Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile 1443895806, 9781443895804

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Preface
Acknowledgements
Mobility, Community, and Religious Identity in the Early Modern Period
I. Transplanted Communities
Portable Homeland
The Greek Confraternity of Sant’ Anna Dei Greci in Ancona
Transnational Dissidence
Vanishing Fatherlands and Moving Identities
II. Iberian Exiles
Cross and Cross Again
Moriscos in North Africa after the Expulsion from Spain in 1609 and Their Discourse about Exile and Diaspora
Between Religion and Ethnicity
III. Preservation of Identity
Waldensian Identity in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries
Composite Religions and Ideas in Exile
Negotiating Identity among the Nação in Early Modern Rome
Quakers between Martyrdom and Missionary Activity
Exile and Return in Anglo-American Puritanism
IV. Boundaries Maintained
Creating Boundaries in Emden, Germany
Memories of a Bygone Diaspora
The Domestic and International Roles of the Early Modern Irish Catholic Diaspora
Contributors
Index of Names and Places

Citation preview

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Edited by

Yosef Kaplan

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Edited by Yosef Kaplan This book first published 2017 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2017 by Yosef Kaplan and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-9580-6 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-9580-4

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface ....................................................................................................... vii Yosef Kaplan Acknowledgements .................................................................................. xiv Mobility, Community, and Religious Identity in the Early Modern Period: An Alternative Reading of the Long Reformation ...................................... 1 Nicholas Terpstra I. Transplanted Communities Portable Homeland: The German-Jewish Diaspora in Italy and Its Impact on Ashkenazic Book Culture, 1400–1600 ................................................. 26 Lucia Raspe The Greek Confraternity of Sant’ Anna Dei Greci in Ancona: Demographic Structure and Social Responsibilities (1524–1580) ............ 44 Niccolò Fattori Transnational Dissidence: Samuel Crell’s Socinian Exile......................... 94 Martin Mulsow Vanishing Fatherlands and Moving Identities: Walloons and Huguenots in the Dutch Republic .............................................................................. 117 Willem Frijhoff II. Iberian Exiles Cross and Cross Again: First-Hand Accounts of 1492 Exiles’ Return to Castile .................................................................................................. 144 Sara T. Nalle Moriscos in North Africa after the Expulsion from Spain in 1609 and Their Discourse about Exile and Diaspora ....................................... 175 Gerard Wiegers

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Between Religion and Ethnicity: Shaping the Western Sephardic Diaspora................................................................................................... 189 Yosef Kaplan III. Preservation of Identity Waldensian Identity in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries ................. 208 Gabriel Audisio Composite Religions and Ideas in Exile: Encounters between Early Saxon Reformers and the First Anabaptists ............................................. 218 Emese Bálint and Chris Martinuzzi Negotiating Identity among the Nação in Early Modern Rome .............. 242 James W. Nelson Novoa Quakers between Martyrdom and Missionary Activity ........................... 277 Stefano Villani Exile and Return in Anglo-American Puritanism .................................... 289 John Coffey IV. Boundaries Maintained Creating Boundaries in Emden, Germany: Confession, Language, Poor Relief, and Spaces of the Dutch Reformed Refugees...................... 314 Timothy G. Fehler Memories of a Bygone Diaspora: Huguenot Reconstructed Identity in Gilded Age America ............................................................................ 331 Bertrand van Ruymbeke The Domestic and International Roles of the Early Modern Irish Catholic Diaspora .................................................................................... 341 Thomas O’Connor Contributors ............................................................................................. 362 Index of Names and Places...................................................................... 368

PREFACE

Following the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans in 1453 and the flight of multitudes of Greeks, mainly to Italy, and especially as a result of the wars of religion that shook Europe after the inception of the Reformation, confessional migration, to use the term defined by the historian Heinz Schilling, became widespread.1 As he wrote, “the religious refugee became a mass phenomenon” to an unprecedented extent. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the religious refugee became a constant presence in the European landscape, a presence felt on other continents as well. Processes of globalization following the geographical discoveries and the expansion of maritime trade created new horizons and for the refugee in flight from religious persecution as well, possibilities emerged for migration to areas of refuge that had previously been inaccessible. Severe attacks upon religious minorities, mass expulsions, and, above all, forced conversions, took place frequently at that time in many regions. In the Iberian monarchies at the end of the fifteenth century the presence of Jews and Muslims ceased. In the wake of the Decree of Expulsion enforced by the Catholic Monarchs of Spain in 1492, tens of thousands of Jews fled the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon, as well as Sicily, to the Ottoman Empire and to North Africa, and a few thousand were also received in several cities in Italy. Although Spain was void of Jews, a rather large population of conversos, known as “New Christians,” remained there. These people were mainly the descendants of Jews who had converted in Castile and Aragon during and following the murderous persecutions of 1391. However, they also included many people who were baptized truly at the last minute in order to spare themselves the tribulations of expulsion. Also nearly a hundred thousand Jews who had taken refuge in Portugal were baptized against their will in 1497, only five years after their arrival, as ordered by King Manuel. The fate of the Muslim population of Spain, some 660,000 souls, was similar: in 1502 the decree of expulsion of the Muslims of Castile was promulgated, and those 1

Heinz Schilling, “Innovation through Migration: The Settlements of Calvinist Netherlanders in Sixteenth and Seventeenth-Century Central and Western Europe,” Histoire Sociale-Social History 16 (1983): 7–34, and see 32.

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who remained were forced to convert to Christianity. The same thing happened to the Muslims of Valencia in 1525 and to those in Aragon in 1526. Moreover, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, thousands of New Christians of Jewish origin emigrated from Spain and Portugal. Some did this in order to return to the Jewish religion and join the communities of the Sephardic Diaspora in the Levant, the Maghreb, and Italy. In addition, during the seventeenth century, Portuguese New Christian refugees who left Iberia and returned to the Jewish religion established communities of their own in Amsterdam, Livorno, Hamburg, London, Bordeaux, and Bayonne. Some of them took part in the colonial enterprises of Holland and England and settled in various places in the Caribbean and North America, where they founded their own Jewish communities. Many of the New Christians who emigrated from Spain and Portugal did not do so in order to abandon their new religion. Rather they settled in Catholic countries like France and Italy, or even went so far as Mexico, Brazil, and Peru. Among the New Christians who chose to join Catholic religious orders, a considerable number were Jesuits and became part of the Jesuit diaspora, which spread over the entire world. Many of these emigrants left the Iberian Peninsula to avoid the Inquisition and to escape the social consequences imposed upon them by the Statutes of Purity of Blood, which were enforced in many institutions. The Moriscos as well, Muslims forced to accept the Catholic religion, were also subject to investigation by the Inquisition and to prolonged social discrimination. Beginning in 1568, those in Granada launched revolts, which were suppressed with an iron hand. About eighty thousand Moriscos were forcibly removed from southern Spain and dispersed among the cities of Castile. In 1609 King Philip III published the decree of expulsion against them, and by 1614 additional decrees were passed, bringing about the expulsion of nearly three hundred thousand Iberian Muslims. Most of those expelled went to the Maghreb, but many of them managed, by means of various stratagems, to steal back into Spain. In his book on religious refugees in the early modern period Nicholas Terpstra, whose article opens the present volume, relates to the important role played by “the sharp language of purification and purgation” in religious reform movements during the struggle between Catholics and Protestants: “The drive to purge and purify reshaped Europe and the globe throughout the early modern period.”2 2 Nicholas Terpstra, Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World. An Alternative History of the Reformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2015), 2.

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The drive to “purify” society of elements regarded as hostile and dangerous did indeed nourish the processes of confessionalisation, which were intended to produce religious uniformity in the states of Europe. Catholics fled from Protestant countries like England, Scotland, Sweden, and the new Dutch Republic, and Protestants abandoned the countries that remained loyal to the Catholic Church such as Italy and Spain. Italian Protestants from various denominations fled from Italy, in fear of the Roman Inquisition, emigrating to Switzerland, England, Germany, Transylvania, and Poland. Similarly, tens of thousands of Protestants left the Southern Netherlands between 1567 and 1573, fearing the cruel persecution of the Duke of Alba. During the 1580s nearly one hundred and fifty thousand Protestants fled from there when the Spanish army reinforced its control over Antwerp. Moving in the opposite direction, thousands of Catholics left Holland when Calvinism became the official public religion of the new republic. Similarly, during the reign of Catholic Queen Mary (1553–1558), English Protestants (the Marian Exiles) emigrated, mainly to Frankfurt, Strasbourg, Zurich, and Basel. By contrast, during the reign of Edward VI (1547–1553) and Elizabeth I (1558–1603), many Catholics left the kingdom of England, mainly for Louvain and Antwerp, or else to France, especially Rheims, Rouen, and Douai. Among the English religious refugees the Pilgrim Fathers were prominent—they were radical Puritans who seceded from the Church of England. First they emigrated to Holland and established a community in Leiden, but in 1620 they sailed to North America and founded the colony of Plymouth, Massachusetts. Alongside the Christian refugees belonging to a plethora of churches and sects, in this context one should also mention the Ashkenazic Jewish refugees from Germany, Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia, whose existence was undermined by the Thirty Years War. During the time of the great war, masses of Jews from these countries wandered both in Central Europe and also to the east and the west, seeking a safe haven. Similarly, the wars that afflicted Poland during the Cossack Rebellion of 1648 led by Chmielnicki, the Swedish invasion, and the war against the Muscovites in the 1650s brought about the destruction of Jewish communities throughout Poland and Lithuania and caused mass emigration to Central and Western Europe. Another religious group that underwent severe upheavals was the Moravian Brethren, who numbered about two hundred thousand, with about four hundred parishes in Bohemia and Moravia. Following the Battle of White Mountain in 1620, the Protestant nobility suffered a severe downfall, and the Brethren were forced to go underground. Many of them

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were scattered to Northern Europe and the Netherlands. Their important centers then moved to Poland, and isolated groups were active in Moravia. The great educator and philosopher Comenius, who served as a pastor of the Moravian Brethren, was forced to wander between Poland, Sweden, Prussia, England, and Transylvania. He was active in England along with other prominent foreigners such as the Scot John Dury and Samuel Hartlib, who was from Elbing, Poland, in preparing a series of educational and scientific initiatives under Oliver Cromwell. The French Calvinists, known as the Huguenots, were undoubtedly the most significant and influential group of religious refugees in this period. During the sixteenth century they constituted about ten percent of the French population, and their major centres were located in the south and west of the kingdom. After the ferocious attack against them in Paris in 1572, known as the Saint Bartholomew Massacre, many of them fled to Geneva, England, and Holland. After the Edict of Nantes in 1598 restored their right to hold religious services, many of them returned to their homeland. However, during the seventeenth century, the agitation did not subside and the revolts of the Huguenots in the 1620s led to the rescinding of many of their political and military rights. In 1685, Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes, and, after that fateful decision, nearly eight hundred thousand French Calvinists were forced to choose between exile and conversion. Between one hundred and fifty thousand and two hundred thousand of them decided to leave France. They called their emigration the Refuge, and they called themselves the réfugiés. Like other religious refugees at that time, but even to a greater degree, they accorded religious significance to their exile, drawing inspiration from the status of the biblical Israelites. Many of these exiles went to Holland, England, and Prussia. However, some also went to Switzerland, Ireland, Sweden, Russia, and even North America. Their contribution to the early Enlightenment, to intellectual life, science, and commerce in Europe was invaluable. One of the most famous Huguenot exiles was Pierre Bayle, who settled in Rotterdam and taught in the École Illustre. He described the Dutch Republic as “la grande Arche des fugitifs” (the great Ark of the fugitives), and their presence in Amsterdam, The Hague, and Rotterdam played an important role in the flourishing of culture in the Dutch Republic. Indubitably, religious refugees were one of the formative factors in European culture in the early modern period. A considerable proportion of the men of science, the most prominent thinkers, authors, and theologians in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were exiles, and the experience of exile left a deep mark on them and on their work. This is a fact we must

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not forget today, seeing the evil winds blowing from various directions against the arrival of refugees and immigrants who are depicted as aliens hostile to the spirit of the nation or to Western culture. ** The articles in the present volume are based on papers given at the international conference held at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem on April 27–29, 2015. The idea for the conference took shape in the discussions in the seminar of the research group which I directed on “A Diaspora in Transition – Religious and Cultural Changes in the Early Modern Western Sephardic Communities.”3 They deal with a variety of issues connected to some of the most prominent ethnic and religious communities that underwent the experience of exile during the early modern period. The articles relate, among other things, to the ways in which they preserved and defined their identity; how they organised themselves in their new places of residence, and the institutions they created; the connection they maintained with their countries of origin; the connection between religious faith and ethnic affiliation; and the various ways in which they expressed their sense of exile and coped with it. Since the conference was held in Jerusalem and in connection with a project connected to the history of the Jews, it is appropriate to add a few words in this context. The historian Fritz (Yitzhak) Baer arrived in Palestine from Germany in 1930 and became the first professor of history at the Hebrew University. He was a major historian of medieval Jewry and became one of the shapers of historical research in Israel. Baer belonged to an impressive group of Jewish scholars from Central and Eastern Europe (especially Germany), who settled in Jerusalem and took part in launching the young university on Mount Scopus. They were imbued with Zionist ideology and certainly would have rejected any attempt to define them as exiles or refugees. Nevertheless, there can be no doubt that their situation conformed to most of the criteria that characterise the experience of exiles: the sense of loss, displacement, and alienation. The fact that most of them saw themselves as participating in the fulfillment of the Zionist enterprise could not eradicate their sense of loss after leaving their bourgeois lives behind in Europe. Many of them emigrated from Germany after the Nazis’ rise to power. They were forced to abandon the leading universities where 3

This project received a generous grant from the European Research Council under the 1111 European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/20072013) ERC grant agreement number 295352.

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they had studied, the rich libraries where they acquired knowledge, and the vital cultural life they left behind after settling in Palestine. However, not only the feeling of isolation and loss characterized their situation as exiles. Like other groups of exiles in the course of human history, they, too, became cultural agents, who made a deep impression not only on the academy but also on the economy, jurisprudence, and the arts in the society of Palestine and of the young State of Israel. It is no coincidence that some of them, in the spirit of the humanistic values in which they had been educated, sought to bring about reconciliation between Jews and Arabs. However, contrary to their impact in other areas, in this one, regrettably, they remained a minority, devoid of influence. In 1936, Fritz Baer published his book Galut, the Hebrew word for “exile.” In it he investigates the meanings that the term received in Jewish thought from the end of Antiquity to the early modern period.4 Appearing in German, in Berlin, the book conveys the distress that Baer experienced at that time. It became clear to him that quite a few of his former teachers and fellow students had joined the National Socialist Party. In Galut, Baer harshly condemned the Jewish Diaspora, and this is not the only reason why this work still raises many perplexities. As he wrote in 1980: “When I wrote this book I felt great anguish, though at the time I could not have imagined the events that later surged up and engulfed us.”5 Indeed the essentialist and providentialist approach that permeates every page of the book reached its peak toward the conclusion: “there is a power that lifts the Jewish people out of the realm of causal history.”6 In the epilogue to the English edition published in 1947, he added: “Our history follows its own laws, maintaining its innermost tendencies in the face of the outward dangers of dispersal, disintegration, secularization, and moral and religious petrification.”7 Jewish historians and intellectuals criticized Baer for denying the unity of the human spirit, and the American Jewish essayist, Milton Himmelfarb, wrote at the end of a highly critical review published in early 1948: “There is much admirable piety toward ancestral ideals in Galut. But we shall continue to insist that the alternative vision—that of a

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Jizchak Fritz Baer, Galut (Berlin: Schocken, 1936). See the English translation by Robert Warshow (New York: Schoken Books 1947). 5 See the introductory remarks to the Hebrew edition (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1980), 7. 6 See the English edition, 120. 7 Ibid., 122.

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common humanity—gives equal shelter to unique tradition, and that indeed it can base itself on better Jewish doctrine.”8 To Baer’s credit it must be stated that his splendid historiographical work on medieval Jewry and later on the Jews under Roman rule clearly contradicts the words he wrote in 1936, in his despair and distress. The present conference arose out of the discussions of the research group on the communities of the Western Sephardic Diaspora in disagreement with Baer’s approach in Galut. We believe that it is impossible to understand the history of the Jews in isolation from the history of the societies in which they were active. The Western Sephardic Jews were an ethno-religious minority, a Diaspora created following the expulsion of the Jews from the Iberian monarchies and the restrictions and discrimination suffered by the conversos in Spain and Portugal. They were comparable to other religious minorities which were forced to go into exile in the wake of processes of confessionalisation and the wars of religion that struck their countries. The Sephardic Jews shared with the other religious refugees both the experience of separation from their origins and also that of being scattered among many states and continents. The exiled Sephardic Jews and the other early modern religious minorities shared a rather extensive common denominator. They were all forced to cope with problems of adaptation and the retention of religious uniqueness and a cultural heritage. In Venice and Livorno, in Amsterdam and Hamburg, in The Hague and in London, they encountered a large variety of ethnic and religious minorities. The members of all these minorities were in contact on many levels and even cooperated with each other, though they also came into conflict at times; they engaged in friendly conversations with each other about philosophy and theology, about science and biblical interpretation, but they sometimes held bitter and penetrating theological disputes. These religious refugees became cultural agents of the first rank and produced works that became classics in philosophy, theology, art, historiography, biblical exegesis, and biblical criticism. They migrated within Europe and around the world, shaping the early modern period and exerting deep influence in every area of society and culture. Indeed, the immigration of these minorities, and their presence in their host countries are among the principal characteristics of the early modern period. Yosef Kaplan

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Milton Himmelfarb, “Galut by Yitzhak F. Baer,” Commentary, May 1, 1948.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank all the institutions and people who helped in preparing this book for publication: the European Research Council, for its generous grant to the research group on Diaspora in Transition – The Religious and Cultural Changes in the Early Modern Western Sephardic Communities; the Hebrew University of Jerusalem for hosting the conference that led to the publication of this book; to the Dean of the Faculty of Humanities, Professor Dror Wahrman, and the head of the School of History, Professor Moshe Sluhovsky for their professional advice and intellectual inspiration. In addition I would like to express heartfelt gratitude to Ms. Jenia Yudkevich, the devoted administrative manager of the research project who spared no effort in organising the conference, and to Dr. Sharon Assaf for her meticulous and professional editing of the book and seeing it to press.

MOBILITY, COMMUNITY, AND RELIGIOUS IDENTITY IN THE EARLY MODERN PERIOD: AN ALTERNATIVE READING OF THE LONG REFORMATION NICHOLAS TERPSTRA

This volume and the conference from which it grew are devoted to exploring religious communities in exile, particularly in the early modern period. My own research into this has been comparative and synthetic, and based more on secondary than archival sources. Above all, it was shaped from the beginning by the classroom. It was in anticipating and seeking to answer the questions of students of different ages and backgrounds that the idea grew of finding some other window through which to look into the house we call Reformation Studies. Not all students ask questions driven only by their own background, position, experience, or point of view, but many certainly start there. Much of the parochialism which long dogged Reformation historiography came precisely out of treating the subject as a species of family history by those who grew up in the closeted domestic space of one or another denomination or confession. Some who found it claustrophobic escaped the closet, while others wanted to defend the door, or simply took it for granted. Others may have grown up with no personal experience of the house, but by virtue of growing up in the European or Anglo American world, they knew the neighbourhood well and had some cultural familiarity with the lay of the rooms and the shape of the furniture. But what of those with no direct or indirect experience of the house? My effort to approach the history of the Reformation from the point of view of the refugee experience first arose some years ago when I had the opportunity to write a textbook on the Reformation for twelve and thirteenyear-old children in senior primary school.1 Attempting to visualise my 1

This paper incorporates and expands upon materials developed in Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World: An Alternative History of the Reformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015). I would like to thank Yosef

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audience, the readers that came to mind were children in and around Toronto, where I live. Canada has been profoundly shaped by immigration. While most immigrants from the seventeenth into the late twentieth century came from France, the United Kingdom, and then a widening range of European countries, the majority now arrive from other parts of the globe. Few among my target audience of pre-teen readers would have had any personal roots into or identity with the history of European Christianity. There were Somali and Tamil immigrants, and many others from across South Asia, Africa, or the Caribbean; they are now joined by others from the Middle East. Some indeed had an indirect connection to European Christianity, like the children of the Bosnian diaspora who were largely Muslim refugees fleeing the ethno-religious cleansing carried out by Croat and Serbian armies in the Balkans. Rightly or wrongly, while thinking about how to organise my primary school textbook, I assumed that few of these global immigrants would have much interest in the finer points of justification by faith alone, the working of prevenient grace, or the distinction between temporal and plenary indulgences. Moreover, the textbook publisher had encouraged me to try out a new approach while, of course, giving no indication of what that might be. Aiming to find some point of identification from which to start, I thought of the fact that many of these children were not simply immigrants, but actually refugees. It was not only the Bosnian Muslims among them who had been expelled or had fled their homes for a host of reasons including national, ethnic, racial, and religious identities. These combined in a cauldron of colonial and postcolonial legacies stirred to a boil by opportunistic political regimes both local and foreign. In many cases, it was religious differences that provided the most convenient shorthand for identity, and the most immediate reason for their expulsion, as with South Sudanese and Somalis, for example. It dawned on me that one way to make a period as distinct but distant as the European Reformation relevant to twelve-year-old immigrants would be to approach it through the nexus of mobility, community, and religious identity—that is, through the experience of refugees, and of religious refugees in particular. This was around the time that the late Heiko Oberman had been writing about Calvin as a refugee theologian whose doctrine and ecclesiology were profoundly shaped not just by the particular circumstances of sixteenthKaplan for the opportunity to share these ideas at the conference on “Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile” at Hebrew University in April 2015. I would also like to thank Benjamin Arbel, Miri Feldon, and Moshe Sluhovsky, who generously invited me to Israel in 2009, when these ideas began to take shape.

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century Geneva, but by the experience of being a life-long and very reluctant refugee.2 Might that also work as a way to explain Reformation and the Reformation in a modern religiously and ethnically-mixed culture? It gradually grew into an opportunity to rethink and reconceptualise the Reformation more broadly. The immediate question was when and why Europe had become a culture so wedded to driving out others or, essentially, to creating refugees? Europe had long been a “persecuting society,” and R. I. Moore had controversially located the origins or formation of this impulse in a combination of religious ideologies and elite clerical manipulations from the tenth through the thirteenth centuries. I don’t wish here to dwell on the validity of his thesis or the debates it generated, and certainly don’t think that a phenomenon that expands radically in the early modern period could not have medieval roots; it would be strange if there were no antecedents or precursors.3 But even assuming some connection, the question rises of what might have been different about a “persecuting society” as it took shape in the Long Reformation from the fifteenth through the late seventeenth or even eighteenth century. It seemed to me that three differences merited considering the Long Reformation as a distinct “persecuting society” on its own terms: volume, breadth, and impact. With regard to volume, it was clear that through the two or three centuries from the fifteenth, exile and expulsion became far more widespread than they had been in the high Middle Ages. They were organised by states, driven by or legitimated through religious reasons, and more often took the form of mass expulsions. It was in the early modern period that the Religious Refugee became a mass phenomenon. With regard to breadth, exile became a phenomenon found across all religious groups. Apart from Calvin with his eye cast continually over his shoulder to France or the thousands who crammed into Geneva, there were the perennially peripatetic Radicals like David Joris, Menno Simons, and those who gravitated to Moravia and points further east, and Reginald Pole, John Foxe, and other Henrician and Marian exiles sailing back and forth over the English Channel to different European refuges. Even 2

Heiko A. Oberman, John Calvin and the Reformation of the Refugees (Geneva: Droz, 2009). 3 Moore first published his study in 1987, and one of his sharpest critics was David Nirenberg: David Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998). In the second edition of his ground-breaking work, Moore discussed the controversies: Robert Ian Moore, The Formation of a Persecuting Society: Authority & Deviance in Western Europe, 950–1250 (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007).

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Luther’s year in hiding in the Wartburg as Junker Georg cast him as a refugee. Virtually all the major religious reformers of the first and second generation in the early sixteenth century experienced some period of time as an exile or refugee, and all religious communities had some period in which forced migration became an existential reality for at least some of their members. All took this experience, direct or indirect, and internalised it in some way so that it became part of the group’s tradition and identity. Moreover, this was true not only for Christians of all confessions, but even more so for Jews and Muslims in Europe and sometimes beyond. Thinking again of my textbook’s readers, it occurred to me that a focus on the refugee experience would allow me to write a history of the Reformation that moved Jews and Muslims from a footnote or epilogue and into the heart of the narrative—really, to the opening of the narrative. Finally, with regard to impact, the early modern migrations driven at least in part by religion reshaped the map of Europe, and fundamentally shaped Europe’s global expansion. Exiles, refugees, missionaries, and inquisitors created diasporic communities across Europe and around the world. Most of these survived intact until the twentieth century, when new waves of religious, racial, and national purification generated new waves of holocausts and expulsions that destroyed some of them. Some of the children coming to Canada as religious refugees in the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries came out of diasporic communities that were first settled centuries earlier in the upheavals of the Long Reformation. Here was a connection. The primary school textbook fell victim to a publisher’s bankruptcy, but the idea itself evolved through a number of conferences, courses, and publication projects into a textbook oriented now to university students. I’ve advertised this as an “alternative reading” or “alternative history” of the Reformation because it seems to me that the questions that it raises are, if anything, even more far reaching at the university level than they are for twelve year-olds who are gaining their first exposure to the topic. Briefly, if exile, expulsion, and the refugee experience become the window through which we look at the Reformation, might our view of the Reformation and its dynamics shift? Might we see new approaches, emphasise different conjunctions and implications, identify new themes? How do mobility, community, and religious identity fit together, and what drives them? All of this begs the question: what is Reformation? And when? The question has currency, if not urgency, because of what in Germany is being called the Lutherjaar, the five hundredth anniversary of Martin Luther’s posting of his ninety-five theses against indulgences on the door

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of the Wittenburg Cathedral church. The theses spread quickly across the Holy Roman Empire, physically, intellectually, and politically, and triggered a series of events that then rippled out from the Empire across Europe. These sent Luther to the Wartburg in 1521, and soon put many religious non-conformists on the road, including of course with some of Luther’s former allies-turned-enemies like Karlstadt and Muntzer. Traditional histories that focused on Germany and Luther as the heartland of Reform saw 1517 as the “origin” of the Reformation. Of course, Czech historians might point to the execution of Jan Huss in 1415, which galvanised his Bohemian followers to rise against the Holy Roman Empire and frame a distinct confession within Christianity that lasted for over two hundred years. English historians might point to the year 1534, when Henry VIII set himself as Head of a separate Church of England that could grant him the annulment that the Church of Rome would not deliver. Any dates we chose are artificial and heuristic, of course, so most historians prefer not to think in such fixed and definite ways about origins. It’s a slippery slope to Hegel, with clear theses, antitheses, and syntheses; beginnings and endings; essential character, and progressive or regressive movements. Hegel is indeed the ghost in the closet here, and thanks to him and his successors, dates do have a way of insinuating themselves and putting their mark on popular consciousness. In Western European and AngloAmerican thought, Hegel’s legacy was a tendency to see the Reformation as a forward leap for liberal individualism and secularism. The key characteristic was the schism that broke up Europe’s largest religious monopoly corporation into a host of separate and warring units. This definition cast ecclesiastical reformers as the main protagonists in the unfolding drama of European history. Conflicts of the kind that John Huss, Martin Luther, and Henry VIII triggered were historically progressive inasmuch as they advanced individualism, secularism, and the state. Even those who were more religiously-minded Hegelians emphasised the Reformation as a period of interiority and conscience when individuals freed themselves from clerically-mediated external rituals, began relating directly to God in vernacular Bible reading and prayer, and so demonstrated the priority of individual intellect and will. Historians today are more likely to pick up the opposite end of the stick and look at the inverse of Hegel’s liberal individualist Reformation: we now emphasise not the heroic individual, but the broader collective; not the interior will, but the exterior social context; not the decline of ecclesiastical structures, but the repristinating, repurposing, and redeploying of them; not the breakup of a religious corporation, but the

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remarkable ability of its lay and clerical elites to metamorphose and adapt; not the secular state, but the sacred state. All these inform an “alternative history” of the Reformation that begins with the exile and refugee experience, takes it before and beyond the institutional ruptures in the Catholic Church, and aims to understand why this should have been the period when the religious refugee became a mass phenomenon. In what follows, I would like to explore this question on three distinct levels. We need to identify shifts in the ways some communities defined and defended themselves from the fifteenth into the sixteenth centuries and understand why religiously-driven mobility is critical to that. There is a nexus of concerns here: the drive to purity, the fear of contagion, and the use of enclosure or purgation to protect purity. I will begin on the micro level with the example of Italian confraternities to explore how concerns about purity, contagion, and purgation expanded steadily from the fifteenth century in the form of Observance movements, and how these communities sought to preserve their communal purity through discipline. Confraternities are significant because they express a lay and civic religion, which I think gives a better idea of popular and political sentiments than ecclesiastical and clerical religion does. I will then move to the macro level to explore some broader instances of how Reformation societies enact their same concerns around purity, contagion, and purgation— particularly enclosures, some charitable, some not. Finally, I will turn briefly to the imaginary, where mobility, community, and religious identity come together. How do “exile” and “refugee” become identities that are internalised and develop into marks of identity and pride? How do they feed into the invented traditions that define—and bind—imagined communities of faith? These were the issues that participants at the conference on religious communities in exile explored, and that the essays in this volume expand on further.

The Microcosm: What is a Pure Community? In 1494, when Florence faced waves of French troops washing down the coast and into Tuscany, Savonarola preached a sermon comparing the city to Noah’s ark—a place of refuge and of promise as Divine punishment swept away sinners. He could have adjusted the maritime reference with another image soon to become more popular through engraved and widely published aerial views—the city as an island with churches, homes, and monasteries within the walls and nothing but blank space or open fields outside. This of itself would have been the mapped equivalent of an older and more distinctly religious visual image—the Madonna of Mercy or

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Misericordia with her cloak outspread to protect citizens from the spears and arrows of natural disaster and divine judgment. Ark, island, protective shelter. Images of the city as a bounded community, with inside and outside sharply distinguished, grew ever more common across Europe through the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. They gave visual and rhetorical form to the idea of the city as a pure, holy, and exclusive space. They imposed an obligation on those inside the space to maintain that inner spiritual purity and holiness as a means of maintaining the integrity of the protective boundaries. If the community dropped its moral guard and allowed the boundaries to deteriorate, disasters of various kinds could break through and devastate those inside.4 Preachers, artists, and engravers could paint the verbal and visual images, but it was up to community members to put the ideas into practice. One way of doing this was by refining the means of identifying and expelling those who threatened the moral purity of the community inside the boundaries. This disciplinary imperative became an ever more important driving factor in lay spirituality over the course of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Historians often associate discipline with Protestant Church Orders and Catholic Reform movements, particularly in their more Tridentine and clerical forms, both expanding through the sixteenth century. Yet the deeper shifts in mentalities lie within the Observance movements of the century before. It was through them that the linked ideas of purity, contagion, and community first reshaped lay piety from the fifteenth century, and helped feed a thrust towards radical purgation. Tracking lay piety is critical here, as we want to trace not a few key intellectual changes, but the spread of a broader civic religious mentality spanning church and state. This is why it is helpful to look at lay confraternities in particular. If we study sets of confraternal statutes and membership records, we can identify three stages by which efforts to define the confraternities’ devotions and discipline became steadily more intense and move from what people do to what they are.5 I will focus on the Italian cities of Bologna and Modena, fully aware that the forms of lay piety north of the Alps do not flow as powerfully through confraternities, 4

Alexandra Walsham, Charitable Hatred: Hatred and Intolerance in England, 1500–1700 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006). As Ethan Shagan has shown, even the virtue of “moderation” could be promoted aggressively and exclusively in the political discourses of reform. Ethan Shagan, The Rule of Moderation: Violence, Religion, and the Politics of Restraint in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 5 Nicholas Terpstra, Lay Confraternities and Civic Religion in Renaissance Bologna (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 83–133.

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which were generally neither as ubiquitous nor as well documented in Northern Europe as around the Mediterranean. Fourteenth-century confraternity statutes set very general standards for admission and communal life. Bologna’s Company of St Francis required, in its 1317 statutes, that members keep away from gambling and bad places, and obey company officials. There was no disciplinary process, in part because there was not much communal life. This was Bologna’s largest confraternity with well over three thousand male and female members, or perhaps five percent of the total population. It shaped their spiritual life through some light obligations for daily prayers and by providing an outlet for charitable action; members volunteered weekly in St Francis’ large hospital and left it their alms and legacies.6 This was the default position in what we could describe as a first stage of loose community. We can see it continuing in other fourteenth-century confraternities like the Company of St Mary of Charity, which reformed itself at the time of the 1399 Misericordia devotional movement and indeed adopted the name of “Misericordia.” Even though decades had passed, and in spite of the stimulus of a new devotional movement, this Misericordia confraternity adopted a version of the eighty-year-old St Francis statutes that did little more than add prohibitions against blasphemy and against swearing on the body and blood of Christ.7 This changes in a second stage that we can trace from around the 1420s, as Observant mendicants and other clerical reformers began engaging more intensely with Bolognese confraternities, stimulating reforms and new foundations; at this point, it is not just community but activities which define confraternal life. In the 1430s, the influential bishop Niccolò Albergati pushed some prominent existing civic confraternities like St Mary of Death and St Mary of the Baraccano to intensify their devotional community while also taking on larger roles in the public cult. In the decade that followed, both Dominican and Franciscan brotherhoods undertook significant reforms to protect their community’s moral purity. In the early 1440s, the company of St Dominic tightened its regulations while brothers of the company of St Francis established a distinct new devotional confraternity alongside the existing 6

The 1317 S. Francesco statutes can be found in C. Mesini, “La compagnia di Santa Maria delle Laudi e di San Francesco di Bologna,” Archivum Francescanum Historicum 52 (1959): 366–72. 7 ASB Dem, Compagnia di S. Maria della Carità, 4/7673, no. 1. See also Mario Fanti, “Il moto dei Bianchi e la Confraternita di Santa Maria della Misericordia detta della Carità in Bologna,” Confraternite e città a Bologna nel medioevo e nell’età moderna (Rome: Herder, 2001), 320–27.

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charitable one so that members could choose whether they wanted to pursue their salvation by the path of observant devotions or by the path of hospital charity.8 These new groups were more explicit about the higher moral standards expected of members. It wasn’t enough to be individually pure; members also had to shun the contagion of others’ immorality, and confraternity statutes expanded the list of prohibited activities. Don’t practice illicit arts like making playing cards, don’t practice usury, don’t engage in infamous, dangerous, or scandalous activities like sodomy or adultery, don’t keep a concubine, don’t blaspheme or use bad language. Avoid bad companions who might tempt you to sin: gamblers, tavern owners or tavern goers, “others of low condition.” Neither women nor boys under fifteen years of age could join these groups, again because of the temptation they represented. Members were beholden to the community of their brothers: they had to obey its officials and keep its secrets, and they were bound to observe the full range of its extensive spiritual exercises and mutual obligations. But it was not all prohibition: these groups aimed to practice together a more deeply emotional piety, framed round the imitation of Christ (particularly his passion) and exercised through flagellation, foot washing, frequent worship, and daily prayer. They were small (often just twelve members), selective, and demanding. What distinguishes these statutes of the second stage from earlier ones is the care taken to preserve the community’s purity by recruiting new members more selectively, training them more intensively, and then expelling them when they failed to live up to standards. Earlier confraternity statutes had included only vague provisions allowing officials to expel members. The Dominican and Franciscan Observant confraternal statutes of the 1440s, like those of St Mary of Death in 1436, made the standards and procedures for expulsion more explicit and effective, encouraging members to inform on their fellows, setting out distinct penalties for first, second, and third offenses, and allowing a return only if the violator confessed his fault and reformed his behaviour. 8

Albergati’s prodding brought reform to both S. Maria della Morte (1436) and S. Maria del Baraccano (1439). The Morte’s statutes can be found in the Biblioteca Communale di Bologna (hereafter BCB) Fondo Ospedale, ms. 83, while the Baraccano’s earliest statutes are not extant. S. Domenico’s 1443 statutes: BCB Fondo Gozzadini 207, no. 2. An edition can be found in Gilles Gérard Meersseman, Ordo fraternitatis: confraternite e pietà dei laici nel mondo medioevo (Rome: Herder, 1977). For a broader discussion of this phenomenon of controlled schism as part of Observant reform: Terpstra, Lay Confraternities and Civic Religion, 28–30, 63–65, 86–87, 124–25, and 139–44.

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The timing of the Franciscan statutes was particularly significant. They were written in 1443, just as the Franciscan Order was in the throes of the dispute that almost split it into two. When Eugenius IV attempted to engineer the appointment of an Observant as Franciscan Master General, the Conventuals reacted violently. The Observant friar Bernardino da Siena brokered a peace deal which kept a Conventual friar as Master General. Although it cost him considerably with his own supporters, this model of accommodation and compromise seems to have offered an example of peacemaking which Bolognese laymen then followed. Bologna’s existing confraternity of St Francis, with its thousands of male and female members, its hospital, and its relatively relaxed membership standards, stayed within the Conventual church of St Francis with a Conventual friar as its Spiritual Father. In 1443 a small group of more devotionally-observant members broke off and established a distinct group of their own in the local Observant Franciscan house of the Annunciation, taking one of its friars as their Spiritual Father. They kept the name of St Francis and the two groups distinguished themselves as St Francis Broad (Larga) and St Francis Narrow (Stretta), the broad Conventual and the narrow Observant.9 That was simple enough, but things soon got more complicated. When preaching in Bologna in 1422, Bernardino da Siena had reformed on older confraternity which adopted the new name of Good Jesus (Buon Gesu) in recognition of his distinctive promotion of the Holy Name of Jesus. That confraternity then took an Observant Franciscan from the newly-built Annunciation friary as its Spiritual Father.10 Then when Bernardino da Siena was canonized in 1450, scarcely half a decade after his death, the lay confraternal brothers and sisters associated with the Conventual house of St Francis established a new Broad confraternity in San Bernardino’s name and honour and built a prominent chapel projecting off the nave of the Conventual church. They did not, however, adopt Bernardino’s stricter observant discipline.11 What resulted must have been a little confusing even to contemporaries: Bologna by the mid-fifteenth century had two separate confraternities with the name of St Francis, one Conventual and one Observant. It also had two 9

The Franciscan stretta statutes: BCB ms B983. This was the confraternity of S. Maria della Mezzaratta del Monte, which oversaw a shrine on one of the hills immediately south of the city. Its earliest extant statutes date from 148r (BCB Fondo Gozzadini 203, no. 7) and 1490 (BCB Fondo Gozzadini 203, no. 8). 11 This confraternity’s statutes date from 1454: Archivio di Stato di Bologna (hereafter ASB) Fondo Demaniale, Compagnia di S. Bernardino, ms. 8/7639, no. 1. 10

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confraternities dedicated to the memory of the Franciscan Observant friar San Bernardino da Siena, again one Conventual and one Observant. The two Broad/Conventual confraternities underscore the importance of affect in lay confraternal piety—Bolognese lay women and men loved Francis and Bernardino, and wanted to use Franciscan and Bernardine songs, images, and signs—like Bernardino’s sunburst IHS mandala—as markers of identity with the spiritual cause of imitating Christ’s love and charity. The two Narrow/Observant confraternities underscore the importance of discipline, conviction, and exclusivity as markers of identity with the spiritual cause of imitating Christ’s suffering—and these became the more influential drivers of later change. The Narrow/Observant Franciscan brotherhoods dominated confraternity reform in mid-fifteenth century Bologna and indeed through much of Italy. In 1454 Bologna’s oldest confraternity, St Mary of Life, spawned its own devotional Narrow group which adopted the Observant St Francis statutes, some parts verbatim and others with a few modifications. Other confraternities both in the city and outside of it followed suit in the decades following, including St Mary of the Guarini (1454) and St Mary of the Angels (1479), so that by the end of the fifteenth century there were at least six influential Narrow groups operating in the city.12 All adopted stricter standards of purity, and all exercised cautions against those—like women, young boys, gamblers, blasphemers, and tavern goers—who could be considered a bad and contagious influence. This was a movement seen across Italy, and it is important to remember that these groups were not large and inclusive. Narrow confraternities were often small, but they exercised disproportionate social and spiritual influence because they tended to recruit professional and elite members with significant social capital to invest in broader change and a motivation to do it. This concern with purity and contagion expanded and intensified in the third stage, beginning in the late fifteenth century, when the reciprocation of devotion and discipline intensified around concerns of identity. In 1520, the Observant Franciscan confraternity of Good Jesus undertook a new inner reform that marked the first emergence in the city of some of the stricter disciplinary and devotional forms associated with Catholic and 12

S. Maria della Vita’s 1454 statutes: BCB Fondo Ospedale, no. 10. A modern edition can be found in Giancarlo Angelozzi, Le confraternite laicali: un’esperienza cristiana tra medioevo ed età moderna (Brescia: Queriniana, 1979), 118–41. The Padre Spirituale was Maestro Giminiano da Volterra, Master of Theology with Augustinian Order. For S. Maria dei Guarini BCB Fondo Gozzadini 210, no. 11, cc. fols.169r–194v; for S. Maria degli Angeli BCB Fondo Gozzadini 203, no. 7.

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Tridentine reform.13 On the disciplinary side, the familiar list of faults meriting expulsion expanded significantly. The list was now headed by two signal defects: “heresy” and “rebellion against the Church.” It was rounded out with a far longer list of those individuals who were to be excluded by virtue of their origin, profession, or identity: pimps, actors, singers, magicians, murderers, practicing Jews, and thieves. Like women and young boys, these men were excluded by definition as contagious agents who would disturb the purity of the confraternal community. The statutes sometimes enjoined members not to be too judgmental and faultfinding, while at the same time they intensified the procedures for judgment and fault-finding, adding explicit instructions for identifying, judging, and expelling errant brothers. Once annually, each member met with the Spiritual Father to go over the entire matriculation list and report on the faults of each brother individually. The Father then called in each brother again to start a process of correction that could end in expulsion if that brother refused to recognise and amend his faults. Looming larger among those faults were failures to respect the corporate life of the brotherhood: not just the failure to take the sacraments, obey the officials, maintain the peace, or offer mutual aid, but even the failure to post the Bernardine IHS symbol at the doorway of the house and, above all, the failure to respect the privacy and secrecy of the brotherhood and its oratory. Members had keys so that they could use the oratory for personal devotions. Sharing a key, letting a stranger in to the oratory, or allowing that stranger to read the statutes without permission could win expulsion. Members were to maintain the privacy and even secrecy of the bounded space. These were the new and intensified regulations on the disciplinary side. On the devotional side, members of the Narrow/Observant Company of Good Jesus pledged themselves to more intense daily devotions, to posting images of St Francis and St Bernardino in their homes, and to following elaborate sets of spiritual exercises of the imitatio Christi adjusted to their degree of literacy and their working lives. Adopting a common Observant trope that soon became Reformation boilerplate for both Catholics and Protestants, they idealised the fervour and devotion of the primitive church and the apostolic period generally, and decried the negligence, frailty, and tepidity of more recent times which had caused all religious orders, congregations, and confraternities to decline from their original fervour. The disciplinary and devotional regulations combined to 13

A matriculation list from 1490 and the new statutes of 1520 can be found in Biblioteca Universitaria di Bologna, ms. 2022, cc. 37–67. See also ASB Fondo Demaniale, Compagnia di Buon Gesù, 9/7631, ms 1.

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perfect the community by eliminating the contagion of immorality and advancing the purity of an intense spiritual life. In these same decades of the early sixteenth century, other Bolognese confraternities that had earlier adopted the Observant/Narrow reforms, now reinforced their commitments with new statutes as Good Jesus had, including St Mary of Charity (1518), Sts Sebastian and Rocco (1520), St Mary of the Baraccano (1521), St Mary of the Angels (1522).14 These three sets of statutes demonstrate a steady ramping up of the rhetoric on purity, contagion, and community in the fourteenth, the midfifteenth, and the early sixteenth centuries. It is not simply that immoral types impede purity; their immoral activity—and then increasingly their very identity—impedes the others in the community from realising their own devotional purity. There is an intensification of the emotional nexus between discipline and devotion. The earlier statutes exclude people for what they do, while the later ones come to exclude them for what they are. They aren’t just bad and “inappropriate” in themselves (as in the fourteenth-century statues); they aren’t just bad in their pollution (as in the fifteenth-century Observant statutes); they are bad for the contagious effect that they have on others, and hence have to be removed in order for the brotherhood and its members to realise their own potential as a pure community. If the community is an ark, these ones have to be thrown overboard to prevent the whole ship from sinking. These statutes trigger two questions. Was this just a Bolognese phenomenon? More to the point, did any of these regulations ever find a life off the page? It certainly was not simply a Bolognese phenomenon. In nearby Modena we can find a similar development in the eleven confraternities founded from the mid-thirteenth to mid-sixteenth century. Three emerged in the first century and a half, all drawing broadly with male and female members, all closely related to charity and hospitals, and all having somewhat general expectations about members’ morality. Then there came a burst of four brotherhoods founded under the direct influence of Bernardino da Siena, who preached in Modena in 1423. All these had the far stronger devotional expectations we saw in Bolognese Observant confraternities, including flagellation. All had far stronger disciplinary provisions including expulsion of members who failed to meet an explicit and rigorous moral code, who disobeyed the officials, or who were 14

S. Maria della Carità, BBA Fondo Gozzadini 210, no. 6. SS Sebastiano e Rocco: ASB Fondo Demaniale 16/6620, ms. 1 (the stretta emerged in 1520, but its statutes were not written until 1525). S. Maria del Baraccano, BCB Fondo Gozzadini 213, no. 1. S. Maria degli Angeli, BCB Fondo Gozzadini 203, no. 7.

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negligent in performance of spiritual exercises and obligations to the brotherhood. These included the first groups to explicitly ban women and the first to establish clear procedures for getting rid of the morallycontagious member. One of the groups allied with the Dominican Observants and one with the Franciscan Observants, but the greater clerical influence seems to have been the Benedictines of the house of St Peter. Finally, a further four groups founded in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth century offered charitable services while also practicing the devotional and disciplinary purity associated with Observant reform.15 They were more selective in who they recruited, and more ready to expel those who undermined the community. It was one thing to write stiff disciplinary regulations and another entirely to actually throw members out. Did the stiff rules set out in statutes ever translate into reality? In the period we are looking at they certainly did, at least in those brotherhoods for which we have matriculation lists. In the Modenese groups just noted, an average of one member in five was expelled through the fifteenth to the mid-sixteenth centuries: St Peter Martyr shed a quarter of its members from a 1439 reform to the mid-sixteenth century, while St Erasmus, which was one of the four confraternities immediately associated with the Bernardine Observant movement, expelled forty percent of all members from its origins until 1552.16 Bologna had far more confraternities, and a far wider variety of results: Sts Jerome and Anna expelled twenty-five of the 106 members recruited in its devotional spurt of the 1440s, and then twentyfive percent again of those recruited in a second spurt of 1492–1501. St 15 Matteo Al Kalak and Marta Lucchi, eds., Gli statuti delle confraternite modenesi dal X al XVI secolo (Bologna: CLUEB, 2011) is a collection that gathers the edited texts of all Modense confraternal statutes from 1261–1552. The first group of confraternities that emphasised charity included S. Pietro Martire (1261), S. Geminiano (1348), and S. Giovanni Battista (1372). S. Giovanni’s first statutes are lost, but a reformed set was produced in 1452 and then a revision (with involvement of the prior of Benedictine house of S. Pietro) in 1482. The second group of Observant groups inspired directly or indirectly by Bernardino da Siena when he preached in Modena in 1423 included Sant’Erasmo (1422), and S. Annunziata (established in 1423 by S. Bernardino and still preserving a relic he gave; first statutes were written in 1436, and then reformed in 1452), il Gesù (1423; formerly once thought to be 1452, but new documents point to this earlier date), and S. Bernardino (1450). The third group of charitable confraternities of the later fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries included: S. Rocco (1480, though its first statutes are lost), S. Geminiano (1492), S. Sebastiano (1501), and S. Giuseppe (1532, though its first statutes are also lost). 16 Al Kalak and Lucchi, Gli statuti, 11–12.

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Mary of Charity, the group in our first stage which took on the name of the Misericordia in 1399, saw significant growth after it undertook an Observant reform in 1518, yet in the next two and a half decades it went on to expel thirty-one percent (46 of 146) of the new members that it attracted. St Mary of Death’s group of comforters who assisted prisoners condemned to death adopted new statutes in 1555 instituting a censor to check into members’ morals, and within six years expelled half its members.17 John Henderson estimated that one Florentine confraternity expelled sixteen percent of its members annually, most of them from the pool of the newest recruits. He found further that periods of rapid growth inevitably resulted in high rates of expulsion, with most of those expelled having been members for only five years or less.18 It’s a pattern we see in most observant or reformed confraternities across Italy whose membership records are extant.19 Expulsions did ease off considerably in Modena, Bologna, and Florence by the later sixteenth century when devotional currents shifted once again and confraternities became parish auxiliaries whose work and membership were tied more closely to the spiritual and charitable needs defined by the local priest and bishop.

The Macrocosm: Discipline, Enclosure, Purgation What happens if we look beyond the microcosm represented by lay confraternities in a few North Italian cities? At the heart of the three stages that I’ve tracked in confraternal statute provisions and disciplinary actions is an obsession that is omnipresent in the organised religious life of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Some see it as discipline; I would suggest we intensify this as purgation. Because discipline extends to purgation, it is the most contentious element of many disputes within religious groups, both Protestant and Catholic, through the first half of the 17 ASB Fondo Demaniale, Compagnia di SS. Girolamo ed Anna, 5/6722, ms 1. ASB Codici Miniati, ms 65, cc fols. 1r–7v. For S. Maria della Carità: BCB Fondo Gozzadini 210, no. 6. “Conforteria della Morte – Catalogo delli autori,” Biblioteca Arcivescovile di Bologna, Aula 2°. C.VI.3, pp. 10–18. 18 John Henderson, Piety and Charity in Late Medieval Florence (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 137. 19 We can contrast this to the very low expulsion rates of the large companies that ran confraternal hospitals, including S. Maria degli Angeli (fifteen out of 466 members—3.2 percent—recruited from 1479 to the early sixteenth century: BCB Fondo Gozzadini 203, no. 5) and S. Maria del Baraccano (eighteen of 722 members—2.4 percent—on an undated list of the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries: ASB Fondo Ospedale, no. 3).

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sixteenth century: Radicals and Anabaptists insisted on the ban, Calvinists and Anglicans developed the consistory courts, Catholics and Lutherans regularised the visitation. Whatever we think of the reality or success of “confessionalisation” or “christianisation,” we can recognise that all religious communities within Christendom obsessed over purity and multiplied the efforts and tools that protected their purity from contagion— from confessions and catechisms to enclosure and purgation. Thanks to the work of Yosef Kaplan and Tijana Krstic, we see some of the same forces at work within contemporary Jewish and Muslim communities.20 The devotional and disciplinary impulses are more closely intertwined by the sixteenth century than they ever were in the fourteenth, and that then directs attention to the fifteenth century to understand how and in what forms the emphasis on purity, contagion, and community take ever sharper definition. One expression of that, as I mentioned earlier, is ever more people being thrown out of communities not just for what they do, but for what they are —an important development of essentialist identities. It’s important to recognise that the disciplinary developments within lay confraternities and within Christian churches of all confessions are usually the results of lay-clerical collaboration. While professional tensions abounded, there was no fundamental distinction between Church and State. The question on everybody’s mind and the grand collaborative project is: how do we build a holy society?21 As we saw, there is a steady ramping up of the rhetoric of purity from the fourteenth, to the midfifteenth, to the early sixteenth centuries. The emerging conviction among Bolognese and Modenese confraternity members is not simply that immoral members bring the rest of the group into disrepute—that’s a banal and common complaint. The intensification is that in the first instance it is their immorality that prevents the rest of us from realising our devotional purity; it then becomes their very identity and presence that is the problem. In this emerging essentialist scapegoating, we move from actions to identity as the marker of contagion (something that both R. I. Moore and 20 Yosef Kaplan, “Between Christianity and Judaism in Early Modern Europe: The Confessionalization Process of the Western Sephardi Diaspora,” in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam in the Course of History: Exchange and Conflict, ed. Lothar Gall and Dietmar Willoweit (Munich: R. Oldenbourg Verlag, 2011), 307– 41. Tijana Krstiü, Contested Conversions to Islam: Narratives of Religious Change in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011). 21 See the essays on this theme in Nicholas Terpstra, Adriano Prosperi, and Stefania Pastore, eds., Faith’s Boundaries: Laity and Clergy in Early Modern Confraternities (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012).

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David Nirenberg also saw for earlier periods). We also move from setting loose entrance or admission requirements to ever more refined procedures for identifying and removing impure members before their contagion can spread to the rest of the group. Again, Yosef Kaplan has expanded on how this becomes steadily more important for some metropolitan European Jewish communities as they attempt to deal with phenomenal growth driven by new arrivals from across Europe, including often those who see in the move to cities like Amsterdam an opportunity to reclaim the Jewish faith and communal life that had been forcibly stripped from them in Iberia or other parts of Europe.22 The other means of dealing with impure, alien, and contagious presences is to enclose what cannot or should not be expelled. This too is a step that its proponents often initially see as not being about discipline and punishment but about piety and purification. Those are the motivations among early efforts to institutionally enclose foundlings, orphans, the poor, nuns, reformed prostitutes, abused women; all of these charitable enclosures emerge in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, often administered by confraternities with the aim of sheltering the needy. Almost all become steadily more disciplinary within a few decades; once institutional structures are in place, the sense of what one can and should do with them shifts from shelter to reform. I will return to Bologna for just one telling example. Bologna opened Italy’s first permanent poorhouse as a civic enclosure outside the city walls, in 1563. One model came from enclosures for foundlings and orphans opened through the previous century. The other came from Bologna’s enclosed ghetto for the Jews—an area of a few blocks in the centre of town that was bordered, bounded, and sealed off in 1556, and then reinforced in 1566 before the Jews were expelled from the city entirely in 1569.23 When the poor were first expelled from the city and sent to the civic poorhouse in a grand procession of eight hundred in April 1563, they were marched right past the new Jewish ghetto, then down a route that took them past two enclosed convents, one enclosed monastery, and an enclosed girls’ orphanage before exiting the city gate and walking a 22

Yosef Kaplan, The Western Sephardic Diaspora (Tel Aviv: Ministry of Defence, 1994). 23 Bolognese authorities began blocking the streets in January 1556, half a year after Paul IV’s bull Cum nimis absurdum (14 July 1555) ordered establishment of the ghettos. More permanent enclosure would follow in 1566, before the Jews were evicted entirely in July 1569. They returned in October 1586 and settled in the areas close to the old ghetto, and then were expelled for the last time by Clement VIII on 25 February 1593. Franco Bonilauri and Vincenza Maugeri, eds., Guide to Jewish Places in Bologna (Rome 2006), 11–16, 24–28.

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further kilometer down the road and into gates of their own enclosure. Purgation and enclosure worked together as these poor were moved out beyond the walls of the Bolognese community. Bologna’s orphanages and poorhouse were the work of confraternities acting together with the civic government. They were seen by both as farsighted and progressive examples of religious reform on a level with the ghetto—a mechanism for containing impurity and then converting what was impure into what could become pure and Christian. They represent on a civic level the move from identifying harmful and impure actions to identifying harmful, impure, or contagious individuals, and then either enclosing or expelling them (or both) in an act of communal purification. The Bolognese did not hate or fear the poor in 1563 as much as they would later; those emotions grew once the poor had been isolated, gathered, expelled, and enclosed.24 What began as a largely positive poorhouse became a workhouse within a decade, and then a disciplinary prison within a few more decades. We can see a similar dynamic shift at other contemporary workhouses like London’s Bridewell and in Amsterdam’s Almozeniersweeshuis. Savonarola’s ark, like the Madonna of Misericordia’s cloak, was a bounded space. This sense of bounded space and the efforts to purify it are critical to the Observant ethos that spreads from the clergy to lay religious groups through the fifteenth century and that starts to shape a civic religious ethos and political action by the sixteenth. The examples offered here are local, but it is a movement we can trace across Europe and beyond. It is a movement that puts some people on the defensive and puts many people outside the walls and sometimes on the road as religious refugees, where exile or flight shapes their thinking, their literature, their language, and their social life. We see this progressive purgation in other “reforms” of the period that emphasise community purity, fear, and contagion, and that use purgation to protect their religious identity. It’s curious to see how many of the German and Swiss towns that were early leaders in the Protestant Reformation movement to expel their Catholic priests, friars, and intercessory saints in the sixteenth century, had also expelled their Jewish communities only a few decades or even a few years earlier: Basel expels its Jews in 1349 and 1398, and has expelled its priests, saints, and the mass by 1528. Zurich expels the Jews in 1436, it expels Catholic worship in 24

For more on these dynamics and the contexts for enclosure in Bolognese charitable and religious institutions see Nicholas Terpstra, Cultures of Charity: Women, Politics, and the Reform of Poor Relief in Renaissance Italy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013).

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1523, and it exiles or executes radicals from 1525. Augsburg expels the Jews in 1438 and is a Reformation centre by the mid-1520s. The gap then narrows: Geneva expels the Jews in 1490, Salzburg in 1498, Nuremburg in 1517, Regensburg in 1519, and Strasbourg in 1520. All these were leading Protestant Reformation cities within a few years, and it is puzzling that most histories of Reformation Protestantism have not made more of the close chronological conjunction between expelling Jews and expelling priests, saints, and the mass. Most of them treat the intersection of Jewish history with Reformation movements as an afterthought or as something tangential or marginal. I would argue that we need to see it not as the postscript, but rather as a prelude to Reformation. There is a deep continuity between both sets of expulsions—of Jews first, and then of priests, saints, and the mass. Both were marked by mixed emotions. Hatred and fear play a part, of course, and both expulsions are politically and economically fraught. Yet there is a deeper and common drive for exclusionary purification. There is also no shortage of paradox: as Mitchell Merback has noted, sometimes the most virulent anti-Semitic propaganda is produced after an expulsion in order to justify it, and not beforehand to urge action; this may help us understand why woodcuts produced around “Luther’s Last Battles” of the 1530s and 1540s are more virulent and scatalogical than those of the 1520s.25 Moreover, there are enough local compromises that underscore the limits of these expulsions. Jews and bishops alike are sometimes sent just outside the walls, and the Jews in particular are allowed to come back and play a part in the civic economy during daylight hours. But restrictions always accumulate. In her study of Reformation Strasbourg, Debra Kaplan has traced the steady increase of restrictions, the ever harsher characterisation of the alien as evil, the hardening of symbolic into real walls, and the increasing distance between communities in a gradual development which has all the marks of political opportunism playing on more exclusive confessionalist identitymaking. This is also the dynamic that builds up with Jews and the poor in contemporary Catholic Bologna. And this dynamic may help us explain why religiously-justified purgations become ever larger through the early modern period, from the dozens or hundreds of the early sixteenth century, to the thousands of the later sixteenth century, and then the hundreds of thousands in the seventeenth century.

25

Mitchell B. Merback, Pilgrimage and Pogrom: Violence, Memory, and Visual Culture at the Host-Miracle Shrines of Germany and Austria (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012); Mark Edwards, Luther’s Last Battles: Politics and Polemics, 1531–1546 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983).

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Mobility, Community, Identity, and Invented Traditions: Imagined Communities of the Reformation However opportunistic their coming together, this interweaving of purity, contagion, and purgation puts mobility, community, and religious identity at the heart of the kinds of imagined communities that develop both inside and outside fifteenth-century city walls.26 Practical separation spurs ever more emotional distance, with the Other community becoming an increasingly fearful and threatening presence, not by virtue of what its members do, but because of what they are. We see this in attitudes towards the poor across Europe, but even more sharply in attitudes towards Jews and Muslims in Iberia, and the increasingly vexed question of what do to with those who had converted to Christianity under pressure. The experiences of Iberian conversos and moriscos plot the progression of the reform drive: the Catholic community begins with an aggressive policy to purify, intensifies with fears of contamination and contagion, then takes the decision to purge, and later invents the rationalisations based around impurity of blood and the myth of Spain’s eternal Catholicism. Those expelled and those who remain behind both build their sense of community and religious identity on this forced migration or mobility of what is alien.27 It’s because of these connections that I would argue that purity, contagion, and purgation are central drivers of the late medieval reform movement and the early modern Reformation period. We can trace them through religious movements like Observantism and mysticism. We can see it in the schismatic tendency that connects the Observant ruptures of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the Jewish expulsions of the fifteenth, and then the host of ecclesiastical ruptures which multiply across Europe in the sixteenth century. We can see it in an emerging emphasis on particular doctrines among Catholics and Protestants alike: they internalise 26

Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 2nd ed. (London: Verso, 2006). I have expanded further on this parallel in Religious Refugees, 11–17, 309–29. 27 Barbara Fuchs, Exotic Nation: Maurophilia and the Construction of Early Modern Spain (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009); David L. Graizbord, Souls in Dispute: Converso Identities in Iberia and the Jewish Diaspora, 1580–1700 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004); Kaplan, Western Sephardic Diaspora; Jonathan Ray, After Expulsion: 1492 and the Making of Sephardic Jewry (New York: NYU Press, 2013); Jesse Sponholtz and Gary Waite, eds., Exile and Religious Identity, 1500–1800 (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2014).

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and make definitive to their community and identity a few key rituals or doctrines that are critical to purgation. Baptism is a purgative sacrament for Iberian Catholics and critical for relations with Jews and Muslims; Sola Scriptura is the most purgative tool in the Protestant arsenal, regardless of confessional particularities; it also becomes the one doctrine that unites almost all of the many schismatic Protestant groups around a single identity. Protestants purge the intercessory saints, both through physical iconoclastic movements and also through rebuilding a Protestant imaginary on their own martyrs. Catholics do not eliminate the saints, but they do deeply purify the process of saint-making, with no new saints advanced from 1523 to 1588, with a far tighter procedure adopted after that period, and with a more rigorous historiography of the Bollandists and others to separate spiritual wheat from superstitious chaff.28 We can see it in the invented traditions of both sides, and in an experience of oppression that becomes critical to their early history and identity. The rise of print helped feed the early modern imaginary. The rapid growth of histories and martyrologies among Protestant groups in particular allowed them to put their own exiles, refugees, and martyrs at the core of their religious identity, just as saints’ lives had been at the heart of medieval Catholic identity: John Foxe’s Acts and Monuments, Jean Crespin’s Book of Martyrs, and Thieleman van Bracht’s Martyr’s Mirror were the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century equivalents of Jacopo da Voragine’s thirteenth-century bestseller, the Golden Legend. Crespin wrote of the martyrs, “It is not their bones, nor their hair, nor the limbs of their bodies, nor certain rags or pieces of their clothing, nor fables from Golden Legends that recommend them . . . rather it is they themselves, speaking through their writings, consoling and teaching who still remain.” We could also add that while Voragine’s Golden Legend demonised ancient Roman governors and pagan kings, the new Protestant and Catholic martyrologies of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries demonised contemporary religious opponents. The blood enemy was not distant, but next door—a contemporary on the other side of the religious fence. The Reformation martyrologies that were printed and reprinted through the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries set execution and exile at the core of religious identity. They kept confessional divisions alive through the Long Reformation, and, in secularised form, became critical civic religious texts that found renewed currency in the nineteenthcentury Hegelian narratives that also emphasised persecution, conscience, 28 Brad Gregory, Salvation at Stake: Christian Martyrdom in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999).

22

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and resistance to religious oppression. They re-entered popular culture as symbols of liberal resistance to religious oppression that strike us now as puzzling and risible, but that were as resonant as Luther’s apocryphal hammer. French librettists of the nineteenth century wrote operas lauding the Huguenot victims of the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre as patriotic acts of resistance to contemporary Catholic royalist assaults on republicanism, and Italians of the post-Risorgimento period set up statues to Savonarola, including one in the national assembly itself, to remind citizens that vigilant defence of the new Italian republic began with a rejection of ecclesiastical power.29 As historians, we rightly shy away from emphasising fixed periods or claiming that dramatic events either trigger or characterise major movements. But Hegel’s ghost still bangs on the closet door. And for all our efforts, Luther’s banging on the Wittenberg church door (whether physical or metaphorical) still nails a vital chronological peg in the popular mind, and so gives us the so-called five hundredth anniversary of the Reformation in 2017.30 Professional historians are no less culpable here, as we can see in the many conferences held to mark it and in the many new books on the Reformation recently published, in press, or in plan. I would argue that if we feel the need for a dramatic and characterising event, then we may consider taking a step back chronologically from the German friar and Imperial Diet and turn instead to the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492 as the event that triggers “The Reformation.” I come back to the original question: if the Reformation is the period when the religious refugee and exile becomes a mass phenomenon, then the questions are why, how, and to what effect? And the further question is how this might shift the chronology of the Reformation in the popular mind and perhaps even in historians’ minds. The choice of baptism or exile, extended to Spain’s Jews in 1492 and extended to Muslims in 1502, was not the first expulsion in either Iberia or Europe generally. Yet it was the most ambitious in its numerical scale and 29 Jeanice Brooks and Mark Everist, “Giacomo Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots: Staging the History of the French Renaissance,” and Jean Claude Yon, “La Renaissance vue par un librettiste: le cas d’Eugène Scribe,” in The Renaissance in the Nineteenth Century – Le XIXe siècle renaissant, ed. Yannik Portebois and Nicholas Terpstra (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2003), 121–42, 109–20; Terpstra, Religious Refugees, 289–329. 30 For more on memory and invented tradition in relation to this episode, see Daniel Jutte, The Strait Gate: Thresholds and Power in Western History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015), and particularly chap. 4 on “Reading Doors” (175–208).

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national scope. Its proponents argued for it as a constructive rather than a reactive act, and coming just months after the fall of Granada, it was the unfinished business of the reconquest of Christian Spain. It would strengthen the corpus christianum. It certainly set membership in the national community on the foundations of religious truth and individual will, rather than on accidents of birth, and in this way it can be seen as both an inspiration and implication of confessionalist drives that expanded by the later sixteenth century. Europeans would absorb this into the essentialism that came increasingly to define their thinking about self and other. Religious exile became a defining experience for many individual reformers, and it is a very instructive thought experiment to read this into their thinking and their ecclesiology, as Heiko Oberman did with John Calvin. We can trace similar effects in the work of the radicals and Anabaptists and even of Martin Luther. As we move from individual reformers to collective groups, we see how many people internalised the exile experience. Dutch Catholics, English Puritans, Moravian Bretheren, French Huguenots, and many others took as an article of faith the very point that Jewish authors had long drawn out of the prophetic books of the Hebrew Scriptures, which is that God tests those whom he chooses and loves. They took from the historical books of those same Scriptures the awareness that God punishes with exile those who waver and compromise. Hence these same Christians saw the Babylonian captivity as a mirror of their own early modern experience and as a promise of the restoration that could come if they only recovered their ancestors’ purity and zeal. Jews themselves began to celebrate Esther and mark Purim more frequently and exuberantly through the early modern period, when its message of their victory over Haman’s attempted pogrom was very immediate. Religiously driven migration and diaspora, above all in the early modern period, are defining experiences for a disproportionate number of Europe’s migrant groups, and became central to their invented traditions and their imaginary. They flowed in large numbers across the Atlantic to Central and South America, around the Mediterranean to the Ottoman Empire and North Africa, overland to Eastern Europe and Russia, even more distantly to parts of Asia. Many dreamt of returning, and many tried. Not all were seeking new Jerusalems of toleration and freedom, but most were at least seeking to avoid very real pressures of conversion and purgation. Many would later shape their own group identity through the emotion and experience of religious exile, even though that was not always the driver for individuals.

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Mobility, Community, and Religious Identity in the Early Modern Period

My point is one of framing: if we reconceptualise the Reformation around purity, contagion, and purgation, then we have the opportunity to rethink the cast of that historical drama that was the Reformation. We move the exile experience closer to the centre of the dynamics that shaped thought and practice, and we move those who have been treated as marginal actors in that drama, like Jews and Muslims, closer to centre stage in the Long Reformation. Reformation and the Reformation are then not simply in-house disputes between groups of Christians. The Reformation does remain a key to the development of the modern world, though with a fundamental change of perspective. We no longer study this period to find the origins of the Hegelian liberal Western world shaped by secularism, intellectual freedom, and representative political institutions. We look instead for the roots of a modern global culture shaped by the continuation of colonial and postcolonial legacies of exclusionary essentialism, of forced conversion, of religious and racial purgation, and of forced or involuntary migration. This period is when the religious refugee emerges on to the European and then global stage as a mass phenomenon. The forms and rationales have metamorphosed over the centuries, but some of the fundamental drivers have not changed radically. Ideas around purity, contagion, and purgation shaped the mobility that came to define religious community and identity, and that continue to generate millions of refugees today. This is the world that the next generation of historians comes from—some perhaps only in primary school now. These are questions that they will ask about the emergence in the early modern period of those forces that shaped the modern political, social, and religious realities and that may have shaped their own experience. The research they pursue in search of answers to these questions will then also shape their verdict on what were the most significant developments of the Reformation movements.

I. TRANSPLANTED COMMUNITIES

PORTABLE HOMELAND: THE GERMAN-JEWISH DIASPORA IN ITALY AND ITS IMPACT ON ASHKENAZIC BOOK CULTURE, 1400–1600 LUCIA RASPE

In 1485, a Jew apparently of German origin living in the Italian city of Senigallia wrote a brief Hebrew history of the Jews in the German lands, which culminated in a collection of eight self-contained narratives of the great persecutions the Jews had suffered.1 In the colophon, which the same scribe set down at the very end of his composition, he noted a marked difference between the history he had just recounted and his own present experience. “And there was not another persecution in the land of Ashkenaz after that,” he wrote, referring to the Black Death of 1349, “down to this day in the year 5245. There were, however, many expulsions.” And he closed, “Blessed be He Who effects change over time.”2 Among the manifold changes that mark the watershed between the Medieval and the Early Modern in Jewish history is large-scale migration. While the expulsion from Spain was a blow that has led some to date that watershed itself to 1492,3 the many expulsions from almost all of the urban centres of Jewish life in the German lands—Ashkenaz in medieval Hebrew sources—which began in the 1390s and continued throughout the fifteenth century would seem to have redrawn the map of the Jewish world 1

MS Warsaw, ĩydowski Instytut Historyczny 253 (Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts [IMHM], Jerusalem, film no. 10120), fols. 99r–100v. See Abraham David, “Tales Concerning Persecutions in Medieval Germany,” in Habermann Jubilee Volume: Papers on Medieval Hebrew Literature Presented to A. M. Habermann on the Occasion of His 75th Birthday, ed. Zvi Malachi (Jerusalem: Mass, 1977), 69–83 [Hebrew]. 2 MS Warsaw 253, fol. 100v: ʺʰʹ ʠʥʤʹ ʤʦʤ ʭʥʩʤ ʣʲ ʺʠʦ ʩʸʧʠ ʦʰʫʹʠʡ ʤʸʩʦʢ ʣʥʲ ʤʩʤ ʠʬʥ ʭʩʺʲʤ ʤʰʹʮ ʪʥʸʡ .'ʩʡʸ 'ʩʹʥʸʩʢ ʥʩʤ ʯʫʠ .ʷ"ʴʬ ʤ"ʮʸ. 3 David B. Ruderman, Early Modern Jewry: A New Cultural History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010), 194.

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in no less dramatic fashion. As a result, new centres of Ashkenazic Judaism were established outside of the German-speaking lands. The one in Poland and Lithuania is so well known that in common parlance, the very term “Ashkenazic” is often taken to signify “of Eastern European origin.” The migration of German Jews into Italy, which preceded the emergence of the new centre in Eastern Europe by a generation or two, is less familiar even to scholars.4 One reason may lie in the fact that it flourished over a relatively brief period of time. Its golden age came to a close at the end of the sixteenth century when the language of ItaloAshkenazic Jews shifted from Yiddish to a Jewish variety of Italian written in Latin characters in both external and internal communication.5 Thus the Italian intermezzo turned into an episode as the centre of Ashkenazic Judaism moved elsewhere. Taking her cue from Max Weinreich’s distinction between Ashkenaz I, the medieval Jewish settlement in the German-speaking lands, and the later centre in Eastern Europe, Ashkenaz II, Yiddish scholar Erika Timm has referred to Italy as Ashkenaz III.6 I wonder whether it may perhaps be

4

Pioneering studies include Moritz Güdemann, Geschichte des Erziehungswesens und der Cultur der Juden in Deutschland während des XIV. und XV. Jahrhunderts (Vienna: Hölder, 1888), 246–62; Moses Shulvass, “Ashkenazic Jewry in Italy,” YIVO Annual of Jewish Social Science 7 (1952): 110–31; Jomtov Ludovico Bato, “L’immigrazione degli Ebrei tedeschi in Italia dal Trecento al Cinquecento,” in Scritti in memoria di Sally Mayer: Saggi sull’ebraismo italiano, ed. Umberto Nahon (Jerusalem: Fondazione Sally Mayer, 1956), 19–34; Ariel Toaff, “Migrazioni di ebrei tedeschi attraverso i territori triestini e friulani fra XIV e XV secolo,” in Il mondo ebraico: Gli ebrei tra Italia nord-orientale e Impero asburgico dal Medioevo all’Età contemporanea, ed. Giacomo Todeschini and Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini (Pordenone: Studio Tesi, 1991), 3–29; idem, “Gli insediamenti ashkenaziti nell’Italia settentrionale,” in Gli ebrei in Italia, ed. Corrado Vivanti, vol. 1 (Turin: Einaudi, 1996), 155–71. For the contemporaneous migration of non-Jews from Germany into Italy, see Uwe Israel, Fremde aus dem Norden: Transalpine Zuwanderer im spätmittelalterlichen Italien (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2005); Lorenz Böninger, Die deutsche Einwanderung nach Florenz im Spätmittelalter (Leiden: Brill, 2006). 5 Chone Shmeruk, Yiddish Literature: Aspects of Its History (Tel Aviv: Porter Institute for Poetics & Semiotics, 1978), 73–74 [Hebrew]. For the analogous process that replaced Hebrew with Italian among Italian Jews at about the same time, see Robert Bonfil, “Changing Mentalities of Italian Jews between the Periods of the Renaissance and the Baroque,” Italia 11 (1994): 61–79. 6 Erika Timm, “Das jiddischsprachige literarische Erbe der Italo-Aschkenasen,” in Schöpferische Momente des europäischen Judentums in der frühen Neuzeit, ed. Michael Graetz (Heidelberg: Winter, 2000), 161; cf. Max Weinreich, History of

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more appropriate to call it Ashkenaz-and-a-half. For one thing, the Italian phase of Ashkenazic culture, in terms of the chronology inherent in Weinreich’s terminology, would seem to sit somewhere between Germany and Poland. For another, the Ashkenazic settlement in Italy may perhaps be said, as a German colloquialism would have it, to have been one hundred and fifty percent Ashkenazic: it did cultivate its own “Ashkenazicness” in a very intense way. In consequence, its relatively short duration notwithstanding, the Italian interlude would seem to have left a distinctive mark on the legacy of medieval Ashkenaz as we know it today. Among the narrative sources relating to the history of the Jewish settlement in Germany itself, the preponderance of material recorded or preserved in Italy is striking; the manuscript cited at the outset is as good an example as any. Although the narratives it transmits were intensely local in character, anchored as they were in the physical space of the old urban centres of historical Ashkenaz, they were apparently taken for granted and left unrecorded while Jews were living there. It was only when their narrators had to leave that a need was felt to set these traditions down in writing. And it was those among German Jews who settled in Italy who seem to have felt that need most strongly.7 My contribution in what follows will focus on Ashkenazic book culture more broadly. I will first offer a brief overview of the origins, extent, and social composition of the German-Jewish migration into Italy. I will then consider how these features impacted Italo-Ashkenazic book production through the lens of two very prominent families, whose history may illustrate how the specific experience of German Jews in Italy influenced the shape the Ashkenazic canon took in early modernity. Recent research into the southward migration of Ashkenazic Jews would seem to have taught us, first of all, that those who began crossing the Alps towards the end of the Middle Ages did so not primarily because of persecution, although persecutions and expulsions there were, but to better themselves—or perhaps simply to maintain a decent level of living, which was becoming increasingly difficult in Germany at the time. Secondly, especially during the early phase of the Jewish exodus in the late fourteenth and early fifteenth century, they came primarily from the Yiddish Language, ed. Paul Glasser, trans. Shlomo Noble and Joshua A. Fishman (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), 3–4. 7 Lucia Raspe, Jüdische Hagiographie im mittelalterlichen Aschkenas (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 329–30; eadem, “When King Dagobert Came to Halle: Place and Displacement in Medieval Jewish Legend,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 20 (2013): 146–58.

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western and southwestern Germany. Third, in many cases they did not necessarily come to stay but to widen the radius of their business activity; in other words, a certain back-and-forth continued throughout the fifteenth century. Fourth, at the places they initially settled in Italy they hardly ever came across Italian—or any other—Jews, and fifth, because Jewishly they were in no-man’s-land, they had no reason not to stick to the Ashkenazic way of living. And that is what they did. Let us take a closer look at each of these points. Contrary to what used to be taken for granted in earlier scholarship, the archival research of the past decade or two has made it quite clear that the German-Jewish migration into Italy can be traced back not to the end of the thirteenth century, when recurring waves of persecution began to be endemic in Germany, or the middle of the fourteenth, when they culminated in the wholesale devastation of the Black Death. What we are beginning to see is that a significant movement of Jews across the Alps originated towards the end of the fourteenth century and was triggered not by anti-Jewish violence per se, but rather by the understanding that securing a livelihood according to the economic patterns established in Ashkenaz of the high Middle Ages, of credit operations and trade, was becoming increasingly difficult if not impossible.8 One crucial way station along that road were the infamous cancellations of debts owed to Jews under King Wenceslas,9 which robbed the moneylenders of Swabia, Franconia, and the Rhineland of their outstanding monies twice within five years, in 1385 and 1390. At the top level of Jewish banking in Germany, the losses were substantial.10 8

See e.g., Alessandra Veronese, “Mobilità, migrazioni e presenza ebraica a Trieste nei secoli XIV e XV,” in Scritti in onore di Girolamo Arnaldi offerti dalla Scuola Nazionale di Studi Medioevali, ed. Andrea Degrandi et al. (Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo, 2001), 546–47; Angela Möschter, Juden im venezianischen Treviso (1389–1509) (Hannover: Hahn, 2008), 48–49; cf. Michael Toch, “Jewish Migrations to, within and from Medieval Germany,” in Le migrazioni in Europa secc. XIII–XVIII, ed. Simonetta Cavaciocchi (Florence: Le Monnier, 1994), 645–46. 9 Arthur Süßmann, Die Judenschuldentilgungen unter König Wenzel (Berlin: Lamm, 1907); Karel Hruza, “Anno domini 1385 do burden die iuden . . . gevangen: Die vorweggenommene Wirkung skandalöser Urkunden König Wenzels (IV.),” in Wege zur Urkunde, Wege der Urkunde, Wege der Forschung: Beiträge zur europäischen Diplomatik des Mittelalters, ed. Karel Hruza and Paul Herold (Vienna: Böhlau, 2005), 117–67. 10 For case studies of two financial centres, see Michael Toch, “Der jüdische Geldhandel in der Wirtschaft des deutschen Spätmittelalters: Nürnberg, 1350– 1499,” Blätter für deutsche Landesgeschichte 117 (1981): 283–310; Christian Scholl, Die Judengemeinde der Reichsstadt Ulm im späten Mittelalter:

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As a result, it became apparent that large-scale loan banking was ceasing to be a viable option, and those among the Jewish bankers that had the necessary connections began to look for ways to transfer their capital abroad. It is that flight of capital among precisely the largest of the remaining firms, some of which had entertained business relations with the cities of northern Italy for a while, which appears to have set the Italian phase of Ashkenazic history in motion.11 A second factor, no less important and likewise beginning to make itself felt in the 1390s, was the wave of expulsions from the urban centres of Jewish life within Germany, many of which had only recently readmitted Jews after the persecutions of the Black Death. These expulsions began in the western parts of the regnum teutonicum, then continued in some of the time-honoured places of Jewish settlement along the Rhine—such as Cologne (1424), Speyer (1435), and Mainz (1438)— before reaching Swabia and Franconia in the second half of the fifteenth century. By the time a century of displacement culminated in the expulsion from Regensburg in 1519, there was hardly any urban Jewish community left in the German lands.12 From the 1380s onward, then, we see German-Jewish émigrés beginning to appear in Italian sources. Settling at first in the towns and hamlets of the Friuli and the Venetian mainland, then moving on towards the cities of the Po valley, they established a Jewish presence in places such as Treviso, Mestre, or Padua, in Mantua, Cremona, and Pavia. There had hardly been any Jews living in these cities before the Ashkenazim arrived. It was only when their southward migration converged with a wave of indigenous Italian Jews moving north from Rome at roughly the Innerjüdische Verhältnisse und christlich-jüdische Beziehungen in süddeutschen Zusammenhängen (Hannover: Hahn, 2012), 302–9. 11 Toaff, “Migrazioni,” 5–8. See also Eberhard Isenmann, “Steuern und Abgaben,” in Germania Judaica, vol. 3.3, ed. Arye Maimon, Mordechai Breuer, and Yacov Guggenheim (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 2268; Michael Toch, Die Juden im mittelalterlichen Reich, 3rd ed. (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2013), 17–18. 12 Alfred Haverkamp, ed., Geschichte der Juden im Mittelalter zwischen Nordsee und Mittelmeer: Kommentiertes Kartenwerk (Hannover: Hahn, 2002), esp. maps C 4.5–8. For two exceptions, where continuity of settlement came at the price of ghettoisation, see Fritz Backhaus, “Die Einrichtung eines Ghettos für die Frankfurter Juden im Jahre 1462,” Hessisches Jahrbuch für Landesgeschichte 39 (1989): 59–86; Gerold Bönnen, “Late Medieval Worms: The Jews between the City, the Bishops, and the Crown,” in The Jews of Europe in the Middle Ages (Tenth to Fifteenth Centuries): Proceedings of the International Symposium Held at Speyer, 20–25 October 2002, ed. Christoph Cluse (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), 456–57.

