International Commission.41 In July 1875, Andrássy wrote back to Zichy in Constantinople to express his disappointment with the Ottoman decision not to unconditionally endorse the commission’s report. This outcome seemed unexpected, especially since the sultan himself had promised an endorsement. Nevertheless, Andrássy was confident that he could convince the Ottomans to change their minds and to authorize the regulation project in its present state. Further amendments could be introduced as the work progressed. In his opinion, this was the only way for the project to move forward without further delay. In this vein, he instructed his ambassador to use his entire influence and all necessary means to convince the Ottoman authorities to reconsider the issue.42 While the Hungarian, Austrian, and Ottoman state authorities were struggling to agree on a common regulation project, the administration of the DDSG had more pressing concerns. In October 1874, after the board members had studied the International Commission’s report, the company urged the Austrian minister of trade to push for the quick regulation of the Iron Gates.43 Eduard Wiener, speaking as a representative of the DDSG, started by describing the numerous hardships that passengers on the company’s steamers had to endure when crossing through the Iron Gates. He also emphasized the many dangers ships and the DDSG staff encountered when traveling across the rapids. In this context, he mentioned the countless investments the company had made to improve navigation conditions over the last forty years. Wiener listed the four-mile telegraph line between Orsova and Turnu Severin, the development of shipping infrastructure around the boat stations, the building of new accommodations for travelers, the manufacturing of special shallow-draft boats capable of crossing the cataracts, the opening of a shipyard, and even the financing of blasting activity to remove rock from the riverbed. 41 Zichy to Sisinio von Pretis-Cagnodo, Budapest, April 6, 1875, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233. 42 Andrássy to Zichy, Vienna, July 26, 1875, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233. 43 Wiener to the Ministry of Trade, Vienna, October 13, 1874, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233.

253

Chapter 5

All these investments on a shipping route that was not yet profitable attested to the fact that the DDSG was not just a regular shipping company, but like the monarchy itself, acted as a mediator between the Occident and the Orient, said Wiener. However, due to the projected Hungarian railway between Temesvár, Orsova, and Turnu Severin, this mission seemed at risk. If the project was completed, the 195-mile waterway full of barriers would have to compete with a 147-mile railroad; subsequently, the railway company would practically achieve a transport monopoly along this route. Thus, in spite of its investment in river infrastructure at the Iron Gates, the DDSG would eventually have to give up this transport line. As a result, the Danube would no longer be the main artery of the Habsburg Monarchy (die größte Puls- und Lebensader). In this plaintive tone, Wiener urged for the implementation of the regulation project in order to ensure the competitiveness of the DDSG.44 This intervention ensured the DDSG a seat in the ad hoc commission that met in 1875 at the ministry of trade in Vienna in which technical experts and representatives of the involved ministries from both parts of the monarchy took part. The conference dealt with a variety of technical, financial, and strategic issues. The first addressed the modifications to the original report of the International Commission proposed by the Ottoman authorities. The main adjustment concerned the depth of the canals, which the Ottoman engineer had set at 1.5 meters. The Hungarian engineer Révy, who joined the team at the suggestion of foreign affairs minister Andrássy, thought the canals should be at least two meters deep. Because this question was essential for the success of any future regulation, the issue was discussed again. Taking into account that the water levels at the Iron Gates had decreased over the past years, the Habsburg engineers decided unanimously that the new canals should be dug to a depth of at least two meters. Only in this way could they convey enough water to transport loaded steamers over the cataracts. They also took the appeal of the ministry of war into consideration which pressed for greater depth in order to secure the passage of warships, particularly Danube monitors, over the cataracts.45 44 Ibid. 45 Äußerung I über die von der türkischen Regierung vorgeschlagenen Modificationen des Projectes für die Beseitigung der Schiffahrtshindernissen an den 8 Felsenbänken und Stromschnellen bei Orsova, ATOeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233, 1–11.

254

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

The next point on the agenda was the estimated cost of the entire project. If the canals were to have a depth of two meters, the total cost of regulation would amount to fourteen million francs. However, the Austrian ministry officials assumed that their Ottoman counterparts would not agree to such a large sum. Thus, the committee proposed to set the canal depth at 1.7 meters, reducing costs to 11.5 million francs. Accordingly, the Ottoman Empire’s contribution would be only 5.75 million francs.46 This recalculation reveals that the Ottoman engineers were under great pressure to reduce the overall cost, while the Habsburg officials were willing to compromise in order to move the matter forward. The final point under discussion was the proposal by the Ottoman minister of foreign affairs to fix the entire sum, including all operating and maintenance costs, before the actual work began. The Ottoman minister even spoke of a lump sum (Pauschalsumme) that the company in charge of the regulation work should receive beforehand with no further additional payments. The Habsburg committee rejected this proposal as impractical, arguing that the actual costs of hydraulic construction were hard to estimate and no private firm would accept such a deal. Besides, in the case that the actual price of regulation was significantly lower, both states would have willingly given away possible savings.47 After discussing the Ottoman proposals, the committee moved on to debate Wex’s amendments. As expected, these deliberations were almost exclusively technical. The most contentious aspects mainly concerned how best to implement the proposals put forward by the International Commission. Despite the long discussions, the changes finally made to the original report seemed minimal. For instance, Wex had suggested lowering the height of the canal dams in order to save costs, but commissioners Bodoki and Wawra prevailed with the argument that the dams should enable steamers to use the canal even when the Iron Gates were flooded. In the end, the committee acknowledged that the changes did not add significant revisions to the original proposal; thus, the original costs remained unaltered.48 46 Ibid., 29–30. 47 Ibid., 40–41. 48 Äußerung II über die von dem mitunterzeichneten k.k Hofrathe Gustav Wex beantragten Modificationan an dem von der internationalen Commission verfassten Projekt für die Schiffbarmachung der Donau an den 8 Felsenbänke bei Orsova, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233, 43–51.

255

Chapter 5

These new deliberations would have ended in harmony had Martin von Cassian, the director of the DDSG, not objected to these plans. The conflict between Cassian and the Habsburg engineering experts was of a fundamental nature. Old disagreements between Cassian and Wex on how to conduct the regulation works came to the fore once again. However, this time Wex had the full support of his colleagues as well as political backing. The core of the dispute was whether the regulation project should entail open channels dug into the riverbed or artificial canals separated by dams. Another contentious issue was whether the regulation works should follow the current shipping course or create a new, supposedly better, navigation trajectory.49 Citing McAlpine’s report, Cassian advocated a regulation project that would carve out an improved riverbed along the navigable course used by ships at that time. The technical experts on the commission agreed that there was a substantial advantage to improving the open riverbed, namely the creation of greater space for ships to maneuver. Indeed, artificial canals confined navigation to a very narrow line. The commission, however, noted that ships crossing the Iron Gates needed a lot of leeway precisely because the ride over the waterfalls followed a crooked course. This extra space would not be necessary inside a canal with a steady water flow. In contrast, the movement of ships through the open riverbed would remain unstable and dangerous, not only because deep waters alternated with shallow spots, but also due to the very strong side currents. Furthermore, in the case of the waterfalls at Izlas and Tahtalija, the considerable bend in the navigable course provided an additional reason to build artificial canals. Only canals separated from the riverbed could mend these shortcomings. Wex pointed out that previous blasting, though it had removed a considerable amount of rock from the riverbed, had only slightly improved navigation conditions. Finally, the engineers at the meeting rejected Cassian’s idea as too expensive.50 The representative of the war ministry had the final word. He objected to the fact that the canal over the last cataract at the Iron Gates would be 49 Äußerung III über die Proposition des Herrn Vertreters der k. und k. Kriegsministeriums und der erste privaten Donaudampfschiffahrtsgesellschaft bezüglich einiger Modificationen an dem von der internationalen Commission verfassten Projekt für die Schiffbarmachung der Donau an den 8 Felsenbänke bei Orsova, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 233, 52. 50 Ibid., 55–56.

256

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

situated close to the Serbian riverbank, thus making it vulnerable to potential attack. In the case of war, the canal could be easily seized and rendered unusable. Therefore, he suggested that at least the canal’s right dam be shortened so that it did not reach the Serbian shore. However, in order to fully protect the canal from projectiles, it should be moved into the middle of the waterway. Tension had been rising between the two countries since the London Peace Conference in 1871 when Serbia displayed a hostile attitude toward the Habsburg Monarchy.51 Aware of the strategic importance of the Iron Gates, the engineering experts were ready to take military concerns into account and strike some compromises. The expert committee replied that moving the canal was not difficult from an engineering point of view but would require double the amount of drilling and blasting to construct a canal through the heavy rocks in the center of the riverbed. In addition, if the canal was shifted further from the shore, construction work would take longer because all tools and materials would have to be shipped to the site. The current there was stronger and the walls of the dams would have to be thicker. Overall, a canal in the middle of the riverbed would cost at least double the initial price of about four million francs estimated by the International Commission.52 The International Commission’s report became an important point of reference for the future regulation of the Iron Gates. All engineers dealing with the cataracts would take its technical assessment as an important source of inspiration. However, the numerous revisions and annotations to the initial report show how difficult it was to agree on a compromise which satisfied all the actors involved. As in earlier talks, negotiations with the Ottomans were slow and marked by several setbacks. The meeting at the Austrian ministry of trade also revealed that even the representatives of the Dual Monarchy had trouble agreeing on a solution. There were simply too many interests—political, financial, and strategic—as well as technical variables that needed consideration. Ultimately, the participants at the Vienna conference agreed on one point, namely to reject the approach of the DDSG. This decision encapsulated the dwindling influence of the shipping company on the decision-making process. Instead of the DDSG supervising localized, 51 Armour, “The Sensitivities,” 526–30. 52 Äußerung III über die Proposition des Herrn Vertreters der k. und k. Kriegsministeriums, 57–58.

257

Chapter 5

small-scale interventions, engineers serving the state gained the upper hand, proposing radical solutions that they believed would remove the obstacles once and for all. Still, many technical aspects remained unsettled. To make matters worse, another commission, this time gathering experts from outside the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires, put forward yet another proposal. A New Commission of Foreign Experts The Congress of Berlin of 1878 finally brought the long-sought diplomatic breakthrough: article 58 determined that the Habsburg Monarchy would be solely in charge of the regulation of the Iron Gates. To cover the costs, the Habsburg administration was given the right to collect a shipping toll at the cataracts.53 Immediately afterwards, the monarchy signed a convention with Serbia (now independent from the Ottoman Empire) in which the former assumed the financial burden for the project and the latter agreed to facilitate access to its shore and ensure the best possible conditions for the workers.54 Regarding future navigation through the Iron Gates, the monarchy eased trade with Serbia by granting it the status of “most favored nation.”55 Finally, after another round of negotiations between Austria and Hungary, Hungary took the lead in this project, making sure that it would be the sole beneficiary of the sums collected from the toll. In addition, Hungary secured the right to independently determine the technical aspects of the engineering project.56 By coincidence, shortly after the Hungarian part of the monarchy took charge of the regulation of the Iron Gates, the Tisza river, an important tributary of the Danube, caused a devastating flood. In the aftermath, the Hungarian government commissioned a group of hydrologic experts from the Netherlands, France, Italy, and Germany to recommend a line of action to prevent further floods in the future.57 After concluding their work on the Tisza, the experts were asked by the Hungarian government to assess the 53 “Treaty between Great-Britain, Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and Turkey, for the Settlement of the Affairs of the East: Signed at Berlin, 13th July, 1878,” 357. 54 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 108. 55 Bernhard Singer, Die Verträge mit Serbien (Vienna: Moritz Perles, 1882), 31. 56 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 109. 57 Ibid., 110.

258

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

report of the International Commission for the Iron Gates. However, the new expert group did not conduct any new surveys of the cataracts, but only reviewed the findings of the previous commission.58 In their introductory remarks, the outside experts referred to the Iron Gates as a world-famous engineering challenge whose improvement would bring not only prosperity to the region but also significantly develop European trade in general. They considered the height difference at the last cataract the most challenging engineering problem, thus disagreeing with the International Commission that an open canal would be effective. Only a canal with a lock system would carry enough water to compensate the height difference. In making this proposal, they were aware that their solution would not be well received by the Habsburg engineers. In the original report, Wawra and Bodoki had given several reasons for rejecting the locks, mainly because operating the system was time-consuming and the maintenance costs were very high. The foreign expert group accepted these objections as justified but insisted that locks were the only option that would guarantee an even water level and steady flow throughout the canal.59 In order to emphasize the merits of their proposal, the group described the engineering work recently accomplished at the Sault du Rhône. Locks had been used on rivers to increase the water depth over shallow spots, but in the case of the Sault du Rhône, they were applied to equalize the gradient. Like the Iron Gates, the Sault du Rhône was a series of alternating cataracts spread over a distance of 1.5 kilometers with a total height difference of three meters. For many years, engineers had tried to enhance the passage by removing large quantities of rock from the riverbed. However, the improvement was only relative, because the speed of the water increased dramatically. As a result, steamers could only cross downstream over the cataracts. With the exception of passenger boats that under favorable conditions could travel across the Sault du Rhône upstream, all other boats carrying freight to Lyon came back empty and were either dragged by oxen or towed by a steamer upriver. In response to these shortcomings, French engineers had decided to install locks at each end of the canal. Furthermore, the expert group regarded the towing device for the Iron Gates proposed by commis58 Aus dem Berichte, der von der königlichen ungarischer Regierung zur Beurtheilung der Theiss-Regulirung berufenen fremdländischen Experten, Budapest, September 5, 1879, in Actenstücke, 99. 59 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 111–14.

259

Chapter 5

sioner Bodoki a useful addition to the lock system.60 Including the locks, the foreign experts estimated the total cost of the Iron Gates project at twentytwo million francs.61 This was the first time that a group of foreign experts assessed the Iron Gates as part of an official mission. Until then, the Habsburg authorities had desperately tried to shield the cataracts, situated in the immediate proximity of the monarchy’s border, from foreign eyes. This changed when the Hungarian government took the lead in the project for two reasons. First, the Hungarian authorities invited the foreign experts to review the situation at the Iron Gates in order to distance themselves from the influence of Vienna. Second, the young Hungarian state wanted to hear the opinion of well-established international experts before embarking on such a challenging project. However, instead of providing a proposal for a clear line of action to the Hungarian government, the new report further complicated the decision-making process. The report offered yet another technical solution for the government to choose from, increasing confusion among the political decision-makers. A public debate organized by the Danube Association in Vienna tried to find a way around the impasse by inviting several distinguished engineers and other persons directly involved in Danube navigation to discuss the merits of the existing engineering plans. Public Engineering Debates in Vienna Since the first attempt to regulate the Iron Gates in the 1830s, engineers had compiled several engineering plans that either partially or completely contradicted each other. The first was Vásárhelyi’s unfulfilled engineering project developed further by engineers Meusburger and Wex. McAlpine’s plan, authored for the DDSG, represented a completely different approach. The third was the report of the International Commission which endorsed open canals. And finally, the most recent assessment by the group of foreign experts disagreed and proposed canals closed off by locks. In order to give engineers and laymen the possibility to assess these projects, the secretary of the Danube Association (Donauverein), Ludwig Zels, published all 60 Ibid., 114–15. 61 Ibid., 120.

260

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

the plans and reports in a single volume.62 In 1881, after careful study of the documents, the Austrian Association of Engineers and Architects and the Danube Association in Vienna organized a series of public hearings at which the merits and advantages of all the projects were openly debated.63 The public debate moved the regulation of the Iron Gates away from the DDSG and ministerial officials and steered it into the public domain.64 Although the Iron Gates was a remote spot on the monarchy’s map, the sessions were well attended, numbering at least three hundred participants. More than four hundred persons came to the opening meeting on April 9, 1881. They were mainly members of the two organizing associations as well as external guests, most prominent among them the trade and the war ministers.65 The event suggests that the educated Viennese public started to perceive large infrastructure projects as public works that demanded the acceptance of the community.66 Robert Shields Mevissen has described the existence of such benevolent associations, and their debates on the merits of public infrastructure, as an indicator of a robust civil society in the Habsburg Monarchy.67 In addition, inviting the public to such sessions strengthened the position of engineers as experts capable of understanding the benefits of such complex works and able to explain them to a wider audience. Professional associations were key in promoting engineers as public figures. The public hearings focused on the technical aspects of the regulation projects in finding the most suitable solution for the Iron Gates. In his introductory remarks, the president of the Austrian Association of Engineers and Architects, Carl Prenninger, stressed that this was not the first time that the association had publicly discussed a prominent infrastructure project. In the late 1870s, it had already debated the construction of the Arlberg railway between Innsbruck and Bludenz—today still one of the highest standard gauge railways in Europe. Prenninger explained why the association 62 Actenstücke zur Regulirung der Stromschnellen der Donau zwischen Moldova und Turn-Severin. 63 “Discussion über die Frage der Regulirung der Stromschnellen auf der unteren Donau (Eisernes Thor),” Wochenschrift des österreichischen Ingenieur- und Architektenvereins, 6, no. 4 (1881): 107. On the Danube Association, see Robert Shields Mevissen, “Meandering Circumstances, Fluid Associations: Shaping Riverine Transformations in the Late Habsburg Monarchy,” Austrian History Yearbook 49 (2018): 23–40. 64 Reuss, “Seeing Like an Engineer,” 532. 65 “Discussion über die Frage der Regulirung,” 107. 66 On infrastructure as a common good in general, see Reuss, “Seeing Like an Engineer,” 532. On the Danube specifically, see Mevissen, Constructing the Danube Monarchy, 15 and 321. 67 Mevissen, “Meandering Circumstances, Fluid Associations,” 25.

261

Chapter 5

had picked precisely these two projects. First, because both initiatives were very challenging from an engineering point of view, Austrian engineers had joined forces in order to provide a more accurate assessment. Second, both were of key importance for the monarchy in terms of the development of trade and travel, thus making them a target of public scrutiny.68 The association put together a committee of fifteen members, mostly engineers plus two representatives of the DDSG: director Cassian and ship captain Carl Marchetti. Their task was to carefully study the previous regulation projects and discuss their merits publicly. It is noteworthy that only Austrian engineers participated in this discussion. The Austrian representative at the International Commission, Johann Wawra, was present but not his Hungarian colleague, Ludwig Bodoki.69 This was all the more striking as the talks took place at a time when the Hungarian government had taken full responsibility for the Iron Gates. The lack of Hungarian representatives could be explained by the fact the public meeting took place in Vienna, but also hints at the increasing divisions between the two parts of the Dual Monarchy—a split that became visible among professional organizations too. The committee convened for three months until it was ready to present its findings to the broader public. Unlike the previous commissions, it did not deliver a common report to which all committee members subscribed, but rather the representatives took turns to present their point of view on a specific technical aspect. In some cases, the engineers defended divergent opinions before the public. The president of the Danube Association, Eduard Suess, underlined that the event was an open forum for discussion.70 Before proceeding to the debate, the committee agreed upon three principles to guide the discussions. First, the experts would exclusively debate the regulation of the Iron Gates without taking into consideration the upper course of the Danube. This limitation was quite remarkable, especially since Gustav Wex, one of the committee members, had already established that the amount of water flowing through the cataracts depended on the technical and hydrological conditions on the upper course of the river.71 Still, 68 69 70 71

“Discussion über die Frage der Regulirung,” 107. Ibid., 107. Ibid., 108. See: Wex, Der Donaustrom, 96.

262

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

focusing exclusively on the stone barriers between Moldova Veche and Turnu Severin had significant practical advantages. The committee hoped that this would speed up the decision-making process. This very narrow gaze reduced the Danube River to a single “problematic” spot in need of mending. Instead of perceiving the entire river as a living organism with complex features and a long life cycle, the engineers isolated small segments where they could easily intervene. The second guiding principle determined the goal of regulation, namely to ensure safe shipping conditions over the cataracts in order to improve trade relations between Austria-Hungary and the Orient, including the countries of the Lower Danube. According to the third and last principle, the committee would debate only those technical aspects still considered controversial among specialists, such as the use of locks and the dimensions of the artificial canals. Gustav Wex, as a veteran of the Iron Gates, was among the first speakers and focused exclusively on the last of the eight cataracts—the actual Iron Gate—which he again called the most difficult spot to improve on the Danube and the most controversial of all. He clearly stated his preference for a canal separated by dams from the riverbed, without locks. Summarizing the alternatives, he discarded the idea of carving out an improved riverbed as too expensive, and stressed that locks carried too many risks. He considered a lock system time-consuming, high maintenance, and easy to destroy with just a single mine.72 In contrast, ship inspector and DDSG captain Carl Marchetti presented the benefits of locks from a practical point of view, describing them as the only viable solution to ensure the safe and smooth passage of ships through the canals.73 Engineer J. Deutsch, who spoke next, broadened the perspective and placed the work of the engineers in an evolving geopolitical context. Almost sarcastically, he remarked that in the past half a century, besides gathering useful information, the Habsburg government had not undertaken any concrete work at the Iron Gates. However, he was confident that this passive stance was about to change since his government had started to listen more to engineers than to military strategists. He further argued that the regulation of the Iron Gates should be considered as part of a larger infrastructure scheme to 72 “Discussion über die Frage der Regulirung,” 115–16. 73 Ibid., 131–32.

263

Chapter 5

improve the economic reach of the monarchy. In this sense, he linked the regulation project to the improvements accomplished in the Danube Delta and to the planned Danube-Elbe Canal.74 Austro-Hungarian products would be able to travel freely in both directions: westward to the North Sea and eastward to the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. The investments at the Iron Gates made sense only when placed in the context of global transport and trade networks.75 In this way, the Habsburg Monarchy—the quintessential land-locked empire—would gain two new outlets to the sea. Deutsch further considered locks at odds with recent developments in hydraulic engineering. He even went so far as to state that proposing locks as a solution was an unmistakable sign of mental fatigue. The foreign experts, weary after the on-site evaluation of the Tisza river, had forwarded the most conventional solution for the Iron Gates, according to Deutsch. Moreover, the Habsburg government, which aimed for free and unhindered traffic over the cataracts, should not resort to a technical structure that would only hamper the passage of ships.76 As previous debates among the engineers had shown, a hydraulic engineering system based on locks had both advantages and shortcomings. But Deutsch’s statements make obvious that a canal without locks fitted the overall discourse dominating the regulation of the Iron Gates in particular, and the Lower Danube in general, since the signing of the Treaty of Paris in 1856. The two principles of “free navigation” and “free trade” guided the regulation of the Danube.77 Under these circumstances, Deutsch stated, it seemed foolish to build a new man-made obstacle inside the riverbed. Thus, he chose the open canal as the best engineering solution because it was the only one to guarantee the free and unhindered circulation of ships.78 His position suggests that the side taken in the technological debate had an ideological bias, and a canal system without locks was simply better suited to the zeitgeist. Engineer Tausig picked out another contentious issue, turning to the size of the canals. The International Commission had set the overall width of the canals at sixty meters, corresponding to a single lane. Tausig compared the 74 75 76 77 78

On the Danube-Elbe Canal, see Janáč, European Coasts of Bohemia. “Discussion über die Frage der Regulirung,” 116–17. Ibid., 117. “General Treaty of Peace, 30th March, 1856,” 180. “Discussion über die Frage der Regulirung,” 117.

264

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

passage over the Iron Gates with the route on the Rhine between St. Goar and Bingen where engineers had built a canal 112 meters wide in order to accommodate ships coming from opposite directions. With this comparison in mind, he proposed two parallel canals separated from each other, one for vessels going downstream and the other for ships moving upstream. Because this new plan doubled the costs, he admitted that he was alone among his colleague in endorsing such a comprehensive intervention.79 The debate on whether the canals should have a single or double lane was symptomatic for the relationship between engineering projects and contemporary developments in river navigation. Engineers were well aware how fast shipping technology was advancing at that time. In order for constructions to be at least temporarily profitable, engineers had to estimate the amount of future traffic to pass through them. Basing estimates on existing traffic would mean that canals would soon become too narrow. Besides, Tausig feared that the planned canals at the Iron Gates were already lagging behind the standard set on the Rhine. Johann Wawra, formerly a member of the International Commission, represented the most conciliatory position. He was convinced that positive results could be achieved through several engineering methods. However, he reminded the audience that the International Commission was not free to decide on its own which engineering solution was best for the Iron Gates. In this respect, the commission had received clear instructions from the Habsburg ministries of war and trade on how to design the canal, namely without locks and avoiding direct contact with the Serbian riverbank.80 From the outset, this project was a compromise between the priorities of free movement and defense. Indeed, the team of engineers had worked around these two provisions, indicating how state actors influenced the decisionmaking process. This was emphasized by the fact that during the entire series of public hearings, several representatives of the two ministries were present. For instance, the Austrian minister of war, Baron Artur Maximilian von Bylandt-Rheydt, attended the session on April 6, 1881.81 While the officials did not address the public, in light of Wawra’s statement it is fair to assume that they were there to guard the interests of the two ministries. 79 Ibid., 124. 80 Ibid., 127–28. 81 Ibid., 116.

265

Chapter 5

The public hearings did not end in consensus. Significant disagreements among the involved parties on how to proceed with the regulation lingered on. However, the main purpose of the public hearings had been achieved: to inform an interested audience on the state-of-the-art at the Iron Gates. One lesson to take away was that there was no perfect fix for the cataracts, only solutions tailored according to particular needs. In addition, the engineers were well aware that they could not impose a certain technical solution without the approval of the political decision-makers. The takeover of the regulation project by the Hungarian government meant that the engineers and stakeholders from the Austrian part of the monarchy lost all influence. They were left to raise awareness among the general public. From then on, Hungarian specialists settled the regulation of the Iron Gates according to new guidelines released from Budapest. The Regulation of the Iron Gates as a Hungarian State-Building Measure After the Hungarian government took the fate of the Iron Gates into its hands, the Hungarian minister of public works and communications, Gábor (Gabriel) Kemény, asked Ernő (Ernst) Wallandt, an engineer and inspector at the same ministry, to submit a scientific report on the regulation of the cataracts between Moldova Veche and Turnu Severin. Besides conducting new measurements at the rapids, Wallandt’s main task was to compare the proposals made by the International Commission in 1874 and the commission of foreign experts in 1879 in order to choose the best engineering solution for the eight cataracts.82 In other words, he faced the ongoing dilemma of having to choose between an open canal and a canal with locks at the actual Iron Gate. In his report completed in December 1883, Wallandt expressed the same reservations about the locks, describing them as too time-consuming and ­costly.83 Next, he focused his attention on the two main objections raised by the foreign experts against the open canal. First, they assumed that not enough water would flow into the canal in order to achieve a constant depth of at least two meters. Second, due to the steep gradient, they 82 Bericht zum Projekte der durch die Katarakten der unteren Donau herzustellenden Schiffahrtsstraße, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 343, 1. 83 Ibid., 18.

266

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

estimated the velocity of the water at four meters per second, a speed that would make the canal impracticable for steamers. Wallandt considered both objections justified, but thought that he could easily remedy them. He suggested a minor modification at the upper entrance of the canal, shaped in the form of a funnel, that would direct more water into the channel. In order for steamers to overcome the speed of water inside the canal, he proposed two solutions. First, chain boats would haul steamers upstream irrespective of the water speed. Second, a smooth passage downstream could be attained by widening the canal from sixty to eighty meters.84 All in all, Wallandt searched for a compromise both from a navigational and a financial standpoint, giving preference to the open canal.85 In 1884, Minister Kemény, his secretary, and several other technical advisors reacted to Wallandt’s report, agreeing with his choices. On the whole, they considered a single-lane canal as more than sufficient to accommodate future freight transport over the Iron Gates.86 In a next step, Kemény sent Wallandt’s report to Vienna asking for quick approval.87 In a letter to the Austrian minister of trade, Felix Pino von Friedenthal, signed in April 1883, Kemény reminded his Austrian colleague of the terms of the agreement between the two parts of the monarchy regarding the regulation of the Iron Gates. In exchange for the Hungarian government taking over the entire costs of the regulation project, the Austrian side would refrain from interfering in its implementation. Thus, Austria should only amend the Hungarian plans if they truly interfered with Austrian commercial interests. Kemény further referred to a previous Austrian request, namely that both governments should jointly set the shipping toll for the new canals. The Hungarian minister rejected this suggestion on the grounds that if the Hungarian side alone was paying for the project, its government should be free to set the shipping toll accordingly. Besides, the Hungarian government was bound by the international agreement signed at the London conference of 1871, which established that a shipping toll would have the sole purpose of recovering the costs of construction. The minister assured his

84 85 86 87

Ibid., 20. Ibid., 21. Gutachten, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 343. Kemény to Pino-Friedenthal, Budapest, September 23, 1884, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 343.

267

Chapter 5

Austrian colleagues that the sum would be moderate and so would not burden domestic shipping companies.88 However, after receiving the technical documentation from Budapest, the Austrian minister of the interior, Eduard von Taaffe, felt obliged to appoint an ad hoc commission of experts, including Wex and Cassian, to review the Hungarian proposal. The new commission proposed that all the canals should be eighty meters wide, not only the one at the actual Iron Gate, and that the dams of the canals should be built one meter higher. A detailed report on the commission’s meeting gives an insight into the positions of its members. At first, Cassian expressed his surprise that the projected canals were only sixty meters wide, allowing only one ship to cross at a time. Engineer Gottlieb Fänner, construction manager at the Danube regulation works in Vienna, expressed serious doubts about the open canals. Both Fänner and Cassian agreed that the best technical solution was to carve out a 180-meter-wide channel in the riverbed. As expected, Wex was against such a proposal, referring to the exorbitant costs.89 The discussion was clearly moving in circles, revisiting issues long settled. Fearing an unproductive outcome, Undersecretary Beyer again reminded all present that it was not the commission’s job to put forward alternative projects but to make small amendments to the Hungarian choice. In the end, all members of the commission voted in favor of the Hungarian project with the exception of Cassian, who delivered a separate vote in which he altogether dismissed the canals.90 Thus, a pragmatic decision had been reached which discarded alternatives and focused on supporting the project with the biggest chance of being executed. This did not make the project any less controversial, but the endorsement meant a significant step forward. Ultimately, the Austrian authorities and civil engineers had to accept that the implementation of the project had turned into an exclusively Hungarian enterprise.91 Over the following years, things progressed slowly. In 1888, the Hungarian government passed a law that converted the international stipulations concerning the Iron Gates established at the London Peace Conference (1871) 88 Kemény to Pino-Friedenthal, Budapest, April 16, 1883, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 343. 89 Protokoll der Sitzung der Herrn Mitglieder des technischen Comités der Donau-Regulierungs-Commission, February 10, 1885, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 343. 90 Separat-Votum, Martin Ritter von Cassian, February 10, 1885, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 343. 91 Taaffe to Pino-Friedenthal, Vienna, February 19, 1885, AT-OeStA/AVA Handel HMallg A 343.

268

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

and in the Treaty of Berlin (1878) into national legislation.92 But before construction work could actually start, the Hungarian government had to decide on several important matters. First, it established a new ministerial section under the joint supervision of the ministry of trade and the ministry of public works to oversee the regulation works, headed by engineer and technical advisor Béla Gonda. Engineer Ernő Wallandt was appointed technical supervisor of the construction works.93 Second, the two Hungarian ministries organized an investigation to determine the most efficient blasting method and the best type of explosives. Superintendent Wallandt and chief engineer Alois Hospotzky traveled to Bingen on the Rhine to find out how the rock was removed from the riverbed. It was certainly not the first time that engineers from the Lower Danube had searched on the Rhine either for inspiration or for confirmation of their theories. On site, the two Hungarian engineers realized that the blasting method used there would not work at the Iron Gates. Workers used a diving shaft attached to the side of a ship to fix the explosives on the underwater rocks. The two experts feared that this device was unsuitable for the Iron Gates because of the strong currents that would jolt the shaft, thus making the steady placement of the explosives impossible. However, the trip to the Rhine was not in vain. The supervising engineer, Gustav Berring, gave the Hungarians a report compiled in Montreal by a Prussian engineer, Robert Bassel, about his blasting operations on the St. Lawrence river. There, engineers had attached a drill to four posts underneath a ship; the drill enabled them to place the dynamite underwater while the posts protected it from the strong currents. Drawing on this information, Wallandt and Hospotzky designed a new device that combined the methods used on the Rhine and the St. Lawrence by placing a drill in a caisson—a watertight case.94 This innovative process revealed, on the one hand, the intimate nature of exchanges between experts and beyond state borders, and on the other, that engineering methods could not simply be applied in another geographical context without significant adaptation. Nevertheless, such exchange was essential for the design of new structures and systems because the information gathered elsewhere allowed engineers not only to 92 Mevissen, Constructing the Danube Monarchy, 109. 93 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 127–28. 94 Ibid., 130–34.

269

Chapter 5

learn from the experiences of their colleagues but also to combine different methods and devices into new ones. The third issue the Hungarian officials faced before construction could begin was whether the state or a private firm should execute the project. The Hungarian ministry of trade decided that hiring a private firm was the more cost-effective option. As a result, it organized a public tender won by German machine manufacturer Hugo Luther from Braunschweig. The company joined forces with a Hungarian firm owned by hydraulic engineer Gyula Hajdú, and with the Disconto Society in Berlin, who together agreed to finish the entire project within five years for the sum of nine million gulden.95 Soon after closing the deal with the Hungarian government, the three firms also signed a lease agreement with the Serbian government. The contract stipulated that the companies conducting the regulation works could use stones from quarries situated in the proximity of the construction sites. In addition, the Serbian authorities agreed to build barracks for the workers and storage for the construction material, as well as magazines for the explosives. The barracks were to be erected in the vicinity of the Serbian settlement of Sip and used by the construction firms without rent payment. In exchange, the workers were bound to live and purchase their food exclusively in Serbia. After the termination of the works, all structures built on Serbian soil during the regulation project (bridges, roads, and railways) would become Serbian state property.96 Finally, on September 15, 1890, high-ranking officials from Hungary, Austria, and Serbia officially opened the construction works by blasting the first rocks at the Greben cataract.97 Greben came first because most of the rocks to be removed there were above water level. Step by step, work started at the other rapids too. The cataract at Jutz was used as a testing ground for the new underwater rock removal technique.98 In an account written in 1893, Gerhard Luther, Hugo’s brother and co-owner of the company, described in detail the progress of the works, also mentioning numerous setbacks. His account focused on the actual Iron Gate, the largest construction site. At 95 Ibid., 136–37. 96 Pachtvertrag geschlossen zwischen dem Herrn Minister für Volkswirtschaft und den Herrn Julius Hajdu und Hugo Luther, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 97 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 126–39; Király, “Die Donau ist die Form,” 70–72. 98 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 144–45.

270

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

Figure 12. The temporarily drained Danube. Source: Gerhard Luther, Die Regulirung der Katarakte in der unteren Donau (Eisernes Thor) (Braunschweig: Johann Heinrich Meyer, 1893), 27.

first, the engineers tried using drilling vessels to cut underwater holes for the explosives. These actions failed because the riverbed at the cataracts was covered with shale—soft rock that was easily removed by the current, quickly covering the drilling holes. Moreover, during summertime when the water level fell, the drilling vessels could no longer cross the river. The solution to these problems was a temporary dam built into the middle of the waterway, diverting most of the running water to the other half of the river. A system of channels and pumps directed the rest of the water out of the drilling area. As a result, an almost empty basin emerged in which the workers could cut out the stone more easily, altogether avoiding more costly and dangerous underwater drilling. Railway wagons carried the quarried stone to the site where the canal’s parallel dams were erected (see figure 12).99 In 1892, based on the progress of the construction works, the Hungarian management decided to undertake several alterations to the original engineering plans. New underwater exploration had revealed that the original surveys were not sufficiently accurate. The modifications mainly concerned the depth and the length of the artificial canals. All in all, the canals were to be longer and deeper than originally planned. The most significant changes were at the actual Iron Gate. In the original plans, the depth of the canal was set at two meters, but because the workers had managed to dry the cataracts, the technical supervisors decided to deepen the canal to three meters. 99 Luther, Die Regulirung der Katarakte, 19–20.

271

Chapter 5

As a consequence, in addition to the initial estimate of about 250,000 cubic meters of rock to be removed from the riverbed, around 143,000 cubic meters were added. Further, the draining of the Iron Gates revealed how uneven the riverbed along the shipping route to Orsova actually was. In order to even the ground, the new plans included the removal of a further 90,000 cubic meters of rock. The length of the canal was also extended, the left dam reaching 2,650 meters and the right one 2,000 meters.100 These changes, proposed by Gonda, drove up the costs. In 1890, the cost of regulation had been set at nine million gulden; in 1893, after all the modifications were factored into the budget, the estimated amount doubled to 18.6 million gulden. Given such a significant increase, a new contract was drawn up with the construction firms. The additional funds for the advance payment came from public bonds subsequently issued by the Hungarian government.101 In all, around nine thousand workers were employed during the regulation works. This number fluctuated over time and across the construction sites at the various cataracts. The two main spots where workers gathered were Greben and the actual Iron Gate; a peak was reached with more than two thousand workers on the latter site. In addition to unskilled laborers, the regulation project attracted numerous professionals, among them more than forty engineers.102 The majority of workers came from Austria-Hungary, with several additional cohorts from Serbia and Romania.103 They mainly lived in barracks on both sides of the Danube; the temporary settlement that emerged on the Serbian bank near the village of Sib was the largest. Besides accommodation for workers and several storage buildings for food and construction material, the new settlement had two casinos, a police station, and a hospital.104 When construction activities ran at full steam, workers also performed night shifts made possible by twenty arc lamps installed along the riverbanks.105 Hungarian inspectors regarded the workers’ living conditions as acceptable and with the exception of an outbreak of cholera in 1893 in Greben, during which the works were interrupted, no other serious health threat was registered.106 100 Ibid., 18. 101 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 154–55. 102 Ibid., 25. 103 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 170–71. 104 Luther, Die Regulirung der Katarakte, 21. 105 Ibid., 20. 106 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 171.

272

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

The main bulk of the regulation work was performed mechanically. On site, the biggest challenge was to coordinate the great variety of machines and their different functions. The construction firms had fifteen ships at their disposal, equipped with a range of tools operated by more than five hundred skilled workers during the eight years of construction.107 Gerhard Luther described the work process as very intensive and at times highly dangerous. In his later published notes, he attempted to convey the sheer magnitude and momentum of the ongoing activity. On the drained stretch of the river, workers used steam-driven drilling machines mounted on tripods. They then placed cartridges of dynamite in the drilled holes.108 To remove the loosened rocks, several excavators were used—the most impressive was a chain excavator that carried the name Vaskapu (Iron Gate), custom-made in Scotland and transported all the way across the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, and the Black Sea to finally reach the Danube.109 At those cataracts where the river was still blocked by underwater rocks, drilling ships were deployed to make holes for the dynamite. In Greben alone, as much as 240 centers (about twelve tons) of dynamite was used. The force of the explosions was at times so powerful that fragments of stone were hurled onto the shores. An alternative to drilling and blasting was carried out by three ships equipped with chisels made of Krupp cast steel. Weighing between eight and ten tons, they were driven from a height of eight meters into the stone.110 During the entire construction works, an exploration ship navigated the wider area to determine how much more rock should be removed.111 Numerous dangers lurked in this crowded area where people, machines, and the raging waters of the river confronted each other in every phase of the work. Three operations in particular were highly dangerous and even life-threatening. The first was the transport of dynamite cartridges to the designated location for detonation. In 1891, dynamite exploded on a drilling vessel and the same occurred on another ship in the following year. The ships were partially damaged and several people were injured—some died. 107 Ibid., 170. 108 Luther, Die Regulirung der Katarakte, 20. 109 Ibid., 24. 110 Ibid., 22–23. 111 Ibid., 25.

273

Chapter 5

Gerhard Luther did not name the exact number of casualties.112 The riskiest part of the operations to remove the rock was the ignition of dynamite under water. Although the construction companies used the best detonators on the market, produced by the Viennese firm Nobel, only eighty percent of the cartridges exploded. The cartridges that had failed to detonate threatened the lives of the workers who drilled the next holes or placed the next load of explosives. Again, Luther did not provide any details of casualties. The third hazardous activity was linked to low water levels, when workers used shallow wooden barges (Zillen) for transport instead of steamers. The strong currents rocked the barges which sometimes capsized.113 Béla Gonda, in his account of the construction works, noted eighty-four fatalities by the end of 1895—deaths caused either by explosions or drowning. He also mentioned the company hospitals that cared for numerous injured workers.114 Thus, the heroic narrative of the regulation of the Iron Gates, with its sophisticated machinery and vast quantities of stone removed from the riverbed, was closely intertwined with human casualties and sacrifice. The complex nature of the works attracted the attention of engineering communities throughout the monarchy and abroad. Numerous official and semi-official delegations came to view the progress at the Iron Gates. The Hungarian Association of Engineers was the first to visit the site, followed by delegations from all over the world. Like other large construction sites, the Iron Gates became a meeting point for engineering experts, serving as a source of inspiration and adding a new layer to the global repository of engineering knowledge. The construction site was equally attractive to politicians and dignitaries from the monarchy as well as the neighboring states. The Hungarian trade minister and other top officials visited the works periodically. The general staff at the Habsburg war ministry, who had shown an avid interest in the project for many years, visited in 1892. The next year, King Alexander I of Serbia, accompanied by his mother, paid a highly publicized visit to the construction site. Just a few days later, Archduke Joseph of Austria arrived together with a large delegation and came again in 1895, this time with one of his sons. There were several reasons why high-ranking officials and even royal heads of state visited the Iron Gates so frequently 112 Ibid., 24. 113 Ibid., 26. 114 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 160.

274

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

as the works went on. For their part, officials of the Hungarian ministry of trade were there to monitor progress. But more importantly, top officials were well aware of the symbolic aspect of their visit. Pictures of the prominent guests were widely circulated in the press and later included in the published volume that documented the progress of the works. They posed in front of piles of rock and enormous machines in order to underline the grandeur of the construction, staging themselves as agents of progress and technical advancement.115 The inauguration celebrations which took place on September 27, 1896, attempted to uphold this image of harmony and mutual understanding. However, there were tensions between the different meanings that various actors ascribed to the newly built infrastructure. The presence of the three monarchs of the riparian states—the emperor of Austria-Hungary, Franz Joseph I, the Serbian king, Alexander I, and the Romanian king, Carol I— highlighted the international character of the new canal.116 The choreography of the ceremony centered on the idea that the new shipping route would foster peace by bringing the riparian states closer together. Around the new canal, dozens of Austrian, Hungarian, Serbian, and Romanian flags flew next to those of the European Great Powers. The members of the European Commission of the Danube figured prominently among the invited guests, giving the whole event a broader, European meaning. Indeed, in his inauguration speech, Emperor Franz Joseph I mentioned the unanimous decision of the Great Powers to hand over to the Habsburg Monarchy the execution of this internationally significant project. Yet, the ceremony revealed a paradox; on the one hand, it endorsed the post-Berlin international order that had given Serbia and Romania independence, while on the other it celebrated the old political order in Europe and the dominance of the Great Powers. Within this arrangement, the Hungarian government and its prime minister, Count Dezső Bánffy, came only second after the royal heads of state. This political hierarchy also determined the order in which the dignitaries sailed through the new canal; the emperor’s ship with the two kings on board passed first, then the vessel carrying the Hungarian dignitaries, followed by several other boats with the remaining official guests. The leading 115 Ibid., 146–52. 116 “Eröffnung des Canals am Eisernen Thor (Telegramme),” Wiener Abendpost. Beilage zur Wiener Zeitung, no. 223, September 28, 1896, 1.

275

Chapter 5

ship broke through a rose garland hung across the canal, symbolizing that the stone blockage had finally been overcome. After this last symbolic act, it was time for the Habsburg Roman Orthodox bishop, Alexander Dessewffy, to bless the new canal. At the end of the ceremony, the three monarchs raised their glasses to the prosperity of their countries and to peaceful relations. Cannon salvos and cheers from the assembled audience accompanied the toast. Afterwards, the ship carrying the royalty retreated to Hercules Baths, a nearby resort, for the official dinner.117 At the inauguration ceremony, the Habsburg Monarchy presented itself as a Great Power that had just completed a work of continental importance. However, the emperor was careful not to insult the Hungarian officials who had completed the entire project without assistance from the central Viennese authorities. He dedicated a whole day (the day before the official opening of the canal) to meet with the Hungarian authorities. First, he talked with representatives of the local counties, expressing his confidence that the regulation of the Iron Gates would not only improve international shipping traffic but most certainly develop local trade. Next, the emperor met with the technical management of the regulation works, headed by engineer Ernő Wallandt, and thanked the team for its great achievement. Lastly, he spoke to the representatives of the city of Orsova, predicting a bright future for their town.118 For its part, the Hungarian government praised the new infrastructure as an exclusively Hungarian accomplishment. Because Hungarian engineers had planned the canal, Hungarian state authorities supervised the works, and Hungarian workers largely executed the plans, its successful completion had become an object of national pride. Much like the emperor, who had neglected to mention that Hungary single-handedly paid for and supervised the project, the official Hungarian narrative omitted the fact that German firms had done the main bulk of the construction work, and that the project’s blueprint had been provided by an international commission. Nevertheless, though Hungary as a state stood back on inauguration day, it made sure that the opening of the canal was part of a much bigger celebration. The ceremony was scheduled for September 1896, two years prior to 117 Ibid., 2. 118 Ibid., 1.