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same time that ethnically mixed communities came into being,13 and it was only in the sixteenth century that ghettoisation, in Venice and elsewhere, forced Jews of all stripes—including the more recent arrivals from Iberia—into close proximity with one another.14 During the formative phase of the German-Jewish immigration, in contradistinction, the Ashkenazic settlements in northern Italy were Jewishly isolated and minuscule to begin with, and that trend continued as more recent newcomers from Germany began fanning out into the hinterland. Communities in a proper sense there were few.15 Indeed, even Treviso, which played a leading role among Italo-Ashkenazim in the first half of the fifteenth century, was made up of barely one hundred and fifty souls in 1425.16 Besides Treviso, only Mestre had more than a hundred Jewish inhabitants at the time; in Padua, the Ashkenazic minority (vis-àvis an indigenous Italian-Jewish group) numbered less than one hundred in 1432, while Pavia, the most important homogenously Ashkenazic settlement in Lombardy, was home to a mere sixty.17 In most places, then, there was a kernel of no more than one or two, perhaps three families, around which a number of less well-to-do relatives or servants were clustered. These families owed their own right of settlement to the fact that their heads conducted a loan bank in the 13 Ariel Toaff, “Convergenza sul Veneto di banchieri ebrei romani e tedeschi nel tardo Medioevo,” in Gli Ebrei e Venezia, secoli XIV–XVIII, ed. Gaetano Cozzi (Milan: Comunità, 1987), 595–614. See also Moses A. Shulvass, The Jews in the World of the Renaissance, trans. Elvin I. Kose (Leiden: Brill, 1973), 1–28; Robert Bonfil, Jewish Life in Renaissance Italy, trans. Anthony Oldcorn (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 53–77. 14 The literature on the ghetto is vast; its effects on the rapprochement, linguistic and otherwise, between German and Italian Jews have not been systematically addressed. For an overview, see Cecil Roth, The History of the Jews of Italy (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1946), 309–94; Attilio Milano, Storia degli ebrei in Italia (Turin: Einaudi, 1963), 519–51. 15 For some of the criteria applied in the contemporary distinction between fullfledged kehillot and other forms of Jewish settlement, see Mordechai Breuer and Yacov Guggenheim, “Die jüdische Gemeinde, Gesellschaft und Kultur,” in Maimon, Breuer and Guggenheim, Germania Judaica, vol. 3.3, 2090. Regarding Italy, see Alessandra Veronese, “Zum Verhältnis von jüdischer Familie und Gemeinde in Ober- und Mittelitalien während des 14. und 15. Jahrhunderts,” in Jüdische Gemeinden und ihr christlicher Kontext in kulturräumlich vergleichender Betrachtung von der Spätantike bis zum 18. Jahrhundert, ed. Christoph Cluse, Alfred Haverkamp, and Israel J. Yuval (Hannover: Hahn, 2003), 283–91. 16 Möschter, Treviso, 53–60. 17 Toaff, “Migrazioni,” 16.

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respective place, whose precise workings were detailed in the charters modern scholars have referred to as condotte. When negotiated by Ashkenazim, these condotte tended to be somewhat different from those of Italian Jewish loan bankers.18 Most tellingly, perhaps, and most importantly for our context, Ashkenazic charters often had a clause that permitted the holder to interrupt his professional activity and leave his city of residence for weeks at a time so he might be able to observe the major holidays of the Jewish year in one of the larger Ashkenazic communities. This emphasis on communal worship conducted according to the familiar rite stood in marked contrast to the practice of Italian Jewish loan bankers, who often operated in conditions of nearly total isolation from one another. During most of the year, however, a majority of Ashkenazic Jews had to make do without the benefits of living in a regular Jewish community (kehillah). That may explain why we have so many manuscripts from the Italian phase of Ashkenazic culture that attempt to make up for the lack of a communal infrastructure. As late as the mid-1580s, when Avraham Carmi, the scion of a prominent banking family of Ashkenazic origin, left Cremona and moved to a small town some fifty kilometers down the Po, he commissioned an Ashkenazic ma‫ۊ‬zor for the high holy days, “apparently expecting such items to be harder to come by in Brescello.”19 That would seem typical in more than one respect. Many of the manuscripts that have come down to us testify to a similar need of German Jews in Italy to preserve the Ashkenazic way of life under less than favourable conditions.20 Prayerbooks and handbooks of liturgical practice were especially sought after; so were guidebooks to rabbinic law, especially its practical application as regards, for instance, kosher slaughter—a field in which Ashkenazic Jews were reputed to be more punctilious than most of their Italian coreligionists.21 In many cases, such manuscripts were commissioned by members of the great banking families. In others, these had enough learning to produce their own copies. In addition, they sometimes hosted—or employed, often as their children’s teachers—

18

The following is paraphrased from Corrado Vivanti, “The History of the Jews in Italy and the History of Italy,” Journal of Modern History 67 (1995): 334, which is itself based on Toaff, “Migrazioni,” 5–15, esp. 14–15. 19 Elliott Horowitz, “Families and Their Fortunes: The Jews of Early Modern Italy,” in Cultures of the Jews: A New History, ed. David Biale (New York: Schocken, 2002), 613. 20 Bato, “Immigrazione,” 29. 21 Vivanti, “History,” 334.

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rabbinic scholars in their own homes, who then copied works that apparently were in demand. 22 Let us look at two families which may have something to teach us about how these circumstances affected overall cultural production. Not accidentally, one of these families hailed from Nuremberg, the other from Ulm—two of the major financial centres of southern Germany, each of which remained home to a Jewish community until the very end of the fifteenth century. At the time of expulsion in 1498, however, no members of the Rapp family still resided in Nuremberg. The fabulously wealthy widow Gutta or Jutta Rapp had left the Franconian city with her stepsons in the wake of the 1385 confiscation of debts and gone first to Venice, then to Pesaro and Ancona; about a century later, descendants of her family were living in Treviso, Mestre, Vicenza, Padua, Ferrara, Monza, and Portobuffolè.23 It was in Portobuffolè, a tiny place in the Veneto, that Jutta Rapp’s grandson Rabbi Hayyim Rapp Soten signed his name to a manuscript he had penned in 1464, which preserves, among other things, a copy of the takkanot shum, the thirteenth-century communal ordinances of the “Shum” communities—Speyer, Worms and Mainz—fundamental to the Ashkenazic legal tradition.24 When the same Hayyim moved to Mestre right outside of Venice a few years later, he reappears in the record as a patron of Hebrew letters. It was in his house in Mestre that the first part of Leket yosher, a collection based on the teachings of Rabbi Yisrael Isserlein and put together by Isserlein’s student Josel of Höchstädt, was completed in 1470.25 That same year, also in Mestre, a relative copied a Passover haggadah for Hayyim Rapp Soten’s wife.26 22 Cf. Nurit Pasternak, “Who Were the Hebrew Scribes in Renaissance Italy? A Short Review of Their Manifold Roles,” in Manuscrits hébreux et arabes: Mélanges en l’honneur de Colette Sirat, ed. Nicholas de Lange and Judith Olszowy-Schlanger (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 29–37. 23 Möschter, Treviso, 74–83, 87–91. See esp. 88 n. 307 for the sojourn of one branch in Portobuffolè, which appears to have earned the family the name familiar in Jewish history, Rappaport. 24 MS Mantua, Comunità Israelitica ebr. 8 (IMHM 788), fol. 10v. On takkanot shum, see Rainer Barzen, “Die SchUM-Gemeinden und ihre Rechtssatzungen: Geschichte und Wirkungsgeschichte,” in Die SchUM-Gemeinden Speyer – Worms – Mainz: Auf dem Weg zum Welterbe, ed. Pia Heberer and Ursula Reuter (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner, 2013), 23–35. 25 Jakob Freimann, ed., Leket Joscher des Joseph b. Mose: Collectaneen seines Lehrers Israel Isserlein (Berlin: M’kize Nirdamim, 1903–4), 1: 159 [Hebrew]. Cf. the editor’s introduction, XXX, no. 48. 26 Formerly in the collection of Sigmund Nauheim of Frankfurt am Main, who bequeathed his manuscripts to the Jewish National and University Library,

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A second family, even more prominently involved in the production and patronage of Hebrew manuscripts, is that of Seligmann (in Hebrew, Yitzhak; in Italian, Bonaventura) of Ulm, whose father had been the wealthiest loan banker in the German city of Coburg in 1418.27 Seligmann himself served as the rabbi of Ulm from the 1430s onward; he also ran a major banking business first in Konstanz, then in Ulm, and established close ties with Italy at an early point in his career—so much so that when the Jews of Konstanz were imprisoned because of a ritual murder accusation in nearby Ravensburg in 1429, the doge of Venice intervened on his behalf.28 After Seligmann had passed away in c. 1455/56, his son Yaakov Mattityahu took over the family business in Ulm, as would in time his own son Avraham. Yaakov Mattityahu’s grandson, named Seligmann after his Jerusalem, before his death in 1935; this particular haggadah, however, cannot be found there today. See Aron Freimann, “Haben jüdische Flüchtlinge aus Mainz im 15. Jahrhundert den Buchdruck nach Italien gebracht?,” Journal of Jewish Bibliography 1 (1939): 9–10; idem, “Jewish Scribes in Medieval Italy,” in Alexander Marx Jubilee Volume, English Section (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1950), 255 no. 92; Verena Bopp, “Der Fall Nauheim: Raub oder Rettung?,” in Raub und Restitution: Kulturgut aus jüdischem Besitz von 1933 bis heute, ed. Inka Bertz and Michael Dorrmann (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2008), 135, and cf. the SfarData database of what is today the National Library of Israel (accessible at [accessed 30 June 2017]), no. 0Y806. An additional manuscript acquired by Hayyim Rapp Soten in 1473 (today MS Jerusalem, NLI Heb. 4° 621) is described in Carlo Bernheimer, Catalogue des manuscrits et livres rares hébraïques de la bibliothèque du Talmud Tora de Livourne (Livorno: Communauté, 1915), 4 no. 2, and available online at < rosetta.nli.org.il/delivery/DeliveryManagerServlet?dps_pid=IE9956554> [accessed 30 June 2017]. 27 Gudrun Emberger-Wandel, “Ulm,” in Germania Judaica, vol. 3.2, ed. Arye Maimon, Mordechai Breuer, and Yacov Guggenheim (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995), 1506–7 no. 25 and 1519 n. 240; cf. Maike Lämmerhirt, Juden in den wettinischen Herrschaftsgebieten: Recht, Verwaltung und Wirtschaft im Spätmittelalter (Cologne: Böhlau, 2007), 371–74, 378, 397–98, 403–5. 28 Franz Hundsnurscher, “Konstanz,” in Germania Judaica, vol. 3.1, ed. Arye Maimon (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1987), 666, 669 no. 16; Möschter, Treviso, 304–5 no. 38; Scholl, Ulm, 229–45. See also Angela Möschter, “Die Juden in der venezianischen Terraferma und ihre Einbindung in regionale und überregionale Netzwerke,” in Beziehungsnetze aschkenasischer Juden während des Mittelalters und der frühen Neuzeit, ed. Jörg R. Müller (Hannover: Hahn, 2009), 192–94, and the editor’s introduction in Israel Mordechai Peles, ed., R. Juda Löw Kirchheim: The Customs of Worms Jewry (Jerusalem: Mifal torath chachmey Ashkenaz, Machon Yerushalayim, 1987), 19–20 n. 24 [Hebrew].

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great-grandfather, was among the twelve heads of families whose houses were confiscated when the Jews were finally expelled from Ulm, too, in 1499.29 Yaakov Mattityahu’s three brothers, on the other hand, had gone to Italy even while their father, the elder Seligmann, was still alive— undoubtedly in order to open branches of the family business south of the Alps; as conditions continued to deteriorate in Germany, they remained.30 Two of the elder Seligmann’s four sons are on record as collectors of books. While Yaakov Mattityahu in Ulm commissioned some of the most lavishly illuminated Hebrew manuscripts produced in Germany in the fifteenth century, a two-volume ma‫ۊ‬zor dated 145931 and a haggadah illuminated in a joint effort by Jewish and Christian artists apparently about a year later,32 his brother Moshe owned a number of more modest codices that are intriguing in their own way. One is a Hebrew prayerbook for the whole year that contains an illustrated haggadah and mentions Moshe, son of Rabbi Yitzhak, as the honoree of the Torah reading on Sim‫ۊ‬at Torah.33 There is a good chance Moshe copied it for himself, 29

Scholl, Ulm, 243–44, 351. Möschter, Treviso, 304–5; Scholl, Ulm, 158–59. 31 MS Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek Cod. hebr. 3 (IMHM 2521–22), available online at and . For colour images, see e.g., Efrat Gal-Ed, Das Buch der jüdischen Jahresfeste (Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 2001), plates V–VII. The genealogical reconstruction above relies on the fact that the second volume preserves the names of the owner’s sons, Avraham b. Yaakov (fol. 345v) and Moshe b. Yaakov Mattityah (fol. 347v), as noted by Yael Zirlin, “Joel Meets Johannes: A Fifteenth-Century Jewish-Christian Collaboration in Manuscript Illumination,” Viator 26 (1995): 266. 32 MS London, British Library Add. 14762 (IMHM 4946), described in George Margoliouth, Catalogue of the Hebrew and Samaritan Manuscripts in the British Museum (London: The British Museum, 1905–35), 2: 203–4 no. 610, and available online at [accessed 30 June 2017]. For discussion, see Sheila Edmunds, “The Place of the London Haggadah in the Work of Joel ben Simeon,” Journal of Jewish Art 7 (1980): 25– 34; Zirlin, “Joel Meets Johannes.” In addition, Yaakov Mattityahu appears to have commissioned a manuscript siddur, MS New York, Jewish Theological Seminary 4057 (IMHM 24959), available online at

[accessed 30 June 2017]. See Yael Zirlin, “Meir Jaffe and Joel Ben Simeon: Working Relations between Jewish Scribes and a Christian Atelier,” Auskunft: Zeitschrift für Bibliothek, Archiv und Information in Norddeutschland 26 (2006): 287–309. 33 MS Parma, Biblioteca Palatina 2895 (de Rossi 653; IMHM 13788), available online at 30

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although the illustrations were clearly executed by a professional. Whoever did write the codex completed the ma‘arivim, the poetic pieces for the evening service of the pilgrimage festivals, in Ulm in the summer of 1450.34 The yotzrot, zulatot, and ofanim for the special Sabbaths throughout the year, on the other hand, were added by the same hand twoand-a-half years later.35 By that time, in 1453, Moshe was already living in Treviso, but clearly continued to conduct his prayers according to the rite customary in his home town. The same move to what was to become a permanent residence in Italy is evident in a second manuscript from his collection.36 While that codex, whose first part was copied the same year 1453 in Treviso, is not illustrated, the texts it juxtaposes are highly interesting in their own right. The opening piece is a handbook of Western Ashkenazic synagogue liturgy—in Hebrew, a minhagim book, recording both prayer rite (minhag) and liturgical customs (minhagim) observed in a specific community— which according to the colophon had been put together by one Rabbi Shmuel of Ulm, apparently in 1449; the copyist notes that Rabbi Shmuel had been assisted by a number of other scholars, his own father Rabbi Seligmann among them.37 Again, there is a likelihood that this text was copied by Moshe himself, who had just moved south from Ulm and apparently thought it might be useful to have a how-to book of Ashkenazic liturgy close at hand. The minhagim book is followed by another guide to Jewish living according to the Ashkenazic tradition, Rabbi Yaakov Weil’s handbook of kosher slaughter.38 The manuscript then goes on to append a wide variety of other texts, including some of the classic collections of

[accessed 30 June 2017]. See Benjamin Richler, ed., Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma: Catalogue (Jerusalem: Jewish National and University Library, 2001), 259–60 no. 1038. 34 MS Parma 2895, p. 366 (Ulm, 8 Av 5210). 35 Ibid., p. 466 (Treviso, 10 Adar 5213). 36 Formerly MS London, Jews’ College 28 (IMHM 4699); today in a private collection. See the description in the auction catalogue published by Christie’s New York, Important Hebrew Manuscripts and Printed Books from The Library of the London Beth Din . . . 23 June 1999, lot 99. A digitised version of the manuscript can be accessed within the National Library of Israel, Jerusalem. 37 MS London 28, fols. 2r–43r; colophon on fol. 43r. For a preliminary study of this as yet unpublished work, see Eric Zimmer, “A Book of Customs of the School of the Maharil,” Alei Sefer 14 (1987): 59–87 [Hebrew]. 38 MS London 28, fols. 51r–54r.

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medieval Hebrew narrative39 and—almost hidden away among them—the one surviving copy we have of the longest and most ambitious of the three Hebrew accounts of the persecutions of the First Crusade, the one ascribed to Shlomo bar Shimshon—a text that despite its slim transmission record would seem fairly central to the historical self-image of medieval Ashkenaz.40 The combination the codex at hand offers of texts relating to synagogue ritual and user-oriented practical halakha, on the one hand, and prose narrative, both traditional and originally Ashkenazic, on the other, would seem characteristic of a distinct type of manuscript produced by and for Ashkenazic émigrés in northern Italy. While the two manuscripts owned by Moshe son of Seligmann kept these works separate from the liturgy itself—perhaps because he owned the siddur today housed in Parma before he took on the miscellany formerly in London—more often do we find codices that combine the two: manuscripts, that is, whose basic structure builds upon the liturgy but which accommodate a wide selection of other texts in the margins. Consider an example kept at Frankfurt University Library—a beautifully executed siddur on vellum complete with the Passover haggadah and Pirkei ‘avot (“The Sayings of the Fathers”), a classic of rabbinic literature studied in synagogue during the summer months. Its codicology would seem to suggest it was produced in northern Italy by the late 1430s. It also contains some of the very same narrative texts preserved in the London codex in its own margins.41 In addition, among these marginal texts, there is another 39

E.g., the Midrash on the Ten Commandments (fols. 64r–70r) or the fables ascribed to Berekhyah hanakdan (fols. 163v–181v). 40 First published in Adolf Neubauer and Moritz Stern, eds., Hebräische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen während der Kreuzzüge (Berlin: Simion, 1892). See the introduction to Eva Haverkamp, ed., Hebräische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen während des Ersten Kreuzzugs (Hannover: Hahn, 2005), 49– 63, 85–129 (on the narrative), 143–53 (on this manuscript). 41 MS Frankfurt am Main, Universitätsbibliothek Johann Christian Senckenberg hebr. oct. 227 (IMHM 23165), available online at [accessed 30 June 2017]. For a description, see Ernst Róth and Leo Prijs, Die Handschriften der Stadt- und Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt am Main (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1990), 131–37 no. 235. The version of Midrash ‘aseret hadibrot (fols. 118r–121r) represented in this manuscript would seem especially close to the one preserved in MS London 28. See Anat Shapira, ed., Midrash Aseret Ha-Dibrot (A Midrash on the Ten Commandments): Text, Sources and Interpretation (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2005), 102–14. MS Frankfurt, fols. 71v–74r, also contains the narratives about Rabbi Moshe b. Maimon published from MS London 28, fols. 80r–81r, by Adolf Neubauer, “Pseudo-Biografie von Maimonides,” Israelietische Letterbode 7 (1881–82): 14–17.

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minhagim book, a guide to synagogue liturgy following Western Ashkenazic practice similar to but distinct from the one in MS London and put together by one Rabbi Zalman Yent in Treviso in the mid-1430s.42 In short, this would seem a classic Italo-Ashkenazic format: a one-volume home library organised around the liturgy for the entire year, which offered Jews who lived at a distance from the communities of historical Ashkenaz, or any community at all, but had the necessary means to buy books much-needed practical guidance, as well as a lot of good reading to fill those long summer Sabbath afternoons. The most famous of manuscripts of this type is the so-called Rothschild Miscellany, which combines an Ashkenazic expatriate home library of precisely the same type with exquisite Italianate decoration; it was written for one Moshe ben Yekutiel Hakohen in c. 1479.43 The patron has been identified as Mosé Furlano di Consiglio Sacerdoti, an Ashkenazic banker in Cremona; another opinion holds that he was a member of the Rapp family and the book produced in Venice.44 Seeing, as I recently have, that the penitential prayers preserved in the liturgical part of the Rothschild Miscellany happen to follow the rite of Nuremberg, I believe there may be something to that second opinion.45 42 MS Frankfurt hebr. oct. 227, fols. 169v–172r; edited from an inferior manuscript in Shlomo J. Spitzer, ed., Sefer Haminhagim (Rulings and Customs) of Rabbi Eisik Tirna, 2nd ed. (Jerusalem: Mifal torath chachmey Ashkenaz, Machon Yerushalayim, 2000), 169–182 [Hebrew]. 43 MS Jerusalem, Israel Museum 180/51; published in facsimile as The Rothschild Miscellany (Jerusalem/London: The Israel Museum, Facsimile Editions, 1989). The patron’s name appears as that of the kohen called up to read from the Torah during the Sabbath morning service, fol. 106r. See Malachi Beit-Arié, “A Palaeographical and Codicological Study of the Manuscript,” in The Rothschild Miscellany: A Scholarly Commentary (Jerusalem/London: The Israel Museum, Facsimile Editions, 1989), 110–24; Benjamin Elizur, “Dating of the Rothschild Miscellany,” Tarbiz 66 (1996/97): 275–77 [Hebrew]. 44 Luisa Mortara Ottolenghi, “The Illumination and the Artists,” in The Rothschild Miscellany: A Scholarly Commentary, 246–50; eadem, “The Rothschild Miscellany MS 180/51 of the Israel Museum in Jerusalem: Jewish Patrons and Christian Artists,” in Hebrew Studies: Papers Presented at a Colloquium on Resources for Hebraica in Europe, ed. Diana Rowland Smith and Peter Shmuel Salinger (London: The British Library, 1991), 149–61. Contrast Ulrike Bauer-Eberhardt, “Die RothschildMiscellanea in Jerusalem: Hauptwerk des Leonardo Bellini,” Bruckmanns Pantheon 42 (1984): 229–37; Daniele Nissim, “Famiglie Rapa e Rapaport nell’Italia settentrionale (sec. XV–XVI), con un’appendice sull’origine della Miscellanea Rothschild,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 67/1–2 (2001): 190–91. 45 MS Jerusalem, Israel Museum 180/51, fols. 251r–272r. For more extensive discussion of the Italo-Ashkenazic selihot tradition and its German-Jewish

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If that question may perhaps never be resolved, we do know that another illuminated Hebrew manuscript, similarly spectacular but much older, which appears to follow a similar structure and may perhaps have helped inspire the type of Ashkenazic “portable homeland” so prevalent in fifteenth-century Italy, was owned by the family of Seligmann Ulm at the time. One of the great treasures of the Jewish Middle Ages, the thirteenthcentury North French Miscellany today housed in the British Library has been called the most beautiful Hebrew manuscript ever produced in France.46 According to a deed of sale preserved on one of the final leaves, it was acquired by one Avraham ben Moshe of Coburg in 143147—none other than Seligmann’s father, the wealthiest banker in Coburg as we may recall.48 Two generations on, the manuscript was in the hands of one of Seligmann’s sons in Italy, and it is from another note on the final leaves that we learn of Moshe ben Seligmann, the owner’s brother’s death in Mestre in 1479 and burial on the Lido,49 where his gravestone can still be found.50 antecedents, see my contribution to Lukas Clemens and Christoph Cluse, eds., European Jewry around 1400: Disruption, Crisis, and Resilience (forthcoming). 46 MS London, British Library Add. 11639 (Margoliouth 1056; IMHM 4948 G), available online at bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=Add_MS_11639 [accessed 30 June 2017]. Cf. Colette Sirat, “Le plus beau manuscrit hébreu écrit en France,” in Mise en page et mise en texte du livre manuscrit, ed. Henri-Jean Martin and Jean Vezin (Paris: Cercle de la Librarie, Promodis, 1990), 100–104. 47 MS London Add. 11639, fol. 745r. See the transcription in Margoliouth, Catalogue, 3:426; cf. Raphael Loewe, “Description of the Texts,” in The North French Hebrew Miscellany (British Library Add. MS 11639): Companion Volume to an Illuminated Manuscript from Thirteenth-Century France in Facsimile, ed. Jeremy Schonfield (London: Facsimile Editions, 2003), 285–86. 48 Hans Jürgen Wunschel, “Coburg,” in Maimon, Germania Judaica, vol. 3.1, 211 and 213 n. 24; Lämmerhirt, Juden, 92. 49 MS London Add. 11639, fol. 744v. An additional note in the same hand records El‘azar b. Seligmann’s death in Padua in 1480. See Margoliouth, Catalogue, 3: 427; Loewe, “Description,” 286. Seligmann’s last remaining son Avraham, who may have written these lines, is on record in Padua as late as 1486; David Jacoby, “New Evidence on Jewish Bankers in Venice and the Venetian Terraferma (c. 1450–1550),” in The Mediterranean and the Jews: Banking, Finance and International Trade (16th–18th Centuries), ed. Ariel Toaff and Simon Schwarzfuchs (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1989), 152. 50 Aldo Luzzatto, La comunità ebraica di Venezia e il suo antico cimitero (Milan: Il Polifilo, 2000), 1: 177 no. 1081, 1: 215; see also 1: 137 n. 7, and cf. Reinhold C. Mueller, “Banchi ebraici tra Mestre e Venezia nel tardo medioevo,” in “Interstizi”: Culture ebraico-cristiane a Venezia e nei suoi domini dal Medioevo

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More research is needed to clarify where the type of the liturgy-cumhalakha-and-narrative miscellaneous home library originated and why it became so popular among Ashkenazic Jews in northern Italy in the fifteenth century; the book culture of their Christian neighbours will certainly have offered inspiration. What we can say with some confidence is that it is to a similar dynamic of exile, wealth, and patronage that we owe the emergence of Old Yiddish literature at precisely the same time and place.51 The same man, Moshe son of Seligmann, also plays a role in the earliest dated Yiddish manuscript that has been preserved from south of the Alps: a book of folk remedies in the vernacular, copied in his house in Mestre in 1474 by an anonymous scribe, apparently from a model he owned.52 By the sixteenth century, it had become en vogue in the top circles of Ashkenazic society in Italy to commission manuscripts in the vernacular for their wives and daughters, who were generally able to read the Hebrew letters used for writing Yiddish but rarely taught to understand the Hebrew language itself53—and these manuscripts bear great resemblance to their Italo-Ashenazic counterparts in Hebrew. Again, one example will have to suffice. Probably the most extensive among the Old Yiddish manuscripts that have come down to us is today

all’età moderna, ed. Uwe Israel, Robert Jütte, and Reinhold C. Mueller (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2010), 107 n. 4. The text of the inscription first published by Riccardo Pacifici, Le iscrizioni dell’antico cimitero ebraico a Venezia (Alexandria: Palombo, 1936), 44 no. 97, reads ʯʸʧʮ ʯʡ ʤʹʮ. This should be emended to ʦʸʤʮ ʯʡ ʤʹʮ; the date given (26 . . . 1479) accords with that preserved for Moshe b. Seligmann’s death in MS London Add. 11639, fol. 744v (Monday, 26 Elul, of the same year). 51 See Chava Turniansky and Erika Timm with the collaboration of Claudia Rosenzweig, Yiddish in Italia: Yiddish Manuscripts and Printed Books from the 15th to the 17th Century (Milan: Associazione Italiana Amici dell’Università di Gerusalemme, 2003); cf., most recently, Jerold C. Frakes, ed. and trans., Early Yiddish Epic (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2014), xxxiv–xxxvi. 52 MS Stuttgart, Württembergische Landesbibliothek HB XI 17 (IMHM 2203), fol. 68r. See Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, 142–43 no. 71; Erika Timm, “Early Yiddish Prayers for Travelers: On the Migration of Yiddish Customs from Southern Germany to Northern Italy,” in A Touch of Grace: Studies in Ashkenazi Culture, Women’s History, and the Languages of the Jews Presented to Chava Turniansky, ed. Israel Bartal et al. (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2013), 128*–30*. 53 Chava Turniansky, “Old Yiddish Language and Literature,” Jewish Women: A Comprehensive Historical Encyclopedia, 2009 [accessed 30 June 2017].

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kept in the Bodleian Library.54 Like both the Rothschild and the North French Miscellany, it has been referred to as a veritable library between two book covers.55 Of what must have been at least 397 folios, 276 have been preserved. The codex contains such a wide variety of texts as to leave the impression the scribe (a very young man perhaps living in the patron’s household) may have been paid by the page; he clearly made an effort to obtain as many Yiddish texts as he could. The result is the familiar mix of liturgy, popular halakha and belles-lettres—among them a Yiddish adaptation of the minhagim book of Treviso mentioned above, a book of women’s commandments, translations of the biblical megillot read in synagogue on the various festivals and of Pirkei ‘avot, a selection of penitential prayers according to the Italo-Ashkenazic rite, and finally numerous pieces of narrative and poetry, some originally Yiddish, some translations from the Hebrew—and some, notably, bilingual in Yiddish and Judeo-Italian, the language which was soon to replace Yiddish as the vernacular of Ashkenazic Jews living in Italy.56 The volume would indeed seem to be a Yiddish equivalent of the home libraries we have seen, less ambitious to be sure, but impressive in its own way, and no less typical in that it was made for a woman. It was written in the ghetto of Venice during the fall and winter of 1553–54 and intended for one Serlina (a

54

MS Oxford, Bodleian Library Can. Or. 12 (IMHM 16677), available online at digital.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/inquire/p/76692d10-5434-4b03-9f07-dd72718b4fd0 [accessed 30 June 2017]. See Adolf Neubauer, Catalogue of the Hebrew Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library (Oxford: Clarendon, 1886), 429–31 no. 1217; Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, 96–99 no. 47. 55 Nokhem Shtif, “A geshribene yidishe bibliotek in a yidish hoyz in Venetsye in mitn dem zekhtsntn yorhundert,” Tsaytshrift [Minsk] 1 (1926): 141–50; 2–3 (1928), 525–44; cf. Israel M. Ta-Shma, “The Literary Content of the Manuscript,” in The Rothschild Miscellany: A Scholarly Commentary, 41; Sara Offenberg, Illuminated Piety: Pietistic Texts and Images in The North French Hebrew Miscellany (Los Angeles: Cherub Press, 2013), 9. 56 For some of these works, see Jerold C. Frakes, ed., Early Yiddish Texts, 1100– 1750 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 140–64, 281–87, nos. 34, 35, 53, 54; for recent studies, Edward Fram, My Dear Daughter: Rabbi Benjamin Slonik and the Education of Jewish Women in Sixteenth-Century Poland (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 2007); Claudia Rosenzweig, Elye Bokher: Due canti Yiddish. Rime di un poeta ashkenazita nella Venezia del Cinquecento (Arezzo: Bibliotheca Aretina, 2010); eadem, “Rhymes to Sing and Rhymes to Hang Up: Some Remarks on a Lampoon in Yiddish by Elye Bokher (Venice 1514),” in The Italia Judaica Jubilee Conference, ed. Shlomo Simonsohn and Joseph Shatzmiller (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 143–66.

42

Portable Homeland

slightly Italianised Yiddish form of Sarah), whose name appears on the final page.57 Whether manuscripts such as this, and especially their liturgical parts, were actually put to practical use by their female owners, or rather owned as commodities enshrining Ashkenazic identity in a community on the verge of blending into Italian-Jewish society at large after all, we have no way of knowing.58 Nevertheless, the specific circumstances that had fostered Italo-Ashkenazic book production in the first place clearly had an impact on an emerging Yiddish literature about to make the move from manuscript to print.59 If this is true for Yiddish, it may finally also be true with regard to Ashkenazic liturgy. I have mentioned at the outset that the majority of the emigration of German Jews to Italy, especially during its early stages, hailed from the western and southwestern, not the southeastern parts of the Empire.60 That is reflected in the prayer rite these emigrés brought into Italy. It was the Western Ashkenazic or Rhenish rite that continued to be used south of the Alps, not the Austrian rite that later came to be customary in the Ashkenazic communities of Eastern Europe and has been known since as minhag Polin.61 After the expulsions of the fifteenth century, when there was hardly a handful of urban communities left in 57

MS Oxford Can. Or. 12, fol. 274v. Serlina was twenty-one years old when the manuscript was commissioned for her by her father, perhaps on the occasion of her wedding; her death in childbirth seven years later is recorded on the same page. 58 I have discussed this question in greater depth elsewhere. See Lucia Raspe‚ “Minhag and Migration: Yiddish Custom Books from Sixteenth-Century Italy,” in Regional Identities and Cultures of Medieval Jews, ed. Javier Castaño, Talya Fishman, and Ephraim Kanarfogel (forthcoming). 59 On the role of Italy in the emergence of a literary canon in Yiddish, see Chone Shmeruk, “Gli inizi della prosa narrativa in yiddish e il suo centro in Italia,” in Scritti in memoria di Leone Carpi: Saggi sull’ebraismo italiano, ed. Daniel Carpi, Attilio Milano, and Alexander Rofé (Jerusalem: Fondazione Sally Mayer, 1967), 119–40 [Hebrew]; idem, “Yiddish Printing in Italy,” Italia 3 (1982): 112–75 [Hebrew], in English in Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, 171–80. 60 See Alfred Haverkamp, “Ebrei in Italia e in Germania nel tardo medioevo: Spunti per un confronto,” in Israel, Jütte and Mueller, Interstizi, 64–69. 61 For these distinctions, see Daniel Goldschmidt’s introduction to his edition of the High Holiday prayer book according to the various Ashkenazic rites, ʸʥʦʧʮ ʭʤʩʴʰʲ ʬʫʬ ʦʰʫʹʠ ʩʰʡ ʩʢʤʰʮ ʩʴʬ ʭʩʠʸʥʰʤ ʭʩʮʩʬ, vol. 1 (Jerusalem: Koren, 1970), 13–14; Eric Zimmer, Society and Its Customs: Studies in the History and Metamorphosis of Jewish Customs (Jerusalem: The Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 1996), 216–19 [Hebrew]. The Western orientation of the Italo-Ashkenazic rite is noted in Leopold Zunz, Die Ritus des synagogalen Gottesdienstes (Berlin: Springer, 1859), 71.

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Germany, we might have expected Western Ashkenazic traditions to become extinct—as the medieval French rite did after the Jews were expelled from France in the fourteenth century.62 If the Western Ashkenazic rite endured, if the volumes of Ashkenazic liturgy which began coming off the printing presses of northern Italy in the 1470s continued to be bifurcated along these lines, if the liturgical distinction between East and West became enshrined in print and remained in place down to this very day, it is because Ashkenazic émigrés into Italy brought their own rite to print when the new technology gained momentum precisely in the areas where they had recently settled.63 It was thus in the age of print that the efforts made by recent newcomers from Germany to preserve their own traditions took on a significance that far transcended the practical needs of a group of wealthy individuals suddenly isolated from their familiar environment. When the Hebrew presses of Prague and Krakow and—finally—the German lands joined in the work begun by their colleagues in Italy, what they printed built upon the canon that had been established south of the Alps. In that manner, the German-Jewish Diaspora in Italy would seem to have left a mark on the legacy of medieval Ashkenaz for generations to come.

62

Ivan G. Marcus, “Why Did Medieval French Jewry (ৡarfat) Disappear?,” in Jews, Christians and Muslims in Medieval and Early Modern Times: A Festschrift in Honor of Mark R. Cohen, ed. Arnold E. Franklin et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 99–117. 63 For the centrality of Italy in Hebrew printing well into the sixteenth century, see e.g., the editors’ introduction in Adam Shear and Joseph R. Hacker, eds., The Hebrew Book in Early Modern Italy (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 7–10; for the leading role of Ashkenazim, most notably the Soncino family, in this process, Mordechai Glatzer, “Early Hebrew Printing,” in A Sign and a Witness: 2,000 Years of Hebrew Books and Illuminated Manuscripts, ed. Leonard Singer Gold (New York/Oxford: New York Public Library, 1988), 84–90.

THE GREEK CONFRATERNITY OF SANT’ANNA DEI GRECI IN ANCONA: DEMOGRAPHIC STRUCTURE AND SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITIES (1524–1580) NICCOLÒ FATTORI

Unlike the exiles and refugees welcomed by the Renaissance courts in the aftermath of 1453, the Greek immigrants of the sixteenth century were for the most part professionals who saw the opportunities opened by the profitable Italian markets and decided to move overseas to exploit them, either as merchants, artisans, or mercenaries. One of the main destinations of this new wave of human movement was the city of Ancona, on the Adriatic coast of Italy. There, a sizeable Greek community grew throughout the sixteenth century, being granted a church, Sant’Anna, and founding a devotional confraternity by the same name. This paper will examine its demographic structure, particularly the profession and the provenance of its members, and analyse its social functions in order to prove that the Confraternity or societas of Sant’Anna was both the religious and institutional centre of the Greek expatriate community in Ancona. After the Second Vatican Council unleashed a new wave of enthusiasm for inter-confessional ecumenical dialogue, scholars like Vittorio Peri1 and

1

Vittorio Peri, “La Congregazione dei Greci (1573) e i suoi primi documenti,” Studia Gratiana 13 (1967): 131–256; idem, “Chiesa Latina e Chiesa Greca nell’Italia postridentina,” La Chiesa greca in Italia dall’VIII al XVI secolo (Padua: Antenore, 1973), 271–469; idem, Chiesa romana e “rito” greco (Brescia: Paideia, 1975); idem, “I metropoliti orientali di Agrigento – La loro giurisdizione in Italia nel XVI secolo,” in Bisanzio e l’Italia Raccolta di studi in memoria di Agostino Pertusi, ed. Carlo Maria Mazzucchi, and Chiara Francesca Faraggiana di Sarzana (Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 1982), 274–321; all those works contain large and well edited documentary appendixes.

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Jan Wladislaw Wos2 began digging into the Roman Archives, particularly that of the Congragatio de Propaganda Fide and the Vatican Secret Archives, to find the roots of the Ecumenical process and investigate the past of Greek and Latin religious relations. Their work has unearthed a huge amount of materials, especially regarding the post-Tridentine Congregatio pro reformatione Graecorum in Italia existentium et monachorum et monasteriorum ordinis sancti Basili, an institution founded in 1573 by Gregory XIII. The stated aim of the congregation was elaborating a coherent doctrine for the treatment of the schismatic communities in Italy, while at the same time dealing with the concrete, immediate problems pouring in from the Catholic world. The documents discovered were exchanges of letters between the bishops and the congregation, papal briefs and working papers of the congregation itself; these included directives and orders to the bishops, and occasionally interviews and investigations about the lives and faith of those Greeks they were trying to reform. A significant share of those documents refers directly to the Greeks of Ancona, including several Episcopal letters dating from 1579 to 1595, a detailed interview of the priest that celebrated mass inside Sant’Anna, the church of the Greek community, and a statute of its confraternity. However, the primary sources used for this study mostly come from the state archives of Ancona. The archive itself was very seriously damaged by allied bombings in 1943, and because of this and other unavoidable conservation accidents, there are very few archival series that can offer a complete overview of the sixteenth century. The books kept by the custom office, for example, only cover the years 1551, 1554, and 1562,3 and important parts, like the judicial, have been completely lost when the new Governor of Ancona set it on fire after the change of government that took place in 1532.4 Nevertheless, the notarial section is still intact and largely unexplored. It is also huge, consisting of little less than a thousand folders of five hundred pages each for the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries alone. The richness of this section of the archive has its root in the role of the notary as the main source of official and public 2

J. W. Wos, “I primi anconetani del Collegio greco di Roma,” Studia Picena 41 (1974): 30–40; idem, “La comunità greca di Ancona alla fine del secolo XVI,” Studia Picena 46 (1979): 20–59. 3 Archivio di Stato di Ancona (henceforth ASAn), Archivio Comunale di Ancona (henceforth ACAn), Sez. I, Dogana, fondaco e fiere, 2, 3, 4. 4 A complete survey of the surviving judicial sources is present in Carlo Giacomini, Le magistrature giudiziarie di Ancona nei documenti comunali di antico regime, 1308–1797 (Ancona: Affinità elletive, 2009).

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legitimacy for transactions outside the immediate jurisdiction of the civic authorities. For this reason, it constitutes an extraordinary instrument in detailing the everyday life of the Anconitan commoners, due to its inherent flexibility and variety. Every human interaction that could count as an economic transaction—from marriages to apprenticeships to the purchases of caviar and rice—was dutifully recorded in the registers of the dozens of notaries active at any given moment inside the city or in its district, with every record being dated and including a location, the names and occasionally the profession of at least two witnesses. Some acts, especially those written by the poorer notaries at the beginning of the sixteenth century, can provide useful information about the geographical distribution of their clients inside the city since they ran their businesses by offering “door to door” registration services. For these reasons, notarial sources constitute the core primary material upon which this research is based.5 The archive of Ancona also provided some other collateral sources, such as cadastres, books containing communal regulations and payrolls,6 which were used to integrate the information gathered in the notarial folders.

Ancona and the Greek Migration Ancona was, and still is, a thriving port city lying on the Adriatic coast. It lies along a small gulf underneath mount Conero, a natural harbour offering a good level of protection for any ship travelling the Adriatic Sea. Despite being part of the Papal States, it enjoyed a large degree of autonomy until 1532, when it was placed under the rule of a governor named directly by the pope.7 Throughout its history, it has been one of the most important components of the Adriatic-Ionian network of human movement, that complex of coastal areas going from Venice to the Peloponnese—and sometimes beyond—culturally and economically connected by the sea. 5

The folders of the following notaries have been examined for this research: ASAn, Archivio Notarile di Ancona (henceforth ANAn) 220 to 228 (Andrea Bernardino Pilestri, 1510–1539); ANAn 536 to 544 (Marino Benincasa, 1548– 1565); ANAn 589 to 615 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1556–1590); ANAn 344 to 366 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1523–1565); ANAn 741 to 742 (Giovanni Cordella, 1577– 1578); ANAn 193 to 199 (Lorenzo Trionfi, 1514–1539); ANAn 883 to 885 (Orazio Brancadoro, 1588–1595); ANAn 290 to 293 (Piergentile Senili, 1522– 1541); ANAn 160 to 174 (Troilo Leoni, 1503–1527). 6 ASAn, ACAn, Sez. I, Libro dei Salariati e dei Provisionati, 1–12; Bandi, editti e notificazioni, 1–3; Sez. 2, Libri diversi di cancelleria, raccolta Albertini, 3, 8; Sez. 3, Catasti pontifici ed estimi, 1–12. 7 Saracini, Notitie Historiche della città di Ancona (Rome 1675), 336–45.

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Several Podestà of the city came from Dalmatia, particularly Zadar, and a Croatian architect, Giorgio da Sebenico, designed the city’s merchant lodge, while Anconitan jurists helped draft the Communal regulations of Spalato since the late thirteenth century.8 The channels of human movement opened between the two sides of the Adriatic were not just used to favour exchanges between the civic elites, but were also instrumental in making Ancona one of the main destinations of the migratory process from the Balkans, especially Albania and Dalmatia, to Italy between the late fourteenth and early sixteenth centuries.9 The presence in the sixteenth century of an Ottoman-Venetian duopoly on the eastern Mediterranean made communications, exchanges, and trade in this area easier than ever before, and Ancona established its role in the region by attaching itself to the Venetian network on the one hand, and by keeping its relations with the Ottomans as good as possible on the other.10 But this projection towards the Adriatic-Ionian world also resulted in a centuries-long rivalry between Ancona and Venice as Ancona was seen as a threat to Venice’s complete domination of the gulf. The most famous episode of this rivalry, one that was turned by the Anconitans into some sort of civic founding myth during the nineteenth century, was the siege of the city in 1174, when the city resisted the blockade made by German forces on land and by the Venetian navy by sea and was heroically saved, according to the traditional narration, by the sacrifice of a local woman named Stamira or Stamura.11 The rivalry did not end in the twelfth century and, if anything, it intensified steadily through to the sixteenth century, with the growth of Venetian and Anconitan commercial traffic. Of course, Ancona remained a second-grade actor on the Adriatic stage, and it was never able to even remotely threaten the Venetian dominion on the area, not by itself. In 1430 some Venetian galleys captured a Catalan ship, loaded with cargo owned by Anconitan merchants. A diplomatic summit

8

Antun Cvitaniü, “Il contributo dei giuristi marchigiani alla formazione delle leggi statutarie di Split (Spalato),” Atti e memorie 82 (1977): 11–34. 9 The most important work on the subject of Albanian and Slavic migrations to the other side of the Adriatic remains Sergio Anselmi, ed. Italia Felix, migrazione slave e albanesi in Occidente – Romagna, Marche, Abruzzi, secoli XIV–XVI (Ancona: Ostra Vetere, 1988). 10 Carlo Giacomini, “Fonti per la storia del porto dorico in antico regime,” La storia del porto per la storia della città, ed. Giovanna Giubbini (Perugia: Fabrizio Fabbri, 2013), 91–112, at 106–8. 11 David Abulafia, “Ancona, Byzantium and the Adriatic, 1155–1173,” Papers of the British School at Rome 52 (1984): 195–216.

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was called by papal intercession in Florence to discuss the issue, but the Venetians did not even bother to show up.12 However, Ancona soon attracted the attention of the more powerful rivals of the Most Serene Republic, becoming one of the favoured Adriatic outlets for those merchants who did not wish to pass from Venice. There was a particularly strong Genoese presence tied to the Greek island of Chios,13 and numerous Sienese and Florentine merchants who hoped to take advantage of the increasing Ottoman demand for textiles by selling their product to the Ragusans in exchange for the leather they bought from Eastern Europe, particularly Hungary and the Black Sea.14 But Ancona was also the most important port of the Papal States, and the only one projected to the East. Pope Pius II died there in 1460, preparing a Crusade to take Constantinople from the Ottomans, and the city was constantly favoured by the popes due to its role and position, especially after 1532.15 The combination of these factors contributed to the creation of an unprecedented window of prosperity and commercial centrality between the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. One of the most welcome side effects of this prosperity was the settlement of a sizeable Greek community. Contacts between Ancona and the Greek east date back at least to the twelfth century: the city was a staunch ally of Byzantine emperor Manuel I, who chose the city as one of the pivotal points of his Adriatic policy, and whose envoys came to offer money and support to the city during the long German-Venetian siege of 1173.16 A century and a half later, a 12

Giacomini, “Fonti per la storia del porto dorico,” 103. The folders of notaries Girolamo Giustiniani (ASAn, ANAn 344 to 366) and Marino Benincasa (ASAn, ANAn 536 to 544) are a particularly fertile ground for any investigation regarding the Genoese community in Ancona and its numerous Genoese\Chiot members. Among the many: Benedetto d’Auria, who appears in ANAn 352 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1538), fol. 177r; Vincenzo Barle, ANAn 347 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1533), fol. 97v; Benedetto Bresciani, ANAn 539 (Marino Benincasa, 1559), fol. 138r. 14 Just a few of the incredibly numerous notarial acts detailing the sale of leather for textiles by Tuscan and Ragusan merchants: ASAn, ANAn 541 (Marino Benincasa, 1561), fols. 219v, 291r, 358r, 379v; ASAn, ANAn 351, (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1537), fols. 1r, 155r, 167v; ASAn, ANAn 592 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1563), fols. 18r, 117v, 253r. 15 In 1547, Paul III published a Bull that encouraged foreign merchants to take residence in Ancona. His decisions were reconfirmed by his successor, Julius III. Both documents are in Saracini, Notitie Historiche, 431–38; after the fall of Constantinople, the city was chosen as the gathering point of the expedition against the Ottomans devised by pope Pius II, who also happened to die there. 16 Abulafia, “Ancona, Byzantium and the Adriatic,” 196. 13

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diploma from Byzantine emperor Andronicus II granted merchants from the city a consistent reduction in tariffs for import and export, as long as they could prove they were actually from Ancona.17 But the first mention of a proper Greek presence there dates from 1392, when the Elder Council responded to the petition made by a certain priest, Damiano, by granting him the use of a house and a church. Damiano was probably married, and his settlement in Ancona was hoped to bring in multas familias grecorum.18 At this stage of the research, it is impossible to state with absolute certainty whether the church granted to Damiano was indeed Sant’Anna, the future Greek Church of Ancona. However, it is a likely possibility: twelve years before the concession, in 1380, the Greek Bishop and Papal Vicar to the East, Paolo Paleologo Tagaris, passed through Ancona on his way to Rome, and left the city a whole host of sacred relics, including the Foot of Saint Anne. Those relics were stored inside the cathedral, and every year, on the feast of Saint Anne they would be brought with a procession to the church of Santa Maria in Porta Cipriana, itself a gift of the Bishop of Ancona to the Papal Legate. 19 It was the very same church that would later be renamed Sant’Anna and granted to the Greeks, strengthening the hypothesis of an early link between the building and the Greek community. The official confirmation arrived in 1524, when a bull by Pope Clement VII officially granted the church to the Greeks, renaming it Sant’Anna in honour of the relic. The bull of concession made two very important points: the complete exclusion of this church from the jurisdiction of the local bishop, and the explicit statement that the church was to be reserved for the Greek rite.20 Similar privileges were in no way unique, and can also be found in the bull of concession given by Leo X to the Greeks of Venice.21 They were perfectly in line with the Roman ecclesiological policies of the 1520s, which allowed wide autonomy to the 17 ASAn, ACAn, Pergamene I, Privilegio dell’imperatore greco Andronico Angelo Comneno Paleologo a favore della città di Ancona. 18 ASAN, ACAn, Sez. 1, Consigli 7 (1392): fols. 12v–14v. 19 Donald M. Nicol, “The Confessions of a Bogus Patriarch: Paul Tagaris Palaiologos, Orthodox Patriarch of Jerusalem and Catholic Patriarch of Constantinople in the Fourteenth Century,” The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 21 (1970): 289–99, at 294; Saracini, Notitie Historiche, 217, 234. 20 Saracini, Notitie Historiche, 320–21; the deed granting the church of Sant’Anna to the Greeks has also survived in ASAn, ANAn 173 (Troilo Leoni, 1523–1524), fol. 182r–v. 21 The original text of the bull is edited in Bartolomeo Cecchetti, La Repubblica di Venezia e la corte di Roma nei rapport di religione (Venice 1874), 460–63.

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communities of the Greek diaspora,22 and allowed them to set up their own religious institutions. A year later, in 1525, the Greeks bought another small church, San Matteo. It was little more than a family chapel, and in a state of disrepair, the roof being completely missing and the walls in need of an immediate restoration. However, while reparations were at their expenses, they were allowed to acquire the church for free, as long as their community decided to remain in Ancona to pursue its mercantile activities.23

Demographics of the Confraternity of Sant’Anna The building of Sant’Anna was heavily hit by the bombings of 1943, and eventually razed to the ground by the city council in 1948, due to structural insecurity. Almost nothing has survived of the building, either on the surface or underground. In its place, there is now a Centre for Geriatric Research, and the only things that may remind the modern passer-by of the ancient presence of a Greek church are the plaque posted by the city council in 1956, which tells much more about the overlooking Acciaiuoli palace than anything else,24 and a handful of friezes and sculptures, including one which appears to be a lion and another depicting a crowned double-headed eagle carrying a coat of arms, probably the sigil of the prelate that protected the church in the seventeenth or eighteenth century. The iconostasis was rebuilt in the eighteenth century, and used to boast some works of Anconitan Renaissance painter Lorenzo Lotto, who wrote in his diary that he was asked to “paint according to the Greek custom.” It has not survived, but some of its icons and other decorative elements were salvaged prior to the demolition.25 The salvaged artworks 22

The text of the brief Accepimus Nuper, which defined this phase of the relations between the Roman Church and the Greek diaspora in Italy can be found in Archieraticon – Liber Pontificalis Ecclesiae Grecae, Bullae Leonis X et Clementis VII pro ritibus graecorum, ed. Isaach Habert (Paris 1676), fols. 1r–1v; Sotirios L. Varnalidis, “Le implicazioni del breve Accepimus Nuper di Papa Leone X (18.5.1521) e del breve Romanus Pontifex di Papa Pio IV (16.2.1564) nella vita religiosa dei Greci e degli Albanesi dell’Italia meridionale,” Nicolaus – Rivista di teologia ecumenico-patristica 13 (1981): 359–82, at 364–70. 23 ASAn, ANAn 196 (Lorenzo Trionfi, 1525–1527), fols. 1r–2r. 24 “Di fronte a questo palazzo, già degli Acciaiuoli, che fu vescovile residenza dal 1763 al 1816 ed ospitò Pio VI e Pio VII, sorgeva l’antichissima chiesa di Santa Maria di Porta Cipriana, poi Sant’Anna dei Greci Uniti, distrutta durante la seconda guerra mondiale. Il comune a ricordo pose nel 1956.” 25 Efthalia Rentetzi, “La chiesa di Sant’Anna dei greci di Ancona,” Thesaurismata 37 (2007): 343–58.

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include a portrait of St Nicholas and an Icon of the Virgin, together with a representation of Saint Anne, the Virgin and the Child, and a medallion with the Transfiguration of Christ. All the works have been identified as sixteenth-century products of the Cretan school.26 The church itself was located along the old medieval walls, relatively far away from the quarters of Santa Maria al Mercato, San Primiano, and San Nicola, the preferred places of residence for the Greeks in Ancona. Those parishes were located in close proximity to the docks, and were the place where most of the merchant community lived, both Greek and Italian.27 The Greeks of Ancona were not confined in only one place, nor did they seem to have had an exclusive dwelling. Their settlement patterns also seem to be relatively uninfluenced by the location of their place of worship. Instead, the choice of location was dictated by professional needs more than anything else. In 1524, the referent for the property transactions was a generic universitas graecorum,28 a Greek collective without any particular connotation. Things changed in 1531,29 when a bull by Pope Clement VII allowed them to set up a confraternity, an institution for the expression of religious devotion and charity, in this case on an ethnic and religious basis. Its organisation was rather simple, and modelled after that of many other Catholic confraternities of the same period. According to its statutes, it had a governor, two advisors, one treasurer, and two almoners. Offices were held for a short term of six months, the first extraction being during the feast of St George, and were assigned randomly, by drawing the names out of a box. There is nothing suggesting that social position had any kind of influence in the electoral process, and the confraternity statutes had

26

Nadia Falaschini, and Diego Masala, Libri di Pietra. Mille anni della cattedrale di Ancona tra Oriente e Occidente – catalogo della mostra (Ancona, 1 maggio – 30 settembre 1999), ed. Giovanni Morello (Milan: Mondadori Electa, 1999), 109. 27 ASAn, ANAn 348 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1534), fol. 40r; ASAn, ANAn 349 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1535), fol. 234v; ASAn, ANAn 350 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1536), fol. 54v; ASAn, ANAn 352 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1538), fols. 19r, 342r, 357r; ASAn, ANAn 354 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1541–1542), fols. 5r, 455r; ASAn, ANAn 356 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1544), fol. 4v; ASAn, ANAn 223 (Andrea Pilestri, 1531–1534), fols. 234r–235r; ASAn, ANAn 224 (Andrea Pilestri, 1534– 1535), fol. 253v; A few isolated individuals, like baker Zanetto di Candia, lived in the parish of Sant’Anastasia, which still remained along the coast, unlike Sant’Anna, ASAn, ANAn 196 (Lorenzo Trionfi, 1525–1527), fol. 48v. 28 ASAn, ANAn 196 (Lorenzo Trionfi, 1525–1527), fols. 1r–2r. 29 G. Angelucci, Cenni storici della chiesa e confraternita di Sant’Anna dei greci uniti (Pesaro 1843), 31.

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articles mentioning the not so remote possibility of an illiterate member holding office.30 During my research, I tried to create a database of the named individuals that appear in the notarial sources, storing information about their names, the dates of their appearances, their professions, their provenance, and any other useful information I could gather.31 So far, I have been able to classify 406 individuals that appeared between 1523 and 1575, but the database keeps expanding, and there are still many notarial folders to find, transcribe, and analyse. Of those 406 names, 202 were confirmed residents, 137 had an uncertain residency status, and sixtyseven were confirmed non-residents. The criteria chosen to determine whether an individual was a resident or not included the presence of some standard formulas in the sources, such as moram trahens in civitate ancone, in civitate ancone comorans, or Mercator civitatis ancone, in Ancone ad presentem degens. Nevertheless, the appearance of these formulas is far from systematic, and the residential status of many Greeks was often deducted through a comparative reading of other markers appearing in other transactions made by and to certain persons, including their ability to speak the language, their links with local people and their professional context. However, doubts remain, especially for the dozens of individuals that appear in only one document, often in the position of witnesses or translators. It is also necessary to consider that the largest part of the notarial documents available are property transactions—a kind of document that by its own nature tends to be available only to those who have tradable properties. Those who traded in smaller amounts of money, did not have properties of any kind, or were not allowed to publicly manage them (like women or children), did not have many ways to leave a trace of their passage. Furthermore, it is probable that due to its nature as a community of professional migrants, the demographic proportions between genders, professions, and classes among the Greeks of Ancona strongly deviated from normality, with a disproportionate amount of adult male professionals, especially at the beginning of the migration, and a 30

Biblioteca Nazionale Vittorio Emanuele di Napoli (henceforth BNVEN), Ms. Branc. I.B.6, fols. 31r–32v, in Wos, “La comunità greca di Ancona,” 37; illiterate members were given a cross-shaped seal to use as official signature. 31 A significant portion of the database is contained as an appendix to this paper. In the footnotes, references to single individuals will only contain their names, and when possible patronymics, family names, and provenance. Details regarding the archival sources of that information can be found in the appendix. Information on those individuals who are not contained in the published portion of the database will be written normally.

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marked shortage of women and children. However, from occasional mentions and from some collateral sources we know that the Greek community did in fact also include those categories—poorer labourer, children, and especially women—that slipped under the radar of ordinary notarial acts. Children below the age of sixteen, for example, are mentioned in many famulato agreements, in which young boys were employed as apprentices in the shop of an artisan, often a relative,32 while women could only sign property transactions other than marriages and dowry arrangements, if they could prove that they did not have any adult male relative in districtu Ancone.33 Also, another important factor for any demographic assessment is the presence of a consistent yet unknown portion of transitory immigrants, who visited the city only for limited periods of time. With that in mind, it would be possible to cautiously state that, as an approximate number, Ancona would have had a stable Greek population of around four hundred to five hundred people between the concession of Sant’Anna in 1524 and 1595, peaking between 1545 and 1565. Regarding the Confraternity of Sant’Anna and its relationship with the wider Greek presence in Ancona, one of the first things that can be pointed out is the difference in their professional composition.34 Of the 339 confirmed and unconfirmed residents: forty-three worked as artisans. Two of them were barrel makers, five were carpenters, seven rosary makers, eighteen tailors, four goldsmiths,35 three furriers, two bakers and two had unknown jobs, but are called magister in the documents, an epithet generally reserved to artisans. The fact that a large share of those artisans was made of tailors is significant, as most of the commercial traffic between Ancona and the East consisted of a leather-for-textiles exchange, in which merchants imported bovine skins from the Black Sea, and sold them through Ancona in the markets of central Italy. Those same merchants would then load their ships with textiles, usually kerseys or 32

ASAn, ANAn 198 (Lorenzo Trionfi, 1536–1537), fol. 32r; ASAn, ANAn 351 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1537), fol. 192r; ASAn, ANAn 542 (Marino Benincasa, 1562), fol. 340v; ASAn, ANAn 592 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1563), fol. 183v. 33 ASAn, ANAn 196 (Lorenzo Trionfi, 1525–1527), fol. 7v; ASAn, ANAn 597 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1572), fol. 95v; ASAn, ANAn 355 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1543), fol. 38r; ASAn, ANAn 165 (Troilo Leoni, 1508), fol. 347r. 34 All the data and the sources used in this section can be found in the Appendix. 35 The category also includes the profession of tiraoro, who specialised in drawing golden wires. It was one of the specialties of the artisans in the Greek community of Venice, see Jonathan Harris Greek émigrés in the West, 1400–1502 (Camberley: Porphyrogenitus, 1995), 180–87.

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other woollen products acquired from Tuscan merchants, and sell them in the Ottoman east, especially in Constantinople. Of the total residents, eleven were shopkeepers, a category which includes every kind of trade that does not involve a specialised artisanal skill, or local small scale commerce.36 Another fifty-four were long distance merchants, mostly involved in the leather-for-textiles exchange I mentioned. The category does not include fourteen confirmed intermediaries, who had the fundamental role of connecting the merchants of both sides.37 Another fifty-four Greeks worked in the naval sector, either as captains, sailors, owners, caulkers, or secretaries. For the reasons explained above, wealthier owners were more likely to appear in notarial sources, and thus constitute the relative majority inside this category. In many cases, they could also be merchants themselves. Outside the docks, five people worked in what we could term “the public sector”: two of them, father and son, were awarded the office of armirallius, and were responsible for the good material conditions of the harbour and for the enforcement of a series of trade regulations regarding individual ships. It was a prestigious and very lucrative position,38 and one of them was even sent to Rome as part of a diplomatic mission.39 Another one was probably a member of the city watch, or a local mercenary company, as he is described as capitaneus bombarderorum. The last two were famuli antianorum, servants of the city council. Finally, eight of them were priests, and thirteen are identified only as public translators, without any other label. The rest were either women or children, known for their familiar associations, or had unknown professions. These professional categories are not by any means closed boxes, and about a dozen individuals have changed their career through time, sometimes rather drastically as Michele Politi, who started as a rosary maker in 1534, and can be seen working as a commercial intermediary ten years later.40 36

There were four grocers, three barbers, two herbalists, one baker, and a generic repairman. See appendix. 37 The function and methods of the intermediaries (prosenetae) are well explained in a notarised testimony relative to Petrus Cordella in ASAn, ANAn 353 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1539), fol. 190v. Intermediaries would wait in the city’s merchant lodge for the arrival of traders who required certain kinds of goods, usually textiles, find the cheapest ones from other merchants, and then connect the two parties. 38 Giacomini, “Fonti per la storia del porto dorico,” 97. 39 ASAn, ACAn, Sez. I, Lettere di ambasciatori, agenti, comunità e mittenti diversi, 12. Folia unnumbered. 40 The earliest mention of his activity as a rosary maker comes from ASAn, ANAn 197 (Lorenzo Trionfi, 1533–1535), fol. 198v; while that of his role as a

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It is then possible to compare these numbers with those of the confirmed members of the confraternity. There are many notarial acts from 1542, 1543, 1563, 1565, 1572, and 1575 that contain lists of the members who were present during certain transactions involving the institution. Each list gives between ten and twenty names, roughly half of them overlapping over time, for a total of seventy-one named individuals.41 The statutes of the confraternity explicitly state that every decision needed a two-thirds quorum to be considered official, and an act from 1572 confirms that this two-thirds rule applied as the general guiding principle for important decisions.42 When there was no actual vote to be cast, the principle was applied to the number of witnesses needed for an act to be officially sanctioned by the confraternity. The membership for every given year oscillated between fifteen and thirty people, which was probably about ten to fifteen percent of the resident male Greek population. The proportion seems consistent with those of its much larger Venetian equivalent, the scuola di San Nicolò, whose members amounted to less than five percent of the total Greek population.43 I have been able to identify the professions of thirty out of the seventyone named members, and it seems that the professional composition of the Confraternity of Sant’Anna was considerably different from that of the larger community. For example, there is a much stronger presence of artisans (twelve) and shopkeepers (three), and a relative scarcity of merchant and naval workers: of the eleven identified members who worked in long distance trade, seven were commercial intermediaries, and only four proper merchants. The remaining four people worked in the naval sector (a caulker, a helmsman, a ship owner, and a pilot). Also, both armiralli—father and son—were members. The professional composition of the confraternity is by itself an important indicator: the combination of commercial intermediary (proseneta) appeared in 1544, in ASAn, ANAn 356 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1544), fol. 117r. 41 ASAn, ANAn 354 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1542), fols. 455r–455v; ANAn 355 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1543), fols. 52r–52v; ANAn 592 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1563), fols. 336r–337v; ANAn 594 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1565), fols. 269v– 270v; ANAn 597 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1572) fols.128r, 280v; ANAn 600 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1575) fols. 189v–190v; ANAn 601 (Francesco Brancaleoni 1575), fols. 369r–369v. 42 BNVEN, Ms. Branc. I.B.6, fol. 34r, in Wos, “La comunità greca di Ancona,” 39; ASAn, ANAn 597 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1572), fol. 128: “[ipsos] asserentes esse in numero sufficienti et valido ac ultra duas tertias partes confratrum ad presens Ancone comorantium.” 43 Ersie Burke, “Francesco di Demetri Litino, the Inquisition and the Fondaco dei Turchi,” Thesaurismata 36 (2006): 76–96, at 83–84.

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artisans, shopkeepers, and commercial intermediaries—all professional categories that required a permanent settlement and a certain familiarity with the surrounding society—constituted the absolute majority of its members. The opposite can be said for the wider community, in which the naval-mercantile block—by its very nature not tied to a single location— constituted the majority, if only by a small margin. The confraternity was necessarily joined by those members of the Greek community that had decided to settle down permanently in Ancona, or were required to do so by their profession and lifestyle. So, rather than merchants and sailors, most members of the confraternity were artisans, intermediaries, and shopkeepers. More than anything else, however, they were able to constantly keep in contact with the Italian majority, either as commercial partners, customers, civil servants, or simply by living in a certain area. Their connection with both the Greeks of the mainland and the citizens of Ancona allowed them to work as cultural and social intermediaries between the two groups, and greatly facilitated the services of social assistance offered by the confraternity. But as fruitful as the analysis of their professional lives could be, there are two additional indicators that need to be examined in order to paint a more complete picture of the demographic structures of Sant’Anna: the resilience of a family through more than one generation, and geographical provenance. Due to their unsystematic and substantially random nature, notarial sources are not the ideal means for a prosopographycal study. However, it is often possible to indirectly follow the history of several expatriate families, sometimes for more than one generation. There were of course numerous groups of immigrants who shared a surname, or a patronymic. However, due to the very nature of the professional migration that targeted Ancona, it was in most cases a group of brothers, cousins, or other horizontal male relations. Vertical relations, like father-son or unclenephew, are encountered very rarely, and it is even rarer to see a family maintaining its name for more than one generation. To survive and be traced, families need to produce at least one male heir each generation. Another necessary element to ensure traceability through notarial sources is the ownership of property, or at least the professional—or personal— necessity to ensure the official status of a certain number of transactions; the occurrence of last wills, although quite rare, may also offer a huge help in shedding some light on the genealogical history of a family. Considering that the conditions listed above all imply a long lasting sedentary settlement, it was not surprising to discover that all the families that are attested for more than one generation—with one significant exception—were part of the confraternity. The best example is that of the

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Politi family, originally from Rhodes. The first member of this family is Bartolomeo, attested in 1534. He was a rosary maker, and apparently also a nodal point of the Greek immigration to the city, as he encouraged the migration not only of his family, but of at least two apprentices in his shop, from Rhodes as well as from Crete.44 He had two sons, Michele and Costantino, respectively another rosary maker (later turned intermediary) and a ship owner. It is not certain whether Costantino had any sons, but we know that his brother did have at least one, Nicola, who married Diana, daughter of a Florentine merchant named Ciccone, and they had four daughters (Margherita, Caterina, Politia, Nicolosa) and one son (Paolo).45 Excluding the women, all of them were members of the confraternity. Other individuals with the same surname are attested in 1595 (Antonio, also a member),46 and after 1640 as pupils of the Greek college in Rome (Michele, Tommaso).47 The one significant exception mentioned earlier was the Coressi family. The Coressi were one of the wealthiest and most influential Greek families in Ancona, occupying a significant share of the leather-for-textiles trade between the 1540s and the 1560s. Out of the ten attested members, seven have a direct and confirmed relation. They all, without exception, worked in long distance trade, a profession which was markedly underrepresented among the ranks of the confraternity. But there may be another reason why they did not join Sant’Anna: they all had a very close relationship with the organised Genoese community of Ancona,48 because 44 One of the famuli was Domenico Politi de Rodi, who was probably his relative, the other a certain Cristodulo Ioannis de Cania, who does not seem to appear again. 45 Nicola Politi, son of Michele, died before his father, who consequently updated his last will to declare that he would take care of his grandchildren, ASAn, ANAn 597 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1572), fol. 135r. 46 BNVEN, Ms. Branc. I.B.6, fol. 57v, in Wos, “La comunità greca di Ancona,” 57. 47 Wos, “I primi anconetani del collegio greco in Roma,” Studia Picena 41 (1974): 30–41, at 39. 48 Numerous documents regarding the members of the Coressi family show a close proximity with the Genoese: in ASAn, ANAn 354 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1541– 1542), fol. 5r, Nicola Coressi, who was apparently the family leader after the death of his relative Manuele Coressi, acted as a “cultural intermediary” between a Chiot\Genoese Creditor and his Cypriot debtor, by hosting their reconciliation in his house; he also named Girolamo Sarra de Ianua his procuratore, together with Costantino Ralli, another merchant from Chios, and he established a commercial partnership with Benedetto d’Auria, one of the most important leaders of the Genoese community, in ASAn, ANAn 352 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1538), fols. 58r, 177r; his relative Giorgio was chosen as the arbitrator in a dispute involving the

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they all came from the island of Chios, a Genoese possession until 1566. The best example is that of Nicola Coressi, who was given the office of consul Ianuensis in Zacinto.49 This leads to another very important demographic indicator, geographical provenance. There were several Chiot members in the confraternity, as well as one who came directly from Genoa. However, while the Greek expatriates coming from the Genoese territories (almost exclusively from Chios, with a couple of individuals from Samos), constitute the single largest group of the wider Greek community, amounting to a quarter of the total, they were severely underrepresented in the confraternity, with only five members (including the aforementioned Nicola Coressi) of the overall sixty-seven with a known provenance. This was probably because the Genoese consulate could provide the same social assistance as the Greek confraternity, offering services such as legal representation and interpretation, or more simply just easing newcomers into a foreign environment through an established network of social relations. Significantly, the territories of the Venetian Dominions were apparently able to supply the relative majority in both contexts, despite the fact that the absolute majority of Greeks lived under Ottoman rule. Also, those expatriates who were originally from the Ottoman Empire came either from cities like Argirokastron, Ioannina, or Valona, located near the lower Adriatic coast, or from territories that had only recently been lost by Venice, like Nauplion in 1542, Naxos in 1565, and Cyprus in 1571. The independent sphere of attraction of Ancona was rather weak when compared to that of other Adriatic powers, only extending to the regions of the lower Eastern Adriatic. It only extended significantly when it relied on the networks of human movement set up by Venice and Genoa. It is also possible to note that between 1572 and 1575 there was a sudden increase in Cypriot names, with three named members. The only other registered Cypriot was a tailor named Giacomo Francisci, who appeared only once thirty years earlier, in 1541. Another example may be that of the Strategopuli, a group of immigrants from Coroni, most likely the descendents of a thirteenth-century noble Byzantine family, who are attested in Ancona from at least 1539,50 only five years after the second Chiot\Genoese Antonio Conci and the Greek Nicola Creti; another one, Antonio, made Pietro and Cristoforo Calvi Belliocchi de Ianua his procuratori, in ASAn, ANAn 358, fol. 556r. 49 ASAn, ANAn 351 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1537), fol. 35r. 50 ASAn, ANAn 353 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1539), fol. 85v; for a complete prosopographical record, see N. Zecþviüz, “Notes on the Prosopography of the Strategopoulos Family,” Ɋɚɞɨɜɢ – ɮɢɥɨɡɨɮɫɤɝ ɮɚɤɭɥɬɟɬɚ 15 (2013): 123–36.

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fall of Coroni unleashed one of the largest refugee waves of the sixteenthcentury Mediterranean.51 While the larger community was mostly composed of professionals trying to exploit a window of commercial opportunity, the confraternity as an institution also welcomed a proportionally larger share of people who were refugees and exiles rather than immigrants, like the Strategopuli. For them and for their families, the confraternity was the organisation that facilitated their insertion into a foreign society, allowing the transmission of their cultural traditions from one generation to another.

Welfare and Social Services While the original function of the confraternity was the expression of Greek religious devotion, it also played a relevant role as a pivotal point of the small expatriate society. It managed the church and its assets, including its several plots of land, and most importantly was at the centre of a system of philanthropy that took care of the Greek community. The confraternity was responsible for the maintenance of Sant’Anna, paid its priest, and organised the yearly festival of Saint Anne on the 25th of July. In addition to that, it pursued a series of philanthropic endeavours, which needed to be financed. Some of the revenues needed to finance those responsibilities came from voluntary donations, alms, and fines to the members of the confraternity. But by far the most significant share was gained through a small tax levied on the Greek merchants that passed through Ancona, and by the confraternity’s own landed properties. The responsibility of gathering alms and voluntary donations was given to two randomly elected members of the confraternity, the cercatori,52 who travelled from door to door and from shop to shop on Saturdays and passed around collection plates during the celebration of the mass on Sundays and the other holidays. The sums of money gathered through alms, offerings during mass, and voluntary contributions were of minor consequence, economically. However, the extraction of resources from the wealthier members of a specific group, and their redistribution to 51

After the events of 1534, in Southern Italy the term coronei almost became a byword for Greek immigrants, regardless of their actual provenance. Domenico Ambrasi, “In margine all’immigrazione greca nell’Italia Meridionale nei secoli XV e XVI – La Comunità Greca di Napoli e la sua Chiesa,” Asprenas 8 (1961): 156– 85, at 162; on the religious consequences of the Fall of Coroni for the Greeks of Italy see Peri, “I metropoliti orientali di Agrigento,” 279 n. 16. 52 BNVEN, Ms. Branc. I.B.6, fols. 31r–32v, in Wos, “La comunità greca di Ancona,” 37.