276

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

Figure 13. The Iron Gates Canal. Source: Béla Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores und der übrigen Katarakte an der Unteren Donau (Budapest: Országgyűlési Értesítő, 1896), 241.

the canal’s actual opening for navigation, because the date coincided with the one-thousand-year anniversary of the foundation of the first Hungarian state.119 From this perspective, the inauguration of the Iron Gates Canal was the peak of a year-long celebration of Hungarian statehood. In this respect, the project was a reflection of Hungary’s long historical tradition and a look ahead into a bright future.120 Thus, like other highly publicized inauguration ceremonies, the meaning of the completed project gave rise to several conflicting interpretations. The main tension here was between an imperial and a Hungarian, pro-national understanding of the new construction. A review of the longer history of the regulation project suggests that both ascribed meanings were justified. In the second part of the eighteenth century, the Viennese authorities put the Lower Danube and the passage over the Iron Gates on the monarchy’s trade map. However, in the 1830s, Hungarian noblemen and engineers were the 119 Paul A. Hanebrink, In Defense of Christian Hungary: Religion, Nationalism, and Antisemitism, 1890–1944 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006), 28–29. 120 Király, “Die Donau ist die Form,” 69.

277

Chapter 5

first to carry out an engineering project that eased the way over the cataracts. After this initial attempt to establish safe navigation conditions failed, the central authorities in Vienna pursued the project over several decades. Only in the 1880s did the Hungarian part of the monarchy assume the final realization of the project. In other words, this longer perspective suggests that the regulation of the Iron Gates was both a common imperial and a specifically Hungarian endeavor. Moreover, the interests of the two parts of the Dual Monarchy were both interrelated and mutually exclusive. In the late nineteenth century, the central authorities and the Hungarian government were moving further apart, inasmuch as the new canal became either the accomplishment of the entire monarchy or the exclusive achievement of the Hungarian state and nation (see figure 13). Impact and Consequences of the Regulation Project Following the inauguration ceremony, construction work continued for two more years. On October 1, 1898, the Iron Gates Canal was opened for navigation.121 After the glamorous inauguration that had praised both the commercial benefits and the symbolic aspects of the improved river connection, the actual performance of this piece of infrastructure was less satisfactory. While the overall tenor of public discourse lauded the canal, several of those using it or living in its proximity thought differently. There were three main targets of criticism: Hungary’s tariff policy, the lingering transport difficulties, and environmental damage. Foreign governments, the Austrian trade minister, and representatives of the DDSG condemned the Hungarian tariff policy as inappropriate. Each had different reasons to perceive it as obstructive and in contradiction to international river norms. When the new canals were opened, they were free of charge for all commercial ships for one year. In 1899, the Hungarian government intended to introduce a special navigation toll in accordance with the Treaty of Berlin. Furthermore, it made the pilotage service compulsory for all ships crossing the Iron Gates Canal, increasing navigation costs.122 The Hungarian government believed that since it had paid for the engineering 121 Ibid., 327. 122 Austrian Ministry of Trade to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Vienna, August 12, 1898, AT-OeStA/ HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2 (1897–1900).

278

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

works, it was exclusively entitled to determine the level of the shipping toll and to set rules for the use of the canals. However, the Austrian minister of trade strongly disagreed with this interpretation. In his opinion, this piece of infrastructure, which facilitated international shipping through the Iron Gates, was directly related to the standing of the monarchy abroad, meaning that settling this important international matter went far beyond the competence of the Hungarian government. He argued that if Hungary kept acting unilaterally in this matter, it would upset the other riparian states which might retaliate, thus harming the foreign trade of the entire monarchy.123 In other words, the Austrian minister warned his Hungarian colleagues to show more tact and consideration for the other riparian states, particularly since Hungary was trying to impose a tariff on a part of the Danube lying outside its territory. However, this argument can also be viewed as a veiled attempt by Austria to regain influence on international navigation through the Iron Gates. Irrespective of the actual reason for this intervention, the Austrian trade minister was proven right. In 1900, the Romanian government protested vehemently against Hungary’s handling of the Iron Gates. The Romanian foreign minister, Alexandru Lahovary, even went so far as to question the right of the Hungarian government to impose a toll. Citing the principles of “free trade” and “free navigation” on an international river, he urged that all issues concerning the passage of ships through the Iron Gates should be taken up jointly by all the riparian states. He even endorsed an institutionalized form of cooperation among the riparian states in the form of a river commission.124 Moreover, he was rightly outraged by Hungary’s intention to either make navigation through the canals mandatory or to collect a toll even from those ships that passed outside the canals at high water, close to the Romanian shore. Besides, he objected to the way the toll was collected, namely that the sum charged for the twelve-kilometer passage from Orsova to Turnu Severin (including the Iron Gates Canal) was equal to that charged for the considerably longer route of approximatively one hundred kilometers over the rest of the cataracts. The Hungarian government justified this unequal tax distribution with the much higher costs of the Iron Gates Canal, representing more than half of the sum paid for the entire regulation proj123 Ibid. 124 Lahovary to Pallavicini, Bucharest, June 16, 1900, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2 (1897–1900).

279

Chapter 5

ect. Minister Lahovary also strongly opposed an additional tax for pilotage. In this context, he referred again to the standard ruling concerning international waterways according to which pilotage regulations were settled jointly by the riparian states and were not the exclusive right of a single power.125 Seen from a broader perspective, the recent policy of the Central Commission for the Rhine and the European Commission of the Danube, which set international standards for navigating large waterways, made it increasingly difficult for individual states to unilaterally impose their own tariffs. The DDSG, as the largest commercial shipping company on the Danube, elaborated a more detailed report on how the new regulation project, combined with the additional charges, would impact on its future trading activity. The company was less concerned with legal matters and international practice, but looked to ensure the company’s profitability. Between 1895 and 1897, the years preceding the opening of the Iron Gates Canal, shipping costs over the cataracts amounted to an average of three kreuzer per 100 kilograms. This included a special fee for unloading the merchandise from steamers onto barges for the crossing. In 1898, when the canal was opened and could be used free of charge, shipping costs dropped by half to 1.5 kreuzer per 100 kilograms.126 Carl Viktor Suppán, a DDSG ship captain, later calculated the amount of the new toll at about two heller per kilometer in the area of the Iron Gates.127 In other words, the new toll increased the overall freight costs by ten to twenty percent. Under these circumstances, the company was worried that it would no longer be able to compete with shipping companies that carried goods on the Lower Danube only as far as the Iron Gates, fearing to lose a significant share of its maritime trade. Furthermore, the DDSG thought that the new tariff went beyond a mere toll to cover the expenses of the regulation project. It was part of a more comprehensive customs policy meant to protect the Hungarian national economy. In the broader perspective, the new tariff policy was part of a general trend among European governments to repudiate free trade policies and replace them with protectionist measures.128 In light of these developments, 125 Ibid. 126 Rückert to the Ministry of Trade, Vienna, May 18, 1899, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 127 Carl Viktor Suppán, Wasserstrassen und Binnenschiffahrt (Berlin: Verlag von A. Troschel, 1902), 500. 128 Findlay and O’Rourke, Power and Plenty, 396–98.

280

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

the DDSG was concerned that the Hungarian government would treat it like any other foreign company. Indeed, it faced competition from the newly founded Hungarian Navigation Company which received special treatment on the Iron Gates segment.129 The DDSG regarded this as discriminatory since its ships carried eighty-two percent of the total amount of goods that crossed the cataracts, compared to the Hungarian Navigation Company that carried only eighteen percent.130 In sum, the new customs policy indicates that the Hungarian government tried to rearrange its export policy according to national criteria. Statistical data collected in the first years after the toll was introduced confirmed some of these fears but also hinted at thriving cross-border trading activity. In 1900, 1,029,114 quintals of freight crossed the Iron Gates going upstream and 1,118,890 going downstream. A total of 1,439 steamers passed in both directions. The collected toll amounted to 542,794 kreuzer for the entire year; the DDSG contributed 349,717 kreuzer, the Hungarian River and Sea Shipping Company 58,197 kreuzer, the Romanian Steam Navigation Company 58,197 kreuzer, and the Serbian Steam Navigation Company 7,192 kreuzer. When introducing the fee, the Hungarian trade ministry estimated that the revenues from the toll would total 640,000 kreuzer, of which 250,300 kreuzer were to cover the running costs of operations at the Iron Gates, generating a surplus of 390,000 annually. However, in 1900 the surplus was only 292,00 kreuzer.131 By 1902, these numbers had changed only slightly. The amount of freight carried upstream increased to 1,282,600 quintals, and to 1,236,757 quintals downstream. The revenues collected from the toll decreased to 517,833 kreuzer; the DDSG contributed 315,833 kreuzer, the Hungarian River and Sea Shipping Company 118,810 kreuzer, the Romanian Steam Navigation Company 56,938 kreuzer, and the Serbian Steam Navigation Company 16,422. The rest, collected from ships belonging to other nations, totaled 10,582 kreuzer. These figures show that the Hungarian shipping company 129 Rückert to the Ministry of Trade, Vienna, May 18, 1899, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 130 Paul Klunzinger, “Die Regulierung des Eisernen Thores und der übrigen Katarakte an der unteren Donau sowie die Ergebnisse der Grosschiffahrt nach deren Eröffnung am 1. October 1898,” Allgemeine Bauzeitung 64, no. 3 (1899): 103. 131 “Eisernes Thor,” Verordnungs-Blatt für Eisenbahnen und Schiffahrt 14, no. 22 (1901): 575.

281

Chapter 5

managed to increase its share of trade via the Iron Gates. The statistics also include a list of the shipped merchandise. Grain made up more than half of the commodities transported in both directions. Notable are 194,000 quintals of crude and refined oil, presumably from Romania.132 The statistical surveys of 1905 and 1906 show a more differentiated picture. The overall amount of freight crossing the Iron Gates increased to 6,687,990 quintals in 1905, but fell to 6,353,815 quintals in 1906. Similarly, the collected toll increased to 438,012 kreuzer in 1905 and decreased to 404,134 the following year.133 The new trade agreements between the countries of the Lower Danube with Germany and Austria-Hungary respectively entailed higher duties on grains, causing this drop in the trade balance of about five percent.134 The higher duties primarily affected grain exports from the Lower Danube traveling upstream to the German Reich.135 In terms of shipping vessels, in 1905 a total of 1,166 steamers and 2,746 barges sailed through the canal, and in 1906, 1,294 steamers and 2,512 barges.136 In the first years after its opening, shipping traffic through the Iron Gates Canal increased, demonstrating that in spite of certain shortcomings river regulation streamlined exchanges between the middle and the lower parts of the Danube. However, technical improvements were just one factor that impacted on the overall evolution of Danubian trade relations. In the decade before the First World War, relations of the riparian countries to the two German-speaking states influenced how much merchandise traveled through the canal. The second thorny issue concerned the difficult transport conditions in the new canals. The main problem was the strong downstream current inside the Iron Gates Canal that prevented even strong steamers from sailing upstream. Engineering experts and navigators had long debated how to deal with this drawback. The decision in favor of an open canal without locks implied that a mechanical traction system would have to be added to the project. With a choice between several traction systems, Gonda and Hospotzky went on another study trip to Germany and France in 1892 in 132 “Verkehr am Eisernen Thor in Jahre 1902,” Verordnungs-Blatt für Eisenbahnen und Schiffahrt 16, no. 33 (1903): 896. 133 “Der Verkehr im Kanal des Eisernen Thores in den Jahren 1905–1906,” Volkswirtschaftliche Mitteilungen aus Ungarn 2 (1907): 598. 134 Franz von Liszt, Das Völkerrecht: Systematisch dargestellt, 10th ed. (Springer: Heidelberg, 1915), 225–27. 135 “Der Verkehr im Kanal des Eisernen Thores in den Jahren 1905–1906,” 598. 136 Ibid., 605.

282

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

order to inspect several of them in use. Among others, they looked at chainboat navigation on the Elbe, electromagnetic chain-boat navigation on the Seine, wire cable traction on the Rhine, and cable shipping on the Rhône.137 After studying several options, the chief engineers decided to introduce a similar system to the one used on the Rhône at Lyon. For this purpose, the Hungarian shipbuilding company Danubius received an order to build two reel ships (Haspelschiffe) that were subsequently stationed at the Iron Gates.138 These new towing steamers could haul two fully loaded barges of 650 tons upstream at an average speed of 0.58 meters per second.139 The Hungarian administration at the Iron Gates used these reels ships up to the First World War.140 In 1916, after the Central Powers occupied Serbia, German and Habsburg military engineers built a railway on the Serbian shore to tow ships upstream. While the towing boats could haul a maximum load of six hundred tons, the new rail system could pull up to one thousand tons upstream.141 At the same time, the DDSG concentrated on improving the traction power of its steamers. The Banhans, one of the company’s strongest steamers, was able to tow a ship carrying a load of 283 tons up the canal. These findings encouraged the company to build six new towing boats with superior traction power specifically for the trip through the Iron Gates Canal.142 However, there was a disadvantage to this system: because the canal was too narrow to accommodate two ships sailing in opposite directions, ships going downstream had to wait for the towing steamers to slowly haul loaded barges upstream. Besides, the traction service increased transportation costs. In other words, although the purpose of the regulation project was to smoothen and accelerate shipping traffic over the cataracts, that promise could not be entirely fulfilled. In addition, because the regulation works concentrated on the eight cataracts, the stretches between them remained mostly untouched. Bernhardt Rückert, a board member of the DDSG, seriously doubted the usefulness of several perfectly carved artificial canals if the parts in between still had 137 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 148–49. 138 Ibid., 102. 139 Suppán, Wasserstrassen, 300–301. 140 Dosch, 180 Jahre Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft, 44–45. 141 Ernst Foerster, “Schiffstechnische Organisationen des deutschen Feldeisenbahnchefs auf der Donau,” Jahrbuch der Schiffbautechnischen Gesellschaft 19 (1918): 172. 142 Klunzinger, “Die Regulierung des Eisernen Thores,” 99–100.

283

Chapter 5

shallow spots where the water level barely reached one meter in depth.143 Moreover, at the entrance to the Iron Gates Canal a whirlpool emerged, hindering access.144 To remedy the hazard, the Hungarian trade ministry planned an additional, parallel wall upstream from the canal entrance to slow the current. However, in order to start the new construction work, Hungary again needed the permission of the Serbian government. For this purpose, Hungarian and Serbian engineers and civil servants put together a mixed commission to negotiate the conditions under which the new works would take place.145 This new round of negotiations with Serbia indicates that the Hungarian side was held accountable for the project’s flaws, and paid to fix them. Finally, the engineering interventions had dramatic consequences for the communities that lived in their proximity. The removal of the stone ridge at Greben had been one of the most publicized operations due to the sheer magnitude of human effort. The engineers took particular pride in the fact that over the course of only a few years they had managed to detonate and remove an entire “mountain” from the riverbed.146 But already in 1897, even before the regulation project was completed, the Serbian community in Milanovac complained about several negative effects caused by the construction works. Although the detonations had stopped a while ago, debris and even larger stone fragments were still raining down on the village. The villagers also feared that due to the new canal, the Danube waters outside the channel would wash away the Serbian shore. Similarly, they worried that the small islands of Poreč and Ostrova, where the villagers had their pastures, would be flooded. And finally, they were afraid that the only road between Greben and Milanovac would be permanently submerged and made inaccessible. After receiving a collective complaint, the Hungarian regulation management together with Serbian engineers and officials organized a mixed expert commission to inspect the impact of the regulation on the local communities. The commission tried to pacify the inhabitants of the nearby villages by 143 Rückert to the Ministry of Trade, Vienna, May 18, 1899, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 144 Note des königlichen ungarischen Handelsministeriums in Budapest (Übersetzung), April 6, 1898, ATOeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 145 Sitzungs-Protokoll der gemischten Commission, Orsova, April 20, 1900, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 146 Gonda, Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores, 222–33.

284

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

assuring them that their fears were mostly unsubstantiated. However, the experts ordered consolidation works in Greben to halt the erosion and protect the land against flooding.147 Such incidents were typical in the wake of large hydraulic projects. No matter how long and how carefully engineers drafted their regulation plans, they were unable to foresee all the consequences. Besides, engineers seldom thought about how their projects would impact on nearby populations. River regulation would often have devastating consequences on local lives, and scholars even talk about an irreconcilable conflict between local communities and river navigation. It seemed that engineers were unable to improve navigation without disturbing the population living along the shores. Damaging effects included flooding and erosion, but also restrictions regarding access and the use of the river.148 In the case of the Iron Gates, limitations were all the more severe because the new structures built into the riverbed belonged to a foreign state which used all its resources and influence to protect itself against demands from other governments. In other words, once the Serbian government had conceded parts of its territory to the Hungarian authorities, it could offer only limited protection to the local population. Moreover, the interests of these communities had never been a priority for the Serbian authorities who mainly viewed the regulation of the Iron Gates as a chance to develop the international trade of the young state. In assessing the impact of river infrastructure on the people living nearby, Ashley Carse concluded that “canal construction and management has both closed down local possibilities and opened up new opportunities.”149 This suggests that the consequences for local villagers were not all negative. For instance, the Hungarian administration at the Iron Gates noted that villagers were regularly fishing on the new dams stretching from Greben to Milanovac because the dams made trapping fish easier. They also observed similar fishing activity—which they deemed illegal—taking place at the entrance to the Iron Gates Canal. There, the Hungarian supervisors heard 147 “Protokoll aufgenommen durch die gemeinsame Commission, welche laut Beschluß der hohen ungarischen/serbischen Regierung in Greben am 16./28. August 1897 in der nachfolgend bezeichneten Angelegenheit zur Berathung zusammen getroffen ist,” AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 148 Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature, 7; Ashley Carse, “Nature as Infrastructure: Making and Managing the Panama Canal Watershed,” Social Studies of Science 42, no. 4 (2012): 543–44. 149 Carse, Beyond the Big Ditch, 8.

285

Chapter 5

that local authorities had leased this fishing ground for seven hundred dinars. The administration addressed this fishing activity not only because it endangered the safety of steamers on their way into the canal, but also led to damage to the canal walls as fishermen dismantled parts of the dam to better trap fish. In a note, the Hungarian trade ministry mentioned that the government had already paid a sum of 150,000 dinars to compensate local fishermen for giving up their fishing grounds. It further stated that according to the contract between the two governments, Hungary held the exclusive right to exploit the engineering constructions.150 This incident provides evidence of the social clashes that accompanied the use of the new canals between those who gained access to the new infrastructure and those prevented from using it. Still, local villagers were creative enough to find ways to turn this unjust allocation of resources in their favor. These conflicts over tariffs, use, and access to infrastructure also extended to the issue of profitability. The idea that navigation would ultimately carry the costs of river regulation proved illusionary. The case of Hungary’s regulation of the Iron Gates demonstrates that without the strong involvement of the state, this project would never have been realized. Moreover, after its completion, the Hungarian authorities had difficulties in collecting sufficient tolls from vessels using the improved waterway. On the one hand, shipping companies tried to avoid paying the toll, and on the other, overall traffic did not increase as much as predicted. Besides, consolidation and maintenance costs kept rising. Eventually, the Hungarian government came to realize that building water infrastructure, besides being extremely expensive, did not always guarantee sizable revenues. Although it had allowed massive foreign intervention inside its territory, Serbia seemed to be the regulation project’s quiet winner. First, by allowing Hungary to build, the Serbian government gained economic benefits through acquiring the status of “most-favored nation.” Second, it profited from the transport infrastructure built on Serbian soil and from the several compensation sums paid to local communities. And finally, the improved navigation conditions over the cataracts provided a new outlet for Serbian products. Regarding the profitable use of the Iron Gates, it appeared that 150 Note des königlichen ungarischen Handelsministeriums in Budapest (Übersetzung), December 9, 1897, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2.

286

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

the future belonged to the Serbian state. Hugo Luther, the owner of the construction company responsible for executing the project, subsequently addressed the Serbian government with a proposal to transform the powerful torrent of the Danube into hydropower. The Serbian government granted him a concession.151 Finding out about this deal, the Romanian government protested through its ambassador in Belgrade, Ion N. Papiniu, citing the unilateral character of the plan that excluded Romanian and the other riparian states.152 The Serbian response did not take long to arrive and made reference to the right of a sovereign power to use its inland waters as it saw fit.153 However, as the ambassador of Austria-Hungary to Bucharest soon found out, the Romanian government stopped pursuing the matter because it believed that the dire state of Serbia’s finances would prevent the project from moving forward.154 The struggle over hydropower on the Danube and rights of use represented a new instantiation of the ongoing conflict between the idea of the river as a space of international cooperation and the concept of national sovereignty—issues that the new riparian states continued to negotiate and redefine. Although the use of hydropower at the Iron Gates was far from settled, it gives us a glimpse into the future of river regulation, as hydropower would provide—next to developing international transport— an equally powerful reason for major engineering intervention. What became apparent after the completion of the engineering project was that regulation not only raised questions about the safety of shipping but also about the safety of the population living in the proximity. Looking back on how the planning phase unfolded, it is quite striking that possible negative impacts on the communities living close by never figured in the decisionmaking process. Not even during the public discussion in Vienna were such concerns part of the conversation. The issue of damage caused to local populations was retroactively introduced in the form of a contract between Hungary and Serbia, which redefined the former’s responsibility. This again suggests 151 Aerenthal to Goluchowski, Sinaia, August 13, 1898, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 152 Sturza to Papiniu (Copie), Sinaia, November 16, 1897, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 153 Đorđević to Papiniu (Copie), Belgrade, December 10, 1887, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2. 154 Aerenthal to Goluchowski, Sinaia, August 13, 1898, AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 2.