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the poorer ones of the same group proved very useful in creating a sense of cohesion and collective identity for the community that revolved around Sant’Anna. The tax levied on the Greek merchants passing through Ancona may have had a similar function. The right of taking a small sum proportional to the cargo of every Greek ship entering the port was granted by the concession of 1524,53 and in 1584 it amounted to around forty or fifty scudi per year,54 a relatively modest sum when compared with the amount of money several confraternity members traded on a daily basis.55 Like the alms and donations received by the church, the effect of this tax was social, rather than economic, cementing the cultural connection between the Greeks of Ancona with their places of origin, through the hinge of the port. It also confirmed the double nature of the Confraternity of Sant’Anna as both a religious gathering point and as the main administrative centre of the whole natione Greca. Sometimes the confraternity was able to raise considerable amounts of money directly from its members. It was an extraordinary measure, used for example in 1575 to raise 425 ducats, more or less equivalent to ten years of the merchant tax described above. This sum was raised to purchase a plot of land from Giovanni Battista Scalamonti. Another plot of land was purchased the same year, but in delayed yearly instalments of fifty scudi.56 A record in the pontifical cadastre of the countryside surrounding Ancona for 1531 shows that the core of the landed possessions of the societas can be dated back at least to the exact same year of its official approval by the city. Significantly, one of its neighbours was a certain Giacomo Greco,57 and the proximity of two lots owned by members of the Greek community may point out to a bequest contained in the last will of one of Giacomo’s relatives. An agricultural property belonging to the confraternity, possibly the very same, was rented out 53

Saracini, Notitie Historiche, 320. BNVEN, Ms. Branc. I.B.6, fol. 18v, in Wos, “La comunità greca di Ancona,” 31; the Greek merchants agreed to offer a portion of their revenues since the very foundation of Sant’Anna as a Greek church in 1524, as in ASAn, ANAn 173 (Troilo Leoni, 1523–24), fol. 182v. 55 In 1559, for example, Alessandro Maurodi purchased three hundred bales of green textiles for 1168.3 scudi; ASAn, ANAn 539 (Marino Benincasa, 1559), fol. 42r. 56 ASAn, ANAn 600 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1575), fols. 190v–191r, 480r. 57 ASAn, ACAn, Sez. 1, Catasti Pontifici, 3, fol. 156v: “Iacomo Greco ha terra arativa nella contrada delle Lamaticcie, da lato Gironimo Scalamonti et Luciano Venerio, da capo li beni della compagnia delli greci, da piedi la strada.” 54

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several times in the following decades, in all cases with a sharecropping agreement, according to which every year half of its vintage and of its olives had to be taken to Ancona, more precisely to the officiating priest of Sant’Anna, in his solite habitationis (also owned by the confraternity).58 The estate of Sant’Anna was occasionally expanded by a direct testamentary legacy or by dowry clauses. We have for example the case of a certain Caterina Greca, who named the institution heir to her small apartment in case of a childless death. The unfortunate occurrence happened in 1574, but on that occasion the confraternity was forced to get rid of the building, which was apparently in terrible conditions: “inutilis sed fortasse damnosa.”59 However, the most lavish and consequential testamentary donation was made by Captain Alessio Lascari Paleologo. Lascari was the mercenary captain of a squadron of light cavalrymen during the Italian wars of the sixteenth century. Despite the resounding double surname, which offers a tenuous link to the Byzantine imperial court, his origins are uncertain at best. It is known, however, that between at least 1528 and 1556 he served as a condottiere under different masters, throughout Italy.60 He lived some thirty kilometers south of Ancona, in the contado of the small town of Recanati.61 When he died in 1562, he asked to be buried in the church of Sant’Anna, and made the confraternity one of his heirs, bestowing the impressive sum of 2,000 scudi, later negotiated down by his wife to 1,600.62 Of this sum, five hundred was to be invested 58

ASAn, ANAn 539 (Marino Benincasa, 1559), fol. 362. ASAn, ANAn 601 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1575), fol. 712r. 60 His earliest mention dates from 1528, when he is known as one of the defenders of Manfredonia against the besieging French army, Paolo Giovio, La seconda parte dell’Istorie del suo tempo (Venice 1560), 96; his last known military activity dates from 1556, when he garrisoned Città di Castello with his company of horsemen, Pietro Laurenzi et al., Memorie civili di Città di Castello (Città di Castello 1844), 114; his death in 1562 is confirmed in Saracini, Notitie Historiche, 367, as is his epitaph, which was preserved in the church of Sant’Anna: D.O.M. ALEXII LASCARIS; Paleologorum Sanguine Ortus; Francisco Panici Lauden; Gonzagae Mantuae Principi; Turmae Equitum Praefectus; Bellis aliquod non sine gloria interfuit. 61 Archivio di Stato di Macerata (henceforth ASMc), Archivio Notarile di Recanati (henceforth ANR), 1224 (Pietro Buonamici, 1557), fol. 23r. 62 A later copy of his last will survives in ASAn, Fondo Ospedale Umberto I, Testamento di Alessio Lascari Paleologo, fols. 2r–5r.; his wife Drusiana Lascarina, had a really hard time realising the promises of her late husband, and some delayed instalments of his endowment were still being paid by the 1570s: ASAn, ANAn 592 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1563), fols. 336–337v; ANAn 594 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1565), 270; 597 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1572), 169, fols. 280–280v; 59

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in real estate—and it was used to buy a plot of land in Recanati—five hundred was reserved for the foundation of a hospital, and the remaining six hundred for a dowry fund. The system of welfare and wealth redistribution grew around these testamentary endowments. The hospital sponsored by Lascari was located in the property of a Greek woman—an otherwise unknown Monica Rodiani—right in front of the church of Sant’Anna, next to the Greek chapel of San Matteo.63 It had eight beds, and all the necessary equipment was specifically granted by Lascari in his last will. However, its administration was in the hands of a Latin confraternity known as Misericordia e Morte. At the end of the sixteenth century, the communal authorities of Ancona were starting to build a more centralised healthcare system, and Misericordia e Morte was one of the staples of this system.64 It is therefore likely that the hospital was meant to be administered by Sant’Anna, and that later negotiations with the civic authorities of Ancona had prompted Lascari to leave it to the Latins. The hospital of Sant’Anna would later constitute one of the cores of the modern healthcare systems of the city of Ancona, together with the hospital of Santissima Trinità, founded in the early seventeenth century by another Greek who had converted to Roman Catholicism, Costantino Maurodi.65 Another important part of Lascari’s endowment, six hundred scudi, was reserved for the creation of a dowry fund for poor unmarried Greek girls. While by 1599 a series of bad investments had completely depleted the original fund,66 the confraternity received two “perpetual” donations in 1569 and 1589,67 made by Alessandro Maurodi, the richest and most influential Greek merchant in Ancona, and his nephew Costantino. Apparently the donation was really perpetual, as it is attested until at least

ASMc, ANR 1229 (Pietro Buonamici, 1562), fol. 338v; ANR 1232 (Pietro Buonamici, 1565), fols.43v–51v; ANR 1235 (Pietro Buonamici, 1568), fol. 128v; (1569), fol. 91; the situation of the Lascaris of Recanati was apparently not that good even a few years before the death of Alessio, as Drusiana was forced to pawn a golden necklace, made by a Greek artisan to pay for a new tax levied by the town council in 1559, ASMc, ANR 1226 (Pietro Buonamici, 1559), fol. 273v. 63 Vincenzo Pirani, Le chiese di Ancona (Ancona 1988), 140; Archivio Diocesano di Ancona, Visite Pastorali 1, 1586–1597, fol. 90v. 64 Vincenzo Pirani, “Gli ospedali in Ancona nei secoli XV–XVI ed il loro sviluppo nel tempo,” Atti e memorie – rivista della deputazione di storia patria delle Marche 97 (1992): 465–79. 65 ASAn, Fondo Ospedale Umberto I, Testamento di Costantino Maurodi. 66 Angelucci, Cenni storici, 37. 67 ASAn, Fondo Ospedale Umberto I, Testamento di Costantino Maurodi.

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63

1780,68 and possibly lasted until the parish of Sant’Anna was closed in 1880. Every year, during the feast of Saint Anne, the names of two poor unmarried girls of respectable family were randomly extracted from a box, and given twenty-five scudi each. The girls were supposed to be Greeks, or if there was no Greek girl available, Italian.69 However, it seems that the network of social connections built around the Greek community also played a part, as there is proof that the dowry was also awarded to an Armenian girl, Caterina, who worked as the apprentice of confraternity member Giovanni Filaretti da Tebe, an herbalist.70 However, the first and most important way to redistribute wealth inside the Greek community was by almsgiving. The cercatori of the confraternity made periodical assessments of the Greek population in Ancona, in order to determine their wealth and their need of assistance, which they then received accordingly. Charity and welfare were common occupation for sixteenth-century confraternities. However, each confraternity tended to occupy a very specific niche: assistance to pilgrims, to prisoners sentenced to death, or management of hospitals. The statutes of Sant’Anna clearly show that its niche was the assistance of the Greek community.71 The range of its charitable activities, while wider than its Catholic counterparts, was very specifically limited to the members of its own restricted ethnoreligious community. A similar scope was the mark of most “national confraternities” across Italy, both those of the Greek diaspora and other expatriate or mercantile communities, like the Florentines, the Venetians, and the Germans in Rome.72 68

ASAn, Sant’Anna dei Greci, Libro delle entrate e degli esiti della compagnia di Sant’Anna dei Greci, 1780, fol. 1r. 69 BNVEN, Ms. Branc. I.B.6, fols. 36r–37v, in Wos, “La comunità greca di Ancona,” 40–42; ASAn, ANAn 592 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1563), fol. 336v. 70 ASAn, ANAn 597 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1572), fols. 95v, 282, 288. 71 BNVEN, Ms. Branc. I.B.6, fols. 36r–37v, in Wos, “La comunità greca di Ancona,” 43: “due nostri Fratelli di buona coscienza, quali debbino dispensare la farina et altre elemosine in questa città dove sono poveri et povere della nostra Nation Greca.” 72 Paola Ceccarelli Isopi, “Le confraternite anconitane: devozione e assistenza in età moderna,” Proposte e Ricerche 44 (2000): 7–19; James G. Ball, “Poverty, Charity and the Greek Community,” Studi veneziani 6 (1982): 129–45; Claudia Conforti, Elena Sanchez de Madariaga, and James S. Amelang, “Churches and Confraternities,” in Cultural Exchange in Early Modern Europe, vol. 2, Cities and Cultural Exchange, ed. Donatella Calabi and Stephen Turk Christensen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 349–63; Christopher F. Black, Italian Confraternities in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 43–45.

64

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

The obligation to assist its community did not terminate with charity and welfare. Sant’Anna also offered the possibility of a proper burial to those foreign Greeks who happened to die in Ancona, like Captain Stefano Agalli in July 1548, and an otherwise unspecified Giorgio Greco in 1573.73 The confraternity also offered some form of legal assistance to its community. In several cases of arbitration between two Greeks (either foreign or resident), the members of Sant’Anna worked as their arbiters and representatives, sometimes also offering their services as translators to the notary.74 Significantly, this was not always the case when a dispute involved a Greek from Chios: more often than not, Chiot merchants involved in arbitration were assisted and represented by a member of the Genoese natione.75 Another important detail is that those functions were never performed in the collective name of the confraternity, or of the Greek natione, but those who did help foreigners and resident Greeks with arbitration, translation, and burial were often members of Sant’Anna. It is possible to assume that these services, while not officially responsibilities of the confraternity, were informally considered as part of its members’ duties of social assistance as a surrogate natione inside a mercantile city. Despite all these functions of social assistance and wealth redistribution, the Confraternity of Sant’Anna was primarily a religious 73

ASAn, ANAn 358 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1548), fol. 476r; C. Albertini, Storia di Ancona dal 282 al 1824 (Ancona 1830), 253. 74 ASAn, ANAn 354 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1541–1542), fol. 317r, Compromissum inter Demetrio Bogogna Velacchum ex una, et Michalle similiter Bogogna ex altera, arbitrated by Alessandro Maurodi, interpretation by Girolamo Lecchavera, both members; ANAn 355 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1543), fol. 81v, Compromissum inter Petrum Grecum Triccolum ex una et Zachariam et Iannem Grecos ex altera, arbitrated by Alessandro Maurodi (on the side of Zaccharia and Iannem), and Antonio Coressi (for Petrum), again both members; ANAn 358 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1548), fol. 437v, Sententia inter Georgium Mauritium Cretensem et eius Marinarios, arbitrated by Antonio Coressi and Theodoro Rattopulo, both members. It may be interesting to note how Rattopulo, who was capitano del porto and had worked for years in close proximity with sailors and naval workers was elected arbiter by the quosdam marinarios that decided to sue their captain Giorgio; ANAn 540 (Marino Benincasa, 1560), fol. 400r, Compromissum inter Nicolaum Grimiani et Chiriacum Alexopulum Grecos, arbitrated by Alessandro Maurodi, translations provided by Alovisio Dimitri Greci de Patrasso, member of Sant’Anna; ASAn, ANAn 348 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1534), fol. 122r, Compromissum inter Perotam de Crocira ex una et Iacobum de Imola ex altera, arbitrated by Pietro Cordella. 75 ASAn, ANAn 352 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1538), fol. 160r; ANAn 351 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1537), fol. 60v; ANAn 354 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1541– 1542), fols. 3r, 14v, 94v, 108r; ANAn 358 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1548), fol. 549r.

Niccolò Fattori

65

institution, and through the sixteenth century remained true to this nature. Not only by taking care of the estates of the church, but also by organising the yearly procession and feast of Saint Anne, every 25th of July. But the main expression of the religious function of the confraternity was the selection of its priests. While it was a common practice for devotional confraternities to select their own religious personnel, the peculiar nature of Sant’Anna as an institution of Greek rite meant that the priests were required to come from the other side of the Adriatic, where they were ordained by Greek bishops. Roman policies towards the communities of the Greek and Albanian diaspora passed through several phases during the sixteenth century, but what they all had in common was an underlying acceptance of the Council of Florence as the eighth Ecumenical Council.76 This meant that, the varying degrees of religious tolerance notwithstanding, the Greek priests that were allowed to celebrate in regions under Catholic rule needed to be summoned from those regions whose bishops still recognised the Union of Florence, which almost invariably meant territories of the Venetian dominions, or places with an otherwise strong connection to the Latin world, like the Genoese colony of Chios. This assumption is confirmed by the provenance of the known priests of Sant’Anna, which came from Zante (Pierfilippo Protonotario de Zante, 1533–42), Rhodes (Pacomio de Rodi, 1536–38), Corfu (Antonio Patavino de Crocira, 1538), Nauplion (Onorfio de Neapoli Romanie, 1542), Cyprus (Pafnuzio, 1543), Crete (Giovanni Natana de Candia, 1575), and finally Chios (Giovanni Euripoti de Scio, 1579–83).77 Only two priests, Mariano in 1563 and a Vittorio in 1592 have unknown origins,78 but it would be reasonable to conclude that they probably came from similar territories.

76 Vittorio Peri, “La lettura del Concilio di Firenze nella prospettiva unionistica romana,” Christian Unity – The Council of Ferrara-Florence, ed. Giuseppe Alberigo (Leuven: LeuvenUniversity Press, 1991), 593–612, at 598; Vittorio Peri, “L’unione della Chiesa orientale con Roma: il moderno regime canonico occidentale nel suo sviluppo storico,” Aevum 58 (1984): 439–98, at 461–63. 77 ASAn, ANAn 347 (Girolamo Giustiniani 1533), fols. 138v–139r; ASAn, ANAn 198 (Lorenzo Trionfi, 1536–37), fols. 156r–156v; ASAn, ANAn 352 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1538), fol. 15r; ASAn, ANAn 354 (Girolamo Giustiniani 1542), fols. 455r–455v; ASAn, ANAn 355 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1543), fols. 52r–52v; ASAn, ANAn 601 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1575), fol. 189v; BV, Vat. lat. 6416, fols. 91r– 92v, in Peri, “Chiesa Latina e Chiesa Greca,” 427–28. 78 ASAn, ANAn 592 (Francesco Brancaleoni, 1563), fols. 29v–30r; Archivio Propaganda Fide, Miscell. Diverse 21, fols. 204r–205v, in Peri, Chiesa Romana e “rito” Greco, 224–25.

66

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Serving for Sant’Anna was hardly a lifelong engagement, as the priests generally served for two to three years. However, being in a port city gave plenty of opportunities to find a replacement among the new arrivals, or to somehow find an agreement with the overseas bishops. The procedure of their summoning apparently required the usual two-thirds quorum of members, and was often followed by a mandato di procura which allowed some specific members to pick the selected priest up overseas. Normally merchants were entrusted with this kind of task, due to their extended network of contacts, and higher potential mobility.79

Conclusions: “Poveri levantini laici” The Confraternity of Sant’Anna was the main social and religious centre of the Greek presence in Ancona, both for those who had chosen to permanently settle in the city, and for those who periodically visited it as merchants or sailors, as shown by the tax levied on the merchants, or by the burial and other services granted to foreigners. Also, despite being relatively small in size, accounting for no more than ten to fifteen percent of the total male population, the confraternity was still able to provide a good number of services to its community, most of which involved a redistribution of wealth from the top down. While this redistribution happened through the familiar means of alms, dowry grants, healthcare, and collective feasts, it peculiarly took place inside the relatively closed circle of the Greek community, from the richest merchants to the poorest beggar. The auxiliary legal and social assistance offered by the Genoese community to the Chiots, which constituted a quarter of the total Greek presence in Ancona, meant that for them Sant’Anna remained a purely religious institution, and their exclusion from the welfare network was apparently made even easier by the fact that most of them were very wealthy merchants, who almost monopolised long-distance commerce. However, for the rest of the Greek community, the confraternity worked as the central collective organisation of the expatriate settlement, and since consulates and the other structures typical of a proper natione, like those of the Genoese, the Ragusans or the Florentines, could not be set up, the organisation of communal life had to take the familiar shape of a religious confraternity. However, the primary functions of the Confraternity of Sant’Anna were still religious, and it was from its link with the religious institutions of the Greek world that it derived much of its legitimacy.

79

ASAn, ANAn 355 (Girolamo Giustiniani, 1543), fol. 52v.

Niccolò Fattori

67

Being so closely linked to a mercantile community, its role could only be preserved as long as the money kept flowing, and there was the concrete possibility of new members joining the organisation, two prerequisites that became harder to fulfil at the end of the sixteenth century, with the sharp contraction of Anconitan trade at the end of the 1570s,80 and the new religious climate imposed by the Council of Trent. The new condition of the societas, after two decades of religious pressure and economic decline is best exemplified with a remark made by bishop Giovanni Alberti, governor of Ancona in 1595: “la qual Chiesa è governata da una Compagnia di alquanti pochi Greci—poveri levantini laici—li quali in tutto sono sette, de li quali l’uno è cieco, l’altro è infermo per la longa vecchiaia giacendo in letto, restano cinque li quali governano e dispensano dette entrate, tra li quali uno è sensale, li quattro sono poveri sartori.”81 Those poor lay Levantines, were barely able to administer the landed properties of Sant’Anna, let alone provide welfare to the poorer members of their community. Certainly, they did not have the social strength to appoint their own celebrating priest anymore, and had to give in to the increasingly strict demands of the post-Tridentine bishops. In the sixty-four years that passed between its official sanction by Pope Clement VII in 1531 and the observations of Alberti, the confraternity had kept its identity as a closed (but never secluded) Greek circle in an Italian mercantile city that was subject to direct Papal rule, while performing important administrative, religious, and social functions. And for this short while Sant’Anna proved to be an effective and inclusive gathering point for the many Greeks who had chosen to invest in Ancona for their commercial or artisanal activities, and was also able to offer a safe haven for the others who were forced out of their homes by the Ottoman advance in the Aegean.

80

Among the many causes of the Anconitan crisis at the end of the century, the heavy investments made by the Venetians to turn Split into a regional centre for the commerce of Eastern European leather was one of the most important, see Renzo Paci, “La rivalità commerciale tra Ancona e Spalato (1590–1645),” Atti e memorie, deputazione di storia patria per le Marche 82 (1977): 278–86, 280–82. 81 BNVEN, Ms. Branc. I.B.6, fol. 19r, in Wos, “La comunità greca di Ancona,” 31.

Appendix

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Ioannis

N/A Iacobi

Nicorosi

Andrea Angelo

Antonio

PATRONYMIC

Andrea

NAME

Moscati

Crisospatti Tromba

FAMILY NAME Patropuli

Chios

Koroni Milos

Corfu

ORIGIN

Coltrarius

Sutor, Famulus Artisan, Unspecified

Pelliparius

ARTISANS PROFESSION

1559

1536 1563– 75

1533– 37

DATES

Yes

MEMBER

Yes

Yes Yes

Yes

RESIDENT

ANAn 398, f. 112v ANAn 196, f. 18r ANAn 198, f. 32r ANAn 592, f. 336v ANAn 594, f. 269v ANAn 597, f. 280r ANAn 600, f. 369r ANAn 539, f.

SOURCES

This appendix includes a list of a number of Greek individuals emerging from an analysis of the notarial archive of Ancona. The individuals are divided into professional groups (artisans, traders, naval workers, priests and civil servants, shopkeepers). Some of those with an unknown profession, but whose membership in the confraternity is attested in the sources, are also included. Inside each group, they are listed according to their Italianized name (as reported in the sources), their patronymic, their family name and their provenance, when available. The tables also provide information on the dates in which they are attested, and on whether or not they were members of the Confraternity of Sant’Anna, or resided permanently in Ancona. Finally, the sources provided include the mentions of each individual, mostly in the Notarial Section of the State Archive of Ancona (ANAn, Archivio notarile di Ancona).

68

Stephani

N/A

Alexii

N/A

Manolli

N/A

Zannis

Iohannis

Nicolai

Michellis

Antonio

Bartolomeo

Basilio

Costantino

Costantino

Costantino

Costantino

Cristodulo

Demetrio

Demetrio

Solevio

N/A

N/A

N/A

Baturi

N/A

Columeno

N/A

Politi

de Gotis

Morea

Mani

Crete

Crete

Chios

Patras

Chios

Unknown

Rhodes

Corfu

Sutor

Sutor

Paternostrarius, Famulus

Paternostrarius

Marango

Sutor

Paternostrarius

Pistor

Coltrarius, Famulus Paternostrarius

Niccolò Fattori

1525– 38

1537

1533– 34

1535

1563

1559– 75

1535

1534– 43 1529

1562

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 198, ff. 122r, 149v ANAn 199, f. 15v ANAn 351, f. 35r ANAn 196, f. 138v ANAn 197, ff. 62r, 86r, ANAn 198, f. 156r, 122r, 154v,

164v ANAn 542, f. 339v ANAn 355, ff. 52r, 66v ANAn 389, f. 129v ANAn 196, f. 351v ANAn 539, f. 57v ANAn 542, f. 368v ANAn 600, f. 189v ANAn 592, f. 183v ANAn 196, f. 351v ANAn 347, f. 295r

69

Nicolai

N/A

Birri

Nicolai

Francisci

Iohannis

Georgii

Marci

Zacharie

N/A

Demetrii

Demetrio

Domenico

Duccio

Giacomo

Giacomo

Giacomo

Giannello

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giovanni

70

N/A

Cardeus

Schiada

N/A

N/A

Piccioli

N/A

Franchi

N/A

Politi

N/A

Chios

Unknown

Corfu

Chios

Ancona

Venice

Cyprus

Koroni

Valona

Rhodes

Thessalonica

Coltrarius

Aurifex

Sutor

Artisan, Unspecified Marango

Sutor

Sutor

Sutor

Paternostrarius, Famulus Sutor, Famulus

Pelliparius

1537– 62

1559

1561– 63

1536

1538

1533– 43

1542– 59

1536– 42

1525

1534

1543

Yes

Yes

Yes

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 541, f. 3v ANAn 543, f. 348v ANAn 592, f. 336v ANR, 1226, f. 273v ANAn 542, f. 339v

ANAn 352, f. 104v ANAn 198, ff. 8r, 96r

188v ANAn 199, f. 15v ANAn 355, f. 144v ANAn 348, f. 290r ANAn 196, f. 138v ANAn 354, f. 407r ANAn 198, f. 32r ANAn 539, f. 57v ANAn 354, f. 455r ANAn 355, f. 52r ANAn 197, f. 67r

N/A

N/A Nicolai

N/A

Georgii

Nicolai

Bartholomei

Giovanni

Giovanni Luca

Manuele

Manuele

Matteo

Michele

Politi

Iassi

N/A

N/A

Primicherus N/A

Theodorini

Rhodes

Corfu

Venice

Unknown

Rhodes Morea

Corfu

Paternostrarius Proseneta

Sutor

Tiraoro

Sutor

Sutor Sutor

Bottarius

Niccolò Fattori

1534– 75

1563

1523– 35

1543

1525 1562

1538

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes Yes

Yes

ANAn 198, f. 149v ANAn 352, f. 112v ANAn 196, f. 49r ANAn 542, f. 160r Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v ANAn 344, f. 40 ANAn 349, f. 221 ANAn 543, f. 163r ANAn 539, ff. 86r, 132v ANAn 543, ff. 62r, 145v, 253r, ANAn 592, ff. 30r, 336v ANAn 594, f. 269v ANAn 597, ff. 127v, 135r, 280r ANAn 600, f. 369r ANAn 602, f. 353r ANAn 603, ff. 2v, 221r ANAn 349, f. 246v

71

Demetrii

Damiani

Georgii

Ioannis

Michaglie

N/A

Nicola

Nicola

Nicola

Nicola

Oliviero

Pietro

72

Cordella

N/A

N/A

N/A

Buratto

Solevio

Chios

Corfu

Syros

Senj

Rhodes

Morea

Tiraoro Proseneta

Coltrarius, Famulus Cerdo

Pelliparius

Aurifex

Sutor

1534– 43

1559

1559

1543

1536– 65

1535– 37

Yes

Yes

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 354, f. 407r ANAn 364, f. 239r ANAn 197, f. 198r ANAn 349, f. 234v ANAn 197, f. 379v ANAn 198, ff. 8r, 122r ANAn 592, ff. 46r, 336v ANAn 539, f. 212v ANAn 541, f. 219v ANAn 352, f. 342r ANAn 354, f. 421v ANAn 198, f. 169r ANAn 355, f. 144v ANAn 539, f. 164v ANAn 539, f. 269v ANAn 348, f. 122r ANAn 353, f. 109v

Lazzari

Iohannis

N/A

Stephani

Polo

Severo

Statto

Zanni

Demetrii

N/A Ioannis N/A Ioannis

Luigi

Costantino Domenico Filippo Giacomo

PATRONYMIC

Stamatti

Pietro

NAME

Andree

Pietro

Cavestri Chielli Poxudi N/A

FAMILY NAME Vrostino

de Stephani

Smidali

N/A

Zille

Cosenti

N/A

Chios Chios Chios Andros

Patras

ORIGIN

Unknown

Zante

Rhodes

Scutari

Zante

Venice

1529

1560

1530

1544

Translator Translator Translator Translator

Translator

1559– 65 1563 1559 1531 1549– 65

Yes

Yes

Yes

MEMBER

1542– 72

1563

TRANSLATORS PROFESSION DATES

Pistor

Faber Lignarius

Paternostrarius

Faber Lignarius

Marango, Famulus Bottarius

Niccolò Fattori

Yes Yes

Yes

Yes

RESIDENT

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 539, f. 170r ANAn 594, f. 269v ANAn 592, f. 183v ANAn 539, f. 48r ANAn 346, f. 205r ANAn 541, ff. 219r, 244r ANAn 359, f. 186r

SOURCES

ANAn 355, f. 52r ANAn 592, f. 183v ANAn 539, f. 141v ANAn 592, f. 336r ANAn 597, f. 280r ANAn 355, f. 146r ANAn 356, f. 187r ANAn 345, ff. 229r, 327r ANAn 540, f. 130r ANAn 389, ff. 45v, 52v

73

N/A

Constantini

N/A

Demetrii

Agatia

Alessandro

Alessandro

Antonio

PATRONYMIC

Coressi

Charchiopoli

Maurodi

FAMILY NAME Premendario

Calaughiro Apostoli Cavazza Spanopulo

N/A Georgii N/A N/A

NAME

Andiohi Bretio

N/A N/A

Giovanni Marco Antonio Matteo Nicola Pietro Zaccaria

Vlasopulo

N/A

Chios

Valona

Adrianople

Patras

1542 1531 1542 1531

1533 1537

1563

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

TRADERS PROFESSION

Translator Translator Translator Translator

Translator Translator

Translator

ORIGIN

Chios [Terranova] Chios Unknown

Corfu Samos

Zante

1542– 48

1539 – 1569 1548– 49

1538?

DATES

Yes

Yes Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

MEMBER

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Giovanni

74

Yes

Yes

RESIDENT

ANAn 352, f. 342r ANAn 353, f. 128r ANAn 358, f. 463r ANAn 359, ff. 118r, 154r ANAn 354, ff. 418v, 455r ANAn 355, ff. 202r, 285v, 336r ANAn 356, ff. 117r, 161r, 187r ANAn 358, f.

SOURCES

ANAn 592, ff. 102v, 116r ANAn 196, f. 94v ANAn 389, ff. 109r, 111r ANAn 354, f. 425v ANAn 346, f. 205r ANAn 354, f. 374r ANAn 197, f. 78r ANAn 346, f. 128r

N/A

N/A

Pauli

N/A

N/A

Manolis

Bartholomei

Antonio

Bartolomeo

Biagio

Cosma

Costantino

Costantino

Costantino

Politi

Maurodi

Ralli

Argiroffo

N/A

Volentiera

Conci

Rhodes

Constantinople

Chios

Chios

Lepanto

Zante

Chios

Merchant Patronum Navis Translator

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Niccolò Fattori

1548– 65

1560– 89

1531– 43

1543

1514

1538

1537

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

396r ANAn 350, f. 60v ANAn 352 f. 357r ANAn 193, f. 15r ANAn 355, f. 202v ANAn 350, f. 85r ANAn 351, f. 60v ANAn 352, f. 89r ANAn 354, f. 167v ANAn 355, f. 19r ANAn 592, f. 46v ANAn 597, f. 684v ANAn 600, f. 229v ANAn 601, f. 582r ANAn 604, f. 176r ANAn 358, f. 488r ANAn 539, ff. 48r, 57v, 235r

75

N/A

Iohannis

Christophari

Nicolai

N/A

Iohannis

N/A

N/A

Iohannis

Iohannis

Cristoforo

Demetrio

Demetrio

Duca

Giacomo

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giorgio

76

Radi

Coressi

Argiroffo

Voro

Poli?

Mavrokordato

Procathumenos

Eparchi

Ralli

Casa

Corfu

Chios

Chios

Chios

Crete

Chios

Argyrokastron

Corfu

Chios

Valona

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Proseneta

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

1530

1537– 38

1541

1548

1538

1529

1543

1549

1529– 37

1535

Yes

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 540, f. 363v ANAn 541, ff. 175v, 244r ANAn 542, ff. 139v, 366v, 367rv ANAn 349, ff. 293v, 312v ANAn 344, f. 201v ANAn 351, f. 199 ANAn 359, f. 25v ANAn 350, f. 141v ANAn 344, f. 198v ANAn 345, f. 61v ANAn 352, ff. 16r, 160r, 201rv ANAn 536, f. 62r ANAn 354, f. 73r ANAn 351, f. 60v ANAn 352, f. 174r ANAn 345, f. 229r

N/A

Micheli

N/A

Iohannis

N/A

N/A

N/A

Stamatti

N/A

Michaelis

N/A

Sergii

N/A

N/A

N/A

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giovanni

Giovanni

Giovanni

Giovanni

Giovanni

Giovanni

Giovanni

Giovanni

Giovanni

Sugduri

Labopoulo

Curtesius

Mavrokordato

Valacudi

Arfani

Blaxinii

Zai

Ralli-Melichi

Maruda

Laura

Balani

Trundafilo

N/A

Vulnica?

Ioannina

Ioannina

Constantinople

Chios

Chios

Chios

Crete

Argyrokastron

Adrianople

Zante

Valona

Ioannina

Cyprus

Cyprus

Koroni

Proseneta

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Proseneta

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Niccolò Fattori

1534

1563

1531

1541

1534

1564

1525

1536– 63

1542

1557

1535– 36

1563

1531

1542

1537

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 351, f. 191v ANAn 354, f. 235r ANAn 346, f. 78r ANAn 592, f. 29v ANAn 349, f. 293v ANAn 350, ff. 141v, 142v ANR 1224, f. 49v ANAn 354, f. 254r ANAn 592, f. 336v ANAn 350, ff. 195r, 204r ANAn 196, f. 83r ANAn 544, f. 97r ANAn 348, f. 241v ANAn 354, f. 82r ANAn 346, f. 78r ANAn 592, f. 29v ANAn 223, f.

77

N/A

N/A

N/A

Nicolai

N/A

N/A

Giovanni

Giovanni

Giovanni

Giovanni

Girolamo

Girolamo

78

Lecchavela

Argiroffo

Sguri

Paleologo

Floreni/ Pelaganus

Gomini

Genoa

Chios

Valona

Rhodes

Nauplion

Ioannina

Proseneta

Proseneta

Proseneta

Merchant

Proseneta

Merchant

1536– 43

1548

1534– 65

1548

1536– 60

1533

Yes

Yes

Yes

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

234r ANAn 197, f. 94v ANAn 354, f. 420v, 459v ANAn 355, ff. 52r ANAn 359, f. 244v ANAn 540, f. 24r ANAn 198, f. 44v ANAn 358, f. 488r ANAn 592, ff. 29v, 336v ANAn 539, f. 164v, ANAn 540, f. 200r ANAn 542, f. 150r, ANAn 545, f. 14r, ANAn 348, f. 252v ANAn 355, f. 52v ANAn 358, f. 549r ANAn 224, ff. 234r, 273v ANAn 350, f.

N/A

Georgii

Chiriachi

N/A

Georgii

N/A

N/A

Ioannis

N/A

N/A

Gregorio

Manuele

Manuele

Manuele

Manuele

Marco

Marco

Marino

Matteo

Michele

Calauda

Vulsinatum

Dunavi

Plaidemus

Sesaurus

N/A

Monoianni

Curtesius

Coressi

Tarle

Chios

Chios

Naxos

Lesbos

Corfu

Unknown

Monemvasia

Constantinople

Chios

Valona

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Proseneta

Niccolò Fattori

1541– 63

1531

1563

1543

1539

1514

1533

1531– 43

1529– 35

1534

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

54v ANAn 354, ff. 364r, 206r, 273v 455r ANAn 355, ff. 52r, 16v ANAn 223, f. 234r ANAn 345, ff. 61v, 62v ANAn 350,f. 14v ANAn 346, f. 78r ANAn 354, f. 450r ANAn 347, f. 198r ANAn 193, f. 15r ANAn 351, f. 51r ANAn 354, ff. 430r, 450r ANAn 355, f. 52r ANAn 543, ff. 190r, 204r ANAn 346, f. 326r ANAn 592, f. 305r ANAn 354, f.

79

N/A

Nicolai

Michaglie

Ioannis

N/A

Demetrii

N/A

N/A

Michele

Michele

Nicola

Nicola

Nicola

Nicola

Nicola

Nicola

80

Creti

Valacudi

Coressi

Rachani

Vestarchi

Servo

N/A

N/A

Chios

Chios

Chios

Chios

Chios

Cania

Unknown

Corfu

Merchant

Merchant

Proseneta Patronum Navis

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Proseneta

Proseneta

1537

1534

1530– 42

1559– 60

1559

1540– 59

1533

1525

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

102v ANAn 196, f. 91v ANAn 347, f. 289v ANAn, 538, f. 79v ANAn 539, ff. 86r, 89v ANAn 364, f. 49v ANAn 365, f. 52r ANAn 539, f. 140r ANAn 539, f. 164v ANAn 540, f. 256v ANAn 542, ff. 79v, 130v ANAn 365, f. 23v ANAn 351, ff. 22r, 35rv ANAn 352, ff. 58r, 177r, 203v, 205v ANAn 354, ff. 3v, 5r, 254r, 311v, 323r ANAn 348, f. 241v ANAn 350, f.

N/A

Georgii

N/A

Alexii

Ioannis

Nicola

Nicola

Nicola

Nicola

Stamatto

Zai

N/A

Premendario

N/A

Papadoulos

Argyrokastron

Valona

Patras

Monemvasia

Constantinople

Proseneta

Proseneta Translator

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Niccolò Fattori

1531– 43

1542– 60

1538

1536

1539

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

60v ANAn 353, f. 117v ANAn 198, f. 44v ANAn 352, ff. 277v, 342r ANAn 536, f. 86v ANAn 540, ff. 172r, 216r, 484r ANAn 542,f. 130v ANAn 354, f. 455r ANAn 358, f. 405v ANAn 346, f. 243v ANAn 348, ff. 252v, 268r, ANAn 351, f. 191v ANAn 352, ff. 98r, 277v, 342r ANAn 354, ff. 364r, 455r, 339v, 420v ANAn 355, ff. 16v, 52v, 146r ANAn 359, f. 168v

81

Iacobi

Leoni

Laurentii

Tommaso

VIncenzo

Vincenzo

N/A

Michaelis

N/A

N/A

Antonio

Antonio

Costantino

Onofrio

PATRONYMIC

N/A

Teodoro

NAME

N/A

Stamatto

82

N/A

N/A

N/A

FAMILY NAME Patavinum

Argirofo

N/A

Mavrokordato

Paraschive

Paudi

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Merchant

Nauplion

Unknown

Unknown

Corfu Famulus Antianorum Famulus antianorum Priest

Priest

1546– 78 1542

1543

1538

Yes

Yes

MEMBER

1565

1536

1529– 41

1559

1530

PRIEST AND CIVIL SERVANTS ORIGIN PROFESSION DATES

Chios

Ancona

Chios

Lesbos

Corfu

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

RESIDENT

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 199, f. 15r ANAn 353, f. 123r ANAn 345, ff. 33r, 88r Suppliche 2, f. 260rv Salariati, 4, f. 150 ANAn 354, f. 455r ANAn 355, f. 52v

SOURCES

ANAn 539, f. 113r ANAn 344, f. 198v ANAn 345, f. 61v ANAn 354, f. 14v ANAn 225, f. 4v ANAn 545, f. 92r

ANAn 223, f. 386v ANAn 224, ff.15r, 226r ANAn 345, f. 229r

Theodori

N/A N/A

N/A

Petri

Marco

Mariano Pacumio

Pierfilippo

Teodoro

Nicolai

Manolli

Georgii

Manollis

Georgii

Ciriaco

Demetrio

Antonio

Giorgio

Giovanni

PATRONYMIC

N/A

Marco

NAME

N/A N/A

Giovanni Giovanni

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

FAMILY NAME N/A

Rattopoli

Protonotarius

N/A N/A

Rattopoli

N/A

Natana Euripoti

Armirallius

Priest

Priest Priest

Capitis Bombarderorum Armirallius

Priest Priest

1548

1563 1536– 38 1533– 42

1559– 65

1575 1579– 83 1542

Crete

Crete

Crete

Andros

Lissos

Patronum

Patronum

Marinarius

Nauclerus

Patronum

NAVAL WORKERS ORIGIN PROFESSION

Zante

Zante

Unknown Rhodes

Zante

Cyprus

Crete Chios

Niccolò Fattori

1536–39

1539

1548

1544

1533

DATES

Yes

Yes Yes

Yes

Yes Yes

MEMBER

Yes

Yes

Yes Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

RESIDENT

ANAn 347, f. 301r ANAn 356, f. 92v ANAn 358, f. 471r ANAn 353, f. 123v ANAn 198, ff.

SOURCES

ANAn 347, f. 138v ANAn 350, f. 58v ANAn 354, f. 407r ANAn 224, f. 253r ANAn 358, ff. 437v, 518r

ANAn 539, ff. 4r, 201v ANAn 541, f. 194v ANAn 594, f. 269v ANAn 592, f. 29v ANAn 198, f. 156r

ANAN 600, 189v BV, Vat. Lat. 6416, ff. 91r-92v ANAn 354, f. 455r

83

Bartholomei

Georgii

Martini

N/A

N/A

Michaelis

Pantaleonis

Nicolai

Nicola

Basilio

Antonio

Antonio

Giorgio

Giorgio

Giovanni

Michele

84

Varipati

Schilizza

Serre

Solmiani

Ralli

N/A

Notara

N/A

Chios

Chios

Chios

Chios

Chios

Cherso

Crete

Crete

Calafatus

Marinarius

Patronum

Patronum

Capitanus Merchant

Patronum

Patronum

Marinarius

1562–75

1562

1559–65

1535

1541– 1543

1536

1558

1531

Yes

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

33r, 34r ANAn 350, f. 66v ANAn 352, f. 40r ANAn 353, f. 245r ANAn 346, f. 243r ANAn 538, f. 136r ANAn 346, f. 55r ANAn 198, ff. 33v, 34r ANAn 354, ff. 102v, 108r ANAn 355, f. 144r ANAn 350, ff. 144r, 145v ANAn 539, ff. 474v, 480r ANAn 540, f. 134v ANAn 541, f. 83v ANAn 544, f. 21v ANAn 542, f. 368v ANAn 540, f. 369r ANAn 600, f.

N/A

Sergii

N/A

Pantaleonis

Demetri

Stamatti

N/A

Ioannis

N/A

Pauli

N/A

Theodori

N/A

Antonii

Nicola

Pantaleone

Pietro

Stamatto

Teodoro

Tommaso

Tommaso

Luigi

Giorgio

Giacomino

Nicola

Stamatto

Basilio

Zaccaria

Schiada

Garona

Mai

Alamanno

Chimina

N/A

N/A

Vulsinatum

Rendi

Ralli

Scrini

Coressi

Mavrokordato

Canari

Corfu

Corfu

Corfu

Corfu

Corfu

Corfu

Corfu

Chios

Chios

Chios

Chios

Chios

Chios

Chios

Naval – Unspecified Nauclerus

Patronum

Patronum

Patronum Bergantini Naval, Unspecified Patronum Piatte

Patronum

Capitanus

Patronum

Scribanum

Patronum

Patronum

Patronum

Niccolò Fattori

1538–60

1548

1536

1535

1562

1542

1563

1542

1560

1548

1564

1538–41

1541

1538

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

189v ANAn 352, ff. 117r, 203v, 204v ANAn 354, f. 94r ANAn 352, f. 34r ANAn 353, f. 51r ANAn 544, f. 97r ANAn 358, f. 549r ANAn 540, ff. 58v, 111v ANAn 354, f. 311v ANAn 543, f. 345r ANAn 355, f. 136v ANAn 542, f. 78v ANAn 349, f. 312v ANAn 350, f. 144r ANAn 536, f. 219v ANAn 352, f. 260r ANAn 353, f.

85

Nicolai

Mauritium

Theodori

Georgii

Cornelii

N/A

N/A

Emanuellis

Ioannis

Nicolai

Constantini

Vasilii

Michele

Giorgio

Giovanni

Luigi

Giorgio

Demetrio

Giorgio

Michele

Nicola

Demetrio

Manuele

Nicola

86

Grimianis

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

Amira

Pacti

Micognati

Micognati

N/A

N/A

N/A

[Paterno]

Naxos

Naxos

Negroponte

Lesbos

Lesbos

Lesbos

Mikonos

Mikonos

[Maremagno?]

Crete

Koroni

Patronum

Massarus Translator Patronum

Barcarolus

Capitanus

Patronum

Patronum

Patronum

Nauclerus

Calafatus

Patronum

Marinarius Proseneta

1560

1560

1560–63

1560

1538

1542

1549

1559–63

1559

1559

1548

1529–48

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

299v ANAn 355, f. 82v ANAn 389, f. 129v ANAn 358, f. 471r ANAn 198, f. 44v ANAn 358, f. 437v ANAn 539, f. 48r ANAn 539, f. 256v ANAn 539, ff. 94rv, 109v ANAn 543, f. 185r ANAn 359, f. 270v ANAn 354, f. 371r ANAn 352, f. 117r ANAn 540, f. 9v ANAn 592, f. 102v ANAn 540, f. 183r ANAn 540, f. 400r

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

Ioannis

Pauli

Thome

Ioannis

Bartholomei

Apostolo

Caloianni

Costas

Luca

Micoccio

Giovanni

Marino

Pando

Stamatto

Alessandro

Nicola

N/A

Architetto

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

Basilisco

N/A

Zuchi

Gerva

Zante

Zante

Valona

Valona

Valona

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Sinope

Patras

Patronum

Pilotus

Patronum

Patronum

Patronum

Capitanus

Nocchiero

Patronum

Barcarolus

Capitanus

Capitanus

Niccolò Fattori

1537

1559–63

1548–49

1543

1560

1541

1542

1542

1536

1531

1548

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 358, ff. 405v, 476r ANAn 347, f. 243r ANAn 198, f. 44v ANAn 354, f. 235r ANAn 354, f. 235r ANAn 416, f. 34r ANAn 540, f. 357r ANAn 355, f. 152r ANAn 536, f. 219v ANAn 359, f. 179r ANAn 592, f. 336v ANAn 539, ff. 48r, 57v 112v, 113r ANAn 540, ff. 327v, 331v, 363v ANAn 351, f. 155rr

87

N/A

Georgii

Nicolai

Camilli

Laurentii

N/A

Marci

N/A

N/A

N/A

Manussi

Nicola

Paolo

Angelo

Francesco

Guglielmo

Giorgio

Nicola

Francesco

Giovanni

Andrea

PATRONYMIC

Antonio

NAME

88

N/A

Cariopoli

N/A

Zeleme

N/A

Statti

N/A

N/A

Politi

Strategopulo

FAMILY NAME Politi

Crete

Petronium

Athens

Arta

Andros

Andros

Andros

Andros

Ancona

Ancona

Ancona

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

1575

1543

1543

1543

1563–75

1575

1575

1565–75

1575– 1607

1575

1595

UNKNOWN PROFESSION ORIGIN PROFESSION DATES

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

MEMBER

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

RESIDENT

Ms. Branc. I.B.6, f. 57v ANAn 600, f. 189v ANAn 600, f. 189v; ANAn 1023, f. 26v ANAn 594, f. 269v ANAn 600, f. 189v ANAn 600, f. 189v ANAn 600, f. 189v ANAn 592, f. 305r ANAn 600, f. 189v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v ANAn 355, f. 52r ANAn 600, f. 189v

SOURCES

Manussi

N/A

Georgii

Ioannis

N/A

Zacharie

N/A

Michaelis

Georgii

N/A

Georgii

Atanasio

Frangia

Stamatto

Demetrio

Pantaleone

Giovanni

Matteo

Nicola

Giovanni Maria

Giovanni

Michele

Strategopulo

Spiritualis

Strategopulo

Avloniti

Padua

Schiada

Vestarchi

N/A

N/A

Capsambeli

N/A

Koroni

Koroni

Koroni

Corfu

Corfu

Corfu

Chios

Chios

Crete

Crete

Crete

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Niccolò Fattori

1560

1543

1539–72

1543

1563

1570– 1608 1561

1575

1572–75

1563

1575

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 600, f. 369r ANAn 592, f. 336v ANAn 597, f. 280r ANAn 600, f. 189v ANAn 600, f. 189v ANAn 1023, f. 93v ANAn 541, f. 3v ANAn 592, f. 336v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v ANAn 353, f. 85v ANAn 540, f. 178v ANAn 597, f. 3r ANAn 600, f. 189v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v ANAn 540, f. 178v ANAn 543, f.

89

N/A

N/A

Iacobi

N/A

Gregorii

N/A

Andree

N/A

Michaelis

N/A

N/A

Michele

Gianni

Giovanni

Giacomo

Pietro

Giovanni

Giorgio

Giovanni

Nicola

Demetrio

Pietro

90

N/A

N/A

Politi

N/A

N/A

Codofre

N/A

Scartambucci

Androvino

Chirinelli

Diachi

Šibenik

Servia

Rhodes

Rhodes

Morea

Lesbos

Cyprus

Cyprus

Cyprus

Crete

Constantinople

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

1543

1543

1563–75

1542

1563–72

1572–95

1572

1572

1572

1543

1563

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

279r ANAn 597, f. 3r ANAn 600, f. 189v ANAn 592, f. 336v ANAn 355, f. 52r ANAn 597, f. 3r ANAn 597, f. 280r ANAn 597, f. 280r ANAn 597, f. 280r ANAn 600, f. 189v Ms. Branc. I.B.6, f. 57v ANAn 592, f. 336v ANAn 597, f. 280r ANAN 354, f. 455r ANAn 600, f. 135r Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v ANAn 355, f. 52r

Marci

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

Giorgio

Alessandro

Clemente

Clemente

Demetrio

Demetrio

Demetrio

Domenico

Giorgio

Giorgio

Guglielmo

Giovanni

Giovanni

Codino

Plithachi

Almani

Saurus

Libanisios

Argiropapuzo

Contos

Mircaopulos

Castoriano

Colinsentia

Calegros

Piciotto

N/A

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Tinos

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Niccolò Fattori

1595

1543

1595

1595

1543

1543

1543

1543

1543

1543

1543

1595

1572

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

ANAn 597, f. 3r Ms. Branc. I.B.6, f. 57v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Ms. Branc. I.B.6, f. 57v Ms. Branc. I.B.6, f. 57v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Ms. Branc.

91

N/A

N/A

N/A

Ioannis

N/A

N/A

N/A

Donati

N/A

Matteo

Nicola

Teofilatto

Costantino

Costantino

Michele

Pietro Stefano

Giorgio

Francesco

92

Cotrocoius

N/A

N/A

Zaconinus

Schiendeti

Scanda

Moratti

Cutruli

Geromegiatos

Zante

Volos

Valona

Valona

Valona

Valona

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

Unknown

1575

1563–75

1543

1563

1563

1559

1543

1543

1543

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

The Greek Confraternity of Sant’Anna Dei Greci in Ancona

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

I.B.6, f. 57v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v ANAn 539, f. 362r ANAn 592, f. 336v ANAn 592, f. 336v Cod. Marc. Lat. CL. X, 174, ff. 257v ANAn 594, f. 269v ANAn 600, f. 189v ANAn 600, f. 189v

Demetrii N/A N/A Manolli Nicolai Michaellis Iohannis Georgii

Marini

Nichitta Statti

Pietro

Stefano Zannetto

PATRONYMIC

Alessandro Andrea Benedetto Demetrio Giorgio Giorgio Giorgio Giovanni

NAME

N/A N/A

Morzoflo

FAMILY NAME Alicastro Avloniti N/A N/A Mori N/A N/A Scuri

Valona Crete

Methoni

Corfu Corfu Corfu Rhodes Corfu Rhodes Chios Velona

ORIGIN

Barbitonsor Fornarus

PROFESSION Triccolus Aromatarius Triccolus Triccolus Barbitonsor Magnanus Triccolus Barbitonsor, Famulus Triccolus

SHOPKEEPERS

Niccolò Fattori

1548 1525

1534– 62

1538 1543 1542 1562 1564 1543 1543 1537

DATES

Yes

Yes

MEMBER

Yes Yes

Yes

Yes Yes Yes

Yes

RESIDENT Yes Yes

ANAn 290, f. 87r ANAn 291, f. 578r ANAn 292, f. 582r ANAn 293, ff. 15r, 334v ANAn 349, f. 135v ANAn 352, ff. 160r, 161v, 166r, 201v, 260r, 346r ANAn 353,ff. 117r, 175r,182v, 245v,300r ANAn 354, ff. 157v, 414r ANAn 355, ff. 82r, 88r,471r ANAn 359, ff. 234r, 269r ANAn 360, f. 67r ANAn 366, ff. 308r, 380v ANAn 358, f. 441r ANAn 196, ff. 7v, 48r, 91v

ANAn 352, ff. 175r, 191r ANAn 356, f. 52r ANAn 354, f. 350r ANAn 542, ff. 13r, 78v ANAn 544, ff. 19r, 28v ANAn 355, f. 145v ANAn 355, f. 68v ANAn 351, f. 192r

SOURCES

93

TRANSNATIONAL DISSIDENCE: SAMUEL CRELL’S SOCINIAN EXILE MARTIN MULSOW

It was autumn in the year 1679. The sea was stormy. At Kronborg on the sound between Denmark and Sweden,1 a small group of men were sailing in the direction of England: a high-ranking diplomat, his cousin, two nobles, one of whom was also related to the diplomat, two pages—one of them a son of the brother of the diplomat, the other the son of a family linked by friendship, and in addition to this tight-knit group some lackeys. In this company one spoke Polish. As the ship had anchored at a fair distance from the shore, the men had to be ferried there in small rowing boats. The waves beat high against the boats, causing the men to fear for their lives. The diplomat insisted on allowing only one other passenger in his boat, and this passenger was one of the pages. His name was Samuel Crell. As the wind howled, the diplomat began to recite Psalm 130: “From the depths, I have cried out to you, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication. If you, Lord, were to mark iniquities, who, O Lord, shall stand?” The diplomat felt as if he was staring into the abyss of death. He had taken Crell, the page, with him in the boat in order to have at least the son of a genuinely pious preacher on board, hopefully reasoning that for this reason God might spare the boat. But Crell was a Socinian. The diplomat was officially a Catholic, the choice of the Socinian page however revealed his real faith. Yet it worked: The passage was completed without loss of life or limb, and the young Crell, the diplomat, and his entourage safely reached England, where Crell a little later will make the acquaintance of John Locke, Isaac Vossius, Ralph Cudworth, and Isaac Newton.2 1 On Kronborg see Charles Christensen, Kronborg, Frederik II s Slot og dets videre Skæbne (Copenhagen 1950). 2 This story is being told by Samuel Crell in his autobiographical notes in Johann Christoph Strodtmann, ed., Das neue gelehrte Europa, part 16, vol. 1 (Wolfenbüttel 1752), 200–27. These are comments that Crell made a few days

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This little episode contains some telling details: it tells of Socinians in the dangerous currents of European history and it illustrates their connections to powerful nobles which enabled them in turn to establish contact with eminent scholars. It reveals the difference between the religion which was officially professed and the religion which one genuinely believed, and it lastly allows us to also recognise the crucial role played in all of this by familial ties. Socinians—the radical Protestants denying the doctrine of the Trinity—experienced a complicated pattern of migration and exile: from Italy to Poland, Moravia, and Transylvania; later from Poland to Brandenburg, the Netherlands, and England.3 The role they played in the history of ideas before he died on the account of his life, in Gabriel W. Goetten, Das jetzt lebende Europa, vol. 3 (Braunschweig 1737), 277–304. They were communicated by Crell’s friend Johann Jakob Wetstein to Strodtmann. I cite from pp. 209f: Von Malmoe giengen wir (von Schweden und hernach von den Dähnen convoirt) nach Landescron, und von dannen schiffeten wir über nach Copenhagen, besahen dasige Raritäten, hernach das königl. Lusthaus und Schloß Rosenburg, giengen darauf nach Helsingör und cronenburg zu Schiffe nach Holland. Das Schiff lag im Sunde vor Anker, ziemlich weit vom Ufer abgelegen. Der Wind war sehr stark, aber zu unserer Reise gut, den der Schiffer nicht versäumen wollte. Wir waren gedrungen uns in kleine Schifflein oder Boote zu setzen, und hatten erfahrne Bootsgesellen oder Ruderknechte vonnöthen, die gegen die großen Wellen die Schifflein zu regiren wüßten. Die kleine Schiffahrt war nicht ohne Gefahr. Die Schifflein, die zugleich vom Ufer abgiengen, sahen bisweilen einander nicht wegen der darzwischen aufsteigenden großen Wellen. Der Herr Envoye hatte ohne die Laqueyen meinen Mietpagen, seines eigenen Bruders Sohn, der auch mit seinem Vater die päbstliche Religion profitirte. Er hatte zwey pohlnische Edelleute in seiner Suite, die älter waren als wir Pagen, und einer von ihnen sein Blutsfreund und Secretarius. Es reisete auch mit ihm aus den dänischen Kriegsdiensten bis England sein Vetter Herr Franciscus Morstin, der hernach in Pohlen ein Senator und Castellan von Radom geworden war. Der Herr Envoye ästimirte ihn sehr. Er nahm aber in sein Schifflein niemand anders als mich. Alle andre mußten in andere Schifflein treten, worüber sich alle verwunderten, auch der Herr F. von Morstin, wie auch der Secretarius (auch ich selber) schlossen daraus, der Herr Envoye wäre in den Gedanken gewesen, der liebe Gott würde ihn in dieser Gefahr bewahren, wenn er nur eines frommen unitarischen Predigers Sohn bey sich im Schifflein hätte. Er sang darbey in der pohlnischen Sprache den 130. Bußpsalm. 3 See in general Earl Morse Wilbur, A History of Unitarianism. Socinianism and Its Antecedents (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1945); idem, A History of Unitarianism in Transylvania, England, and America to 1900 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952), and Zbigniew Ogonowski,

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follows a similarly complicated pattern: from early Biblical studies to a rational Christianity, which could mingle with Cartesianism, Lockianism, or even Spinozism. These interlinking and overlapping patterns resulted from the transnational existence forced upon them by persecution. I will focus in this research on a prominent Socinian from the late, cosmopolitan phase of this movement: the nineteen-year-old youth in the boat, Samuel Crell (1660–1747), grandson of the famous Socinian theologian Johann Crell.4 My contribution will try to shed some light on the social setting of “Der Sozinianismus,” in Grundriss der Geschichte der Philosophie. Die Philosophie des 17. Jahrhunderts, vol. 4, ed. Helmut Holzhey and Wilhelm Schmidt-Biggemann (Basel: Schwabe, 2001), 871–81. The standard reference work is Friedrich Bock, Historia Antitrinitariorum maxime Socinianismi et Socinianorum (Leipzig, 1774), esp. 1:1. On Socinian theology, see Otto Fock, Der Socinianismus nach seiner Stellung in der Gesammtentwicklung des christlichen Geistes, nach seinem historischen Verlauf und nach seinem Lehrbegriff (Kiel 1847), and KĊstutis Daugirdas, Die Anfänge des Sozinianismus. Genese und Eindringen des historisch-ethischen Religionsmodells in den universitären Diskurs der Evangelischen in Europa (Göttingen: Vandenhoel, 2016). On Socinian Philosophy: Zbigniew Ogonowski, Socynianizm a Oswiecenie. Studia nad mysla filozoficzno-religijna arian w Polsce XVII wieku (Warsaw: PaĔtswowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1966); Fiorella Pintacuda de Michelis, Socinianesimo e tolleranza nell‘ età del razionalismo (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1975); Paul Wrzecionko, ed., Reformation und Frühaufklärung in Polen. Studien über den Sozinianismus und seinen Einfluß auf das westeuropäische Denken im 17. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vanderhoek & Ruprecht, 1977); Sascha Salatowsky, Die Philosophie der Sozinianer. Transformationen zwischen RenaissanceAristotelismus und Frühaufklärung (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: FrommannHolzboog, 2015). Some recent important conference volumes are Lech Szczucki, ed., Faustus Socinus and His Heritage (Kraków: Polska Akademia UmiejĊtnóski, 2005), and Mariangela Priarolo and Maria Emanuela Scribano, eds., Fausto Sozzini e la filosofia in Europa (Siena: Accademia senese degli Intronati, 2005). On Polish Socinianism: Stanislas Kot, Socinianism in Poland (Boston: Star King Press, 1957). Literature on Dutch Socinianism is listed in Piet Visser, ed., Bibliographia Sociniana: A Bibliographical Reference Tool for the Study of Dutch Socinianism and Antitrinitarianism (Hilversum: Verloren, 2004). See, however, also the older works by Wilhelmus Johannes Kühler, Het Socinianisme in de Nederlanden (Leiden 1912), and Jacob Cornelis van Slee, De Geschiedenis van het Socinianisme in de Nederlanden (Haarlem 1914). On England: Sarah Mortimer, Reason and Religion in the English Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); on Bohemia: Wacáaw Urban, Der Antitrinitarismus in den Böhmischen Ländern und in der Slowakai im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert (BadenBaden: Editions Koerner, 1986). 4 I have dealt with Samuel Crell in several studies so far: Mark Mulsow, Moderne aus dem Untergrund. Radikale Frühaufklärung in Deutschland 1680–1720

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his activities, especially his family bonds, his involvement with clandestine trade and his strategies of network-building.5

Liminal Existence: Socinian Settlements in the Border Regions of Brandenburg, Silesia, and Poland Where should one settle if one was rejected and regarded with suspicion by all other religious denominations?6 The Socinians were tolerated in Poland until 1658, even if they were forced to live in isolation after Sandomir in 1570, a synod at which the major Protestant confessions had convened but from which they had been excluded. This situation made it necessary for them to seek out the patronage and protection of noble landowners.7 For this reason they based themselves in settlements

(Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag, 2002), 68–75, 85–114; English translation: Enlightenment Underground. Radical Germany 1680–1720, trans. E. Midelfort (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2015), 49–54, 61–77; idem, “Jacques Souverain, Samuel Crell et les crypto-sociniens de Londres,” in Jacques Souverain: Lettre à Mr. *** touchant l’apostasie, ed. Sylvain Matton, with introduction by Elisabeth Labrousse, and contribution by Martin Mulsow (Paris and Milan: Arche, 2000), 49–63; idem, “The ‘New Socinians.’ Intertextuality and Cultural Exchange in Late Socinianism,” in Socinianism and Arminianism, ed. Martin Mulsow and Jan Rohls (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 49–78; Martin Mulsow, “Samuel Crell – An Intellectual Profile,” in Szczucki, Faustus Socinus and His Heritage, 477–94; idem, “Socinianism, Islam and the Radical Uses of Arabic Scholarship,” Al-Qantara 31 (2010): 549–86. On Crell see also http://unitariens.voila.net/articles/crellius_samuel_ang.html 5 Already Herbert McLachlan, “An Old Unitarian Circle,” in idem, Essays and Addresses (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1950), 1–19, gives a preliminary account of Crell in his family circle and networks. 6 On German-Polish entangled history see Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg and Edmond Kizik, Deutsch-Polnische Geschichte (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchtgesellschaft, 2014). On Socinians and the other denominations: Janusz Tazbir, Arianie i katolicy (Warsaw: KsiąĪka i Wiedza, 1971); Lech Szczucki, Wokóá dziejów i tradycji arianizmu (Warsaw: PaĔtswowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1971). 7 See Lukasz Bieniasz‚ “Über Schmiegelisten. Schmiegel und Meseritz als Wirkungsorte polnischer und deutscher Antitrinitarier am westlichen Rande der Adelsrepublik Polen-Litauen im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert,” in Kriminelle – Freidenker – Alchemisten. Räume des Untergrunds in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Martin Mulsow (Cologne: Böhlau, 2014), 61–80; Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg, “Konfession und Migration zwischen Brandenburg-Preußen und Polen-Litauen 1640–1722. Eine Neubewertung,” in Glaubensflüchtlinge. Ursachen, Formen und

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possessed by their patrons. The aristocratic republic of Poland granted its noble landowners relatively generous leeway in their territories. The Socinian centre of Rakow, for example, belonged to Jan SienieĔski and his successors before it had to be relinquished in 1638.8 In my opinion the story of this dissidence has to be written firstly as a history of patronage, then as a story of families, and finally as a story of spaces which are relatively distinctive on the geographical map. Recent research has become increasingly sensitive to the manner in which early modern scholars were embedded in webs of family relations.9 Scholars representing persecuted minorities were in particular dependent upon such relations. The history of Socinianism into the late seventeenth century partly reads as a family saga, since it was only natural that marriage occurred within the community. Less attention has been given to the role these relations played in terms of the history of knowledge: specialised knowledge and controversial texts, and often manuscripts, were passed from hand to hand within the family and passed down through the generations.10 Often one finds the Polish Socinian “island communities” in proximity to a border, such as the border to Silesia or Brandenburg, as was the case with Schmiegel or Meseritz.11 That may have had to do with the relative weakness of the central powers in such locations.12 As the Socinians were driven out of Poland in 1658, they set up their settlement only a few dozen kilometres to the west on the territory of the Reich.13 If the West Polish Auswirkungen frühneuzeitlicher Konfessionsmigranten in Europa, ed. Joachim Bahlcke (Berlin: LIT-Verlag, 2008), 119–44. 8 See Wilbur, A History of Unitarianism, 356ff. Kot, Socinianism in Poland, 50– 68, 130–45. 9 Gadi Algazi, “At the Study: Notes on the Production of the Scholarly Self,” in Spaces of the Self, ed. David Warren Sabean and Malina Stefanovska (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2012), 17–50. 10 See Martin Mulsow, “Gelehrige Sprösslinge. Wissenschaftler-Dynastien in der Frühen Neuzeit,” in Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 19.7.2014; idem, Prekäres Wissen. Eine andere Ideengeschichte der Frühen Neuzeit (Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2012), 276–87. 11 I benefit here from a grant application for a project by Lukasz Bieniasz: Sozinianer im brandenburgisch-schlesisch-polnischen Grenzgebiet. Migration und Kulturtransfer in der Zeit der Gegenreformation und Frühaufklärung. 12 Maciej PtaszyĔski, “Das Ringen um Sicherheit der Protestanten in Polen-Litauen im 17. Jahrhundert,” in Sicherheit in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Christoph Kampmann and Ulrich Niggemann (Cologne: Böhlau, 2013), 57–75. 13 On migration caused by the persecution of religious belief see Alexander Schunka, “Konfession und Migrationsregime in der Frühen Neuzeit,” in

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communities had harboured numerous German migrants before 1658, then the Silesian and East Brandenburg villages accommodated after this date many Polish migrants.14 As examples in Brandenburg one can mention the villages Königswalde (today Lubniewice), Selchow (today ĩelechów), and Griesel (today GryĪyna in Bytnica, German Beutnitz), all only separated from each other by a few kilometres. The Crell family lived in Königswalde. As a student at the university in Altdorf, the grandfather Johann had journeyed from Nuremberg to Poland and had overseen the Gymnasium in Rakow.15 In 1657, before the final expulsion of the Socinians from Poland, Samuel Crell’s father, Christoph, fled to Silesia as a result of the second Polish-Swedish War.16 He found a temporary refuge in Creuzburg near Brieg.17 It was here that Samuel Crell was born in 1660, before the family moved on to Königswalde. By this stage Polish was the language spoken at home. Samuel Crell was given a daughter of Johann Preuß to marry. Preuß was one of a number of figures to whom the scattered Socinian families looked for leadership and guidance.18 Samuel Crell’s biography affords us the possibility of studying the intellectual consequences of confessional migration and of family bonds in the transition to the diffuse cosmopolitan phase of Socinianism, as the relatively narrow confines of a world rooted in the German-Polish border communities broadened to encompass the intellectual avant-garde of the early Enlightenment of Western Europe. The reason for the intellectual Europäische Migrationsregime (Geschichte und Gesellschaft 35/1 [2009]), ed. Ute Frevert and Jochen Oltmer (Göttingen 2009), 28–63. 14 Jörg Deventer, “Nicht in die Ferne – nicht in die Fremde? Konfessionsmigration im schlesisch-polnischen Grenzraum im 17. Jahrhundert,” in Bahlcke, Glaubensflüchtlinge, 95–118. 15 On Johann Crell see Bock, Historia, 1: 116–58; Pintacuda de Michelis, Socinianesimo, 68–94. 16 On Christoph Crell see ibid., 158–60. 17 On the war see Robert I. Frost, After the Deluge. Poland-Lithuania and the Second Northern War, 1655–1660 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). On Kreuzburg see Theodor Wotschke, Die polnischen Unitarier in Kreuzburg (Liegnitz 1911). On Socinians in Silesia in general: Siegfried Wollgast: “Morphologie schlesischer Religiosität in der Frühen Neuzeit,” in Kulturgeschichte Schlesiens in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Klaus Garber (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 2005), 114–90. 18 On Preuss (1620–1696), see Theodor Wotschke, “Die unitarische Gemeinde in Meseritz-Bobelwitz,” Zeitschrift der Historischen Gesellschaft für die Provinz Posen 26 (1911): 161–223; idem, “Die Meseritzer Schriftsteller,” Grenzmärkische Heimatblätter 11/2 (1935): 57–82.

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horizons expanding in this manner had to do with contacts established in England, Holland, Switzerland, and France.19

Growing into a Network and Establishing a Network The important role which relationships to nobles and wealthy patrons could play for the Socinians reveals itself in the way that travels and journey had the effect of extending networks of contacts. One reason for this was monetary; such journeys were only feasible if one travelled as a cohort of a diplomat. A good example of this is Crell’s first journey, which he undertook in 1680 as a nineteen-year-old. Crell was appointed as a servant to SzczĊsny Morsztyn (Faustus Morstin; von Morstein), a subequerry to the Grand Duchy of Lithuania which was linked by a Personal Union to Poland. He was the noble who we first encountered at the beginning saying his prayers in the rowboat. Morsztyn was a client of Prince Boguslaw Radziwill and had been dispatched in 1679 as an envoy of the Polish king to the peace negotiations following the SwedishBrandenburg or Scanian War.20 The family Morsztyn had links to the 19

Martin Mulsow, “Exil, Kulturkontakt und Ideenmigration in der Frühen Neuzeit,” in Diskurse der Gelehrtenkultur in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Herbert Jaumann (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010), 441–64. 20 On Morsztyn (1631–1687) see Janusz Pelc, Zbigniew Morsztyn. Arianin i poeta (Wrocáaw/ Warsaw/Kraków 1966), 88f., 184, 200, 215, 375. On his family see Janusz Tazbir, “Die Sozinianer in der zweiten Hälfte des 17. Jahrhunderts,” in Wrzecionko, Reformation und Frühaufklärung in Polen , 9–77, here 72ff. He was the son of Severin Morsztyn and was received among the number of the alumni at the Assembly of Daszow, in 1646; in 1650 he was sent, by the Assembly of Raszcow, to act as colleague of Martin Ruarus, among the Socinians of Danzig, where he preached in Polish and made progress in his theological studies. In 1652, at the Assembly of Czarcow, he obtained permission to travel with financial aid by the Assembly of Raszcow. In 1653, he defended a disputation under Henry Nicolai, in the Gymnasium Illustre at Elbing. Then he studied in the Netherlands; according to Kühler, Het Socinianisme in de Nederlanden, 213, he was in Leiden 1653 and in Amsterdam in 1656; from 1656 there is an entry in an album amicorum of Geeraert Brandt; see Anthony Wood, Athenae Oxoniensis (London 1692), 2: 197; see also Bock, Historia, 1: 509. In 1655 he got financial aid of one hundred Joachimsthaler again by the Assembly of Raszcow. After his return to Poland, Morsztyn was employed by Boguslaw Radziwill. In May 1661, with approval of King Jan Kasimir and the parliament, he converted from Socinisnism to Calvinism. Pelc mentions (184) a diary of Zbigniew Morsztyn in which a Morsztyn (who is in fact SzczĊsny Morsztyn) travels to Warsaw and sends from there during the 1660s letters with information about the Polish court. Pelc mentions also letters between SzczĊsny Morsztyn and Duke Radziwill (in the

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Socinians since the time of Fausto Sozzino’s years in Poland,21 and it was no coincidence that Morsztyn had been given the name of “Faustus” at birth, even if he later went by a different name and was not officially a Socinian. Rather he numbered to those who at this time were reproached for practising a “religio prudentum”; in other words a free and easy—and sometimes also opportunistic—faith which could switch between confessions without making too much fuss about the momentary affiliation or the occasional conversion.22 It was the liberal attitude of enlightened politicians Radziwill family archive, section V, folder 218 (Nr 10038 etc.). On Radziwill see Jörg Jacoby, Boguslaus Radziwill. Der Statthalter des Großen Kurfürsten in Ostpreußen (Marburg 1959). From 1663 to 1669 Morsztyn is a resident at the court of King Jan Kazimierz. In 1669 he was still employed by Radziwill, partly as envoy to Danzig. When in 1671 King Michael Korybut Wisniowiecki sent him as an envoy to Berlin, he got in friendly contact with elector Friedrich Wilhelm of Brandenburg, became a friend of his diplomat Johann von Hoverbeck (1606– 1682), and met other civil servants. They granted him certain commercial concessions. Again in September 1673 he was in Berlin as an envoy. He first supported the claim of the Brandenburg elector to the Polish throne in 1674, but finally gave his vote to Jan Sobieski. In 1679 he was envoy on the journey to the Netherlands, England, and Sweden that we mentioned in the beginning of this article. It was an effort to build a league against the Ottomans and also to get support for the Protestants, but only from the English Calvinists he could get eighty thousand Taler to secure the right of free worship of the Protestants in the Polish republic. After his return in 1681, he tried to get recognition for the marriage of Ludwig, son of the Brandenburg elector, with Caroline Louise Radziwill. He died on 27 April 1687. 21 See Kott, Socinianism in Poland, 30, on Christopher Morsztyn. 22 Crell, Autobiographical notes, 207f.: [U]nd der Herr Ablegatus, ob er sich schon zu der päbstlichen Religion bekannte, behielt doch einige Affection gegen die Unitarios, unter welchen er gebohren und so weit erzogen war, daß er bereits unter ihnen als ein Proponent oder Candidatus Ministerii geprediget hat. War aber zu Zeiten Oliverii Cromvels, dem er zu Ehren Panegyricum lin lateinischer Sprache ediret hat, nach England gegangen, und ließ sich von dem Hobbes, oder seinen Schriften, so weit verführen, daß er meynete, man könnte nicht allein in allen Professionen der Religion selig werden, sondern auch von einer Religion oder Profession zur andern, propter commodum carnis, sich frey begeben. Daher er erstlich zu der reformirten und hernach zu der päbstlichen übergieng, um in derselben zu heirathen. Samuel Przypkowski wrote against these conversions in his Religio vindicata a calumniis atheismi (“Eleutheropoli” 1672). On “religio prudentum” see Martin Mulsow, “Mehrfachkonversion, politische Religion und Opportunismus im 17. Jahrhundert. Plädoyer für eine Indifferentismusforschung,” in InterkonfessionalitätTranskonfessionalität-binnenkonfessionelle Pluralität. Neue Forschungen zur

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which allowed men like Morsztyn to navigate such a course. Morsztyn— officially first a Calvinist,23 and then a Catholic—still harboured open sympathies for the Socinians, and when his relative Zbigniew Morsztyn, a poet, a Socinian, and a counsellor in the Electorate of Brandenburg, recommended Crell to him, he immediately took him into his entourage.24 As a result, Crell travelled from Warsaw to Danzig and then to Scania in the south of Sweden where Charles I of Sweden at that moment held court. The journey then continued to King Christian V in Copenhagen.25 When the entourage set off from there to England, the dramatic episode took place in the harbour of Kronborg, as the boat almost capsized. How did the young Crell come into contact with scholars on this journey? The answer: through family contacts. While Morsztyn conferred with Charles II of England and his ministers, Crell visited his older brother Christoph, who had been brought up by Alice Stuckey, a patroness of the English Socinians.26 A sister of his also lived there. There was thus a close Konfessionalisierungsthese, ed. Kaspar von Greyerz, Manfred JakubowskyTiessen, Thomas Kaufmann and Hartmut Lehmann (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2003), 132–50. 23 Pelc, Zbigniew Morsztyn. Arianin i poeta, 88, states that through the efforts of Duke Boguslaw Radziwill in May 1661, some of his employees who were Socinians acquired the right, later to become converts to Calvinism. To this group belonged Jan MierzeĔski and SzczĊsny Morsztyn. 24 Crell, Autobiographical notes, 207: “Spignaeus Morstin, sein Blutsfreund, churbrandenburgischer Rath und einer der Vormünder der Tochter des Fürsten Boguslai Radzevilii, gewesenen Statthalters in Preußen, recommendirte mich in seine Dienste auf dieser Reise. Der mich recommendiret hat, war ein Unitarius professione.” On Zbigniew Morsztyn (Morstin, Morstyn) (ca. 1628 – 1689) a Polish poet, see Pelc, Zbigniew Morsztyn. Morsztyn was born in Kraków. From 1648 to 1657 he was in the army, where he fought the Swedes and Russians during the Northern Wars. His most celebrated work was religious poetry, contrasting with the style of his cousin, Jan Andrzej Morsztyn. Morsztyn was a Socinian. Because of the persecution of the Socinians, Morsztyn fled to the Duchy of Prussia in 1662 where he became a Ducal Councillor of the Elector of Brandenburg. With the help of Radziwill he leased Stara Rudówka (Rudowken). Since 1669 Morsztyn was an administrator of the estates owned by the duchess Caroline Louise Radziwill (on her see footnote 20). He died in Königsberg and was buried in Stara Rudówka in 1690. 25 On these diplomatic contexts see François-Paulin Dalerac, Mémoires du chevalier de Beaujeu, contenant ses divers voyages, tant en Pologne, en Allemagne, qu’ en Hongrie (Amsterdam 1700); Franciszek Kluczycki, König Johann III. vor Wien (Czas 1883). 26 Crell, Autobiographical notes, 206: “Dieser mein Bruder Christianus, weil dieser Nam ein Egeland ungebräuchlich, nannte sich nach dem Vater Christopher Crell,

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family tie to England extending back to 1666, the year in which Samuel’s father Christoph had established his friendship with Alice Stuckey. These connections carried Samuel Crell onwards. Three years after his first journey, he was sent from Königswalde to Amsterdam for further education at the Remonstrant Gymnasium Illustre. He was placed there in the custody of Philipp van Limborch, whose recommendation would open doors for Crell to English friends and which therefore reinforced the connections he already had there through his brother.27 In this manner Crell became acquainted in 1685, on his second trip to England, with Isaac Vossius and Ralph Cudworth.28 In 1688/89 he met John Locke, who was living on the estate of Cudworth’s daughter Damaris and her husband.29 Crell always pleaded the cause of the Unitarian congregation on the German-Polish border and entreated support. It is an easy matter to further war medicibae Doctor promoviret zu Leyden und bis an seinen Tod in societate medicinor. Londinensium.” See as well H. John Mac Lachlan, Socinianism in Seventeenth Century England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951). On English Antitrinitarians see as well Mortimer, Reason and Religion in the English Revolution. 27 Crell, Autobiographical notes, 205. On Limborch, see Louisa Simonutti, Arminianesimo e tolleranza nel Seicento olandese (Florence: L. S. Olschki, 1984); John Marshall, John Locke, Toleration and Early Enlightenment Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 28 Crell, Autobiographical notes, 211f.: “Rudolph Cudworth, mit dem ich in meiner vorigen Reise A. 1685 eine freundliche Conversation zu Cambridge hatte. Ich sahe auch Cambridge, Oxford und Windsor, woselbst ich Isaakum Vossium gesprochen habe (206).” On Crell’s travels to England, see Mulsow, “The ‘New Socinians’.” 29 Crell, Autobiographical notes, 211f.: Die zweyte [Reise] war in der unitarischen märkischen Gemeinde Angelegenheit nach Holl- und England An. 1698, bey welcher Gelegenheit ich den berühmten Johannem Lock, an den ich ein Recommendationsschreiben von Herrn Philipp van Limburch hatte, visitirte, und blieb bei ihm einige Tage. Er lebete auf dem Lande bey Sir Robert Masham, einem vornehmen Parlamentsmitgliede, dessen Ehefrau war eine gelehrte und sehr tugendsame Tochter, des berühmten Rudolph Cudworth . . . hatte dieser Herr Masham die Gewohnheit, alle Abende sein Gesinde in sein Gemach kommen zu lassen, da las er ein Capitel aus der heil. Schrift, hernach fiel er mit allen auf seine Knie, und that ein Gebeth zu Gott. Da ich von dieser Andacht mit Herrn Lock sprach, der auch jedesmal mit darbey war, sagte er zu mir: wenn die Familie nicht so fromm und andächtig wäre, würde ich hier nicht wohnen (212). Crell confuses here Sir Francis Masham (1646–1723) in Otes, High-Lever, Essex, Locke’s friend and husband of Damaris Cudworth Masham, with Sir Robert Marsham, member of parliament (1650–1703).

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trace such family contacts. In the summer of 1701, Crell’s cousin Daniel spent time with Locke, while, thanks to contacts with the son of Benjamin Furly, Crell’s younger brother Paul found a place with Shaftesbury and came into contact with Pierre Bayle.30 We are thus privy to the inner logic of a life of exile, in which intellectual capital in the form of ideas, but also in the form of rare books and manuscripts, is exchanged for other intellectual capital, but also for alms in the form of subsidies to cover the costs of printing or of travelling. Pride, however, reared its head on occasion. When, in 1685, Crell was visiting John Spencer and his fellows at Corpus Christi College in Cambridge, money was collected to enable the penniless Crell to travel to Oxford.31 “They all knew who I was,” Crell reported, who of course travelled incognito, even though knowledge of his identity was passed discreetly by word of mouth.32 Such alms were not desired, and thus he

30

On Daniel Crell and Locke see Samuel Crell’s letter to Philipp van Limborch, 14.10.1701, Universiteitsbibliotheek Amsterdam, Ms. J 21 a: Fuit hic apud me Daniel Crellius patruelis meus qui hac aestate ex Anglia discessurus salutavit Illustrissimum Virum D.num Locke in aedibus Nobilissimi Baronetti D.ni Francisci Mashami, mihique nomine Nobilissimae nuper familiae et viri Illlustriss. D.ni Locke plurimum dixit salutem. Quaeso Vir Celeberrime ut si quando literas eo dirigis plurimam vicissim Nobiliss. et humanissimae Matrones D.na Mashamiae, Viri Ill. Dn. Locke et toti illi familiae adscribere salutem non graveris meo nomine, etiam testari velis me insignis humanitatis et aliquot dierum suasissime ibi transactismum semper esse memorem, licet cum absit peculiaris scribendi materia, literis meis Illustrss. virum non compellem. Cui Deus vitam quam longissimam et valetudinem non infirmam largiri velit. On Paul Crell see Bock, Historia, 1: 203; Mac Lachlan, 29, 290; Crell, Autobiographical notes, 216f. 31 On Spencer and Crell see Mulsow, Enlightenment Underground, 61–66. 32 Crell, Autobiographical notes, 212: [W]ard auch daselbst von Johann Spencer humaniter tractiret, und von denen Sociis seines Collegii, dessen Präses er war, zur Mahlzeit invitiret. Sie wußten alle wer ich war. Und da ich von ihnen Abschied nahm, ward ich gefraget, ob ich nicht ein Viaticum annehmen wollte. Ich schlug es mit Dank ab. Vornehmlich, weil ich wußte, daß in Cambridge die Fama war, ein jeder Fremdling wäre gemeiniglich ein Bettler, daher wollte ich lieber von Cambridge nach Oxfort zu Fuße gehen, und von Oxfort (da ich mit Doctor Eduard Bernhard einige Unterredungen gehabt, und die Bodlejanische Bibliothek gesehen hatte) auch bis London zu Fuße marschiren, als in Cambridge einiger maßen das Register der Bettler vermehren, wiewohl mir das Viaticum angebothen gewesen.

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travelled on by foot to Oxford. The profit from these contacts did not only flow in one direction to the benefit of those Socinians in need. If consideration is given to the numerous Socinian works in the library of John Locke, and if one also takes into account the impulses received by English and Dutch scholars from the Socinians, then the influence of Antitrinitarian ideas upon liberal philosophers and theologians becomes apparent.33

Exile from Exile: Crell Moves to Amsterdam If we dwell for a moment longer on the theme of migration and its intellectual consequences, then we can begin to appreciate the eclectic nature of Crell’s identity. Crell was unreservedly critical of some doctrines promoted by Sozzini; with regard to the doctrine of justification, he sided with the Remonstrants, as did Martin Ruar and Jonas Schlichting.34 In his books he engaged with the ideas of Locke and Pufendorf, just as the thought of other later Socinians reveals a rapprochement with the philosophy of Descartes and Spinoza.35 All these influences intensified as Crell moved from Königswalde to Amsterdam in 1725. One could say he was in exile from a place of exile. The reason: the population of Socinians in the Brandenburg communities was in constant decline and by 1725 only a few remained. Crell packed his suitcases and returned to the place which he had come to know as a student. As a matter of finances, this was not a simple matter. We will see how Crell had to sell his precious library and how he passed on important and rare clandestine manuscripts to the collector Charles Etienne Jordan, who

On Edward Bernard see Gerald James Toomer, Eastern Wisdom and Learning. The Study of Arabic in Seventeenth-Century England (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996). 33 On Locke and Socinianism see John Marshall, “Locke, Socinianism, “Socinianism,” and Unitarianism,” in English Philosophy in the Age of Locke, ed. Michael Alexander Stewart (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 111–82. 34 See Fock, Der Socinianismus, 241, 649ff. On Ruar and Schlichting, see as well Salatowsky, Die Philosophie der Sozinianer; Ludwik Chmaj, Marcin Ruar: studjum z dziejów racjonalizmu religijnego w Polsce (Kraków: Polska Akademja UmiejĊtnoĞci 1921). 35 On traces of Locke’s thought in Crell’s work see Mulsow, “Samuel Crell – An Intellectual Profile,” 482–88. On Socinianism in later seventeenth-century philosophy, see Maria Emanuela Scribano, Da Descartes a Spinoza. Percorsi della teologia razionale nel seicento (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1988).

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then eagerly exchanged them with Konrad Zacharias Uffenbach.36 In Amsterdam Crell found a small apartment with his wife and children. From a letter in 1736 we know his address. It is the Rosenstraet (Rozenstraat) in the Jordaan district, not too far from the house in which half a century earlier Rembrandt had lived.37 Crell lived “naest de Boekdrukkerye van R. Ditmer,” that is, next to the printing press of Reinier van Ditmer. Ditmer printed hymns and sermons; he was theologically inquisitive and perhaps open to the idea of letting a room to the exiled German-Pole.38 The congregations with whom he felt a sense of solidarity were—besides the Remonstrants—the Collegiants and the Anabaptists.39 Travelogues from Amsterdam speak of a “Socinian Church” when referring to the Collegiant Church, a “large chamber filled with benches.”40 Daniel Crell, Samuel’s cousin, was involved with the Baptist community.41 How should we imagine Crell’s activities in Holland? Undoubtedly, he saw himself as previously on his English expeditions as a middle-man, a “broker” representing the interests of the Socinian diaspora in a milieu dominated by Amsterdam Remonstrants. This was particularly true with 36

Jens Häseler, Ein Wanderer zwischen den Welten: Charles Etienne Jordan (1700–1745) (Sigmaringen: Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1993), 44f. See the many Socinian books in Jordan’s library at the end of his life: Bibliotheca Jordaniana, sive Catalogus librorum . . . (Berlin [1747]). 37 Crell to Prosper Marchand, 1.8.1732, University Library Leiden, March 2: “. . . responsumque Tuum direxeris a Samuel Crellius tot Amsterdam in de Rosenstraet, naest de Boekdrukkereye van Ditmer.” 38 On Ditmer (1705–1746), see the books that he printed and wrote, e.g., Het formulier van den algemenen joodschen ban, gedaan den 19. Februari 1734 tegen Samson Salomons (Amsterdam 1734); Neerlands lof-bazuyn, op de vyf heerelyke Predicatie [sic], gedaan op de Algemeene Dank- Vast- en Bede-dag, door de Lutherse predikanten, binnen Amsteldam. Den 24 maart 1734 (Amsterdam 1734); Dank- en zegen-bede in rym gedaan door . . . Petrus Laan gereformeerd predikant der stad Utrecht, op het honderd-jaarige jubel-feest, van derzelver academie (Amsterdam 1736); Een nieuw lied, gedigt op ’slands oorlog-schip, Gorkum, gecommandeerd door de heer kapiteyn, van Muyden, voor Rotterdam. Op een bekende voys (Amsterdam, ca. 1736). 39 See in general Visser, Socinianisme in de Nederlanden; Kühler, Het Socinianisme in de Nederlanden. 40 Johann Gottlieb Deichsel, handwritten travel report from 1717, University Library Königsberg. See J. N. Jacobsen Jensen, Reizigers te Amsterdam (Amsterdam 1919), 91f. 41 Stadsarchief Amsterdam: 712 “Akte van verkoop van een obligatie, groot f 2.500, door Daniel Crellius aan diakenen. 1733. Met retroacta. 1693–1721. 1omslag.” https://stadsarchief.amsterdam.nl/archieven/archiefbank/inventaris/1120.nl.html

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regard to financial matters. He collected money for school buildings and churches in Transylvania. When Hungarian Antitrinitarians studied in Amsterdam or Leiden, he looked after them.42 But Crell was a passionate Biblical philologist and exegetist, and thus, he sought out intellectuals in Holland who were willing to engage in discussions with a Socinian. Forty years had passed since his university studies and many of the people whose company he had previously enjoyed were no longer alive. Limborch had died in 1712. Jean Le Clerc was an old man who was falling deeper into senility. But there was a younger generation. Crell was thus soon addressing Prosper Marchand, a Huguenot bookseller, publicist, and journalist, who was eight years his junior, as “mon très honoré Ami.”43 He exchanged with him books and information. On the occasion of a visit to Holland from London by the journalist Michel de la Roche, who in 1712 had been involved in the documentation of the Servetus case, Crell found the opportunity to converse with him and to give him texts which were 42

S. Kovács, “Transylvanian Unitarian Connections with Dutch Dissenters, 1653– 1755,” http://www.zinweb.nl/zinprofiel/2005/05/25/transylvanian-unitarian-connectionsdutch-dissenters [accessed 29 November 2015]: During his studies he was supervised by Samuel Crell with whom he had a very cordial relationship. From 1720 until his death Crell was the mentor of the Transylvanian Unitarians studying in the Netherlands. In order to find further proof of this affirmation we should have a look at some letters written by Crell. Here is the one written in January 1736 to Stephen Agh (1709–1786) a Hungarian Unitarian studying in Leiden. Like Pálfi and Szentábrahámi, Agh was later elected bishop of the Transylvanian Unitarians. . . . At the end of the letter we find some very accurate instructions. Crell literally dictates to Stephan Agh what to write to Hopton Haynes. This part shows how well Crell knew the Transylvanian conditions: “You must write to Hopton Haynes on behalf of bishop Pálfi and the Unitarians of Transylvania. Greet him and tell him that the Catholics took away your churches and your schools. Tell him that the Unitarians are sent away from the state functions and only Catholics are employed. Write him about the plan of the Catholics to tolerate only the presence of the Lutherans and of the Calvinists in Transylvania. Tell him that the money which was supposed to serve your studies abroad had to be spent in Vienna (in order to solve the major problems caused by the Counter-reformation).” Crell did not forget to give the Transylvanian student information about the mail expenditure. 43 Samuel Crell to Prosper Marchand, 1.12.1740, University Library Leiden, March 2: “A Monsieur Marchand, mon très honoré Ami, in dem Haag in de Hecklane in het huys van Madame Vincent.” On Marchand, see Christiane Berkvens-Stevelinck, Prosper Marchand. La vie et l’oeuvre (1668–1756) (Leiden: Brill, 1987).

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then printed in his journals.44 Crell also knew theologians in a narrower sense. Johann Jakob Wetstein arrived in Amsterdam for good in 1733 after losing his position as a preacher in Basel and after completing a provisional trip to Holland. There he assisted the aging Jean Le Clerc at the Remonstrant Gymnasium. He harboured sympathies for Socianism, especially as a Biblical philologist, and worked on an edition of the New Testament documenting textual variations.45 Crell was eager to lend a hand in this project; already in 1732, as Wetstein was visiting Holland for the first time, he sent him numerous cases of textual variation.46 The first to produce an edition addressing the issue of variations in the text—a highly controversial undertaking, because it was seen to undermine the authority of the Bible—had been John Mill in 1707.47 Crell had followed the dispute from the very beginning and his book on the prologue of the Gospel of John was based on deviations in the text.48 Now he asked Wetstein whether the latter knew of any interesting variations to Romans 1: 3–4 which could show that Paul’s alleged invocation of God’s “son Jesus Christ” might be a later interpolation.49 Crell also corresponded 44

Michel de la Roche, Memoires of Literature 5 (1712), 349ff. For Crell’s texts in La Roche’s journals, see Crell’s letter to Wetstein, 15.8.1732, University Library Amsterdam: “Vidisti forsan Clariss. Michaelis de la Roche Literary Journal Anni 1731, mensis Aprilis, Maji & Junii nec non Hagâ Comitis impressum Journal Literaire Tom. 18 & 19. sunt ibi inserta meas Considerationes Latinâ linguâ & Emendationes quorundam Scripturae S. locorum.” See also Crell, Autobiographical notes, 225. On de la Roche, see M. D. Thomas, “Michel de la Roche: a Huguenot Critic of Calvin,” Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 238 (1985): 97– 195. 45 On Wetstein (Wettstein) (1693–1754) see O. Merk, Wissenschaftsgeschichte und Exegese (Berlin 1998), 1: 61–69; Heinrich Böttger, “Johann Jakob Wetstein’s widrige Schicksale während der ersten Zeit seiner Anstellung am remonstrantischen Seminarium in Amsterdam, nach den Mitteilungen des Remonstranten Adrian Stolker,” Zeitschrift für historische Theologie 40 (1870): 475–515. 46 Samuel Crell to Johann Jakob Wetstein, 15.8.1732. A fifteen-page letter was printed as: Copia authentica Epistolae S. C. [Samuel Crellii] ad J. J. W. [Joannum Jacobum Wetstenium] (Amsterdam 1733). 47 On Mill see Bart D. Ehrman, Misquoting Jesus: The Story behind Who Changed the Bible and Why (New York: Harper Collins, 2005). 48 L. M. Artemonius [=Samuel Crell], Initium Evangelii S. Joannis Apostoli ex Antiquitate Ecclesiastica restitutum, indidemque nova ratione illustratum (S. l. 1726). 49 Crell to Wetstein, 15.8.1732: “Clarissime Doctissimique Vir, Libenter scirem num Rom I. 3 & 4 occurrerint Tibi variantes lectiones in Graecis & Latinis Novi Test. Codd. aut citationibus Patrium, plures iis quas Millius annotavit.”

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about such matters with Mathurin Veyssière La Croze, his most important contact in Berlin.50 A further episode of interest was Crell’s meeting with Count Zinzendorf in 1735, at a time as the latter was involved in founding a fraternal college of the Moravian church near Utrecht.51 There was also the late contact to Johannes Stinstra, a Mennonite preacher in Friesland, who was suspected to have Socinian sympathies; suspicions which in turn triggered the “Stinstra Affair,” one of the great debates on toleration in Dutch history.52 Crell was at this time, in 1744, already in his mid-eighties. Both his sons had long since emigrated to America, possibly with the assent of Shaftesbury, one of the owners of the colony of Georgia. His daughters Theophilia and Dorothea were, however, both still with him. The last surviving letter from Crell is addressed to Prosper Marchand, written in the shaky hand of a man at death’s door.53 He died in 1747.

A Library in Exile: Crell’s Book Collection and Manuscript Trade What had happened to Crell’s books? The possession and dissemination of Socinian books was a dangerous business in the seventeenth century. For this reason some of these books were printed in a tiny format, which made 50

See e.g., Crell to La Croze, 20.11.1710, in Thesaurus epistolicus Lacrozianus, ed. Johann Ludwig Uhl, vol. 1 (Leipzig 1742), 89: “Scire velim, num tua, vir clarissime, circa varias N.T. lectiones opera strenue procedat, cuius in me desiderium et expectationem excitaveras ingentem.” La Croze to Crell, 24.11.1711, in Thesaurus epistolicus Lacrozianus, ed. Johann Ludwig Uhl, vol. 3 (Leipzig 1746), 100: “Novum Testamentum Milii iterum typis a Kustero traditum, eiusque opera elimatum et nonnihil auctum mihi et compluribus aliis utilitate et elegantia Anglicam editionem longe superare uidetur: addo et pretii utilitate; octo enim, ut ferunt, uncialibus argenteis Lipsiae uenale est. Nonnihil iniecit in praefationem suam Kusterus, in quo leniter satis, ut mihi quidem uisum est, Lenfantium pupugit.” On La Croze, see Martin Mulsow, Die drei Ringe. Toleranz und clandestine Gelehrsamkeit bei Mathurin Veyssière La Croze (1661–1739) (Tübingen: Niemeyer Verlag, 2001). 51 See A. de Groot, “Het kusje. Samuel Crellius op de grens tussen socinisnisme en pietisme,” in Geschiedenis, godsdienst, letterkunde, ed. Elidius Klaas Grootes and J. den Haan (Roden: Nehalennia, 1989), 186–95. 52 Johannes Stinstra to Crell, 30.4.1744, University Library Leiden BPL 1886. On Stinstra (1708–1790) see Joris van Eijnatten, Mutua Christianorum Tolerantia. Irenicism and Toleration in the Netherlands: The Stinstra Affair, 1740–1745 (Florence: Olschki, 1998). 53 Crell to Marchand, 17.8.1742, UB Leiden March 2.

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it easy to hide them in a coat pocket. As an example, I once saw a copy of Johann Crell’s work on the Holy Spirit in Dutch, whose dimensions measured only a few centimeters.54 Another work from Johann Crell’s oeuvre, the Ethica Christiana, can be found as a manuscript copy, obviously made not long after the work was written in 1623, as the work appeared first around 1650 in Amsterdam in an edition with fake bibliographical details and was then printed again in 1668 in the framework of the Bibliotheca Fratrum Polonorum and once more in 1681 in a new edition in “Cosmopoli.”55 The manuscript by contrast seems to derive from the early circulation in Silesia and Smaller Poland. At the time there were men who took on the onerous task of secretly copying the 912 pages in order to read their book with like-minded colleagues. Georg Vechner at the Gymnasium Illustre in Beuthen, the copyist of the book, was under suspicion of being a Socinian. In 1623 he had to defend himself against such denunciations, but after a long investigation his tolerant patron Johann von Schoenaich was able to exonerate him from the charge. If the existing copy he made had fallen into the hands of one of his adversaries, Vechner would have lost a lot more than just his professorship.56

54

Johann Crell, Verhandelinge, van den Heiligen Geest: die den geloovigen gegeven word (1664). What I saw was probably a different edition, because it was much smaller than those listed in the catalogues. 55 Johann Crell, Ethica Christiana seu Explicatio rudis virtutum et vitiorum quorum in sacris literis fit mentio, Manuscript in the possession of the author. See the printed editions: I. Cirelli Germani Ethica Aristotelica, ad sacram literarum normam emendata: eiusdem ethica christiana seu explicatio virtutum et vitiorum quorum in sacris literis fit mentio (Sumptibus Asteriorum, Typis Venetis [ca. 1650]); Joh. Crelli Opera, in Bibliotheca Fratrum Polonorum, vol. VI (Irenepoli 1656 [1668]), 230–437; Ethica Aristotelica, ad Sacrarum Literarum normam emendata. Eiusdem Ethica Christiana, Seu Explicatio Virtutum Et Vitiorum, quorum in Sacris Literis fit mentio. Huic Editioni praeter praefixam Auctoris Vitam, accedit Catechesis Ecclesiarum Polonicarum / a Joh. Crellio, Jona Schlichtingio, M. Ruaro & A. Wissowatio, recognita atque emendata, Notisque eorum illustrate (Cosmopoli: per Eugenium Philalethem, 1681). 56 On the front page of the manuscript, there is the remark: “Joh. Crellius forte Auctor, videtur autem manus G. Vechneri.” On Vechner, see C. D. Klopsch, Geschichte des berühmten Schönaichischen Gymnasiums zu Beuthen an der Oder, aus den Urkunden des fürstlich Carolatischen Archivs und den besten darüber vorhandenen Schriften gesammelt, vol. 2, Vom Tode des Stifters bis zur Zerstörung der Anstalt und der Vernichtung der letzten Hoffnungen zu ihrer Wiederherstellung (Groß-Glogau 1818), 113–33; vol. 3 (Groß-Glogau 1818), 311–22; Wollgast, “Morphologie,” 179–82.

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Of course, Samuel Crell preserved the works of his grandfather in his own library. Among other items he possessed was an edition of the New Testament which Erasmus had had printed at Froben’s press in 1545 and which contained the marginalia of Johann Crell.57 It might have also been Samuel Crell who passed on a whole collection of texts of Socinian provenance—including, for example, those of his stepfather Johann Preuss—to the energetic Huguenot and Crypto-Socinian Charles le Cène. Le Cène then translated them and in this form they can be found today in the library of the “Huguenot Society” in London.58 Crell had probably worked together with Le Cène in 1699/1700 when they published Platonisme devoilé by Jacques Souverain, a work which Crell had brought back from his journey to London.59At the time, le Cène was a close colleague of Jean le Clerc, and when Crell later lamented the removal of passages critical of Le Clerc by an “all-too-close friend of Johannis Clerici,” he was obviously referring to Le Cène.60 We are witness here to 57

Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Hamburg, Cod. Hist. Litt. 2°24: Bibliothecae Crellii Unitarii. Hos libros suos MDCCXXVII in Angliam devehi ac divendi curavit eorundem conlector. “Q15: Novum Test. Graecum Basil. 1545 cum Not. Msct. Joh. Crellii Franci.” 58 On Le Cène and his translations see Jerome Vercruysse, “Crellius, Le Cène, Naigeon ou les chemins de la tolérance socinienne,” Tijdschrift voor de Studie van de Verlichting 1 (1973): 244–320; E. Briggs, “Les manuscrits de Charles Le Cène (1647?–1703) dans la Bibliothèque de la Huguenot Society of London,” Tijdschrift voor de studie van de verlichting 5 (1977): 358–78 (with a list of the manuscripts). Huguenot Society of London, Mss. Le Cène. The manuscript Deux Considèrations sur les termes et sur les facons de parler que des thèologiens employent pour expliquer la doctrine de la Trinité seems to be the French version of the work Duae considerationes Vocum, Terminorum ac Phrasium, which was probably printed by Johann Preuß in 1684 in Guben in the Mark Brandenburg. 59 See Martin Mulsow, “Jacques Souverain, Samuel Crell et les crypto-sociniens de Londres.” The works appeared anonymously as Le Platonisme devoilé Ou Essai touchant le verbe platonicien (Cologne: Pierre Marteau, 1700). 60 Crell, Autobiographical notes, 212f.: Im 1699 Jahre ist mir zu London ein Mscr. Nämlich Le Platonisme devoilé Ou Essai touchant le verbe platonicien communiciret worden, welches ein Buchhändler auf mein Anrathen verleget, und An. 1700 publiciret hat. Ein allzugroßer Freund, Ioannis Clerici, ein Franzose, hat die Correctur der Druckfehler nicht auf sich nehmen wollen, bis man einen und anderen Ort, darinnen Clericus refutiret wurde, ausgelassen hatte. Keinen anderen Corrector konnte ich bekommen, und ließ es endlich, wiewohl sehr ungerne zu, hatte mir aber das Ausgelassene abgeschrieben, mit dem Vorsatz, es bey Gelegenheit in etwa einem Journal oder Diario literario zu publiciren. Nachdem ich aber das Aufgeschriebene verloren, habe mich bis

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the complete fusion of Socinian and Arminian positions, exemplified in the network of persons and in the process of translation into French. This fusion is also evident in Crell’s library. The State and University Library of Hamburg preserves a manuscript catalogue of Crell’s books which he made when he moved from Berlin to Amsterdam.61 At the time, he needed money for the new beginning in Holland and he planned to ship all his books to England and to sell them there. This catalogue, which lists over 1200 titles, contains, in addition to the Antitrinitarian books, also all the major Arminian works, plus special compilations which document the debates in the Berlin Huguenot colony about Socinianism.62 And it also includes no less than three different editions of Spinoza’s Tractatus theologico-politicus.63 There are hardly any manuscripts listed in the catalogue, with the exception of the Metaphysics of Stegmann, works by John Biddle, and works by the separatist Johann Christian Seitz.64 That, however, simply means that Crell took his most precious treasures in his library with him to Holland. The clandestine culture of the Socinians had always been a culture based on transcribing and copying texts. This can be observed not only in the case of Vechner, but also in the cases of Jeremias Felbinger dato sehr bemühet, des Auctoris Manuscript zu erlangen, und das ihm angethane Unrecht zu ersetzen, habe es aber weder in Holl- noch England ausfragen können. 61 See note 57. The catalogue is listed in Elke Matthes, Die Codices historiae litterariae der Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Hamburg (Stuttgart: E. Hauswedell, 2009), 16f. The books are ordered according to their size: in 2° Nr. 174, in 4° Nr. 1-260, with supplement 1-6, in 8° Nr. 1-612, in 12° Nr. 1-256. 62 Bibliothecae Crellii Unitarii . . . , Q94. On these controversies see Fiametta Palladini, Die Berliner Hugenotten und der Fall Barbeyrac. Orthodoxe und “Sozinianer” im Refuge (1685–1720) (Leiden: Brill 2011). 63 Bibliothecae Crellii Unitarii . . . , Q65: Spinoza, Tractatus theologico-politicus (Hamburg 1680); F3: Spinoza, Tractatus (Irenepoli 1676 ab H.T.W.E); Q250: Tractatus (Hamburg 1670); Q14: Opera postuma (1687) (!). 64 Bibliothecae Crellii Unitarii . . . , “Ms: noch reserviert für den Possessor. 1 Bidelli Opera, 2 Seitzens Tractate, 3 Fides primorum Christianorum [the autograph of Crell’s book of 1697, which appeared under the pseudonym of Lucas Mellier: Fides primorum Christianorum ex Barnaba, Herma, & Clemente Romano, Demonstrata: defensioni fidei nicen. D. Georgii Bulli opposita), 4: Christopheri Stegmanni Metaphysica Mscta so sich in einem Buche, worinn viel zusammen gebunden, finden wird. On John Biddle see Sarah Mortimer, Reason and Religion in the English Revolution; on Seitz see Georg Walch, Historische und theologische Einleitung in die Religionsstreitigkeiten der ev.-luth. Kirche anderer Theil (Jena 1739), 779–82; on Stegmann’s manuscript, which became important for Leibniz, see Salatowsky, Die Philosophie der Sozinianer, 310–27, 419–27.

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and Johann Preuß, who were set to work as copyists in preparing the edition of the Bibliotheca Fratrum Polonorum, and of the numerous manuscripts which are preserved in the Unitarian library in Cluj.65 Felbinger and Preuß also copied the only complete copy of Servet’s Christianismi restitutio which survived after all other versions had been burnt.66 While leading his frugal existence on the Roesenstraet in Amsterdam, Samuel Crell was doubtless active as a “broker” for Socinian ideas and texts. Already during his Brandenburg years he had allowed copies to be made of the Servetus manuscript which he had inherited from Preuß upon the latter’s death in 1696.67 He also probably disseminated copies of a Jewish-Portuguese text directed against Christianity which was the work of Moses Raphel d’Aguilar, and he allowed travellers who were passing through to transcribe copies of Socinian works.68 In a manner not dissimilar to the separatist Friedrich Breckling, who lived until 1711 in The Hague in exile,69 Crell’s address featured on the itinerary of many travellers who shared similar views. During their visits information and texts were exchanged and connections established or consolidated. Crell had himself acted in this capacity on his earlier journeys. When for example Stephen Nye wrote to him from England in 1698 to describe the formation of English Unitarianism, Crell, who was in Holland at the time, commissioned a Transylvanian student, Sigismund Pálfi, to copy the long 65

On Felbinger’s and Preuß’s activities in copying the Servetus manuscript see the following footnote; on the Bibliotheca Fratrum Polonorum see Jerome Vercruysse, “Bibliotheca Fratrum Polonorum. Histoire et Bibliographie,” Odrodzenie i Reformacja w Polsce 21 (1975): 197–212; on Cluj see Elemér Lakó, Mihaly Balázs, et al., eds., The Manuscripts of the Unitarian College of Cluj/Kolozsvár in the Library of the Academy in Cluj-Napoca, 2 vols. (Szeged 1997). 66 Erich F. Podach, “Die Geschichte der Christianismi restitutio im Lichte ihrer Abschriften,” in Autour de Michel Servet et de Sebastien Castellion, ed. Bruno Becker (Haarlem: H. D. Tjeenk Willink, 1953), 47–61. 67 Ibid.; Martin Mulsow, “Einleitung,” in Johann Lorenz Mosheim, Versuch einer unparteiischen und gründlichen Ketzergeschichte (repr., Hildesheim: Olm, 1999), 2: 5–13. 68 Mulsow, Enlightenment Underground, 55. 69 See Guido Naschert, “Friedrich Breckling als Netzwerker des protestantischen Nonkonformismus,” in Friedrich Breckling (1629–1711). Prediger, “Wahrheitszeuge” und Vermittler des Pietismus im niederländischen Exil, ed. Brigitte Klosterberg and Guido Naschert (Halle: Verlag der Franckeschen Schtiftungen, 2011), 3–18; Friedrich Breckling, Autobiographie. Ein frühneuzeitliches Ego-Dokument im Spannungsfeld von Spiritualismus, radikalem Pietismus und Theosophie, ed. Johann Anselm Steiger (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2005).

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letter word for word so that Transylvanian Antitrinitarians might have a precise idea of the situation of their faith in England.70 In general, Samuel Crell’s fate can be seen as representative of the life in exile lived by many late Socinians. It was a situation in which liminal spaces and contact zones played a large role; spaces and zones like the communities on the near and further side of the Polish-Brandenburg border, but also like the “melting pot” of Amsterdam.71 It was, furthermore, a situation in which extensive networks underpinned by family relationships and patronage created the basis to tirelessly cultivate further contacts and to attend to the matters impinging upon the cause of the Antitrinitarian diaspora. These contacts were at the same time the channels of transmission which carried volatile ideas and thus helped to prepare the way for the Enlightenment. One can ask whether a coherent intellectual identity can even begin to constitute itself in such an ever expanding network. The answer to this is both yes and no. Yes, because the threat posed by exile gives a decisive impetus to the mind to focus on the own identity as an Antitrinitarian. Throughout his entire life, Crell searched for pieces of evidence which would cast doubt on any presence of the doctrine of the trinity in the original writings of the evangelists.72 And yet, on the other hand, the answer would have to be in the negative. This is because, above and beyond this core identity, Crell, as I have already mentioned, was highly receptive to new influences and open to dialogue with other religious truth-seekers. As an example of this, one can cite his friendship with the 70

See Sándor Kovács, “Contributions to Late 17th-Century Relationship of the Transylvanian Unitarians and Their Co-Religionists in England and the Netherlands,” in Szczucki, Faustus Socinus and His Heritage, 455–66. On the contacts between Hungarian and Dutch Antitrinitarians see also the statements of Galenus Abrahamsz in Gottleb Stolle’s travel diary from 1703/4, Cod. IV. oct 49 of the University Library Wroclaw, fol. 309f.: “Er verehrte uns eine gedruckte Epistel, von welcher er sagte: daß sie ihre Brüder aus Siebenbürgen an sie geschickt, der Titel davon ist dieser: Epistola Ecclesiarum Transsylvania, qua Unitarii vocantur, ad Honor. ac Piiis. Viros, unum verum Deum per Dominum Jesum Christum in Spiritu S. profitentes, Fratres nobis in Christo summè dilectos in Hollandiâ, Frisiâ etc. 4. Auf die Frage: ob sie denn in Ungarn auch Brüder von ihrer Gemeine hätten, sagte er: sie hätten zwar keine allda, die in allem mit ihnen einig wären, doch erkennten sie die, so sich Unitarios nennten, vor Brüder, und diese wären es auch, so diesen Brieff geschrieben.” 71 On early modern Amsterdam, see Peter Burke, Venice and Amsterdam (London: Temple Smith, 1974); Margaret Jacob, The Radical Enlightenment: Pantheists, Freemasons and Republicans (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1981). 72 See Mulsow, “Samuel Crell,” 478–82, 491–94.

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separatist Johann Christian Seitz, with whom Crell obviously had contact, and whose manuscripts he kept and protected in his own library.73 Seitz had asserted in 1707 in the course of an investigation into his religious allegiances in Bayreuth that “he was neither Lutheran, nor Calvinist, nor Popish, but that his opinion amounted to a belief in the necessity of examining everything and preserving the good and beneficial because truth was to be found in all religions.”74 This corresponded exactly to what was called at this time an “eclectic religion,” a form of faith propagated by radical indifferentists.75 It is the “grey identity” of those who do not want to be pinned down and confessionally pigeon-holed.76 Nevertheless in a later letter, Crell spoke of “our” Seitz,77 as if he counted him to the Antitrinitarians, although he was generally regarded as a radical Pietist who by this stage also lived in Holland. A tract inquiring into the differences between Trinitarians and Unitarians which is normally attributed to Seitz was actually written by Crell.78 We are dealing with a meeting of two men who both attempted to think beyond the boundaries of religious groupings. Sebastian Petzold, another Brandenburg emigrant living in Dutch exile—who, incidentally, oversaw the publication, initiated by Crell, of Platonisme devoilé once said: “Those Socinians, who have become indifferent, are the best.”79 73

See note 64. “[E]r sey weder Lutherisch, noch Calvinisch, noch Päbstlich, seine Meinung aber gieng eigentlich dahin, weil man in allen Religionen Wahrheiten hätte, so müste man alles prüfen, und das Gute behalten.” Zedlers großes vollständiges Universal-Lexicon, vol. 36 (Leipzig 1573), s.v. “Seitz.” In the journal Unschuldige Nachrichten von alten und neuen theologischen Sachen, Büchern, Uhrkunden, Controversien, Veränderungen, Anmerckungen, Vorschläge u.d.g (1708), 554ff. the interrogation is printed. 75 Mulsow, Enlightenment Underground, chap. 7, 239–302. 76 See in general, Konfessionelle Ambiguität. Uneindeutigkeit und Verstellung als religiöse Praxis in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Andreas Pietsch and Barbara StollbergRilinger (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013). 77 Crell to Stephan Agh, January 1736; cited by Kovács, “Transylvanian Unitarian connections with Dutch dissenters.” Seitz possibly lived at that time in the Netherlands, like Crell. In 1740 he published a book in Dutch, on the history of the printing press: Het derde jubeljaar der uitgevondene boekdrukkonst, behelzende een beknopt hiftoris verhaal van de uitvinding der edele boekdrukko۬st (Haarlem 1740), a topic that interested Prosper Marchand as well. 78 “Unpartheyische Erweg- und Betrachtung des beyderseitigen Haupt-Grundes derer Trinitarier und Unitarier,” in Berliner Heb-Opfer (1919), Beylage. 79 Stolle, travel diary, fol. 340: “Die Socinianer, so indifferentistisch würden, wären die beßten.” See Mulsow, “Exil, Kulturkontakt und Ideenmigration,” 447f. 74

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This sense characterises the meeting between Crell and Johann Wilhelm Petersen who likewise is normally assigned to the camp of radical Pietists.80 In 1710, Petersen had invited him to the estate Thymer in the vicinity of Magdeburg. It was here that he lived with his wife and wrote with her his chiliast works. The reason for the invitation: “Because we concurred on the doctrine of the final reconciliation of all (Wiederbringung aller Dinge).”81 This is astounding as the doctrine of the “Apokatastasis panton,” traceable back to Origen, is not normally included among those views attributed to the Socinians. But obviously Crell was willing to show doctrinal flexibility and to transcend some traditional borders. Even if the one man remained a Trinitarian and the other an Antitrinitarian, it was still possible to converse about many other theological matters. In conclusion, let us complement the scene painted at the beginning—of the rowing boat in the stormy harbour of transnational contacts—with another scene: Two men (and a woman), sitting opposite each other in the idyllic setting of a garden in the Magdeburg Börde, peacefully and enjoyably passing the time with patristic speculation about the end of times when all will be reconciled with each other. That is also a picture which captures the nature of late Socinianism with its eclectic touches: a Socinianism characterised by a willingness to engage in dialogue, a wish for peace, and an intense intellectual concentration on the existential truths. 80

On Johann Wilhelm Petersen (1649–1727) and his wife Eleonora, see Markus Matthias, Johann Wilhelm und Johanna Eleonora Petersen: Eine Biographie bis zur Amtsenthebung Petersens im Jahre 1692 (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1993); Stefan Luft, Leben und Schreiben für den Pietismus. Der Kampf des pietistischen Ehepaares Johanna Eleonora und Johann Wilhelm Petersen gegen die lutherische Orthodoxie (Herzberg: Verlag Traugott Bautz, 1994); Ruth Albrecht, Johanna Eleonora Petersen. Theologische Schriftstellerin des frühen Pietismus (Göttingen: Vandendhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005); Dieter Breuer, “‘Der bekräfftigte Origenes’: das Ehepaar Petersen und die Leugnung der Ewigkeit der Höllenstrafen,” in Heterodoxie in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Hartmut Laufhütte and Michael Titzmann (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2006), 413–24. 81 Crell, Autobiographical notes, 215: “Noch habe An. 1710 eine Reise zu Herrn D. Johann Wilhelm Petersen gethan, er invitirte mich zu sich nach Thymer, seinem Landgute, und habe mit ihm und seiner Frau Gemahlin etliche Tage zugebracht. Weil ich mit ihm in der Lehre von Wiederbringung aller Dinge eins war, wollte er mich gern ganz orthodox nach seinem Sinne machen, aber ich blieb beständig ein Unitarius.” Johann Wilhelm Petersen, MystƝrion Apokatastaseǀs Pantǀn, Das ist: Das Geheimniß Der Wiederbringung aller Dinge, vol. 1 (Pamphilia [=Offenbach] 1700), vol. 2 (1703), vol. 3 (1710). See also Crell’s correspondence with Leibniz, which is edited in Zbigniew Ogonowski, “W sprawie korespondencji Leibniza z Samuelem Crellem,” Archiwum historii filozofii myslispolecznej 27 (1981): 333–50.

VANISHING FATHERLANDS AND MOVING IDENTITIES: WALLOONS AND HUGUENOTS IN THE DUTCH REPUBLIC WILLEM FRIJHOFF

French Huguenots on the Road Obliged to leave their fatherland as a consequence of the harsh religious persecution by King Louis XIV, but also desiring to make a better living and enjoy more civil liberty, the French Huguenots spread in the 1680s and 90s over the Protestant nations of Europe, especially those that had already a reputation of toleration, prosperity, and openness to foreign influxes, like England, Prussia or the Dutch Republic. Some of them left France well before the Revocation of the Toleration Edict of Nantes (1598) by the Edict of Fontainebleau in 1685, either because they had felt in time that the tide was turning or because they had been stricken in the exercise of their profession well before that date, like the professors of the Protestant Academies or the ministers.1 Numbers are very hard to provide, because the adherents of persecuted religions tend to develop various forms of dissimulation, deceit or Nicodemism, concealing their intimate persuasion behind conformist behaviour in the public sphere, and detailed research into personal and family history quite often reveals personal stories that differ from the official versions and proven numbers. Nevertheless, French royal censuses point towards the presence of 1,250,000 confessing Protestants in France, essentially Calvinists, at the proclamation of the Edict of Nantes in 1598 (i.e., a bit less than ten percent of the estimated global population). They 1

Samuel Mours, Les Églises réformées de France (Paris: La Librairie Protestante, 1958), 168–78; Philip Benedict, “The Huguenot Population of France, 1600–1685: The Demographic Fate and Customs of a Religious Minority,” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 81/5 (1991): 1–164; Geoffrey Treasure, The Huguenots (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2013).

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were slightly less than nine hundred thousand a century later, around 1685 (i.e., five percent of the total population), not including the Lutherans of the territories in the East, which the French monarchy would soon somehow bring under its authority. We may safely assume that in all at least one hundred and fifty thousand Protestants (i.e., one sixth of their global number) left France after the Revocation, but the proportions were not the same everywhere in the country, and detailed research shows that individual members of exiled families could remain behind, either concealing their faith or converting to Roman Catholicism. Some refugees returned to France and converted to Catholicism, and even within the nuclear families of Huguenots in France not all the members went into exile. Relations between the family members in France and those in exile continued to be upheld, certainly more than the heroic historiography from the past has suggested. The numbers of refugees have lately been corrected by downsizing, and identification is sometimes hampered by the Dutchification of the family names which tends to make refugees invisible. Nevertheless, at least thirty-five thousand, probably nearer to fifthy thousand Huguenots (i.e., perhaps one fourth of the total number of refugees) fled to the Dutch Republic.2 Most of them settled there for good, sometimes helped by 2

These are the most recent estimations by Ute Lotz-Heumann, “Confessional Migration of the Reformed: The Huguenots,” online resource: http://iegego.eu/threads/erope-on-the-road/ [accessed 3 May 2015]. Global estimations of the immigration waves in the Northern Netherlands have been made by Jan Lucassen, “Immigranten in Holland 1600–1800: Een kwantitatieve benadering,” in Working Papers, ed. Wim Willems, Anita Böcker and Marlou Schrover (Amsterdam: Centrum voor de Geschiedenis van Migranten, 2002), also as: http://socialhistory.org/sites/default/files/docs/publications/cgmworkingpaper3.pdf. General overviews of the relations between the Huguenots and the Northern Netherlands: David van der Linden, Experiencing Exile: Huguenot Refugees in the Dutch Republic, 1680–1700 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015); Willem Frijhoff, “Uncertain Brotherhood: The Huguenots in the Dutch Republic,” in Memory and Identity: The Huguenots in France and the Atlantic Diaspora, ed. Bertrand Van Ruymbeke et al. (Columbia: South Carolina University Press, 2003), 128–71. A survey of the literature on the Huguenots in the Netherlands: Hans Bots, “Le Refuge huguenot dans les Provinces-Unies. Orientation bibliographique,” in Conflits politiques, controverses religieuses. Essais d’histoire européenne aux 16e–18e siècles, ed. Ouzi Elyada and Jacques Le Brun (Paris: Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, 2002), 101–17. Older surveys include Hendrik Jacob Koenen, Geschiedenis van de vestiging en den invloed der Fransche vluchtelingen in Nederland (Leiden: Luchtmans, 1846); David F. Poujol, Histoire et influence des Églises wallonnes dans les Pays-Bas (Paris: Fischbacher, 1902); Marc Jospin et al., Les Églises wallonnes des Pays-Bas (Amsterdam:

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Dutch relatives or learned correspondents, or by long-time commercial partners, France being not only the most populous country of Europe but also the main commercial partner of the Dutch since the late Middle Ages. Obviously, the most important cities, like Amsterdam, Leiden or Rotterdam, and the ports of arrival on the seaside received the bulk of the Huguenot refugees, even if sometimes only for transit to other towns and provinces, or even countries, such as Prussia or the Rhineland. The existing French-speaking Walloon Church of Reformed Calvinist persuasion in the Dutch Republic, but also the pre-existing networks of commercial, intellectual and even family relations, and of French schools

Éditions de l’Écho des Églises wallonnes, 1963); H. H. Bolhuis, “La Hollande et les deux Refuges,” Bulletin de la Société d'histoire du protestantisme français 115 (1969), 407–48; Hans Bots, Guillaume H. M. Posthumus Meyjes, and Frouke Wieringa, Vlucht naar de vrijheid: de Hugenoten en de Nederlanden (Amsterdam and Dieren: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1985); Hans Bots and René Bastiaanse, “Die Hugenotten und die niederländischen Generalstaaten,” in Die Hugenotten, 1685– 1985, ed. Rudolf von Thadden and Michelle Magdelaine (Munich: Beck, 1985), 55–72 [French version: “Le Refuge huguenot et les Provinces-Unies, une esquisse sommaire,” Le Refuge huguenot, ed. Rudolf von Thadden and Michelle Magdelaine (Paris: A. Colin, 1985)]; Christiane Berkvens-Stevelinck, “De Hugenoten,” in La France aux Pays-Bas. Invloeden in het verleden, ed. Paul Blom et al. (Vianen: Kwadraat, 1985), 13–49; Cees Cruson, “De hugenoten als réfugiés,” De Gids 148 (1985): 225–31; J. A. H. Bots and Guillaume H. M. Posthumus Meyjes, eds., La Révocation de l'édit de Nantes et les Provinces-Unies, 1685 / The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes and the Dutch Republic, 1685 (Amsterdam and Maarssen: APA-Holland University Press, 1986); Arie Th. van Deursen, Frederik R. J. Knetsch, Siegfried B. J. Zilverberg, and G. J. Schutte, De herroeping van het Edict van Nantes (1685) in de Franse en Nederlandse geschiedschrijving (Amsterdam: VU Uitgeverij, 1987); Hans Bots, “Le Refuge dans les ProvincesUnies,” in La Diaspora des Huguenots. Les réfugiés protestants de France et leur dispersion dans le monde (XVIe-XVIIIe siècles), ed. Eckart Birnstiel and Chrystel Bernat (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2001), 63–74. On the numbers of Huguenot refugees, see Hubertus P. H. Nusteling, “The Netherlands and the Huguenot Émigrés,” in Bots and Posthumus Meyjes, La Révocation, 17–34; idem, Welvaart en werkgelegenheid in Amsterdam, 1540–1860 (Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1985), 262; E. Buning, P. Overbeek, and J. Vermeer, “De huisgenoten des geloofs: de immigratie van de hugenoten,” Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 100 (1987): 356–73; Jonathan I. Israel, The Dutch Republic. Its Rise, Greatness, and Fall, 1477–1806 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 627–30; Hans Bots, “La migration huguenote dans les Provinces-Unies, 1680–1715. Un nouveau bilan,” in In dubiis libertas. Mélanges d'histoire offerts au professeur Rémy Scheurer, ed. Philippe Henry and Maurice de Tribolet (Hauterive: Gilles Attinger, 1999), 271– 81.

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and printing offices, helped settling the refugees in the country and cared for a minimum level of survival.3 Some towns outside the province of Holland tried also eagerly to take advantage of the flow of refugees for the local development of old crafts and trades or of new industrial skills the French were supposed to possess or which they contended to master, according to the prevailing image of France as a country of luxury. This was the case, for instance, at Groningen.4 Yet, rather soon disillusions loomed large, the French being much less rich than the Dutch often supposed. They were not only unable to sustain by themselves a real train of innovations, but neither were they accustomed to the harsh Dutch commercial practices, the rude directness of social relations, and the frugality of everyday life in the Netherlands, opposite to the established image of a wealthy Republic. Many firstgeneration refugee Huguenots continued to cherish the image of an exile community, bound to return home in the short run. Whenever possible they sustained initiatives in the field of politics (for instance in the service of stadholder William III who, in 1689, became king of England), communication or propaganda favouring the reversal of their fortune.

Huguenots and Walloons Dutchified As from 1684 the Walloon Church, acting mostly as the distribution office of the refugee flows, could benefit itself from these collective movements by creating thirty-eight new parishes in the towns in and outside the province of Holland where it was not yet represented, and where the many

3

G. C. Gibbs, “The Role of the Dutch Republic as the Intellectual Entrepôt of Europe in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 86 (1971): 323–49; idem, “Some Intellectual and Political Influences of the Huguenot Émigrés in the United Provinces,” Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 90 (1975): 255–87. 4 Marjo Bakker, Hugenoten in Groningen. Franse vluchtelingen tussen 1680 en 1720 (Groningen: Wolters-Noordhoff, 1985); Joost van der Spek, “Réfugiés pour la religion: de hugenoten te Utrecht,” Jaarboek Oud-Utrecht (1999): 35–74. More generally on the juridical measures of the different provinces: P. L. Nève, “Le statut juridique des réfugiés français huguenots: quelques remarques comparatives,” in La Condition juridique de l’étranger hier et aujourd’hui. Actes du Colloque organisé à Nimègue les 9–11 mai 1988 par les Facultés de Droit de Poitiers et de Nimègue (Nijmegen: Faculteit der Rechtsgeleerdheid, Katholieke Universiteit, 1989), 223–46.

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refugee ministers could provisionally find a job.5 Out of the approximately six hundred ministers banished from France by the Edict of Fontainebleau, no less than 404 fled to the Northern Netherlands alone.6 This quite spectacular number enhanced the intellectual imprint of the Huguenot immigration in the Netherlands, in the ecclesiastical domain as well as in that of public and private education, in the rise of journalism, and by further internationalising the Dutch printing press.7 It was one of the 5

Ferdinand H. Gagnebin, “Liste des Églises wallonnes des Pays-Bas et des pasteurs qui les ont desservies,” Bulletin de la Commission pour l’histoire des Églises wallonnes 3 (1888): 25–64, 97–120, 209–40, 313–46. A revised list including the Reformed communities of the Walloon refuge and those of the Huguenot refuge in R. F. Le Gras, “Wallonisch-Reformierte Kirchengemeinden in den Niederlanden,” Der Deutsche Huguenott 46/3 (1982): 70–81. 6 Ferdinand H. Gagnebin, “Pasteurs de France réfugiés en Hollande,” Bulletin de la Commission pour l’histoire des Églises wallonnes 1 (1885): 97–151. Previous counts amounted to 363 ministers. An updated biographical list of 404 refugee ministers has been published by Hans Bots, “Liste des pasteurs et proposants réfugiés dans les Provinces-Unies,” in La vie intellectuelle aux Refuges protestants, ed. Jens Häseler and Antony McKenna (Paris: Champion, 1999), 19– 68. The main ecclesiastical sources have been published: Livre synodal contenant les articles résolus dans les Synodes des Églises Wallonnes des Pays-Bas, 1566– 1688, 2 vols. (The Hague: Instituut voor Nederlandse Geschiedenis, 1896–1904); Livre des actes des Églises Wallonnes aux Pays-Bas, 1601–1697, ed. Guillaume. H.M. Posthumus Meyjes and Hans Bots (The Hague: Instituut voor Nederlandse Gescheidenis, 2005); Le Consistoire de l’Église wallonne de Rotterdam, 1681– 1706, ed. Hans Bots (Geneva 2008). 7 Isabella H. van Eeghen, De Amsterdamse boekhandel, 1680–1725, 5 vols. (Amsterdam: N. Israel, 1960–78); Christiane Berkvens-Stevelinck, Hans Bots, Paul G. Hoftijzer, and Otto S. Lankhorst, eds., Le Magasin de l’Univers. The Dutch Republic as the Centre of the European Book Trade (Leiden: Brill, 1992); Paul Hoftijzer and Otto S. Lankhorst, “Book History in the Netherlands. A Survey of Studies of the Early Modern Period,” in Histoires du livre. Nouvelles orientations, ed. Hans Erich Bödeker (Paris: IMEC / Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 1995), 139–96; Hubert Bost, Un “intellectuel” avant la lettre: le journaliste Pierre Bayle (1647–1706) (Amsterdam and Maarssen: APAHolland University Press, 1994); Henri Basnage de Beauval (1656–1710) en de “Histoire des Ouvrages des Savans,” 1687–1709, ed. Hans Bots, 2 vols. (Amsterdam and Maarssen: APA-Holland University Press, 1976); De “Bibliothèque Universelle et Historique,” 1686–1693. Een periodiek als trefpunt van geletterd Europa, ed. Hans Bots et al. (Amsterdam and Maarssen: APAHolland University Press, 1981); La Diffusion et la lecture des journaux de langue française sous l’Ancien Régime / Circulation and Reception of Periodicals in the French Language in the 17th and 18th Centuries. Colloque / Congress, Nijmegen 1987 (Amsterdam and Maarssen: APA-Holland University Press, 1988); Guus N.

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reasons why Pierre Bayle, refugee professor of philosophy himself, could qualify the United Provinces as “la grande arche des fugitifs.” In spite of the rural origin of a fair number of French refugees, the Huguenot Refuge became almost exclusively an urban event, just as the influx of the Jewish refugees still was at the same time. The countryside was not fit for their reception. The rural authorities did not want to perturb the local religious unity, often already undermined by the presence of a sizable Catholic minority, and rural refugee communities remained too small to survive, except in some rare places where a local lord could give shelter or which the provincial authorities thought fit for a collective settlement. Besides, villages normally lacked the necessary material provisions, except when a former convent could provide the material conditions for group survival. However, normally it was only in the towns that the refugees could benefit from the use of existing churches or chapels that after the Catholic era had not yet found another religious use. Even so, small communities were constantly menaced by extinction, when the refugees assimilated to the Dutch Reformed majority church and integrated socially into their new fatherland.8 Fifteen of the thirty-eight parishes founded because of the Revocation had disappeared already after less than thirty years. Although these new urban parishes could barely survive under the regime of the mostly poor and destitute refugees, they benefited from a major asset: the social prestige of the French language as an international and cultural means of communication among the Dutch elites. French was at least passively known in large sectors of Dutch society, be it only because French had evolved into the main language of transnational and international commerce even before the Walloon immigration of the late sixteenth century. Given the number of so-called French schools in all towns of any importance, for boys but also for girls, and the very frequent mentions of apprenticeships in France, one may well estimate that a M. Wijngaards, De “Bibliothèque Choisie” van Jean Le Clerc (1657–1736). Een Amsterdams geleerdentijdschrift (Amsterdam and Maarssen 1986); Joris van Eijnatten, “The Huguenot Cleresy in the United Provinces: Aspects of Huguenot Influence on Dutch Intellectual Life after the Revocation,” in The Berlin Refuge, 1680–1780: Learning and Science in European Context, ed. Sandra Pott, Martin Mulsow, and Lutz Danneberg (Leiden: Brill 2003), 207–35; Christine BerkvensStevelinck, Hans Bots and Jens. Häseler, eds., Les Grands intermédiaires culturels de la République des Lettres: étude des réseaux de correspondance du XVIe au XVIIIe siècle (Paris: Champion, 2005). 8 On the difference between assimilation and integration, cf. Myriam Yardeni, “Assimilaton et intégration dans le refuge Huguenot (fin XVIIe–XVIIIe siècles): nouvelles possibilités, nouvelles méthodologies,” Diasporas 23–24 (2015): 116– 31.

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sizable part of the urban population mastered some basic level of colloquial French. The Walloon immigration from the French-speaking provinces in the South in the last decades of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth century has given a tremendous boost to the process of Frenchification of the Northern elites. This appears also in the critical assessments of contemporary authors, like the popular poet Bredero, who as early as 1617 complained that the Walloons were taking over the public space of Holland and altering substantially colloquial Dutch. All this made language (and education) an important asset of the refugees, next to their theological convictions, their intellectual occupations, and the luxury trades which they embodied on behalf of French high culture, in the Walloon as well as in the Huguenot period. On the one hand, these conditions advanced a rather rapid and successful integration of the Huguenots into Dutch society, similar to that of the Walloons one century before, but they promoted on the other hand a particular sense of community and indeed of group identity based on their position and skills in the social, intellectual, and economic area. Rather quickly, the Walloon parishes attracted also the higher classes of the Dutch Reformed who desired to distinguish themselves from the common faithful through their membership in the French-speaking church and their alliance with French culture, in particular during the wave of cultural Frenchification of the Dutch elites, which pervaded Dutch society in the eighteenth century.9 Rotterdam in particular, a typical commercial city devoted much more than cosmopolitan Amsterdam to the intraEuropean trade with France, has been marked by a long-term Frenchification of its commercial elites. The descendants of French merchant or noble 9

Willem Frijhoff, “Le Français en Hollande après la Paix de Westphalie: langue d’immigrés, langue d’envahisseurs, ou langue universelle?” Documents pour l'histoire du français langue étrangère ou seconde 18 (December 1996): 329–50; Meertaligheid in de Gouden eeuw: Een verkenning (Amsterdam 2010) [KNAW, Mededelingen van de Afdeling Letterkunde, Nieuwe Reeks, 73/2], online resource: www.knaw.nl/publicaties/pdf/20101019/pdf [revised English version: “Multilingualism in the Dutch Golden Age: An exploration,” in Multilingualism, Nationhood and Cultural Identity: Northern Europe, Sixteenth – Nineteenth Centuries, ed. Willem Frijhoff, Marie-Christine Kok Escalle and Karene Sanchez-Summerer (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2016), 96–171]; Willem Frijhoff, “Amitié, utilité, conquête? Le statut culturel du français entre appropriation et rejet dans la Hollande prémoderne,” Documents pour l’histoire du français langue étrangère ou seconde 50 (2013): 29–48. Also Myriam Yardeni, ed., Le Refuge huguenot: assimilation et culture (Paris: Champion, 2002); Manuela Böhm, Sprachenwechsel. Akkulturation und Mehrsprachigkeit der Brandenburger Hugenotten vom 17. bis 19. Jahrhundert (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010).

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Huguenot families like Balguerie, Bichon (van IJsselmonde), Chabot, Van Charante, Collot d’Escury, Dutilh, Eschauzier, s’Jacob, Lefèvre de Montigny, De Monchy, or De Villeneuve have remained until far into the twentieth century prominent members of the Rotterdam leading elites in the fields of commerce, industry, and administration. Normally members of the Walloon Church, they did quite often undertake intermarriage with the elites of Dutch origin pertaining to other high-level minority churches, such as the Remonstrants (the liberal Reformed seceded from the main church at the Synod of Dordrecht in 1618–19), or the Baptists (Dutch Mennonites).10 In fact, at the end of the eighteenth century most Walloon parishes were typified by a dual community structure. On the one side, they hosted the descendants of the French refugees, mostly of humble or middle-class condition, and only in so far as they had not been Dutchified over the years and joined the main Dutch Reformed Church. On the other side, they had become the religious home of some Dutch upper-class families, entwined with descendants of well-to-do refugee families who had been able to ensure their place in Dutch society and in the local administration, or prosperous French merchants, such as the wine traders in Rotterdam, or members of the world of finance in Amsterdam.11 What distinguished the Huguenot refuge from the Walloon migration one century earlier, however, was above all its transnational character, at least at the level of 10

See, for instance: Jean Joseph M. Taudin Chabot, Chabot: een hugenotenfamilie uit La Rochelle en vele naamgenoten (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1981); Leonardus Alexander F. Barjesteh van Waalwijk van Doorn and Marita F. B. Meeuwes, Die importante negotie. Geschiedenis van de Rotterdamse wijnhandel vanaf de Middeleeuwen tot in de 19e eeuw (Rotterdam: Barjesteh, 1996); Jori Zijlmans, “Gerefugeerde juffers (1686–1736): Franse damessociëteiten te Rotterdam,” Vier eeuwen migratie: bestemming Rotterdam (Rotterdam: MondiTaal, 1998), 58–75. 11 Willem Ernst Johan Berg, De réfugiés in de Nederlanden, na de herroeping van het Edict van Nantes. Eerste deel: Handel en nijverheid (Amsterdam: Johannes Muller, 1845); Leonie van Nierop, “Amsterdam’s vroedschap en de nijverheid der réfugiés,” De Economist (1916): 821–37; eadem, “Stukken betreffende de nijverheid der refugiés te Amsterdam,” Economisch-historisch Jaarboek 7 (1921) and 9 (1923); Alice Clare Carter, Getting, Spending and Investing in Early Modern Times: Essays on Dutch, English and Huguenot Economic History (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1975); Frouke M. Wieringa, “Hugenoten in Amsterdam,” Ons Amsterdam 38/2 (1986): 30–35; Anne Wegener Sleeswijk, “Les négociants français à Amsterdam au milieu du 18e siècle: organisation spatiale et insertion sociale,” in Les Étrangers dans la ville. Minorités et espace urbain du bas MoyenÂge à l’époque moderne, ed. Jacques Bottin and Donatella Calabi (Paris: Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 1999), 377–88.

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the cultural and economic elites. More than any other group of migrants, the Huguenots advanced the international community of thought and commerce, and slowly moved the focus of the Dutch elites towards a truly European society. The inhabitants of the Dutch Republic had not yet forgotten the disastrous and humiliating French invasion by Louis XIV with its huge destructions and inhuman cruelties less than a decade earlier. The Revocation stirred therefore a general feeling of indignation—or at least of uneasiness, even among the many Catholics living their faith in a fragile balance of power with the Reformed Church and the civic authorities. Catholics had always to fear some form of alternative persecution by way of punishment of what happened abroad, as did indeed occur in some of the inner provinces, where the Calvinists implemented a much less liberal religious policy than in the province of Holland and surrounding regions. However, Dutch hospitality also had its limits. Among the Dutch Reformed, the burden of assistance was quickly moved to the Frenchspeaking sister church of the Walloons in the country. Rescue money inevitably became scarce, after the first upsurge of generosity towards the victims of that treacherous and pompous king, whose behaviour and political actions were so contrary to the values and customs which the Dutch cherished since many decades as their own, and indeed to Dutch feelings of identity. Soon, in many towns and professions the refugees were considered, and sometimes even feared, as serious competitors on the economic or intellectual market. Given the persistence and harshness of the French king’s policy towards all forms of deviance of mainstream Roman Catholicism in the Gallican variety, the solution for survival was adaptation, not return. Yet, some of the Huguenots continued to dream of a new, properly Reformed France to which they could return over time in order to resume their own religion in the political setting that had been one of the objectives of early French Calvinism. As late as the French invasion of the Dutch Republic at the Batavian Revolution of 1795, more than one century later, we find in the contemporary sources personal expressions of desires and dreams in that sense. But in all, the story of the Huguenots in the Dutch Republic after the Revocation must be resumed as the search for a new fatherland. At first, this quest was coloured by their Frenchness. They aspired at composing an autonomous French-speaking community within that Republic, with as many domestic institutions as possible. However, after one or two generations these desires were imperceptibly, and among the poorer classes rather quickly, taken over by a rampant Dutchification in harmony with the original Dutch community itself.

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At the first religious census in the Northern Netherlands, held in 1809 during the reign of King Louis Bonaparte, the Walloon Church was not really distinguished from its Dutch Reformed counterpart, with the exception of the cities of Amsterdam and Haarlem where the Walloon community was credited with, respectively, 1,093 and 164 persons. When at the 1849 census, one century and a half after the massive influx of the Revocation, this distinction was formally introduced, only 8,435 “Walloon Reformed” were left, former Walloon and former French refugees taken together, and including members of genuine Dutch descent, in all a very small minority with regard to the 1,676,682 Dutch Reformed counted in that year. Three quarters of the Walloons (i.e., 6,324 persons) were registered in the former province of Holland alone.12 Outside that core region, the former refugee communities formed a negligible diaspora, although Huguenots who had taken service in the army were present in the many garrison towns near the borders of the Dutch Republic.

Catholic and Protestant Refugees and Dissenters The deviant communities victimised by French royal policy included also other parties than the Reformed Christians, and their communities followed largely the same way and the same procedures for survival as the Huguenots. Take for instance Jansenism, a variety of Roman Catholic doctrine, piety, and social concern that rather strongly diverged from mainstream Roman Catholicism and from its Gallican or traditional nationalist variety promoted by the French monarchy. Jansenism, rooted in the early seventeenth-century Northern and Southern Netherlands and named after its first great author, the Louvain professor of theology Cornelius Jansen or Jansenius who promoted an Augustinian conception of sin and redemption of a stern orthodoxy, opposed the theological liberalism and moral laxism of which the Jesuit order was the champion.13 Jansenism was attractive in the Dutch Republic because it opposed a stern, doctrinally comparable alternative to Reformed orthodoxy and made the Catholics equal partners of the Calvinists. However, Jansenism had also 12

Johannes Antonius de Kok, Nederland op de breuklijn Rome-Reformatie. Numerieke aspecten van Protestantisering en Katholieke Herleving in de Noordelijke Nederlanden, 1580–1880 (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1964), 290–93. 13 Jean Orcibal, Jansénius d’Ypres (1585–1638) (Paris: Études augustiniennes, 1989); Jan van Bavel and Martijn Schrama, eds., Jansénius et le jansénisme dans les Pays-Bas. Mélanges Lucien Ceyssens (Louvain: Peeters/University Press, 1982); Catherine Maire, De la cause de Dieu à la cause de la Nation. Le jansénisme au 18e siècle (Paris: Gallimard, 1998).

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spread among the Catholics of the Southern Netherlands, France, Italy, some German states, and even among the Catholics of Ireland. In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, a fair number of Jansenists, mainly priests and monks, but also some gifted intellectuals, as those pertaining to the circle of Port-Royal around the Pascal and Arnauld families, fled to the Dutch Republic to be taken care of by their Roman Catholic colleagues, themselves sometimes in a precarious and barely legal situation. Many Dutch Catholics were for similar reasons in an open conflict with the authorities at Rome, which provoked, in 1723, the long lasting schism of Utrecht and the creation of the Old Catholic Church. During the eighteenth century, the Utrecht Church and the Catholic exiled communities constituted together a true community of interest. They disposed of some capital for the edition of books and journals on behalf of the Jansenist party, and were able to admit new waves of persecuted fellow-intellectuals from the Catholic countries, in particular the Southern Netherlands and France, for instance around the convulsionary movement of the 1730s. Though decidedly pertaining to the global Catholic community, in spite of their parallel hierarchy, Jansenists were sometimes assimilated to halfway Protestants, especially by civil authorities, and that was precisely the reason why in opposition to the Roman Catholics they could benefit from some public sympathy and more or less overt tolerance. However, just like the Walloon Church, their numbers were much reduced at the turn of the eighteenth century: only 4,321 Old Catholics were registered at the 1809 census, exclusively in the former provinces of Holland, Utrecht, and Guelders.14 Next to the Walloons, the Huguenots, and the Jansenists, quite a lot of other Christian exile communities found shelter in the Dutch Republic, where some local communities of dissenters or particular sects were able to uphold themselves already, either by connivance or by formal tolerance, in particular in religious melting-pot Amsterdam.15 This was the case of the Moravian Brethren around Comenius, of several English nonconformist circles, and during the eighteenth century of the Vaudois from 14

De Kok, Nederland op de breuklijn Rome-Reformatie, 288. On the religious landscape of the Dutch Republic: Willem Frijhoff and Marijke Spies, 1650: Bevochten eendracht [coll. Nederlandse cultuur in Europese context] (The Hague: Sdu Uitgevers, 1999), 349–427 [online resource: www.dbnl.org/tekst/frij005bevo01_01/]; English translation: 1650: Hard-Won Unity [coll. Dutch Culture in a European perspective] (Assen: Royal Van Gorcum / Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004). On these movements on a European scale, see Timothy G. Fehler et al., eds., Religious Diaspora in Early Modern Europe: Strategies of Exile (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2013).

15

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Piedmont having adopted the Reformed creed, the Herrnhut brotherhood, huge groups of Lutheran refugees from the Austrian monarchy, and even new communities of French Catholic Jansenists. Besides, we must not forget the Sephardic and Ashkenazic Jewish communities in the greater towns of Holland, in particular Amsterdam, whose numbers nearly equaled those of the Huguenot community. All these exile communities provided the Dutch Republic widely with the image of a free harbour for religious refugees, including dissenters within these communities themselves, such as Spinoza in the Sephardic world of Amsterdam.16 During the French occupation of 1672, this image of a limitless, dangerous Dutch tolerance with regard to whatever religious opinion could arise in Europe, and more concerned about international policy and material benefits than about truth, was precisely one of the arguments brought forward by the king and his advisors against the Dutch Republic. We find it in a pamphlet of the Reformed minister who advised Louis XIV about his religious policy, the Swiss Stouppa, brother of the Reformed governor of Utrecht for the French king. According to his La Religion des Hollandois (1673): 16

Élisabeth Labrousse, “Le Refuge hollandais: Bayle et Jurieu,” XVIIe siècle 76– 77 (1967): 75–93; eadem, Conscience et conviction. Études sur le XVIIe siècle (Paris: Universitas / Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, 1996), 135–237; Frederik R. J. Knetsch, Pierre Jurieu, theoloog en politicus der Refuge (Kampen: Kok, 1967); Elisabeth Israels Perry, From Theology to History: French Religious Controversy and the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1973); Gerald Cerny, Theology, Politics, and Letters at the Crossroad of European Civilization: Jacques Basnage and the Baylean Huguenot Refugees in the Dutch Republic (Dordrecht: Nijhoff, 1987); Frederik R. J. Knetsch, “Pierre Jurieu and the Glorious Revolution according to his ‘Lettres pastorals,’” in Church, Change, and Revolution. Transactions of the Fourth Anglo-Dutch History Colloquium, ed. Jan Hendrik van den Berg and Paul G. Hoftijzer, eds. (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 145–66; Geoffrey Adams, The Huguenots and French Opinion, 1685–1787. The Enlightenment Debate on Toleration (Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfried Laurier University Press, 1991); Antonio Rotondò, Europe et les Pays-Bas. Évolution, élaboration et diffusion de la tolérance aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Florence: Università degli Studi, Dipartimento di storia, 1992); Willem Frijhoff, “Dimensions de la coexistence confessionnelle,” in The Emergence of Tolerance in the Dutch Republic, ed. Christiane Berkvens-Stevelinck, Jonathan I. Israel, and Guillaume H. M. Posthumus Meyjes (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 213–37; Myriam Yardeni, “La tolérance rétrospective: la perception de l’histoire des Pays-Bas et de l’Angleterre dans le Refuge huguenot,” in Berkvens-Stevelinck, Israel, and Meyjes, The Emergence of Tolerance, 251–67; Willem Frijhoff, “La tolérance sans édit: la situation dans les Provinces-Unies,” in L’acceptation de l’autre de l’édit de Nantes à nos jours, ed. Jean Delumeau (Paris: Fayard, 2000), 86–107.

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The Estates provide an almost unlimited liberty for all sorts of religions, and these have a total liberty for the celebration of their mysteries and their particular way of serving God. You must therefore understand that apart from the Reformed, there are Roman Catholics, Lutherans, Brownists [Congregationalists following Robert Browne], Independents, Arminians [meaning the Remonstrants, the liberal Reformed excluded from the main Church at the Synod of Dordrecht in 1618–19], Anabaptists [the nonviolent Mennonites], Socinians, Arians, Enthusiasts [an English sect], Quakers, Tremblers [another English sect], Borrelists [a prophetical group of so-called Collegiants around Adam Boreel], Armenians, Muscovites [the Russian orthodox Church], Libertines and finally still others whom we may call the Seekers because they are seeking a religion beyond all those which exist. Then I still do not mention the Jews, the Turks [Muslims, including the Arabs], and Persians.17

However positive the image of tolerance finally may have worked for the international status, the economic welfare and the cultural flourishing of the Dutch Republic, imperceptibly it influenced over time its internal organisation too. The community structure of these groups, that in principle were supposed to supply their own needs, prepared the division of Dutch society into large semi-autonomous socio-religious sectors. After the Batavian Revolution (1795), the French occupation and the failed experience of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands in the 1830s they would slowly go to mark Dutch society as a whole and finally develop into

17 “Les États donnent une liberté illimitée à toute sorte de Religions, lesquelles y ont une liberté entière de célébrer leurs mystères et de servir Dieu comme il leur plaist. Vous saurez donc qu’outre les Réformés il y a des Catholiques Romains, des Luthériens, des Brounistes [des congrégationalistes adhérents de Robert Browne], des Indépendants, des Arminiens [les remontrants], des Anabaptistes [les mennonites non-violents], des Sociniens, des Ariens, des Enthousiastes, des Quacquiers [quakers] ou des Trembleurs, des Borrélistes [partisans du collégiant Adam Boreel, tendant au prophétisme], des Arméniens, des Moscovites, des Libertins et d'autres enfin que nous pouvons appeler des Chercheurs, parce qu'ils cherchent une Religion et qu'ils n'en professent aucune de celles qui sont établies. Je ne vous parle point des Juifs, des Turcs et des Persans.” [Jean-Baptiste Stouppa], La Religion des Hollandois Représentée en plusieurs lettres écrites par un Officier de l’Armée du Roy, A un Pasteur & Professeur de Théologie de Berne (Cologne [=Leyde?]: Pierre Marteau, 1673), 32, 79. On these communities of dissenters, see the classic study of Leszek Kolakowski, Chrétiens sans Église. La conscience religieuse et le lien confessionnel au XVIIe siècle (Paris: Gallimard, 1969).

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the so-called pillars, the socio-religious foundations of the overall civil society in the “pillarisation system” of the twentieth century.18

The Flemish and Walloon Migration One cannot well understand the fate of the Huguenots in Dutch society without taking into account the pre-existent refugee experiences in the Netherlands.19 In fact, as an independent country, the Dutch Republic had 18 Arend Lijphart, The Politics of Accommodation: Pluralism and Democracy in the Netherlands, 2nd ed. (Berkeley: University of California, 1975); Marlou Schrover, “Pillarization, Multiculturalism and Cultural Freezing: Dutch Migration History and the Enforcement of Essentialist Ideas,” in The International Relevance of Dutch History, ed. Klaas van Berkel and Leonie de Goei (The Hague: Koninklijk Nederlands Historisch Genootschap, 2010), 328–54. 19 Paul Dibon, “Le refuge wallon, précurseur du refuge huguenot,” Dix-septième Siècle 76–77 (1967): 53–74; Heinz Schilling, Niederländische Exulanten im 16. Jahrhundert. Ihre Stellung im Sozialgefüge und im religiösen Leben deutscher und englischer Städte (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1972); Jan Briels, ZuidNederlanders in de Republiek, 1572–1630. Een demografische en cultuurhistorische studie (Sint-Niklaas: Danthe, 1985); idem, “De Zuidnederlandse immigratie, 1572– 1630,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 100 (1987): 331–55; Willem Frijhoff, “Migrations religieuses dans les Provinces-Unies avant le Second Refuge,” Revue du Nord 80 (1998): 573–98; Raingard Eßer, “From Province to Nation: Immigration in the Dutch Republic in the Late 16th and Early 17th Centuries,” in Imagining Frontiers, Contesting Identities, ed. Steven Ellis and Luda Klusáková (Pisa: University of Pisa, 2007), 163–76. Refugees from the Netherlands in a European Perspective: Bernard Cottret, Terre d’exil: L’Angleterre et ses réfugiés français et wallons, de la Réforme à la Révocation de l'Édit de Nantes, 1550–1700 (Paris: Aubier, 1985) [English version: The Huguenots in England: Immigration and Settlement, c. 1550–1700 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991)]; Andrew Pettegree, Foreign Protestant Communities in Sixteenth-Century London (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986); idem, “Protestant Migration during the Early Modern Period,” in Le migrazioni in Europa, secc. XIII–XVIII, ed. Simonetta Cavaciocchi (Florence: Le Monnier, 1994), 441–58; William J. C. Moens, The Walloons and Their Church at Norwich. Their History and Registers, 1565–1832, 2 vols. (Lymington: Huguenot Society of London, 1887–88); Douglas L. Rickwood, “The Norwich Strangers, 1565–1643: A Problem of Control,” Proceedings of the Huguenot Society of London 24 (1983–88): 119–28; Ole Peter Grell, Dutch Calvinists in Early Stuart London. The Dutch Church in Austin Friars, 1603–1642 (Leiden/New York: Brill, 1989); Andrew Pettegree, Emden and the Dutch Revolt. Exile and the Development of Reformed Protestantism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992); Raingard Eßer, Niederländische Exulanten im England des 16. und frühen 17. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Duncker and Humblot, 1996); Johannes Müller, “Permeable Memories. Family History and the Diaspora of

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been shaped in a considerable measure by refugees from different neighbouring countries, including Germany; but above all it had benefited of the political and intellectual input of two major sister communities, the Flemish and Walloon migrants, exiled and refugees, in reality a mix of voluntary migration and compulsion. In the course of the sixteenth-century Revolt, these two linguistic groups originating in the Southern Netherlands had taken their responsibility on different levels of the organisation of the society, of religion and education, and of the emerging new state. Both groups included a substantial number of refugees who on an earlier stage of religious persecution in the 1560s, under the Duke of Alba as a governor of the Spanish king, had fled to England, to the bordering German States or even to France. They brought back with them a growing international network and a previous exile experience which had prepared them to adopt more easily the Northern Netherlands and its emerging state as their new fatherland. In the Dutch context, the pre-existence of the French-speaking Walloon Church was particularly important for the French refugees as an anchor for their new identity. This church had been founded to shelter the exile community constituted exactly one century earlier, when the Spanish sovereign had tried—and largely managed indeed—to ban Protestantism from the Southern Netherlands. This had caused the massive migration of people touched in some way or another by these repressive measures, or simply desiring to make a new living, either for religious or for economic reasons. They fled or migrated from the Southern provinces to other regions, in particular to the provinces of the Northern Netherlands, still considered part of the greater Netherlands, which formally would only cease to exist as a unique, common nation after the Peace of Westphalia (1648). The insertion of the Huguenot refugees in the Walloon church must not make us forget that each of these two migrations had a rather different character. That of the Huguenots was a coerced, instant migration of members of the French Reformed Church, whereas the Walloon migration had been much more a staged or chain migration spread over several decades and involving not only refugees for their faith (Calvinist as well as Lutheran and Baptist) but also a large part of voluntary migrants for economic, social or cultural motives. Although identity feelings still were much more rooted in the town, the social community or the province of birth than in formal nations, sovereignty played a decisive role in political and juridical matters. Since Southern Netherlandish Exiles in the Seventeenth Century,” in Memory before Modernity. Practices of Memory in Early Modern Europe, ed. Erika Kuijpers et al. (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2013), 283–95.

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long, historical research has made clear that public identity in the modern age was essentially dual, man and women felt themselves first of all burghers, citizens, of a particular community, a town or province, which endowed them with a bundle of rights and a sense of belonging. But on the other side, national feelings were also real, rooted in identity politics, above all in shared memories. As a new state created as a commonwealth in the last decades of the sixteenth century out of the war against the Spanish sovereign, for its identity narrative the Dutch Republic could not really rely upon a shared past in Antiquity or in the Middle Ages. It is true that the diocese of Utrecht that had covered virtually all the Northern provinces until the ecclesiastical redistribution of 1559 might have had the potential to serve as a common identifier. However, the war effort dominated quickly that rather distant and loose common past. The long, harsh, and cruel Eighty Years War outlived the memory of almost all the Dutch inhabitants themselves to the point that very old people remembering the country before the war were sometimes put forward as a remarkable curiosity. It is true that the conditions of the war and of individual or group survival and the duration of local warfare differed greatly from one province to another. These entailed rather different feelings of belonging and identity politics until far into the eighteenth century—perhaps even unto the Batavian Revolution of 1795 that has been interpreted as a revenge of the inner provinces on the once dominant maritime provinces of Holland and Zealand with their declining power and failing economy. Basically, however, the war as such determined the creation of a common memory and supplied the arguments for the identification of the citizens, old and new, with the new nation.

The Root Narrative: Global War and Civil War In fact, the war implied the genesis of two double narratives, a root narrative about the very nature of the war, and a community narrative on the character of what had been at stake and had to be its primary outcome. Each of them complicated the formation of a common historical memory but gave at the same time room for the identification of newcomers in the towns, the provinces, and the state as such. The main double narrative, underpinning all other distinctions, concerned the war itself, because it was not only a war against the legal sovereign outside the country, but also a truly, and very cruel, civil war among and between social groups, political convictions, religious persuasions, and cultural communities inside the Northern Netherlands. The needs of national policy legitimised this war from the start as a rightful, justified form of resistance against a

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foreign, tyrannical sovereign. In public discourse, the war could therefore not be called a civil war. Subsequently, as a civil war it was also banished from the public history of the state, where a global discourse of political legitimacy, historical rights, and the common defence of legitimate values and interests became dominant. Yet it remained remembered inside the communities where it motivated different forms of resistance to public policy until far into the eighteenth century, and kept interconfessional relations under constant tension. Take among the Catholics, for instance, the panic of June 1734, when on the faith of persistently circulating rumours the Calvinists feared that the Catholics would exterminate them massively. The rumours and predictions of a Catholic upsurge were essentially distributed by the numerous small groups of Catholic Westphalian season workers strolling every year through the country towards the coastal provinces of Holland and Friesland in search of work.20 In a more global perspective, the territories that were added to the core provinces on a later stage and on a different political footing, but that had only slightly been Calvinised, such as the Northern half of Brabant around the towns of Bois-le-Duc, Eindhoven, Breda, and Bergen op Zoom, or the city of Maastricht, a condominium of the Reformed States General and the Catholic Bishop of Liège, continued to cherish until the nineteenth century a different sense of national belonging and a proper historical memory. At any rate, after the fall of Antwerp, then the economic capital of the Netherlands, in 1585, huge numbers of refugees fled to the North. The estimations go towards one hundred and fifty thousand refugees, in different waves, not to speak of those who came from their earlier place of shelter in Germany and England. After their settlement, they formed probably about twenty percent of the population of the provinces of Holland and Zealand principally concerned, locally even much more, perhaps up to half of the city population of booming towns as Leiden, Haarlem, Rotterdam or Middelburg. The need for a well-defined common political destiny made that the global war narrative superseded other public memories. In the long run it swept away the community memories of the refugees or the simple newcomers. The latter were quite a lot, in fact. Without always being refugees in the strong sense of the word, these economic migrants came from other regions than the Southern Netherlands, such as the Germans from all over the Holy Roman Empire, the many Scandinavians and Scots, or the immigrants from the East: the 20

Willem Frijhoff, “Prophecies in Society: The Panic of June 1734,” in idem, Embodied Belief: Ten Essays on Religious Culture in Dutch History (Hilversum: Verloren, 2002), 181–213.

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Baltic countries, Poland, and Hungary. Although the German immigrants were in the long run much more numerous than those from Flanders, Brabant, or France (including the Huguenots), they have not been able to put their imprint on historical memory in the Netherlands. On the contrary, not being formally marked as refugees, they lacked a decisive role in the major narrative of the creation of the state and of Dutch society, they spoke lower German dialects, and they mostly belonged to different religious persuasions: Lutherans, Catholics, Mennonites, etc. They have long suffered from neglect and their contemporaries despised many of them as second-rate citizens. Nicknamed as “Moffen,” they were often considered destitute of culture, education, and property. Next to these Christian communities came the Jewish immigration, first the Sephardic strain from Spain and Portugal, then, in much greater numbers, the Ashkenazic from the poorer countries east of the Dutch Republic. In spite of their common religion, these two groups formed two ethnic communities, separated from each other, radically different from the viewpoint of civic culture, and not always living in mutual harmony. Whereas the number of marriages concluded in these two communities shows almost equality around 1700, a century later, the Sephardic community has been halved and the Ashkenazic multiplied by five.21 Jewish immigrants settled mostly in some of the greater cities of the province of Holland with its more liberal tradition and international outlook, principally at Amsterdam. At the 1809 census, the Jewish population counted in all 40,780 persons, of whom 29,011 in the province of Holland, and 21,444 in the city of Amsterdam alone (i.e., 10.6 percent of the town’s population).22 Their argument for integration in Dutch society was, of course, not religion, and initially they suffered a lot of opposition from the Reformed ministers and authorities indeed. However, they benefited also from the liberty provided by the political argument of the public discourse on the nature of the Dutch state. The political and religious refugees and economic immigrants from the Southern Netherlands came prior to these migration flows; they helped the Northern communities to develop patterns of reception, acceptation, and integration that would benefit later migration currents and communities. Eager to integrate into their country of arrival, the refugees from Brabant and Flanders had nevertheless to argue that they did not unjustly overrun a foreign country. On the contrary, in their eyes this country was and remained their very own; it was always their original fatherland. Because, 21 22

Nusteling, Welvaart en werkgelegenheid, 238–39. De Kok, Nederland op de breuklijn Rome-Reformatie, 289, 324.