287

Chapter 5

that engineers and decision-makers on all sides looked at the stone blockage in the Danube as something pertaining exclusively to the river and not at all connected to its shores. In other words, while all involved actors focused on improving the link on water, they failed to notice that they were severing the connection with the land. This lack of foresight was the reason why repair and consolidation work continued for years after the project was finished. However, the long-neglected local communities added a new dimension to the way in which this new piece of infrastructure was socially “integrated.” Despite endangering their villages, the canal dams offered fishermen new opportunities for trapping fish, though at the cost of damage to the walls of the canals. Such episodes underline the fact that man-made structures seldom fit seamlessly into pre-existing local geographies and social relations. Despite being contained in narrow canals, the Danube found “idiosyncratic” ways to carve its own passage through the new structures. Likewise, people found creative ways to cohabitate with the new river. Ultimately, this half a century of planning, negotiating, and improving the passage through the Iron Gates did not transform the Danube according to a set masterplan, rather it was a messy and disputed process every step of the way. Conclusion This chapter assessed the building of a new waterway connection over the Iron Gates at the end of the nineteenth century as part of a larger process of remaking the navigable Danube. It first looked at a long period of time in which little or no construction work took place, yet when myriad alternative engineering plans appeared that promoted different ideas of how and why the Iron Gates should be improved. What threatened to turn into a seemingly endless debate ended with the decision of the Hungarian state in favor of the most daring engineering solution. This choice shifted power relations in the project in two significant ways. First, by claiming responsibility for implementing the regulation plan, the Hungarian government marginalized the influence of the central Habsburg authorities. Second, state officials (technical and political staff alike) pushed the representatives of the DDSG out of the decision-making process. Both shifts transformed the regulation of the Iron Gates into a Hungarian state-building measure and a symbol of national identification. 288

T he Iron Gates Torn Bet ween I mperia l, I nternationa l, a nd Nationa l I nterests

The construction phase emphasized the magnitude of the works taking place. Between September 1890 and October 1898, the construction firms employed a remarkable array of machines and an impressive number of workers who excavated an enormous amount of rock from the riverbed. But although the new canal broke several records in terms of technical complexity, it also revealed several flaws that engineers were unable to fix. For instance, the gradient of the canals was too steep, and the water velocity inside the canals too high, putting ships at risk. Moreover, the highly complicated towing mechanism hauled steamers upstream through the Iron Gates canal system at a very slow pace. Thus, in spite of the long planning phase and the concerted efforts of the construction supervisors, they only managed to partially “tame” the roaring waters at the Iron Gates. This mixed outcome proved once again that tailoring concrete constructions to the needs of international shipping was a process accompanied by many failures and significant readjustments. Engineers shaped this process in a decisive way. Throughout the second half of the nineteenth century, involvement in the various Iron Gates projects increased their political relevance and public recognition. The more the regulation became a state endeavor (first of the imperial Habsburg state and later of the “national” Hungarian state), the more engineers moved to the core of the decision-making process. This shift was possible because technical expertise became an important asset of modern states in their quest towards internal cohesion and international connectivity. As civil servants, engineers performed several roles that advanced the regulation project. First, someone like Gustav Wex, who inspected the gorge for the first time as a young graduate during the Crimean War, was responsible for keeping the project alive, using his political connections to push it back on the agenda after prolonged spells of inactivity. Second, engineers not only “translated” political guidelines into concrete constructions but also imparted their technical insights to the larger public, increasing the social relevance of their profession. And third, they learned to communicate with foreign peers, setting technical standards across borders and advancing knowledge and best practice through international commissions and professional associations. Using this combination of “hard” and “soft” skills, engineers moved mountains from riverbeds, thus enabling the Habsburg Monarchy (and particularly Hungary) to claim the Iron Gates as its own. 289

Chapter 5

The finished Iron Gates Canal de facto incorporated the regulated gorge into Habsburg territory, a place that it had targeted with its expansionist policies since the eighteenth century. This outcome illustrates that a different type of imperialism was at play there than on the lower stretch of the Danube. The Habsburg Monarchy managed to push for the internationalization of the Iron Gates, while at the same keeping the influence of the non-riverine Great Powers minimal. More so, it used the slow dissolution of the Ottoman Empire to its advantage to take a firmer grip on the cataracts. When the Congress of Berlin handed the Dual Monarchy the sole responsibility for executing regulation works, it was finally in the position to reorder international relations at this contested river junction. The new canal aimed at improving international exchanges between the middle and the lower Danube, but the Habsburg Empire alone set the terms of this new “internationalization.” Seen through the eyes of the Hungarian part of the monarchy, state-building measures and commercial expansionism went hand in hand to increase the outreach of this young state, inside and beyond its borders.

290

Conclusions

B

y looking at the interplay between the larger historical context and the local displays of power, this study has examined the specific way in which the Lower Danube was remade from the late eighteenth century. Imperialism and technology were the two main factors that transformed the Lower Danube into an international river and a reliable shipping connection. During the eighteenth century, the expansionist tendencies of the Habsburg and Russian Empires along the Lower Danube not only caused a series of devastating wars, but also paved the way for several state-building measures in the newly conquered territories, such as political reforms, the more effective exploitation of resources, and disease prevention. In addition, the two states cast an eye at the river itself, assessing its strategic and commercial potential. The peace treaties ending the periodic wars established the river both as a fixed border between the Habsburg, Russian, and Ottoman Empires and as a commercial waterway increasingly open to international navigation. This regional conflict turned into a European question at the beginning of the nineteenth century when technical capabilities and commercial entanglements linked the Lower Danube to developments in various parts of the continent. Steam navigation connected the Danube to an emerging worldwide water transportation network. The repeal of the Corn Laws in Great Britain and increased consumption in general transformed ports in the Danubian Principalities into export hubs for grains and other agricultural commodities. Consequently, multiple tensions and conflicts arose over the use of the river. Shipping companies that operated internationally often collided with the authorities of the riparian states who tried to control, and often slowed down, foreign ships crossing through their territory. 291

Conclusions

Moreover, increased shipping traffic revealed that physical obstructions at the Iron Gates and at the mouth of the Danube stood in the way of smooth and dependable navigation. In this context, private and state actors with a stake in Danube navigation started discussing how to make shipping traffic safer and faster. This debate touched upon sensitive matters such as who was legally responsible for improving navigation over the two spots, what kind of improvements were necessary, who would pay for them, and ultimately, who would profit from them. At the heart of the disagreements was the still unresolved issue of how to deal with the sovereignty rights of riparian states on an international river where the principle of freedom of navigation guaranteed equal rights (at least theoretically) to all ships, irrespective of their flags. Spurred by increased British economic involvement, these tensions escalated in the late 1840s, compelling the Great Powers to intervene militarily. Thus, seen from the vantage point of the Lower Danube, the Crimean War was a conflict that merged geopolitical with economic and technical matters. The Treaty of Paris (1856) that settled the war was, from various points of view, the main turning point in the history of the Lower Danube. The treaty implemented several mechanisms to pacify the river over the long term. These mechanisms induced more cooperation, prescribing a handson approach to the river. First, a river commission, to which all the riparian states belonged, worked on making the navigable river fit for international traffic. However, the Riverine Commission, while drafting a new regulation that allowed for the unified management of the Danube, broke apart due to new tensions between the riparian and non-riparian states. Second, the treaty placed the mouth of the Danube under the jurisdiction of the European Great Powers by establishing the ECD to supervise technical works at the Sulina bar and, after the completion of the first infrastructure project, to administer the delta. The ECD, which started out as a quick fix to improve the passage between the river and the sea, developed into a fullyfledged international organization with legal, administrative, and technical duties. Cooperation within the ECD was successful, despite having previously failed in the Riverine Commission. The Great Powers used the power vacuum in the Black Sea basin in the wake of the Crimean War to promote a new type of free trade imperialism that aligned the river with the needs of international navigation, something to which all could subscribe. Thus, the 292

Conclusions

emerging international liberal order relied on an outspoken imperial policy towards the Ottoman Empire and its successor states. Furthermore, the ECD endured as an institution not only because it was able to convert commercial expansionism into international public law, but also because the commission controlled every aspect of navigation on the maritime Danube. Thus, in many ways it came to resemble a sovereign state with its own flag, budget, and administrative apparatus. The commission implemented a catalogue of regulations that upheld the freedom of trade and navigation at the mouth of the Danube and made sure that these principles were put into practice. In other words, after realizing that individual merchants and consuls were unable to defend their commercial interests against the Russian administration in the delta, the Great Powers established an institution with the authority to protect free navigation. Like in other colonial and semi-colonial contexts, they came to understand that simply signing a free trade agreement or declaring a river “free” did not guarantee the easy extraction of raw materials. In the immediate aftermath of the Crimean War, most of the governments that sent a representative to the Lower Danube expected that the short and energetic intervention of the Concert of Europe would quickly settle all contentious issues; hence, the mandate of the ECD was limited to two years. The commissioners and technical personnel working on site were the first to realize that only an institution with the prerogatives of a sovereign state could ensure the free flow of ships in the long term. Subsequently, they convinced their governments to formalize this intervention. Thus, the ECD received the authority to issue laws and regulations, to make sure that all vessels sailing into and out of the Danube complied with these rules, and to penalize the offenders in case of violation. Being equipped with both legislative and executive powers did not make the ECD a democratic institution, but it did make it a very effective one. Thus, the commission worked to increase the connectivity of the Lower Danube with transcontinental shipping routes primarily for the benefit of the (non-riparian) European Great Powers. Although based on asymmetric power and knowledge relations, the Ottoman government, and later independent Romania, also profited from the commitment to free navigation, since it enabled their exports to reach European ports. The ECD started out as an imperial enterprise established by the victorious parties in the Crimean War in order to transform the mouth of the Danube according 293

Conclusions

to their needs. This institution then slowly evolved into an enterprise which co-opted local governments into sustaining its international mandate even at the price of giving up certain territorial rights. Pressure from the Great Powers alone could not fully explain this transformation; rather, the experience of taking part in the daily business of the commission conveyed to the representatives of the riparian states that they were part of an initiative of continental importance. Even if the outlines of commercial policy were determined by the non-riparian Great Powers, with the British Empire at the forefront, the Ottoman government and Romania (after initial reluctance) began to perceive the ECD as an opportunity to play a role in shaping international relations. As an international institution, the ECD was unique in the sense that it ruled for more than half a century with such wide-reaching powers. However, it remained a very localized form of government with its authority first restricted to the delta and later extended to include the maritime sector of the Danube. On the one hand, it can be argued that the reach of its jurisdiction was irrelevant since the ECD, which administered the mouth of the Danube, virtually controlled the entire river traffic. On the other hand, it proved impossible to extend this administrative arrangement to the whole of the Lower Danube. The spatial confinement of the ECD informs us about the opportunities as well as the clear limitations of international ruling bodies in the nineteenth century. First, the ECD was able to step in and administer the delta because a war had disrupted previous power relations. Second, international regulations mainly focused on points of access vital to the Great Powers, such as the Suez Canal and the Straits, which were singled out from the surrounding space, thus enabling more efficient management. And third, under the umbrella term “the Eastern Question” such schemes usually targeted the Ottoman Empire, an interventionist policy agreed on by all the Great Powers, and more importantly, which they believed they had the moral obligation to impose as a way to improve internal Ottoman affairs. The Habsburg Monarchy deflected this type of intrusion from its borders. A more straightforward form of imperialism took shape at the Iron Gates in the proximity of the Habsburg-Ottoman border where the monarchy ventured into neighboring territory to secure its commercial interests. However, the case of the Iron Gates Canal, built in the 1890s by the Hungarian government, only superficially questioned the importance 294

Conclusions

of international cooperation for the success of transboundary river navigation. First, the monarchy had to wait for the approval of the European Great Powers before moving forward with the regulation plans. Second, these plans contained several layers of knowledge and engineering expertise stemming from outside the Habsburg Monarchy, reflecting the ideas of various international commissions and expert committees that contributed over a period of several decades. Third, although the Hungarian government ultimately became solely responsible for executing the project, it relied heavily on the assistance of the Serbian government because most of the construction work was conducted on the latter’s territory. After its completion, the success of the canal also depended on the other riparian states accepting the terms the Hungarian government imposed for usage. Thus, even when a single state seemingly managed to isolate a stretch of the internationally shared river and impose its own vision there, it was obliged to return to the international arena and integrate the regulated segment into the existing web of relations and legal agreements that tied the riparian states together. In other words, international cooperation meant different things at either end of the Lower Danube. In the delta, this meant formalized intervention by the Great Powers, while at the Iron Gates, the Habsburg Monarchy seized control of the border region as the only state designated by international law to improve the passage over the cataracts. What the two spots had in common was that international cooperation facilitated the development of infrastructure as a way to overcome political and commercial divisions. However, building infrastructure in imperial borderlands where interests often collided entailed the frequent disruption of planning and construction activities. As a consequence, many of the works completed at the turn of the nineteenth to the twentieth century had a very long history that began decades before the first shovel was pushed into the ground. In 1836, Hungarian Count Széchenyi, the new Danube commissioner, recruited Pál Vásárhelyi, then a young graduate engineer, to supervise the first engineering project at the Iron Gates. This endeavor enabled the first regular shipping connection between Vienna and Constantinople. Because the Iron Gates remained a highly dangerous passage, several measures followed to optimize the river’s flow. The next generation of engineers would conceive new and even more daring plans that ultimately replaced all 295

Conclusions

eight waterfalls with open artificial canals. At the eastern end of the Lower Danube, European diplomats and international trading houses pushed the Russian authorities in the delta to take first measures to stop the silting at the bar. But only when the ECD took over the delta after the Crimean War was a program actively pursued that little by little improved navigation conditions, first by extending the river into the sea with the help of piers, and later by sealing off dangerous river bends. Since it took more than a century to complete these projects, the purpose of the constructions, as well as their proponents, changed significantly over time. Both private entrepreneurs and state officials shared the goal of improving trade—the prime reason for developing river infrastructure. In addition, the riparian governments used river regulation either as a statebuilding measure to mobilize society or as a means to increase state revenues. This pairing of interests between private entrepreneurs and state actors was fundamental for the transformation of the Danube to come. To put these goals into practice, both parties hired trained engineers with the knowledge and technical skills to survey the two physical barriers—taking into account multiple variables—and to propose concrete improvement plans. In the eighteenth and the first half of the nineteenth centuries, military engineers were the first to conduct surveys and works on border rivers, particularly on such strategic points as the Iron Gates and the confluence with the Black Sea. In the course of the nineteenth century, two major shifts occurred regarding the management of the river. First, civil engineers slowly took over the management of the Lower Danube from military authorities, who were generally skeptical about improving international waterway connections. A second change occurred when state actors (or state-like authorities such as the ECD) took over complex regulation projects and pushed private companies out of the decision-making process. In the first half of the nineteenth century, the DDSG and other international shipping and merchant companies had initiated and in part financed many of the projects aimed at improving navigation conditions. But in the second half of the century, though still major economic players, they increasingly lost influence over how infrastructure development on the Lower Danube occurred, as the earlier strategic partnership between state officials and private entrepreneurs was replaced with direct collaboration between government representatives and civil engineers employed in the state apparatus. 296

Conclusions

In this context, civil engineers evolved from acting as the adjutants of potent magnates into key figures in the technical remaking of the Lower Danube, mainly by taking on a mediating role between diverse interests and priorities and finding ways to adapt their technical designs to political and economic guidelines as well as to the hydrological conditions on site. These processes of adaptation testify to the fact that engineers achieved control over the flow of the Danube by constantly revising their initial designs to fit the frequently changing situation on the ground. In other words, building river infrastructure was such a lengthy process because engineers could not simply force their abstract designs onto the river. Historizing how the development of infrastructure unfolded on the Lower Danube takes into account that it was seldom a straightforward but rather a negotiated and sometimes highly contested process in which engineers figured out ways to cope with setbacks and found adequate solutions for “cooperation” with the forces of nature. This involved not only understanding the hydrological context in which they aimed to place their constructions, but also finding answers to political, social, and financial constraints. These very intricate situations meant that engineers from all over Europe who arrived as consultants and possibly to build elements of river infrastructure ended up engaged on the Lower Danube for longer than they had expected. Austrian Gustav Wex and Englishman Charles Hartley were involved with the regulation works at the Iron Gates and in the delta respectively for decades. These engineers put the projects back onto the political agenda when officials again postponed their implementation, learning how to address decision-makers and public opinion in a compelling manner. Working in an unfamiliar and conflict-ridden context, they also discovered that they could not rely exclusively on the abstract knowledge they had brought along, but had to make themselves intimately familiar with local conditions in order to complete their missions. Charles Hartley, the ECD’s first chief engineer, became known as “the Father of the Danube.” He lived and worked in the delta for several decades, coordinating a vast transformation that virtually remade the river. On the eve of the First World War, the river was shorter, straighter, and deeper; a result that could hardly have been anticipated when engineers conducted their first technical surveys. However, advance was slow, with many failed attempts along the way. Only toward the end of the nineteenth century did the drive to trans297

Conclusions

form the river pick up momentum, triggering some of the most audacious constructions. Several insights can be gained from how the engineers managed to control the flow of the Danube. First, by working for extended periods of time on the river, foreign engineers became the leading experts regarding its management. Indeed, the more the engineers immersed themselves in the local context, the less possible it became to differentiate between “imported” and “indigenous” knowledge and expertise because they came to know the two key stretches more intimately than many locals. Still, these engineers handled the river differently to the previous generations of “experts” without such formal training. Professional engineers like Vásárhelyi, Hartley, Kühl, Wex, and Wallandt approached stone and sand blockages on the Lower Danube differently in the sense that their interventions were not only more radical— they also set out to improve the flow of the river based on theoretical calculations. However, when applying these principles, they frequently changed the parameters of their designs according to the information they meticulously gathered from observing and surveying the waterway. Thus, abstract designs and local idiosyncratic features blended in specific ways, merging into a symbiosis between technology and nature that complemented, rather than fended off, the river. The immense efforts engineers put into controlling the flow of the Danube showed that building river infrastructure differed from other largescale engineering ventures. Constructions that aim to contain a fluid element must be as seamless and comprehensive as possible. However, quite often the man-made structures installed on the Danube proved less complex than the intricate way the water flowed. The engineers erecting and supervising these structures came to understand that river infrastructure needed permanent maintenance and periodic extension in order to fulfill its goals. In other words, even when a new piece of infrastructure was successful— like Hartley’s first piers to prolong the Danube’s confluence with the sea— this tended to be a temporary achievement. Erosion and damage caused by storms most obviously required constant monitoring. But there were other reasons why construction continued decades after the completion of the first regulation projects. For one thing, the evolution of shipping manufacturing had a significant impact on the development of river infrastructure, generating a vicious circle. Although the engineering projects allowed for an 298

Conclusions

increase in the size and frequency of ships passing through the two bottlenecks, the new constructions soon proved to be too short and too narrow to accommodate the increasing traffic. The larger and heavier the steamers became, the more the engineers had to expand the existing infrastructure. Furthermore, constant repair work was necessitated by “unintended effects,” namely the damage that persistent engineering caused to the environment and local populations, adding new hazards to navigation. Frequently, the corrections themselves had to be “corrected.” And finally, initial success spurred further engineering as political decision-makers and technical experts were encouraged to risk more complex interventions in the riverbed. More precisely, a new cohort of engineers took the lead at the end of the nineteenth century, emancipating themselves from their predecessors by planning and executing far more substantial technical systems. Ultimately, these developments combined, leading to seemingly never-ending construction and consolidation activities at the two main sites and setting off a certain kind of inertia which brought about ever more daring and riskier interventions. The story of imperialism and international cooperation that paved the way to massive technical interventions in the Danube’s riverbed described here reverberated into the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The major national reconfiguration after the First World War left the authority of the ECD untouched. The remaining Danube from Braila to Ulm was assigned to a new commission, called the International Commission of the Danube (ICD), to which all member states of the ECD plus one representative from each riparian state belonged.155 Once again, the special international status of the maritime Danube survived a major point while the Great Powers still held a tight grip on this important outlet for grains and other agricultural commodities during the interwar period.156 The aftermath of World War II exchanged this type of asymmetrical international cooperation for an unrestricted Soviet domination. A new commission established in 1958 in Bratislava reunited only those Danubian states which belonged to the Eastern Bloc.157 However, in the late 1950s, state socialist countries relaxed trade relations with capitalist countries, allowing for Austria to become 155 Ghişa, “Stages in the Institutional Establishment of Danube Cooperation,” 135–36; Thiemeyer, “Die Integration der Donau-Schifffahrt als Problem der europäischen Zeitgeschichte,” 307. 156 Ardeleanu, The European Commission of the Danube, 312–17. 157 Ibid., 318.

299

Conclusions

a member in the commission. Still this remained an exception, since West German experts were only permitted to attend the discussions of the various technical subcommittees of the commission.158 The dissolution of the Eastern Bloc marked another political watershed that reconfigured the terms of international cooperation along the Danube. After Germany became a full member in 1999, non-riparian states such as France and Turkey (and even the European Union as an organization) were again invited to the commission. This time, co-opting non-riparian members was not a sign of imperialism, but rather a way to reflect the new political alliances that the EU and NATO enlargement forged on the continent. In this context, the programs proposed by the EU Strategy for the Danube Region were yet another example of a large-scale policy that aimed at increasing economic exchanges among the various actors with stakes in the Danubian navigation. In this way, the Danube has come full circle: the primary motivation that unleashed so many imperial and cooperative projects along the Danube is still shaping current political agendas.159 The technological inertia that large-scale regulation projects unleashed at the Iron Gates and the delta on the eve of World War I picked up pace in the following decades. Spurred by ambitious national bureaucracies that were eager to prove their technical proficiency, the two spots became quasi-permanent construction sites. The peak of the river regulation craze was reached in late socialism when two monumental projects unfolded. In the 1970s, the socialist states of Romania and Yugoslavia finished a large shipping canal complemented by two powerful hydropower stations, finally “solving” the problem of safely navigating the Iron Gates, though at the cost of considerable ecological devastation and human suffering.160 At the other end of the Lower Danube, the Danube-Black Sea Canal finished in 1987 provided ships with a straight route to the sea that was completely separated from

158 Franz Pichler, Die Donaukommission und die Donaustaaten: Kooperation und Integration (Vienna: Braumüller, 1973), 72. 159 https://danube-region.eu/about/priority-areas/ (last accessed December 20, 2021). 160 Vincent Langendijk, “Divided Development: Post-War Ideas on River Utilisation and their Influence on the Development of the Danube,” International History Review 37, no. 1 (2015): 80–98; Arnošt Štanzel, Wasserträume und Wasserräume im Staatssozialismus: Ein umwelthistorischer Vergleich anhand der tschechoslowakischen und rumänischen Wasserwirtschaft, 1948–1989 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & R ­ uprecht, 2017), 193–206.

300

Conclusions

the aquatic maze of the delta.161 The economic success of both megalomaniac projects has always been doubtful: while the boost in power production helped sustain the country’s rapid industrialization, the new shipping canals were never used at full capacity. In the aftermath of the Yugoslav Wars of the 1990s, when the number of cargo ships navigating the Danube declined significantly, the Danube-Black Sea Canal was in a state of decay, resembling more an industrial graveyard than a beacon of modernity. In light of these failures, the question to ask at the end of this study is whether the propensity for large-scale technical interventions along the Danube diminished in recent years. Newly formed nations are known for showing off their technical ambitions and independent Ukraine, much like Romania, Yugoslavia, and Bulgaria in previous decades, started its own share of major projects in the delta.162 Although the entire Danube Delta is a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve since 1998, the Ukrainian government rezoned the delta, so that it could build the Bystroe Shipping Canal. However, after it opened for navigation, it remained unprofitable and failed to stimulate the regional economy. Additional maintenance work and technical readjustments doubled the initial costs.163 Whether it was the last in a series of oversized and ultimately futile engineering projects on the Lower Danube remains to be seen. This last example clearly shows the obduracy of material infrastructures and that governments still cling to the belief that technical reconfiguration of natural spaces will improve the human condition (despite numerous examples stating differently). Both tropes link recent endeavors to developments in the nineteenth century.