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like in most situations of exile, intellectuals and culturally informed citizens fled in huge numbers, and they virtually spoke the same language as the original habitants of the country of arrival, refugees rather quickly occupied key positions in the agencies for value and history management of the new state, in the public Reformed church, in the commercial world of culture (the printing press), and in the educational provisions (schools, colleges, universities). This massive takeover of the cultural and religious facilities enabled them to redirect public historical discourse, justifying at the same time their move to the North far from their native home, which in the early modern state conception was the natural base of any political action. This discourse authorised their inclusion in the new state as their own fatherland and its separation from the South, henceforth depicted as decidedly and conservatively Catholic and subject to a foreign prince. Imperceptibly, their original fatherland vanished behind their new country of residence soon assimilated by them as the original seat of their ancestors. However, this narrative could not be upheld on the provincial level that was the basis of the patriotic feelings of the inhabitants settled from of old in the North. It had to adopt a spirit of nationalism that encompassed the Dutch Republic as a whole and for some of them even the whole Netherlands North and South as a single historical and political unity. We see such developments in the acts and writings of intellectuals migrated from the South like the members of the Huygens family, high officials, and servants of the Orange dynasty, or of the many university professors, Reformed ministers, and schoolmasters of Southern origin appointed in the first decades after the independence. Some of them would play a decisive role in the fixation of Calvinist orthodoxy at the Dordrecht Synod, which sealed the shift of the predominantly more liberal Calvinist North to a decidedly orthodox and conservative stance. The Reformed Church itself, just like the rapidly rising network of Latin (secondary) schools and provincial universities, worked as a huge fabric of national integration for the intelligentsia, whose members looked for jobs independently of their province of origin. Their writings would greatly contribute to the formulation of a pan-national historical narrative stressing the political, religious, and cultural merits of the war against Spain and rejecting from memory everything that was prior or contrary to those images of successful Protestant and anti-Spanish nation building. It was only in 1672 that Spain as the archenemy was definitely replaced by France and the invader-king Louis XIV, preparing at the same time the mentality of the Dutch for the reception of the victims of that treacherous king, the French Huguenots.

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The Community Narrative: Politics and Religion The global, but mostly implicit narrative that distinguished between a formal war against a foreign prince and civil war between competing citizen groups was, from the start, intertwined with a second, more specified narrative. In fact, in its dominant version, the Dutch nation as an independent state arose from a dual war, i.e., politically, against the Spanish tyranny (libertatis ergo), and religiously, in favour of the Reformed faith (religionis ergo). This distinction could successfully motivate a range of different religious groups, and it produced indeed a series of diverging, even conflicting memories and narratives. Refugees could always argue in favour of either policy or religion, and exile to the Northern Netherlands has massively benefited indeed from both arguments. Because of this fundamental dualism, the warrant of freedom of conscience and tolerance of individual freedom of opinion was formulated in the very first constitutional arrangements of the Dutch Republic, i.e., the famous Article 13 of the Union of Utrecht of 1579. This was the indispensable precondition of the admission of all later flows of refugees, from Calvinists, Anglicans, and Lutherans to Mennonites, Socinians, Hutterites, Quakers, Catholics, and even Jews, tolerated as humans—and for some Reformed as the heralds of the latter days predicted by the New Testament—in a still basically Christian state. Within this Christian state, the Calvinist Church in its orthodox expression was the only authorised and indeed the only formally admitted opinion leader in matters of religion and public rituals. Yet, underdogs of any other persuasion could always argue that justice and law were on their side, in spite of the powerful position of those who dominated them by force, by social or economic weight, or by policy. In spite of the inevitable tensions arising from the coexistence of a variety of religious communities with a diverging political status, precisely due to the acceptation of a plurality of historical narratives and memorial traditions, the political equilibrium within the Dutch Republic was most probably greater than in other European countries. Although the dominant historiographical tradition stemming from this strive for an equilibrium of power relations has reduced the immigration from the South around 1600 to a matter of Reformed religion, historians have by now profusely shown that it was in reality a multiconfessional movement. It involved also Catholics, Lutherans, and Mennonites eager to expand their activities or to retrieve a level of welfare that was menaced, if not lost, by the vicissitudes of war and politics in Europe.

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For political reasons, even the Catholics still could identify with the new, liberal state, in spite of the fact that the Reformed church, although not formally being a state church, had been acknowledged at different stages of the process of state formation as the ruling church of the new state.23 Among them, loyalty to the lawful sovereign often went along with a distant attitude towards the new Republic, its officials, and institutions. Yet, it remained historically their country. The first waves of Catholic refugees towards the neighbouring provinces of the Southern Netherlands, the Rhineland, and, occasionally, even France, in the last decades of the sixteenth century came rather quickly to an end.24 Catholic shadow institutions for education (colleges, the university), religious life (convents), and social welfare soon were concentrated in the major towns of the Southern Netherlands where the same language was spoken: at Louvain, Antwerp, Malines, or Brussels. French and German speaking cities like Douay, Cologne, Münster, or Fulda, and of course remote Rome remained centres of Catholic identification but only for small numbers of Dutch faithful, mostly of the wealthier part. During some decades, Catholic leaders continued to provide their fellow-faithful with ecclesiastical offices that did not any longer exist in reality, as if nothing had really happened and old times would come back soon. The cathedral chapter of Utrecht, traditionally provided with some members by the Estates of the province, had long a mix of truly Catholic canons elected by their Catholic predecessors and Reformed canons appointed by the Estates. There remained room for private dissension in matters of religion. Yet even in the globally winning camp, such distinctions existed. They were during the first decades of the seventeenth century at the roots of a barely disguised civil war for the legitimisation of the new ruling class and the ruling church. Politically, this was resolved by the coup d’état of the commander-in-chief of the army Maurice of Nassau in 1618, exactly half a century after the beginning of the war, and by the execution of his antagonist, the grand pensionary Johan van Oldenbarnevelt in May 1619. Religiously, it was concluded at the same time by the National Synod of 23

On the Catholics in the Dutch Republic, see Frijhoff and Spies, 1650: Hard-Won Unity, 372–89; Charles H. Parker, Faith on the Margins: Catholics and Catholicism in the Dutch Golden Age (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 2008); Catholic Communities in Protestant States: Britain and the Netherlands, c.1570–1720, ed. Bejamin Kaplan et al. (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009); Judith Pollmann, Catholic Identity and the Revolt of the Netherlands, 1520–1635 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 24 On Dutch Catholics in exile: Geert Janssen, The Dutch Revolt and Catholic Exile in Reformation Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014).

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the Reformed Church at Dordrecht, in 1618–19, which fixed Calvinist orthodoxy and banished the liberal Remonstrant dissenters from the institutions of the state. In both cases, refugees from the South played a major role in the motivation and/or the execution of the decisions. Indeed, these measures proved that the refugees, eager to justify their presence as full-fledged citizens, had been right in fleeing from the South to the North, and that the North effectively had become their new, own fatherland.25

Global Values and Community Interests Ever since, the Dutch Republic has benefited from a multi-componential historical narrative that quickly became one of the main agencies of attraction and identification of foreign citizens. It could provide all of them with a sensible motive for integration, either political or religious. While their exile communities could persist, it supplied them all with a feeling of common national identity founded on the basic values for which the founders of the state had fought and sacrificed their lives, and that were considered typical for the Dutch society of that flourishing age. In an earlier study on Dutch culture in the Golden Age, Marijke Spies and I have identified five of such values essential for the acceptation, the maintenance, and long lasting distinction of such political, cultural, ethnic or religious communities within early modern Dutch society and for the acceptation of huge migration flows.26 Firstly, by rejecting the idea of a full-fledged state church and silently admitting the existence of competing religious communities, the Dutch Republic practiced in fact a pronounced neutrality of the public space with regard to the pretensions of the monopoly of truth pretended and defended by the single religious or other ideological parties. Foreign visitors of every religious persuasion were always struck by this absence of a well-defined religious colour of Dutch society, in spite of its formal belonging to the world of Reformed Protestantism and the visibility of its institutions. In the civic sphere, this neutrality was expressed in what I have called in earlier studies the different forms of “ecumenicity of everyday life” (or omgangsoecumene), putting between brackets the issue of religion whenever this was not 25 See for the impact of this intra-Netherlandic conflict recently Carolina Leonarduzzi, “‘De oude geusen teghen de nieuwe geusen.’ De dynamiek van het oorlogsverleden ten tijde van het Twaalfjarig Bestand,” Holland Historisch Tijdschrift 43/2 (2011): 65–81; Jasper van der Steen, “A Contested Past: Memory Wars during the Twelve Years Truce (1609–1621),” in Kuijpers, Memory before Modernity, 45–61. 26 Frijhoff and Spies, 1650: Hard-Won Unity, 68–69.

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essential for the community involved or for individual understanding among neighbours, colleagues, or citizens.27 A second value was the admission and the reality of what may be called a high-spirited “discussion culture,” permitting and even provoking public debate on major features of Dutch society and eventually its history. This discussion culture was legitimised by Dutch intellectuals of different origin and persuasion. Incomers could identify with it, either for political or for social reasons and express themselves rather freely about their motivations, ideas, and desires. This was the case with Protestant dissenters, Lutherans, Catholics, and even Jews. In the field of religious debate, this happened also with the Calvinist refugees from the Southern provinces of the Netherlands, from different German states, and from England. One of the preconditions of this discussion culture was the multilingualism that ever since the later Middle Ages pervaded cultural practice in the higher and middle classes of the Netherlands, and, through the huge immigrant communities, even in the lower classes. While the Dutch language was not yet really codified and rather important linguistic differences continued to exist between the provinces and regions of the Dutch Republic, Latin remained for long the language of higher education. Partly due to the influx from the Southern Netherlands, and subsequently from France, French became the language of public elite culture. Yet it remained in a constant competition with the efforts of cultivated members of the bourgeois elite in favour of the unification and purity of the Dutch language in its Holland variety, the very expression of the hegemony of that province within the global state.28 In this context, the Walloon refugees from the Southern Netherlands were privileged because they could enjoy from the start the collaboration of native Dutch Protestants using the French language as their favourite idiom, as did the Huguenot refugees one century later. Language gave them therefore a particular position on the cultural playing field and indeed an advance on the recognition that they desired as victims of persecution under tyrannical regimes, either Spanish or French.

27 See my essays “The Threshold of Toleration: Interconfessional Conviviality in Holland during the Early Modern Period,” in Frijhoff, Embodied Belief, 39–65; and “Dimensions de la coexistence confessionnelle,” in Berkvens-Stevelinck, Israel, and Posthumus Meyjes, The Emergence of Tolerance, 213–37. 28 Frijhoff, Meertaligheid in de Gouden Eeuw.

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A third characteristic was the importance of the middling groups as full-fledged participants in the cultural system, notwithstanding the political power of the elites. This worked, in fact, in favour of the refugee communities which during one or two generations were unable to integrate the ruling political elites but could unfold their activities and develop their social power freely within other networks.29 For instance, the Dutch East and West India Companies, founded in 1602 and 1621 respectively, were largely under the control of shareholders pertaining to Walloon immigrant families, and the Huguenot as well as the Mennonite merchants formed powerful mercantile Internationals.30 Fourthly, a receptive attitude towards the idea that the Dutch Republic basically was a country of transport and diffusion capable to receive people on transit of whatever origin, and to adopt commodities, procedures, ideas, and values from elsewhere, intended to be redistributed freely abroad. The readiness of the Dutch to accept the influx of foreign people, commodities, and ideas was one of the basic arguments of those intellectuals who expressed their opinion on their move to the Northern Netherlands. Last but not least, the all-pervading idea of a translatio, the Dutch state and its people as the modern successor of earlier communities called to design a truly new society by change and innovation. This idea encompassed first of all the translatio imperii (i.e., the intimate conviction that the Dutch Republic was the lawful, and also successful, successor of older countries, empires or great corporations whose tasks in the global world it was allowed to take over and able to fulfil). This conviction motivated many of the great merchants engaged in the East and still more the West India Company, which intended to create overseas a new society in conformity with the intentions of those who still fought against the Spanish tyrant. During the seventeenth century, many of those concerned by the rise and existence of the Dutch Republic, inhabitants, immigrants, and refugees alike, considered it the society of the future. In religious matters, this found its expression in the idea of the “Dutch Canaan” or the 29

Alice Carter, “Some Huguenots in Professional and Administrative Functions in the Netherlands in the Eighteenth Century,” Proceedings of the Huguenot Society of London 21 (1970): 550–68. A telling example in Michael Green, The Huguenot Jean Rou (1638–1711), Scholar, Educator, Civil Servant (Paris: Champion, 2015). 30 Oscar Gelderblom, Zuidnederlandse kooplieden en de opkomst van de Amsterdamse stapelmarkt (1578–1630) (Hilversum: Verloren, 2000); J. F. Bosher, “Huguenot Merchants and the Protestant International in the Seventeenth Century,” William and Mary Quarterly, 3rd ser., 52 (1995): 77–102.

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“Dutch Israel,” the successor of the Jewish state from the classical Antiquity.31 Culturally, the idea of a translatio studii justified the pretensions of the Dutch university system, in particular Leiden, and the preeminence of its network of printers, booksellers, and other professions of the written word and printed image. Economically, it motivated the political power of the great East and West India Companies as rulers over the seas after the breakdown of the Iberian Catholic hegemony and in constant competition with other newcomers, such as the British Empire. In fact, when Louis XIV started his persecution of French Calvinists, several conditions singled the Dutch Republic out from other countries of exile and made it particularly attractive. First of all, the Dutch Republic appeared to them as their “natural” refuge: it was considered to be a truly Calvinist country, contrary to Anglican England where the Low Church and the Reformed dissenters enjoyed a disputable status. The French Huguenots were simply tolerated or they experienced from the established church a degree of pressure to conform.32 However, contrary to Brandenburg-Prussia too, where the Calvinist prince granted them extensive privileges but where they were surrounded by an essentially Lutheran population, unity of faith remained not only the early modern ideal but was also a warrant for the unspoiled future of the Reformed community as such in the Dutch Republic. The second advantage of Dutch society was the predominance of French as the language of international intercourse, due to its previous history. French refugees could feel at home, in a substitute of their fatherland, and in the first generation many went barely beyond that. Even a learned man as Pierre Bayle, the beacon of Early Enlightenment and the foremost intellectual of Rotterdam, did not acquaint himself with the Dutch language, in spite of his twenty-five-year stay at Rotterdam as a professor at the local Illustrious School.33 For long, Huguenot identity in the Dutch Republic remained largely determined by the memory of the 1685 trauma,

31

G. Groenhuis, “Calvinism and National Consciousness: The Dutch Republic as the New Israel,” in Britain and the Netherlands, vol. 7, State and Church since the Reformation, ed. Alastair C. Duke and C. A. Tamse (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1981), 118–33. 32 Robin D. Gwynn, “Conformity, Non-Conformity and Huguenot Settlement in England in the Later Seventeenth Century,” in The Religious Culture of the Huguenots, 1660–1750, ed. Anne Dunan-Page (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 23–41. 33 Hans Bots, “Pierre Bayle en de Rotterdamse Illustre School 1681–1693,” Rotterdams Jaarboekje (1982): 21–40.

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but the Dutch context permitted the refugees to stress freely the memory of the persecution and to develop their intimate conviction of martyrdom.34

34

Edwin van Meerkerk, “Geweld, geloof, herinnering en identiteit: Hollandse hugenoten en het ‘trauma’ van 1685,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 118/3 (2005): 386–99; David Onnekink, “Models of an Imagined Community: Huguenot Discourse on Identity and Foreign Policy,” in The Huguenots: History and Memory in Transnational Context. Essays in Honour and Memory of Walter C. Utt, ed. David J. B. Trim (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 193–215. Cf. more generally Willem Frijhoff, “Religious Life in Amsterdam’s Golden Age: A New Approach,” in Frijhoff, Embodied Belief, 17–38.

II. IBERIAN EXILES

CROSS AND CROSS AGAIN: FIRST-HAND ACCOUNTS OF 1492 EXILES’ RETURN TO CASTILE* SARA T. NALLE

After Haim Beinart published his monumental The Expulsion of the Jews from Spain and François Soyer meticulously reconstructed what happened to the Jews living in Portugal between 1492 and 1497, one might suppose that nothing more could be added to the topic of the Expulsion.1 However, as is well known, history is a bit like the story of the three blind men and the elephant: how a particular history is written depends on which sources the historian used. Beinart relied a great deal on copies of royal writs drawn up in response to appeals for justice coming from all over Castile. Each writ, usually one folio or so long, summarises the facts of the appeal and orders the appropriate royal official to take action. Behind each writ there is a law which has been broken and a tale of injustice. In Soyer’s case, he was not satisfied by the apparent lack of documentation dating from the years 1492í95 and historians’ uncritical reliance on the two main Portuguese chronicles from the sixteenth century. While not in any degree reducing the story of sheer misery and greed that is the Portuguese chapter of the expulsion of the Spanish Jews, Soyer provides a much smaller estimate of the number of individuals involved than has been proposed until now. As tragic and horrific as it is, the story of the Expulsion often is presented as a tale of heroic martyrdom and survival on the part of the Jews, who after having lived in Iberia for some 1500 years, chose faith and * An early version of this paper was presented at the Annual Meeting of the Association for Spanish and Portuguese Historical Studies, Lisbon (Portugal), 2 July 2011. I wish to thank J. B. Owens and Benjamin Gampel for their suggestions on obscure points, and Yosef Kaplan for the opportunity to return to this topic in more depth. 1 Haim Beinart, The Expulsion of the Jews from Spain (Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2002); François Soyer, The Persecution of the Jews and Muslims of Portugal: King Manual and the End of Religious Tolerance (1496–7) (Leiden: Brill, 2007).

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exile over homeland and material possessions.2 Moreover, the Expulsion marks the beginning of an exciting new narrative, the creation of the intrepid, entrepreneurial Sephardic Diaspora—the nação—which has been at the centre of thirty years of sustained scholarship.3 By contrast, there is not much joy in following the story of those unfortunate Jews who, upon crossing over to Portugal or North Africa, decided that they could not stay the course of exile, accepted baptism, and returned home. Beinart devotes a chapter to the question, and one finds references scattered in the literature. The phenomenon of the returnees, or retornados as they were called, has been reconstructed from their appeals to have their property sold back to them, as had been promised by the crown, or in a few cases, from snippets of conversation recorded by Carrete Parrondo in his compilations of extracts of Inquisitorial testimony.4 Such sources reinforce 2

For example, Yitzhak Baer writes in his chapter dedicated to the Expulsion, “Conversos and Jews were one people, united by bonds of religion, destiny and messianic hope . . . a nostalgic yearning for a national homeland, both earthly and heavenly.” Yitzhak Baer, A History of the Jews in Christian Spain, ed. Benjamin Gampel, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1966), 2: 424í25. 3 A few more recent examples are Jonathan S. Ray, After Expulsion: 1492 and the Making of the Sephardic Jewry (New York: New York University Press, 2013); Francesca Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers: The Sephardic Diaspora, Livorno, and Cross-Cultural Trade in the Early Modern Period (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009); Daviken Studnicki-Gizbert, A Nation Upon the Ocean Sea: Portugal’s Atlantic Diaspora and the Crisis of the Spanish Empire, 1492í1640 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Jonathan I. Israel, Diasporas within a Diaspora: Jews, Crypto-Jews and the World Maritime Empires, 1540í1740 (Leiden: Brill, 2002); Yosef Kaplan, An Alternative Path to Modernity: The Sephardic Diaspora in Western Europe (Leiden: Brill, 2000); and Miriam Bodian, Hebrews of the Portuguese Nation: Conversos and Community in Early Modern Amsterdam (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997). 4 Carlos Carrete Parrondo, ed., Fontes Iudaeorum Regni Hispanae, 7 vols. (Salamanca 1981–). Some publications which have dealt with the retornados, however briefly, are Enrique Cantera Montenegro, “Judíos de Torrelaguna: retorno de algunos expulsados entre 1493 y 1495,” Sefarad 39 (1979): 333–46; Elisa Caselli, “Del exilio al terruño. Las reclamaciones ante la justicia de los judíos que regresaron bautizados (1492–1525),” Chronica 37 (2011): 143í74; John Edwards, “Jews and Conversos in the Region of Soria and Almazán: Departures and Returns,” in The Jews of Spain and the Expulsion of 1492, ed. Moshe Lazar and Stephen Haliczer (Lancaster, CA: Labyrinthos, 1997), 277–88; Miguel Ángel Ladero Quesada, “El número de judíos en la España de 1492: los que se fueron,” in Judíos. Sefarditas. Conversos. La expulsión de 1492 y sus consecuencias. Ponencias del Congreso Internacional celebrado en Nueva York en noviembre de 1992, ed. Ángel Alcalá (Valladolid: Ámbito, 1995), 170–80; and Haim Beinart,

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the criticism that was made by many of the Jews who went into exile: that the retornados as well as those who never left were motivated by their attachment to material things, for which they abandoned their ancestral religion. Perhaps for these reasons the retornados’ story has never received serious attention from historians. For a long time there was the belief that no one came back; or, if they did, that their stories could never be recovered. Beinart himself notes that the documents to which he had access “provide no information about where they [the refugees] had lived in Portugal. We know only the places to which they wished to return and recover their property.’5 Sometimes, however, new information turns up in unexpected places. In previous publications, I have studied the New Christian minority in the diocese of Sigüenza, an area to the northeast of Madrid, which was vigorously persecuted by the Inquisition from the mid1520s to around 1555.6 This research has led to the discovery of numerous first-person accounts of what happened to these individuals and their families in 1492. The emphasis in these accounts is entirely on the human drama: who converted, who left, how to keep the family together and survive. While not discounting the very real issue of property claims that figure so prominently in Beinart’s sources, these narratives serve to flesh out the experience of the hundreds, if not thousands, who left and then returned home. Before turning to these narratives, first it is useful to review in broad strokes the current understanding of the Expulsion. The Catholic Monarchs signed the edict on 31 March 1492, and it was proclaimed throughout the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon in April and May (Navarre’s Jews were not expelled until 1498).7 The official reason given “Vuelta de judíos a España después de la Expulsión,” in Alcalá, Judíos. Sefarditas. Conversos, 181– 92. 5 Beinart, Expulsion, 272. Another article which deals with property claims presented to a different court, the Real Chancillería de Valladolid, is Caselli, “Del exilio al terruño.” 6 Sara T. Nalle, “A Minority Within a Minority: The New and Old Converts of Sigüenza,” in The Early Modern Hispanic World: Transnational and Interdisciplinary Approaches, ed. Kimberly Lynn and Erin Rowe (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 91–120; Idem, “A Forgotten Campaign Against the Judeoconversos of Sigüenza: Pedro Cortés and the Inquisition of Cuenca, 1535–55,” in The Conversos and Moriscos in Late Medieval Spain and Beyond, vol. 3, Displaced Persons, ed. Kevin Ingram and Juan Ignacio Pulido Serrano (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 6–28. 7 Benjamin R. Gampel, The Last Jews on Iberian Soil: The Navarrese Jewry, 1479/1498 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989).

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for the drastic decision to expel the Jews was that their continued presence on the peninsula interfered with the full Christianisation and integration into Spanish society of the conversos, descendants of Jews who had been baptised one hundred years before. In effect, the Jews were guilty of creating the converso problem and their punishment was either to become conversos themselves or to leave Spain. They had to exit the realms by 31 July 1492. With the exception of precious metals and coins, they could take with themselves any belongings they wished and convert the rest of their wealth into letters of exchange which they could present to merchants abroad.8 Exactly how many left, and of those, how many might have returned, has always been difficult to estimate. Beinart floated the number of two hundred thousand deportees, which is highly improbable if one considers that the total population of the Spanish kingdoms in 1492 was about 5.3 million.9 Indeed, some six years before the publication of the Hebrew edition of The Expulsion, Henry Kamen went through the same literature as did Beinart and came to a far different conclusion that in 1492 there were sixty thousand Jews living in Castile and ten thousand in the crown of Aragon. Once all was said and done, taking into account the great number who left and came back, Kamen concluded that only thirty thousand left for good.10 Finally, as far as Portugal is concerned, which was the destination of choice for most Jews, François Soyer arrived at the number of thirty thousand Jews from Castile entering the country, although Maria Tavares, the scholar who discovered the document that allows for such an estimate, gave a lower figure of 23,320.11 Given that all the sources agree that Portugal received the vast majority of exiles, and yet

8

Beinart, Expulsion, 33–54. Ibid., 290. 10 Henry Kamen, “The Mediterranean and the Expulsion of Spanish Jews in 1492,” Past & Present 119 (1988): 30–55. After reviewing all of the evidence, Miguel Ángel Ladero Quesada comes to a somewhat higher estimate of seventy-five thousand to one hundred and ten thousand Jews in the kingdom of Castile out of a total of 4.5 million; in Aragon, ten to twelve thousand out of a population of eight hundred and fifty thousand; and two hundred to two hundred and fifty families in Navarre (“El número de judíos,” 170–80). Norman Roth, in Conversos, Inquisition, and the Expulsion of the Jews from Spain (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995, 2002) dedicates an appendix to the question, in which he arrives at the number of two hundred and seventy thousand Jews living in Spain in the late fifteenth century and three times that number of conversos (376). In other words, Roth estimates that one fifth of Spain’s population in 1492 was either Jewish or converso! 11 Soyer, Persecution, 111. 9

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only thirty thousand seem to have entered the country, estimates of more than one hundred thousand exiles overall seem indefensible. Providing anything more than estimates is an impossible task since it is known only in very general terms how many Jews were living in Castile in 1492 and how many left. On the other hand, it is possible to trace in more detail the experience of the many who, after leaving Spain, decided to return. In response to a petition from several Jews, on 10 November 1492 the crown authorised the return of the exiles on several conditions. The Catholic monarchs’ two main concerns were that the Jews’ conversion to Catholicism be documented by the proper authorities and that their property be sold back to them in a manner that was fair to both the buyer and seller.12 Many of the retornados came from the diocese of Sigüenza, an area that now is encompassed by the present-day provinces of Guadalajara and Soria. This area was host to several important communities—Atienza, Almazán, Berlanga, Sigüenza, and Medinaceli— which were in close proximity to one another and shared economic and familial ties.13 Several of these communities have been the focus of extensive research thanks to the publication of the series Fontes Iudaeorum Regni Castellae, which reproduces portions of testimony from the Inquisitions of Soria and Sigüenza between 1486 and 1505.14 The volumes yield an extraordinarily rich fund of information about the Jewish

12

Beinart, “Vuelta,” 182. The retornados were supposed to come back to Castile via the same cities from which they exited, and to carry with them their certificates of baptism. My research shows that decades later many of the surviving retornados still knew where their certificate was or how it had been lost (see Appendix for details). 13 Ricardo Muñoz Solla, “La comunidad judía de Berlanga de Duero (Soria),” in Del pasado judío en los reinos medievales hispánicos: afinidad y distanciamiento: 13 Curso de Cultura Hispanojudía y Sefardí de la Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha, ed. Ricardo I. Benito and Yolanda Moreno Koch (Cuenca 2005), 207. 14 Carlos Parrondo, ed., Fontes, vol. 2, El Tribunal de la Inquisición en el Obispado de Soria (1486–1502) and vol. 4, Los judeoconversos de Almazán, 1501–1505: Origen familiar de los Lainez; Enrique Cantera Montenegro, “Notas acerca la expulsión de los judíos en la diócesis de Osma (Soria),” Espacio, tiempo y forma, Serie 3, Historia Medieval 13 (2000): 57í84, uses information from Carrete Parrondo and the Registro General del Sello, the same depository of royal writs which was employed by Beinart. Using the Registro, Suárez Fernández has counted 177 names of retornados, and Haim Beinart “has identified at least sixtyfour different Castilian localities to which immigrants returned from Portugal and North Africa. Studies of local Jewish communities also highlight the fact” (Soyer, Persecution, 134).

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life of these communities, particularly that of Almazán—but very little about the experience of the Expulsion.15 For bureaucratic reasons, after the persecution of the Almazán community, the Inquisition ceased functioning in the region and did not return in full force until the 1520s when the old tribunal of Sigüenza was folded into the jurisdiction of the tribunal in Cuenca. In 1535, a new inquisitor, Licenciate Pedro Cortés, arrived in Cuenca fresh from his exploits hunting conversos and Moriscos in the area of Córdoba.16 Although previous inquisitors in the 1520s and early 30s had asked their victims where and when they had converted to Christianity, thereby sometimes obtaining useful accounts of the Expulsion, Pedro Cortés frequently elicited the complete stories from the 1492 survivors. While many of the witnesses were children at the time and had little to tell, quite a few had been teenagers and young adults who more than forty years later preserved vivid memories of their experiences. Before exploring those experiences in detail, first must be addressed two most basic questions: who left and where generally did they go? Older histories of the Expulsion emphasise the united front and the pressure that rabbis put on communities to leave en masse. Baer, for example, maintained that only five thousand out of the two hundred thousand Jews living in Spain accepted baptism over exile.17 That clearly does not appear to have been the case. One Jewish exile, Abraham Ibn Ardutiel, noted in retrospect, “The majority of the Jews and their great men and judges sat in their houses and exchanged their religion [converted] for the religion of a foreign god, abandoning the well of living water and the King of the world, and served other gods whom they knew not.”18 Among those who did choose to leave, their families did not always act in unison, even though in such a patriarchal society, where the father’s word was law, one might expect people to follow his decision. For one hundred years Spanish Jews had been under tremendous pressure to convert, and throughout the fifteenth century many had done so. This environment had led to a culture of respecting individual conscience.19 15

Such information that can be gleaned from the Fontes appears in Edwards’ “Jews and Conversos.” 16 Nalle, “A Forgotten Campaign.” 17 As cited by Ladero Quesada, “El número de judíos,” 176. 18 Roth, Conversos, Inquisition, and the Expulsion of the Jews from Spain, 297. 19 Javier Castaño González, “Las comunidades judías en el obispado de Sigüenza en la Baja Edad Media. Transformación y disgregación del judaísmo en Castilla a fines del Medievo,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Universidad Complutense de Madrid 1994, 152. Castaño found in Sigüenza that conversions took place more

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Thus, many families found a middle ground in the apparently stark choice presented by the 1492 edict. A father or brother would accept baptism in order to remain at home to mind the family property and see how things turned out, while others left with the children.20 For example, Pedro García de la Fuente, a resident of Almazán, was about twenty-two years old when the edict was promulgated. His father, Martín García, chose conversion, but according to Pedro’s testimony, Pedro and his mother did not want to convert and opted to go to Portugal instead. Evidently, although Pedro was a minor and his mother was under her husband’s legal authority, they were free to make their own decision. After they arrived in Portugal, Martín sent word to them that they should convert and come home. Pedro and a brother obeyed, but their mother refused, remained behind in Portugal, and died in her faith.21 This fairly common tactic of hedging one’s bets, balancing one’s property against one’s faith, provoked endless amounts of scorn on the part of those who gave up everything only to return in defeat later, and appears over and over again in Inquisitorial testimony from the 1490s. Given their common residence in the same region, one might expect that when the Edict of Expulsion was promulgated, the Jews would look at the distances involved and make the logical choice: the Basque kingdom of Navarre was close by, only one hundred and fifty kilometres to the north (Fig. 1). Due west to the Portuguese border was about four hundred kilometres, and south to one of the ports of Andalucía was a journey of seven hundred to eight hundred kilometres. (Interestingly, the Mediterranean littoral did not appear to be an option for people from this region.) Many of the men in these communities were merchants and worked in the wool trade, which involved moving sheep from their summer pastures in Soria to their winter quarters in Extremadura: in other words, people must have

individually than collectively. Even in moments of great pressure, the family did not act as a unit. 20 In Almazán (1495) one returnee, Graciana, when asked by a farmer why she returned from Portugal, said “I complied with what our religion ordered us, and for that reason I consider myself more fortunate than those who stayed behind, which they did so as to not lose their property” (Castaño González, “Las comunidades judías,” 369). Cantera Montenegro, “Notas acerca de la expulsión,” 70, also notes the splitting up of families. 21 Archivo Diocesano de Cuenca (henceforth “ADC”), Inq. exp. 1868 (1541). Mark Meyerson notes “that women particularly resisted converting, thus splitting families,” (“Aragonese and Catalan Jewish Converts at the Time of the Expulsion,” Jewish History 6 [1992]: 389).

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had a general idea of the distances and roads involved. Yet, no one went to Navarre or the Mediterranean.22

Fig. 1. Places mentioned in the text.

Many from Atienza chose Portugal via Ciudad Rodrigo, but only fifty kilometres away, the Jews in Medinaceli and Berlanga opted to journey to Portugal via Badajoz in Extremadura or to try for North Africa via the ports of Santa María and Almería, in Andalucía. In other words, the logic behind the decision of where to go was not based on a simple question of geography but one of opportunity and familiarity. Most of the Jews from the region of Sigüenza decided that Portugal was their best option—how could they know that King João II had decided to allow only six hundred families to settle there and the rest would have 22

Jews just to the north of these towns in the diocese of Burgo de Osma also seldom chose Navarre as their destination, even though they were even closer to the kingdom than those living in the diocese of Sigüenza. E. Cantera Montenegro, “Notas acerca de la expulsión,” 68.

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to leave within eight months in addition to paying huge sums of money?23 When the Inquisition began first operating in Castile in the 1480s, many conversos fled across the border and found refuge in the nearby kingdom; also there was a significant Jewish population in central Portugal, just across the border from Old Castile.24 Portugal had opened up trade with the Atlantic Islands, Northern Europe, and North Africa, and was a familiar culture. To go to North Africa, apart from the additional distance and expense, meant a huge leap of faith that somehow life among the Berbers would be better. Few seemed to entertain that thought, or, once there, they were unable to return home and eventually have their stories collected years later by the Inquisition. After the crown of Portugal agreed to accept the Castilian refugees, officials established five entry points where the arrivals could be processed. These were, from north to south, Melgaço, Bragança, Castelo Rodrigo, Arronches, and Olivença, towns somewhat removed from the frontier and which only vaguely matched up with official Spanish exit points of Zamora, Ciudad Rodrigo, and Badajoz.25 In order to find out where people actually went, I canvassed as many of the trials from the Inquisition of Cuenca as possible, and organised survivors’ statements by their town of residence at the time of the Expulsion [see Appendix].26 What becomes immediately apparent is that there was no organised exodus, either at the level of towns or families. Families and individuals generally went in a certain direction, either towards Portugal or Andalucía, but beyond that it is difficult to say. For example, among survivors from Atienza, most recalled converting on the Spanish border in Ciudad Rodrigo, without crossing over to Portugal. However, just to underscore the lack of conformity, some from Atienza converted in Badajoz, far to the south, and others went all the way to the Atlantic littoral to Montemor-o-Velho. One frequently cited example of a retornado is the story of Francisco del Aguila, who was from the town of Atienza.27 I will begin with this 23

For details, see Soyer, Persecution, 102–3. Soyer, Persecution, chap. 3; Maria J. P. Ferro Tavares, “Os judeus da Beira interior: a comuna de Trancoso e a entrada da Inquisição,” Sefarad 68 (2008): 369í411. 25 Beinart, Expulsion, 262. 26 For this article, I have not consulted similar trials from the Inquisition of Toledo housed at the Archivo Histórico Nacional in Madrid. 27 Aguila’s case first appears in Luis Suárez Fernández, comp., Documentos acerca de la expulsión de los judíos de España (Valladolid: CSIC, 1964), 547. Francisco Cantera Burgos and Carlos Carrete Parrondo deal at length with Atienza in “Juderías medievales de la Provincia de Guadalajara,” pt. 2, Sefarad 33 (1973): 11–19, and specifically with Aguila, 17–18; also mentioning the case are Caselli, 24

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example because it is in fact extremely atypical. Historians know his story because he was one of those who after converting petitioned the crown to have their property sold back to them. According to his petition, Francisco del Aguila arrived in Ciudad Rodrigo, a city forty kilometres from the Portuguese border, with a group of fifty-three individuals in tow—family members, servants, and other relations from Atienza. Rather than cross over to Portugal, he caused the group to accept baptism en masse there and then. He thought that by virtue of this deed he merited some extra consideration from the crown on the question of his property. His story supports the idea of an orderly mass exodus, organised by the family patriarch, who dictated what the clan should do. Aguila’s story can be checked against some of the survivors’ recollections of the exodus thirty to forty years after it occurred. In the archives of the Inquisition of Cuenca I have found the trials of twelve members of the extended del Aguila family who were alive in 1492. The accompanying genealogy (p. 174) helps to clarify their relationships. If one assumes that the twelve individuals travelled with their siblings and parents as depicted in the genealogy, remarkably, about forty out of the fifty-three persons that Francisco del Aguila stated that he took to Ciudad Rodrigo can be accounted for. Unfortunately, because these witnesses were so young at the time, their memories of the events are limited. Francisco’s daughter Catalina, who would have been about eight years old in 1492, remembered converting with her father in Ciudad Rodrigo and living there with him for two years.28 Her cousin Diego de Funes, aged seven in 1492, remembered slightly more. In Atienza he remembered going to the synagogue to pray, and that his father, who was a rabbi, taught him and other boys their Hebrew letters. Time, however, had erased some aspects of Diego’s Jewish identity: he claimed that he no longer could remember what his Jewish name had been nor his father’s. The only thing he recalled about the Expulsion and his conversion was that he had been baptised in a church in Ciudad Rodrigo that was called San Andrés. It is worth noting that the reason that he had been arrested by the Inquisition in 1530 was that he, his cousin Elena (who went with him to Ciudad Rodrigo), and many others were implicated in giving a Jewish burial to

“Del exilio al terruño,” 149; Kamen, “The Mediterranean and the Expulsion,” 43; Soyer, Persecution, 132; Beinart, Expulsion, 271; Renee Levine Melammed, A Question of Identity: Iberian Conversos in Historical Perspective (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 45; and Ray, After Expulsion, 51. 28 Catalina del Aguila, ADC Inq. exp. 1675 (1530).

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their uncle Juan de Silva, a brother of the patriarch Francisco del Aguila, who had died in the 1510s.29 Given the large number of persons from Atienza who recalled leaving, converting, and returning, it is tempting to guess that most of the town’s Jewish families opted to leave, unlike those in Almazán, who have not generated many instances of retornados in the Inquisition’s records.30 It turns out that the story of Francisco del Aguila taking his clan to Ciudad Rodrigo, but never crossing the border, was exceptional. Others from Atienza had very different experiences. For example, there is the story of Francisco López, a merchant, and his wife, Mayor. In 1492, Francisco and Mayor were in their late thirties. Francisco’s parents were deceased, but Mayor’s were still alive, probably in their fifties. Francisco had an unspecified number of siblings and Mayor had one brother, Antonio de Ávila. Ultimately the couple had a total of six children, but in 1492 only some of them had been born, including Diego, who was two years old. When several members of the family were arrested thirty to forty years later, Francisco was not questioned about his conversion, but Mayor and her brother Antonio were.31 Mayor’s memory of what happened in Portugal was less precise than that of her brother Antonio, who was about twenty-five in 1492. The main discrepancies involve where they crossed over to Portugal and where their conversions took place: Antonio was quite firm in his memory of crossing at Badajoz, and converting there later. Mayor wavered; at first she said Ciudad Rodrigo, then Badajoz, and then drifted back towards Ciudad Rodrigo. Otherwise, Mayor and Antonio’s accounts coincide on the main details of what transpired.

29

Diego de Funes, ADC Inq. exp. 1696 (1537). The prosecutor accused Diego “and others of taking the body from the bed and placing it on the floor, and patting the body with their hands while lamenting, also hitting their heads with their hands, then singing and crying . . . like they did during Jewish times and a certain person . . . spoke in Hebrew and said that the Jewish religion was the right one and that the Messiah had not yet come.” (All translations of archival sources are by the author.) On Jewish mortuary practices as recorded in the Inquisition, see Charles Amiel, “La ‘mort juive’ au regard des Inquisitions ibériques,” Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 207/4 (1990): 389–411. 30 Those who left returned in a matter of months and resumed their lives, aided by their lord, the Count of Monteagudo. M. Diago Hernández, “El ascenso de los judeoconversos al amparo de la alta nobleza en Castilla después de 1492: el caso de Almazán,” Sefarad 74 (2014): 145–84. 31 Francisco López, ADC Inq. exp. 1350 (1525); Mayor López, ADC Inq. exp. 1687 (1530); Antonio de Avila, ADC Inq. exp. 1682 (1530); Diego López, ADC exp. 1310 (1525).

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When the Edict was promulgated, the entire family on both sides decided to emigrate, with the exception of Francisco López, the apparent head of the family, perhaps so that he could mind the family’s property in Atienza. Francisco’s siblings “pasaron allende,” that is, they crossed over to North Africa and were never heard from again. Francisco stayed on in Atienza with his two-year-old son Diego. Antonio, who was put in charge of the group, and Mayor, together with their parents and Mayor’s other children, left for Portugal, passing through Ciudad Rodrigo and spending eight months in Portugal, first in the camps near the processing centre at Castelo Rodrigo, then at Elvas, far to the south, and returning via Badajoz.32 Antonio remembered in detail the chronological parameters of their expulsion: “I was in Portugal from when I complied with the Catholic King’s order that he gave to leave the kingdom until the King of Portugal gave an order saying that the Castilian Jews who were in his kingdom had to hand over so many cruzados, and those who did not would either become slaves or they should leave the kingdom.”33 Antonio’s sister Mayor remembered staying a total of eight months, most of the time in Elvas, near the Spanish border. Eight months is in fact the amount of time that João II gave the Castilian Jews to remain in the kingdom after paying for the privilege, so on this point both Antonio and Mayor’s memories are correct. During this time, Mayor’s husband Francisco, who had stayed behind in Atienza, converted in Ciudad Rodrigo, and entered into Portugal for the purpose of finding his family and taking them home. He found them in one of the camps near Castelo Rodrigo, although Mayor and Antonio have different recollections of which one exactly, perhaps because they moved 32

Locating these places is tricky because the witnesses have difficulty reproducing the Portuguese place names and once identified, there often are other towns with the same name. However, given that the López family most likely passed through Ciudad Rodrigo to Castelo Rodrigo, all of the approximate place names coincide with the names of villages in the vicinity of Castelo Rodrigo that seem to have become refugee camps for the Castilian Jews (e.g., “Escariego” = Escarigo, “Berbenosa” = Vermiosa, “Almofara” = Almofala). Other retornados use similar variants of these names. For more about the camps, see François Soyer, “King João II of Portugal ‘O Príncipe Perfeito’ and the Jews (1481–1495),” Sefarad 69 (2009): 85–7. 33 “Se tornó christiano quando el destierro de los judios en Badajoz e que estuvo en Portugal desde que se cumplió el destierro que el rey catolico dio para salir del reyno hasta que el rey de Portugal ortogó otro mandamiento que los judios castellanos que estaban en su reyno diesen tantos cruzados y que los que no los diesen que quedasen esclavos o saliesen de su reyno” (ADC Inq. exp. 1682).

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from one to another. Mayor and Antonio refused to leave, but their parents returned with Francisco to Atienza and took over raising Diego. As an adult Diego would recall that he was brought up in Atienza by his father and his grandparents. Sometime after Francisco left, Mayor had a change of heart and sent word to her husband that he should come back and get her. He found her and Antonio in Elvas (or Escarigo, according to another witness, Francisco de Uquillas).34 López had figured out a way of paying for his family’s return to Castile and perhaps even to profit from the Expulsion. Along with the Jewish religion, Hebrew holy books had been banned in the Spanish kingdoms. Francisco arrived in Elvas with a load of “Jewish” books and enlisted Antonio to help him to sell them. Who can imagine what their feelings were as they sold these books. At this point in the story, the inquisitors became very curious to find out from Antonio if Francisco, who had been a Christian for a total of five months, had done anything to compromise his new religious identity. Antonio swore that for the week while they were travelling and selling the Hebrew books in the city of Évora, Antonio boarded in a Jew’s house while Francisco stayed at an inn. They arrived in Évora on a Friday; that night and the next day Antonio observed the Sabbath but Francisco did not. When Francisco was with his wife in Elvas, he slept with her. The inquisitors pressed for more details—did Francisco eat with his wife, and if he did, did he eat Jewish foods or engage in any other Jewish ceremonies? Antonio could not recall if he had or if he had observed the Sabbath in Elvas. Although he did eat with Francisco at the same table, when Antonio prayed in Hebrew, Francisco did not respond. After the family returned to Atienza, it seems to have recovered its former status. The child Diego grew up to become a dealer in livestock, wool, and woollen cloth. Two of his sisters married hidalgos, while he and another sister married other New Christians, like themselves. All stayed in Atienza only to be hounded by the Inquisition in the 1520s and 1530s. As noted above, the inquisitors were keen to find out if Francisco López had judaized while he went to Portugal to retrieve his wife. Antonio de Ávila would not give them the information they wanted, so they kept hunting. They found another witness in Francisco de Uquillas, who was born in Atienza around 1469. Uquillas remembered that his father’s Jewish name was Junguli, and his mother’s was Bienvenida, but he was not asked to give his own. In 1492, he, his widowed mother, his future brother-in-law Paunes, Paunes’ two brothers and Hazibuena, a sister-inlaw, crossed over to Portugal and wound up in Escarigo, another village 34

Francisco de Uquillas, ADC Inq. exp. 1707 (1534).

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near the processing centre at Castelo Rodrigo. Uquillas, who noted with some irony that when he was baptised he was also given the name “Francisco López” until someone realized that someone else from Atienza already had been given that name, remembered seeing López, his wife, someone called Pero Núñez, and a servant living in a corral in Escarigo, where they all stayed for about two months.35 He confirmed López’s story that he had converted in Ciudad Rodrigo, and saw him eating with his wife, but did not see him observe any Jewish rituals. He also remembered seeing López with a “Jewish book” in his hand, saying that he was going to sell them.36 After two months Uquillas and his party left Escarigo and travelled two hundred kilometres to the southwest to Montemor-o-Velho, home to another Jewish community and not too far from the seaport of Figueira da Foz. Perhaps their intention was to embark there, but instead, ultimately they accepted baptism in Montemor-o-Velho and returned home via Medina del Campo. Back in Atienza, Uquillas married Paunes’ sister and went to work for Pero Núñez in his wool business, going out on the road to collect debts related to the wool and sometimes minding the shop (“tienda”) in Atienza. As seen above, for this small town in Castile, Portugal was most people’s choice, and Ciudad Rodrigo the preferred exit point. Nonetheless, the majority of the exiles from the nearby towns of Berlanga and Medinaceli headed in a more southerly direction, crossing over to Portugal from Extremadura via Arronches or Olivença. Others went to El Puerto de Santa María, or Almería, and some made it as far as Arzila (modern Asilah), a port across the straits of Gibraltar which the Portuguese had conquered in 1471. Berlanga and Medinaceli were seigneurial towns controlled by noble families which also owned territories in Andalucía. Berlanga’s lords, the Tovar family, had long held the town of Gelves, near Seville, and a marriage in 1482 with the Velasco family added several more sevillano towns to their Andalusian portfolio.37 Even more long35 Conditions in the camps were terrible; overall there was high mortality among the refugees, who were guarded by Portuguese so they could not escape (Soyer, Persecution, 108, 112í15). Magdalena de Soria and her parents, residents of Sigüenza, also wound up in the camp at Escarigo. Magdalena’s parents did not survive; she somehow returned home where she was passed around from house to house, sometimes living with relatives, sometimes with employers, until she was married around age 13 or 14. (ADC exp. 1771 [1536]). 36 It is difficult to reconcile these two accounts of the book selling, one taking place in Escarigo and the other in Elvas, unless López brought Hebrew books with him each time he crossed the border. 37 Alfonso Franco Silva, “Aportación al estudio de los señoríos sorianos. El caso de Berlanga de Duero y los Tovar,” Mayurqa 22 (1989): 255–68.

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standing and lucrative was the De la Cerda family’s (the counts, then dukes of Medinaceli) ownership of El Puerto de Santa María, near the mouth of the Guadalquivir river.38 Jews in the Sigüenza region traditionally found employment serving the many lords of the region and would have known of these southern places.39 Among some of the 1492 retornados from Medinaceli, Luis de Tolosa’s brother had worked collecting rents for the duke, and Luis himself, after he returned home from Almería, where the duke owned yet another señorío, also found work collecting the duke’s rents.40 Rodrigo de la Peña, who converted in Alcalá de los Gazules, some sixty kilometres away from El Puerto, returned to Medinaceli and apprenticed to the duke’s tailor.41 If individuals were not attracted to these southern ports through their connections to their overlords, others retraced their steps working in the region’s flourishing wool and sheep trade. For example, Berlanga was a centre of the Mesta, the sheep owner’s guild. Alonso de Rios, born in 1480 in nearby Medinaceli, grew up to become a livestock owner, and spent his life taking his flocks from Soria to Extremadura. He and his parents converted in Badajoz, Extremadura.42 Among the retornados who appear in the Inquisition of Cuenca’s records is one Bachiller Diego Núñez, a native of Mayorga (Valladolid) who ultimately settled in Deza, yet another small town owned by the duke of Medinaceli. Little is known about Mayorga’s Jewish community except that after being attacked and nearly destroyed in 1412, by 1474 the aljama had recovered enough to be given the highest royal tax assessment of the Jewish communities in the region, higher even than those given to the

38

Juan José Iglesias Rodríguez, “Señores y vasallos: las relaciones entre la Casa ducal de Medinaceli y El Puerto de Santa María en la Edad Moderna,” Revista de historia de El Puerto 2 (1989): 27í58. 39 M. Diago Hernandez, “El ascenso de los judeoconversos.” 40 Tolosa spent a total of six months in Almería (ADC exp. 1867 [1540]). The duke of Medinaceli was granted territories in district of Almería on 1 September 1492. Cristina Segura Graiño, “Realengo y señorío en la tierra de Almería en el siglo XV,” En la España Medieval 3 (1982): 606. 41 ADC exp. 1760 (1540). 42 ADC exp. 1761 (1540). “Llevaba a Estremos que seria mediado el mes de novienbre fasta el mes de mayo, que se estuvo con el dicho su ganado en tierra de Talavera sin tornar a Medinaceli y que no se acuerda quales fueron los dichos dos años y que otras muchas vezes y por otros muchos años ha tanbien salido de la dicha villa de Medinaceli a proveer su ganado y a proveer en otras cosas que le convenian y a negociar por los lugares de la tierra de Medinaceli.”

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cities of León and Astorga combined.43 Diego was born around 1477 and raised as a Jew until 1492. In his statement to the Inquisition, he was unable to give any information about the generations before him, possibly because he had been completely orphaned by age fifteen. Nonetheless, the family seems to have been well-educated and well-connected. Diego told the inquisitors that by age fifteen he was already known as “Rabbi Samuel.” By that age he had mastered the Old Testament, “la lógica en hebreo,” (by which he may have meant Scholastic logic, as studied in Hebrew by certain Sephardic scholars44) and he owned a little prayer book, presumably in Hebrew. He and his sister were engaged in a double marriage with a second pair of siblings, a common practice in Jewish and converso families. Their promised spouses were Bienvenida, the sister of the city of León’s doctor, and the doctor himself. A third sibling, whose Jewish name Diego did not give, was betrothed to a daughter of someone Diego called “a great wise man, the Rabbi Çabeçudo” (which sounds suspiciously like cabezudo, or knuckle head!).45 When the Edict was announced, the three couples gathered in their deceased mother’s home in Mayorga, and from there they set out for Porto, Portugal with their future parents-in-law, altogether a group of ten adults. The narratives by 1492 survivors, given under stressful circumstances many years after the fact, are full of gaps, silences, and contradictions, and Diego Núñez’s is no exception. He told the inquisitors that his group spent more than a year in Porto, living as Jews, and finally from there everyone took ship for Arzila. Silenced at this point are the abuses which must have 43

Miguel Ángel Medina, O.P., ed., La doctrina cristiana para la instrucción de los indios por Pedro de Córdoba (Salamanca: Editorial San Esteban, 1987), 497. 44 Ángel Sáenz-Bardillos and Arturo Prats, “ŠČlomoh Bonafed y la lógica cristiana del siglo XV,” Revista Española de Filosofía Medieval 10 (2003): 15í27. Logic does seem to have been an important aspect of the intellectual formation of Jewish youths in Provence and the crown of Aragon (17 n. 6). Perhaps Samuel/Diego was brought up in that tradition; after his conversion he returns to the study of logic and Avicenna (see below). 45 Intriguingly, a “raby Cabeça” appears in a 1480s list of Jewish residents in nearby Villalón, where Samuel/Diego’s siblings returned after the Expulsion. A copy of Avicenna’s Canon was copied in Villalón in 1487 for R. Daniel, son of R. Semuel Daniel, an associate of mosé (“mosé” is a term of respect) Cabeça. Circa 1482, this Rabbi Semuel Daniel was one of the most important personages in the Villalón community. Javier Castaño and S. del Rey Granell, “Judíos y redes personales en la tierra de Campos durante la segunda mitad del siglo XV: un cuaderno de minutos de avecindamientos de Villalón,” Sefarad 69 (2009): 376. Villalón and Mayorga belonged to the same feudal lord, and are just twenty-two kilometres apart.

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happened at the hands of the ship’s crew and captain and the soldiers in Arzila.46 In Arzila, the family’s cohesion disintegrated. Several of the young people—Diego, his brother and sister, and her husband (the doctor from León)—decided that they had had enough: they accepted baptism and returned to Castile, disembarking in La Rota, near the Puerto de Santa María. Samuel became Diego, and his brother became Cristóbal (although he was not completely sure of the Christian name). Left unsaid was the fate of their putative brides and parents-in-law; Diego does not mention them again in his narrative. Once back on Spanish soil, the four split up. Diego remained in Jérez de la Frontera, begging on the street, while the other three went north towards home. From this point, Diego was left to shift for himself. He was about seventeen years old, but obviously a survivor. He somehow persuaded a nobleman from the Basque country to take him on as a servant and they travelled to Cáceres, three hundred and fifty kilometres to the north. Exhausted, he rested there for a while and then left his employer to rejoin his siblings in Villalón, a town not too far from Mayorga. There, he reconfirmed his baptism by being christened, and then set off to Zamora with a new employer, a cristiano nuevo doctor named Master Alonso. While going on his rounds of the city’s sick, Master Alonso taught Diego the beginnings of logic, the crown jewel of university studies. Diego, like the rest of his family, had decided on a career in medicine, but now as a Christian he could attend the university, a path previously closed to his Jewish ancestors. After an unstated amount of time, he left Master Alonso to enrol at the University of Salamanca, where he studied for nine years, earning a bachelor’s degree. Now credentialed, Diego began to make a career for himself. He formed an association with another doctor, a New Christian named Master Alonso Covarrubias, who taught him the first book of Avicenna. Something about Diego made people want to help him, because when Covarrubias found out that the duchess of Frias was looking for a new doctor, he encouraged Diego to apply for the position. In the end, after several jobs and two wives, the first one an Old Christian, Diego wound up attracting the attention of the duke of Medinaceli, who ordered the town council of Deza, one of his seigneurial holdings, to allow Diego to apply for the position of town doctor, which he won. He was arrested in Deza in 1533, some forty-one years after the Expulsion.47 46

Soyer, Persecution, 124í26; Beinart, Expulsion, 275–76. ADC exp. 1669 (1533). The inquisitors were lenient with Diego and merely penanced him. Diego’s account of his medical training provides fascinating details into that career, which was dominated by New Christians. Núñez also engaged in some small-time lending which led to a real escapade. Someone pawned some 47

Sara T. Nalle

161

Despite first being orphaned, then exiled, and finally left to fend for himself, Diego Núñez landed on his feet. Even his sentencing by the Inquisition was mild, especially for this particular tribunal. His narrative suggests some final considerations about how the retornados adjusted to their new identity. Núñez and many others took advantage of their conversion to Christianity to join Spanish mainstream society—in the early sixteenth century the purity of blood statutes designed to prevent New Christians from succeeding in the majority society were not yet widely implemented, so enterprising, ambitious men like Núñez could reinvent themselves, just as the first generation of conversos had done in the fifteenth century. Many retornados from this region, and particularly their children, earned university degrees, became lawyers, doctors, or even joined the church as friars or secular priests.48 Nonetheless, for many in the first generation of retornados, particularly those who had been adults in 1492, adjusting to their new identity was not easy.49 Juan de Berlanga, from the town of Berlanga, was about fifty-two in 1492; he and his wife made it all the way to Arzila, where they also gave up, accepted baptism, and returned home. Juan confessed to the inquisitors in 1526 that for a year after his conversion he actively regretted his decision, wished he were Jewish, and continued to pray in Hebrew such prayers as “zova hezarno beshem Adonai”50 and the Psalms. The authorities realised that the neophytes would need instruction, and the Catholic monarchs issued provisions both nationally and even in Atienza itself to ensure that the new converts would have time to be catechised before the Inquisition began to prey on them.51 Juan de Berlanga, who was literate in Hebrew, remembered that Inquisitor Aguilera and the Abbot of Berlanga around this time ordered Juan’s priest to allow him to write out

stolen silver cups with him, and then Núñez gave them to someone else who claimed to be their real owner. Eventually the rightful owner of the silver turned up and Diego was condemned to reimburse that person. Lacking the money, during the night he packed up what belongings he could manage and slipped out of town, leaving behind his wife and several chests full of papers, including the certificate of his christening in Villalón. 48 Nalle, “A Minority within a Minority.” 49 Carlos Carrete Parrondo, “Nostalgia for the Past (and for the Future?) among Castilian Judeoconversos,” Mediterranean Historical Review 6 (1991): 25–43, which draws on many cases from the region under study. 50 Possibly a prayer sung at Sabbath meals that originated in France. My thanks to Benjamin Gampel for this bit of sleuthing. 51 María del Pilar Rábade Obradó, “La instrucción cristiana de los conversos en la Castilla del siglo XV,” En la España Medieval 22 (1999): 390.

162

Cross and Cross Again

the four prayers of the Catechism in Hebrew script so that he could memorise them, a highly unusual accommodation.52 The retornados and other 1492 converts’ regret over their conversion and lost faith has been documented elsewhere, as well as their attempts to continue practicing Judaism in secret.53 The unusual absence of the Inquisition from Sigüenza for nearly twenty years gave ample opportunity to those who wished to do so to continue on as Crypto-Jews. When the Inquisition returned to the region in the 1520s, many conversos reacted with angry resistance, bribing witnesses, lying to the court, hiding suspects, and even assaulting the court’s officers.54 The inquisitors doggedly pursued the New Christian communities of Sigüenza for the next thirty-five years, reaping a harvest of hundreds of victims, and leaving no family untouched. For these families, some of which were descended from those who had returned from exile, their existence was turned into a new form of exile, as the lives they had recreated for themselves after 1492 were destroyed for a second time, and all memory of their Jewish identity ruthlessly expunged.

52

ADC exp. 1467 (1528). This recalls the same leniency in late fifteenth-century Granada, where those newly converted from Islam were catechized in Arabic. 53 One book dedicated to this theme is David Gitlitz, Secrecy and Deceit: The Religion of the Crypto-Jews (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1996). 54 This may be observed by reading the catalogue of the tribunal’s cases in D. Pérez Ramírez, Catálogo. See also Nalle, “A Forgotten Campaign.”

163

Name

Francisco Beltrán

Pedro García de la Fuente

Alonso González

Almazán

Almazán

Almazán

Bishopric of Sigüenza Agueda Ruy López Coronel*

Residence in 1492

12/13

21

12

24

Age 1492

Went w/o his parents

Mother

Mother & siblings

At least 2 brothers

Accompanied by

N/A

2

6

3–?

Total Party

Malpartida (Portugal) where mother died; returned w/ sibs Father & sibs stayed behind; mother died Jewish in Portugal Parents and some siblings stayed behind in Almazán

Went to Lisbon

Travel Notes

Portugal

Trancoso (Portugal)

Malpartida (Portugal)

Lisbon

Place Converted

1492?

Lent, 1493

1492

1492

Return Date

Y

N/A

N/A

Y

Proof of Baptism

Exp. 1843

Exp. 1868

Exp. 1835

Exp. 1322

Source: ADC Inq.

In some cases, multiple members of the same family were tried by the Inquisition; if their accounts are the same, only one account is noted but each person who returned and who was also tried by the Inquisition of Cuenca is included in this list.

Appendix: Summary of Retornados’ Experiences, 1492–1522, by Region, as Confessed to the Inquisition of Cuenca

Sara T. Nalle

Catalina del Aguila

Ynés del Aguila

Ysabel del Aguila Francisco de Atienza Mari la Blanca

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Elvira la Blanca

Ana Vicente

Almazán

Atienza

Leonor Pérez

Almazán

164

7

24

4

12

1

8

15

13+

See Aguila genealogy

See Aguila genealogy See Aguila genealogy See Aguila genealogy

Father Diego del Aguila/Cibdad family See Aguila genealogy

Husb & some siblings

N/A

40– 52

2–5

N/A

Viana (Port) where she married a Port. Jew; returned together Father stayed in Almazán; husband died in North Africa With father and others; lived in Ciudad Rodrigo for two years Her parents told her but doesn’t know how long they took “converted in Ciudad Rodrigo” Remembers very little 1 month in Portugal where husband died; 1 year Ciudad Rodrigo N/A

Cross and Cross Again

Ciudad Rodrigo

Ciudad Rodrigo Ciudad Rodrigo Ciudad Rodrigo

Ciudad Rodrigo

Ciudad Rodrigo

Tangier or Arzila

Viana (Portugal)

N/A

1493

1492

1493?

N/A

1493?

1492?

1495

N/A

Y

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

Exp. 1587

Exp. 1538 Exp. 1859 Exp. 1522

Exp. 1897

Exp. 1675

Exp. 1914

Exp. 1781

Luis de Cibdad Diego de Funes Benito Valderas Hernando de Atienza

Atienza

Ana de Atienza

Antonio de Ávila

Mayor López

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Helena Buena Francisco de Cibdad

Atienza

38

24

20

28

34

7

8

16

10

See Antonio de Avila

Parents, sister, children and others

See Hernando de Atienza

See Aguila genealogy See Aguila genealogy See Aguila genealogy Wife, Ana de Atienza

See Aguila genealogy See Aguila genealogy

10– 12

2

Vermiosa (Portugal) from 25 June 1492 to Easter, 1493 Her parents and 4 brothers left Medinaceli for parts unknown. Lived in camps near Castelo Rodrigo, then Elvas (Portugal)

Vermiosa (Portugal); rejoined his parents in Ciudad Rodrigo Remembers very little Remembers very little N/A

N/A

Sara T. Nalle

Badajoz

Ciudad Rodrigo Ciudad Rodrigo Ciudad Rodrigo Vermiosa (Portugal)

Ciudad Rodrigo Ciudad Rodrigo

1493

1493

1492

1492

1492

1492

1492

Y

Y

Y

Y

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

Y

Exp. 1687

Exp. 1682

Exp. 1619

Exp. 1875 Exp. 1696 Exp. 1917 Exp. 1673

Exp. 1692 Exp. 1549

165

Gracia Linda

Felipa López

Leonor López Francisco de Morales

Catalina de la Peña García de Segura

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Atienza

Ynés Caballero

Atienza

166

34

16

20

16

34

45?

21

Wife, mother, child?

No details

Went with Francisco de Urquillas

N/A

Husband & 2 brothers

2 children and son-in-law

w/ husband

3–4

N/A

N/A

4

4

4-6

1 month in Portugal, husband died; Ciudad Rodrigo 1 year 12 months Vermiosa (Portugal) 6 months Algoso (near Vimioso, Portugal); 6 years Zamora Portugal, no details Spent 1 year going to Portugal, staying there and coming back Went as far as Ciudad Rodrigo Montemor-oVelho (Portugal) 18 months; 6 months in San Felices de los Gallegos; mother died Christian

Cross and Cross Again

Ciudad Rodrigo Montemoro-Velho (Portugal)

Montemoro-Velho

Portugal

Algoso (Portugal)

Vermiosa (Portugal)

Ciudad Rodrigo

1494

1492

1493

1492?

1492-3

1493

1493

Y

N/A

N/A

N/A

Y

Y

Y

Exp. 1826 Exp. 1940

Exp. 1802 Exp. 1614

Exp. 1546

Exp. 1873

Exp. 1522

Leonor Álvarez María Álvarez

Berlanga

Juan de Berlanga Ysabel de Berlanga

Alonso de Cortés

Ana Hernández

Berlanga

Berlanga

Berlanga

Berlanga

Ysabel Álvarez

Berlanga

Berlanga

Francisco de Uquillas

Atienza

16

42

37

50

22

22

16

23

Prob. Leonor’s cousin See Ysabel de Berlanga Husband Juan de Berlanga; daughter Ana Rodríguez Wife, fatherin-law, several children Husband and father-in-law

Father, sister, perhaps more siblings

N/A

Mother, 4 brothers-inlaw

3

5–7

3

N/A

3–5

N/A

6

2 mos in Portugal; father-in-law stayed in Portugal as a Christian Portugal, June, 1492–Lent, 1493

Away 18 months, eventually went to Arzila (Morocco)

Escarigo 2 months; Montemor-oVelho 10 months; mother stayed in Portugal Portugalete (Portugal) Portugal where sister died, then by ship to Puerto de Santa María Portugal, no details

Sara T. Nalle

Ifanes (Portugal)

Cinco Vilas (Portugal)

Arzila (Morocco)

Portugal

Puerto de Santa María

Portugalete

Montemoro-Velho (Portugal)

1493

1492

Late 1493

N/A

1494?

N/A

1493

N/A

N/A

N/A

Y

N/A

N/A

Y

Exp. 1929

Exp. 1557

Exp. 1467 Exp. 1385

Exp. 1618

Exp. 1367 Exp. 1689

Exp. 1707

167

Ana Rodríguez

Ýñigo de Santa María

Ysabel de Santa María Gabriel de Serón

Juan de Castro Pedro de Uzero

Berlanga

Berlanga

Berlanga

Caracena

Medinaceli

Fuentepinilla

Pedro de Alcalá

Antonio López

Berlanga

Berlanga

García de Herrera

Berlanga

168

24

14

19

6

22

28

9

9

24

No family in 1492

No details, probably with parents Probably with mother Parents, possibly some siblings

Husband Yñigo, others

See Ysabel de Berlanga, her mother No details

Parents, perhaps some siblings Parents, aunt, perhaps some siblings

1

3–6

2?

3?

2–?

4–6

3–5

Portugal; mother returned Lisbon 1 year; father died there Jewish; the rest returned Almería (Spain)

Parents converted in 1492

Portugal, Aug., 1492–Lent, 1493, then went home to Berlanga They entered Portugal

A few days in a camp near Castelo Rodrigo; aunt died there

Went to Lisbon

Cross and Cross Again

Almería

Lisbon

Portugal

Portugal

N/A

Ifanes (Portugal)

Almofala (Portugal)

Lisbon

1492

1493

1492-93

N/A

1492

1493

1492

1492

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

Y

N/A

lost

Y

Exp. 1899

Exp. 1904 Exp. 1915

Exp. 1865

Exp. 1618

Exp. 1620

Exp. 1896

Exp. 1671

Exp. 1322

Francisco Méndez

Juan de Muxacar

Gabriel Núñez

Juan de la Peña

Rodrigo de la Peña

Medinaceli

Medinaceli

Medinaceli

Medinaceli

Medinaceli

Medinaceli

Rodrigo de la Fuente Juan López

Medinaceli

20

9

0

6

24

42

27

No details; cousin of Rodrigo de la Peña Orphaned; Francisco Méndez is his cousin

Parents, possibly some siblings With parents

Mother, wife, and some siblings

With his parents No details

2

3–5

5–7

1?

3

Alcalá de los Gazules (Andalucía)

Mother was pregnant and he was born near Elvas (Portugal) Badajoz (on border with Portugal)

Elvas (Portugal);father went by different route and joined them Mojacar, Almería (Spain)

Arzila (Morocco)

Elvas (Portugal)

Sara T. Nalle

Alcalá de los Gazules

Badajoz

N/A

Mojacar (Spain)

Elvas (Portugal)

Arzila

Elvas

1492

N/A

N/A

1492/93

1493

1492

1492

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

Y

N/A

N/A

Exp. 1760

Exp. 1931

Exp. 1477

Exp. 1941

Exp. 1858 Exp. 1863 Exp. 1622

169

García de Sidonia María de Soria

Luis de Tolosa

Juan de Torres

Lorenzo del Castillo

Francisca de León Magdalena de Soria

Medinaceli

Medinaceli

Medinaceli

Sigüenza

Sigüenza

Sigüenza

Medinaceli

Alonso de Rios

Medinaceli

170

6

10

42

2

13

8-10

22

12

Parents and siblings

With mother

Possibly with wife and six children

Parents & siblings

Parents, possibly siblings; cousins Juan & Rod de la Peña No family in 1492 Widowed mother & 4 siblings w/ widowed mother

8–9

2

1–8

6

2

6

1

5–7

6 months Almería; mother died Father went to Fez (Morocco); the rest stayed in Málaga, then went home 8 months in Escarigo, 4 as a Jew and 4 as a Christian A large town in Portugal 6 mos. Parents died as Jews in Escarigo

Medina Sidonia (Andalucía) “like a dream” in Portugal

Badajoz (on border with Portugal)

Cross and Cross Again

Escarigo (Portugal)

Portugal

Escarigo (Portugal)

Málaga

Medina Sidonia ½ league inside Portugal Almería

Badajoz

1492/3

1492/3

1493

1492

1493

1492?

1492

1492

N/A

Y

N/A

N/A

N/A

Y

N/A

N/A

Exp. 1688 Exp. 1771

Exp. 1630

Exp. 1922A

Exp. 1867

Exp. 1864 Exp. 1621

Exp. 1761

Gabriel de Torres

María de Soria Diego Núñez

Soria

Mayorga

Francisco de Soria

Andrés Gallego

Soria

San Felices de los Gallegos

Other Regions Old Castile Burgo de Francisco Osma de Zamora

Sigüenza

15

22

15+

20

15+

15

Father and husband 2 siblings, 3 fiancés and fiancés’ parents

With wife

With parents, brother, and his wife

Part of the del Aguila clan

Alone?

8–10

3

2

4

15

Brother-in-law of Francisco del Aguila; went to Ciudad Rodrigo Went to Freixo de Espada à Cinta (Portugal), never saw his family again after he converted Went to Santarém, children born there; he left for Italy in 1507; family returned in 1522 Father stayed behind in Portugal 12 months Porto, then Arzila

Was serving in Cáceres; crossed over to Elvas (Portugal)

Sara T. Nalle

Vermiosa (Portugal) Arzila (Morocco)

N/A

Vilvestre (Spain)

Ciudad Rodrigo

Elvas (Portugal)

1494?

1492/93

1522

1493?

1493

1492

lost

N/A

N/A

Y

N/A

N/A

Exp. 1612 Exp. 1669

Exp. 1615

Exp. 1492

Exp. 862

Exp. 1866

171

Calatayud

Ariza

Aragón Ariza

Francisca de Morales Diego López de Calatayud

Antón de Ariza

Catalina de Medina Isabel de Morales

Huete

Ocaña

Leonor González

Alonso de la Fuente

Brihuega

New Castile Brihuega

172

16

27

22

10

15?

Child

Infant

No details; parents deceased before 1492 Husband & children Uncle, later his father

Parents; related to Alonso de la Fuente Possibly with parents W/ widowed mother

Mother

2

6–8

1?

2

3?

3?

2

6 months in Oran (Algeria) 6 years in Corella (Navarre)

Oran (Algeria)

Left when 3 months old; mother converted in Elvas (Portugal) Elvas (Portugal); later she married Rodrigo de la Peña Cartagena, port in S.E. Spain Cartagena, port in S.E. Spain

Cross and Cross Again

Corella (Navarre)

Málaga

Spain

Cartagena

Cartagena

Elvas (Portugal)

Elvas (Portugal)

1498

1492

1493

1492?

1492?

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

N/A

Exp. 1331 Exp. 1672

Exp. 1296

Exp. 1272 Exp. 1857

Exp. 1760

Exp. 1757

Gabriel de Medina

14

With his father, perhaps mother, siblings?

2–5

173

Lisbon 1497? N/A Exp. With father to 1585 Tangier 18 mos.; split up; parents went to Jérez, he to Lisbon, many adventures *Part of the family of Abrahem Seneor. One brother, Maestre Nicolão Coronel, became the personal physician of the King of Portugal, Manuel the Fortunate. ADC Inq. Exp. 1322 and Maria José Ferro Tavares, “Cristãos e judeus no Portugal medievo: Entre a convivência e o afrontamento,” in Judaísmo hispano: estudios en memoria de José Luis Lacave Riaño, ed. Elena Romero (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigación Científico, 2002) 2: 438.

Andalucía Seville

Sara T. Nalle

174

Cross and Cross Again

MORISCOS IN NORTH AFRICA AFTER THE EXPULSION FROM SPAIN IN 1609 AND THEIR DISCOURSE ABOUT EXILE AND DIASPORA GERARD WIEGERS

The expulsion from Spain of the Moriscos, descendants of the Muslims who had been converted to Christianity under duress, constitutes one of the most significant instances of ethnic, religious, and political cleansing in European history.1 The event, which took place between 1609 and 1614, was based on the dominant ideology at the time that freedom of conscience was incompatible with the functioning of a well-ordered Catholic society. It was an ideology which valued religious and cultural uniformity over diversity. The supporters of this ideology argued in favour of expulsion of the Moriscos because they deemed the processes of religious assimilation and full cultural integration to have failed. They argued for expulsion because of the Moriscos’ alleged refusal to become good and loyal Catholics. However, it is unlikely that such a full assimilation would ever have solved the problem since this was a society which still placed great store on the notion of cleanliness or purity of * The research leading to this publication received funding from the HERA project Encounters with the Orient in Early Modern Scholarship (EOS). I thank Yosef Kaplan for his careful reading of a draft version of this contribution. 1 Mercedes García-Arenal and Gerard Wiegers, “Introduction,” in The Expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain: A Mediterranean Diaspora, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal and Gerard Wiegers (The Medieval and Early Modern Iberian World, 56) (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 1–16; translation of Mercedes García-Arenal and Gerard A. Wiegers, eds., Los Moriscos. Expulsión y diáspora. Una Perspectiva internacional (Valencia, Granada, Zaragoza 2013). Standard works on the Moriscos are Antonio Domínguez Ortiz and Bernard Vincent, Historia de los Moriscos. Vida y tragedia de una minoría (Madrid: Espasa Calpe, 1978), and, most recently, L.P. Harvey, Muslims in Spain, 1500 to 1614 (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2005).

176

Moriscos in North Africa after the Expulsion from Spain in 1609

blood (limpieza de sangre), an idea that was by then more than two hundred years old and had embedded itself deeply in Old Christian Castilian society. The notion of limpieza de sangre was a symbolic expression of the fear of cultural, political, religious, and social infiltration. The weight of this fear became obvious when over three hundred thousand Moriscos were ordered to leave Spain even when they were able to prove that they were good Christians. Records show that they were often indistinguishable from their Old Christian neighbours in language, dress, or social and religious behaviour. There is no doubt that being descended from Muslim ancestors, and its alleged effects on loyalty and the possibility of integration, became the main argument for an ethnic and religious purge which, according to contemporary discourse, was needed to avoid divine punishment and preserve the Spanish king’s reputation as a very Christian King who had been able to complete the Reconquest and finally defeat Islam. What happened in 1609? The Moriscos were descendants of Muslims who for centuries had lived in the Christian territories as Muslims. In fact, for a long time Medieval Christian Iberia was, along with the Balkans, Hungary, and parts of Eastern Europe, an exception to the rule in the rest of Europe where public practice of Islam was prohibited. Some medieval Christian travellers to Spain were scandalised when they heard the call to prayer from mosques in the densely populated Muslim areas in the Kingdoms of Aragon and Valencia (where Muslims made up between twenty-five and thirty percent of the population) and in the cities of the Kingdom of Castile with its small, but quite visible minorities (about three percent).2 After being forcibly converted at the beginning of the sixteenth century, in the 1580s the Spanish state council took a first decision to expel all Muslims when it appeared that many had remained practicing Muslims in secret but did not carry it out for the time being. In the following years several options were considered. The decision to expel all Moriscos from Spain was taken in 1609 as a radical solution to the political, social, and religious “problems” posed by the presence of crypto Islam and as a way to enhance the image of Philip III as a Christian king in the wake of a number of military defeats and the truce with the Dutch heretical insurgents. The expulsion of the Moriscos would enable Philip III to confirm himself as a Christian king who had fulfilled the founding myths of Spain to secure his realm’s safety, fight heresy, and finally purify Spain from the Muslims. On 4 April 1609, the very same day as the Twelve Year’s Truce with the 2

Olivia Remie Constable, “Regulating Religious Noise: The Council of Vienne, the Mosque Call and Muslim Pilgrimage in the Late Medieval Mediterranean World,” Medieval Encounters 16/1 (2010): 64–95.

Gerard Wiegers

177

Dutch Republic was signed, it was decided to expel all Moriscos. The political, ideological, and military attention of the Spanish authorities henceforward shifted from Northern Europe to the southern shores of the empire. The decision, officially politically motivated, was kept secret for a while in order to prevent revolts.3 Religious agents against the expulsion had to be neutralised; likewise, groups that were opposed to the expelling of very young children and groups of people who remained hopeful that, with the right approach, Moriscos would eventually become good and faithful Christians. Among the institutions potentially opposed to the measure was the Vatican which, in the end, never gave its approval.4 The political nature (crimen de lesa patria) of the decision commanded that public opinion had to be convinced that the Moriscos posed a danger to the state. Official motivations and religious arguments were debated until the first ban was published in Valencia on 22 September 1609, justified by apologetic writings and diplomatic efforts that included visual and other means of propaganda. Opposition to the imminent measure was difficult in the face of the strong ideology of suppression. Some humanists and Jesuit scholars continued to oppose expulsion and argue for continuation of the mission among them. Some solitary voices called for acceptance of the status quo to the point that they pleaded for acceptance of public religious diversity instead of forced homogeneity, but when the nobles who employed many Moriscos on their lands were promised compensation for their economic loss, the tide turned.5 During the sixteenth century, Moriscos responded to the increasingly strong oppression and threat of expulsion in several ways. First, they used their networks to find ways to secretly leave the country.6 Secondly, they started to organise their emigration by contacting authorities abroad, especially the Ottoman and Moroccan authorities. Over time, a religious 3

Manuel Lomas Cortés, El Proceso de expulsion de los Moriscos de España (1609–1614) (València, Granada, Zaragoza 2011). 4 Stefania Pastore, “Rome and the Expulsion,” in The Expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain: A Mediterranean Diaspora, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal and Gerard Wiegers (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 132–55. 5 Francisco Márquez Villanueva, “El Morisco Ricote o la hispana razón de estado,” in idem, Personajes y temas del Quijote (Madrid: Taures, 1975), 267–78. 6 Aতmad Ibn Qâsim Al-ণajarî, Kitâb Nâ‫܈‬ir al-Dîn Alâ ‘l-Qawm al-Kâfirîn (The supporter of religion against the infidel). General introduction, critical edition and annotated translation. Reedited, revised, and updated in the light of recent publications and the primitive version found in the hitherto unknown manuscript preserved in Al-Azhar by P.S. van Koningsveld, Q. al-Samarrai and G. A. Wiegers, ed. Pieter Sjoerd van Koningsveld, Q. al-Samarrai, and Gerard A.Wiegers (Madrid 2015; first edition 1997), 46 ff.

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discourse helped them to survive religiously. Their stay in Spain among the Christians was viewed as an exile. They lived there as strangers (Ar. ghurabƗ’, Aljamía: algharibos). The word gharƯb evokes an eschatological atmosphere for it is associated to the well-known hadith that, “Islam began as a stranger and will end as a stranger,” viz. at the end of time.7 Moriscos identified with this notion of being an eschatological Muslim vanguard in Christian Iberia who would precede the Day of Judgement and the Messianic era. They found encouragement and support in prophecies in Arabic and Castilian-Aragonese that circulated among them and expressed the same ideas (often in the form of Prophetic Traditions). That mood had existed among them for quite some time, starting well before the sixteenth century. Several prophecies and traditions spoke about them as ghurabƗ’. The word expresses alienation and exile in a situation which one does not easily recognise as such.8 In 1609 the situation of the Moriscos changed drastically with their expulsion. They were transported to places on the coasts of North Africa, predominantly Morocco and Tunisia, and settled there. Moriscos who wished to settle in France and Italy were not permitted to on the basis of their Muslim identities and left for Tunis, Algiers, and the Ottoman Empire. Some reached present-day Libya and Egypt. I will not go into the 7

Mercedes García-Arenal, “‘Un reconfort pour ceux qui sont dans l'attente.’” Prophétie et millénarisme dans la péninsule Ibérique et au Maghreb (16–18 siècles),” Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 220–4 (2003): 445–86; Mercedes Sánchez Álvarez, ed., El Manuscrito misceláneo 774 de la Biblioteca Nacional de París (Leyendas, Itinerarios de viajes, profecías sobre la destrucción de España y otros relatos Moriscos). Edición, Estudio y Glosario (Madrid: Gredos, 1982), fol. 305v; Luce López Baralt, La literatura secreta de los últimos musulmanes de España (Madrid: Editorial Trotta, 2009), 181–236; Maria Del Mar RosaRodríguez, “Simulation and Dissimulation. Religious Hybridity in a Morisco Fatwa,” Medieval Encounters 16 (2010): 143–80, 172, one of the aljamiado manuscripts reads: “llegue a las manos de los captivos y peregrinos en rinos en [tierra] estraña”; Devin Stewart, “The Identity of the ‘muftƯ of Oran,’ Abnj ‘l’AbbƗs Aতmad b. AbƯ Jum‘ah al-MaghrƗwƯ al-WaতrƗnƯ (d. 917/1511),” AlQan‫ܒ‬ara 26 (2006): 265–301; Devin Stewart, “Dissimulation in Sunni Islam and Morisco Taqiyya,’ Al-Qan‫ܒ‬ara 34 (2013): 439–90; Gerard A. Wiegers, “Jean de Roquetaillade’s Prophecies among the Muslim Minorities of Medieval and EarlyModern Christian Spain: An Islamic Version of the Vademecum in Tribulatione,” in The Transmission and Dynamics of the Textual Sources of Islam, ed. Nicolet Boekhoff-Van der Voort, Kees Versteegh, Joas Wagemakers (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 229–47. 8 Maribel Fierro, “Spiritual Alienation and Political Activism: The ghurabƗ‫ ގ‬in AlAndalus during the Sixth/Twelfth Century,” Arabica 47/2 (2000): 230–60.

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details of the geography of the migrant communities in the Maghreb and other Islamic countries but will focus on the responses to the expulsion that are traceable in their writings in Arabic and Spanish, written roughly between about 1600 and 1700. The aim of the present essay is to explore the concepts used to express exile and return among the expelled Moriscos. In doing so I aim to examine how these displaced individuals and groups viewed themselves in relation not only to their country of origin (Christian Spain), but also their Islamic host societies. Once expelled, did Moriscos see themselves as exiles from their places of origin or as people who have come home? The question is important for at least two reasons. The first is the Islamic discourse on Muslim “minorityness”; the second the ongoing discussions in Early Modern studies about notions of diaspora, to which the present paper aims to contribute. Did the Moriscos consider their new societies to be sites of exile and diaspora or did they look at them in other ways?9 I will return to both issues below. Which concepts can be found among the Moriscos shortly before and after the expulsion? We may distinguish the use of different concepts in their religious writings, varying polemics, genealogical works, and documents kept in various libraries and archives, a selection of which I will deal with below.

Expulsion as Liberation from the Yoke of the Unbelievers and Arrival in the Promised Land Among the Morisco writings written in exile we find a number that view the expulsion as liberation from the yoke of the persecuting and intolerant Spanish unbelievers and as an expression of the Divine will to liberate them and bring them to dâr al-islâm, the Abode of Islam, and lead them away from its corollary, dƗr al-‫ې‬arb, the Abode of War. The former abode is presented as their natural “home,” and even as a promised land. A very interesting account in this regard is given by the Morisco Muতammad b. c Abd al-Rafîc, who tells us the following about the expulsion: So many were burned, and so many punished . . . until the victory and the joy from God [came] in the year 1013 [1604 CE] of the hijra of the Prophet—may peace be upon him. Some of us began to escape secretly, 9

See Martin Baumann, “Diaspora. Genealogies of Semantics and Transcultural Comparison,” Numen 47/3 (2000): 313–37; Steven Vertovec, “Religion and Diaspora,” in New Approaches to the Study of Religion, ed. Peter Antes, Armin W. Geertz, Randi Warne, vol. 2, Textual, Comparative, Sociological and Cognitive Approaches (Berlin-New York: Verlag De Gruyter, 2004), 275–303.

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Moriscos in North Africa after the Expulsion from Spain in 1609 pretending to profess the religion of the Unbelievers (muzhiran dƯn alkuffãr)—may God eliminate them—to the Maghrib and the Mashriq. Some of our beloved brothers, among them the noble faqih and teacher, the sharƯf Abó ‘l-cAbbƗs Aতmad al-ণanafƯ, known as cAbd al-cAzƯz al-QurashƯ10, and with him one of his uncles, went to Belgrad, a city in one of the provinces of the Ottoman empire, and had a meeting with Minister MurƗd Pasha, one of the wazƯrs at the court of the great deceased11 Sultan Ahmad, son of Muতammad—may God make them victorious and support them.12 They informed him about the misery (al-shidda) of our Andalusian brothers in France and elsewhere. He [the wazƯr] wrote an order to the Lord of France —may God most High curse it—on behalf of the Sultan—may God, most High, make him victorious—ordering to allow the Andalusian Muslims, servants of the Ottomans, to leave his dominions, and to send them to Islamic territory in his [Ottoman] ships, including their belongings. When this order of the Sultan was read in the DƯwƗn of the French in Paris, the capital of the Kingdom, and was heard by the person who was sent to them on behalf of the Lord of the Green Peninsula, the cursed Philip the Third, he sent the message to his Lord so that he knew about the fact that Sultan Aতmad had sent an order to France and had ordered its Lord to allow the Andalusians to leave, [telling him] that no harm should be done to them and they would go to its ports and in its ships to whichever Muslim country they would wish to go. 13

According to Ibn cAbd al-RafƯc, who himself stayed in Constantinople in 1612 and wrote the aforesaid lines in Tunis where he lived in the 1620s, it was fear for the interference and the firm decision of the Ottoman sultan to consider the Moriscos as his protégées that lead the Spanish to expel them.14 Though this view is not confirmed by the Spanish sources, it is likely (as we will see below) that emigration of Moriscos started some time before the official expulsion.15 The author considers the expulsion to

10

He later became an important religious authority in Tunis. The text was written much later. 12 Ahmed I (1590–1617). He started to reign in Rajab 1012/ December 1603. 13 Kitab al-anwƗr al-nabawiyya fi abƗ’ khayr al-bariyya, Rabat, Royal Library, ms. K 1238, 327–328. Recently, an edition and Spanish translation of this manuscript was published: Lotfi Aïssa, Mouhamed Aouini, and Houssem Eddine Chachia, eds. Entre las orillas de dos mundos. El Itinerario del jerife Morisco ibn cAbd al-RafƯc de Murcia a Túnez. (Murcia: Universida de Murcia, 2017). This publication appeared too late to be taken into account in the present essay. 14 Ibid., 329–30. 15 See Luis Fernando Bernabé Pons, “Notas sobre la cohesión de la comunidad morisca más allá de su expulsión de España,” Al-Qan‫ܒ‬ara 29/2 (2008): 307–32; Gerard A. Wiegers, “Managing Disaster. Networks of Moriscos during the Process 11

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be liberation and uses the vocabulary of captivity and demission. The discourse suggests the influence of the Ottoman authorities in Tunis and elsewhere and hence conforms to a Muslim majority discourse. The anonymous Morisco author of Treatise of the Two Ways, probably writing in Tunis, praises God, and tells his Morisco readers as much in the introduction to his work: [T]o whom we owe gratitude for liberating us from those heretic Christians, and witness these heresies, and each day the horrors in our hearts increased, and they forced us to show what they wanted [“y era fuerça mostrar lo que ellos querrían,” viz. Christian behaviour], because if one did not do so they delivered us to the Inquisition, but the heretics were never able to change their form hearts, and so they started to consider ways of punishing them, and we daily prayed to be liberated from them, which remained virtually impossible, until one day God almighty put the idea in the heart of Philip III [“puso en el coraçon del terçero Filipho”], and the hearts of his councillors that they should order us to leave his kingdom under the pain of death, and God opened for us a way through the sea and through land, free and without any danger [“libres y sin daño”], and we went by ship and caross [“en nabios por la mar y en carroças por tierra”], with children, women and goods, and He brought us to the Abode of Islam [“tierra del yçlam”]. In this part [of the Abode of Islam] we were recieved by Uzman Dey.16

The author reminds his readers that they were favoured, and because many of the first generation of Morisco immigrants had already passed away he tells the story so that those who are born in Tunis may know from him who have been saved. He reminds his readers that although they had a similar experience as the children of Israel, they should, unlike the Israelites, be grateful to God for His favour (Ar. nicma).17 The Israelites

of the Expulsion from the Iberian Peninsula around 1609,” Journal of Medieval Religious Cultures 36/2 (2010): 141–68. 16 Tratado de los dos caminos, fols. 10v–11v. 17 Ibid., fol. 13r.: “Y éstas las digo por que no se acaben de olbidar; pues, mientras bibían los que benimos, no se olbidaban, pero ya con el discurso del tiempo, que se ban acabando. Lo refiero para que los an naçido acá lo sepan de mí y de los pocos que quedan y sepan y reconozcan que Dios, nuestro señor, nos sacó de entre ynfieles, como tengo referido. Y que el haçerlo fue grande bentura y dicha que nos alcançó, de que debemos estar agradeçidos y no ser yngratos a su nicma, como lo fueron los hijos de Yçracil, que los sacó de poder de Faraón, el que haçía con ellos tantos ynsultos y mensopreçios, apremiándolos a los que no podían llebar, y les ynbió por capitan al ssanto propheta Muça y su hermano Harun . . . , y con su fabor

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even had as their leader the Prophet Musa and his brother Harun, but after they passed the sea and were given means to survive and reached the promised land safely, they were ungrateful and adored the calf (beçerro), and therefore they are damned until this very day in this world and the next, and so, the author tells his Morisco readers that they must be thankful, for the sea having been opened, and having found the land they longed for. They have been well received and now live in a land where the words of the Divine Unity are heard in high places and do not need to be concealed, as in Spain. The author adds that he has mentioned all this in order to make it clear that coming to the Abode of Islam was a Divine Miracle, and he wished to stress this especially for those who were born there, for they should realise what their life would have been if they had been born in Spain. It is clear that these passages are reminiscent of Qur’Ɨn, sura 2: 29–50, and parallel passages such as sura 44: 23–31. These suras tell us about the good life that the Israelites left behind in Egypt, that the sea was split for the people of Israel, how they saw the armies of the Pharaoh drown, and that they were safely delivered from oppression. Another of these works is a text which we only know because it was quoted in the second volume of Joseph Morgan’s Mohametism Fully Explained. The manuscript itself has not been preserved. Morgan tells us the following: I borrowed once a Manuscript in Barbary [italics in the original, GW], of a Spaniard, but one of the moderate Catholicks, of that Nation, I ever met with. It was lent to him by a Moor, whose Great-Grandfather, the Author, came from Spain, at the last Expulsion of the Moriscoes in 1610. It is a pretty thick Quarto, and the Owner, when he heard I had it, should not suffer to keep it long, lest I should make ill use of it, as he said, though he could not read a Syllable in it himself. However, I was possessed of it long enough to make several Extracts out of it, wherewith I shall take occasion to close this Treatise; among what which this that follows, in my Opinion 18 carries with no small Share of Smartness.

He clarifies the contents thus:

los sacó; y, llegando a la mar dio con su bara y la abrió doçe caminos, desbiándose las aguas de una y otra parte.” 18 Joseph Morgan, Mohametism Fully Explained, 2 vols. (London 1723–25), 2: 295 ff.; Angel Galán Sánchez: Una visión de la `decadencia española': la historiografía sobre los mudéjares y Moriscos (siglos XVIII–XX) (Málaga: Servicio de Publicaciones, Diputación Provincial de Málaga, 1991), 42–46.

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This book bears the date 1615. The author’s name was Abdelkerim Ben Aly Perez. The First Part contains a System of Islamism, with high Encomiums on its Purity and Excellency, in Opposition to all other Religions, with a long Catalogue of Mahomet’s Miracles. I did not meddle with that Part, nor indeed did I scarce read it through, and only remember, that he begins very devoutly, “Giving God Thanks for having brought him to a Place where he enjoys free Liberty of exercising the true Worship, as directed by the Holy Alcoran, without being any longer in Fear of being persecuted for his Religion, or being compelled to pay Adoration to las vanas Figuras de los Infieles, the vain Figures of the Infidels.” As to the latter Part, it runs wholly on severe Invectives against the Pope and Clergy of Rome, accusing them of Idolatry, Bigotry, ridiculous Superstition, Inhumanity, and, in a Word, of all Vice: And I much regret my not being Master of the Whole, it being well worth publishing.19

The discourse about liberation and “opening” is the voice of the orthodox Sunni elite of the Moriscos in Tunisia and elsewhere. They voiced it in a number of polemical works against Christianity. The passages quoted above suggest that the authors knew each other’s works, if they are not identical.20 What is clear is that in these works the Morisco authors are very critical of Spain’s religious and political authorities. The Roman Catholic Spaniards are criticised for their harsh repression through the Inquisition, which are based upon wrong beliefs. The political authorities are criticised for their unjust politics, which affect both the guilty and the innocent. The expulsion from Spain is seen as an infringement on the right to freedom of expression which is in agreement with the Quranic message, and that view is connected to the idea that it is better to live in the Abode of Islam. The expulsion is seen as liberation. These Moriscos do not consider themselves to be in exile, they are rather granted a life in a more apt political and geographical setting. This attitude is a very late appropriation of the views of a number of muftis who over the centuries had rejected the possibility that one could live as a good Muslim outside Islamic territory, namely outside the Abode of Islam (dƗr al-islƗm) in the so-called Abode of War (dƗr al-‫ې‬arb), the territories in which Islam was not the dominant religion. This was the view of such religious scholars as

19

Morgan, Mohametism Fully Explained, 2: 299. According to Luce López Baralt (in Tratado de los dos caminos por un Morisco refugiado en Túnez (MS S 2 de la Colección Gayangos, Biblioteca de la Real Academia de la Historia, ed. Álvaro Galmés de Fuentes, J. C. Villaverde Amieva, and Luce López Baralt, [Madrid: Oviedo 2005], 60ff), the aforesaid cAbd al-Karim Ali Perez is not the author of MS S 2.

20

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Ibn RabƯc (who died in 1309 in Granada) and al-WansharƯsƯ (who died in Fez in 1508), and others.21

Moriscos as Exiled Spaniards The second position I distinguish agrees with the first, that the expulsion from Spain is an infringement on the right to freedom of expression and belief. However, those who hold this view do not consider the expulsion decree to be either an expression of the Divine will, or a blessing, nor do they consider the Abode of Islam as a promised land. In a document from the beginning of the seventeenth century,22 a Morisco from the village of Terrer in the Kingdom of Aragon who had lived for quite some time in Algiers, states that in spite of being able to freely practice Islam in Algiers and without the vigilance of the authorities, he preferred his life in his village in Aragon. He claims that he was better able to practice Islam in a situation in which he and his coreligionists were forced to pray in the secrecy of their household while mocking the religious symbols (crucifix and host) they were forced to venerate in public.23 He implies that he and his fellow Moriscos were better Muslims than those in the Islamic territory. This is an example of the expression of the memory of a heightened sense of religiosity reminiscent of feelings of an Islamic awakening and individualised religiosity. A similar view is expressed by the character Ricote in Cervantes’s novel Don Quixote. At the end of the second part of the novel, Sancho Panza unexpectedly meets his former neighbour, a Morisco by the name of Ricote,24 who is dressed as a German pilgrim (on his way to Santiago de 21

See on the different positions of the religious scholars with regard to living as Muslim under Christian rule for example Pieter Sjoerd van Koningsveld and Gerard A. Wiegers, “The Islamic Statute of the Mudejars in the Light of a New Source,” Al-Qan‫ܒ‬ara 17 (1996): 19–58 and the literature referred to there; Alan Verskin, Islamic Law and the Crisis of the Reconquista. The Debate on the Status of Muslim Communities in Christendom (Leiden: Brill, 2015). 22 Hossain Bouzineb, and Gerard A. Wiegers, “Tetuán y la expulsión de los Moriscos,” in Ti‫ܒ‬wƗn khilƗl al-qarnayn 16 wa 17 (Tetouan 1996), 73–108. 23 Ibid., 97–99. The document is also discussed in Mercedes García-Arenal, “The Moriscos in Morocco: From Granadan Emigration to the Hornacheros of Salé,” in The Expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain: A Mediterranean Diaspora, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal and Gerard Wiegers (The Medieval and Early Modern Iberian World, 56) (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 286–328. 24 The history of Ricote is told in part 2, chapters 54 and 63.

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Compostela). Ricote tells Sancho Panza how he had left Spain years earlier ahead of the imminent expulsion and travelled to Germany. Eventually he reached a village near Augsburg and there, as Cervantes writes, experienced the liberty of conscience (“libertad de conciencia”). Now, disguised as a pilgrim, he is on his way back to his village in Spain to retrieve the treasure that he had hidden there before he left. Ricote says about himself that he cannot be called a good Christian, though he looks and behaves more like a Christian than a Muslim, while his wife and daughter are called pious Christians.25 The name Ricote is not a coincidence: the Moriscos of the Ricote Valley, the last to be expelled from Spain in 1614, were known for the number of pious Christians among them. Augsburg may be taken as a metaphoric pars pro toto here for the Augsburg peace of 1555 that established the solution of the problem of religious division in Germany with its “eius religio, cuius region” settlement. Ricote’s voice expresses criticism of Spanish politics, sadness about loss of a fatherland, and a longing for life in Spain. This viewpoint is also held by some other Morisco polemicists, such as the Morisco al-ণajarƯ, who wrote a very lively description and analysis about his travels in Spain, France, and the Netherlands, in which he expressed his belief that living as a Muslim in a Christian country was possible.26 Nevertheless, al-ণajarƯ faulted the ideological foundations of the religious regimes in Europe by attacking the very sources he considered to be their ideological bases: Christian and Jewish canonical texts, which were susceptible to ta‫ۊ‬rƯf (i.e., alteration with regard to their wording and/or meaning and corruption).27 In other words, according to Muslim scholars, if a person was able and permitted to practice the pillars of Islam and its devotional acts (‘ibƗdƗt) even in a minority situation, this was to be deemed a good and pious Muslim life. This view is expressed in a fatwƗ by an anonymous mufti living in fourteenth-century Christian Iberia and in a collection of early sixteenth-century fatwƗs from around 1510 issued by the four chief qadi’s in Cairo belonging to the four different Sunni schools of law.28 This opinion is also implicitly expressed by the Moriscos in 25

His daughter had gone to Algiers and succeeded to escape dressed as the captain of a corsair ship. 26 Al-ণajarî, Kitâb Nâ‫܈‬ir al-Dîn Alâ ‘l-Qawm al-Kâfirîn, passim. 27 In this way Muslims expressed the idea that the original Jewish and Christian revealed texts have not been preserved in their original state, see also Harvey, Muslims in Spain, 284 ff. 28 On the fourteenth-century mufti see Van Koningsveld and Wiegers, “The Islamic Statute,” passim, on the views of the judges see Pieter Sjoerd van Koningsveld and Gerard A. Wiegers: “Islam in Spain during the Early Sixteenth

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Rabat-Salé in Morocco. These former Andalusians were from the town of Hornachos in Spain, who upon their expulsion from Spain in 1611 settled in the Old Qasba of the Oudayas. For years these Moriscos negotiated resettlement in in France and Spain.29 It is a position that is also expressed in the behaviour of many Moriscos who secretly returned to Spain, in the hope that they might take up their former lives and be left to practice Islam more or less in public.30

Moriscos as “Cultural Muslims” Finally, I would also distinguish a third, middle position. These Moriscos regretted the expulsion because they felt part of Spanish culture, but they integrated into the North African societies from which they maintained their cultural difference, while adapting to the majority religion after a while. This cultural difference, expressed in terms of being an Andalusian remained intact in various places, in Rabat, for example, and especially in Tunisia. Among these Moriscos, Islam did not play a dominant role in their life. In the daily speech of Rabat their descendants are still today referred to in a slightly pejorative way as the “muslimin Ribat,” indicating that their Muslim identity and piety is considered less than exemplary.31 They were perhaps, what we could call today, cultural Muslims: Islam was part of their Spanish identity and cultural heritage in a similar way as it functioned among expelled Spanish and Portuguese Jews and conversos.32

Century. The Views of the Four Chief Judges in Cairo (Introduction, translation and Arabic Text),” in Poetry, Politics and Polemics. Cultural Transfer between the Iberian Peninsula and North Africa, ed. Otto Zwartjes, Geert Jan van Gelder and Ed de Moor (Amsterdam/Atlanta: Rodopi, 1997), 133–52. 29 See Hossain Bouzineb, La Alcazaba del Buregreg. Hornacheros, andaluces y medio siglo de designios españoles frustrados (Rabat 2007) and the literature referred to by the author. 30 See for example Trevor J. Dadson, Los Moriscos de Villarrubia de los Ojos (Siglos 15–18): Historia de una minoría asimilada, expulsada y reintegrada (Madrid/Frankfurt 2007); James B. Tueller, “The Moriscos Who Stayed Behind or Returned: Post 1609,” in The Expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain: A Mediterranean Diaspora, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal and Gerard Wiegers (The Medieval and Early Modern Iberian World, 56) (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 197–215. 31 Beebe Bahrami, “Al-Andalus and Memory: The Past and Being Present among Hispano-Moroccan Andalusians from Rabat,” in Charting Memory. Recalling Medieval Spain, ed. Stacy N. Beckwith (New York: Garland, 2000), 111–43. 32 Yosef Kaplan, Judíos nuevos en Amsterdam. Estudios sobre la historia social y intellectual del judaísmo sefardí en el siglo 17 (Barcelona: Gedisa editorial 1996);

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It was among such groups, I would suggest, that we find agnostics and sometimes outright atheists. Often these people felt torn between two religions and became skeptical about both of them. Halperin Donghi, for example, quotes a Morisco who testified before the Inquisition that “ley ninguna tenía en su corazón,” to wit, that “he had no religious conviction in his heart,” explaining that he was too poor to afford this luxury.33 Others had become sincere Christians.

Conclusions The attitudes to exile and diaspora displayed by the expelled Moriscos shows three positions: one is the dominant position that endorses the traditional distinctions between the Abode of Islam and the Abode of War. The voices of Moriscos who subscribed to this position can be clearly heard in the texts written after the expulsion, which stipulate that the expulsion was a divine miracle that liberated them from Pharaonic captivity and slavery. One author contrasts Muslims and Israelites/Jews in a way strongly reminiscent of Mudejar and Morisco anti-Jewish polemics: unlike the Muslims, the Jews have lost God’s favour. Authors holding the second position do not adopt this discourse. They criticise the Spanish authorities, but do not deny that it is possible to lead a good and pious Muslim life in a non-Muslim environment. Lastly, there is a group of Moriscos, who today would be called “cultural Muslims,” whose voices are much weaker and whose lives were not guided by strong beliefs. The three positions outlined in this essay can still be traced among Muslims. The first is found to this day among the “hardliners,” those who think that it is impossible to live in a non-Muslim society and still be a good Muslim. Their views are mirrored in the thinking of the present-day Europeans that claim that Islam and Europe are incompatible. Then, there are those, like the Muslim thinker Tariq Ramadan, who in a similar way reject the distinction between the Abode of Islam and the Abode of War, substituting for it the notion of the Abode of Mission (dƗr al-dacwa). Like that Miriam Bodian, Hebrews of the Portuguese Nation. Conversos and Community in Early Modern Amsterdam (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997). 33 Tulio Halperin Donghi, Un conflicto nacional: Moriscos y cristianos viejos en Valencia (Valencia 1980), 105–6. See on this last position also Gerard Wiegers, “The Expulsion of 1609–1614 and the Polemical Writings of the Moriscos Living in the Diaspora,” in The Expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain: A Mediterranean Diaspora, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal and Gerard Wiegers (The Medieval and Early Modern Iberian World, 56) (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 398–412 and the literature about the Morisco diaspora.

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Morisco from Terrer, they believe that one can live a pious Muslim life in Europe. And finally are those who have adopted the third position, the great numbers of Muslims who accept and feel at home alongside European culture. What seems to me important here is to state that not in all cases is it correct to use the word diaspora for the expelled Moriscos. Their experiences differed and so did the concepts they used to qualify the situation in which they found themselves. The concepts indicating alienation—ghurba and gharƯb—are not used in the same way in the writings of the Moriscos while they were in Spain and after the expulsion.34 Instead, we find a tendency to instruct “cultural Muslims” in orthodox Sunni Islam, from which they had become alienated.35

34

See for example, Ridha Mami, ed., El manuscrito Morisco 9653 de la Biblioteca Nacionel de Madrid. Edición, Estudio lingüístico y glosario (Madrid 2002), 523 (index s.v.). 35 Wiegers, “The Expulsion of 1609–1614,” 411–12.

BETWEEN RELIGION AND ETHNICITY: SHAPING THE WESTERN SEPHARDIC DIASPORA YOSEF KAPLAN

From the end of the sixteenth century hundreds of Portuguese New Christians began to flow to Venice and Leghorn in Italy, and to Amsterdam and Hamburg in northwest Europe. In those cities, and later in London, Bordeaux, and Bayonne as well, Iberian conversos established their own Jewish communities, openly adhering to Judaism.1 However, unlike the exiles who established their communities in the first years after the expulsion from Spain, mainly in the Ottoman Empire and North Africa, according to the patterns of the tradition of Sephardic Judaism,2 and unlike the New Christians who returned to Judaism a generation after the expulsion in Ferrara or Ancona,3 while the memory of Judaism was still 1 The Sephardi Heritage, vol. 2, The Western Sephardim, ed. Richard Barnett and Walter Schwab (London: Valentine, Mitchell, 1989); Yosef Kaplan, “The Sephardim in North-Western Europe and the New World,” in Moreshet Sepharad. The Sephardi Legacy, ed. Haim Beinart, (Jerusalem: Magnes Press 1992), 2: 240– 78; Miriam Bodian, “The Formation of the Portuguese Jewish Diaspora,” in The Jews in the Caribbean, ed. Jane S. Gerber (Oxford and Portland: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2014), 17–27. 2 Jonathan Ray, After Expulsion. 1492 and the Making of Sephardic Jewry (New York and London: New York University Press, 2013). 3 Renata Segre, “Sephardic Settlements in Sixteenth-Century Italy: A Historical and Geographical Survey,” Mediterranean Historical Review 6 (1991): 112–37; on Ferrara see Ariel Toaff, “Los sefardíes en Ferrara y en Italia en el siglo xvi,” in Introducción a la Biblia de Ferrara, ed. Iaacob M. Hassán (Madrid: CSIS, 1992), 185–203; Aron di Leone Leoni, La Nazione Ebraica Spagnola e Portoghese negli Stati Estensi (Rimini: Luis, 1992); idem, La Nazione Ebraica Spagnola e Portoghese di Ferrara (1492–1559), Vols. 1–2 (Florence: L. S. Olschki, 2011); Renata Segre, “La formazione di una comunità marrana; I portoghesi a Ferrara,” in Gli Ebrei in Italia. Storia d'Italia, Annali, ed. Corrado Vivanti (Turin: Einaudi, 1996), 2: 679–708. On Ancona see Renata Segre, “Nuovi documenti sui marrani

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fresh in their minds, the conversos who established the new communities in Italy and northwest Europe adopted the Jewish religion after a separation of four or more generations. The members of the Western Sephardic communities in the early modern period were former New Christians, or descendants of New Christians, who had affiliated themselves with organised Judaism and accepted the Jewish religion after several generations of separation. They and their parents and grandparents were born into Christianity. Until they reached their new dwelling places (and sometimes even after that) they were entirely Catholic, at least in the public sphere. In Spain and in Portugal they had undergone comprehensive Catholic socialisation (and in some cases this indoctrination was deep and fundamental). In contrast, even if some of them, while living in Spain and Portugal, might have tried to gain knowledge about the fundamentals of the Jewish religion, they could not do so from Jewish books. Even information about Judaism in Christian books was denied to them because of the severe censorship of the Inquisition, which went out of its way to suppress all Jewish knowledge, even from decidedly Christian books.4 If d’Ancona, 1555–1559,” Michael 9 (1985): 130–231; Shlomo Simonsohn, “Marranos in Ancona under Papal Protection,” Michael 9 (1985): 234–42; Bernard Dov Cooperman, “Portuguese Conversos in Ancona: Jewish Political Activity in Early Modern Italy,” in In Iberia and Beyond. Hispanic Jews between Cultures, ed. Bernard Dov Cooperman (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 1998), 297– 352; Aron di Leone Leoni, “Per una storia della Nazione Portoghese ad Ancona e a Pesaro,” in L’identità dissimulata. Giudaizzanti iberici nell’Europa Cristiana nell’età moderna, ed. Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini (Florence: L. S. Olschki, 2000), 27–97. 4 On the censorship of the Iberian Inquisitions see, among others, Virgilio Pinto, “La censura: sistemas de control e instrumentos de acción,” in Inquisición española y mentalidad inquisitorial, ed. Angel Alcalá (Barcelona: Editorial Aries, 1984), 269–87; José Martínez Millán, “Aportaciones a la formación del Estado moderno y a la política española a través de la censura inquisitorial durante el período 1480–1559,” in La Inquisición Española. Nueva visión, nuevos horizontes, ed. Joaquín Pérez Villanueva (México: Siglo Veintiuno Editores, 1980), 537–78; Angel Alcalá, “La censura inquisitorial de la literatura del Siglo de Oro en España y en Portugal: comparación de sus ‘Indices’ y sus resultados,” in Inquisição: Ensaios sobre Mentalidade, Heresias e Arte, ed. Anita Novinsky and Maria Luiza Tucci Carneiro (São Paulo: EDUSP, 1992), 421–56; Rosemarie Erika Horch, “Motivos que levaram os livros luso-espanhóis a serem censurados no século XVI,” in Inquisição: Ensaios sobre Mentalidade, Heresias e Arte, ed. Novinsky and Tucci Carneiro, 470–88; Henry Kamen, The Spanish Inquisition. An Historical Revision (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1997), 105–36; Jesús Pérez, La Inquisición Española. Crónica negra del Santo Oficio (Madrid: Martínez Roca, 2002), 389–416.

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some of the conversos nonetheless preserved certain Jewish traditions, these were matters that had been transmitted orally, as family traditions which were quite distant from the practice of halakhic Judaism.5 Yosef H. Yerushalmi estimated that the Jewish education of the intellectuals among them was more significant than it is usually thought: “The intellectuals gleaned a mass of Jewish information from the work of Christian scholars. Businessmen brought back information on Jewish life from their trips abroad. The Iberian Peninsula in the seventeenth century was not hermetically sealed to Jewish information, nor even to occasional visits by professing Jews.”6 However, at the same time, he found that the information they brought with them when they rejoined the Jewish religion openly was fragmentary, poorly organised, and sometimes distorted.7 The first Portuguese conversos to arrive in the main cities of the Western Sephardic Diaspora were already the fourth or fifth generation following the forced conversion of 1497, which had affected all the Jews of Portugal, including those who had been expelled from Spain and taken shelter in the neighbouring kingdom in 1492.8 Their separation from organised Judaism was thus absolute. But, they were the founders of all the Western Sephardic communities. They arrived there without any solid knowledge of Judaism, and the first Jewish community they knew was the one that they themselves established. This paradox is shown in even sharper light when one recalls that the founders of these communities had arrived in places where there was no Jewish life at all. Thus, the initial conditions for establishing the new Sephardic centres were not particularly promising. The communities of the Western Sephardic Diaspora came into being as a result of confessional migration. However, despite the features they shared with other confessional groups in exile, what set them apart was very significant. In contrast to the other European confessional communities, whose religious affiliation was uninterrupted, and no important changes 5

David M. Gitlitz, Secrecy and Deceit. The Religion of the Crypto-Jews (Philadelphia and Jerusalem: Jewish Publication Society, 1996). 6 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, “The Re-education of Marranos in the Seventeenth Century,” in The Faith of Fallen Jews. Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi and the Writing of Jewish History, ed. David N. Myers and Alexander Kaye (Waltham, MA: Brandeis University Press, 2014), 165. 7 Ibid.: “The problem was not that they knew nothing of Judaism, but that what they knew was often a pastiche of fragments inherited from parents, gleaned haphazardly from books, disorganized with significant gaps, sometimes distorted.” 8 Renee Levine Melammed, A Question of Identity. Iberian Conversos in Historical Perspective (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 33–67.

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took place in it during their emigration, the Sephardic Jews in Western Europe came to Judaism after a separation of generations from the religion of their ancestors. The conversos landed in their new dwelling places with a broad variety of religious beliefs, sometimes conflicting and selfcontradictory.9 Not all the conversos had an identical religious background, and not all of them returned to Judaism for particularly religious reasons. Some of them joined the new Jewish communities for family reasons, or out of social considerations, or because of economic distress. Their religious views were fluid and changeable, their situation was characterised by a kind of “shapelessness,”10 and their adhesion to Judaism did not sever their ties with the larger ethnic group of the nação, which included many New Christians who had assimilated into Iberian society and entirely cut themselves off from any connection with Judaism. The amorphousness of the community of conversos who had returned to Judaism caused difficulties in the consolidation of a solid, committed religious core group, which was able to impose religious authority and obedience to a uniform normative system. The need to shape new communities that joined the Jewish religion and accepted the authority of Halakha, and the need to educate former conversos to accept communal discipline, although they had never tasted Jewish life in a communal framework, led to the creation of rigid disciplinary methods in most of the Sephardic communities, and these occasionally became “deviant factories,” just as the Inquisitions of Spain and Portugal became, in some circumstances, “factories” of Judaizers and heretics.11 Naturally, throughout the entire seventeenth century, while these communities were consolidating their Jewish character, they produced deviants from within them, and by means of the struggle against these deviants, they sharpened the lines of their particularity as communities of former New Christians who became “New Jews.”12 The excommunication of Uriel da Costa, Juan de Prado, and Baruch Spinoza

9

Israel Salvator Révah, “Les marranes,” Revue des études juives 118 (1959–60): 29–77. 10 David L. Graizbord, Souls in Dispute. Converso Identities in Iberia and the Jewish Diaspora, 1580–1700 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2003). 11 António José Saraiva, Inquisição e Cristãos Novos (Lisbon: Editorial Estampa, 1985); and see the English edition by Herman P. Salomon and Isaac S. D. Sassoon, The Marrano Factory: The Portuguese Inquisition and Its New Christians, 1536– 1765 (Leiden: Brill 2001). 12 Yosef Kaplan, Les nouveaux-juifs d’Amsterdam (Paris: Chandeigne, 1999).

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are only the tip of the iceberg of an extensive and profound phenomenon that affected the communities of former marranos.13 In the early modern period, members of the Spanish and Portuguese Jewish Diaspora and their New Christian partners in Iberia, France, the Southern Netherlands, and the New World became trans-cultural economic agents and trailblazing entrepreneurs.14 Their command of a number of languages, their familiarity with the Spanish and Portuguese economy, and their acquaintance with the local cultures in a number of countries, gave them many advantages over other mercantile groups, and these advantages did not escape the eyes of the rulers and governors. Not only in the Dutch Republic but also in other maritime and colonial powers such as Venice and England,15 the potential latent in these international merchants was valued. France, too, which did not allow the presence of Jews within its borders until the 1720s, hosted several hundreds of cryptoJews, Portuguese merchants of Jewish ancestry, in places like Bayonne, Bordeaux, Bidache, St. Jean de Luz, Labastide-Clairance, Rouen, etc.16 and gave Portuguese merchants a share in a number of opportunities in their colonial efforts in the Caribbean, although in a limited and

13 Israel Salvator Révah, Des Marranes à Spinoza (Paris: J. Vrin, 1995); Uriel da Costa, Examination of Pharisaic Traditions, translation, notes and introduction by Herman P. Salomon and Isaac S. D. Sassoon (Leiden, New York and Cologne: Brill, 1993). 14 Jonathan I. Israel, Diasporas Within a Diaspora. Jews, Crypto-Jews and the World Maritime Empires (1540–1740) (Leiden, Boston and Cologne: Brill, 2002); Francesca Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers. The Sephardic Diaspora, Livorno, and Cross-Cultural Trade in the Early Modern Period (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009). 15 On Venice, see Benjamin Arbel, “Jews in International Trade: The Emergence of the Levantines and Ponentines,” in The Jews of Early Modern Venice, ed. Robert C. Davis and Benjamin Ravid (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 73–96; Benjamin Ravid, “An Introduction to the Charters of the Jewish Merchants of Venice,” in The Mediterranean and the Jews. Society, Culture, and Economy in Early Modern Times, ed. Elliot Horowitz and Moisés Orfali (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2002), 203–47; on England, see David S. Katz, The Jews in the History of England, 1485–1850 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 145–89. 16 Gerard Nahon, Les “Nations” Juives Portugaises du Sud-Ouest de la France (1684–1791) (Paris: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, 1981); idem, “From New Christians to the Portuguese Jewish Nation in France,” in Moreshet Sepharad. The Sephardi Legacy, ed. Haim Beinart (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1992), 2: 336–64; idem, Métropoles et périphéries sefarades d’Occident (Paris: Cerf, 1993), 99–183, 235–369.

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fragmentary manner.17 In various ways, even Spain and Portugal, where unrelenting war was waged against the Jews and Judaism, derived great benefit from the open and hidden activity of Jewish merchants and bankers, even including former New Christians.18 Some of them served as official agents of the kings of Spain and Portugal in Amsterdam, Hamburg, and London, even though their Judaism was public and well known. But what was the attitude of the “New Jews” (the conversos who had settled in Western Europe and adopted the Jewish religion) to the New Christians who remained in Iberia and to the conversos in the Diaspora, who refrained from adopting Judaism? Or, as a result of their adhesion to the Jewish collective, did those who returned to Judaism cut themselves off from a fate shared with the conversos who remained in the “Terras de idolatria” (Lands of Idolatry)?19 How did their adhesion to the Jewish collective affect their family and cultural connection with the community to which they formerly belonged? Was it at all possible to retain ethnic and social solidarity with a community, most of whose members belonged, at least officially, to another religion, and of whom many had assimilated in Christian society? Those who returned to Judaism were intimately familiar with the situation in Iberia. They knew that the community of conversos was extremely varied and complex and that it was impossible to regard it as a single, uniform group. For some, their Jewish origins were a burden, which they wished to shed, a stain threatening their personal advancement, which they wished to erase. A rather high percentage of conversos sunk deep roots in Christianity and identified entirely with their new faith. The Sephardic rabbis in the new communities had to cope regularly with halakhic questions regarding “conversos of the race of Israel, who had abandoned the Law of God and forgotten it.” Here is one of many stories that show how the difference in 17 Zvi Loker, Jews in the Caribbean (Jerusalem: Misgav Yerushalayim, Institute for Research on the Sephardi and Oriental Heritage, 1991), 24–26, 199–307. 18 Jonathan I. Israel, “Manuel López Pereira of Amsterdam, Antwerp and Madrid: Jew, New Christian, and Adviser to the Conde-Duque de Olivares,” Studia Rosenthaliana 19 (1985): 109–64; Moisés Orfali, “New Christians in the Trading and Banking System of Spain (16th–17th Century),” in The Mediterranean and the Jews. Banking, Finance and International Trade (XVI–XVIII Centuries), ed. Ariel Toaff and Simon Schwarzfuchs (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1989), 179–88. 19 Yosef Kaplan, “The Travels of Portuguese Jews from Amsterdam to the ‘Lands of Idolatry’ (1644–1724),” in Jews and Conversos. Studies in Society and the Inquisition, ed. Yosef Kaplan (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1985), 197–224.

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religious adhesion divided families and dispersed their members over various continents. Duarte Nunes da Costa was one of the most influential figures in the Sephardic Diaspora of Western Europe. He left his homeland, Portugal, around 1609, when he was a young man of twenty-four, and went to Madrid. From the capital of the Spanish kingdom he set out for Florence, where he officially adopted the Jewish religion. In 1621, after a ten-year residence in Tuscany, he arrived in Amsterdam, and in 1625 he settled in Glückstadt. He ended his wanderings in Hamburg, whence he ran his wide-ranging businesses until his death in 1664.20 In the Jewish community his name was Jacob Curiel, and his son, Moses Curiel whose Christian name was Jerónimo Nunes da Costa, was one of the most prominent members of the Sephardic community in Amsterdam.21 Yet both father and son faithfully served Portuguese interests: Jacob as the agent of the Portuguese crown in Hamburg, and his son in the same capacity in Amsterdam. Their abandonment of the Christian religion and their open activity as recognised Jewish leaders in two of the most important communities of former New Christians did not infringe upon the close connection that was formed between them and Portugal, and both of them were nominated cavaleiros fidalgos da Casa Real for their service. The Curiel-Nunes da Costa family was one of the richest and most important families in the Sephardic Diaspora in northwest Europe, and the involvement of its members in the life of the communities of Amsterdam and Hamburg was outstanding. However, this wealthy family, with extensive commercial ties with Iberia and South America, also had branches elsewhere. Jacob Curiel had two uncles who reached the Spanish colony of Perú at the end of the sixteenth century. One of them was responsible for bringing the first shipment of food and slaves from the silver mines in Potosí, but he did not become famous by virtue of his mining business. His name was Francisco de Vitoria, and he was 20

Jonathan I. Israel, “Duarte Nunes da Costa (Jacob Curiel) of Hamburg, Sephardi Nobleman and Communal Leader, 1585–1664,” Studia Rosenthaliana 21 (1987): 14–34. 21 Daniel Swetschinski, “An Amsterdam Merchant-Diplomat: Jerónimo Nunes da Costa alias Moseh Curiel (1620–1697), Agent of the King of Portugal,” in Neveh Ya’akov. Jubilee Volume Presented to Dr. Jaap Meijer on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday, ed. Lea Dasberg and Jonathan N. Cohen (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1982), 3–30; Jonathan I. Israel, “The Diplomatic Career of Jerónimo Nunes da Costa: An Episode in Dutch-Portuguese Relations of the Seventeenth Century,” Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 98 (1983): 167–90; and see also idem, “Lopo Ramirez (David Curiel) and the Attempt to Establish a Sephardi Community in Antwerp in 1653–4,” Studia Rosenthaliana 28 (1994): 99–119.

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appointed to serve as the first bishop of Tucumán in the northern part of what is Argentina today.22 The other uncle was Diego Pérez da Costa who, like his brother the bishop, was very involved in the Peruvian mining business. However, unlike Francisco, who enjoyed the security given to him by his clerical position, Diego was forced to flee from Perú. Proclamations from the Inquisition were pasted to the gates of the cathedrals of Lima and Potosí calling for his arrest, after it was supposedly shown that he secretly observed Jewish rituals. Diego fled to Venice, openly adopted the Jewish religion, and settled afterward, under the Jewish name of Abraham Curiel, in Safed. Most probably the news reached him that his effigy had been burned in an auto-da-fé that took place in Lima in March 1605.23 His brother, the bishop, who was living close to where the symbolic burning took place, certainly heard about it as well. Did the abyss that yawned between the two brothers—one a Catholic bishop in a distant city in South America, and the other, a Jewish penitent among the mystics of Safed—nullify the closeness and shared identity? Here is another story which also shows the deep rupture within the world of the Sephardic Jews and the conversos. The physician, Francisco Lopes, was a professor in the faculty of Medicine in Bordeaux. Two of his sons, physicians like himself, married Christian women from France, and a third son, who studied philosophy at the Sorbonne, chose the career of a churchman. Although in the years 1637–1638, evidence was presented to the Inquisition in Madrid, regarding their apparent loyalty to Jewish customs, the course of their lives until their deaths strengthens the impression that Doctor Lopes and his three aforementioned sons were faithful Christians who did not stray from the path of the Catholic Church. However, in contrast to them, two other sons of Doctor Lopes, who became merchants, settled in Amsterdam and London and became Jews in every respect. So, too, did his four daughters. They married Sephardic merchants and settled in the communities of northwest Europe. One of the sons who returned to Judaism was Antonio Lopes Suasso. His father had intended for him to become a clergyman as well, but he preferred a different course of life. At first he was a successful wool merchant, and his business brought him to Spain often, and before long he became a leading 22

Edgar Samuel, “Don Fray Francisco de Vitoria OP (1540–92), Bishop of Tucumán,” Jewish Historical Studies 35 (2000): 15–25 (reprinted in idem, At the End of the Earth. Essays on the History of the Jews in England and Portugal [Bristol: Jewish Historical Society of England, 2004], 69–79). 23 Lucia García de Proodian, Los Judíos en América, sus actividades en los Virreinatos de Nueva Castilla y Nueva Granada (Madrid: CSIC, 1966), 267–68; Israel, Diasporas Within a Diaspora, 133–34.

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merchant in that field. After the Dutch took over the import of wool from Spain, following the peace treaty signed with the Spanish crown in 1648, Antonio had to find another area to stake out. In 1653 he moved to Holland, returned to Judaism, and chose the name of Isaac Israel Suasso for himself. He was then about forty years old. He married a widow from the Pinto family, one of the wealthiest Sephardic families in Amsterdam, which had only adopted the Jewish religion a few years previously. Lopes Suasso quickly integrated into the life of the Jewish community of Amsterdam, which did not prevent him from accepting the title of Baron d’Avernas le Gras from the Spanish crown for his faithful service.24 In 1656, when, together with the other six syndics of the Sephardic community of Amsterdam, he decided to excommunicate Baruch Spinoza (only three years after he himself had adopted Judaism), had he completely severed ties with his father, who was still living as a Christian in Bordeaux, and from his two brothers, who were married to Christian women from Old Christian stock, or from his third brother, who wore a priestly robe in the Catholic Church? Indeed it was impossible to untie the Gordian knot that linked the fates of the “New Jews” and the New Christians. Those who had left Iberia, France, and the other “Lands of Idolatry,” knew about whole family branches among the descendants of the conversos who had integrated into Christian society, about many of the conversos who had married Christian women, and whose children had not even experienced the taste of the minimalistic Judaism of the conversos. If the New Christians and the “New Jews” were “divided souls,” this primarily influenced their families, which became “divided families,” not only because they lived in different countries, but, and mainly, because they were divided by different religious faiths. The leaders of the Sephardic communities required the conversos who wished to adhere to Judaism to perform the commandment of circumcision, and they waged an unremitting campaign against those who weren’t circumcised. Usually these men were not permitted to enter synagogues, and they were denied participation in religious ceremonies and burial in the cemeteries of the Sephardic communities. Nevertheless, at the same time, they related to them as members of the ethnic group of the nação. Therefore they insisted that every effort must be invested to

24

See the fascinating study by Daniel Swetschinski, “Worthy Merchants, Keen Bankers, Loyal Courtiers: The Suassos and the House of Orange,” in The Lopes Suasso Family, Bankers to William III, ed. Daniel Swetschinski and Loeki Schönduve (Zwolle/Amsterdam: Waanders/Joods Historish Museum, 1988), 11– 64.

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attach them to the Jewish religion.25 In contrast, the communities of the Western Sephardic Diaspora did not accept Jews who were not of Spanish or Portuguese origin as members. The Sephardic Jews reached northwest and Western Europe and the New World before Ashkenazic Jews set foot there, and once the latter began to arrive, the social and cultural differences between them and the Sephardic Jews were conspicuous. As long as there were only a few Ashkenazic immigrants, the Sephardim allowed them to join the fringes of their communities: although they were not accepted as members with full rights, they did enjoy basic religious privileges, they could pray in the Sephardic synagogues, and they were even buried in Sephardic cemeteries, in certain sections allotted to them. Some of them were employed in the service of Sephardic Jews or worked as guards and janitors of the synagogues. A considerable percentage of the Ashkenazic migrants were destitute and required assistance from the Sephardic charity funds. When the flow of Ashkenazic migrants increased following the Thirty Years’ War and the Swedish invasion of Poland in the 1650s, the leaders of the Sephardic communities grew increasingly fearful of the increase in the number of Ashkenazic beggars. The Sephardim feared that the influx of poor Ashkenazic Jews would spoil their image and detract from their social status. In Amsterdam a special society was established intended to teach trades to the Ashkenazic poor and to instruct them in “good manners.” Similarly, efforts were invested to send them to other countries. In Amsterdam and London ordinances were even passed forbidding members of the Sephardic community to marry Ashkenazic Jews.26 The confessionalisation of the Sephardic Jews could not take place in the framework of a centralised state, founded upon a bureaucratic administration and on obedience and loyalty to a prince at its head.27 But 25 Yosef Kaplan, “‘This Thing Alone Will Preserve Their Nation Forever.’ Circumcision and Conversion in the Early Modern Western Sephardic Communities,” in The Conversos and Moriscos in Late Medieval Spain and Beyond, vol. 3, Displaced Persons, ed. Kevin Ingram and Juan Ignacio Pulido Serrano (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2016), 218–43. 26 Yosef Kaplan, “The Self-Definition of the Sephardic Jews of Western Europe and Their Relation to the Alien and Stranger,” in Crisis in Creativity in the Sephardic World, 1391–1648, ed. Benjamin R. Gampel (New York: Columbia University Press,1992), 121–45. 27 On the confessionalisation process in early modern Europe see Heinz Schilling, Konfesionskonflikt und Staatsbildung: Eine Fallstudie über das Verhältnis von religiösem und sozialem Wandel in der Frühneuzeit am Beispiel der Graftschaft Lippe (Gütersloh: Gutersloher Verlagshaus Mohn, 1981); idem, “Die Konfessionalisierung im Reich. Religiöser und gesellschaftlicher Wandel in

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the confessionalisation of the Western Sephardic Jews was included in the construction of new communities, which projected exceptional power and imposed a strict regime of social obedience. The Sephardic social elite, which received support from the princes, magistrates and mayors of cities, thanks to their wealth and widespread commercial connections, shaped the regime of the new communities according to a strict hierarchical conception. The mahamad (board of governors), which stood at the head of each community, had absolute and incontestable power. Like the rulers and princes in the confessional age, the parnassim (governors) of the Sephardic communities in Amsterdam and Hamburg, Leghorn and London, and even Curação and Surinam, exploited to the full the authority that medieval Jewish law accorded to the Jewish communities in order to consolidate a regime of Jewish autonomy that leaned upon sacral institutions even when those who headed it were neither well versed in Jewish law nor possessed halakhic (religious legal) expertise. But the members of the mahamad of the communities of the Sephardic nação included the rabbis as halakhic advisors in the autocratic regime they established and used the power and authority of the Halakha to accord sacrality to their regulations and resolutions. The former New Christian, Isaac Cardoso, who had adopted Judaism in Verona towards the mid-seventeenth century, defined the Jews in general, in an apologetic work that he wrote, as “una República aparte,” which is to say, a Republic apart. But when he published these words in Amsterdam in 1679, the model before his eyes was the communities of the Sephardic nação.28 He was aware of the particular growth of the communities of “New Jews,” each of which adopted similar patterns of a republican regime. These communities wished to see themselves as miniature republics ruled by an oligarchy of extremely wealthy families, who held the reins and the power. Anyone who examines the archives of the Sephardic community in Amsterdam cannot fail to be impressed by the meticulous administrative Deutschland zwischen 1555 und 1620,” Historische Zeitschrift 246 (1988): 1–45; Wolfgang Reinhard, “Zwang zur Konfessionalisierung? Prolegomena zu einer Theorie des konfessionellen Zeitalters,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 10 (1983): 257–77. For an excellent synthesis see R. Po-Chia Hsia, Social Discipline in the Reformation. Central Europe 1550–1750 (London and New York: Routledge, 1989). 28 Yshac Cardoso, Las Excelencias de los Hebreos (Amsterdam 1679), 374. On Cardoso see the superb study, Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, From Spanish Court to Italian Ghetto. Isaac Cardoso: A Study in Seventeenth-Century Marranism and Jewish Apologetics (New York and London: Columbia University Press, 1971).

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organisation, by the precise bureaucratic order and accounting that are reflected in the hundreds of registers and files that have been preserved from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: bulky volumes of regulations, with impressive detail, including all the decisions, all the elections of the members of the mahamad and the governors of the confraternities, special registers of all the confraternities for the study of Torah and charity, of the cemetery, of the community butcher, and so on.29 Although no other Sephardic community attained this level of detail and sophistication, the other large Sephardic communities such as those of London and Hamburg, tried to follow in the footsteps of the Amsterdam model, and, along with them, even the smaller communities in the New World. In the eyes of the social elite of these communities, the function of the governors, the members of the mahamad was viewed as analogous to that of governors of a republic. The wealthy merchant Abraham Israel Pereyra, who served as a member of the mahamad of the Amsterdam community several times, gave this view a colourful and accurate expression.30 Whole chapters of Pereyra’s moralistic book La Certeza del Camino are devoted to the topic of the “good governors” of the republic, who must obey the commandments of God and impose a divine regime in their state. Pereyra referred to the works of Spanish political thinkers such as Saavedra Fajardo, Juan Márquez and Claudio Clemente, without mentioning them by name, who harshly condemned Machiavelli’s political thought in their desire to retain the content of a Christian state.31 The New Christian came to Judaism with a rather well-formed habitus, which was expressed in manners of behaviour that were very different from those practiced and accepted among the Jews of that time. Entry in the world of Halakha and participation in Jewish ceremonies were meant to create a new habitus, intended to express the upheaval that had taken place within the “New Jew.” The leaders of the communities of the nação had to find a substitute for the smell of church incense, the respectful atmosphere in which Catholic masses and prayers were held, for the awe 29

Wilhelmina C. Pieterse, Inventaris van de Archieven der PortugeesIsraëlietische Gemeente te Amsterdam (Amsterdam 1964). The best study on the Portuguese community of Amsterdam is Daniel Swetschinski, Reluctant Cosmopolitans. The Portuguese Jews of Seventeenth-Century Amsterdam (London and Portland, OR: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2000). 30 Henry Méchoulan, Hispanidad y Judaísmo en tiempos de Espinoza. Edición de “La Certeza del Camino” de Abraham Pereyra (Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca, 1987). 31 Ibid., 163–77.

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that accompanied the believer who obligated himself by means of confession to give a constant account of his sins, and for the means of control and deterrence that were practiced in the era of the Inquisition and the Counter-Reformation to impose religious and social discipline. Very gradually, in the centres of the Western Sephardic Diaspora, an alternative religious and ritual system was consolidated. However, particularly because it was influenced by a variety of cultures, and of course drew upon Jewish sources as well, it took on special, original form and content. This was a system permeated by ceremony: ceremonies of circumcision for new adherents to the community received special pomp; the arrival of relatives from Iberia was celebrated in special fashion with the veteran members of the family receiving honours and being called to the Torah in the synagogue. Similarly, proclamations of excommunications in the synagogue were read with severe ceremonies, with the doors of the Holy Ark open; requests for forgiveness by transgressors were recited in public from the pulpit of the synagogue; the ceremony for the removal of excommunication and the restoration of the excommunicated people to the bosom of the community was bound up with a series of severe public humiliations, and other considerable humiliations were imposed upon deviants and transgressors—all these were common and accepted events, mainly in the communities of Amsterdam and Hamburg, but also in other communities in the Western Sephardic Diaspora.32 The starting point for understanding the religiosity of the Western Sephardic Jews in the early modern period has to take into account the conspicuous characteristics of the Marrano mentality. Robert Bonfil has called our attention to the fact that life experience of the conversos in the early modern period made a most significant contribution “to the inception of the modern sense of the unlimited right to self-definition.”33 According to the common view of Jews and Christians until the late Middle Ages, it was impossible to separate religious affiliation, identity, and self-definition from the normative behaviour they entailed. However, the reality of the conversos undermined what had been accepted for generations: the converso began to create new combinations of official religious affiliation and identity, and he even imbued the latter with beliefs, views, and 32

Yosef Kaplan, An Alternative Path to Modernity. The Sephardi Diaspora in Western Europe (Leiden, Boston and Cologne: Brill, 2000), 108–54, 168–95. 33 Robert Bonfil, “Dubious Crimes in Sixteenth-Century Italy: Rethinking the Relations between Jews, Christians, and Conversos in Pre-Modern Europe,” in The Jews of Spain and the Expulsion of 1492, ed. Moshe Lazar and Stephen Haliczer (Lancaster, CA: Labyrinthos, 1997), 307–8.

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normative behaviour according to his individual choice and decision. Being communities established by New Christians who converted to Judaism, many of them (and their descendants as well, who were born as Jews) viewed Judaism as a religious faith and not necessarily as a comprehensive way of life. To a considerable degree, this also resulted from the life they had led as crypto-Jews in Spain and Portugal: they had become used to separating inner religious feelings from their outward way of life, which was led in Iberia on the basis of Catholic values. Some of them reached the conclusion that spiritual identification with Jewish beliefs or a feeling of Jewish identity was more important than keeping the Jewish commandments. As formulated by Abraham Pereyra in his Espejo de la Vanidad del Mundo: “As to the false assumption that certain people advance, namely that a good heart and good intentions are sufficient . . . certain forced converts of the Hebrew race accepted this view in order to justify the claim that they were permitted to adopt idolatry outwardly” (Y en quanto a la falsa suposición que toman de que basta buen coraçón, y la buena intención . . . y deste passo tomaron motivo algunos forçados de nuestra estirpe Hebrea para entender les sería lícito la idolatría exterior).34 It was difficult to uproot the opinion, which was widespread among the marranos, that as long as a man of Jewish extraction was not circumcised, he was not required to observe the commandments, a belief that caused quite a few of them to delay their circumcision.35 The communal regulations and mechanisms of discipline could not impose fidelity to the tenets of Jewish faith. Nothing parallel to the Catholic sacrament of confession or the investigation of dogmatic purity conducted by the Inquisition tribunals was available to the Sephardic Jewish communities. Nor were officials of the community capable of making house visits of the type made by the elders of the Calvinist presbytery to members of the Reform Church in Amsterdam to examine their mastery of the Calvinist catechism and to gain an impression of their religious loyalty and way of life. The imposition of discipline in the communities of the nação could at best influence the visible sphere, but it could not make a fundamental change in the conceptions that were deeply rooted in the consciousness of former marranos. The regulations could shape the character of the Sabbath in areas where the Jewish presence was conspicuous; however, it could not influence the nature of the Sabbath in the private domain. While the mechanisms of discipline could supervise 34

Abraham Israel Pereyra, Espejo de la vanidad del mundo (Amsterdam 5431 [1671]), 558. 35 Kaplan, “‘This Thing Alone Will Preserve Their Nation Forever,’” 218–43, esp. 231–35.

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the sale of kosher meat in the community, it did not have the power to supervise the menu of every family or, even more so, the food served to the merchants of the Nation when they were far from the community, whenever their mercantile activities required it. Was the confessionalisation effort successful? The answer is not unequivocal. On the one hand, it is impossible not to be impressed by seeing that communities, which had been entirely Christian, began to conduct themselves according to halakhic norms and to maintain Jewish religious services on a regular basis. Abraham Israel Pereyra, one of the wealthy members of the community of Amsterdam—who was swept up by the messianic Sabbatean awakening in 1665 and even set out for Palestine in 1666 to greet the messiah Sabbatai Zevi—complained that many members of the Sephardic community of Amsterdam were satisfied with the purchase of some religious books and prayer books, a prayer shawl and tefillin, attending services in the synagogue, learning the benedictions, and reading a little Bible when they came home.36 This was not enough for him, for he demanded that they live a life of complete devotion. However, his criticism testifies to a routine of Jewish life that would not shame any other Jewish community of the time: Jews put on tefillin and pray in the synagogue every day, and even learn Torah at home. Jewish visitors from veteran communities who made their way to Amsterdam occasionally expressed admiration and even enthusiasm about the order of Jewish life of this congregation of “New Jews.” They especially praised the Jewish education that was instituted in the community, which was doubtless the highest achievement of the process of confessionalisation. Towards the end of the seventeenth century, a pattern of Western Sephardic ceremonies had been consolidated based on Jewish customs that had become part of the religious ritual, melodies and songs that were accepted in the Amsterdam community and transferred from it to the other parts of the Diaspora, or which developed in one of the other communities. At that time, a new Sephardic habitus had taken shape, with clear identifying marks. Their conduct reflected gravidade, formality, a culture of courtesy worthy of a cultured nation, what they called gente política and bom judesmo, worthy Judaism, the proper presentation of synagogue services. All this was intended to present Judaism as civilised and cultured, with features befitting the patterns of behaviour that had

36

Méchoulan, Hispanidad y Judaísmo en tiempos de Espinoza. Edición de “La Certeza del Camino” de Abraham Pereyra, 279–80.

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crystallised within European courtly society and been transferred to the bourgeoisie.37 However, on the other hand, the degree of identification with halakhic Judaism was not uniform in all strata of the Amsterdam community and in all the Western Sephardic communities as well. The documents that have come down to us contain criticism of those who were not overly enthusiastic about the religious discipline that the leadership sought to impose. Firm Jewish believers frequently voiced complaints against those who had thrown off the yoke of the Torah, and the latter used to mock the devotees and call them mizvoteros (a derogatory term for people who were “too religious”). All this friction and struggle took place within the Sephardic community of Amsterdam, because unlike developments in the Dutch Calvinist arena, the Sephardic community sheltered both the committed and the uncommitted beneath its roof. Whereas the Calvinist church in Amsterdam was composed of preciezen (precisionists—strictly observant people), because the freedom of conscience that prevailed in the Dutch Republic did not require anyone to join the publieke Kerk,38 the Portuguese Jewish community also included people who were far from deep identification with the Jewish religion. While freedom of conscience meant that no Jew was required to join the community, as immigrants to a foreign country they tended to band together with people of their own origin and culture for social, economic and cultural reasons.39 This fact made the process of confessionalisation within the Portuguese community difficult from the start, and it was the reason for many difficulties that confronted the leadership in imposing religious discipline. The situation was very similar in London and Hamburg, and mutatis mutandis in the rest of the communities of the Western Sephardic Diaspora. The situation changed in the course of the eighteenth century. The community was no longer one of immigrants, for most of its members had now been born in Judaism. Not all of them were solely dependent upon the Jewish community to provide their social and cultural needs. Many Portuguese Jews severed themselves from Jewish life and assimilated in the majority society. Some even converted and intermarried. As a result of this falling away of elements with weak Jewish affiliations, the religious 37

Yosef Kaplan, “Gente Política: The Portuguese Jews of Amsterdam vis-à-vis Dutch Society,” in Dutch Jews as Perceived by Themselves and by Others, ed. Chaya Brasz and Yosef Kaplan (Leiden, Boston and Cologne: Brill, 2001), 21–40. 38 Benjamin J. Kaplan, Calvinists and Libertines. Confession and Community in Utrecht, 1578–1620 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995). 39 Yosef Kaplan, “Secularizing the Portuguese Jews – Integration and Orthodoxy in Early Modern Judaism,” Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 6 (2007): 99–102.

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devotion of the faithful kernel remaining in the community became stronger. The Sephardic community began increasingly to resemble the Calvinist church, in which the preciezen comprised the faithful inner circle, and in the outer circles were many people over whom the community exerted no control. It began to be characterised by a level of religious devotion that had been unknown in it during the previous century. However, this devotion characterised only the shrinking hard core that remained within its confines. That diminishing kernel developed an orthodox orientation in response to its abandonment and to the religious indifference of the general Sephardic public which was characteristic of all the Western Sephardic communities.40

40

Ibid., 109–10.

III. PRESERVATION OF IDENTITY

WALDENSIAN IDENTITY IN THE FIFTEENTH AND SIXTEENTH CENTURIES GABRIEL AUDISIO

The very beginning of Waldensian identity takes us back to around the year 1170, in the city of Lyon. Vaudès, a wealthy citizen, reads the Scriptures and decides to give up all he owns and become poor. He sells all of his goods and starts to beg and preach. He soon attracts disciples, both men and women. Their immediate success can be put down to their lifestyle: they live in accordance with what they preach, unlike the clergy at the time. Despite being officially condemned in 1184 in Verona and again in 1215 by the Fourth Lateran Council, they persist and are mostly left alone. After 1230, however, once the Cathar peril has been settled by the treaty of Meaux-Paris in 1229, and as the Inquisition begins to take shape, the Waldenses begin to be hounded by the civil and religious authorities. They nevertheless manage to survive.1 By the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, they have become a real diaspora extending from Provence and the Dauphiné to Italy (Piedmont, Apulia, Calabria), Alsace, Switzerland, Bavaria, Bohemia, Brandenburg, and Pomerania. Faced with such widespread dispersion, the historian is inevitably brought to question the limits of their unity, diversity, and identity. The same problem of identity faces individual and community alike. Is the person who reaches the age of seventy or eighty the same as when he was a baby, child, or teenager? The answer is yes, and no. Is this not one of the many forms of the huge debate around the singular and the multiple that has hovered over the Western world since classical times? Arthur Rimbaud wrote: “Je suis un autre” (I is an Other). 2 Could a religious 1

For a general view of Waldensian history, see Gabriel Audisio, The Waldensian Dissent. Persecution and Survival, c. 1170 – c. 1570 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 2 In fact, Arthur Rimbaud used this expression twice. The first time is in a letter to Georges Izambard, 13 May 1871; the second in a letter to Paul Demeny, called the “lettre du voyant,” 15 May 1871.

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community such as the Waldenses, which took root in the twelfth century, and eventually adopted the Reformation in the sixteenth century, remain identical over more than three centuries? Of course not. But does this mean it lost its identity? Did it break up into various splinter groups? The concept of identity is clearly far more complex than it may appear at first sight. We cannot be coherent without agreeing that there is no identity without plurality. We need to underline at every step exactly what we are talking about. We need to look beyond divergences to identify the common elements which allow all those who claim to belong to the same religious community to be defined by one and the same term. It is no simple matter in today’s world; it is far more problematic for the distant past, for which we often lack direct testimonies from those concerned. This is particularly true of persecuted minorities. Most surviving testimonies are those left by the church or lay authorities who prosecuted and hunted them down. Such is the case of the Waldenses. Here, focusing only on the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, I shall be distinguishing two different levels, which I shall tackle one after the other. First, the view from outside: how were the Waldenses seen and identified from the outside? But what exactly does “from outside” mean? Discounting a tiny number of exceptions, this refers to the Waldenses’ enemies, for in those times, tolerance was non-existent, particularly in so far as religious families were concerned, and when each one was convinced they had access to the Truth. I shall then move on to the view from within, as far as it can be apprehended—how did the Waldenses define themselves? But before even touching on their beliefs and their behaviour, let us start with their name: what were they called and what name did they use for themselves? There is no need here to recall how important a name is; it alone can identify an entity, whether a single person or a collective. Historians have long been tackling the question in terms of the Waldenses. I shall not evoke the origins of the name “Waldenses” here. Nearly all scholars agree that it derives from the name of the man at the origins of the movement: the wealthy man from Lyon, about whom little else is known—not even his first name. Even his family name derived from the Latin adjective “valdesius” or “valdesianus” used in documents from that era. Hence the names Valdès or Vaudès, or Valdo in Italian, refer to the man himself, and Vaudois, Waldensian, Valdesii to his disciples. Despite the Inquisition, persecution, and condemnation, the Waldenses survive across the centuries, and we find “heretics” labelled as Waldensian in the era being evoked here. A simple question of method thus requires us

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to differentiate between the names the persecutors used to identify the persecuted and the names chosen by the people themselves.

The View from Outside Whether they combined their actions, or worked in competition, both the Church courts and the lay courts of justice made it their mission to rout out heresy, which was perceived in those days as a crime against God and Man and a threat to public order; it was therefore harmful to society as a whole. To suspect someone of heresy was one of the most serious accusations which could lead to the stake. In judicial terms, Waldensianism had been acknowledged as a heresy across the states of Europe from the day it was condemned by the Roman Church. The same was still true of the period I am looking at here. Whichever sources left by the Waldenses’ opponents that we may look at—legal statements, treatises, sermons, memoirs, accounts—all speak of the “heretics,” “Waldenses,” “Poor of Lyon,” sometimes about one and the same person. From a judicial angle, it was essential to prove not only that the suspect was a heretic, but also to establish which dissenting family he belonged to or came from. This was because the penalty was rigorously defined by the crime, and therefore depended on the precision of incriminating elements that would enable the heresy to be identified. Take Bernard de Luxembourg, for example, who in 1522 published his Catalogus hæreticorum which listed 432 categories of heresy, both from the past and in his present era, and then added another twenty-six of his own that had not formerly been labelled.3 We can also usefully refer to Nicolau Eymerich’s Directorium inquisitorum or Inquisitors’ Handbook, which although written in the fourteenth century, was printed in 1503, and then updated in a 1578 edition by the canon law specialist Francisco Pena. 4 This lawyer then went on to draw up a long list of heretics, including the “Waldensians or Poor of Lyon or Slippered,” with a paragraph specifically about them. When the inquisitor Bernard Gui wrote up his Practica in the 1310s and 1320s, he too used these three names, explaining them as follows: “Waldenses from the names Valdesio or Valdensi, the first author and creator of the sect; Poor of Lyon, from the place where it began and took root; Slippered, because initially the 3

Marie Humbert Vicaire, “Les albigeois ancêtres des protestants. Assimilations catholiques,” Cahiers de Fanjeaux 14 (1979): 23–46, esp. 26–27. 4 Nicolau Eymerich and Francisco Pena, Le manuel des inquisiteurs, ed. Louis Sala-Molins (Paris-La Haye: Mouton, 1973).

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Waldensians would sometimes wear a special buckle on their shoes as a sign.”5 Taken as a group, the Waldenses were thus referred to as a sect (secta). To avoid all misunderstandings, the word needs to be contextualised. It should be recalled that it derives from the Latin sequor (to follow) and not from secare (to cut). It could thus refer just to a type of behaviour. In politics, it could mean a line, tendency, or party, or a lifestyle or even, in philosophical terms, an intellectual system. It was how the School of Athens and the School of Alexandria were referred to, for example, without being pejorative.6 Although the term gradually came to mean a dissent, or heresy, it still retained its more neutral meaning throughout the Middle Ages, and right up until the sixteenth century. The way the authorities used the term when they were persecuting a heretic does not make it clear which connotation they intended. In Provence, it can be found used by the inquisitor Jean de Roma and by the Parlement, but also by the Royal Chancery, and the Archbishop of Turin, Claude Seyssel, whose treatise published in 1517 bore the title Against the Errors of the Waldensian Sect. But the Waldenses themselves, when brought to trial, would sometimes speak spontaneously of their “sect.” In 1532, for instance, during the eight sessions when the young Waldensian preacher Pierre Griot was questioned, the inquisitor used the term eight times, but the suspect spontaneously used it too, on seven occasions, to refer to the dissent he was part of.7 Had the word had a negative meaning, which was perhaps the case when the inquisitor used it, the suspect would doubtless have avoided using it. Close scrutiny of the documents of our period shows that the names most frequently used to refer to these “heretics” were “Waldenses” and “Poor of Lyon.” It is found in royal, pontifical, episcopal, and judicial documents alike. Sometimes, both in the eastern part and in the western one, equal designations are clearly underlined. For instance in Brandenburg in the middle of the fifteenth century, one document reads: “This sect and

5

Bernard Gui, Practica officii Inquisitionis heretice pravitatis, ed. and trans. Guillaume Mollat, Manuel de l’inquisiteur, 2 vols. (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1964), 1: 36–39. Insabbatati means “wearing old slippers.” 6 Pascal Boulhol, “Secta: de la ligne de conduite au groupe hétérodoxe. Évolution sémantique jusqu’au début du Moyen Âge,” Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 219/1 (2002): 5–33. 7 Gabriel Audisio, Une inquisition en Provence (Apt 1532) (Paris: H. Champion, 2008).

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heresy begun in about 1270, that others call the sect of the Poor of Lyon.”8 Meanwhile in Piedmont in 1526 another states: “Sect of the Poor of Lyon commonly known as the Waldenses.”9 In the thousands of notarial deeds I could access in Provence, only one stated explicitly that it had been drawn up for Waldenses.10 In these cases, other names can be found cropping up, often apparently limited to more or less local usage: “Brothers” in Germanic countries and in Roman lands “the Poor of Christ,” “Chagnards,” 11 and “Picards.”12 Similarly, one of the two preachers or “barbes” interrogated in Oulx (Piedmont) in 1492 uses the terms, “Poor of the World”; the other refers to “Brothers of Opinion,” and “Brothers Barloti.”13

The View from Within So how did the Waldenses refer to themselves? This can only be ascertained by turning to sources they drew up themselves, whether documents they wrote, or testimonies they left, even during trial, when speaking spontaneously of their own accord. What instantly draws our attention is the fact that they never call themselves Waldenses to mean that they were disciples of Vaudès. In a document known as the Morel report, written by two preachers or barbes in 1530 to summarise their discussions 8 Bishop Stephan Bodecker, Über Waldenser, quoted in Dietrich Kurze, Quellen zur Ketzergeschichte Brandenburgs und Pommerns (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1975), 280: “Incepit autem hec secta et heresis circa annum domini millesimum centesimum LXX, que alias dicitur secta pauperum der Lugduno.” 9 Gabriella Marini Nevache, “Il processo contro il valdese Iacopo Ressent di Bec Dauphin, abbazia di santa Maria di Pinerolo, 5–6 marzo 1526,” in Valdismo e cattolicesimo prima della Riforma (1488–1555), ed. Raimondo Genre (VillarettoRoure: La Vallado, 2010), 13–43, 33: “sectam Pauperum de Lugduno Valdensium vulgariter nuncupatam.” 10 Gabriel Audisio, “Un exode vaudois organisé: Marseille-Naples (1477),” in Histoire et Société. Mélanges offerts à G. Duby, 4 vols. (Aix-en Provence: Université de Provence, 1992), 1: 197–208, 198: Naulisamentum navigii pro valdensibus, Marseilles, 3 September 1477. 11 Eugène Arnaud, Mémoires historiques sur... les vaudois du Dauphiné (Crest en Dauphiné: E. Arnaut, 1896), 27–45, 34–35: “hérésie ou secte des vaudois appelée vulgairement des Chagnards” (Valence 1494). 12 Letter from Luke of Prague to the King of Bohemia, Ladislas, 1507: “Petit troupeau des chrétiens faussement appelés ‘picards’ ou ‘vaudes’,” in Jean Gonnet and Amadeo Molnar, Les vaudois au moyen âge (Turin: Claudiana, 1974), 363. 13 Marina Benedetti, “L’interrogatorio dei barba Martino e Pietro (1492),” in Giorgio Tourn, Il barba. Una figura valdese del Quattrocento (Turin: Claudiana, 2001), 53–62. Barbe is a Piedmontese word, still in use today meaning “uncle.”

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with the Reformers Bucer and Œcolampadius, the word does not occur at all. When speaking of their community, the two preachers use the terms “people” or “little people,” in Latin plebs and plebicula, and not populus. The only time the preachers use the term is to refer to traitors asking the authorities: “What will you give us if we deliver the Waldensian doctors into your hands? We really know where they hide.”14 The same is true of the one time when the term can be found in the eight poems written within the community: “If someone doesn’t want to speak ill or swear or lie, they say he is Waldensian.” 15 In other words, this term is attributed to the Waldenses’ enemies. A Reformist document from Zurich, written in Latin in 1540, appeals to the Swiss cities to come to the aid of Waldenses who are referred to as “brothers”; it bears the title: “What doctrine is held true by the men falsely defamed as Waldenses,” while in the text, the author specifies that they were formerly referred to maliciously as Waldenses.16 The Waldenses even explicitly contest the name in a response addressed by the community from Cabrières d’Avignon to the inquisitor in 1533: “May God be our witness that we have no particular opinion or sect and that we do not and never did believe in Pierre de Vaulde or Luther or in anyone else.” 17 They were clearly refusing to be considered as innovative sectarians. However, by the sixteenth century, the term appears to be acquiring a positive connotation in one specific context. The Reformers Bucer and Œcolampadius use it. Admittedly they did have certain reservations as far as the Waldenses were concerned, as did Calvin himself, but we can safely say that their overall disposition was favourable. The historian P. Gilles underlined this shift in connotation: the name was forced on them by their adversaries. However, in later times, as the word gained in use around them over the years, they grew accustomed

14

Valdo Vinay, Le confessioni di fede dei valdesi riformati (Turin: Claudiana, 1975), 44: “Quantum vultis nobis dare, et in manus vestras Waldensium doctores trademus? Scimus enim ubi lateant.” 15 Carlo Papini, ed., La nobile lezione. La nobla Leiçon (Turin: Claudiana, 2003), 90–91: Que si n’i a alcun bon que ame e tema Xrist Que non volha maudire, ni jurar, ni mentir, Ni avoutrar, ni aucire, ni penre de l’autrui Ni venjarse de li seo enemis, Ilh diçon qu’es vaudes e degne de punir. 16 Gabriel Audisio, “Les vaudois vus de Zürich (1540),” in Valdesi medievali, ed. Marina Benedetti (Turin: Claudiana, 2009), 189–96. 17 Archives Nationales, Paris, J 851, n. 2, fol. 31v, 3 February 1533.

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to it and came to use it themselves.18 Likewise, at the end of the French Bible which they themselves financed, and had printed in 1535 by the Reformer printer Pierre de Vingle in Neuchâtel in Switzerland, there is an acrostic addressed to the reader: Lecteur entendz si vérité addresse viens donc ouyr instamment sa promesse et vif parler : lequel en excellence veult asseurer nostre grelle espérance. L’esprit Jésus qui visite et ordonne nos tendres moeurs, icy sans cry estonne tout hault raillart escumant son ordure. Remercions éternelle nature, prenons vouloir bienfaire librement, Jésus quérons veoir éternellement.

Which we must read so: “Les vaudois, peuple évangélique, ont mis ce thrésor en publique,” (The Waldenses, an Evangelical People, made this treasure public). There is no possible doubt that in this case the term Waldensian is being used with a positive sense, but by this time the usage occurs within the overall movement of the Reformation, and no longer among the Waldenses themselves. If the disciples of Vaudès refused the term “Waldensian,” how did they refer to themselves? In 1488 during the massive wave of persecutions in the Dauphiné, four Waldenses declared during questioning that the barbes themselves told them that they, the preachers, were the Poor of Christ19 and the Morel report of 1530 called them Brothers. When asked by the inquisitor who the Poor of Lyon were, Pierre Griot replied: “They are barbes who preach for the Waldensian sect.”20 The young man was still in training. Was he mixing up the faithful and the preachers? We have no way of telling.

Being Waldensian Beyond the adoption of a specific name, identity comprises a certain number of permanent features which resist time and space and thereby characterise a community. In the present case, it is striking to note how 18

Pierre Gilles, Histoire ecclésiastique des églises vaudoises, 2 vols., 2nd ed. (Pignerol: Chaintore & Moscarelli, 1881), 1: 16–17. 19 Gabriel Audisio, Preachers by Night. The Waldensian Barbes, (15th–16th Centuries), trans. Claire Davison (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 244. 20 Audisio, Une inquisition en Provence, 98, 171.