161 Wim van Meurs, “Der Donau-Schwarzmeer-Kanal. Eine Großbaustelle des Kommunismus,” Jahrbuch für Historische Kommunismusforschung 20 (2012): 113–28. 162 Stelu Șerban, “Techno-Nationalizing the Levees on the Danube: Romania and Bulgaria after World War II,” Nationalities Papers 48, no. 2 (2020): 373–87. 163 Tanja Richardson, “Objecting (to) Infrastructure: Ecopolitics at the Ukrainian Ends of the Danube,” Science as Culture 25, no. 1 (2016): 60–95.

301

B i bl iogr a ph y

Archival sources Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz (GStA PK), III. HA, Ministerium des Äußeren (MdÄ), II Nr. 5713–5741. Österreichisches Staatsarchiv (AT-OeStA), Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv (HHStA), Ministerium des Äußeren (MdÄ), AR F34-F38. AT-OeStA/HHStA Diplomatie und Außenpolitik 1848–1918. AT-OeStA/HHStA MdÄ AR Buchstabenfächer SV 1-4. Österreichisches Staatsarchiv (AT-OeStA), Allgemeines Verwaltungsarchiv (AVA), Handel HMallg A 202–373. Österreichisches Staatsarchiv (AT-OeStA), Kriegsarchiv (KA), Karten- und Plansammlungen (KPS), Länderbeschreibungen (LB) K I (Balkan) and K VII (Österreich-Ungarn).

Published sources Actenstücke zur Regulirung der Stromschnellen der Donau zwischen Moldova und Turn-Severin. Vienna: Verlag des Donau-Vereines, 1880. “Additionalartikel zur Donauschifffahrtsakte vom 7. November 1857.” In Verhandlungen der Württembergischen Kammer der Abgeordneten in den Jahren 1856 bis 1861, 1581–82. Stuttgart: Metzler’schen Buchdruckerei, 1858. Ainsworth, Francis W. “The Communication between the Danube and the Black Sea.” In The Mirror of Literature, Amusement and Instruction 2, no. 10 (1842): 152–54. Allgemeine Zeitung. No. 150, June 29, 1840, 1198. “Aus dem Berichte, der von der königlichen ungarischer Regierung zur Beurtheilung der Theiss-Regulirung berufenen fremdländischen Experten, Budapest, 5 September 1879.” In Actenstücke, 99. Bauer, Friedrich Wilhelm von. Memoires historiques et geographiques sur la Valachie, avec un prospectus d’un atlas géographique et militaire de la dernier guerre entre la Russie et la Porte Ottomanne. Frankfort: Chez Henry-Louis Broenner, 1778.

303

Bibl iog raphy

Bawr, Friedrich Wilhelm von. Carte de la Moldavie pour servir à l’ histoire militaire de la guerre entre les Russes et les Turcs. Amsterdam, 1769–1771. Beattie, William. The Danube: Its History, Scenery, and Topography. London: George Virtue, 1844. Beer, Adolf. Aus Wilhelm von Tegetthoff’s Nachlass. Vienna: Carl Gerold’s Sohn, 1882. Bericht der Administration der ersten Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft über die Leistungen des Donau-Dampfbootes Franz I. im Laufe des Jahres 1831. Vienna: Straußel & Sommer, 1831. Bitter, Karl Hermann. Gesammelte Schriften. Leipzig: Friedrich, 1885. Bodoki, Louis. “Programm für eine Kettenschiffahrt.” In Actenstücke, 91. Commission Européenne du Danube. Protocoles, no. VI–CLXXII and CLXXXIX– CCXXXIX. View at Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford, https://www.europeana. eu/portal/en/search?q=Commission+Europ%C3%A9enne+du+Danube+Protocoles (accessed May 27, 2019). “Convention between Great Britain, Austria, France, Italy, Prussia, in the name of the North German Confederacy, and Turkey, for the Guarantee of a Loan to complete the Works at the Sulina Mouth and Branches of the Danube—Signed at Galatz, April 30, 1868.” British and Foreign State Papers 58 (1867–1868): 7–11. “Convention entre L’Autriche et la Russie, concernant la Navigation du Danube: Signé à St. Pétersbourg, le 25 Juillet 1840.” British and Foreign State Papers 28 (1839–1840): 1060–63. Correspondence with the Russian Government Respecting Obstructions to the Navigation of the Sulina Channel of the Danube Presented to both Houses of Parliament by Command of Her Majesty. London: Harrison and Sons, 1853. “Der Verkehr im Kanal des Eisernen Thores in den Jahren 1905–1906.” Volkswirtschaftliche Mitteilungen aus Ungarn 2 (1907): 598. Die Donauschiffahrts-Frage in ihrer Entwicklung von dem Wiener Congresse bis zum Abschluß der Donauschiffahrts-Acte vom 7. November 1857 dargestellt in einer Sammlung der betreffenden völkerrechtlichen Acte. Stuttgart: J.B. Wetzler’schen Buchhandlung, 1858. “Discussion über die Frage der Regulirung der Stromschnellen auf der unteren Donau (Eisernes Thor).” Wochenschrift des österreichischen Ingenieur- und Architektenvereins 6, nos. 14–17 (1881): 107–10; 115–18; 123–28; 131–36. Docan, Nicolae. “Exploraţiuni austriace pe Dunăre la sfârşitul veacului al XVII-lea.” Analele Academiei Române, series 2, no. 36 (1913–1914): 541–709. “Donauschifffahrtsakte.” In Verhandlungen der Württembergischen Kammer der Abgeordneten in den Jahren 1856 bis 1858, 817–22. Stuttgart: Metzler’schen Buchdruckerei, 1858. E. W. B. “Reise mit den Österreichischen Dampfschiffen auf der Donau und auf dem Schwarzen Meere, von Wien nach Constantinopel: (Forsetzung).” Wiener Zeitung, August 12, 1836. Engelhardt, Édouard-Philippe. “Les embouchures du Danube et la commission instituée par le congrès de Paris.” Revue de Deux Mondes 88, no. 1 (1870): 93–117. “Eröffnung des Canales am Eisernen Thor (Telegramme).” Wiener Abendpost: Beilage zur Wiener Zeitung, no. 223, September 28, 1896, 1. “Eisernes Thor.” Verordnungs-Blatt für Eisenbahnen und Schiffahrt 14, no. 22 (1901): 575.

304

Bibl iog raphy

“Felsensprengungen am eisernen Thor.” Allgemeine Bauzeitung 15, Notizblatt der Allgemeinen Bauzeitung 1, no. 9 (1850): 279–81. Foerster, Ernst. “Schiffstechnische Organisationen des deutschen Feldeisenbahnchefs auf der Donau.” In Jahrbuch der Schiffbautechnischen Gesellschaft 19 (1918): 123–72. Forgatsch, Ludwig von. Die schiffbare Donau von Ulm bis in das Schwarze Meer. Vienna: Fr. Beck’sche Universitätsbuchhandlung, 1849. “General Treaty Between Great Britain, Austria, France, Portugal, Prussia, Russia, Spain, and Sweden: Signed at Vienna, 9th June, 1815.” In The Great European Treaties of the Nineteenth Century, edited by Augustus Oakes, 37–98. London: Oxford University Press, 1930. “General Treaty of Peace between Great Britain, Austria, France, Prussia, Russia, Sardinia, and Turkey: Signed at Paris, 30th March, 1856.” In The Great European Treaties of the Nineteenth Century, edited by Augustus Oakes, 176–84. London: Oxford University Press, 1930. Gonda, Béla. Die Regulirung des Eisernen Thores und der übrigen Katarakte an der Unteren Donau. Budapest: Országgyűlési Értesítő, 1896. ———. Vásárhelyi Pál élete és művei. Budapest: Magyar Mérnök- és Építész-egylet, 1896. Hagemeister, Julius de. Report on the Commerce of the Ports of New Russia, Moldavia, and Wallachia, Made to the Russian Government, in 1835. London: Effingham Wilson, Royal Exchange, 1836. Handlungseinverständniß zwischen dem kaiserl. königl. Hofe, und der ottomanischen Pforte zum Vortheile der österreichischen Handlung unter dem Namen Sined, oder Einverständniß geschlossen den 24. Hornung 1784. Vienna: Sebastian Hartl, 1785. Hartley, Charles A. “Description of the Delta of the Danube, and of the Works, Recently Executed, at the Sulina Mouth.” Minutes of Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers 21 (1862): 277–92. ———. “Report of C. A. Hartley, Esq., C. E. Engineer-in-Chief to the Commission, on the Improvement of the Navigation of the Lower Danube.” In Projects for the Improvement of the Lower Danube, edited by European Commission of the Danube, 1–73. Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1856. Hietzinger, Carl Bernhard von. Statistik der Militärgränze des österreichischen Kaiserthums: ein Versuch, vol. 2. Vienna: Gerold, 1820. “Karta teatra vojny v Evrope 1828 i 1829 godov, 1835.” In Constantin C. Giurescu, Principatele romîne la începutul secolului XIX. Bucharest: Editura ştiinţifică, 1957. Kleemann, N. E. Tagebuch der Reisen. Prague: Schönfeld, 1783. Klunzinger, Paul. “Die Regulierung des Eisernen Thores und der übrigen Katarakte an der unteren Donau sowie die Ergebnisse der Grosschiffahrt nach deren Eröffnung am 1. October 1898.” Allgemeine Bauzeitung 64, no. 3 (1899): 63–104. Kühl, Charles Henry Leopold. “Recent Improvements Effected in the Navigable Condition of the Sulina Branch and Outlet of the Danube.” International Engineering Congress (Glasgow), 1901: Report of the Proceedings and Abstracts of the Papers Read, 72–73. Glasgow: William Asher, 1902. ———. “The Sulina Mouth of the Danube.” Minutes of the Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers 91 (1888): 329–41.

305

Bibl iog raphy

La Commission Européenne du Danube et son oeuvre de 1856 à 1931. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1931. Liszt, Franz von. Das Völkerrecht: Systematisch dargestellt. 10th ed. Springer: Heidelberg, 1915. Luther, Gerhard. Die Regulirung der Katarakte in der unteren Donau (Eisernes Thor). Braunschweig: Johann Heinrich Meyer, 1893. M. M. “Steam Navigation of the Danube.” The Morning Chronicle, December 10, 1834. Majláth, Béla, ed. Gróf Széchenyi István levelei. Vol. 1. Budapest: Athenaeum Irodalmi és Nyom­ dai Rt., 1889. Marsili, Luigi Ferdinando. Danubius Pannonico-Mysicus: Observationibus geographicis, astronomicis, hydrographicis, historicis, physicis perlustratus et in sex tomos digestus. Hagae Comitum: P. Gosse, R. Chr. Alberts, P. de Hondt, 1726. ———. Relazioni dei confini della Croazia e della Transilvania a Sua Maestà Cesarea, 1699– 1701. Vol. 2. Modena: Mucchi Editore, 1986. McAlpine, William. “Report of the Cataracts on the Danube between Moldova and Turn Se­verin, 1871.” In Actenstücke, 47–62. “Meusburger to the Ministry of Trade, Orsova, 12 December 1855.” In Actenstücke, 42. Mollinary, Anton von. Sechsundvierzig Jahre im österreich-ungarischen Heere, 1833–1879. Zürich: Orell Füssli, 1905. “Nachtrag zur Frage betreffend die Beseitigung der Schiffahrts-Hindernisse an der unteren Donau.” Wochenschrift des österreichischen Ingenieur- und Architektenvereins 6, nos. 34–41 (1881): 204; 209–11; 213–14; 217–18; 221–22; 225–26; 229–31. Navigations-Karte der Donau von Semlin an bis zu ihrem Ausfluss ins Schwarze Meer zur genauesten Kentnis aller in derselben befindlichen Inseln, Sandbänke, Wirbel, Klippen u.s.w. so wie aller an den beiderseitigen Ufern gelegenen Städte, Dörfer und andere Ortschaften, wobei zugleich die verschiedene Breite und Tiefe des Stroms bestimt angegeben ist. Vienna: Kurtzbekische Buchhandlung, 1789. Nobiling, Eduard. “Mémoire No. III. Ueber den Sulina-Kanal mit seiner Ausmündung ins Schwarze Meer.” In Projects for the Improvement of the Lower Danube, edited by European Commission of the Danube, 1–26. Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1856. ———. “Mémoire No. V. Die Schiffbarkeit und weitere Schiffbarmachung des rechtseitigen Stromarmes der Donau (der St. Georgs-Kanal) mit seiner Ausmündung ins schwarze Meer betreffend.” In Projects for the Improvement of the Lower Danube, edited by European Commission of the Danube, 1–22. Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1856. “Protocols of Conferences between Great Britain, Austria, France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and Turkey, relative to the Inviolability of Treaties, and the Revision of the Treaty of March 30, 1856, so far as regards to the Neutralisation of the Black Sea, the Straits of the Dardanelles and Bosphorus, and the Navigation of the Danube. London, January–March, 1871.” British and Foreign State Papers 61 (1870–1871): 1193–1226. “Protocols of Conferences between the Plenipotentiaries of Austria, France, Great Britain, Italy, Prussia, Russia and Turkey, Protocol No. 3, Conference of 28th March, 1866.” British and Foreign State Papers 57 (1866–1867): 546–53. “Provisorisches Reglement, betreffend die Schifffahrts-Polizei auf der unteren Donau zwischen

306

Bibl iog raphy

Isaktscha und Sulina.” Preußisches Handelsarchiv: Wochenschrift für Handel, Gewerbe und Verkehrsanstalten, no. 12 (1861): 280–83. “Public Act of the European Commission of the Danube, relative to the Navigation of the Mouths of the Danube: Signed at Galatz, November 2, 1865.” British and Foreign State Papers 55 (1864–1865): 93–127. Quin, Michael J. A Steam Voyage Down the Danube: With Sketches of Hungary, Wallachia, Servia, Turkey, Etc. Paris: Baudry’s European Library, 1836. Rapport de la Commission technique internationale convoquée à Paris pour l’examen des questions relatives à l’amélioration des bouches du Danube. Paris: Imprimerie Impériale, 1858. Revised Convention for Rhine Navigation from 17 October 1868, http://www.ccr-zkr.org/files/ conventions/convrev_e.pdf (accessed May 27, 2019). “Schreiben aus Alt-Moldova.” Vereinigte Ofner-Pester Zeitung, no. 97, December 4, 1834, 1813–1814. Schreiber, Alois W. Die Donau-Reise von der Einmündung des Ludwig-Kanals nach Constantinopel. Heidelberg: Joseph Engelmann, 1839. Șerban, Stelu. “Techno-Nationalizing the Levees on the Danube: Romania and Bulgaria after World War II.” Nationalities Papers 48, no. 2 (2020): 373–87. Singer, Bernhard. Die Verträge mit Serbien. Vienna: Moritz Perles, 1882. Sitzungs-Protocoll der General-Versammlung der k.k. priv. ersten Donau-DampfschiffahrtsGesellschaft vom 29. Jänner 1838. Vienna: Straußel & Sommer, 1838. Slade, Adolphus. Travels in Germany and Russia: Including a Steam Voyage by the Danube and the Euxine from Vienna to Constantinople, in 1838–39. London: Longman, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1840. Snow, Robert. Journal of a Steam Voyage down the Danube to Constantinople, and Thence by way of Malta and Marseilles to England. London: Moyes and Barclay, 1842. Spratt, Thomas. “Reports on the Comparative Conditions of the Different Mouths and Branches of the Danube by Captain Spratt.” In Projects for the Improvement of the Lower Danube, edited by European Commission of the Danube, 1–45. Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1856. Stokes, John. Autobiography, 1825–1902. In https://archive.org/details/SirJohnStokes18251902Autobiography/page/n1 (accessed May 27, 2019). ———. “On the Mouths of the Danube, and the Improvement of the Mouths of Rivers in Non-Tidal Seas.” Papers on Subjects Connected with the Duties of the Corps of Royal Engineers 13 (1864): 27–45. ———. “The Danube and Its Trade.” Journal of the Society of Arts 38, no. 1954 (1890): 559–83. Sturdza, Dimitrie Alexandru. Les travaux de la Commission européenne des bouches du Danube 1859 à 1911: Actes et documents. Vienna: Gerold, 1913. Suppán, Carl Viktor. Wasserstrassen und Binnenschiffahrt. Berlin: Verlag von A. Troschel, 1902. Széchenyi, Stephan. Ueber den Credit. Leipzig: Georg Maret, 1830. ———. Über die Donauschifffahrt. Ofen: Gyurián u. Bagó, 1836. “Tagesbericht.” Wiener Zeitung, no. 195, August 26, 1861, 1–2. “Treaty between Great Britain, Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and Turkey,

307

Bibl iog raphy

relative to the Navigation of the Danube: Signed at London, March 10, 1883.” British and Foreign State Papers 74 (1882–1883): 20–42. “Treaty between Great-Britain, Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, Russia, and Turkey, for the Settlement of the Affairs of the East: Signed at Berlin, 13th July, 1878.” In The Great European Treaties of the Nineteenth Century, edited by Augustus Oakes and Robert B. Mowat, 332–66. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1918. “Treaty of Adrianople, September 14, 1829.” In Peace Handbooks, vol. 3, edited by the Historical Section of the Foreign Office, 68–71. London: Scholarly Resources, 1920. Urquhart, David. The Mystery of the Danube: Showing How through Secret Diplomacy, that River Has Been Closed, Exportation from Turkey Arrested, and the Re-opening of the Isthmus of Suez Prevented. London: Bradbury & Evans, 1851. Vane, Charles W. A Steam Voyage to Constantinople, by the Rhine and the Danube, in 1840–41. Vol. 1. London: Henry Colburn, 1842. Vásárhelyi, Paul. “Haupt-Bericht des Dirigirenden Ingenieurs Paul Vásárhelyi an den Königlichen Commissar Graf Stefan Széchényi.” Periodica Polytechnica Civil Engineering 28, no. 1–4 (1984): 124–41. “Verführung auf der Donau nach den schwarzen Meere N. VI.” In Handbuch aller unter der Regierung des Kaisers Joseph II. für die K.K. Erbländer ergangenen Verordnungen und Gesetze in einer sistematischen Verbindung, vol. 14, edited by Joseph Kropatschek, 19–26. Vienna: Joh. Georg Moesle, 1789. Verhandlungen der Elbe-Stromschau-Commission der betreffenden Uferstaaten über die Schiff­ barkeit der Elbe und deren Verbesserung. Hamburg: Langhoff’sche Buchdrukerei, 1850. “Verkehr am Eisernen Thor in Jahre 1902.” Verordnungs-Blatt für Eisenbahnen und Schiffahrt 16, no. 33 (1903): 896. Vincke, Karl Friedrich Ludwig von. “Das Karassu-Thal zwischen der Donau unterhalb Rassowa und dem Schwarzen Meere bei Küstendschi.” Monatsberichte über die Verhandlungen der Gesellschaft für Erdkunde zu Berlin 1 (1839–1840): 179–86. Viszota, Gyula, ed. Gróf Széchenyi István naplói, 1830–1836. Vol. 4. Budapest: Magyar Történelmi Társulat, 1934. Voenno-statisticheskoe obozrenie gosudarstv i zemel, prilezhashchikh k Rossiiskoi imperii: Knia­ zhestvo Moldaviia. St. Petersburg: Tipografiia Departamenta Generalnogo Shtaba, 1853. http://elib.shpl.ru/ru/nodes/8969-voenno-statisticheskoe-obozrenie-gosudarstv-i-zemelprilezhaschih-k-rossiyskoy-imperii-voenno-statisticheskoe-obozrenie-knyazhestva-moldaviiv-2-h-ch-spb-1853#mode/inspect/page/11/zoom/4 (accessed May 7, 2018). Voisin-Bey, François Philippe. “Notice sur les travaux d’amélioration de l’embouchure du Danube et du bras de Soulina, 1857–1891.” Annales des Ponts et Chaussées 5 (1893): 1–511. “Wallachey.” Wiener Zeitung, no. 308, November 6, 1844, 2–3. Wersak, Wenzel August. Einige Bemerkungen über die Wichtigkeit des Handels auf der Donau, nach dem schwarzen Meere und über dieses hinaus, für das Königreich Ungarn und die übrigen erbländischen Provinzen, vorzüglich aber für die Kommerzialstadt Pesth. Pesth: Joh. Thom v. Trattnerschen Lettern, 1820. Wex, Gustav, “Darstellung der physischen Schifffahrtshindernisse an der Ausmündung des

308

Bibl iog raphy

Donaustromes in’s schwarze Meer und Mittel zur Beseitigung derselben.” Zeitschrift des Österreichischen Ingenieur-Vereines 9, no. 11–12 (1857): 223–240. ———. “Der Donaustrom als Hauptverkehrsstrasse nach dem Orient—nach erfolgter Beseitigung der Schifffahrtshindernisse am Eisernen Thore und nach den sieben Strom­schnellen oberhalb Orsova.” Österreichische Revue 4 (1863): 68–122. ———. “Über die Schiffbarmachung der Donau am Eisernen Thore und an den sieben Felsbänken oberhalb Orsova.” Zeitschrift des Österreichischen Ingenieur-Vereines 24, no. 10 (1872): 281–90. “Wex to the Ministry of Trade, Orsova. 8 January 1855.” In Actenstücke, 34–35. Wilczek, Eduard Graf. “Die Donauregulirung beim ‘Eisernen Thor.’” Zeitschrift für Eisen­ bahnen und Dampfschiffahrt der Österreichisch-Ungarischen Monarchie 5, nos. 17–18 (1892): 273–78; 289–95. Wilson, Thomas. The Low-Lands of the Danube: Their Reclaimation by a Canal from Rassova to Kustandje, Forming a New Mouth on the Black Sea. London: E. Wilson, 1855. Wimpffen, Alfons Grafen. Erinnerungen aus der Walachei während der Besetzung durch die österreichischen Truppen in den Jahren 1854–1856. Vienna: Carl Gerold’s Sohn, 1878. Wurm, Christian Friedrich. Fünf Briefe über die Freiheit der Flußschiffahrt und über die Donau-Akte vom 7. Nov. 1857. Leipzig: Gustav Mayer, 1858. “Zusatzakte zur Schiffahrtsakte für die Donaumündungen: Vom 28. Mai 1881.” Deutsches Reichsgesetzblatt, no. 13 (1882): 61–65.