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many such features are acknowledged by the Waldensian community and their enemies alike, at least during the period covered here. These include: their attachment to the Holy Scriptures, to poverty, and preaching; the denial of purgatory, a refusal of oaths and lies; contesting the religious power of priests but acknowledging that of preachers whose sermons they listen to and who in turn hear their confessions—indeed in the East, the faithful sometimes called their masters Beichtiger, which means confessors; leading a double life and sharing a sense of having a common history and belonging to a single community or a “sect.” All these features recur in anti-Waldensian treatises but also in statements made by suspects being questioned and by documents from within the community itself. Some of these characteristics however grew less pronounced as time went by. This can be ascertained when notarial deeds and legal proceedings have survived. For example, we find the Waldenses becoming more flexible over certain founding principles and identifying features in their daily lives. Poverty, for instance, gradually shifts from the entire community to the preachers, although it is retained as an ideal principle; this is backed up by a tendency to favour modest dowries and the portion of husbands evoked in marriage contracts, and by the frequent mention of bequests to the poor in wills and testaments. The same holds for preaching, which gradually became the reserve of preachers, who were henceforth always male. Similarly, although the refusal of oaths remained a foremost identifying principle for the Waldenses, notarial acts and judicial proceedings show that they would take oaths as often as their nonWaldensian contemporaries. This is at least true for Provence and Dauphiné. 21 Beyond characteristics like these, which were unanimously acknowledged, others can be found in explicit declarations made by Waldenses or in records of their behaviour as recorded in notarial deeds. In his report recording conversations with the Reformers, for example, Morel describes his community as “a small industrious population” made up of shepherds and agricultural labourers. An entire collection of documentary sources confirms this: in the era focused on here, the Waldenses mostly worked the land. Notarial acts also reveal that Waldenses married within the community, something which is also underlined in a report addressed by the Parlement of Provence to the King of France in 1533: “They will only 21 About the features found in the notarial deeds, see Gabriel Audisio, Les vaudois du Luberon. Une minorité en Provence (1460–1560) (Mérindol: AEVHL, 1984), esp. 432–35. About the oath, Gabriel Audisio, “Les vaudois et la justice (La Tourd’Aigues, Vaucluse, 1543),” in Gens de robe et gibier de potence en France du moyen âge à nos jours (Marseille: Images en Manouvres, 2007), 289–301.

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marry their daughters to those of their sect.”22 Similarly, wills show that, unlike their Catholic counterparts, the Waldenses preferred to be buried in the cemetery rather than in church. Here then, are three additional features which are shared by the Waldensian community and forge their identity. Admittedly, any one specific feature, or even a number of them, could be singled out and traced in other dissenting religious communities. What makes the Waldensian brotherhood unique is that all these features are reunited. In this way, they shape a group with a strong lasting identity. Meanwhile, other characteristics can take shape within the group, as can some more extraordinary features emerging straight from the Inquisitor’s imagination. But when these do not recur further afield or later in time, they are more likely local, short-lived variants rather than founding characteristics of the Waldensian community. They can be put down to the influence of other communities such as the proximity of the Hussites in Bohemia or later contacts with the Reformation. One feature, however, deserves special mention. All written documents to have survived from the western branch of the Waldenses in France and Italy are written in the Langue d’Oc which was their language in everyday usage, whereas in the East they spoke a Germanic tongue, and in Bohemia they spoke Czech. From this point on, communications became difficult, and the links between them became more distended. When the barbes Morel and Masson met the Reformers on behalf of their community, they spoke only of the western branch of the diaspora. This major difficulty notwithstanding, the western and eastern branches of the Waldensian diaspora both felt they continued to form a single community. This is shown for example by Luc de Prague’s journey to Italy in the 1490s. It was similarly sensed during the polemical Synod of Chanforan in 1532, when the western branch of the Waldenses decided to adopt the Reformation. Two hesitant barbes, Daniel de Valence and Jean de Molines, who did not agree with the new proposals, set off for Bohemia to explain the situation to the Czech brothers. However tenuous, such travels attest to the survival of links and a certain feeling of unity.

22

Gabriel Audisio, “Rapport des commissaires du roi sur les vaudois,” I Valdesi e l’Europa, Collana della Società di Studi Valdesi 9 (Torre Pellice 1982), 139–50, esp. 149.

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Conclusions All in all, what is the best response to the initial question: can we speak of one and the same Waldensian community? Within the space and time frame given here, the answer is “yes we can.” Admittedly, in history, it is rare to come by absolute proof. But the converging factors presented here show that the Waldenses of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries formed a community with a strong sense of identity. They were conscious of it among themselves and were seen as united from outside. The extent of the geographical diaspora, however, was a serious threat to the community’s unity. We can distinguish between two separate cultural and linguistic branches, the Romance side and the Germanic one, which, without losing all contacts, gradually moved further and further apart. The end result can best be described as unity within diversity. One question remains outstanding: would the Waldenses of this later era have recognised themselves in their thirteenth-century forebears? This is a separate issue which I have not tackled here, and which is faced by all religious communities that survive across the centuries. 23 It might be summed up in the following terms: what is the threshold beyond which evolution becomes rupture or even betrayal?

23

On this point in the Middle Ages, see Grado G. Merlo, Valdesi e valdismi medievali (Turin: Claudiana, 1984) and idem, Identità valdesi nella storia e nella storiografia (Turin: Claudiana, 1991).

COMPOSITE RELIGIONS AND IDEAS IN EXILE: ENCOUNTERS BETWEEN EARLY SAXON REFORMERS AND THE FIRST ANABAPTISTS EMESE BÁLINT AND CHRISTOPHER MARTINUZZI

Beyond the magisterial Reformation, in the early sixteenth century Europe witnessed religious mutations and consequent variations of intellectual and social impulses as well as Christian motifs that brought about a ferment of so-called radicalised theologies. Sects and churches proliferated in this period influenced by Humanism, spiritualism, anticlericalism, sacramentarianism, mysticism, millennialism, Biblicism, communitarian visions; all of these were conceived as acts of revolt against the old Church and the new. Thus, the early years of the Reformation cannot be boxed or labelled within definite categories that work for the later period, for instance, radical and magisterial. The idea of a radical Reformation can only be viewed in relation to that of the magisterial one and the latter did not exist in the early 1520s. Only after the Great Peasants’ War of 1525 and the Confessio Augustana (Augsburg Confession) of 1530 did the Lutherans, with the support of the Saxon princes, gradually establish an institutionalised Church. Prior to that, the ideas over authority, baptism, and communalism, as well as on other more theological doctrines, circulated and were discussed by all the thinkers and reformers of the period. These ideas were hardly structured in homogeneous doctrines; thus, for this specific context, that of the early Reformation in Germany, we see fit to introduce the idea of composite religions to describe the views and attitudes of the many individuals and communities that at one point or another suffered exile religionis causa. The problem of how to classify that vast body of individual thinkers, unofficial sects, and entire communities that grew from—and quite often parallel to—Luther’s breaking point with the Church of Rome, and that would counteract from Luther himself and the dawning Protestant churches, has been a matter of long historical debate that we will not

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address here.1 In this essay we will focus on the interaction of individuals and the interference of diverse, sometimes even divergent, ideas that influenced the formation of new beliefs and new religious communities. This was a fundamental and formative stage for both the Reformation and the Anabaptist movement. A survey of the existing connections between the two could help to better understand the crisis-torn society of the 1520s and the phenomena that would lead to the expulsion of individuals and larger groups of dissenters. The tendency in literature is to separate the two movements. The research we have conducted has shown that strong connections existed between early Saxon reformers and the first Anabaptists; their beliefs were shaped not only via epistolary influences and written tracts, but also through individuals and face-to-face relations, debates and disputations.2 For example, the confrontations between Luther, Müntzer, and Karlstadt illustrate how fluid ideas were in this initial phase of the 1

George H. Williams’ Radical Reformation, even if not unanimously accepted, is still the predominant historical category used today to indicate those reformers that were not Lutheran, Zwinglian, or Calvinist. This definition disputed John McNeil’s “left wing of the Reformation” (used at the time by historians such as Roland Bainton). It has been argued that the term “left” has a political rather than religious connotation and that the term “radical” can be used in a much broader and inclusive way. All the same, as some historians such as Antonio Rotondò have pointed out, even the term radical has a political-parliamentary origin that has been located differently from historian to historian (but no earlier than the eighteenth century). Thus, one could say that, for the Reformation, it has been used, at least, in an anachronistic way. Further studies seem to relate to the category of “hot Protestantism,” a term which Patrick Collinson has used referring to late sixteenthand early seventeenth-century England, to identify religious dissidence from more orthodox reformed views. George Huntston Williams, The Radical Reformation (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2000); J. T. McNeill, “Left-Wing Religious Movement,” in A Short History of Christianity, ed. Archibald G. Backer (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1940); Roland H. Bainton, “Thomas Müntzer. Revolutionary Firebrand of the Reformation,” Sixteenth Century Journal 12 (1982): 5–18; Patrick Collinson, The Elizabethan Puritan Movement (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990). 2 Emese Bálint, “Anabaptist Migration to Moravia and the Hutterite Brethren,” in Religious Diaspora in Early Modern Europe, ed. Timothy G. Fehler et al. (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2014), 137–52; Christopher Martinuzzi, “Riforma radicale e violenza. Riflessioni sulla spada temporale negli anni di Bauernkrieg,” Bollettino della Società di Studi Valdesi 213 (2013): 3–43.

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Reformation; whereas the activity of individuals such as Hans Hut, Jakob Hutter, and Hans Hujuff facilitated the circulation of ideas that would then become the backbone of later so-called radical movements, such as the Hutterites. Hans Denck, Conrad Grebel, Johannes Oecolampadius, and other important personalities would aid encounters between individuals and groups, and help the circulation of their ideas. From Saxony, where the first reformers were active, these dissidents carried ideas to the more tolerant regions of southern Germany and then on to Switzerland and Austria. Luther had begun his movement in Wittenberg, and from there the Reformation would spread to other parts of the Empire. But Wittenberg was not the only centre: Allstedt, where Müntzer preached his shade of reform, and Orlamünde, where Karlstadt installed the priesthood of all believers (which later became a fundamental element for the Anabaptists), were equally important. Furthermore, Nuremberg, Zurich, and Basel functioned as anchors for individuals and ideas. Nikolsburg instead, because of the reformer Balthasar Hubmaier’s intransigence, did not perform the same role as other Anabaptist communities would. A profound change was brought about by these figures, threatening the power of the secular rulers—traditional customs, laws, and practices—in the name of a higher authority, the Gospel or the “living Word of God,” (i.e., direct revelation). 3 The excitement of the Reformation, as well as bitterness against established authority generated unrest that went from Alsace to Saxony, Bohemia, Hungary, and Poland. On the other side, even if authorities could contain violence, they watched their subjects with increasing alarm, often thinking that coercion was the right response. Any element of instability that ran against the interest of authorities, both spiritual and temporal, was met with repression, the only natural response. The challenge posed to these new sects was to turn into something dour and structured in order to be able to survive. But their becoming dour did not happen at once: many sectarian leaders that sprang to prominence in later years had been first radicalised by the experience of the 1524–1525 events. One could point to Balthasar Hubmaier, Jakob Hutter, Melchior Rinck, Hans Hut, and Hans Denck.4 In subsequent phases their radicalisation took different twists and turns; the ideological character had been formed 3

Werner O. Packul, Hutterite Beginnings. Communitarian Experiments during the Reformation (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995). 4 Diarmaid MacCulloch, Reformation. Europe’s House Divided, 1490–1700 (New York: Viking, 2003), 160.

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over a long period of time and by integrating ideas and practices from a plurality of movements. Biblicism was supported by the Swiss Brethren, who equally propagated mutual aid for the brethren alongside the Tyrolean Anabaptists, and both endorsed non-resistance. Spiritualism was an important feature of south German Anabaptists, as it had descended from Saxony through Thomas Müntzer, while Müntzer’s closest follower, Hans Hut preached millennial teachings about the imminent coming of Christ. The following paragraphs will discuss the problem of the secular power (its limits and legitimacy, violent, and non-violent resistance), of egalitarian utopias (community of goods, for example), and baptism, which were all divisive issues among these early sixteenth-century thinkers.

Reformed and Anabaptist Ideas over Secular Authority and Violence In the first half of the 1520s, both early reformers and Anabaptists would grapple with the issue of secular authority (Weltlicher Obrigkeit), often referred to as the teaching “On the sword,”5 and how a truly Christian society was to be organised (with themes such as the refusal of oaths and the community of goods). These ideas would vary according to the specific context in which they were developed, but continuities can be found between the ideas of early Saxon reformers and the first Anabaptists. One could observe a soft division with permeable boundaries if we take into consideration the basic social and theological principles these branches were built on. End-of-the-world fervour on the one hand, attitudes and positions on the sword and towards princely power on the other hand, as well as ideological stands on the community of goods were themes that found expression in the various theologies of the Reformation. The diversity among them was due to heterogeneity in roots, 6 and the context from which they stemmed. James Stayer’s meticulous documentation on Anabaptists revealed the existence of a variety of attitudes and positions on the sword, ranging from pacifist non-resistance to violent apocalyptic crusading. At the same time, his study proved that religious

5

“Schleitheim Articles, on the Sword,” in James M. Stayer, Anabaptists and the Sword (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2002), 120–21. 6 Packul, Hutterite Beginnings, 7.

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intensions were interwoven with socio-political issues.7 For example, the Swiss Brethren and Zwingli’s reformed movement, although closest in their understanding of the Lord’s Supper, disagreed on the matter of infant baptism, the issue of tithe and the right of Zurich’s villages to appoint their preachers.8 This disagreement led to a profound rupture between the two movements. For instance, Conrad Grebel’s 1524 Swiss Brethren and the 1527 Schleitheim Confession Anabaptists believed that the use of force and involvement in society was “irrelevant to the achievement of the highest values” and, furthermore, that there could not be any “ethically neutral coercion among human beings.” Stayer has labelled this approach to the world as “radical apoliticism.” The “crusading standpoint” or “revolutionary crusaders”—namely Thomas Müntzer—stand on the opposite side of Stayer’s scale. In his words, they believed “that force, the coercion of opponents, was an absolutely legitimate and effective means to full realisation of their values” vis-à-vis salvation. 9 Stayer’s distinction hides a precise apologetic intent that can be noticed in his idea that “the revolutionary beginnings of sixteenth-century Anabaptism must not be allowed to obscure the peaceful, Biblicist, sectarian, and separatist character of the mature movement.” 10 Many historians of Anabaptism have tried to formulate a retrospective projection of the term pacifism, whilst the more militant elements of the so-called radicals have often been seen either as apocalyptic fanatics or as revolutionary heroes, as is the case of Thomas Müntzer and the lesser-known Hans Hut. Some historians have done so by seeking the origins of the Anabaptist movement in nonviolent and apolitical martyr figures such as Conrad Grebel and Felix Manz.11 7

Stayer, Anabaptists and the Sword. Packul, Hutterite Beginnings, 9. 9 Stayer, Anabaptists and the Sword, 3. On similar grounds and quite convincingly, in regards to the controversial Münster Anabaptist Bernard Rothmann, W. J. De Bakker has argued that “the term ‘Revolutionary Anabaptism’ has to be used with considerable care,” because, “like its predecessors ‘Schwärmer’ and ‘Evangelical Anabaptism’ ... contains the implicit assertion that the sixteenth-century Anabaptists were somehow unique or sui generis.” Willem J. De Bakker, “Bernard Rothmann: Civic Reformer in Anabaptist Münster,” in The Dutch Dissenters. A Critical Companion to Their History and Ideas, ed. Irvin Buckwalter Horst (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 116. 10 Stayer, Anabaptists and the Sword, xiii. 11 Harold S. Bender, Conrad Grebel. The Founder of the Swiss Brethren Sometimes Called Anabaptists (Goshen, IN: The Mennonite Society, 1950); Ugo 8

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Trying to determine clear boundaries within the movement of religious Reform, in which the whole of Europe was involved from the onset of the sixteenth century, has often proven to be a controversial and sometimes ideological operation. For instance, a full distinction between a magisterial and radical Reformation can be of little help to shed light on the early years of the movement. In some cases, Luther himself could even be seen as a radical, whilst, from a liturgical point of view, Thomas Müntzer could be considered more orthodox than some of his so-called magisterial colleagues. Williams anticipated this sort of criticism by affirming that magisterial reformers felt the radicals as outsiders from their religious and political beliefs. Yet, as Rotondò has put it, “Estranei, sì; ma non come uomini reali, agitati da problemi reali della loro vita intellettuale e morale, ma come ombre del Maligno, come generiche, anche se terrifiche, incarnazioni di Satana” (Outsiders, yes; but not as real men stirred by real problems of their intellectual and moral life, but as shadows of the Devil, as general, even though terrible, incarnations of Satan). 12 Hans-Jünger Goertz has recently argued that it is hard to see figures such as Karlstadt and Müntzer as “outsiders of the Reformation.” He states: “The Reformation was not yet conceived as an event that had happened when these figures emerged, but as something that was yet to occur.” The concept of radical Reformation is thus firmly criticised by the German historian: “It makes no sense to distinguish between a moderate (genuine) Reformation and a radical Reformation,” he argues, and specifically it is of no use as a distinctive element “in the early years of the Reformation.”13 One of the problems that arise when using the term “radical” is that these personalities emerge as politically and religiously subversive. Can Gastaldi, Storia dell’anabattismo. Dalle origini a Münster 1525–1535 (Turin: Claudiana, 1992). Snyder has recently written: “Anabaptism began in Switzerland in January 1525, with the group around Conrad Grebel in Zurich. It did not begin a few years earlier with Thomas Müntzer and the ‘Zwickau prophets’ in Saxony,” as if we were talking of a revealed truth or exact science. See Arnold C. Snyder, “Swiss Anabaptism: The Beginning, 1523–1525” in A Companion to Anabaptism and Spiritualism, 1521–1700, ed. John T. Roth and James M. Stayer (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 45–82. 12 Antonio Rotondò, Studi di storia ereticale del Cinquecento (Florence: Olschki, 2008), 10. 13 Hans-Jürgen Goertz, “Karlstadt, Müntzer and the Reformation of the Commoners, 1521–1525,” in A Companion to Anabaptism and Spiritualism, 1521– 1700, ed. John T. Roth and James M. Stayer (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2007), 1–43.

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we consider violence or nonviolence as discriminant for the historical category of radicalism? In this sense, the term radical has been used by historians and scholars quite broadly and, in some cases, contradictorily. Thomas Müntzer, who in 1525 led a large peasant army against lords and princes, and invoked that the elect should “fight the fight of the Lord” against “tyrants and evil-doers” and therefore, at the end, advocated the use of violence, has been described as much a radical as Conrad Grebel who prompted the idea that “one should not protect the Gospel and its adherents with the sword.”14 Thus the next question should be: what part did violence play in the early years of the Reformation? Answering this question has not proven to be easy. It is a problem that longs to find a historical explanation free from ideological contamination that could help to further understand figures such as Thomas Müntzer, Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt, even Martin Luther himself, Hans Hut and the entire Anabaptist movement, alongside historical events such as the Great Peasants’ War of 1524–26. Violence and religion were inevitably related during the sixteenth century, especially during its first decades. For more than a century religious controversies became the prime cause of what are known as “Religious Wars”: from the Great Peasants’ War to the Thirty Years War, violence and the longing for salvation became ever more contradictory. As the religious changes penetrated deep into society so did the violent consequences closely connected to them. However, the main problem that occurs when studying early-modern German relationships of power is the great number of intertwining and often conflicting institutions (as can be vividly seen in Heinrich von Kleist’s novel Michael Kohlhaas) that ruled at different levels. For instance, the Thuringian town of Allstedt, where Müntzer tried to apply his particular shade of religious and political reform, was governed by many layers of different authorities, starting from the City Council, the town intendant, the Landgrave of Thuringia, the Elector of Saxony, all the way up to the Emperor himself. This often meant that jurisdictional conflicts between the different powers would entangle the administration of rights, duties, and of justice. In this scenario, private violence would frequently substitute what we call 14

“Conrad Grebel and Companions to Thomas Müntzer. Zürich, 5 September 1524,” in Thomas Müntzer: Briefwechsel, Thomas-Müntzer-Ausgabe. Kritische Gesamtausgabe, ed. Siegfried Bräuer and Manfred Kobuch (Leipzig: Evan. Verl.Angst. [in Komm.] 2010), 2: 350.

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controlled State violence on matters of honour, property, and even religion. Therefore, it can be said that violence was a central element at all levels of social and institutional relations, and in medieval and earlymodern Germany was part of popular culture, playing an essential role in all social strata. Only by taking into account the context can the different attitudes of early reformers and Anabaptists towards authority and violence be understood. The Great Peasants’ War that was fought in most of Central Europe by peasants, miners, but also members of the clergy and the nobility between the years 1524–26, exemplifies this relation between religion and violence, and none more so than the Bauernkrieg in southern and eastern Germany. This violent uprising never achieved either unity or a common goal despite being the largest and most widespread popular uprising prior to the French Revolution, touching a vast portion of Central Europe and counting on thousands of peasants, farmers, and town workers. Not even in the small region of Thuringia did the peasants manage to overcome their village and local interests, if not in a few specific cases. This was partly because the causes of the revolts varied largely from region to region, but first and foremost from town, country, and the entire suburban and village world that lay in between. The same can be said for Thuringia, that at the time of the upheavals was ruled by Duke John the Constant (der Beständige), future elector of Saxony and brother of Frederick the Wise, where towns and villages alike were hit by the revolts. Violence and its opposite—nonviolence—are complex interpretative keys to use in regards to the Reformation. Both hide strong politicalideological connotations. All the same, these categories are less inclined to ideological interpretations and interpolations than their political counterparts—pacifism and revolution. Nonviolence has often been used by historians to frame certain cases of ante litteram pacifists, such as Conrad Grebel’s Swiss Brethren or Michael Sattler’s Schleitheim Confession. Violence has rarely been used as a category in itself in regards to the Reformation era. On the one side, historians have preferred to analyse what are known as (and that Hannah Arendt has called) the “means of violence”: war, revolution, rebellion, and all its declinations (upheaval, unrest, turmoil, etc.). 15 In many cases even contemporary historiography is reluctant to abandon the language either of revolution or

15

Hannah Arendt, On Violence (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1969).

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of fanaticism—millennialism. 16 On the other side, a more erudite historiography has focused mainly on the theoretical and biblical teaching on the sword (i.e., the relation to and ideas on secular authority). James M. Stayer has argued that “a major problem of the most important group of radicals in the sixteenth century—the Anabaptists—is that they seemed to oscillate between the polar antithesis of pacifism and revolution in their early history.” 17 Yet, the paramount concern of these reformers was neither pacifism nor revolution as theoretical matters, but first and foremost the idea of salvation. However, the way to salvation varied greatly for early sixteenth-century thinkers. For some it was only an-otherworldly matter, whilst for others it began in this world. In both cases, salvation acquired a strong political and social connotation. This apparent opposition is embodied by Conrad Grebel on the one side and by Thomas Müntzer on the other. The former has been seen as the first Anabaptist and founder of the Swiss Brethren in Zurich; the latter was a Saxon reformer, later involved in the Peasants’ War in Thuringia and should be seen as the key figure in the debate over violence and secular authority.18 The only contacts between them materialised in two letters by

16

Arthur P. Mendel, Vision and Violence (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1999); Norman Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium. Revolutionary Millenarians and Mystical Anarchists of the Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1957). 17 Stayer, Anabaptists and the Sword, 1. 18 On Müntzer see Tom Scott, Thomas Müntzer. Theology and Revolution in the German Reformation (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1989); Hans-Jürgen Goertz, Thomas Müntzer. Mystiker, Apokalyptiker, Revolutionär (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1989); idem, Ende der Welt und Beginn der Neuzeit. Modernes Zeitverständnis im apokalyptischen Saeculum: Thomas Müntzer und Martin Luther (Mühlhausen: Thomas-Muntzer Gesselschaft, Veroffentlichungen 3, 2002); idem, Thomas Müntzer. Revolutionär am Ende der Zeiten (Munich: C. H. Beck 2015); Bräuer and Kobuch, Thomas Müntzer Briefwechsel; Günther Franz and Paul Kirn, eds., Thomas Müntzer. Schriften und Briefe. Kritische Gesamtausgabe. Quellen und Forschungen zur Reformationsgeschichte (Gütersloh: Mohn, 1968). For an English translation of Müntzer’s complete works see Peter Matheson, The Collected Works of Thomas Müntzer (Edinburgh: T&T Clarke, 1988). For a miscellaneous translation of tracts and letters see Michael G. Baylor, ed., Revelation and Revolution. Basic Writings of Thomas Müntzer (London/Toronto: Associated University Presses, 1993). For a summary of the historiographical debate over Müntzer see Christopher Martinuzzi, “Thomas Müntzer. Dall’ideologia alla

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Grebel seen as the “first statement of . . . non-resistance”19 and through the connecting figure of Hans Hujuff, a goldsmith from Halle. These connections are a testimony of a boundary-less movement that aspired to find the righteous path to salvation and a true Christian society. Although in a letter of September 1524 Grebel wrote: “One should not protect the gospel and its adherents with the sword . . . as we [the Swiss Brethren] have heard that you [Müntzer] hold and maintain,” it was not meant as an admonishment against Müntzer, but rather as a confession of his own faith. “We were thrilled,” he continues, “to have found someone who shared our Christian understanding and who ventured to point out the faults of the evangelical preachers [Luther and Zwingli]: their false laxity and decisions on all the main points . . . You are considered by us to be the purest proclaimer and preacher of the purest divine word.”20 Grebel’s ideas on violence were clearly summarised in this very same letter: “True believing Christians are sheep in the midst of wolves, sheep for slaughtering, and must be baptised into anxiety and dereliction, tribulation, persecution, suffering and dying, must be tried in the fire and find the fatherland of eternal rest not by throttling their bodily, but their spiritual foes. . . . They make no use of the secular sword or of war, either, for among them killing has been done away with altogether.”21 Grebel might have learned of Müntzer’s supposed violent stand against authorities from Martin Luther’s criticism in his Letter to the Princes of

storia,” in Ripensare la Riforma protestante. Nuove prospettive degli studi italiani, ed. Lucia Felici (Turin: Claudiana, 2016), 311–23. 19 James M. Stayer, “The Anabaptist Revolt and Political and Religious Power,” in Power, Authority, and the Anabaptist Tradition, ed. Benjamin W. Redekop and Calvin W. Redekop (Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 53. 20 “Conrad Grebel and Companions to Müntzer. Zürich, 5 September 1524,” in Bräuer and Kobuch, Thomas Müntzer, 351. 21 The last phrase of this extract seems to echo Erasmus and More’s Humanist appeal to peace: “war they loathe utterly as a bestial activity” the latter wrote in reference to the Utopians. Thomas More, Utopia, trans. and ed. Dominic BakerSmith (London: Penguin Books, 2012). On Erasmus’ influence on radical thought see Peter G. Bietenholz, Encounters with a Radical Erasmus: Erasmus’ Work as a Source of Radical Thought in Early Modern Europe (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009); and Carlos Gilly, “Erasmo, la reforma radical y los heterodoxos radicales españoles,” in Les lletres hispàniques als segles XVI, XVII i XVIII (Castellò de la Plana: Publicacions de la Universitat Jaume I, 2005).

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Saxony (1524) in which he was defined as “the Satan of Allstedt.” 22 Indeed, Grebel wrote to Müntzer: “Our fellow-brother [Hans Hujuff] has received a letter here and a shameful little book of Luther’s, which ill befits anyone who claims to represent the first fruits of the Spirit23 . . . I see that he wants to hand you over to the axe and surrender you to the princes.”24 Contrary to Luther’s claim, in those months Müntzer did not theorise the use of violence against secular authority tout court, but only against tyranny (i.e., the Catholic lords). If at first he looked for support from the princes of Saxony, in the final months of his life he turned more decisively to the cause of the peasants. The Thuringian reformer himself believed that the elect would have to suffer as Christ did on the cross, be tried by God, and abandon all earthly goods so that their souls could become a “temple for God’s living Word.” His position at the time was similar to that of Karlstadt, who in a letter of the people of Orlamünde to those of Allstedt wrote “on the Christian way to fight”: We have read the statement you sent us and have done our best to understand it, noting your reason for writing to us, that is, the way in which the Christians in your area are being repeatedly thrown into chains. . . . We must be quite frank and say that we can have no resort to worldly weapons in this matter. . . . For Christ ordered Peter to put his sword away, and did not allow him to use force on his behalf. . . . So when the time and the hour is at hand in which we too have to suffer . . . let us not run for knives and spears and drive out the eternal will of the father by our own violence. . . . Pay no heed if the stiff-necked power of tyranny rises up to resist you. For the apostles and all the saints of God, even Christ himself, were not immune from this.25

Thomas Müntzer’s letters and works can help us to further understand his thought and actions, but most of all give us a glimpse into the crisis-torn society he lived and preached in. Moreover, his correspondence is an extraordinary example of how the dawning years of the Reformation were 22

“Martin Luther to John of Saxony. Wittenberg, 18 June 1524,” in Quellen zu Thomas Müntzer, ed. Wieland Held and Siegfried Hoyer (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2004), 139. 23 A reference to the doctrine of the direct revelation of God. 24 “Conrad Grebel and Companions to Müntzer. Zürich, 5 September 1524,” in Bräuer and Kobuch, Thomas Müntzer, 363. 25 “The statement of the people of Orlamünde to those of Allstedt on the Christian way to fight. 19 July 1524,” in Bräuer and Kobuch, Thomas Müntzer, 292.

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an age of great transformations, where everything seemed possible and the changing context shaped the reformers’ own ideas. As a testimony of the final months of the Bauernkrieg in Saxony and Thuringia, Thomas Müntzer’s Briefwechsel can help us to depict the web of connection that he had put into place in the region.26 In the months that preceded the famous battle of Frankenhausen of May 1525, his pen became an essential element in transforming the single and separate revolts in the region into a large, widespread and coherent upheaval that sometimes has gone by the name of “Revolution of the Common Man” or “Revolution of 1525.”27 The role played by Müntzer in this vast rebellion has been greatly debated by historians. If at first (indeed for almost four centuries), Müntzer was seen as the leader of the Great Peasants’ War in its whole, either as the “Satan of Allstedt” (as Luther would call him) that was driving his army to battle, or, from the mid-nineteenth century, as the head of an ideological revolution ante litteram, his part in the revolts has finally been put into scale and context. Müntzer’s correspondence clearly shows us how he played no part in the military organisation of the revolts in Thuringia. Differently from other leaders of the Peasants’ War, he gave the movement an ideological basis on which to stand, a whole new German reformed liturgy to be practiced. His pen and his preaching served him more than the sword with which he is often remembered (even though there is no documented testimony of an armed Müntzer).28 In other words, before being a revolutionary and a prophet, Thomas Müntzer was a reformer deeply immersed in the changes and traditions of early modern Germany. During his stay in Allstedt, Müntzer wrote most of his liturgical works and political-religious pamphlets that often have been read out of context and through the lens of the coming Peasants’ War of 1525. During this time, the reformer tried to find support and protection from local authorities and the Saxon princes for his “Allstedt Reformation,” 26

For a new and complete critical edition of Thomas Müntzer’s Briefwechsel see Bräuer and Kobuch, Thomas Müntzer. 27 See Peter Blickle, The Revolution of 1525. The German Peasants’ War from a New Perspective, trans. Thomas A. Brady, Jr. and H. C. Eric Midelfort (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981); idem, Communal Reformation. The Quest for Salvation in Sixteenth-Century Germany, trans. Thomas Dunlap (London: Humanities Press, 1992). 28 As Tom Scott has pointed out, “history has remembered only the violent Müntzer, wielding the sword and heaping salvoes of abuse upon his enemies.” Scott, Thomas Müntzer, 181.

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but found increasing antagonism from the Catholic lords of the surrounding regions. His theological ideas diverged from those of Luther, in particular in regards to the notions of sola fide and sola Scriptura.29 The Wittenberg reformer believed that God had revealed himself through Scripture, and would attack all who would refer to a living Word written in the believer’s heart. This was at the centre of their theological parting. By undermining the importance of Scripture, through a revelation that was given directly to all men by God, Müntzer was criticising the notion of authority itself in matters of individual conscience and belief. In his 1524 Vindication and Refutation, he would express his ideas over authority as follows: “As I expounded quite clearly to the princes, the power of the sword as well as the key to release sins is in the hands of the whole community. . . . I pointed out that the princes are not lords over the swords but servants of it. They should not act as they please, but execute justice. . . . Hence it is good old custom that the people must be present if someone is to be judged properly by the law of God.”30 The ideas of Müntzer survived and evolved in various forms among the veterans of the Peasants’ War. The figure of Hans Hut emerges as the embodiment of south German and Austrian Anabaptism. Although the Hutterite chroniclers would later portray Hut as a proto-Hutterite pacifist—mistakenly attributing to him the principle of non-resistance31— Hut did not break with his past ideas on the sword. He expected an invasion by the Turks to succeed where the peasants had failed: in the 29

The direct revelation of God in men’s hearts or souls is one, if not the most important aspect of Müntzer’s thought. It was one of the most radical doctrines of the Reformation, and found considerable following in sixteenth-century Europe. From Müntzer to Karlstadt, Schwenckfeld, and Franck, all the way to the esoteric ideas of Juan de Valdes, spiritualism soon became the target of the unanimous condemnation of both Catholics and Protestants alike. Through different sources such as German mysticism and the Spanish Alumbrados, these controversial figures identified direct revelation as the foundation of Christian faith, giving relevance to the experience of faith rather than to the teaching of Scripture. Tackling the issue of direct revelation and illumination in the dawning years of the Reformation often meant counteracting from Luther’s doctrines of sola Scriptura and sola fide, the very foundations on which the movement was built. 30 Matheson, Collected Works of Thomas Müntzer, 334. 31 The Hutterite Brethren, eds., The Chronicle of the Hutterite Brethren (Rifton, NY: Plough Publication House, 1987), 48. Contrary to the chronicles, the clash with Hubmaier at Nikolsburg did not centre on Hut’s non-resistance.

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punishment of the godless. This way, he translated the revolutionary hope of 1525 into an apocalyptic language. Based on the Book of Revelation (or the Apocalypse of John), the followers of Hut explained the signs of the times (revolt, earthquakes, wars, plague, famine) as certain signals of Christ’s imminent return that would take place at the approaching Pentecost of 1528. Müntzer’s legacy had thus survived the tumultuous year.

Circulation and Encounters in Exile The final months of the life of Müntzer are a fitting example of the encounters and connections that such a figure could make while in exile. Between the end of September 1524 and March 1525 Müntzer travelled from town to village in southern Germany and the Klettgau and Hegau regions. The poverty he saw and experienced struck deep into his conscience and in a letter of December 1524 he wrote with a certain prophetic tone: “The authorities . . . love prosperous days. The sweat of the working people tastes sweet, sweet to them, but it will turn into bitter gall. . . . The people are hungry; they must eat; they intend to eat.”32 In October 1524 Müntzer was in Nuremberg where he would meet with his followers Hans Hut and Hans Denck. In the Bavarian town, under the shadow of Willibald Pirkheimer and Albrecht Dürer, the most dangerous and radical works of the Reformation circulated among humanists and merchants alike, creating a fertile soil for Müntzer’s predication. Teacher at the school of St Sebald, Denck had been influenced by the ideas of Karlstadt and Müntzer himself, and was happy to give shelter to the reformer in exile for more than four weeks.33 As it has been said “Denck was disparagingly called in his time the bishop, the Apollo, the abbot, and the pope of the Anabaptists.”34 In Nuremberg Müntzer had, therefore, the chance to finish one of his most fiercely anti-Lutheran tracts: the so-called Vindication and Refutation, printed by Hieronymus Hölzel.35 The primary 32 “Müntzer to Christopher Meinhard in Eisleben, December 1524,” in Bräuer and Kobuch, Thomas Müntzer, 383. 33 Alfred Coutts, Hans Denck, 1495–1527: Humanist and Heretic (Edinburgh: Macniven & Wallace, 1927). 34 Georg Baring, “Hans Denck und Thomas Müntzer in Nürnberg, 1524,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 50 (1959): 145–81. 35 Matheson, Collected Works of Thomas Müntzer, 327–50.

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purpose of this writing was a refutation of Luther’s Letter to the Princes of Saxony, but many of Müntzer’s ideas merged in it. Reportedly five hundred copies of the pamphlet were printed and spread across town and sent to Augsburg. It is known that the bookbinder and pedlar Hans Hut helped distribute the Vindication in secret, even though he had been distributing Lutheran pamphlets not long before.36 When the City Council discovered the nature of the pamphlet, all the copies found were burned. Hut left for peddling his books between Wittenberg and Erfurt, while Müntzer went south towards the alpine region from where the echoes of the peasants’ revolts were growing higher and higher. The two were to meet again in May 1525 on the eve of battle on the hill near Frankenhausen. In the Klettgau region, the peasants’ revolts had already torched the land since the summer of 1524, and it is not hard to imagine that Müntzer’s preaching could have found strong support in the area. At the same time, Müntzer himself drew from the region’s upheavals a lesson that would affect his subsequent involvement in the Thuringian rebellions a few months later. There is little if any documentation on Müntzer’s journey through southwest Germany and of his involvement with the local upheavals. In his final confession, however, the reformer admitted under torture that he “had discussed with the peasants of Klettgau and Hegau near Basel whether they wanted to join forces with him at Mühlhausen,” and that in the region “he had issued some articles drawn from the Gospel, on how one should govern, from which, later on, other articles were devised.” Müntzer confessed that the peasants “would have liked him to join them, but he declined with thanks” and that “it was not he who started the rising in the region, they had already risen in rebellion.”37 Müntzer’s confession further states: “Oecolampadius and Hugwald instructed him to preach to the people in that region. So he had preached that the rulers there were unbelievers, that the people, too, were unbelievers, and that a day of reckoning was sure to befall them. The letters which they had written to him were in a sack in Mühlhausen.”38 This statement is a testimony of the presence of Müntzer in the town of Basel where he met with the reformer and humanist Johannes Oecolampadius, 36 James M. Stayer, “Hans Hut’s Doctrine of the Sword: An Attempted Solution,” Mennonite Quarterly Review 39 (1965): 181–91. 37 “Confession of Master Thomas Müntzer,” in Matheson, Collected Works of Thomas Müntzer, 434. 38 Ibid.

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a figure who often connected individuals and ideas. Further evidence of their encounter can be found in a letter of Oecolampadius himself to Willibald Pirkheimer in Nuremberg, dated 21 September 1525, in which the former tries to explain why he hosted such a dangerous individual: He came to me as an exile and, though I had never met him and barely heard of his name, he greeted me. . . . I thought of what the divine commandment asks of us in regards to foreigners and exiles, and I myself had been one. Thus, I asked that he would dine with me. He accepted and came in the company of Hugwald. Only then did he tell me his name and the reason for his journey. What should I have done? I consoled him telling him to be patient. We talked a lot of the cross; he talked of it with so much insistence that I had no bad impression of him.39

By the time the letter had been written, the peasant army at Frankenhausen had been slaughtered and Müntzer executed. All who had had previous contacts with him (including the Basel reformer) rapidly tried to distance themselves from he who would soon become the heretic par excellence.

Composite Ideas over Baptism There is a vast debate on the origins of Anabaptism. We shall not address the issue of the act of adult baptism, but rather the circulation and confrontations of contemporary ideas that would then lead up to that. As we showed earlier, ideas influenced each other, and therefore determining a starting point for the movement seems futile. In January 1525, three key personalities of the Swiss Brethren, Conrad Grebel, Georg Blaurock, and Felix Mantz baptised one another in Zurich. Traditional literature has given preference to their nonviolent stand, thus their act was pinpointed as the true germinant moment of Anabaptism. Nevertheless, criticism over the sacrament of baptism had been present in the years prior to 1525. In the early 1520s, for instance, Saxon reformers fiercely debated over this issue. Martin Luther extensively wrote about child baptism in the early years of the Reformation. The sacrament (the only one maintained alongside the Eucharist and penance) was the very sign of the individual’s 39

“Oecolampadius to Pirckeimer, 21 September 1525,” in Briefe und Akten zum leben Oekolampads, ed. Ernst von Staehlin (Basel: M. Heinsius Nachfolger, Eger & Sievers, 1934), 389–91.

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entrance in the community of believers and the Christian society. It was a rite of passage both spiritual and earthly: purification from sin, but also an unconscious acceptance of society’s institutions and of the authorities who received their power directly from God. Luther’s ideas about baptism were complex and closely linked to other elements of his theology, as well as to the very precise historical context.40 If at first the reformer wrote on it in a merely theological way, as his controversy with Müntzer and Karlstadt grew, Luther’s understanding of baptism shifted further and further towards the importance of its secular meaning. After the second half of the 1520s, with the spread of practices of adult baptism by Müntzer’s followers in southern and eastern Germany, Luther’s discourse over baptism coincided with the anti-Anabaptist polemic. After the Peasants’ War, he believed that those who denied infant baptism were not only heretics, but also committing a seditious act against Christian society, that political authority should have punished. Luther believed that baptism was a life-long sacrament that ended with resurrection after God’s judgement: it comprised the ritual act of the immersion (and not aspersion as the Catholics) of the child; of the day-by-day penance of the believer; of his death and resurrection with the spiritual baptism of God. Luther’s main opponent on this matter was Müntzer. In his 1523–24 tract Protestation oder Erbietung, he was the first Saxon reformer to openly write against the sacrament of infant baptism. Müntzer’s criticism grew from German mysticism and his profound spiritualism. For the Allstedt reformer, baptism represented the mystical union between God and man: a unification that would only come to pass after the believer had followed the path of suffering set before him by God leading him to true faith. Therefore, the physical rite of aspersion of the waters over the child’s forehead, as well as that of full immersion advocated by Luther, lost all meaning in Müntzer’s thought. This position, however, did not lead him to support adult baptism. The Rechte tauffe could not be given by a minister of God or a priest through a rite, but only achieved through personal suffering and the real experience of faith. Müntzer’s position on baptism was clearly stated in his 1523 Protestation and Proposition where he wrote extensively on the matter.

40

See Martin Luther, Opere scelte. Sermoni e scritti sul battesimo, ed. Gino Conte (Turin: Claudiana, 2004). See also Jonathan D. Trigg, Baptism in the Theology of Luther (Leiden: Brill, 1994).

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I would be obliged if any of our learned men of letters [Luther and the Wittenbergers] could show me a single instance from the holy letters where an immature little child was baptised by Christ or his apostles, or if they could prove that we are commanded to have our children baptised in the way it is done today. . . . If it were necessary for our salvation, we would much rather . . . have good Greek or German wine poured over us than submit in such ignorance to this sprinkling of water.41

As did Müntzer, the Anabaptists believed that true faith was achieved through direct experience of Christ’s suffering: “the baptism of temptation and trial,” as Grebel would write. Nonetheless, they accepted the rite of baptising adults as a sign of their full union with God (though Grebel’s position on the matter is more complex, as can be seen in the following extracts). Müntzer’s ideas on baptism circulated as far as Zurich where they were embraced by the Swiss Brethren, as can be seen in Grebel’s letter of September 1524: “Your writing against false faith and baptism was brought to us; as a result our knowledge was deepened and confirmed and we were thrilled to have found someone who shared our Christian understanding and ventured to point out their faults to the evangelical preachers [Luther, Zwingli].”42 Although he would be baptised the following year, in this letter Grebel clearly stated the strong link he found with Müntzer’s thought, and went as far as stating the superfluity of adult baptism: As far as baptism is concerned your writing pleases us greatly and we would like further information from you. Our information is that without Christ’s rules about binding and unbinding not even an adult ought to be baptised. Scripture describes baptism as signifying that sins are washed away. . . . One will certainly be saved if one lives out the faith as it is signified by the inward baptism [Müntzer’s words]; so it is not as if the water strengthens and increases faith, as the Wittenberg scholars say. . . . All children who have not yet . . . eaten from the tree of knowledge will certainly be saved by the suffering of Christ.43

The very same ideas inspired Müntzer’s closest followers, such as Hans Hut and Hans Denck who were later rebaptised. Hans Hut’s stubborn 41

Franz and Kirn, Thomas Müntzer, 228. Matheson, Collected Works of Thomas Müntzer, 191. 42 Ibid., 122. 43 Ibid., 127–28.

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refusal of infant baptism probably originated from a discussion he had with three other craftsmen in 1524. It is also possible that Hut might have read Müntzer’s pamphlet regarding baptism. Indeed, he later declared that no proof had been shown to him in the Bible that infant baptism was necessary, just as Müntzer said in his Protestation. Hut became so interested in this doctrine that he would seek clarification in Wittenberg; but the answers he received turned him into a convinced detractor to such a degree that he even denied baptising his new-born child. His lords in Bibra (near Meiningen) ordered a disputation, but at the same time demanded that he have his child baptised within eight days under the penalty of exile. He chose the latter and went to Nuremberg where he met Denck and, through Denck, Thomas Müntzer. He figured there with the name Hans of Bibra, and was possibly among the signatories of the “eternal league” in Mühlhausen in the spring of 1525.44 After the defeat of the peasants, Hut went to Augsburg and there met Hans Denck, who baptised him. As an itinerant Anabaptist preacher, he covered the region extending from Thuringia to Tyrol and from Würtemberg to Moravia. In Moravia he confronted Balthasar Hubmaier, the very person who had baptised Hans Denck in Augsburg in 1526. Hubmaier was well-trained in scholastic theology and received his baccalaureus biblicus in 1511 at the University of Freiburg, and his doctorate in theology at the University of Ingolstadt shortly thereafter, in 1512.45 He was first ordained as a university preacher and chaplain of the Church of the Virgin, and then became chief preacher at the new cathedral of Regensburg where he successfully rid the town of its Jewish population. In 1521 he became pastor at Waldshut where he began to embrace certain Reformation concepts. By the time of the October Disputation in Zurich (1523), he was openly championing the Swiss Reformation and began to reform the faith and order of his church. His reform efforts were accompanied by a vigorous writing campaign in which he set forth a form of Reformation teaching that had an affinity with the emerging Anabaptism of Zurich and advocated believers’ (adult) baptism.46 Later he 44

James M. Stayer, The German Peasants’ War and Anabaptist Community of Good (Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1994), 78. 45 William R. Estepp, The Anabaptist Story. An Introduction to Sixteenth-Century Anabaptism (Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1996), 78–98. 46 Oeflentliche Erbietung; Vom christlichen Tauf der Gläubigen, one of the best defences of adult baptism.

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openly sided with the Swiss Anabaptists against Zwingli, and was baptised in 1525 by Wilhelm Reublin along with sixty of his parishioners. His political stand, as an organiser of the Waldshut reformed opposition against the Austrian government (which led to an armed intervention), gave him the ill fame of the instigator of the Peasants’ War. After the peasants were defeated, Waldshut was invaded by the imperial army, thus Hubmaier fled to Zurich where the city held him in light confinement and organised a disputation with Zwingli on baptism. At the end of the disputation, Hubmaier was asked to recant, which he did. In spite of his recantation, his position in Zurich was uncertain, thus he fled again, first to Konstanz and then to Augsburg where he continued to baptise. In July 1526, Hubmaier found refuge in Nikolsburg (now Mikulov) and, under the patronage of the Lichtenstein lords, transformed his parish into the centre for the Moravian Anabaptism. The printer Simprecht Sorg-Froschauer of Zurich who had been staying in Styria for some time, was now called in by Leonhard von Liechtenstein, brought his entire print shop with him, and published eighteen works by Hubmaier that he wrote after leaving Zurich. This is where Hans Hut joined Hubmaier with a substantial group of followers. Soon, however, he turned from associate to opponent. Hubmaier’s magisterial tendencies quickly developed when Hut arrived at Nikolsburg in 1526. 47 Further, internal tensions within the Nikolsburg group became acute regarding both matters of worship and more fundamental questions of theology and social ethics such as ringing bells for prayers, the celebration of Sunday and the high holidays, the desacralisation of the communion, and questions about predestination, election and freedom of the will. 48 As a Schwertler (of-the-sword) Anabaptist, the moderate Hubmaier believed the government to be an institution ordained by God. According to the view expressed in his writings, Christians have a responsibility to support governments and pay taxes. Furthermore, he clearly stated his beliefs regarding the government’s responsibility to defend the righteous, the innocent, and the helpless. Moreover, he believed that Christians should take up the sword 47

Darren M. Slade, “Balthasar Hübmaier: The Forgotten Archetype of the Baptist Denomination,” unpublished manuscript retrieved from: http://www.academia.edu/7928153/Balthasar_H%C3%BCbmaier_The_Forgotten_ Archetype_of_the_Baptist_Denomination [accessed 4 May 2016]. 48 Martin Rothkegel, “Anabaptism in Moravia and Silesia,” in A Companion to Anabaptism and Spiritualism, 1521–1700, ed. John D. Roth, James M. Stayer (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 163–215.

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or temporal power for a just cause if ordered to do so by the ruling government.49 Hut was expelled from Nikolsburg by Hubmaier’s patrons; nevertheless, his legacy continued to be felt in the congregation. A group broke away from the high-handed leadership of Hubmaier; among them were many of Hut’s former followers. Under the leadership of Jakob Wiedemann, a South German reformer clearly following the eschatological teachings of Hut and the non-resistant principle of the Swiss Brethren, they introduced the community of goods. This idea was later perfected by the Hutterites when they introduced communal living.

Social Reforms: From the Poor Chest to the Community of Goods As most reformed ideas, the community of goods also evolved in time and space, and should be understood with regards to the specific contexts. For instance, in his confession given under torture, Müntzer supposedly made his only reference to communalism in the famous phrase “Omnia sunt communia.”50 Though he referred to the abandoning of earthly goods in preparation to the salvation of the elect, this was not a social incentive, but rather a spiritual act of following the example of Christ’s poverty. In a letter of July 1523 Müntzer wrote to Karlstadt to describe the social reform taking place in Allstedt, namely the creation of a poor chest by abolishing the payments due to the convent of Walkenried: “They have taken away the wealth from our nuns so it can be distributed to the needy.”51 Müntzer was seeking advice from the reformer who, during Luther’s “imprisonment” at the Wartburg, had promoted in Wittenberg a bold program of reforms (Ordnung der Stadt Wittenberg). On the one hand, he established the priesthood of all believers by instituting the so-called “Evangelical Mass”; on the other hand, he created a chest for the needy as well as other measures to eliminate begging and prostitution. When Luther returned to Wittenberg in March 1522, he abolished all of these measures and forced Karlstadt to leave the university and the town. After that, Karlstadt was appointed as preacher in the Thuringian town of Orlamünde where he 49

Balthasar Hubmaier, “On the Sword,” in Anabaptist Beginnings (1523–1533). A Source Book, ed. William R. Estep Jr. (Nieuwkoop: B. de Graaf, 1976), 107–27. 50 “Confession of Thomas Müntzer. Heldrungen, 16 May 1525,” in Franz and Kirn, Thomas Müntzer, 548. 51 Matheson, Collected Works of Thomas Müntzer, 65.

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applied those very same social and religious reforms with a certain degree of success. Another type of social reform was the community of goods. It was introduced in the Moravian Anabaptist community by Jakob Wiedemann under the influence of the Swiss Brethren’s Liebeskommunizmus (sharing and caring). They settled for mutual aid and endorsed the belief that sharing with brethren in need was the actual teaching of the New Testament. While Hans Hut rejected the community of goods, his former followers voluntarily adhered to this new practice: “they met from time to time in different houses, received the pilgrims, guests and strangers from other countries, and began living in community.” 52 The only surviving description on the practice of the community of goods is kept by the Hutterites in their Great Chronicle: “the property of poor and rich should be distributed by the one chosen by the church, and everything should be held in common to serve God’s glory whenever and wherever God granted it.”53 The Hutterites introduced the community of goods as a social experiment under the immediate pressure of accommodating religious refugees storming into Moravia. Shortly after Hubmaier’s arrest, imprisonment and execution by the Austrian government in Vienna (1528), the so-called Stäbler (ofthe-staff) broke away from the Nikolsburg congregation. They held to an extreme form of nonresistance influenced by the Swiss Brethren even to the point of refusing to pay taxes earmarked for war against the Turks. The open frictions compelled the Lichtenstein barons to expel this party from their lands; thus, a group of about two hundred, not numbering children, established a new congregation at Austerlitz (now Slavkov u Brna) on the manorial estates of the Kaunitz family where they distinguished themselves by practicing an early form of the community of goods. They established the first settlement (Bruderhof) in which all property was held in common and imposed a rigid hierarchy upon the commune. Individual households were not at first abandoned, much emphasis was placed upon the loving, voluntary character of the whole community, and there was no uniformity of practice, let alone equality of condition among their members. Far from being democratic, the Stäbler in Austerlitz were assisted by preachers or elders called the servants of the word (Diener des Wortes), and by stewards or servants of temporal needs (Diener der 52 53

Chronicle of the Hutterite Brethren, 50. Ibid., 61.

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Nortdurf), all under the high-handed control of their bishop (Vorsteher). They administered a school, a bakery, a bathhouse, and a cotton factory. Following this practice, massive waves of new immigrants could be accommodated. After 1529, they advocated an organised resettlement of Anabaptists; in this fashion a group of eighty to ninety Anabaptist refugees from Austria and the Tyrol, especially from Sterzing (Vipiteno) and the mining city Rattenberg am Inn, joined the Austerlitz congregation.54 Shortly after their arrival, a clash between charismatic personalities within the Austerlitz group led to open hostilities. This time the discontent was voiced by Wilhelm Reublin, a key figure of the Swiss Anabaptists who had baptised Hubmaier in Waldshut. After he joined the Austerlitz Bruderhof in 1530, Reublin accused the elders of unequal distribution of goods and hypocrisy in their vacillating attitude towards payment of the war tax, as well as for coercing young women to marry the eligible young men in order to prevent marriage with “heathen” or non-believing wives. Thus a new schism was inevitable; in 1531 Wilhelm Reublin and Jörg Zaunring, co-workers of the charismatic leader Jakob Hutter in the Tyrol, left the Austerlitz congregation together with 150 Tyrolean followers. The new Bruderhof was started at Auspitz (now Hustopece) under the patronage of Johanka von Boskowitz, a noblewoman and abbess of the Queen’s nunnery in Mariasaal near Brno. The Auspitz settlement was organised along the same communitarian lines as the Austerlitz Bruderhof, with Reublin as the Vorsteher (chief minister) who presented himself as a new Moses chosen to free the true followers of Christ from the bondage of Wiedemann. Nevertheless, opposition to the perceived failings of the Austerlitz group did not convert into a harmoniously functioning community, and internal dissent plagued this new group too. Within only a year, the leaders of the exodus would be excommunicated: Wilhelm Reublin was excluded for excess of personal possessions, while his successor, Jörg Zaunring was found guilty and expelled for tolerating his wife’s adultery. After a short interim period in which the congregation was entrusted to Sigmund Schützinger from North Tyrol, who was subsequently found guilty and removed for the lax discipline regarding the community of goods, the congregation found itself without a leader. The void was filled by Schützinger’s rival, Jakob Hutter, a hat maker and Servant of the Word from the Tyrol who had previously mediated between the Anabaptists in Moravia and in the fairly large congregation 54

Rothkegel, “Anabaptism in Moravia and Silesia.”

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back in Tyrol, and who took over control by transferring his leadership qualities and funds to Auspitz in the summer of 1533.

Conclusions In the 1520s Europe witnessed a ferment of ideas that aimed at both a profound spiritual and social reform. A great number of thinkers and leaders formulated their ideas with regards to this principle, by offering several new ways to reach societal renewal. Contrary to traditional historiography, we find that describing this magmatic context in causal terms cannot reflect its complexity. For instance, the proposed sharp fracture between the Saxon reformers and the south German Anabaptists, as well as the division of a radical and a magisterial Reformation cannot do justice to such a wide proliferation and interconnectedness of ideas. Therefore, in this essay we have introduced the idea of composite religions and porous boundaries in order to mirror this intricacy and to shed light on the fluidity of the ideas circulating in this specific environment. We have done so by analysing three of the fundamental problems that early reformers and Anabaptists had to tackle with, all regarding the ideal Christian society: authority, baptism, and community of goods. Thomas Müntzer has been chosen as a leading figure for this study, though he has often been disregarded because of his involvement with the Peasants War. A great number of connections have been found between him, other Saxon reformers and the first Anabaptists. It is but natural that he argued and exchanged ideas with Luther and Karlstadt; further connections linking him with Denck, Hut, and Grebel prove that his legacy points far beyond the sole “revolution of the common man.” The concrete example of Hubmaier and of Moravian Anabaptism was used here to illustrate how the circulation of people and the shifting contexts produced unique systems of thought and how these translated into practical applications. None of the surviving religious creeds owe their final doctrinal structure to one hand, but to multiple pairs of hands that added pieces and fragments of stolen, borrowed, hand-picked or simply exchanged ideas, resulting in composite religions.

NEGOTIATING IDENTITY AMONG THE NAÇÃO IN EARLY MODERN ROME JAMES W. NELSON NOVOA

In June 1595 a Portuguese New Christian offered testimony before the tribunal of the Inquisition in Rome. Miguel Fernandes claimed to be fortytwo years of age, a native of Porto and a descendant of Portuguese Jews. In his deposition he provided his interrogators with an account of a fantastical life. He had grown up in his native city where he had studied Latin with a Theatine priest. At age seventeen he left for Brazil where he dedicated himself to commerce for five years. Upon returning to Portugal he joined the ranks of the Portuguese troops who served in King Sebastian’s (1557–1578) doomed foray into Morocco of August 1578, managing to return to Portugal a mere fifteen days after the rout of the Portuguese forces which had left thousands dead and held as captives. From there he returned to Brazil, this time participating in Cristovão de Barros’s conquest of Sergipe (1589–1590) and then returned to his native city again for a year from where he left for Pisa to marry Feliciana Dinis, the daughter of one Rui Teixeira, a Portuguese merchant he had met in Brazil.1 Teixeira himself had been living in Pisa for two years where he was one of the most prominent Portuguese New Christians in the city, a noted merchant who dealt in coral, sugar, and cotton. Rui had gone to Rome * The research for this article was made possible by the European Research Council grant 295352. I must express my continuing gratitude to Professor Yosef Kaplan for taking me on as a member of the project and to my fellow colleagues who made of my stay at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem a period of rich and stimulating exchanges. I am indebted to my colleague Stanley Mirvis for going over this article and pointing out some of its imperfections. 1 The trial is published in James Nelson Novoa, “The Many Lives of Two Portuguese Conversos: Miguel Fernandes and Rui Teixeira in the Tribunal of the Holy Office in Rome,” Hispania Judaica 12 (2016): 127–84. It is found in Stanza Storica BB 5-b. Archivio della Congregazione per la Dottrina della Fede, Rome, on fols. 154–195v.

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along with his son-in-law to find a proper house for himself and his wife and it was there that his problems began. A fellow Portuguese New Christian had denounced Fernandes as a blasphemer. Further suspicion fell on him due to his dealings with a Roman Jewish tailor who had been chosen by another New Christian Portuguese merchant, Jerónimo da Fonseca (1546–1596), to assist Rui and Miguel in finding furnishings for the house. The Roman Jew had sold Miguel some cloth in Pisa the year before and afterwards the Portuguese converso was overheard allegedly uttering some blasphemous utterances.2 The tribunal of the Roman Inquisition initiated a thorough investigation of Pisa’s New Christian community, working in conjunction with the tribunal of the Inquisition there, providing Rome with a who’s who list of the Portuguese residents of the city who descended from Jewish families.3 The anecdotal predicament of the two Portuguese New Christians is but one instance of how Portuguese conversos in Rome dealt with the manifold perplexities that their condition as conversos implied. While they were undoubtedly better off than their brethren in the Iberian Peninsula and free from the constant harassment of blood purity statutes back home, their presence in the seat of the Catholic Church was not unproblematic. As members of the nação, the term by which Portuguese New Christians referred to themselves and were referred to, they were indelibly linked to 2

On Jerónimo see James W. Nelson Novoa, “Between Roman Home and Portuguese Hearth. Jerónimo da Fonseca in Rome,” Historia y Genealogía 4 (2014): 341–56. 3 The background to these trials is contained in Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini, ed., Processi del Santo Uffizio di Venezia contro ebrei e giudaizzanti. Appendici, vol. 13 (Florence: Olschki, 1997). The bibliography on the Roman Inquisition in the early modern period is of course considerable. We cite only the following works: Edward Peters, Inquisition (New York: Free Press, Collier Macmillan, 1988); John A. Tedeschi, ed., The Prosecution of Heresy: Collected Studies on the Inquisition in Early Modern Italy, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies Series (Binghamton, NY: Medieval Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1991); Andrea Del Col and Giovanna Paolin, eds. L’Inquisizione romana in Italia nell’età moderna: Metodologia delle fonti e storia istituzionale. Atti del seminario internazionale. Montreale Valcellina, 23–24 settembre 1999 (Trieste: Universitá di Trieste, 2000); Stephan Wendehorst, ed., The Roman Inquisition, the Index and the Jews (Leiden: Brill, 2014); Adriano Prosperi, L’Inquisizione romana: letture e ricerche (Rome: Storia e Letteratura, 2006); Andrea Del Col, L’Inquisizione in Italia: Dal 12 al 21 secolo (Milan: Mondadori, 2006); Irene Fossi, “Conversion and Autobiography: Telling Tales before the Roman Inquisition,” Journal of Early Modern History 17 (2013): 437–56; Christopher F. Black, The Roman Inquisition (New York 2013); Thomas F. Mayer, The Roman Inquisition on the Stage of Italy c. 1590–1640 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014).

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their Jewish ancestry in Portugal, an identity predicated on the forced conversion of Portugal’s Jews in 1497. Throughout the following century, their plight only grew worse. Flight was the solution for many and the Italian Peninsula was one of the primary destinations chosen in Europe. Though better off in Rome, their lives were still not free of travail. They were subject to the general suspicions of dubious orthodoxy which dogged all foreigners there, especially those who were converts to the Catholic faith, however recent or far back.4 Unlike other locales in the Italian Peninsula, conversion to Judaism in the sixteenth century was not possible there. The only option available to them was to present themselves as Catholics, in spite of the suspicion which might have accompanied them. While some made it a point to make their New Christian origins as part of their public persona, to the point of casting themselves as veritable representatives of the nação in Rome, others chose not to draw attention to their Jewish origins or to obscure them. In either case these New Christians were true exiles from Portugal, having left on account of persecution or harassment due to their Jewish origins. As such they could lay claim to being a Catholic diasporic group from a declaredly Catholic country. The capital of the Catholic world was a place where they had to make a case for being sincerely devout Catholics, in the face of the institutions entrenched there, to ensure the increasing confessionalisation prevalent in early modern European states necessitating one to clearly define and delineate religious allegiances in a public manner.5 Such 4 On foreigners in Rome in the early modern period see Anna Esposito, Un’altra Roma. Minoranze nazionali e comunità ebraiche tra Medioevo e Rinascimento, ed. Alfio Cortonesi (Rome: D. Calamo, 1995); the following titles by Matteo Sanfilippo, “Migrazioni a Roma tra età moderna e contemporanea,” Studi Emigrazione 165 (2007): 19–32; “Roma nel Rinascimento: una città di immigranti,” in Benedetta Bini and Valerio Viviani, Le forme del testo e l’immaginario della metropoli (Viterbo: Sette Cittá, 2009), 73–85; and the following titles by Irene Fossi, “Roma patria comune? Foreigners in Early Modern Rome,” in Art and Identity in Early Modern Rome, ed. Jill Burke and Michael Bury (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 27–44; Convertire lo straniero. Forestieri e inquisizione a Roma in età moderna (Rome: Viella, 2011); “Conversion and Autobiography: Telling Tales before the Roman Inquisition,” Journal of Early Modern History 17 (2013): 437–56 and “The Hospital as a Space of Conversion: Roman Examples from the Seventeenth Century,” in Space and Conversion in Global Perspective, ed. Giuseppe Marcocci, Wietse De Boer, Aliocha Maldavsky, and Ilaria Pavan (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 154–74. 5 On confessionalisation see the following titles by Wolfgang Reinhard, Papauté, confessions, modernité, trans. F. Chaix, with preface by Robert Descimon (Paris: EHESS, 1998); “Reformation, Counter-Reformation, and the Early Modern State:

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confessionalisation was responsible for the uprooting and migration of many minority groups and as such shaped the early modern world.6 This article will attempt to draw attention to the specificity of the Portuguese New Christians as a Catholic diasporic group in Rome amidst the upheaval which the mass displacement of people on account of religious persecution caused in early modern Europe. By offering concrete examples of their interactions with Roman society and its institutions it will make the case that these conversos had to publicly situate themselves vis à vis their fellow Portuguese in the city and the Roman society which they encountered upon arriving. Rome of course was not just any city. As the capital of, at once, a state with a ruler who presided over it and the seat of the Catholic church, in the early modern period it had in place a complex apparatus of measures at once institutional and symbolic, which demanded constant and ostensive compliance with the religious identity in force there.7 This left its imprint on the kind of confessionalisation which was in place there, its forms and manifestations. It will describe how the Portuguese of Jewish origin articulated identity on an individual and collective level and the options which were available to them in that regard in the face of the confessionalisation in place in early modern Rome. It will also seek to present the case of Portuguese New Christians there in the wider picture of the diaspora in the Italian Peninsula in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

The Nação in Early Modern Italy The presence of Portuguese New Christians in Italy had been recognised and sought after by several Italian states throughout the sixteenth century. Cosimo de Medici (1519–1574) for one, as the Duke of Florence (1537– 1569) offered a formal invitation in January 1549 to have them settle in his A Reassessment,” Catholic Historical Review 75 (1989), 383–401; Benjamin Kaplan, Divided by Faith. Religious Conflict and the Practice of Toleration in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007); Heinz Schilling, “Confessionalisation in Europe: Causes and Effects for Church, State, Society and Culture,” in 1648: War and Peace in Europe, ed. Klaus Bussman and Heinz Schilling, vol. 1 (Munich: Bruckmann, 1998), 219–28. 6 On the question see the recent book by Nicholas Terpstra, Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World. An Alternative History of the Reformation (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015). 7 For the dual nature of the papacy in the early modern city see the now classic study by Paolo Prodi, The Papal Prince. One Body and Two Souls. The Papal Monarchy in Early Modern Europe, trans. Susan Haskins (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988).

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state with the goal of populating the city of Pisa.8 Like many other Italian rulers, he was cognizant of their importance as members of supra-natural trade networks, linked across the vast limits of the Portuguese Empire including the American continent, Africa, and Asia as well as to the Levant.9 Their ties of kinship were held to be a valuable asset to Italian states like the Dukedom of Tuscany which sought to extend their influence and the scope of their economic interests well beyond Italy.10 The invitation itself was years in the making and the term of the Duke’s invitation were conveyed to New Christians throughout Europe but especially in Italy with the hope of attracting prestigious men of means to the Tuscan port city.11 The Portuguese New Christian diaspora began after the kingdom’s Jews were forcibly converted in 1497 under King Manuel (1495–1521) after they had initially been expelled the year before.12 In the wake of the sudden elimination of Judaism from the land a new social distinction arose between Old and New Christians. An important and numerous new class of people subsequently existed in Portugal that had already haunted the Spanish imagination for a century since the 1391 wave of persecution incited many Jews to embrace the Christian religion: the conversos. As in Spain, suspicion of their lingering attachment to Jewish practice abounded and it was linked to an essentialist idea that equated their Jewish origins with Jewish belief. The existence of distinctive Jewish blood became an obsession in Portugal and it was enough to have a single ancestor, however remote, of Jewish origin to be forever suspected of heretical 8

On the invitation see Lucia Frattarelli Fischer, “Il principe, i nuovi cristiani e gli ebrei,” in Vivere fuori dal Ghetto. Ebrei a Pisa e Livorno (secoli XVI–XVIII) (Turin: Silvio Zamorani, 2008), 15–68. 9 Jonathan I. Israel, European Jewry in the Age of Mercantilism, 1550–1750 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); idem, Diasporas within a Diaspora: Jews, Crypto-Jews, and the World Maritime Empires, 1540–1740 (Leiden: Brill, 2002). 10 In the case of Tuscany see, for example, Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, “Os projectos de colonização e comércio toscanos no Brasil ao tempo do Grão Duque Ferdinando (1587–1609),” Revista de História 142–143 (2000): 95–122. 11 Lucia Frattarelli Fischer, “Ebrei a Pisa fra Cinquecento e Settecento,” in Gli ebrei di Pisa (secoli IX–XX). Atti del Convegno internazionale. Pisa, 3–4 ottobre 1994, ed. Michele Luzzati (Pisa: Societa Storica, 1998), 89–115; James W. Nelson Novoa, “Tre lettere di Pedro de Salamanca, documenti per la storia dell’insediamento dei nuovi cristiani in Toscana nel Cinquecento,” in Bollettino storico pisano 74 (2005): 357–67. 12 On the forced conversion and its effects see François Soyer, The Persecution of the Jews and Muslims of Portugal (Leiden: Brill, 2007).

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belief and practice.13 The identification of “stained” blood and the need to conceal it occupied people in all levels of society just as it had years before in Spain.14 The uneasy peace that followed the forced conversion in which there was an initial grace period during which the conversos in Portugal would not be subject to investigations regarding their Orthodoxy was short lived. Many were suspected of being marranos, a disparaging term for conversos who, in spite of outward Christian adherence were in fact linked to some form of Jewish belief however partial or syncretic. The authority to establish a tribunal of the Inquisition in Portugal was first granted to King João III (1521–1557) in 1531 though it only began to function in earnest in 1536 with six tribunals effectively operating by 1541.15 Very early on, Portuguese conversos began to be known as the nação, as if they belonged to a nation apart, as a collective group which set itself apart from the rest of the Portuguese, united by the common origin of their shared Jewish ancestral past. Belonging to such a collective group transcended religious affiliation as it included people who embraced the 13

On the conversos and purity of blood in Spain and Portugal see Haim Beinart, “The Converso Community in 15th Century Spain,” in The Sephardi Heritage. Essays on the History and Cultural Contribution of the Jews of Spain and Portugal, ed. Richard D. Barnett (London: Vallentine, Mitchell, 1971); Antonio Domínguez Ortiz, Los judeoconversos en la España Moderna (Madrid: MAPFRE, 1992); Benzion Netanyahu, The Marranos of Spain: From the Late Fourteenth to the Early Sixteenth Century According to Contemporary Hebrew Sources (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999); Eloy Benito Ruano, Los orígenes del problema converso (Madrid: Alicante, Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes, 2003); Linda Martz, A Network of Converso Families in Early Modern Toledo. Assimilating a Minority (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2003) and Juan Ignacio Pulido Serrano, Los conversos en España y Portugal (Madrid: Arco Libros, 2003). 14 David Niremberg, “Mass Conversion and Genealogical Mentalities: Jews and Christians in Fifteenth-Century Spain,” Past & Present 174 (2002): 3–41. 15 On the origins of the Inquisition in Portugal and its early activities see Alexandre Herculano, History of the Origin and Establishment of the Inquisition in Portugal, with preface by Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, trans. J. C. Branner (New York: AMS Press, 1968); Giuseppe Marcocci, I custody dell’ortodossia. Inquisizione e chiesa nel Portogallo del Cinquecento (Rome: Storia e Letteratura, 2004); idem, “A fundação da Inquisição em Portugal: um novo olhar,” Lusitania Sacra 23 (2011): 17–40; António José Saraiva, The Marrano Factory. The Portuguese Inquisition and its New Christians, 1536–1765, ed. Herman Prins Salomon and Isaac S. D. Sassoon (Leiden: Brill, 2001); Israel S. Révah, “Les marranes et l’Inquisition portugaise au 16ème siècle,” in Etudes Portugaises (Paris: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, 1975), 185–230; Robert Rowland, “Etre juif au Portugal au temps de l’Inquisition: nouveaux chrétiens, marranes, juifs,” Ethnologie française 29 (1999): 191–203.

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faith of their ancestors as it did others who held steadfast to the Catholic faith.16 As the sixteenth century progressed, Portuguese New Christians faced the prospect of constant Inquisitorial prying. Outright religious persecution was not the only threat they faced. By the end of the century, purity of blood statutes attacked the social status of New Christians by barring them from the clergy and universities.17 Onerous genealogical examinations to ensure the “purity” of one’s ancestry became the norm and excising the “stain” of Jewish blood through truncated genealogical accounts and family histories became normal practice. Merely being a New Christian, regardless of religious beliefs, made the prospect of flight desirous and throughout the sixteenth century the Italian Peninsula was one of their favoured destinations. Throughout the first half of the century several Italian states courted them, with the acknowledgement that they would reside there and live as Catholics. At the outset they could not officially accept the social category of baptised Christians who embraced Judaism, reneging on their faith. Cosimo’s 1549 invitation was a case in point as it promised them freedom from Inquisitorial meddling as long as they agreed to be at least outwardly Catholic. It followed similar invitations throughout Italy. Years before the papal-ruled Adriatic port of Ancona had granted them similar status in 1532 as did the dukedom of Ferrara in 1537.18 There was the tacit 16

Daviken Studnicki-Gizbert, A Nation upon the Ocean Sea. Portugal’s Atlantic Diaspora and the Crisis of the Spanish Empire, 1492–1640 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007); Juan Ignacio Pulido Serrano, “Plural Identities: The Portuguese New Christians,” Jewish History 25 (2011): 129–51; David Graizbord, “Religion and Ethnicity among ‘Men of the Nation’: Towards a Realistic Interpretation,” Jewish Social Studies: History, Culture, Society 15/1 (2008): 32– 65. 17 On purity of blood statutes in Portugal see Fernanda Olival, “Rigor e interesses: os estatutos de limpeza de sangue em Portugal,” Cadernos de Estudos Sefardita 4 (2004): 151–82 and João Vaz Monteiro de Figueiroa Rego, A honra alheia por um fio. Os estatutos de limpeza de sangue no espaço de expresão ibérica (sécs. XVI– XVII) (Lisbon: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, 2011). 18 On Ancona see Bernard Dov Cooperman, “Portuguese conversos in Ancona: Jewish Political Activity in Early Modern Italy,” in Iberia and Beyond. Hispanic Jews Between Cultures, ed. Bernard Dov Cooperman (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1998), 297–352 and Viviana Bonazzoli, “Una identità ricostruita. I Portughesi ad Ancona dal 1530 al 1547,” Zakhor. Rivista di storia degli ebrei d’Italia 5 (2001–2002): 5–40. On Ferrara see the following titles by Aron di Leone Leoni, La nazione ebraica spagnola di Ferrara (Florence: Olschki, 2010); “La nation portughesa corteggiata, privilegiata, espulsa e riammessa a Ferrara (1538– 1550),” Italia 13–14 (2001): 189–248; “La diplomazia estense e l’immigrazione

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agreement that there were to be no investigations conducted regarding the religious orthodoxy of the Portuguese residents of Jewish origin as long as they agreed to respect the trappings of Catholic belief through normative religious practice. These privileges for the Portuguese to reside as Christians came alongside the established presence of Iberian Jews in several Italian states. On the heels of the expulsion from Spain in 1492 Spanish Jewish communities had been formed in the kingdom of Naples and Ferrara.19 Those in the kingdom of Naples managed to stay on until 1541 despite having become a Spanish possession in 1506.20 Likewise, the Jews were able to live in the Spanish-dominated Duchy of Milan though their lives were uneasy until their final expulsion in 1597.21 Rome was a case apart. They were accepted, not without difficulty, after the expulsion from Spain, under the Valencian pope Alexander VI (1492–1503) and subsequently there was a Spanish Jewish community in the city though never a Portuguese one.22 In these places Sephardic communities existed alongside the existing Italian ones, sometimes surpassing them in numbers and prestige. Throughout the sixteenth century the Sephardic Jewish presence in Italy was often one of displacement interspersed with instances of fledgling communities. Individual states had to play a delicate balancing act between their own economic and political interests, the imposition of social discipline and respecting the dictates dei cristiani nuovi a Ferrara al tempo di Ercole II,” Nuova rivista storica 78 (1994): 293–326. 19 On Naples see Giancarlo Lacerenza, “Lo spazio dell’ebreo. Insediamenti e cultura hebraica a Napoli (secoli XV–XVI),” in Integrazione ed emarginazione. Circuito e modelli: Italia e Spagna nei secoli XV–XVII, Atti del Convengo Napoli, maggio 1999, ed. Laura Barletta (Naples: Cuen, 2002), 357–427. 20 On the expulsion from Naples see Felipe Ruiz Martín, “La expulsión de los judíos del reino de Nápoles,” Hispania 34–35 (1949), 34: 28–76; 35: 179–240. 21 Orly Meron, “Il prestito ebraico nel ducato di Milano nel periodo spagnolo (1535–1597),” Annuario di studi ebraici 12 (1989/1991): 69–88 and eadem, “Demographic and Spatial Aspects of Jewish Life in the Duchy of Milan during the Spanish Period (1535–1597),” in Papers in Jewish Demography 1989, ed. Usiel Schmelz and Sergio DellaPergola (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1993). 22 On the arrival of Spanish Jews in Rome see Kenneth Stow, “Prossimità o distanza: etnicità, sefarditi e assenza di conflitti etnici nella Roma del sedicesicimo secolo,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 58/1–2 (1992): 61–74; Bernard Dov Cooperman, “Ethnicity and Institution building among Jews in Early Modern Rome,” AJS Review 30/1 (2006): 119–145; Ariel Toaff, “Alessandro VI, Inquisizione, ebrei e marrani. Un pontefice a Roma dinanzi all’espulsione del 1492,” in L’identità dissimulata. Giudaizzanti iberici nell’europa dell’età moderna, ed. Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini (Florence: Olschki, 2000), 15–25.

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of Rome which continued to impose religious hegemony throughout the peninsula.23 By definition, of course, Iberian Jews were converts from Christianity and therefore heretics unless they had arrived as part of the initial wave after the expulsions of 1492 and 1496 as Jews in the Iberian Peninsula had ceased to exist officially after those dates. Anyone who left after the final dates of the expulsions from Spain and Portugal respectively did so as a Christian. To subsequently take up the Jewish faith, either as a “return” to some atavistic belief which was held, in some way, to be theirs in spite of embracing Christianity or as a conscious decision to adopt a new faith meant situating themselves outside of the Christian fold and repudiating Catholicism. Religious authorities were ever vigilant, on guard against such an eventuality which posed a threat to the community of believers who were supposed to be all convinced and practicing Catholics. In spite of the official prohibitions against adopting the Jewish faith in the first half of the sixteenth century there were places in Italy in which Portuguese New Christians who wanted to live a Jewish life could. Those leaving the kingdom as Christians after 1497, who chose to embrace Judaism, were able to live in places such as Ancona from 1532 and Venice in 1541 under the guise of Levantine Jews, Jewish Ottoman subjects invited to conduct trade in the papal port city and the Serenissima. They were extended these rights in recognition of their importance as intermediaries in international trade between Europe and the Levant, acting as a kind of bridge between both worlds.24 In 1547 new ground was broken when Portuguese New Christians were granted the right to reside in Ancona, recognising that they had formerly been living as Christians, descendants of Portuguese Jews who had received baptism.25 Subsequently the example of the papal port city was used by other rulers in Italy to legitimise invitations extended to Portuguese New Christians, allowing them to practice the Jewish faith.26 23 Renata Segre, “Sephardic Settlements in Sixteenth Century Italy: A Historical and Geographical Survey,” in Jews, Christians and Muslims in the Mediterranean World after 1492, ed. Alisa Meyuhas Ginio (London/Portland: Frank Cass, 1992), 98–132. 24 Cooperman, “Portuguese conversos,”’ 303–11; Benjamin Ravid, “Los sefarditas en Venecia,” in Historia de una diáspora. Los judíos de España (1492–1992), ed. Henry Méchoulan, preface by Edgar Morin (Madrid: Trotta, 1993), 279–90. 25 Cooperman, “Portuguese conversos,” 311–13. 26 Ibid., 328–29 and Benjamin Ravid, “A Tale of Three Cities and their Raison d’Etat: Ancona, Venice, Livorno and the Competition of Jewish Merchants in the Sixteenth Century,” in Jews, Christians and Muslims in the Mediterranean World After 1492, ed. Alisa Meyuhas Ginio (New York: Frank Cass, 1992), 138–62.