Literature Adanir, Fikret. “Turkey’s Entry into the Concert of Europe.” European Review 13, no. 3 (2005): 395–417. Ágoston, Gábor. “Danube River.” In Encyclopedia of the Ottoman Empire, edited by Gábor Ágoston and Bruce Alan Masters, 173–74. New York: Facts on File, 2009. Aksan, Virginia H. “Military Reform and its Limits in a Shrinking Ottoman World, 1800– 1840.” In The Early Modern Ottomans: Remapping the Empire, edited by Virginia H. Aksan and Daniel Goffman, 117–35. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. ———. Ottoman Wars 1700–1870: An Empire Besieged. Harlow: Pearson Longman, 2007. ———. “Whose Territory and Whose Peasants? Ottoman Boundaries on the Danube in the 1760s.” In The Ottoman Balkans, 1750–1830, edited by Frederick F. Anscombe, 61–86. Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers, 2006. Allard, Camille. Souvenirs d’Orient: La Bulgarie orientale. Paris: Adrien Le Clere et Cie, 1864. Amrith, Sunil, and Glenda Sluga. “New Histories of the United Nations.” Journal of World History 19, no. 3 (September 2008): 251–74. Andersen, Hans Christian. A Poet’s Bazaar. New York: Hurd and Houghton, 1871. Anderson, Matthew S. The Eastern Question, 1774–1923: A Study in International Relations. 8th edition. Houndmills: Macmillan, 1991. Antipa, Grigore. Dunărea și problemele ei științifice, economice și politice. Bucharest: Carteta Romînească, 1921.

309

Bibl iog raphy

Ardeleanu, Constantin. The European Commission of the Danube, 1856–1948: An Experiment in International Administration. Leiden: Brill, 2020. ———. “The European Commission of the Danube and the Results of Its Technical and Administrative Activity on the Safety of Navigation, 1856–1914.” International Journal of Maritime History 23, no. 1 (June 2011): 73–94. ———. Evoluția intereselor economice şi politice britanice la gurile Dunării, 1829–1914. Brăila: Muzeul Brăilei, 2008. ———. International Trade and Diplomacy at the Lower Danube: The Sulina Question and the Economic Premises of the Crimean War, 1829–1853. Brăila: Muzeul Brăilei, 2014. ———. “Russian-British Rivalry Regarding Danube Navigation and the Origins of the Crimean War (1846–1853).” Journal of Mediterranean Studies 19, no. 2 (2010): 165–86. Armour, Ian D. “The Sensitivities of ‘Small, Backward Nations’: Austria-Hungary, Serbia, and the Regulation of the Danube 1870–71.” Canadian Journal of History 47, no. 3 (2012): 515–44. Arnold, Guy. “Danube River.” In Literature on Travel and Exploration: An Encyclopedia, vol. 1, edited by Jennifer Speake, 315–17. New York: Fitzroy Dearborn, 2003. Aust, Anthony. Handbook of International Law. 2nd edition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Bachinger, Karl. “Das Verkehrswesen.” In Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, vol. 1, edited by Alois Brusatti, 278–322. Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissen­ schaften, 1973. Badem, Cadan. The Ottoman Crimean War, 1853–1856. Leiden: Brill, 2010. Barany, George. Stephen Széchenyi and the Awakening of Hungarian Nationalism, 1791–1841. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1968. Bayly, Christopher Alan. The Birth of the Modern World, 1780–1914. Malden, MA, Blackwell, 2004. Beattie, Andrew. The Danube: A Cultural History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Beckert, Sven. “American Danger: United States Empire, Eurafrica, and the Territorialization of Industrial Capitalism, 1870–1950.” American Historical Review 122, no. 4 (2017): 1137–70. Beinart, William, Karen Brown, and Daniel Gilfoyle. “Experts and Expertise in Colonial Africa Reconsidered: Science and the Interpenetration of Knowledge.” African Affairs 108, no. 432 (2009): 413–33. Bérenger, Jean. “Les vicissitudes de l’alliance militaire franco-turque (1520–1800).” In Guerres et paix en Europe centrale aux époques moderne et contemporaine, edited by Daniel Tollet, 297–330. Paris: Peresse du l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 2003. Bernhardt, Christoph. “The Correction of the Upper Rhine in the Nineteenth Century: Modernizing Society and State by Large-Scale Water Engineering.” In Water, Culture, and Politics in Germany and the American West, edited by Susan C. Anderson and Bruce H. Tabb, 183–202. New York: Peter Lang, 2001. Biggs, David. “Breaking from the Colonial Mold: Water Engineering and the Failure of Nation-Building in the Plain of Reeds, Vietnam.” Technology and Culture 49, no. 3 (July 2008): 599–623.

310

Bibl iog raphy

———. Quagmire: Nation-Building and Nature in the Mekong Delta. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010. Binder, Johannes, Ernst-Ulrich Funk, Helmut Grössing, and Manfred Sauer. Rot-Weiss-Rot auf blauen Wellen: 150 Jahre DDSG. Vienna: Erste Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft, 1979. Bitis, Alexander. “The 1828–1829 Russo-Turkish War and the Resettlement of Balkan Peoples into Novorossiia.” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 53, no. 4 (2005): 506–25. ———. Russia and the Eastern Question: Army, Government and Society, 1815–1833. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Blackbourn, David. The Conquest of Nature: Water, Landscape and the Making of Modern Germany. New York: W.W. Norton, 2007. Bracewell, Wendy. “The Limits of Europe in East European Travel Writing.” In Under Eastern Eyes: A Comparative Introduction to East European Travel Writing on Europe, edited by Wendy Bracewell and Alex Drace-Francis, 61–120. Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2008. Bracewell, Wendy, and Alex Drace-Francis, eds. Under Eastern Eyes: A Comparative Introduction to East European Travel Writing on Europe. Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2008. Brummett, Palmira. Mapping the Ottomans: Sovereignty, Territory, and Identity in the Early Modern Mediterranean. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Buisseret, David, ed. Monarchs, Ministers and Maps: The Emergence of Cartography as a Tool of Government in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1992. Bulmuş, Birsen. Plague, Quarantines and Geopolitics in the Ottoman Empire. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012. Buşe, Constantin. Comerţul exterior prin Galaţi sub regimul de port franc (1837–1883). Bucharest: Ed. Acad. Republicii Socialiste România, 1976. Carse, Ashley. Beyond the Big Ditch: Politics, Ecology, and Infrastructure at the Panama Canal. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2014. ———. “Nature as Infrastructure: Making and Managing the Panama Canal Watershed.” Social Studies of Science 42, no. 4 (August 2012): 539–63. Castonguay, Stéphane, and Matthew Evenden, eds. Urban Rivers: Remaking Rivers, Cities, and Space in Europe and North America. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012. Chiffoleau, Sylvia. “Entre initiation au jeu international, pouvoir colonial et mémoire nationale: le Conseil sanitaire d’Alexandrie, 1865–1938.” Égypte/Monde Arabe 4, no. 1 (2007): 55–74. Ciachir, Nicolae. “The Adrianople Treaty (1829) and its European Implications.” Revue des Études Sud-Est Européennes 17, no. 4 (1979): 695–713. Cioc, Mark. The Rhine: An Eco-Biography, 1815–2000. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2002. Cole, Laurence, and Daniel L. Unowsky. “Introduction.” In The Limits of Loyalty: Imperial Symbolism, Popular Allegiances, and State Patriotism in the Late Habsburg Monarchy, edited by Laurence Cole and Daniel L. Unowsky, 1–3. New York: Berghahn Books, 2009.

311

Bibl iog raphy

Conrad, Sebastian, and Jürgen Osterhammel, eds. Wege zur modernen Welt, 1750–1870. Munich: C.H. Beck, 2016. Constantinescu, Ştefan. “Various Approaches to the Danube Delta: From Maps to Reality.” In The Bio-Politics of the Danube Delta: Nature, History, Policies, edited by Constantin Iordachi and Kristof van Assche, 155–82. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2014. Coons, Ronald E. Steamships, Statesmen, and Bureaucrats: Austrian Policy towards the Steam Navigation Company of the Austrian Lloyd, 1836–1848. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1975. Cooper, Frederic. “Writing the History of Development.” Journal of Modern European History 8, no. 1 (2010): 5–23. Cumming, William F. Notes of a Wanderer, in Search of Health, through Italy, Egypt, Greece, Turkey, up the Danube and down the Rhine. Vol. 2. London: Saunders and Otley, 1839. Cusco, Andrei. A Contested Borderland: Competing Russian and Romanian Visions of Bessarabia in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century. Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2017. Davis Cross, Mai’a K. “Rethinking Epistemic Communities Twenty Years Later.” Review of International Studies 39, no. 1 (2013): 137–60. Davies, Brian, Empire and Military Revolution in Eastern Europe: Russia’s Turkish Wars in the Eighteenth Century. London: Continuum, 2011. Dégen, Imre. “Pál Vásárhelyi, der Ingenieur des Reformzeitalters, 1795–1846.” Periodica Polytechnica/Civil Engineering 28, nos. 1–4 (1984): 115–23. Disco, Cornelis. “From Sea to Shining Sea: Making Ends Meet on the Rhine and the Rhone.” In Materializing Europe: Transnational Infrastructures and the Project of Europe, edited by Alexander Badenoch and Andreas Fickers, 255–85. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010. Dorondel, Stefan, and Veronica Mitroi. “Nature, State and Conservation in the Danube Delta: Turning Fishermen into Outlaws.” In The Nature State: Rethinking the History of Conservation, edited by Wilko Graf von Hardenberg et al., 194–212. London: Routledge, 2017. Dorondel, Stefan, Stelu Serban, and Daniel Cain. “The Play of Islands: Emerging Borders and Danube Dynamics in Modern Southeast Europe (1830–1900).” Environment and History 25, no. 4 (2019): 521–47. Dosch, Franz. 180 Jahre Donau-Dampfschiffahrts-Gesellschaft. Erfurt: Sutton, 2009. Edney, Matthew H. Mapping an Empire: The Geographical Construction of British India, 1765– 1843. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. Eldem, Edhem. “Ottoman Financial Integration with Europe: Foreign Loans, the Ottoman Bank and the Ottoman Public Debt.” European Review 13, no. 3 (July 2005): 431–45. Evans, Robert J. W. Austria, Hungary, and the Habsburgs: Essays on Central Europe, c. 1683– 1867. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. ———. “Széchenyi and Austria.” In History and Biography: Essays in Honour of Derek Beales, edited by Timothy C. W. Blanning and David Cannadine, 113–41. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Evenden, Matthew. “Beyond the Organic Machine? New Approaches in River Historiography.” Environmental History 23, no. 4 (October 2018): 698–720.

312

Bibl iog raphy

Findlay, Ronald, and Kevin H. O’Rourke. Power and Plenty: Trade, War, and the World Economy in the Second Millennium. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007. Frary, Lucien J., and Mara Kozelsky, eds. Russian-Ottoman Borderlands: The Eastern Question Reconsidered. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2014. ———. “Introduction: The Eastern Question Reconsidered.” In Russian-Ottoman Borderlands: The Eastern Question Reconsidered, edited by Lucien J. Frary and Mara Kozelsky, 3–34. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2014. Frucht, Richard Charles. “War, Peace, and Internationality: The Danube, 1789–1916.” In Southeast European Maritime Commerce and Naval Policies from the Mid-Eighteenth Century to 1914, edited by Apostolos E. Vacalopoulos, Constantinos D. Svolopoulos and Béla K. Király, 79–97. Highland Lakes: Atlantic Research and Publications, 1988. Gatejel, Luminita. “Building a Better Passage to the Sea: Engineering and River Management at the Mouth of the Danube, 1829–61.” Technology and Culture 59, no. 4 (2018): 925–53. ———. “Imperial Cooperation at the Margins of Europe: The European Commission of the Danube, 1856–1865.” European Review of History/Revue Européenne d’Histoire, 24, no. 5 (2017): 781–800. ———. “Overcoming the Iron Gates: Austrian Transport and River Regulation on the Lower Danube, 1830s–1840s.” Central European History 49, no. 2 (2016): 162–80. ———. “Verkehr, Warenfluss und Wissenstransfer: Überlegung zu einer internationalen Geschichte der Unteren Donau (1829–1918).” Südost-Forschungen 73, no. 1 (2014): 414–28. Geyer, Martin H., and Johannes Paulmann, eds. The Mechanics of Internationalism: Culture, Society, and Politics from the 1840s to the First World War. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. ———. “Introduction: The Mechanics of Internationalism.” In Mechanics of Internationalism: Culture, Society, and Politics from the 1840s to the First World War, edited by Martin H. Geyer and Johannes Paulmann, 1–26. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Ghișa, Alexandru. “Stages in the Institutional Establishment of Danube Cooperation: From the European Commission of the Danube to the Danube Commission.” Transylvanian Review 19, no. 4 (2010): 130–40. Giurescu, Constantin C. Principatele romîne la începutul secolului XIX. Bucureşti: Editura Ştiinţifică, 1957. Goldmann, Kjell. Transforming the European Nation-State: Dynamics of Internationalization. London: Sage Publishers, 2001. Good, David F. The Economic Rise of the Habsburg Empire, 1750–1914. Berkeley: University of California University Press, 1984. Graaf, Beatrice de, Ido de Haan, and Brian Vick. “Vienna 1815: Introducing a European Security Culture.” In Securing Europe After Napoleon: 1815 and the New European Security Culture, edited by Beatrice de Graaf, Ido de Haan, and Brian Vick, 1–18. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019. Gradeva, Rossitsa. “Shipping along the Lower Course of the Danube (End of the 17th Century).” In The Kapudan Pasha: His Office and His Domain, edited by Elizabeth Zachariadou, 301–23. Rethymno: Crete University Press, 2002.

313

Bibl iog raphy

Gürtler, Daniel, and Markus Urban. Der Main-Donau-Kanal: Idee, Geschichte und Technik. Nürnberg: Sandberg-Verlag, 2013. Haas, Peter M. “Introduction: Epistemic Communities and International Policy Coordination.” International Organization 46, no. 1 (Winter 1992): 1–35. Hager, Willi H. “Gustav Ritter von Wex, sein Leben und Werk.” Österreichische Wasser- und Abfallwirtschaft 61, nos. 5–6 (June 2009): 81–88. Hajnal, Henri. Le Droit du Danube International. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1929. ———. The Danube: Its Historical, Political and Economic Importance. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1920. Halm, Hans. “Donauhandel und Donauschiffahrt von den österreichischen Erblanden nach Neurußland (1783).” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 2, no. 1 (1954): 1–52. ———. Habsburgischer Osthandel im 18. Jahrhundert: Österreich und Neurußland. Vol. 2, Donauhandel und -schiffhart 1781–1787. Munich: Isar-Verlag, 1954. ———. Österreich und Neurußland. Vol. 1, Donauschiffahrt und -handel nach dem Südosten, 1718–1780. Breslau: Verlag Thiel und Hintermeier, 1943. ———. “Wegbereiter des Großhandels: auf der Donau bis zur Zäsur des Krieges 1787.” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 2, no. 3 (1954): 258–303. Hanebrink, Paul A. In Defense of Christian Hungary: Religion, Nationalism, and Antisemitism, 1890–1944. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006. Harlaftis, Gelina. A History of Greek Owned Shipping: The Making of an International Tramp Fleet, 1830 to the Present Day. London: Routledge, 1996. Hartley, Charles W. S. A Biography of Sir Charles Hartley, Civil Engineer (1825–1915): The Father of The Danube. Lewiston and New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1989. Hausmann, Guido. Mütterchen Wolga: Ein Fluss als Erinnerungsort vom 16. bis ins frühe 20. Jahrhundert. Frankfurt: Campus Frankfurt, 2009. Heppner, Harald. Österreich und die Donaufürstentümer. Graz: Universität Graz, 1984. Herren, Madeleine. “International Organizations, 1865–1945.” In The Oxford Handbook of International Organizations, edited by Jacob Katz Cogan, Ian Hurd, and Ian Johnstone, 91–111. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. ———. Networking the International System: Global Histories of International Organizations. Cham: Springer International Publishing, 2014. Hitchins, Keith. A Concise History of Romania. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. ———. The Romanians, 1774–1866. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996. Hodge, Joseph M. “Science and Empire: An Overview of the Historical Scholarship.” In Science and Empire: Knowledge and Networks of Science across the British Empire, 1800–1970, edited by Brett M. Bennett and Joseph M. Hodge, 3–29. Houndsmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Högselius, Per, Arne Kaijser, and Erik van der Vleuten. Europe’s Infrastructure Transition: Economy, War, Nature. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. Howard, Douglas A. A History of the Ottoman Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Huber, Valeska. Channelling Mobilities: Migration and Globalisation in the Suez Canal Region and Beyond, 1869–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013.

314

Bibl iog raphy

———. “The Unification of the Globe by Disease? The International Sanitary Conferences on Cholera, 1851–1894.” Historical Journal 49, no. 2 (June 2006): 453–76. Ingrao, Charles, Nikola Samardžić, and Jovan Pešalj, eds. The Peace of Passarowitz, 1718. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2011. Iordachi, Constantin. Citizenship, Nation- and State-Building: The Integration of Northern Dobrogea into Romania, 1878–1913. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2002. ———. “Global Networks, Regional Hegemony, and Seaport Modernization at the Lower Danube.” In Cities of the Mediterranean: From the Ottomans to the Present Day, edited by Biray Kolluoğlu and Meltem Toksöz, 157–82. London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2010. Iordachi, Constantin, and Kristof van Assche, eds., The Bio-Politics of the Danube Delta: Nature, History, Policies. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2015. Iriye, Akira. Global Community: The Role of International Organizations in The Making of The Contemporary World. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002. Janáč, Jiří. European Coasts of Bohemia: Negotiating the Danube-Oder-Elbe Canal in a Troubled Twentieth Century. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2012. Jelavich, Barbara. History of the Balkans. Vol. 1, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. ———. The Ottoman Empire, the Great Powers, and the Straits Question, 1870–1887. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1973. Judson, Pieter M. The Habsburg Empire: A New History. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2016. Kaiser, Wolfram. “Cultural Transfer of Free Trade at the World Exhibitions, 1851–1862.” Journal of Modern History 77, no. 3 (September 2005): 563–90. Kaiser, Wolfram, and Johan Schot. Writing the Rules for Europe: Experts, Cartels, and International Organizations. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. Kaps, Klemens. “Creating Differences for Integration: Enlightened Reforms and Civilizing Missions in the Eastern European Possessions of the Habsburg Monarchy (1750–1815).” In Enlightened Colonialism: Civilization Narratives and Imperial Politics in the Age of Reason, edited by Damien Tricoire, 133–55. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017. Kaser, Karl. Freier Bauer und Soldat: Die Militarisierung der agrarischen Gesellschaft an der kroatisch-slawonischen Militärgrenze, 1535–1881. Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 1997. Katsiardi-Hering, Olga. “Greek Merchant Colonies in Central and South-Eastern Europe in the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries.” In Merchant Colonies in the Early Modern Period, edited by Victor N. Zakharov, Gelina Harlaftis, and Olga Katsiardi-Hering, 127–39. London: Pickering & Chatto Publishers, 2012. Kennedy, Dane. “Introduction: Reinterpreting Exploration.” In Reinterpreting Exploration: The West in the World, edited by Dane Kennedy, 1–20. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. ———. Reinterpreting Exploration: The West in the World. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. Király, Edit. “Die Donau ist die Form”: Strom-Diskurse in Texten und Bildern des 19. Jahrhunderts. Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2017.

315

Bibl iog raphy

Knoll, Martin. Die Natur der menschlichen Welt: Siedlung, Territorium und Umwelt in der historisch-topographischen Literatur der Frühen Neuzeit. Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag, 2013. Kohlrausch, Martin, and Helmuth Trischler. Building Europe on Expertise: Innovators, Organizers, Networkers. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Kohlrausch, Martin, and Katrin Steffen. “The Limits and Merits of Internationalism: Experts, the State and the International Community in Poland in the First Half of the Twentieth Century.” European Review of History 16 (2009): 715–37. Koranyi, James, and Bernhard Struck. “Space: Empires, Nations, Borders.” In The Routledge History of East Central Europe Since 1700, edited by Irina Livezeanu and Árpád von Klimó, 27–80. New York: Routledge, 2017. Kostov, Alexandre. “Les Ponts et Chaussées français et les pays balkaniques pendant la seconde moitié du XIXe et au début du XXe Siècle: les Cas de la Roumanie, de la Serbie et de la Bulgarie.” Quaderns d’ història de l’enginyeria 10 (2009): 367–81. Kott, Sandrine. “International Organizations: A Field of Research for a Global History.” Zeithistorische Forschungen/Studies in contemporary History 8, no. 3 (2011): 446–50. ———. “Une communauté épistémique du social? Experts de l’OIT et internationalisation des politiques sociales dans l’entre-deux-guerres.” Genèses. Sciences sociales et histoire 71, no. 2 (2008): 24–46. Kovács, Béla, and Gábor Timár. “The Austro-Hungarian Triangulations in the Balkan Peninsula (1855–1875).” In Cartography in Central and Eastern Europe, edited by Georg Gartner and Felix Ortag, 535–44. Berlin and Heidelberg: Springer-Verlag, 2010. Krehbiel, Edward. “The European Commission of the Danube: An Experiment in International Administration.” Political Science Quarterly 33, no. 1 (1918): 38–55. Laak, Dirk van. Alles im Fluss: Die Lebensadern unserer Gesellschaft—Geschichte und Zukunft der Infrastruktur. Bonn: Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung, 2019. Langendijk, Vincent. “Divided Development: Post-War Ideas on River Utilisation and their Influence on the Development of the Danube.” International History Review 37, no. 1 (2015): 80–98. Langewiesche, Dieter. Der gewaltsame Lehrer: Europas Kriege in der Moderne. Munich: C.H. Beck, 2019. Latour, Bruno. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Lindner, Ulrike. “New Forms of Knowledge Exchange between Imperial Powers: The Development of the Institut Colonial International (ICI) since the End of the 19th Century.” In Imperial Co-Operation and Transfer, 1870–1930: Empires and Encounters, edited by Volker Barth and Roland Cvetovski, 57–78. London: Bloomsbury, 2015. Lynn, Martin. “British Policy, Trade, and Informal Empire in the Mid-Nineteenth Century.” In The Oxford History of the British Empire, vol. 3, The Nineteenth Century, edited by Andrew Porter, 101–21. London: Oxford University Press, 1999. MacFarlane, Daniel. Negotiating a River: Canada, the US, and the Creation of the St. Lawrence Seaway. Vancouver and Toronto: UBC Press, 2014. Magris, Claudio, Danube. London: Harvill Press, 1989.

316

Bibl iog raphy

Maier, Charles S. Once Within Borders: Territories of Power, Wealth, and Belonging since 1500. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2016. Marin, Irina. Contested Frontiers in the Balkans: Habsburg and Ottoman Rivalries in Eastern Europe. London: I.B. Tauris, 2013. ———. Peasant Violence and Antisemitism in Early Twentieth-Century Eastern Europe. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018. Matis, Herbert. “Technologietransfer in den frühen Phasen der Industrialisierung: Zur Rolle britischer Immigranten für die Wirtschaftsentwicklung der Habsburgermonarchie.” In Unternehmertum im Spannungsfeld von Politik und Gesellschaft: Unternehmerische Aktivitäten in historischer Perspektive, edited by Herbert Matis, Andreas Resch, and Dieter Stiefel, 37–60. Vienna: Lit, 2010. Mauch, Christof, and Thomas Zeller. Rivers in History: Perspectives on Waterways in Europe and North America. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2008. Mayer, Horst F., and Dieter Winkel. Auf Donauwellen durch Österreich-Ungarn. Vienna: Österreichische Staatsdruckerei, 1989. Mazower, Mark. The Balkans: A Short History. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2000. Meurs, Wim van. “Der Donau-Schwarzmeer-Kanal: Eine Großbaustelle des Kommunismus.” Jahrbuch für Historische Kommunismusforschung 20 (2012): 113–28. Mevissen, Robert Shields. “Constructing the Danube Monarchy: Habsburg State-Building in the Long Nineteenth Century.” Unpublished dissertation. Georgetown University, December 2017. ———. “Meandering Circumstances, Fluid Associations: Shaping Riverine Transformations in the Late Habsburg Monarchy.” Austrian History Yearbook 49 (2018): 23–40. Mikhail, Alan. Nature and Empire in Ottoman Egypt: An Environmental History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Mocanu, Emil Octavian. Portul Brăila de la regimul de porto franco la Primul Război Mondial (1836–1914). Brăila: Ed. Istros a Muzeului Brăilei, 2012. Moon, Suzanne. Technology and Ethical Idealism: A History of Development in the Netherlands East Indies. Leiden: CNWS Publications, 2007. Morris, Christopher. The Big Muddy: An Environmental History of the Mississippi and Its Peoples from Hernando de Soto to Hurricane Katrina. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Mrgić, Jelena. “Tracking the Mapmaker: The Role of Marsigli’s Itineraries and Surveys at Karlowitz and Passarowitz.” In The Peace of Passarowitz, 1718, edited by Charles Ingrao, Nikola Samardžić, and Jovan Pešalj, 221–38. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2011. Murgescu, Bogdan. România şi Europa: Acumularea decalajelor economice, 1500–2010. Iaşi: Polirom, 2010. Murray, John. Handbook for Travellers in Southern Germany: Being a Guide to Bavaria, Austria, Tyrol, Salzburg, Styria &c., the Austrian and Bavarian Alps, and the Danube from Ulm to the Black Sea. London: John Murray and Son, 1837. Nemes, Robert. Another Hungary: The Nineteenth-Century Provinces in Eight Lives. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2016.

317

Bibl iog raphy

Netta, Gheron. Expansiunea economică a Austriei şi explorările ei orientale. Bucharest: Cartea Românească, 1930. Oakes, Augustus, ed. The Great European Treaties of the Nineteenth Century. London: Oxford University Press, 1930. Obertreis, Julia. Imperial Desert Dreams: Cotton Growing and Irrigation in Central Asia, 1860–1991. Göttingen: V&R Unipress, 2017. Oplatka, Andreas. Graf Stephan Széchenyi: Der Mann, der Ungarn schuf. Vienna: Paul Zsolnay-Verlag, 2004. Osterhammel, Jürgen. The Transformation of the World: A Global History of the Nineteenth Century. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014. Palotás, Emil. “The Problems of International Navigation on the Danube in Austro-Hungarian Politics during the Second Half of the Nineteenth Century.” In Southeast European Maritime Commerce and Naval Policies from the Mid-Eighteenth Century to 1914, edited by Apostolos E. Vacalopoulos, Constantinos D. Svolopoulos, and Béla K. Király, 99–114. New York: Columbia University Press, 1988. Pasetti, Florian Ritter von. Notizen über die Donauregulierung im österreichischen Kaiserstaate bis zu Ende des Jahres 1861. Vienna: Staatsdruckerei, 1862. Paulmann, Johannes. “The Straits of Europe: History at the Margins of a Continent.” Bulletin of the German Historical Institute Washington 52 (2013): 7–28. Penfold, Alastair. “Managerial Organization on the Caledonian Canal, 1803–1822.” In The Civil Engineering of Canals and Railways before 1850, edited by Mike Chrimes, 129–42. Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997. Pešalj, Jovan. “Making a Prosperous Peace: Habsburg Diplomacy and Economic Policy at Passarowitz.” In The Peace of Passarowitz, 1718, edited by Charles Ingrao, Nikola Samardžić, and Jovan Pešalj, 141–58. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2011. Pichler, Franz. Die Donaukommission und die Donaustaaten: Kooperation und Integration. Vienna: W. Braumüller, 1973. Popova, Irina. “Representing National Territory: Cartography and Nationalism in Hungary, 1700–1848.” In Creating the Other: Ethnic Conflict and Nationalism in Habsburg Central Europe, edited by Nancy M. Wingfield, 19–38. New York: Berghahn Books, 2003. Pozharliev, Lyubomir, Florian Riedler, and Stefan Rohdewald. “Introduction to the Special Issue: Transottoman Infrastructures and Networks across the Black Sea.” Journal of Balkan and Black Sea Studies 3, no. 5 (2020): 13–18. Pritchard, Sara B. Confluence: The Nature of Technology and the Remaking of the Rhône. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011. ———. “From Hydroimperialism to Hydrocapitalism: ‘French’ Hydraulics in France, North Africa, and Beyond.” Social Studies of Science 42, no. 4 (2012): 591–615. Pritchard, Sara B. “Toward an Environmental History of Technology.” In The Oxford Handbook of Environmental History, edited by Andrew C. Isenberg, 227–58. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014. Radkau, Joachim. Nature and Power: A Global History of the Environment. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008.

318

Bibl iog raphy

Raj, Kapil. Relocating Modern Science: Circulation and the Construction of Knowledge in South Asia and Europe, 1650–1900. Houndsmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007. Rauchensteiner, Manfred. “Austro-Hungarian Warships on the Danube: From the Beginning of the Nineteenth Century to World War I.” In Southeast European Maritime Commerce and Naval Policies from the Mid-Eighteenth Century to 1914, edited by Apostolos E. Vacalopoulos, Constantinos D. Svolopoulos and Béla K. Király, 153–76. Highland Lakes: Atlantic Research and Publications, 1988. Ravesteijn, Wim. “Between Globalization and Localization: The Case of Dutch Civil Engineering in Indonesia, 1800–1950.” Comparative Technology Transfer and Society 5, no. 1 (2007): 32–64. Reinalda, Bob. “The Relevance of International River Commissions: The Danube Commission of 1856.” In Routledge History of International Organizations: From 1815 to the Present Day, ed. Bob Reinalda, 107–11. London: Routledge, 2009. Reuss, Martin. “Seeing Like an Engineer: Water Projects and the Mediation of the Incommensurable.” Technology and Culture 49, no. 3 (July 2008): 531–46. Richardson, Tanja. “Objecting (to) Infrastructure: Ecopolitics at the Ukrainian Ends of the Danube.” Science as Culture 25, no. 1 (2016): 60–95. Rieber, Alfred J. “The Comparative Ecology of Complex Frontiers.” In Imperial Rule, edited by Alexei Miller and Alfred J. Rieber, 177–207. Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2005. ———. The Struggle for the Eurasian Borderlands: From the Rise of Early Modern Empires to the End of the First World War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Riedler, Florian. “Integrating the Danube into Modern Networks of Infrastructure: The Ottoman Contribution.” Journal of Balkan and Black Sea Studies 3, no. 5 (2020): 97–120. Robarts, Andrew. Migration and Disease in the Black Sea Region: Ottoman-Russian Relations in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017. Rodogno, Davide. Against Massacre: Humanitarian Interventions in the Ottoman Empire, 1815–1914. Princeton and New York: Princeton University Press, 2012. Rodogno, Davide, Bernhard Struck, and Jakob Vogel. “Introduction.” In Shaping the Transnational Sphere: Experts, Networks and Issues from the 1840s to the 1930s, edited by Davide Rodogno, Bernhard Struck, and Jakob Vogel, 1–20. New York: Berghahn Books, 2015. Roider, Karl A. Austria’s Eastern Question, 1700–1790. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982. Rothschild, Emma. “The Archives of Universal History.” Journal of World History 19, no. 3 (2008): 375–401. Samardžić, Nikola. “The Peace of Passarowitz, 1718: An Introduction.” In The Peace of Passarowitz, 1718, edited by Charles Ingrao, Nikola Samardžić, and Jovan Pešalj, 9–37. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2011. Sauer, Manfred. “Österreich und die Sulina-Frage, 1829–1854, Erster Teil.” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchiv 40 (1987): 185–236. ———. “Österreich und die Sulina-Frage, 1829–1854, Zweiter Teil.” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchiv, 41 (1990): 72–137.

319

Bibl iog raphy

Schenk, Frithjof Benjamin. “Mental Maps: Die Konstruktion von geographischen Räumen in Europa seit der Aufklärung.” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 28, no. 3 (2002): 493–514. Schilling, Lothar, and Jakob Vogel. “State-Related Knowledge: Conceptual Reflections on the Rise of the Modern State.” In Transnational Cultures of Expertise: Circulating State-Related Knowledge in the 18th and 19th Centuries, edited by Lothar Schilling and Jakob Vogel, 1–17. Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, 2019. Schott, Dieter. “Remodeling ‘Father Rhine’: The Case of Mannheim, 1825–1914.” In Water, Culture, and Politics in Germany and the American West, edited by Susan C. Anderson, 203–25. New York: P. Lang, 2001. Schulz, Matthias. “Cultures of Peace and Security from the Vienna Congress to the TwentyFirst Century: Characteristics and Dilemmas.” In Securing Europe After Napoleon: 1815 and the New European Security Culture, edited by Beatrice de Graaf, Ido de Haan, and Brian Vick, 21–39. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019. ———. Normen und Praxis: Das Europäische Konzert der Großmächte als Sicherheitsrat, 1815– 1860. Munich: Oldenbourg Wissenschaftsverlag, 2009. Scott, James C. Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998. Šedivý, Miroslav. “From Hostility to Cooperation? Austria, Russia and the Danubian Principalities, 1829–40.” The Slavonic and East European Review 89, no. 4 (2011): 630–61. ———. Metternich: The Great Powers and the Eastern Question. Pilsen: University of West Bohemia, 2013. Sheriff, Carol. The Artificial River: The Erie Canal and the Paradox of Progress, 1817–1862. New York: Hill and Wang, 1996. Sked, Alen. The Decline and Fall of the Habsburg Empire, 1815–1918. London: Longman, 1989. Sluga, Glenda. “Editorial: The Transnational History of International Institutions.” Journal of Global History 6, no. 2 (July 2011): 219–22. Smith, Vanessa. “Joseph Banks’s Intermediaries: Rethinking Global Cultural Exchange.” In Global Intellectual History, edited by Samuel Moyn and Andrew Sartori, 81–109. New York: Columbia University Press, 2013. Sozaev, Eduard, and John Tredrea. Russian Warships in the Age of Sail, 1696–1860. Design, Construction, Careers and Fates. Barnsley: Seaforth. 2010. Spaulding, Robert Mark. “Anarchy, Hegemony, Cooperation: International Control of the Rhine River, 1789–1848.” In Zentralkommission für die Rheinschifffahrt, https://www.ccrzkr.org/11010200-de.html (accessed on May 21, 2019). ———. “Institutional Antecedents of European Integration.” In Zentralkommission für die Rheinschifffahrt, https://www.ccr-zkr.org/11010200-de.html (accessed on May 21, 2019). ———. “Revolutionary France and the Transformation of the Rhine.” Central European History 44, no. 2 (2011): 203–26. Stafford, Robert A. “Scientific Exploration and Empire.” In The Oxford History of the British Empire, vol. 3, The Nineteenth Century, edited by Andrew Porter, 294–319. London: Oxford University Press, 1999. Štanzel, Arnošt. Wasserträume und Wasserräume im Staatssozialismus: Ein umwelthistorischer

320

Bibl iog raphy

Vergleich anhand der tschechoslowakischen und rumänischen Wasserwirtschaft, 1948–1989. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2017. Stoianovich, Traian. “The Conquering Balkan Orthodox Merchant.” Journal of Economic History 20, no. 2 (June 1960): 234–313. Stoye, John. Marsigli’s Europe, 1680–1730: The Life and Times of Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, Soldier and Virtuoso. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Taki, Victor. “Between Polizeistaat and Cordon Sanitaire: Epidemics and Police Reform during the Russian Occupation of Moldavia and Wallachia, 1828–1834.” Ab Imperio 9, no. 4 (2008): 75–112. ———. Russia on the Danube: Empire, Elites, and Reform in Moldavia and Wallachia, 1812– 1834. Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2021. ———. Tsar and Sultan: Russian Encounters with the Ottoman Empire. London: I.B. Tauris, 2016. Thiemeyer, Guido. “Die Integration der Donau-Schifffahrt als Problem der europäischen Zeitgeschichte.” Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 49 (2009): 303–18. Thiemeyer, Guido, and Isabel Tölle. “Supranationalität im 19. Jahrhundert? Die Beispiele der Zentralkommission für die Rheinschifffahrt und des Octroivertrages 1804–1832.” Journal of European Integration History 17, no. 2 (2011): 177–96. Thomas, Martin. “What is an Expedition? An Introduction.” In Expedition into Empire: Exploratory Journeys and the Making of the Modern World, edited by Martin Thomas, 1–24. London: Routledge, 2015. Todd, David. Free Trade and its Enemies in France, 1814–1851. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2015. Tomuleţ, Valentin. Basarabia în sistemul economic și politic al Imperiului Rus, 1812–1868: studii. Chişinău: Cartdidact, 2012. Török, Zsolt Győző. “Revising, Rectifying and Regulating the Danube: Cartographic Reconstructions of the River and the History of Maps of South-Eastern Europe in the Sixteenth to Eighteenth Century.” In Dissemination of Cartographic Knowledge: 6th International Symposium of the ICA Commission on the History of Cartography, edited by Mirela Altic et al., 193–209. Cham: Springer, 2016. Tvedt, Terje, and Eva Jakobsson, eds. A History of Water. Series 1, vol 1, Water Control and River Biographies. London: I.B. Tauris, 2006. Tvedt, Terje, Owen McIntyre, and Tadesse Kassa Woldetsadik. “Sovereignty, the Web of Water and the Myth of Westphalia.” In A History of Water, Series 3, vol. 2, Sovereignty and International Water Law, edited by Terje Tvedt, Owen McIntyre, and Tadesse Kassa Woldetsadik, 3–26. London: I.B. Tauris, 2015. Veres, Madalina Valeria. “Putting Transylvania on the Map: Cartography and Enlightened Absolutism in the Habsburg Monarchy.” Austrian History Yearbook 43 (2012): 141–164. ———. Constructing Imperial Spaces: Habsburg Cartography in the Age of Enlightenment. Unpublished dissertation, University of Pittsburgh, 2010. Vermes, Gábor. Hungarian Culture and Politics in the Habsburg Monarchy, 1711–1848. Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2014.

321

Bibl iog raphy

Vleuten, Erik van der, Irene Anastasiadou, Vincent Langendijk, and Frank Schipper. “Europe’s System Builders: The Contested Shaping of Transnational Road, Electricity and Rail Networks.” Contemporary European History 16, no. 3 (August 2007): 321–47. Vleuten, Erik van der, and Arne Kaijser. “Networking Europe.” History and Technology 21, no. 1 (March 2005): 21–48. Wakounig, Marija. “Dissens versus Konsens: Das Österreichbild in Rußland während der Franzsiko-Josephinischen Ära.” In Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, vol. 6, Die Habsburgermonarchie im System der internationalen Beziehungen, edited by Adam Wandruszka and Peter Urbanitsch, 436–90. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1993. Weber-Krohse, Otto. Hans Lothar von Schweinitz: Der Botschafter Wilhelms des Ersten als Charakter und Staatsmann. Hann. Münden: Klugkist, 1937. Weithmann, Michael W. Die Donau: Geschichte eines europäischen Flusses. Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2012. White, Richard. The Organic Machine: The Remaking of the Columbia River. New York: Hill and Wang, 1996. Wohl, Ellen. A World of Rivers: Environmental Change on Ten of the World’s Great Rivers. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2011. Wolf, Josef. “Von der Innen- und Binnengrenze zur Außengrenze. Die Kartographie des Banater Abschnitts der Donau 1690–1740.” In Die Donau und ihre Grenzen: Literarische und filmische Einblicke in den Donauraum, edited by Olivia Spiridon, 163–201, Bielefeld, Transcript Verlag, 2019. Wolff, Larry. Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994. Worster, Donald. Rivers of Empire: Water, Aridity, and the Growth of the American West. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992. Yao, Joanne. “‘Conquest from Barbarism’: The Danube Commission, International Order and the Control of Nature as a Standard of Civilization.” European Journal of International Relations 25, no. 2 (2019): 335–59.

Website content Linsboth, Christina. “The Danube Flows in the Wrong Direction: Waterways as a Form of Transport with Obstacles.” The World of the Habsburgs. Accessed January 21, 2019, http://www.habsburger.net/en/chapter/danube-flows-wrong-direction-waterways-formtransport-obstacles. “Danube Region Strategy.” Accessed July 2, 2022, https://danube-region.eu.

322

I n de x

Banat, 34, 48, 72, 87, 133, 137 Banffy, Dezső, 275 Banhans, Anton, 249–51 Barkley, John Trevor, 123 Barrère, Camille, 215–16 Bauer, Friedrich Wilhelm von, 68–76 Becke, Karl Franz von, 173–76, 185, 188, 192–94 Belgrade, 34–35, 40, 43, 47, 63, 208, 287 bend, 5–6, 21, 223–29, 256, 296 Berlin, congress of (1878), 116, 211, 258, 269, 290 Bessarabia, 54, 67, 72, 73, 77 Beust, Friedrich Ferdinand von, 203, 205, 208 Bingen, 92–93, 101, 265, 269 Birago, Karl von, 119–20 Bischoffheim and Goldschmidt bank, 203, 217 Bitter, Karl Hermann, 129–30, 158, 186–89 Black Sea, 300–301; as a closed sea, 27–28, 35–37; description of, 43–44, 50, 52–63, 82; ECD policy in, 129, 143–44, 181, 232, 239, 292; Habsburg navigation to the Black Sea, 2, 5, 20, 26, 33, 46, 64–65, 79, 84, 88, 96, 104, 108, 111–12, 125–26, 246– 47, 252, 264, 273; land connection from the Danube to, 118–24, 140; mapping of, 30, 71; piers into, 163, 166, 168, 219;

Additional Act to the Public Act (1881), 211–13 Adrianople, treaty of, 20, 67, 72, 76–77, 82–84, 89, 98–100, 111, 116, 125–27 Adriatic, 33, 36, 62–64 agency, 8, 18, 164, 167 Alexander I of Serbia, 274–75 Ali Pasha, Mehmed Emin, 196, 208 Andersen, Hans Christian, 120, 122 Andrássy, Gyula (Julius), 249–54 Apponyi, Rudolf, 148, 192, 207 Arendt, Johannes, 211 asymmetric power relations, 12, 293 Aulic Council. See Austrian Imperial War Council Austria-Hungary, as a Great Power, 205– 7, 209–10: decisions in the ECD, 215– 16, 226, 231; policy towards the Lower Danube, 263; regulation of the Iron Gates, 272, 274–75, 282, 287. See also Dual Empire; Habsburg Monarchy Austrian Empire, 35, 61, 76, 78. See also Habsburg Monarchy Austrian Imperial War Council (Hofkriegsrat), 32, 50–51, 54, 102 Austrian Lloyd, 112, 124 backward, 11, 30, 68, 97, 108, 110, 121, 173, 177 Balkans, 36–39, 64, 111, 123

323

I ndex

Russian policy towards, 66–67, 75–76, 113, 199, 205–9 blasting, 88, 92–94, 100–105, 133–34, 137, 177, 243–43, 253, 256–57, 269–70, 273 Blumfeld, Franz Seraphin, 146 Bodoki, Ludwig, 248–49, 251, 253, 255, 259– 60, 262 Boleslawski, Carl von, 225–27 border region, 28, 34, 83, 138, 285. See also imperial borderland Borhek, Viktorin von, 231 Brăila, 207, 216; free port of, 76, 82, 111–12; merchants in, 114. See also Ibraila bridge-building battalion (Pontonierbatallion), 46, 53 British Empire, 2, 112, 177, 199, 206–7, 235, 294. See also Great Britain Brognard, Wenzel von, 58–60 Bruck, Karl Ludwig, 173 Bucharest, 42, 208, 212, 287 Bulgaria, 31, 215–16, 211 bureaucrats, 8, 169–70, 179, 196 Bylandt-Rheydt, Artur Maximilian von, 265

connectivity, 108, 111, 126, 131, 179, 289, 293 conquest, 20, 26, 29, 31, 34, 108 Constanţa, 209. See also Kustendje Constantinople, connection over Dobrudja, 120–23; establishing a shipping connection to, 33, 38–39, 43, 45–46, 48, 50–54, 57–60, 79; grain export to, 27; Habsburg negotiations with, 98–100; steamboat connection to, 20, 81, 83–84, 88, 97–98, 103–10, 245, 295; Orthodox merchants in, 63–64; sanitary authorities in, 153, 197–98 constraints, 7, 15, 18–19, 21, 37, 179, 200, 219, 235, 297 consulates, 20, 38, 113, 191 cordon sanitaire, 33, 73–75, 78 Cowley, Lord of, 147, 200 Crimea, 39–40; 43–44, 67; Crimean Khanate, 42 Crimean Peninsula. See Crimea Crimean War, internationalization after, 4, 9, 14, 21, 123, 181–82, 187, 192, 200, 204–5, 230, 235, 293, 297; settlement after, 129–30, 149–51, 157; the Danube during, 120, 124–27, 136–37, 138–40, 177–79, 289, 292 Cunningham, Charles, 115 customs duty, 1, 10, 42–43, 56, 165, 151, 175, 280–81 Cuza, Alexandru Ioan, 175–76

Carol I of Romania, 228, 275 cartography, 30 Cassian, Martin von, 138, 242–48, 251, 256, 262, 268 Central Commission for the Navigation of the Rhine, 142–43, 182, 280 Central Europe, 5, 28, 88, 111, 173, 247 Cernavoda, 118–23, 140, 209 civilization, 182–83, 228–29; European, 11, 72, 78, 173–75 civilizing mission, 13, 29, 67–68, 78 Clarendon, Earl of, 117, 148–49, 185 commerce, 52, 61, 65, 79, 117, 142, 151, 173, 182, 198, 225, 243–46 competition, 14, 23, 76, 79, 151, 246, 281 Concert of Europe, 3, 6, 87, 130–31, 144, 155, 183, 234, 293. See also European Great Powers

D’Aste Ricci, Alessandro, 159 Danube Association (Donauverein), 260–62 Danube Delta, environment of, 52; circumventing the, 118; map of, 55, 71, 139–41; regulation in, 156–61, 218, 264; under Romanian rule, 209, 211; under Russian rule, 39, 67, 72, 75, 82, 116; under the rule of the ECD, 137, 143–44, 169, 179, 182, 189, 192–96 Danube Navigation Act (Donauschiff­ fahrtsakte), 144, 147, 149, 189

324

I ndex

Danubian Principalities, 20, 80, 113, 117, 154, 291; autonomy, 100, 131; Habsburg occupation of, 130–31, 138; Russian occupation of, 66–68, 72. See also Wallachia and Moldovia Davoud-Oghlou, Garabed Artin, 146, 151 Dobrudja, 10, 118, 121, 124, 139, 141, 209 doings, 18–19, 23, 168, 219–20 downstream, 38, 42, 47–51, 63, 81, 90, 95–96, 103, 111, 120, 126, 145, 240, 242, 259, 265, 267, 281, 282, 283 dredging, 94, 115–18, 139, 154, 164, 222 Drencova, 103, 109 Dual Monarchy, 257, 262, 278, 290. See also Habsburg Monarchy; Austria-Hungary dyke, 224

Hungarian, 22, 300; Russian, 38, 67, 72, 112, 129–31, 205 expertise, 6; cross-imperial, 15, 21, 157, 239, 247; different forms of, 164, 251, 295, 298; lacking, 123, 160; production of, 16, 65, 83, 93; technical, 13–14, 120, 170–71, 289. See also experts; knowledge experts, 5, 16, 233; cooperation civil and military, 132, 136–38; civil, 102, 261–66; foreign, 17, 140, 258–60, 266; military, 87, 257; river, 23, 45, 65–66; technical experts at the Iron Gates, 242, 247, 251, 254, 268–69, 274, 282–85; ties to political stakeholders, 93, 126; working in international settings, 7–8, 161, 168–71, 226, 256, 298–300 exploration, 26, 29–31, 45, 81; at the Iron Gates, 94, 99–100, 104, 131–34, 136–37, 250, 271, 273

Eastern Question, 3, 30, 153, 206, 294 Elbe, 143, 162, 264, 283 Engelhardt, Edouard, 193, 197 entrepreneurs, 2, 4–6, 19–20, 38–39, 139, 296; in Galatz and Brăila, 115, 126; support from the Habsburg state, 46, 61, 82, 84, 86, 123. See also merchants environment, 7, 18–19, 21, 52, 168, 179, 221, 223, 232–33, 299 epistemic community, 169–71 Erichsen, Peter, 122–23 erosion, 18, 59, 221, 285, 298 European Commission of the Danube (ECD), 4, 9, 13, 21, 143–44, 292–94, 296–97; engineering supervised by, 154– 64, 217–33; engineers working for, 169– 70, 179; festivities of, 171–76; Great Powers in, 13–14, 154–55, 200–203; jurisdiction over the delta, 145, 181–200, 204– 16, 233–35 European Great Powers, 11–12, 21–22, 27, 143, 153, 160, 165, 174–74, 178–79, 197, 275, 292–93 expansionism, 2, 6, 27–28, 77–78, 126, 173, 238, 291, 293; Habsburg, 31, 33;

Ferdinand Karl von Österreich-Este, 89–90 firman, 35, 40, 98 First Austrian Steam Navigation Company (DDSG), 20, 81, 238–40, 260–62, 288, 296; administration of 115–16; land route over Dobrudja, 120–23; monopoly of 84–86; navigation over the Iron Gates, 102–5, 110–11, 125, 132–38, 220, 242–57, 283; ships of, 94, 100, 116; tariffs at the Iron Gates, 278–81 First World War, 21, 229, 283, 299 France, 61, 93–94, 147, 170, 203–4, 212, 258, 282, 300. See also French Empire Franz Joseph I, 275 free movement of ships, 83, 216. See also free navigation free navigation, 3–4, 21, 67, 184, 212, 238, 293; principle of, 131, 142, 147, 151, 264, 279 free trade, 10–11, 13, 173–79, 182, 199, 211, 229, 235; agreement, 293; imperialism, 292; policies, 2, 6, 13, 280; principle of, 264, 279

325

I ndex

French Empire, 118, 125, 130, 216 Friedenthal, Felix Pino von, 267 Fuad Pasha, Mehmed, 147, 153

project, 162–71; straightening of the Sulina branch, 223–33 Heppe, Johann Matthäus, 38, 47 Herbert, Peter Philipp, 45–48, 58 Herbette, Jules, 211, 214 Hospotzky, Alois, 269, 282 Huber, Christian Wilhelm, 113, 115, 117 Hübner, Alexander von, 147, 161 Hungary, 31, 61, 87–88; involvement at the Iron Gates, 258, 263, 276–79, 284–87; map of, 34. See also Austria-Hungary Hungarian Association of Engineers, 274 Hungarian River and Sea Shipping Company, 281 Hussein Pasha of Vidin, 99–100 hydroimperialism, 13, 99, 126

Galatz (Galați), 42, 52, 61, 64, 189, 209; free port of, 76, 82, 111–12; merchants in, 114; steamboat connection to, 103, 121. See also European Danube Commission (EDC) Germany, 19, 108, 213, 258, 282, 300 Gonda, Béla, 269, 272, 274, 282 gorge, 5, 48–49, 55, 88, 93, 95, 102–4, 106, 109, 207, 240, 289–90. See also Iron Gates grain export, 20, 174, 199, 229, 282. See also grain trade grain trade, 113–14. See also grain export Granville, Lord of, 205 Great Britain, 203, 205, 212, 291 Greben, 90, 94, 248, 270, 272–73, 284–85

Ibraila (Brăila), 42, 52. See also Brăila imperial borderland, 10, 295. See also ­border region imperialism, 2, 6, 10, 12, 179, 290, 291–94, 299–300 infectious disease, 33, 197 infrastructure, access to, 285–88; as public works, 261; building river, 13–15, 17, 19, 22–23, 101, 172, 177, 233; contested, 238– 39, 275–76, 278–79; extension of nature, 168; on international rivers, 5, 7, 9, 18, 56, 295–99; river as, 184, 234; shipping, 45, 62, 65, 122, 165, 253 International Commission of the Danube (ICD), 299 international cooperation, among Great Powers; 8, 13; deterring, 22, 287; forging 95, 295, 299–300; inside river commissions, 6, 9–10, 19, 178, 200 International Health Council (IHC), 212–14 International Technical Commission in Paris (1858), 161–62, 170 internationalization, 3–6, 10, 22, 180, 183, 199, 219, 234–35, 290

Habsburg Empire, 31, 110, 130–31, 154, 206, 208, 290. See also Austrian Empire; Dual Monarchy; Austria-Hungary; Habsburg Monarchy Habsburg Monarchy, 1, 6, 12, 20–22, 86, 294–95; policy towards the Lower Danube, 28, 34–35, 38, 52, 54, 60, 62–65, 108, 115, 126, 152–53, 264; policy towards the Iron Gates, 210, 239, 245–46, 251, 254, 257–58, 275–76, 289–90; steam navigation on the Danube, 82, 102, 111, 223; travelers from, 107; decisions in the EDC, 173, 198, 206–7. See also Austrian Empire; Dual Monarchy; Austria-Hungary; Habsburg Empire Habsburg-Ottoman border, 2, 22, 25, 32, 37–38, 127, 138, 294 Hagemeister, Julius, 76–77 Hartley, Charles, chief engineer of the ECD, 155–59, 179–80, 193, 195, 200, 204, 297– 98; consolidation works, 217–23; inauguration piers project, 171–76; provisional

326

I ndex

Iron Gates, 6, 9, 20; actual Iron Gate, 40, 241–43, 248–49, 252, 266, 268, 270–72; border at, 29, 74, 95–99, 130, 154; cataracts of, 20, 64; crossing the, 25, 41–42, 47–48, 81, 85–89, 106–11; survey of, 32, 49–50, 91, 132–38, 177; infrastructure at, 13, 277–88; internationalization of, 131, 153, 209, 215–16, 295–97, 300; regulation of, 18, 21–22, 92–94, 100–105, 125– 27, 206–8, 210, 238–76, 289–90. See also stone barrier; stone blockage; Iron Gates Canal Iron Gates Canal, 277–80, 282, 284–85, 290, 294 Izlas, 94, 256 Izmail (Ismail), 42, 66, 76, 77, 113, 225

Küçük Kaynarca, treaty of, 36, 67 Kühl, Charles, 221–23, 226–30, 232, 235, 298 Kustendje (Constanţa), 118–23, 140 Lahovary, Alexandru, 279–80 Lauterer, Georg Ludwig, 46–56, 58–60 left bank of the Danube, 42, 95, 116, 134, 157, 210, 215 Lesser Wallachia, 35 Leti, 116 Levant, 37, 192 local conditions, 7, 17, 21, 119, 297 locks, 18, 101, 237, 249, 259–60, 263–66, 282 Lodygenski, Nicolai de, 230 Logothetti, Hugo, 228 Luther, Gerhard, 237, 270, 271, 272, 274 Luther, Hugo, 270, 287

Joseph II of Austria, 37, 53, 57 Joseph of Austria (Palatine of Hungary), 84, 86, 95, 98, 100, 102, 274

Mainz, treaty of (Mainzer Akte), 142, 147 Malmesbury, Lord of, 160, 162 Mannheim, treaty of (Mannheimer Akte), 142 mapmaking /mapping, 26, 30–32, 56, 60, 74–75, 80, 99, 139 Maria Theresa of Austria, 37–38, 89 Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando, 31–34 McAlpine, William Jarvis, 246–48, 256, 259 mediators, 7, 122, 193, 235 Mediterranean, 62, 64, 112, 197, 247, 264, 273 merchants; Austrian, 35, 53–56, 58, 61–62; Greek, 36–37, 63–65; foreign merchants in Galatz, 111, 113–15, 126, 293; on the Lower Danube, 43–44, 79; Russian, 51 Metternich, Wenzel Lothar von, 85–88, 97–100, 201 Meusburger, Josef, 132–35, 260 Middle Danube, 64, 84, 85, 103, 108, 244, 282, 289 Mijatović, Čedomilj, 181, 208 military confrontation, 17, 20, 27, 29, 37, 116, 132

Karlowitz, treaty of, 31–32, 66 Kaunitz, Wenzel Anton von, 45 Kazan, 109, 249 Kemény, Gábor (Gabriel), 266–67 Kherson, 51, 53–57, 67 Kilia, 42, 54, 66 Kilia branch, 52, 112; regulation of, 155–57, 225; Russia on, 210, 213–16 Kladovo, 49 Kleemann, Nikolaus Ernst, 25, 39–47, 50–52, 59, 65 knowledge, 5–7, 15–17, 19–20; adapting, 21, 218; asymmetrical, 13, 29–31, 293; crossimperial, 9, 26, 88, 94, 120, 138, 141, 169, 219, 289, 295; local, 44, 110, 132, 163, 230, 298; practical, 93, 160, 244, 296; production, 32, 34, 38, 45, 47, 65, 78, 88, 177; repository of, 55–56, 75–77, 220, 274; scientific, 48, 60, 69, 136, 164–65, 297. See also expertise Kremer, Alfred von, 201

327

I ndex

Mixed Commission, 123, 215–16, 235, 284 modernity, 108, 110, 301 modernization, 10, 209, 238–39 Moldavia, 2, 12, 59, 111, 154, 157; autonomy, 144, 146; target of Russian expansionism, 47, 70–77; union with Wallachia, 174–75. See also Danubian Principalities Moldova Veche, 88, 102, 249, 263, 266 Moltke, Helmuth von, 118–19 mouth of the Danube. See Danube Delta; Sulina Mugel Bey, 248 Müller, Johan Cristian, 33–34

95, 248; dangerous passage, 36–42, 81; pontoon bridge at, 32; quarantine at 73; station of the DDSG, 103, 106, 109, 138, 242–43; water level at, 133, 243, 250 Ottoman border, 2, 22, 27, 32, 37, 38, 90, 127, 138, 294 Ottoman Empire, 30; as part of the ECD, 22, 144, 163, 172, 183, 185–88, 195– 96, 199, 212; commercial relations with, 35–38, 40, 46, 57; Danubian Principalities as part of, 71, 77, 104, 146–47, 174; margins of, 5, 14, 66–67, 89, 198, 206, 294; relationship with the Great Powers, 4, 11–12, 27, 127, 130, 149–53, 178, 246, 290; Russian expansionism towards, 82, 129, 77, 205, 207–8; steam navigation to, 110– 11. See also Porte

nature, 62; agency of, 18, 164–65, 180, 221, 223, 297; interacting with technology, 19, 219–20, 298; mastery over, 13, 17–18, 92, 109, 155, 231 Navigation Regulation between the Iron Gates and Galatz, 185, 215–16 neutrality of the Black Sea, 205–7 New Russia, 76 Nobiling, Eduard Adolph, 92, 137, 155–59, 223–24 non-riparian states (Danube), 3–4; conflict with riparian states, 126, 152–53, 178, 292–93; cooperation with riparian states, 14, 142–43, 215, 300; uneven power relation with riparian states, 21, 137–38, 208, 234

Palmerston, Lord of, 117 Paris Peace Conference (1856), 127–31, 141, 143, 147–55, 160–61, 176–77, 182–86, 195–96, 200–202, 204–7, 264, 292 Passarowitz, treaty of, 34–35, 38, 56 Pencovici, Eustache, 211–13 physical barrier, 21, 44, 64, 83, 125, 154, 296 Pidoll, Karl von, 102 piers, 162, 226, 296; at Sulina, 21, 116, 159; consolidation of, 217–23, 232–33; construction of, 163–71, 179–80, 298; inauguration of, 175, 193. See also Charles Hartley planning, 15, 23, 42, 101, 109, 120, 133, 225, 287–89, 295, 299 Porte, 98–100, 146, 196 Prenninger, Carl, 261 Prokesch-Osten, Anton von, 153, 196 Prussia, 37–38, 129, 147, 165, 226 Pruth, 50–51, 66, 73 Public Act (1865), 182, 191–200, 204, 210– 11, 215, 217, 234 quarantine, 21, 33, 72–77, 83, 113, 116, 121, 125, 152–53, 199

Occident, 2, 88, 107–8, 253 Odessa, 76–77, 83, 199 Omer Fevzi Pasha, 186–90, 195–96 Orient, learning about, 38, 43–46; link to Occident, 2, 28, 88, 107–9, 247, 254; trade to, 60–63, 123, 132, 239, 241, 263 Oriental Academy (Orientalische Akademie), 38, 45–46 Orsova (Orșova), 27, 47, 48, 74, 134, 247, 253–54, 272, 276, 279; border town of, 90,

328

I ndex

railway, 122–23, 209, 253, 261, 270–71, 283

Russian Empire, 4, 20, 26, 99, 210; access to the Black Sea, 36; expansionism, 27–29, 203–5, 291; Kilia branch, 209, 213; occupation of the delta, 14, 39, 111–12, 116, 124; state-building on the Danube, 68–79; strategic reorientation, 4, 25; war against the Ottoman Empire, 61, 66; retreat from the Danube, 130, 144. See also Russia Russo-Turkish wars, 66–68, 74, 82 Rustchuk (Ruse), 33, 42, 46–52

Rashid Pasha, Mehmed, 172, 176 Rhine, 38, 141, 283; cooperation on, 178, 182; free navigation, 3–4, 142–47; regulation, 92–94, 101, 156–58, 169, 265, 269. See also Central Commission for the Navigation of the Rhine Rhône, 94, 162, 169, 259, 283 right bank of the Danube, 32, 69, 77–78, 135, 241 Riparian Danube Commission (RDC), 4, 21, 144 riparian-states (Danube), 4, 12–14, 131, 155, 235; conflicts with non-riparian states, 21, 206; cooperation among, 141–43, 245, 248, 275, 279–80; sovereignty of, 215–16, 287. See also Riparian Danube Commission (RDC); Riverine Commission rivalry, 77, 173 river commissions, 5, 8–9, 12, 21, 141, 143, 176, 178, 187, 198, 292 river correction, 19, 92, 230–31, 299 river police, 144, 189–92, 196 river regulation, 5, 8, 14–16, 296, 298; at the Iron Gates, 93, 125, 206, 237, 282, 285–86 Riverine Commission, 22, 137–38, 140– 54, 184–85, 188–89, 194, 198, 200–201, 206, 209–10, 216, 292. See also Riparian Danube Commission (RDC) Romanenko, Alexander, 214 Romania, 22, 175, 300; independence, 146, 209, 275; member of the EDC, 12, 216, 228–29, 294 Romanian Steam Navigation Company, 281 Ruse. See Rustchuk Russell, John, 192 Russia, 199, 206, 208; occupation of the delta, 99, 116; status of the Danube, 82, 125; war against the Ottoman Empire, 26, 66, 67, 77. See also Russian Empire

Saint-Pierre, Jules Alexander Aloyse de, 171 sand bar, 5–6, 126 sandbanks, 41, 50–54, 82, 90, 112, 124, 129, 156, 167, 221, 222, 225 Sardinia, 143, 147, 149, 159, 161, 170, 188 scientists, 6, 20, 30, 92, 120, 140 Semlin. See Zemun Serbia, 5, 22, 129, 135, 250, 270, 272, 284, 286; hostile attitude, 257–58; independence of, 275: international status, 98; vassal state, 104, 208 Serbian Steam Navigation Company, 281 shallow spot, 1, 5, 49, 90, 256, 259, 284 shipping traffic on the Danube, 43, 47–48, 83, 133, 142; as a goal, 5, 144, 182; growing, 112, 134, 282, 292; improving, 239– 41, 276, 283; on hold, 2, 21, 56, 129; opening for 20; organized by the EDC, 183, 190, 134 Siborne, Herbert, 215 silting, 18, 20–21, 59, 113–17, 122, 131, 157, 164–65, 182, 296 Skela Cladova, 103 sovereignty, 3, 11, 28, 125, 151, 153, 176, 186, 195, 198, 211–15, 229, 287, 292 Spratt, Thomas, 140–41, 155, 157 St. George branch, 112, 123–24, 139–40, 155–63, 168, 170, 204, 224, 226, 232 St. Lawrence river, 269 Stanley, Edward, 203

329

I ndex

state-building, 20, 29, 34, 169, 238, 266, 288–91 steam power, 116, 164 Stenka (cataract), 105 Stokes, John, 158–63, 165, 170–71, 181, 185, 191–93, 205 stone barrier, 5, 14, 85, 93, 103, 227, 237, 238, 244, 247, 262 stone blockage, 26, 126, 133, 237, 276, 288 storms, 17–18, 163, 166, 217–20, 298 strong currents, 17, 88, 112, 269, 274 Sturdza, Dimitrie A., 214, 229 Suess, Eduard, 262 Suez Canal, 11, 198, 221, 247, 294 Sulina (bar), 21, 163–67, 173, 190, 201, 217– 18, 223, 239, 292 Sulina branch, 54–55, 156, 167–68, 222–27, 231, 233 Sulina port, 188, 195 Széchenyi, István (Stephan), 1–2, 86–88, 93–103, 108–9, 126–27, 295

transport artery, 63 Transylvania, 31–33, 50–51, 72, 139, 166 travel literature, 41, 106 traveler, 46; European (Western), 25, 88, 104; Habsburg, 51, 59–60, 64; on a steamboat, 104, 106–11, 121–22, 125, 253 Trieste, 36, 43–46, 63, 64, 112, 115 Turnu Severin (Turn-Severin), 249, 253–54, 263, 266, 279 Ulm, 144, 299 uncivilized territories, 30, 107 uneven power relations, 14, 174 unload, 59, 64, 112–13, 115, 121, 124, 280 upstream, 200, 209, 224–25; interrupted steam connection, travel, 2, 48; ships not returning, 54, 63, 103–5; towing, 37–38, 64–65, 91, 267, 281–83, 289; Rhine, 142, 145 Urquhart, David, 119 Vane, Charles, Third Marquess of Londonderry, 81 Vásárhelyi, Pál (Paul), 87, 91–95, 100–104, 109, 126, 132, 180, 238, 260, 295, 297 Vidin, 36, 88, 95, 99–100, 106 Vienna; stretch from Vienna, steamboat connection, 20, 26 Vienna, Congress of, 3–4, 142 Vincke Olbendorf, Karl von, 118–19 Vorontsov, Mikhail Semyonovich, 76

Taaffe, Eduard von, 268 Tahtalija, 94, 256 tariff, 10, 43–44, 141–45, 173–78, 195, 252, 278–80, 286 technical artifacts, 18–19, 219 technical cooperation, 21–22, 178 technical superiority, 13 technocrats, 19 technology, 7, 15, 86, 191; interaction with nature, 19, 298; shipping, 23, 122, 265; steam, 2, 63, 83, 97 Tegetthof, Wilhelm von, 139 Temesvár (Timișoara), 34, 90, 254 territorial power, 3, 27, 177, 179, 183–85, 195, 199, 211–13, 230, 234 Thugut, Franz Maria von, 38 Toggenburg, Georg von, 146, 161, 185 tourist, 110, 137. See also traveler trading routes, 33, 35, 61 transnational, 6–8, 100, 169, 170, 178

Wallachia, 2, 12, 28, 34, 42; after the Treaty of Adrianople, 98; negotiations with 250; tensions with the Ottoman Empire, 104, 135; target of imperialism, 67; travelling to 48, 50; triangulation of, 139; union with Moldovia, 174–75. See also Danubian Principalities Wallandt, Ernő (Ernst), 266–69, 276, 298 water management, 13–14, 19, 83 Wawra, Johann, 248, 251, 255, 259, 262, 265 Wersak, Wenzel August, 61–62

330

I ndex

Western, 1, 30–31, 68, 88, 125 wetlands, 52, 55, 71, 74, 240 Wex, Gustav, 134–39, 156, 239–51, 255–56, 260–63, 268, 289, 297–98

Zemun (Zimony, Semlin), 36, 40, 47, 48, 54, 55, 61, 89–90, 109 Zollheim, Josef Lasser von, 136

331