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By the middle of the century, places such as Venice and Ferrara were known to also harbour Iberian New Christians who chose to embrace the Jewish faith, of which they previously had only a paltry knowledge. Very rapidly Jewish learning was fomented among the newly minted Jews relying often on texts in Spanish and Portuguese for at the outset of these new communities of former conversos they were often almost ignorant of Hebrew.27 Their presence was, however, often short lived, secured with the connivance of the rulers of the states who had to keep ecclesiastical authorities at bay. In 1550 marranos were officially expelled from Venice, though the measure did not seem to have been carried out in earnest.28 Members of the natione hebrea e spagnola were formally invited to Ferrara in 1550, with the provision that they had not been previously baptised Catholics, a legal manoeuver which of course contradicted the fact that by that year most of them had been.29 Some individuals and their families received safe-conducts on an ad personam basis which specified that they may have lived as Christians before but that they were now permitted to live openly as Jews without hindrance.30 The flowering of Sephardic life in Ancona and Ferrara were short lived however. Ancona was to be forever associated with the brutal repression of Jewish life in the port city with the execution of fifty-one marranos in 1555 under Paul IV (1555–1559). When Ferrara became a fiefdom of the Papal States in 1598 Jewish life went into decline with the construction of a walled ghetto. It was not until the end of the century that the social category of Portuguese Jews was fully accepted and permanently embraced by at least 27

Benjamin Ravid, “Venice, Rome and the Reversion of New Christians to Judaism: A Study in Ragione di Stato,” in L’identità dissimulata. Giudaizzanti iberici nell’europa dell’età moderna, ed. Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini (Florence: Olschki, 2000), 151–93; Renata Segre, “La formazione di una comunità marrana: i portoghesi a Ferrara,” in Storia d’Italia. Annali XI/I: Gli ebrei in Italia, ed. Corrado Vivanti (Turin: Einaudi, 1996), 779–841; Ariel Toaff, “Los sefardíes en Ferrara y en Italia en el siglo XVI,” in Introducción a la Biblia de Ferrara. Actas del simposio internacional sobre la Biblia de Ferrara, Sevilla 25–28 noviembre de 1991, ed. Iacob M. Hassán and Angel Berenger Amador (Madrid 1992), 85–203; Cecil Roth, “Les marranes à Venise,” Revue des études juives (1930): 210–23. 28 There had been a similar decree in 1497. David Kaufman, “Die Vertreibung der Marranen aus Venedig im Jahre 1550,” Jewish Quarterly Review 13 (1901): 520– 32. 29 Aron Leone di Leoni, “ Gli ebrei sefarditi a Ferrara da Ercole I a Ercole II, nuove ricerche e interpretazioni,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 52 (1986): 415. 30 Ibid., 415–16 ; Aron Leone di Leoni, Alexander Guarinus, and Battista Saraco, “Documenti e notizie sulle famiglie Benvenisti e Nassi a Ferrara,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 58 (1992): 111–36.

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two Italian states. In 1589 they were formally accepted as ponentini in the republic of Venice with a formal charter, recognition that they hailed from the Iberian Peninsula and that by definition they were Christians who had converted to Judaism.31 Tuscany was to adopt a similar measure. In 1591 and 1593 with the landmark Livornine laws in Livorno they were allowed to legally convert to Judaism which gave rise to one of the most important Sephardic hubs in the seventeenth-century.32 Both were of course port cities, used to international trade and dealing with people who were passing through. Now Portuguese Jews were no longer transient merchants but permanent residents in both places. Especially in the seventeenth century they were recognised centres of Sephardic culture, international references for Jewish learning and publishing. Alongside these two Sephardic hubs at the end of the sixteenth century and in the seventeenth century there were well-established communities of Portuguese New Christians throughout the Italian Peninsula who lived as Christians such as in Pisa, Venice,33 Naples,34 and Rome. In these places they had to contend with local civil and ecclesiastical authorities, not the least of which were tribunals of the Roman Inquisition. The existence of the important Sephardic communities on Italian soil constituted by people who had been Catholics and then converted to Judaism made their presence all the more problematic. Whereas before they could (and did) actively make the case that they were bona fide Catholics, the fact that 31

Benjamin Ravid, “The First Charter of the Jewish Merchants of Venice, 1589,” AJS Review 1 (1976): 187–222. 32 Lucia Frattarelli Fischer, “Cristiani nuovi e nuovi ebrei in Toscana fra Cinque e Seicento: Legittimazioni e percorsi individuali,” in L’identità dissimulata. Giudaizzanti iberici nell’europa dell’età moderna, ed. Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini (Florence: Olschki, 2000), 217–31; Renzo Toaff, La nazione ebrea a Livorno e a Pisa, 1591–1700 (Florence: Olschki, 1990); Francesca Trivellato, The Familiarity of Strangers: The Sephardic Diaspora, Livorno, and Cross-Cultural Trade in the Early Modern Period (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), Jean-Philippe Fillippini, “La nazione ebrea di Livorno,” in Storia d'Italia. Annali 11, ed. Corrado Vivanti (Turin: Einaudi, 1997), 1045–66; Lionel Levy, La communauté juive de Livourne (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1996). 33 See the following titles by Francesca Ruspio, La nazione portoghese. Ebrei ponentini e nuovi cristiani a Venezia (Turin: Silvio Zamorani, 2007); “Una comunità di marrani a Venezia,” Zakhor 5 (2001): 53–85. 34 Pilar Huerga Criado, “Cristianos nuevo de origen ibérico en el Reino de Nápoles en el siglo XVII,” Sefarad 72/2 (2012): 351–87; Gaetano Sabatini, “The Vaaz: Rise and Fall of a Family of Portuguese Bankers in Spanish Naples (1590–1660),” Journal of European Economic History 29 (2010): 623–55; Peter A. Mazur, The New Christians of Spanish Naples, 1528–1671. A Fragile Elite (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013).

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conversos could openly espouse Judaism and constitute Portuguese Jewish communities in places like Livorno and Venice altered the social dynamic. After their creation members of the Portuguese New Christian diaspora in Italy now had Portuguese Jewish communities in their midst which were openly recognised as such, and families could even be divided between members who professed the Catholic and Jewish faiths.

The Nação in Rome Both Miguel Fernandes and Rui Teixeira were prominent members of the Portuguese New Christian community of Pisa. In their testimony they were adamant about their Catholic credentials, insisting they had nothing to do with Jews either in Rome or in Pisa and that there were no practicing Jews in their family. They had reason to insist on this point. Rome and the Papal States did not allow Christians to embrace the Jewish faith and since 1555, with Paul IV’s (1555–1559) bull Cum nimis absurdam, the Jews of the Eternal City were obliged to inhabit a walled-up ghetto and don a distinctive sign which clearly identified them as Jews.35 Conversion to Catholicism was encouraged with regular preaching and the creation of a house of neophytes, the Casa dei Catecumeni created in 1543 by Ignatius of Loyola (1491–1556) to bring Jews to the Catholic faith and sustain them in it.36 As the seat of the Catholic Church there was an intricate apparatus in place to ensure conformity to Orthodoxy on the part of those who were already supposed to be believers and to constantly have Jewish converts enter the fold. Given this, it is not surprising that Portuguese New Christians were brought to the attention of Roman civil and ecclesiastical authorities and that, in turn, they had to be especially adamant about stressing their allegiance to Catholicism so as to dispel any doubt of their fidelity to the church. In Rome, as in other early modern cities, the 35 On the Jews of Rome in the early modern period see these titles by Kenneth Stow, The Jews in Rome, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1995); Theater of Aculturation. The Roman Ghetto in the Sixteenth Century (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001); Jewish Life in Early Modern Rome, Challenge, Conversion and Private Life (Aldershot: Ashgate, Variorum, 2007); Micol Ferrara, Dentro e fuori dal ghetto. I luoghi della presenza ebraica a Roma tra XVI e XIX secolo (Milan: Mondadori universitá, 2015) and Serena di Nepi, Sopravvivere al ghetto. Per una storia sociale della comunità ebraica nella Roma del Cinquecento (Rome: Viella, 2013). 36 Marina Caffiero, Forced Baptisms. Histories of Jews, Christians and Converts in Papal Rome, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012).

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application of justice was just as much a manifestation of social discipline as it was one of definition of space.37 The inhabitants of a city had to situate themselves in such a way that their place in the social order was clearly delineated, the ghetto being a case in point. Those purporting to be Catholics were obliged to do so in an ostensive way through participation in the ritual life of the parish, processions, and other devotional practices. To clearly and publicly define oneself as a believer was of fundamental importance for the members of the nação who were in the city living as Catholics. New Christians were never formally invited as a group to Rome as they were in other places in Italy. From 1535 their presence in Rome was sanctioned in an official, quasi diplomatic way through a papal brief made out by Paul III which allowed them to represent New Christians back in Portugal accused by the tribunal of the Inquisition there.38 It was not, however, an all-encompassing charter which allowed them to enter and settle in the city as a group. Rather, they managed to make their way to the territories as individuals and once there were able to better manoeuvre to obtain the departure from Portugal of others, some of whom were able to make it to Rome. A Portuguese New Christian seeking to leave the Iberian Peninsula and settle in Rome could do so as a converso agent, invoking the privileges lined out in Paul III’s brief, through safe-conducts obtained by means of the efforts of intermediaries in Rome which did clearly indicate their status as New Christians as any Portuguese would.39 Either they entered the city under the guise of agents of the nação, there to plead the cause of conversos in the Roman Curia, as New Christians leaving their country often on account of being unjustly accused by the tribunal of the Inquisition there or as “ordinary” Portuguese would. There was not though an overall invitation which they could all claim recourse to in going there. 37 Guido Rebecchini, “Rituals of Justice and the Construction of Space in Sixteenth-Century Rome,” in I Tatti Studies in the Italian Renaissance 16 (2013): 153–79. 38 The brief is published in Shlomo Simonsohn, ed., The Apostolic See and the Jews, vol. 4, Documents: 1522–1538 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1990), 1991–93. 39 On New Christian agents and the use of safe-conducts see the following articles by James W. Nelson Novoa, “The Vatican Secret Archive as a Source for the History of the Activities of the Agents of the Portuguese New Christians (1532– 1549),” in Miscelanea di Studi dell’Archivio Segreto del Vaticano 3 (2009): 171– 96 and “I cristiani nuovi portoghesi attraverso i breve pontifici (1531–1551),” in Gli archivi della Santa Sede come fonte per la storia del Portogallo in età moderna. Studi in memoria di Carmen Radulet, ed. Giovanni Pizzorusso, Gaetano Platania, and Matteo Sanfilippo (Viterbo: Sette, Cittá, 2012), 89–120.

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The two men who were the subject of the inquiry by the tribunal of the Inquisition were members of the third category. Both were residents of Pisa, having arrived there the year before passing through Rome though it is unknown whether they availed themselves of Cosimo’s 1549 privileges to settle in Tuscany. They were in Rome as merchants who happened to be New Christians on account of Fernandes’s commercial interests but not in any official capacity as members of the nação. Their trial provides a glimpse into a cross section of some of the individuals who, at the end of the sixteenth century, were the components of the New Christian community in the city. It lays bare their discord and their constant necessity to clearly define themselves as bona fide Catholics in the face of suspicion and apprehension. Fernandes’s alleged blasphemous utterances had been conveyed to the tribunal by a nephew of Jerónimo da Fonseca, Antonio da Fonseca il giovene, a native of Porto. The fellow New Christian from Porto did not limit casting aspersions on the newcomers to Rome. Previously he had denounced a personal friend of his uncle’s to the Roman Inquisition thus earning for himself banishment from Jerónimo’s house and stricken from his uncle’s will.40 After Jerónimo’s death, in 1596, il giovene told a Portuguese Franciscan friar, Fray Francisco Gois, that his uncle was, in fact, an unrepentant crypto-Jew, as Jewish as other members of his family that lived in Rome’s ghetto, living outwardly as a Christian while doing all they could to support their “synagogue” in the city.41 Il giovene repeatedly insisted on the secret Jewish practices of the Portuguese conversos in Rome, declaring to the same Portuguese friar that it was known that few of them were truly Christians but only so in appearance.42 Jerónimo had arrived in Rome as a child, one of three brothers who settled in the Eternal City. A native of Miranda do Douro in the north of Portugal, he had inherited his father’s business dealings as a merchantbanker who had the right to work with the Apostolic Chamber, effectively the organism which ran the finances of the Catholic Church. In that capacity he became an intermediary in securing ecclesiastical benefices, especially for clerics in his native city that had become a diocese in 1545, the man in Rome for those who wanted to ensure their access to the revenues which could be derived from parishes. While in Rome he had married one Violante da Fonseca (1559–1602), a woman from Lamego in the north of Portugal but who resided in Pisa where her father, Diogo Luis, 40

Ioly Zorattini, Processi, 13: 262–63. Ibid., 264. 42 Testimony presented by Fray Francisco de Goes on 5 May 1599. Ioly Zorattini, Processi, vol. 13. 41

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was a prominent member of the New Christian community. Upon his death, Jerónimo was buried in the Fonseca family chapel in the Castilian national church of San Giacomo degli Spagnoli, the current day church of Nostra Signora del Sacro Cuore, which had been built after the death of his wife’s aunt, Antónia Luis, in 1582. It was created at the behest of her widower, the prominent Portuguese merchant banker António da Fonseca (1515–1588) as a chapel dedicated to the Resurrection, a nod to the most important Spanish confraternity at the time in Rome, the Archiconfradía de la Santísima Resurrección, only recently created in 1579, taking advantage of the fact that Portugal had become part of the Habsburg monarchy in 1581 and hence a subject of that crown. Painted by the prominent mannerist masters Baldassare Croce (1558– 1628) and Cesare Nebbia (1536–1614) it stood out, and indeed still does, as one of the most prominent chapels in the church.43 Stressing Catholicity in an ostensive way was an identity marker for Portuguese New Christians in Italy. The founder of what became the Fonseca chapel was himself a prominent member of the Portuguese confraternity of the national hospice and church of Sant’Antonio dei Portoghesi, dedicated to the Lisbon-born Franciscan Anthony of Padua (1195–1231), as well as its chief administrator various times over a thirtyyear period.44 That institution, like many other national hospices and churches which tended to their foreign nationals, could boast a storied past dating back to the fourteenth century. It literally constituted the most prominent Portuguese institution in the city, a place which brought Lusitanian residents in the city together and which allowed its most prestigious members—merchants, bankers, clerics, lawyers, and academics—to stand out through membership in a national confraternity made up of twenty men whose ranks were defined every December.45 43 James W. Nelson Novoa, “Legitimacy through Art in the Rome of Gregory XIII: The Commission to Baldassarre Croce in the Fonseca Chapel of San Giacomo degli spagnoli,” in Riha Journal 95 (2014), http://www.riha-journal.org/articles /2014/2014-jul-sep/nelson-novoa-legitimacy [accessed 24 May 2016]. 44 On Fonseca see Susana Bastos Mateus and James W. Nelson Novoa, “A Sixteenth Century Voyage of Legitimacy. The Paths of Jácome and António da Fonseca from Lamego to Rome and Beyond,” Hispania Judaica 9 (2013): 169–92 and James W. Nelson Novoa, Being the Nação in the Eternal City. Portuguese New Christian Lives in Sixteenth Century Rome (Peterborough: Baywolf Press, 2014), 185–211. 45 On the institution see Gaetano Sabatini, “La comunità portoghese a Roma nell’età dell’unione delle corone (1550–1640),” in Roma y España. Un crisol de la cultura europea en la Edad Moderna, ed. Carlos José Hernando Sánchez (Madrid 2007), 847–74.

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Though the institution constituted the public face of Portugal in Rome it was, nonetheless, a world apart. Blood purity rules were never worked into its statutes, allowing New Christians to become members of the confraternity. It was a way in which Portuguese New Christians could integrate themselves into the existing national community of Rome and by end of the sixteenth century a sizeable number of the confraternity were, in fact, conversos. The case of the Lusitanian institutions in Rome was by no means unique. A similar national hospice and church was founded in Madrid, also dedicated to the Lisbon-born saint, counting prominent New Christians amongst its members.46 These institutions offered the Portuguese of Jewish origin the possibility to publicly define themselves as Portuguese both among their fellow countrymen and in the cities in which they settled. They were literally institutions which permitted them a new lease on life, where they could operate unhindered by their pasts as long as they were careful not to draw attention to them. Upon his death, Jerónimo was buried in the family tomb, having been a prior of the Archiconfradía de la Santísima Resurrección, something proclaimed in the funerary inscription where his body was interred. António’s son, Manuel Fernandes da Fonseca went on to inherit his father’s business dealings with the Apostolic Chamber, taking minor orders before marrying a Portuguese woman who resided in Venice and being buried in the Fonseca chapel, following his father’s lead in addition to acting as the treasurer of the Portuguese church several times over before his death in 1625.47 By flaunting their Catholicism they made a point of proudly defining themselves as Lusitanian Catholics, inhabitants of the Italian Peninsula yet true representatives of the nation they had left, linked to the Iberian churches in Rome. Religious practice could not be considered a private matter and its public manifestation was fundamental for being present in a city and clearly situating oneself among their fellow believers. This was especially the case in a city like Rome. Active membership in the city’s ecclesiastical institutions was not the 46 On the hospice, church and confraternity, see Juan Ignacio Pulido Serrano, “El consejo de Portugal y las élites financieras portuguesas en la corte de la monarquía hispánica. Finanza y tesoreros de la hermandad, hospital e iglesia de San Antonio de los Portugueses,” in Las corporaciones de nación en la monarquía hispánica (1580–1750). Identidad, patronazgo y redes de sociabilidad, ed. Bernardo. J. García and Óscar Recio Morales (Madrid: Fundación Carlos de Amberes, 2014), 35–57. 47 “A Portuguese New Christian in His Father`s Footsteps. Manuel Fernandes da Fonseca in Rome (ca. 1556–1625),” Estudis. Revista de Historia Moderna 40 (2014), 71–90.

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only means to stress one’s Catholic credentials. In his depositions before the Holy Office in Rome, Miguel Fernandes confessed his dismay at the paltry spectacle which were the Corpus Christi processions at San Giacomo in Rome in which bishops and cardinals accompanied the Holy Sacrament in a solemn yet poor procession, one which paled by comparison to those he had seen in Portugal and even in Brazil, claiming to have belonged to a confraternity in Brazil which could boast of lofty expressions of devotion.48 Though so far no independent sources exist which can shed light on Fernandes’ life in Brazil, we can surmise that he must have been in relation with other members of the nação there who, since the middle of the sixteenth century constituted an important presence.49 It was as if he wanted to stress that Portuguese piety, with its grandiose means of expression both in Portugal and in the Portuguese colonial world, was a manifestation of the exaltation of the Catholic faith, making the point that Portuguese Catholics, in some way, could even surpass that of their Roman counterparts, outdoing the local inhabitants and, indeed, the Roman Curia itself in its ostentation of the faith. In this way Fernandes was looking to dispel any notions that he and his fellow Portuguese New Christians were less orthodox than their Catholic brethren in the Italian Peninsula. In the case of Rome, by the end of the sixteenth century the New Christian presence had gone from a small minority of individuals, some of whom claimed to have been in the city to redress the wrongs worked against their family members back home by the Inquisition in Portugal by presenting appeals to a sizeable group in the Eternal City. The ranks of the confraternity of the Portuguese national church of Sant’Antonio included one Monsignor António Pinto, a cleric and trained lawyer who studied in Coimbra and Bologna, who served as Portugal’s quasi ambassador from 1583 to 1588 as its agente and administrator of the church even though his grandfather, a Jewish doctor from Zamora in Spain had been burnt at the stake as a heretic. The fact was known both in the courts of Portugal and 48

Stanza Storica BB 5-b. fols. 160r–v. On the nação in colonial Brazil see Anita Novinsky, Cristãos Novos na Bahia (São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1972); José Antônio Gonsalves de Mello, Gente da nação. Cristãos-novos e judeus em Pernambuco 1542–1654 (Recife: Fundação Joaquim Nabuco, 1996); the following two titles by José Gonçalves Salvador, Os cristãos-novos. Povoamento e conquista do solo brasileiro (1530–1680) (São Paulo: Livrario Pioneira Editora, 1976), Os cristãos-novos e o comércio no Atlântico meridional (São Paulo: Livrario Pioneira Editora, 1978); Evaldo Cabral de Mello, O Nome e o Sangue. Uma parábola familiar no Pernambuco colonial (Rio de Janeiro 2000); Bruno Feitler, Inquisition, juifs et nouveaux-chrétiens au Brésil (Louvain: Leuven University Press, 2003). 49

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Rome yet his rigour and piety so impressed people there that it was passed off as an irksome detail. He was aided in this by the fact that he could boast an impressive series of ecclesiastical benefices back in Portugal and important offices in the Roman Curia, as, among other things, the pope’s secret chamberlain. After he left the city to take up duties working with the Consejo de Portugal in Madrid he left his cleric nephew, Francisco Vaz Pinto, in charge of Portugal’s diplomatic affairs. At the close of the sixteenth-century Portugal was being represented by members of the nação who had tactfully done all they could to not draw attention to their Jewish origins but rather to their service to Portugal, now overseen by the Habsburg monarchy and Rome.50 In the space of literally two generations since their arrival in the city in the 1530s some members of the nação had gained the upper hand through a concerted strategy of insistence of their stalwart Catholic faith and currying influence in the right places. Yet the suspicion of secretly harbouring adherence to Jewish faith and practice though was never far away and rumours abounded. As part of the interrogations brought on by the Holy Office in Rome a Portuguese cleric, Andrea de Braços, provided his own testimony. One day, walking with two fellow Portuguese by the church of San Bartolomeo all’isola in Rome in the middle of the Tiber River near the walls of the ghetto, Angelo, the same Jewish tailor who Miguel Fernandes was in contact with, called out to two men whom he seemed to know. He had received a letter from Pisa, in Portuguese, which apparently he could not read and asked the Portuguese cleric to read it for him. The letter contained news from the Tuscan town, among other things about the birth of Angelo’s daughter, to whom he subsequently gave the name of the Jewish festivity on which she was born, likely implying that she had been named Ester having been born during Purim. It entreated Angelo to go to live in Pisa where Jews could live more freely and the Portuguese cleric suspected that it had been written by a marrano for, as he said “ho inteso che molti portoghesi si sono partiti di Portogallo et vengono verso le parti di Levante de d’Italia per vivere all'hebraica, non ostante che siano battezzati” (I knew that many Portuguese have left Portugal to go to the Levant and to Italy to live as Jews, in spite of the fact that they were baptized).51 The episode, clearly establishing a link between Rome’s Jews and Portuguese Jews in Pisa, is a telling example of the attitudes in circulation throughout Italy at the time, shared by both resident Portuguese and Italians with respect to members of the nação. By the end of the sixteenth century it was known that there were Portuguese Jews living in Italian states who had previously been 50 51

Nelson Novoa, Being the Nação, 213–29. Stanza Storica BB 5-b. fol. 170r.

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Catholics. The suspicion that, given the possibility many of the Portuguese New Christians could embrace the Jewish faith which they were in some way bound to, was rife. As the Portuguese cleric’s declarations before the Roman tribunal demonstrate, the idea that the Portuguese who had chosen to settle in Italy were led by the desire to be able to live as Jews was commonplace. A way to counteract this preconception or suspicion was to adopt and flaunt a persona of adamant and unwavering Tridentine Catholicism. Such flaunting of a Catholic identity is borne out, in particular in tombs and chapels, some of which can still be seen today in Pisa and Rome. Violante da Fonseca’s tomb still exists, in as lofty a setting as Pisa’s Camposanto, with a handsome stone replete with heraldry which evoked the Fonseca family’s storied coat of arms.52 Several Pisan churches contain tombs of Portuguese New Christians, hence proudly proclaiming their social prestige and Christian credentials.53 The Fonseca chapel in San Giacomo proudly proclaimed the identity of its founder with various allusions to his Portuguese origins including an inscription, which still exists, clearly stating his place of birth and the family coat of arms which was subsequently lost. Several years later another member of the Fonseca family, Gabriel da Fonseca (1588?–1668), a prominent physician, managed to become the personal doctor to Innocent X (1644–1655) and a professor of medicine at the University of Rome where he had been instrumental in pioneering the use of quinine to combat malaria in Rome, chose to engage the services of Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598–1660) to design a chapel for his own family dedicated to the Annunciation, in the storied church of San Lorenzo in Lucina.54 Bernini’s bust of Fonseca himself, depicted in an attitude of pious devotion as the doctor prays, contemplating the scene of the Annunciation is undoubtedly the highlight of the chapel, regarded as one of the Neapolitan artist’s masterworks in the later period of his production.55 52

An image of the stone appears in James W. Nelson Novoa, “Being Portuguese, Becoming Roman,” in Seconda e terza generazione. Integrazione e identità nei figli di migranti e coppie miste/Second and Third Generations. Integration and Identity in Children of Migrants and Mixed Couples, ed. Simona Marchesini et al. (Verona: Alteritas, 2014), 67–80. 53 Rui Teixeira’s, for example, exists in the church of San Martinho. 54 James W. Nelson Novoa, “Gabriel da Fonseca. A New Christian Doctor in Bernini’s Rome,” in Humanismo e Ciência: Antiguidade e Renascimento, ed. António M. Andrade, Carlos de Miguel Mora, João M. N. Torrão (AveiroCoimbra: Universidad de Coimbra, 2013), 213–32. 55 James W. Nelson Novoa, “Medicine, Learning and Self-Representation in Seventeenth-Century Italy. Rodrigo and Gabriel da Fonseca,” in Humanismo,

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Aside from the preoccupation with fashioning tombs as a permanent means of declaring their Catholicity, in life these Portuguese New Christians did their best to correspond to the social models of prominent Portuguese men of learning and commerce. António da Fonseca had two homes: one in which he conducted his affairs, just a few metres from the Portuguese national hospice and church which was replete with portraits of Portuguese monarchs, indo-Portuguese furniture, and mounted exotic objects which evoked his country’s far flung empire and another, undoubtedly more modest abode, in the rione of Parione.56 His son went on to leave his father’s rione of Parione and inhabit a large palace, incidentally, in front of the church of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, the Dominican church and seat of the Inquisition as if, in part, to proclaim his absolute confidence in the strength of his Catholic credentials. Gabriel da Fonseca had a villa in Frascati, outside of Rome and a palazzo in the centre of Rome, which boasted a formidable library and collection of artwork. All were calculated ways of stressing their integration into Roman society and trying to work around possible lingering suspicions regarding their orthodoxy. They either did their best to conceal their Jewish origins or at least not call attention to them. For the members of Roman society who were not in the know about their origins they interacted as if they were “ordinary” Portuguese, in fact individuals who could lay claim to social prestige. Little could they suspect that in their home country they faced persecution and exclusion. Alongside these examples of individuals who strove to obscure their origins were New Christians who made their origins patent, presenting themselves in the guise of members of a distinct people, wronged by the Iberian nation from which they came. Soon after the Inquisition had been granted to the Portuguese crown by Clement VII (1523–1534), a group of individuals surfaced in Rome to try to influence papal policy regarding the tribunal in Portugal. They cast themselves as representatives or agents of the nação and were granted quasi-diplomatic status by Clement VII’s successor, Paul III (1534–1549) in 1535 in the form of a papal brief. They constituted a broad cross-section of Portuguese society, including clerics, lawyers, and merchants among their ranks. All claimed to be ostensibly in Rome working on behalf of the nação to counteract the persecution it was suffering in Portugal. They used a variety of means at their disposal to Diáspora e Ciência séculos XVI e XVII, ed. António Andrade, João Torrão, Jorge Costa and Júlio Costa (Porto: Universidad de Aveiro, Biblioteca Pública Municipal do Porto, 2013), 213–32. 56 James W. Nelson Novoa, “Unicorns and Bezoars in a Portuguese House in Rome: António da Fonseca’s Portuguese Inventories,” Agora, Estudos Clássicos em Debate 14/1 (2012): 91–112.

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combat this suffering, among them by obtaining the abrogation of inquisitorial sentences, safe-conducts to leave Portugal and lobbying for general pardons of all New Christians in the kingdom. Duarte de Paz, a member of the Order of Christ counted on currying influence in the Roman court and the promise of money to obtain reversals in papal policy.57 Diogo António, a cleric and trained lawyer worked to have people who were accused and incarcerated freed and be allowed to leave Portugal. In addition he was likely instrumental in having some written polemical reports on the functioning of the tribunal circulate in the Roman court.58 At least one, Pedro Furtado, a doctor from Lamego, was involved in the negotiations to secure Cosimo’s 1549 invitation of New Christians to Tuscany.59 His tenure in Rome was shared by a fellow native of the same Portuguese town, Jacome da Fonseca, the brother of the António da Fonseca who commissioned the chapel in the church of San Giacomo. From at least 1542 he lived in Rome, manoeuvering to obtain pardons for people accused and incarcerated by the Inquisition in Portugal and safe-conducts to allow them to reach the Italian Peninsula until 1555 when he fled to the Ottoman Empire where he openly embraced Judaism.60 These individuals made public use of their converso origins to their advantage. By securing a quasi-diplomatic status for themselves before the Roman Curia they made of the New Christians a distinct group tantamount to a nation. Enshrined in their status was the idea that they were the public face of a group of loyal Catholic believers wrongly accused on account of their Jewish ancestry. Their contention was that the New Christians of Portugal were a group apart, a nação, yet they were to be deemed no less faithful on account of their “tainted” past, something that in Rome did not constitute, in itself, a blemish. This they had to demonstrate before the Roman Curia especially during the crucial years of the diplomatic rows that pitted Rome against the Portuguese court in the initial phase of the Portuguese Inquisition between 1531 and 1548. That critical period and .

57

James W. Nelson Novoa, “The Departure of Duarte de Paz from Rome in the Light of Documents from the Secret Vatican Archives,” Cadernos de Estudos Sefarditas 7 (2007): 273–300. 58 James W. Nelson Novoa, “Diogo António: New Christian Comendador between Nação and Kin in Rome,” Saeculum 30 (2014): 97–113. 59 James W. Nelson Novoa, “I procuratori dei cristiani nuovi a Roma e i retroscena dei privilegi di Cosimo de Medici di 1549,” Cadernos de Estudos Sefarditas10–11 (2011): 281–96; Susana Mateus Bastos and James W. Nelson Novoa, “De Lamego para a Toscana: o périplo do médico Pedro Furtado, cristão-novo português,” Cadernos de Estudos Sefarditas 5 (2006): 313–38. 60 James W. Nelson Novoa, “The Fonsecas of Lamego betwixt and between Commerce, Faith, Suspicion and Kin,” Storia economica 8 (2014): 195–220.

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the presence in Rome of these Portuguese converso agents brought the New Christians out of obscurity and made of them a standard reference for the Roman church, occupying the deliberations of several organs of the Roman Curia. At one point, inspired in part by these representatives, a legal and theological debate ensued which questioned the very legitimacy of the forced conversion of 1497 and whether baptism could be imposed by force. Some of the Catholic Church’s most acute theological and legal minds became involved in the debate at the behest of the pope himself. It brought the New Christians to the attention of the Roman Curia, making of them a force to be reckoned with, an entity apart among the Portuguese people with a shared narrative and history.61 In the end, however, the designs of the Portuguese crown prevailed and the tribunal of the Inquisition was to remain active until 1821. The New Christians held on to the possibility of recourse to Rome regarding what went on in Portugal and the acknowledgement in that city that they were not all essentially heretics, but rather unjustly persecuted, making of them a constant presence in the city in the early modern period. Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth-centuries there were to be instances of individuals who presented themselves in the guise of such representatives before the papacy to try to secure advantages for the nação.62 Generally for these individuals Rome was a mere interlude. Paz, Netto, Furtado and Fonseca all abandoned the city after a decade at the most. The traces of the only individual who would seem to have remained longer, Diogo António, disappear shortly after a documented twenty-year stay. This seems to suggest that these agents conceived of their role in Rome as temporary. For some it would seem to have been a means of taking advantage of the prestige which operating in such an official capacity could give to them, one of many such roles they assumed throughout life. Others, like Netto and Furtado took that role with them beyond Rome, Netto to the Low Countries, where, rather tellingly he became known as Diogo de Roma and Furtado to Tuscany, where he assured the successful arrival of New 61

Giuseppe Marcocci, “‘. . . per capillos adductos ad pillam . . . ,’ Il dibattito cinquecentesco sulla validità del battesimo forzato degli ebrei in Portogallo (1496– 1497),” in Salvezza delle anime disciplina dei corpi. Un seminario sulla storia del battesimo, ed. Adriano Prosperi (Pisa: Edizione della Normale, 2006), 339–423. 62 A case in point was the efforts of conversos to negotiate the pardon of 1604. See Juan Ignacio Pulido Serrano, “Las negociaciones con los cristianos nuevos en tiempos de Felipe III a la luz de algunos documentos inéditos,” Sefarad 66 (2006): 345–76 and Claude B. Stuczynski, “New Christian Political Leadership in Times of Crisis: The Pardon Negotiations of 1605,” Bar-Ilan Studies in History, vol. 5, Leadership in Times of Crisis (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2007), 45– 70.

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Christians, especially that of his own family.63 In both cases the individuals conceived of their stint as agents of the nação in Rome was part of their activities representing converso interests against the designs of the Portuguese crown. Archival evidence seems to suggest that there was a clear distinction between New Christians who sought to integrate themselves into the official Portuguese community and those who laid claim to the role of converso agents in Rome. The extant records of the confraternity of Sant’Antonio do not contain the names of the men who publicly claimed the status of representatives of the nação in Rome.64 By presenting themselves as the public face of the nação, they seemed to be excluded from participation in the life of the Lusitanian hospice and church even though no formal edict, provision, or statute claimed this. On the other hand, those who did actively participate as members of the confraternity, administrators, or treasurers, did not flaunt their converso origins. The case of the Fonseca brothers is emblematic. While Jacome, who arrived in the city around 1542 and left in 1555, clearly appears mentioned as a New Christian agent in several documents, he does not appear cited in the documents of the Portuguese hospice and church. His brother, Antonio’s name does appear in various capacities from 1561 to his death in 1588, and he was remembered as one of the institution’s most diligent and effective financial operators for centuries with an annual mass being said for the intention of the rest of his soul until as late as the nineteenth century.65 In both cases though, the New Christians had to situate themselves either as individuals like Paz, António, Netto, Furtado, or Fonseca with privileged access to the Curia and representatives of the slighted nação with an officially sanctioned role to play in it or as members of the Portuguese community in the city, as active members of the Portuguese and, during the Iberian union of Spain and Portugal (1580– 1640), Castilian, churches in Rome. Once in the Eternal City, the members of the nação had to contend with that instrument of confessionalisation which was the tribunal of the Roman Inquisition created in 1542 though, unlike the Portuguese one, was not at its outset essentially concerned with conversos, be they Iberian or Italian. The tribunal was far more preoccupied with uprooting other forms 63

On Netto see Nelson Novoa, Being the Nação, 145–67 and Leone Leoni, The Hebrew Portuguese Nation, 64–65, 73–74. 64 The relevant document is the Letra BB, Livro 1, Livro das Congregações Gerais. 1539–1601, Archivio de l’Istituto di Sant’Antonio in Roma. 65 Miguel D’Almeida Paile, Santo António dos portugueses em Roma (Lisbon: União Graficá,1951), 257–58.

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of heresy throughout the Italy, especially that of Protestantism.66 While purity of blood statutes were not implemented in the Italian Peninsula, and especially not in Rome or the Curia, the containment of Jews in Rome’s ghetto remained a priority. To the degree that one had some relation to Jews, in the form of ancestors or possible ties of kinship or business was reason enough for concern and suspicion as is borne out in the testimony of the Portuguese cleric who encountered the Jew from the Roman ghetto with Portuguese family in Pisa. It is also borne out in the travails of Miguel Fernandes and Rui Teixeira. Ultimately, the two were released, in part through the intervention of the Grand-Duke Ferdinand of Tuscany (1587–1609) himself in the same year.67 The brush with Roman inquisitorial justice was enough to dissuade Fernandes from settling in the Eternal City and he returned to live in Tuscany. The case was a telling example of the pressures on the Portuguese New Christians to clearly define themselves as faith-abiding Catholics in a city and state with institutions in place that demanded public displays of religious allegiance. The Portuguese New Christian inhabitants of the city had to adopt strategies to deflect possible suspicions. They could adopt and indeed, attempt to surpass, the trappings of prestige, wealth, integration into Roman society and piety, which were so much a part of social mobility in the city. By positioning themselves as stalwart Catholics, examples of devotional practice, important businessmen, and patrons of the arts, some did all they possibly could to publicly distance themselves from the diaspora they belonged to. Others among them, however, chose to stress their belonging to the nação, contending that as part of a group of loyal Catholics they had the right and indeed the need to be present in the seat of the Catholic Church itself. It was from that vantage point that they would be able to defend their brethren in Portugal, accused of not faithfully 66 On the creation of the Roman Inquisition and its early activity see the following works by Adriano Prosperi, Tribunali della coscienza. Inquisitori, confessori, missionari (Turin 2009); L’inquisizione romana. Letture e ricerche (Rome: Storia e Letteratura 2003); Elena Brambilla, Alle origini del Sant’Uffizio. Penitenza, confessione e giustizia dal Medioevo al XVI secolo (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2000); Andrea Del Col, L’Inquisizione in Italia dal XII al XXI secolo (Milan: Mondadori, 2006), 284–302; Giovanni Romeo, L’Inquisizione nell’Italia moderna (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2002); Massimo Firpo, Inquisizione romana e Controriforma. Studi sul cardinal Giovanni Morone (1509–1580) e il suo processo d’eresia (Brescia: Morcelliana, 2005). 67 See the relevant documents concerning his intervention in Mediceo del Principato, 289, fol. 90r and 3311, fol. 241. Archivio di Stato di Firenze. I thank Lisa Kaborycha of the Medici Archive Project for bringing these documents to my attention.

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complying with the practice and precepts of the faith they all belonged to. In either case, they had to make explicit their allegiance to the Catholic faith either by fashioning themselves as “ordinary” Portuguese by integrating into the existing institutions and structures in Rome which identified them as such, like the national hospice and church, or by manifesting themselves as members of the nação, as faithful Catholics, wrongly persecuted by their rulers. As members of a diaspora they could choose to blend in with the official Lusitanian community or rally to a common collective identity, making patent their status as New Christians. Either option required of them an explicit disavowal of the lingering attraction or sense of belonging which the Jewish past of their ancestors may have had on them. To be present in Rome meant carefully casting themselves as Catholics whose orthodoxy was beyond doubt however much from the point of view of others their family past could have potentially led them astray.

Rome in the Wider Picture Portuguese Jews in places such as Venice and Livorno held steadfast to a Portuguese Jewish identity that marked their distinctiveness for generations after their arrival on Italian soil. They were confronted with alterity at three levels. As Jews they were others within Italian society, members of the oldest and most prominent minority in the Italian Peninsula. To this, in Italian eyes, was added to their otherness as Iberian Jews, a social category strange to them, associated at once with the far off Iberian Jewish communities in the Levant and as Iberians tout court who had made the spiritual journey from a lukewarm and reluctant Catholicism to Judaism. They were also considered as others by their fellow Portuguese New Christians who chose to remain steadfast to the Catholic faith and strove to maintain their public distance from them, even if they could be linked by family ties. This threefold alterity had to be dealt with in some way by both Portuguese Jews and the New Christian denizens of the Italian Peninsula. Due to the weight of confessionalisation among the conversos who remained Catholics and the Jewish communities constituted by former Portuguese New Christians, both groups had to position themselves vis à vis the other, each having to clearly define themselves in the face of the existence of the other. One could not belong to both groups contemporaneously. This was prohibited by both the Christian and Jewish worlds. In Venice, Jews were confined to ghettos, first as Levantine subjects in the ghetto vecchio and then as conversos who had opted for the faith of

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their ancestors if, in fact, they had not been Jews all along. Their sheer numbers there justified the creation of a subsequent, statelier Venetian ghetto nuovissimo in 1633. From the sixties of the sixteenth century a fledgling group of Portuguese New Christians had resided there and from 1579, after a series of Inquisitorial investigations were undertaken, it was clear that at least some of them were in fact adhering to Judaism. It was prominent members of that community, chief among them one Daniel Rodrigo, who conducted the intricate negotiations allowing the category of Ponentine Jews to exist and flourish in the Republic of Venice through which the charter of 1589 was subsequently renewed.68 The situation was different in Pisa and Livorno. There Jews could live freely, unhindered by the strictures of ghetto walls or garments which identified them as Jews. Nonetheless, Jews they were, and it was as members of that minority that they were defined and allowed to live in those Tuscan cities. Thanks to the privileges of 1591 and 1593 onwards, a complex institutional framework was put in place that incorporated newcomers to the community through ballotazione; it conferred on them at once the status of members of the Jewish nation of Livorno and as citizens of the port city, subjects of the grand duke of Tuscany.69 Religious adherence was thus a way to have access to civic life there as foreigners. Once they were defined as Jews they had to live within the confines of normative Judaism, submitting themselves to the strictures of communal life. It was this that set them apart but which also allowed them to be part of Italian society. Though Jews in Livorno constituted a community held to be supra-national, the Portuguese origins of the community were clear, most tellingly in the use of Portuguese for its community records until the Napoleonic occupation of the city at the end of the eighteenth century.70 During the seventeenth century, in an age of increasing confessionalisation, Italian states obliged foreigners to identify themselves in clear-cut religious categories. The existence of Portuguese Jews was recognised and sanctioned in Venice and Livorno. Portuguese New Christians choosing to settle in Italy in the sixteenth and seventeenthcentury would, of necessity, have had to position themselves among those who held steadfast to their Portuguese Catholic collective persona and those who openly embraced Judaism. Throughout the early modern period 68

Benjamin Ravid, “The Legal Status of the Jewish Merchants of Venice, 1514– 1638,” The Journal of Economic History 35 (1975): 274–79. 69 Jean-Phillippe Filippini, “La ballotazione a Livorno nel Settecento,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 49 (1983): 199–268. 70 Idem, “Ebrei imigranti e emigrati nel porto di Livorno nel periodo napoleonico,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 48 1/6 (1982): 45–106.

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they continued to arrive in Italy, under the guise of bona fide Catholics. There was no lack of Portuguese who continued to present themselves as faithful Catholics yet the suspicions never disappeared, especially in those places which were home to communities of Sephardic Jews. In those places where conversion to Judaism was a possibility, contact between New Christians and the newly converted Jews, especially when there were relations of kin, made suspicion of them all the stronger in the eyes of civil and ecclesiastical authorities, such as in Venice and Tuscany. A telling case is that of various components of the Teixeira family who were the object of investigations regarding heresy for decades in Pisa and elsewhere. Only a few years after Rui’s name had been cleared suspicions were raised anew. In 1599 the tribunal of the Holy Office in Rome began a fresh series of Inquisitorial investigations regarding judaising Portuguese conversos in Pisa. Concerned about allegations which indicated widespread apostasy in the diocese, Giulio Antonio Santorio (1566–1602) the archbishop of Santa Severina and Prefect of the Holy Office wrote to the archbishop of Pisa, Antonio dal Pozzo (1582–1607), to ascertain if the reports were true.71 In a letter dated 6 February 1600 Pozzo responded to his query, defending himself from any possible charges that he was not attentive to orthodoxy in his diocese. In no uncertain terms he stated that while converted Jews abounded in Venice, Ferrara, and even in the ghetto of Florence, there were none to be found in Pisa, which was home to a storied Portuguese community. The only Portuguese to have been tried for suspicion of judaising were Rui Teixeira, his son-in-law, and one Lourenço Paroleiro, a Portuguese New Christian who had arrived in Tuscany from Peru and subsequently fled to Venice three years before where he lived as a Jew. Even a few years after the events, the trial of Rui Teixeira and Miguel Fernandes stood out in Pisa as an emblematic example of the perception of some of the New Christians being renegades of the faith, doubts which persisted in Rome.72 71

On Santorio, see Saverio Ricci, Il Sommo Inquisitore. Giulio Antonio Santori tra autobiografia e storia (1532–1602) (Rome: Salerno, 2002). 72 Illustrissimo et Reverendissimo Signor et Padron Ossequiosissimo. Ho ricevuto la lettera di Vostra Signoria Illustrissima di 29 del passato, et insieme con essa la copia delle informationi inviatemi d’ordine di Nostro Signore per conto delli apostati marrani che qua si trovano, con comandamento qual mi si fa. Al che per hora generalmente dirò, prima che in me per obligo et per propria inclinatione è, et sarà, et è stata sempre prontissima volontà di obedire, et se bisognarà spargere anco il proprio sangue lo farò. Et come scrissi a Vostra Signoria Illustrissima dua anni sono, quando si trattò di quel fanciullo ch’io mandai in Spagna levandolo dalli hebrei, nel quale si conobbe ch’havevo fatto il possibile per il debito mio, s’io sono inepto al’operare sarò sempre prontissimo al’obedire, et fare tutto quello ch’io

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saprò et potrò. Il saper mio è bene statto sempre pochissimo, et il potere di longa mano inferiore a quello che forse Nostro Signore ha creduto, il quale con il suo molto zelo et giustitia spero non havrà da risentirsi meco. Et in ogni caso sarò non solo come figliuolo di obedienza, ma come un debolissimo verme aparecchiato ad’ogni pena. Non mi parendo di dover tacere a Vostra Signoria Illustrissima per il vero, havendo inteso altra volta che Nostro Signore non si teneva servita di me in matteria di questi giudei, ch’il vero è che come Arcivescovo non ho havuto più auttorità di quella habbiano li altri Cardinali, Patriarchi, Arcivescovi, et Vescovi, dove in Italia hanno habitato et habitano costoro; ma sì bene infiniti travagli et contese, ne’ quali havendo fatto il debito mio non occorre ch’io me ne glorii, come Ministro del Gran Duca nelli casi loro non solo non ho havuto auttorità, né participatione. Ho servito li Gran Duchi di Toscana conforme al’obligo grande mio verso loro. Pretendo ch’il mio servitio sia statto con servitio di Dio benedetto et di Santa Chiesa, et della giurisditione Ecclesiastica. Ho havuto le mani nette, et il cuore ancora, tanto da’ giudei come da tutti gl’altri. Non mi sono intromesso dove non mi è statto comandato, che per natura mia non sono punto desideroso di mestare. Ho fatto professione di servirli, et non mai di governarli. Et non per quello gli ho mai prestato l’anima, né la conscienza. Vostra Signoria Illustrissima mi scusi questa degressione, che non è fuori della matteria comandatami, nella quale ho visto subito deligentemente l’informationi che Vostra Signoria Illustrissima mi ha transmesse, et poi le ho date al Padre Inquisitore, che farà il medesimo, et saremo insieme conforme al ricordo qual anco Vostra Signoria Ilustrissima mi dà. In tanto dirò che dalle informationi mi par cavare inditii di quattro propositioni. Primo che in Venetia e Ferrara si trovino infiniti apostati, come anco nel ghetto di Fiorenza, quali si sono fatti giudei et vi si sono fatti circoncidere. Questo non tocca a me. Secondo che in Pisa vi sono molti portughesi che vi stanno come christiani, ma sono giudei, et vanno publicamente alla sinagoga delli hebrei, et vivono come hebrei. Questo dipongono dua che sono statti un giorno a Pisa, et de auditu da un’altro; uno di loro eccettua alcuno, un altro con buona memoria ha imparato il nome di quasi tutti. Et perché quello capo è tanto principale, dico a Vostra Signoria Illustrissima che absolutamente questi testimonii sono in questa parte falsi, perché la natione portughesa è antiquata in Pisa, per quello si vede da scritture publiche et da sepulture, et cappelle et loggia di tal natione, sino a tempo de’ pisani. Mai si è sentito che nessuno di questi habitanti qui habbia iudaizato, né sia statto inquisito, eccettuati un Rui Tesseda et un suo genero, quali con un loro schiavo nominati pur da questi testimonii, furno costì in Roma processati et carcerati longamente, et doppoi furno assoluti da cotesta Illustrissima Congregatione et ritornorno qui, et io ho visto la sentenza in forma probanti. Et eccettuato un Lorenzo Perulero huomo scapolo senza famiglia, nominato pur nelli inditii, il quale è statto qui tre anni in circa et poi sendo andato a Venetia corre fama, che là si è fatto giudeo, et di qui è statto bandito con taglia. Nel resto vivono da buoni christiani. Alcuni sono nati qui et in Fiorenza, vi sono lettori di medicina nello studio più di trenta anni, hanno famiglie, et figliuole et sorelle maritate costì in Roma ad’altri di tal natione, et li

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loro figlioli sono educati bene, e le femine in particolare doppo la debita età proffessano farle alevare né monasterij, et la sinagoga delli hebrei si fa per tutto dove loro habitano publica di giorno, che benissimo si può trovare che è falso quanto alcuni dicono. Et però in questo capo io non farò altro, perché oltre non esser specificato in la commissione di Nostro Signore suppongo sempre che la Santa mente Sua sia che si corregga chi è in errore, et si riduca alla salute chi è in stato di perditione, et riputarei ingiusta vexatione quella che si dessi a questi se io devo procedere per quello che a me può constare. Se Nostro Signore qual giudica come Dio et extra acta, de plenitudine potestatis vorrà che, ordine iuria non servato, faccia altro, crederò doppo haver exposto il di sopra che habbia altra chiarezza, che non apparisce da queste informationi. Et però mi sia comandato con ordine preciso particolare che senza esso quanto a questi, tutto quello ch’io innovassi per quanto mi consta sin’hora, saria contro la conscienza mia et con scandalo publico. Terza conclusione, che in Pisa sieno statti circoncisi christiani, che di Portogallo o altrove sieno venuti qui per iudaizare. Questo altra volta il Padre Inquisitore l’ha ricerco con le informationi che sono in questa copia mandata, et con l’aiuto mio. Ma effectivamente non l’habbiamo mai possuto mettere in chiaro, et vi usaremo nova diligenza. Et trovando inditii contro persone certe, spero di sodisfare intieramente. Quarta conclusione, che resulta da queste informationi che qui siano hebrei che altrove hanno vissuto come christiani, et questo si conclude bene di alcuni, et io lo credo per vero che di Venetia et Ferrara, et territorio ferrarese, ve ne sia venuti che hanno iudaizato in detti luochi prima molt’anni. Parte de nominati, per quello ho di già procurato intendere, sono partiti, perché questa gente non è mai arrivata al numero che si dice nelle informationi et di quelle ne è partito più di dua quinti. Parte sono anco qui, et il Padre Inquisitore et io procuraremo di metterlo in chiaro. Et circa il gastigo loro, Vostra Signoria Illustrissima saprà ch’io non ho né prigione, né famiglia armata per le executioni. Costoro in genere hanno salvacondotti concessi qua per Pisa sino al tempo di Paolo Terzo prima ch’iò fossi pur nato, et devono genericamente esser stati loro confermati et renovati. Onde era venuto in pensiero al Padre Inquisitore et a me, non parlando di quelli che qui havessero fattesi circondere, se pure ne trovaremo di questi della quarta conclusione, se bastasse a Nostro Signore che si cavassero via, et da qui et dallo Stato, che questo si procuraria et succederia forse senza rumore, et in questo modo si levaria lo scandalo di quelli che li hanno conosciuti altrove, et l’exilio saria una piccolissima particella di castigo. Che quanto al pensare di proffittare per la redductione loro, troppo grande è la loro perfidia, [in]durata, sebene delli altri si è fatto qualche acquisto come Vostra Signoria Illustrissima sa. Qual supplico a rappresentare tutto il di sopra a Nostro Signore, et se in alcuna parte io erro non erra la mia intentione, che è come ho da principio detto di fare tutto quello saprò et potrò, et così mi sia comandato. Et facendoli col cuore humilissima riverenza, prego Nostro Signore Dio per la sua felicità. Di Pisa li 6 di febraio 1599 ab incarnatione. (1600) Di Vostra Signoria Illustrissima et Reverendissima. Humilissimo et obligatissimo servitor l’Arcivescovo di Pisa.

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Fray Francisco Gois brought to the attention of the Holy Office one Antonio, a merchant and son of Rui Teixeira’s who had arrived in Tuscany and was living in Florence after years spent in Portuguese India and Brazil, was in fact a secret judaiser.73 Clara, a daughter of Rui Teixeira’s, years later, in 1618, was interrogated first by the Holy Office in Pisa, being accused by her son of Jewish religious practices, and then in 1625, after having lived for years in Milan, by the tribunal in Venice on charges of apostasy.74 In her trial in Venice she confessed to have been guilty of maintaining Jewish practices while living as a Christian for years in Pisa, ending her days as a repentant Catholic, after years of incarceration, in Florence.75 In turn, Clara’s daughters Feliciana Nis and Bianca were also accused of being induced to Jewish practice by their mother who had been inspired in Tuscany by the proselytising efforts of the New Christian turned Jew Rodrigo Felipe Montalto who later took on the name Philoteo Eliau Moltalto (1567–1616) becoming personal physician to Marie de Medici (1575–1642) at the French court.76 The 1625 accusations also implicated Feliciana, Miguel Fernandes’ wife who was also accused of being an active part of the same judaising family. Decades after her husband’s trial, the suspicions of attachment to Jewish belief reached her as well, placing her before an Inquisitorial tribunal just as he had been.77 These and other cases coincided with the continuous arrival of Portuguese Jews who decided to abandon the faith that their grandparents and great grandparents had been forced into and embrace that of their ancestors before the forced conversion of 1497 after their own inner intricate journeys of change of belief and make up the burgeoning communities of Italy. The Teixeira example is a case in point which demonstrates that few families could be entirely in the clear, and the Ricevuta a’ 12. Stanza Storica BB 5-b. Archivio della Congregazione per la Dottrina della Fede, Rome, fols. 349r–352 r. On Lourenço Lopes de Paroleiro or Alvaro Consalves de Miranda see the information sent to the Holy Office in Rome from Pisa and published in Ioly Zorattini, Processi, 13: 277–88. 73 This is derived from testimony presented on 23 April 1599 and published in Ioly Zorattini, Processi, 13: 251. 74 Pier Cesari Ioly Zorattini ed., Processi del Santo Uffizio di Venezia contro ebrei e giudaizzanti, vol. 10, (1633–1637) (Florence: Olschki, 1992), 215–356. 75 Ioly Zorattini, Processi, 10: 15. 76 Lucia Frattarelli Fischer, “Vivere nella sua Legge: Phelipe alias Philotheo Moltalto da Firenze a Venezia, da Parigi ad Amsterdam. Nuovi documenti,” in Non Solo Verso Oriente. Studi sull’ebraismo in onore di Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini, ed. Maddalena del Bianco Cotrozzi, Ricardo di Segni, Marcello Massenzio, Maria Amalia D’Aronco (Florence: Olschki, 2014), 201–26. 77 Zorattini, Processi, 10: 226–27.

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nagging suspicion that among them were members of dubious orthodoxy was constant. Once the suspicion of judaising tendencies surfaced it was difficult to eradicate entirely and could haunt a family for generations. The need then to emphatically clear one’s name and that of one’s kin of all suspicion was constant, and letting down one’s guard meant risking the kinds of consequences which members of the Teixeira family suffered. At the same time, this increased confessionalisation in Catholic societies found a parallel within Jewish communities. At the beginning they may have been fledgling groups formed by individuals who chose to abandon the Catholic religion to “return” to the faith of their ancestors or embrace it completely anew as “New Jews,” inspiring at times the admiration and diffidence of established Jewish communities who observed the adoption of the Jewish faith on the part of the Iberian neophytes.78 By the seventeenth-century however the establishment of solid Iberian communities such as that of Amsterdam with entrenched legal structures and rabbinical instruction and learning demanded that their ranks conform to normative rabbinical Jewish life, instituting structures of control and discipline that mirrored that of the Christian world they were part of.79 Throughout the seventeenth-century the Sephardic hubs of Livorno and Venice also became models of Jewish confessionalisation with exclusion and social disciplining as the order of the day. In these contexts the members of the nação who chose to embrace Judaism had to publicly situate themselves as believing Jews by participation in Jewish institutions and careful compliance with ritual and the prescriptions of Jewish life. The existence of such communities in which Jewish belief and practice was clearly defined and articulated allowed for little ambiguity or space for those who wished to assimilate the new faith while conserving trappings of the former one. With the creation of those two centres on Italian soil at the end of the sixteenth century the dynamics of social interaction changed considerably. The members of the nação in Italy could no longer claim that all Portuguese conversos were Catholics. In the same city there could be Portuguese Jews and New Christian Catholics. One city where this could not happen was Rome as there was never a Portuguese Jewish community there and conversion to Judaism was not possible. The very consideration of the possibility of conversion to Judaism raised a flag that would draw the attention of the Roman Inquisition. On the one hand, Rome was a 78

Yosef Kaplan, “Wayward New Christians and Stubborn New Jews: The Shaping of Jewish Identity,” Jewish History 8/1–2 (1994): 27–41. 79 Idem, “From Apostasy to Return to Judaism: The Portuguese Jews in Amsterdam,” Binah 1 (1989): 99–117.

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perilous place to be a denizen of the nação, with its ghetto, constant doctrinal vigilance, and importance given to Jewish conversion. On the other hand, just living there gave one Catholic credentials that Portuguese New Christians could use to their advantage. It was as though the city could act as the ultimate means of claiming their Catholic allegiance in an age where confessionalisation affected and defined the Catholic world. If Catholic states put into place the social machinery which ensured unanimity of belief and the preservation of the seams of religious unity, it was to be even more in force in the case of the Eternal City. There they could be confirmed as tried and true Catholics, living and operating in the seat of the Catholic Church, as having dutifully chosen to be faithful to the religion that they were baptised in, however they may have been coaxed into heresy by ties of kinship or even economic interest in other locales which they could flee to and embrace the Jewish faith. The Eternal City offered a home to those members of the nação who were willing and able to fully comply with the strictures in place which demanded of them a constant declaration of faith, whether as its silent members or its vocal standard-bearers. Those who chose to go settle there could proclaim their membership in the Church of Rome, flaunting these credentials, even, in some cases, making the point that they were better living examples of Catholic practice than the Italian believers alongside whom they lived. A similar, yet very different case was that of Spanish moriscos, expelled from Valencia in 1609 under the orders of the Archbishop Juan de Ribera (1569–1611). They too were Catholic converts, in their case from Islam, descendants of Muslims who had been converted after the conquest of the kingdom of Granada in 1492 and who had been subjected to expulsion within Spain.80 In spite of their general conversion, suspicion of their secret allegiance to Islamic belief and practice dogged them constantly, along with the contention that many of them constituted a fifth column in league with the Ottoman Empire. Some three hundred thousand people were expelled from Spain, settling in North Africa, the Ottoman 80

The literature on the moriscos is immense. On them and the 1609 expulsion see Mercedes García Arenal and Gerard Wiegers, eds., A Mediterranean Diaspora. The Expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain (Leiden: Brill, 2014); Anwar G. Chejne, Islam and the West. The Moriscos, a Cultural and Social History (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1983); Benjamin Ehlers, Between Christians and Moriscos. Juan de Ribera and Religious Reform in Valencia (1568–1614) (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006); Mary Elizabeth. Perry, Handless Maiden. Moriscos and the Politics of Religion in Early Modern Spain (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005).

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Empire, and Europe. A certain number of them made it to Italy, some of them even to the Papal States and to Rome. There, some of them, especially a few ecclesiastics, made it a point of contesting the measure, arguing in favour of the orthodoxy of the moriscos in a similar way that certain Portuguese conversos contested the use of the Inquisition against conversos. Others constituted a silent presence, integrating into the Spanish community without drawing attention to their origins, attempting to be counted among the rest of the Spanish living in the city. The moriscos were, however, expelled, unlike the New Christians who, in the end, had chosen to leave Portugal. The symbolic importance of Rome was not lost on them either as settling there also consolidated their status as faithful Catholics. The group however did not amount to a sizeable community. They also constituted a small and relatively insignificant presence in the city with recent studies indicating that only a handful of them stayed on there.81 At the end of the sixteenth-century of course Europe was rife with Catholics fleeing places where they were being persecuted.82 Rome was a haven for several Catholic national groups fleeing countries where they were persecuted by their Protestant rulers, English and Irish Catholics being a case in point. There they settled, where they could boast national churches and religious houses where they trained clergy who had left for Rome in exile often with the objective of returning to proselytise.83 It was 81

Manuel Lomas Cortés, “Tra negoziazione politica ed emigrazione forzata. Roma, i ‘moriscos’ e la loro espulsione,” Quaderni Storici 144 (2013): 689–714 and the following articles by Bruno Pomara Saverio, “La diaspora morisca in Italia. Storie di mediatori, schiavitù e battesimi,” Storia Economica 17 (2014): 163–94 and “Presenze silenziose. I moriscos di fronte al Sant’Uffizio romano (1610–1636),” Quaderni Storici 144 (2013): 715–44. 82 See, for example Geert H. Janssen, The Dutch Revolt and Catholic Exile in Reformation Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014); Peter Guilday, The English Catholic Refugees on the Continent, 1558–1795 (London and New York 1914); Ciaran O’Scea, “Special Privileges for the Irish in the Kingdom of Castille (1601–1680): Modern Myth or Contemporary Reality?” in British and Irish Emigrants and Exiles in Europe, 1603–1688, ed. David Worthington (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 125–40; Patricia O’Connell, The Irish College at Lisbon, 1590–1834 (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2001). 83 Thomas O’Connor, “The Irish College in Rome in the Age of Religious Renewal,” in Collegium Hibernorum de Urbe. An Early Manuscript Account of the Foundation and Development of the Ludovisian College of the Irish in Rome, 1628–1678, ed. Albert McDonnell (Rome: Pontifical Irish College, 2003), 13–32; Matteo Binasco, “La comunità irlandese a Roma, 1377–1870. Lo status quaestionis,” RiMe. Rivista dell'Istituto di Storia dell'Europa Mediterranea 7 (2011): 7–44.

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also the place of choice for people seeking to convert and live as Catholics, the most well-known example being perhaps that of Christina of Sweden (1626–1689) who made of the Eternal City her abode for decades after embracing the Catholic faith. The Portuguese New Christians were a different group of exiles. It was in Rome this group of Portuguese Catholic exiles could claim to be able to fully live the life befitting them that was denied them in their Iberian homeland. The Portuguese New Christians considered here could thus be counted a particular kind of exile group which set them apart from the others in the city. As members of a Catholic diaspora, it was their way of trying to affirm that the Eternal City could be home for them as the loyal sons of the Church, countering the ideas that were circulating about them in Portugal. Theirs was, ostensibly, a Catholic diaspora in spite of the fact that several of its members subsequently chose to embrace the Jewish faith or indeed had secretly adhered to it for years. For those members of the diaspora who made it to Rome, the seat of the Catholic Church was a place where they had to grapple with the problems of negotiating public collective and individual identity, a place where those of the nação had to define themselves as its silent members or vocal representatives. Both options of course implied a public affirmation of the Catholic faith which would define one as a believer. From the point of view of symbolic capital, to have been able to successfully navigate the sea of suspicion and the expected compliance with social norms in a city like Rome would surely have consecrated one as a stalwart Catholic. While the examples exist of cases like Fernandes and Teixeira who were not successful, there were others such as the Fonseca family or the Pintos who could claim to have become the venerable public face of Portugal in the Eternal City, their presence in the city being even set in stone. They were able to ensconce themselves there through a calculated strategy of cultivating an Iberian specificity while, at the same time, making inroads into Roman society and especially through their ties to the Papal court, Roman Curia, and the bureaucracy of the Catholic church. In this way they were able to dispel the possible lingering suspicions about their true religious allegiances. When, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, certain individuals began appearing in Rome claiming to be representatives of the nação and its interests in Portugal, they could claim to belong to a Catholic diaspora, made up of baptised members, wrongly persecuted in their home country. By the end of the century, there were Portuguese Jewish communities firmly in place in the Italian Peninsula made up of people who had decided to repudiate the Catholic faith which they were all born into. This fact

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made clearly staking out the claim that one was a faith-abiding Catholic all the more pressing on the part of conversos living in Rome. The evidence attests to the fact that at the end of the century some had successfully done so, with several, albeit exceptional, members of the nação having become the public face of Portugal in Rome. Both groups of individuals, those who made the defence of the nação their raison d’étre in Rome and those who chose to not draw attention to their origins and integrating into the existing Portuguese community, were united in a common aim: making of Rome a place where they could recast their stories and narrative, a place which could serve as a refuge for them as members of the New Christian diaspora.

QUAKERS BETWEEN MARTYRDOM AND MISSIONARY ACTIVITY STEFANO VILLANI

Persecutions The Quaker movement had its beginnings in the initiative of George Fox, a shoemaker, who began to wander England in 1643 when he was in the throes of a deep spiritual crisis. Sometime around 1647, a group of people gathered around him who were similarly dissatisfied with all religious denominations. They soon became known by the derogatory term Quakers, because of the tremors that sometimes overtook them when they were preaching. These Quakers argued that there was something of God in every man, and that by following this “inner Light,” men could reach Adam’s prelapsarian perfection. In the early 1650s the movement saw rapid growth in the northern regions of England and, from 1654, spread south, soon becoming one of the major radical groups of the Interregnum. By 1600, there were about fifty thousand Quakers in England, about one percent of the population.1 Early Quakers were convinced that through their preaching they might put an end to the dark night of apostasy that had befallen humanity since the end of the apostolic age. At the beginning of their movement, in particular, an extraordinary enthusiasm and fearless missionary impulse animated their ranks. The Friends entered churches and engaged in * I wish to thank Prof. Philip Soergel for his priceless help and suggestions and Dr. Sünne Juterczenka for her comments. 1 On the history of Early Quakerism, see William Charles Braithwaite, The Beginnings of Quakerism, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955); Rosemary A. Moore, The Light in Their Consciences: Early Quakers in Britain, 1646–1666 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, PA 2000). On George Fox see Homer Larry Ingle, First Among Friends. George Fox and the Creation of Quakerism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996). For an estimate on the number of the Quakers, see Barry Reay, The Quakers and the English Revolution (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1985), 26–27.

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discussions with ministers, often interrupting their sermons. They mimicked the prophets of the Old Testament by going to services naked or dressed in sackcloth in order to incite people to repent and turn to their inner Light. Because they believed that each person might attain salvation by discovering and obeying “that of God” which was within them, they rejected all rites and clerical distinctions as useless superstitions. The only authentic worship for them was that which was “in spirit and truth.” As a consequence, Quakers assembled and waited for divine illumination in silence.2 Because of their odd behaviour (refusal to pay tithes, to swear, to doff their hat in greeting, rejection of the sacraments, and use of “thee” and “thou” in place of “you”), early Quakers were often scorned and subjected to acts of crowd violence. As a result, local authorities targeted and persecuted them. It has been estimated that in England, about three thousand Quakers were imprisoned during the Interregnum, a thousand of them for refusing to pay tithes and four hundred for interrupting sermons or religious services. Twenty-one of them died as a result of ill treatment in prison. The situation worsened with the Restoration because specific laws were approved against dissenters in general and Quakers in particular. In an effort to separate themselves from the radicals who had conspired against the restored monarch, the Quakers made non-violence one of the trademarks of their identity. Despite their attempts at distinguishing themselves from violence and more radical groups, it is estimated that between 1660 and the end of the century, more than eleven thousand Quakers were imprisoned in England and that about four hundred and fifty died in prison.3 The Quakers did not attempt to escape persecution, considering it a sign of the spiritual struggle of the Saints against the Antichrist. To some extent, many Quakers seemed to have sought out persecution through their open defiance of authority. It is significant, for example, that William Caton, one of the most charismatic missionaries of the first generation of Quakers, wrote an explicit appeal to the victims of persecution in 1661, exhorting them not to go into exile but instead to remain steadfast in their 2

On Quaker theology see Geoffrey Nuttall, The Holy Spirit in Puritan Faith and Experience (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992). 3 For an estimate of the Quakers persecuted during the Interregnum see Ted LeRoy Underwood, “Early Quaker Eschatology,” in Puritans, the Millennium and the Future of Israel: Puritan Eschatology 1600 to 1660, ed. Peter Toon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 91–97. On the number of Quakers imprisoned after the Restoration and who died in prison, see William Charles Braithwaite, The Second Period of Quakerism (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1961), 115.

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sufferings.4 Convinced that apostasy had started with the end of persecutions in the fourth century, the Quakers explicitly established parallels between their sufferings and those of the early Christian martyrs. They believed that only through their own suffering was it possible to spread the truth: “the more we did suffer the more true Christianity spread,” said Fox,5 and “Truth is increased through all Trials,” confirmed Edward Burrough, another of the movement’s leaders. 6 This belief fostered what we can define as a “historicist” cult of memory, prompting them to be careful preservers of letters, documents, and publications as proof of the progress of truth. They also used the narratives of their sufferings as propaganda, building a sort of Quaker martyrology, although, in truth, the only Quakers who were actually condemned to death and executed were missionaries sent to toil in North America.7

Missionary Activity Their certainty of being the first true Christians since the apostolic age fed the Quaker missionary impulse. In their vision, England had been called, “as a family of prophets,” to spread the truth “over all the nations.”8 For this reason, Quaker missionaries crossed the Channel to spread the gospel of the “Light within” from the very early years of their movement. In 1654, Quaker missionary activity in Ireland led to the conversion of many soldiers in Cromwell’s army. In 1655, some Quakers arrived in the Netherlands, where, over the years, they converted several English merchants who were living there, as well as some Mennonites. Noteworthy Quaker groups were also established in Amsterdam and Rotterdam and smaller societies of the movement in Haarlem and Alkmaar. In 1655, the first Quakers arrived in Barbados, where they converted several British

4

Joseph Besse, A Collection of the Sufferings of the People called Quakers, for the Testimony of a Good Conscience, 2 vols. (London 1753), 2: 451–52, cf. William. I. Hull, William Penn and the Dutch Quaker Migration to Pennsylvania (Baltimore 1970), 274. 5 Besse, A Collection of the Sufferings, 2: 178. 6 Besse, A Collection of the Sufferings, 1: 130, see also Adrian Chastain Weimer, Martyrs’ Mirror: Persecution and Holiness in Early New England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 102. 7 On the duty to keep records of the “sufferings” of the Friends, see Braithwaite, The Beginnings of Quakerism, 315–17. 8 Epistle from Skipton General Meeting, 25 April 1660, cited in Braithwaite, The Second Period of Quakerism, 351.

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settlers; by 1680, one thousand of the island’s twenty thousand white inhabitants were Quaker converts.9 The first Quakers arrived in New England in 1656 and soon touched off controversy.10 By 1658, Massachusetts law ordered that every Quaker who was not an inhabitant of the colony but was found within its jurisdiction should be imprisoned and banished upon pain of death. Two Quakers were executed in 1659 and another two in 1660 and 1661. Among them was Mary Dyer, who had been released and spared the first time after her imprisonment. Dyer returned to Boston knowing that her sentence would be certain execution. She declared to the court that she came “in obedience to the will of God . . . desiring you to repeal your unrighteousness laws.” Executions in the Bay Colony ended only after the intervention of King Charles II.11 Persecutions did not stop the Quakers, and despite prohibition, they soon established meetings in Rhode Island, New York, New Jersey, and the Southern colonies.12 On the Continent, Quakers ventured to the Palatinate from their societies in the Netherlands, encouraging conversions among the Mennonites and giving life to colonies in Kriegsheim (a few miles from Worms) and Krefeld (a few miles from Düsseldorf). By 1662, a Quaker meeting had been established in Emden in East Friesland, and some conversions were also made in Hamburg.13 In addition to the missions in North America, the Netherlands, and Germany, Quakers also sent missions to Catholic countries. Between 1655

9

The most recent overview on Quaker missionary activity is Sünne Juterczenka, Über Gott und die Welt: Endzeitvisionen, Reformdebatten und die europäische Quäkermission in der Frühen Neuzeit (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 2008). On Quakers in Barbados see Larry D. Gragg, The Quaker Community on Barbados Challenging the Culture of the Planter Class (Columbia: University of Missouri, 2009). 10 See Rufus M. Jones, The Quakers in the American Colonies (New York: Russel & Russel, 1962). 11 On Mary Dyer see Ruth Talbot Plimpton, Mary Dyer: Biography of a Rebel Quaker (Boston: Brandon Books, 1994). Cf. Carla Gardina. G. Pestana, “The Quaker Executions as Myth and History,” The Journal of American History 80/2 (1993): 441–69; eadem, Quakers and Baptists in Colonial Massachusetts (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991). 12 J. Reany Kelly, Quakers in the Founding of Anne Arundel County, Maryland (Baltimore: Maryland Historical Society, 1963). 13 See Hull, William Penn.

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and the early years of the Restoration in England, Quaker missions had reached France, Italy, Portugal, Spain, and Malta.14 The idea of accelerating the millennium through the conversion of the Jews led the Quakers to organise a mission to Jerusalem. In 1657, a group of six missionaries moved towards the Holy Land. Along the way, they stopped in Livorno, where they had a meeting with the governor of the city, who showed great curiosity and a certain sympathy for them. Soon after this meeting these Quaker missionaries left Tuscany. Two of them, Mary Fisher and Beatrice Beckley, made their way to Adrianople, while two others, John Perrot and John Luffe, went to Rome. Both groups had very ambitious projects that reveal the deep utopian impulses that characterised the first Quakers. Mary Fisher wanted to meet with the Sultan and Perrot with the Pope; each laboured under the delusion that they might convert these dignitaries to Quakerism. Only a few Quaker sources treating the meeting of these missionaries with the Sultan at Adrianople have thus far come to light. It is possible that Mary Fisher was deceived into thinking that she had actually met with the Sultan, when she had, in fact, only met with one of his senior officials. It is significant, however, that the woman was granted an audience with Turkish high authorities and, after that, was granted safe-conduct. Perrot and Luffe were less fortunate. Upon arriving in Rome, they entered in contact with some English-speaking priests in the hope of obtaining an audience with Pope Alexander VII. As soon as their arrival was discovered in the middle of the night of 8–9 June 1658, the Quakers were arrested. Pope Alexander VII, in fact, noted the arrival of these “Tremolanti,” the Italian translation of “Quakers,” in his personal diary. After a three-and-a-half month incarceration in the prison of the Inquisition, Perrot was transferred to the lunatic asylum at Santa Maria della Pietà. Twenty days after his incarceration in the prisons of the Inquisition, Luffe died, probably due to what would now be termed a hunger strike. During his stay in the asylum, Perrot wrote several books as well as addresses and letters, some of which were published before his release. The detention of Perrot excited great 14

On Quaker mission in the Mediterranean see Stefano Villani, Tremolanti e papisti: missioni quacchere nell'Italia del Seicento (Rome: Edizio di Storia e Letteratura, 1996); for the mission to Malta see idem, A True Account of the Great Tryals and Cruel Sufferings Undergone by Those Two Faithful Servants of God Katherine Evans and Sarah Cheevers, London 1663. La vicenda di due quacchere prigioniere dell’inquisizione di Malta (Pisa: Scuola Normale Superiore, 2003); for the Quakers in Portugal and Spain see idem, “Una quacchera a Lisbona. I viaggi e gli scritti di Ann Gargill,” Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa – Classe di Lettere e Filosofia, serie 4, 4/1 (1999): 247–81.

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sympathy among the Quakers. Two other Quakers went to Rome in an attempt to secure Perrot’s freedom. Of course, they were also arrested in the spring of 1661. For reasons not yet known, they were all released at the end of May. It is possible that they had brought with them some letters from Charles II. Such a conjecture is supported by the fact that in London, some Quakers had particularly close relations with the Catholic Lord Almoner of Queen Henrietta Maria. A contemporary Italian report remarked, too, that the Quakers engaged in their missionary activity “to correct the mistakes of the world.”15 Such a phrase accurately summarised their notion that their preaching might signal a new beginning to the history of mankind. The story of Quaker missions in Italy is the story of a missed encounter. The Quakers did not understand Catholics, judging them to be corrupt idolaters, while Quakers were equally puzzling to Catholics. Generally, Catholics did not consider the “Tremolanti” worthy of serious consideration. Cardinal Francesco Barberini wrote in 1659 to the Inquisitor of Malta that the doctrines of the group were the “effect of foolishness.” The Inquisitor had recently arrested two Quaker women who had stopped on that island on their way to the Holy Land, and Barberini’s comment clearly shows that he considered their notions not worthy of serious consideration. 16 Similarly, when the Somascan father Stefano Cosmo met with Samuel Fisher, one of the very few Quakers of the first generation to hold a University degree from Oxford and who arrived as a missionary to Venice in 1658, the father discussed theological matters with him. But even if he seemed to grasp the core of the doctrine of the Friends more than others, “which consisted chiefly in wanting to restore everything in the state of innocence in which Adam was made,” he did not appreciate the theoretical relevance of the statements of his interlocutor. When the father asked Fisher questions on the visible church and the Vicar of Christ, Fisher responded “that Christ was visible by those who have Him in themselves,” Cosmo simply concluded that “[they] did not have deep understanding of matters of controversy.”17 Perhaps one could say that the confrontation between those the Quakers defined as Papists and those that Catholics called “Tremolanti,” symbolically represented the conflict between a culture founded on the 15

“A correggere gli errori del mondo,” letter of Torquato Montauti to the Secretary of State of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, 15 June 1658, in Villani, Tremolanti e papisti, 56. 16 Letter of Barberini to the Inquisitor of Malta, Rome 15 February 1659, in Villani, Tremolanti e papisti, 214; cf. ibid., 120. 17 Ibid., 192–94.

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principle of authority and a culture that instead prefigured and anticipated the Enlightenment. The Quakers, however, were not successful in their attempts at conversion in any of the Catholic countries. It is perhaps useful to reflect on this failure, comparing it to the extraordinary expansion that the movement underwent in England and in America, and, albeit to a lesser extent, among the Mennonites in the Netherlands and in the Rhineland area. Undoubtedly, repression played a significant role. In the Iberian Peninsula, Italy, and Malta many of the Quaker missionaries were arrested by the Inquisition before they could even begin their work of evangelisation. But even if the Spanish, Portuguese, and Roman inquisitions were evidently well equipped to prevent visible anti-Catholic propaganda, it is clear that the lack of success cannot only be attributed to repression: Quaker missionaries were also persecuted in Protestant countries, and none of the Quakers arrested in Catholic countries were put to death, unlike the first Quaker missionaries to New England. Surely the Quakers were not intellectually equipped to confront Catholicism in continental Europe, even as their efforts to missionise among Jews and Muslims were similar failures, a subject that is beyond the scope of this short overview.18 This is clear if we look at the propagandistic texts that Quakers brought with them that were written in Latin, French, and Italian. These texts were filled with constant references to the Bible, references that evidently could not reach Catholic readers, because the Quakers were relying upon a religious imagery that was completely foreign to them. Historians have long wondered about the extraordinary success of the Quakers in England. Recent scholars have often pointed to the narrative of persecution and the significant role it played as a tool of Quaker propaganda. They have emphasised that the doctrine of the “Light within” allowed lower class people, women, and young people to play a role that was unthinkable among other seventeenth-century religious groups: the English civil wars and the beheading of the king seemed to have opened up a new phase to them, a phase in which the world was to be turned upside down. Quaker theology has been examined in the broader context of the internalisation of religious practices, which, during the seventeenth century, was one of the ways some people manifested their own discomfort with the confining boxes Confessionalisation produced.19 18

On this topic see Justin J. Meggitt, Early Quakers and Islam: Slavery, Apocalyptic and Christian-Muslim Encounters in the Seventeenth Century (Uppsala: Swedish Science Press, 2013). 19 On seventeenth-century English radical movements see Christopher Hill, The World Turned Upside Down; Radical Ideas During the English Revolution (New

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All these factors obviously played a major role. It is likely, however, that the largest contributor to the success of the movement was its radical contestation of Calvinist theology and what was perceived as its dark pessimism. In contrast to the doctrine of predestination, the perfectionist beliefs of the early Quakers, tinged with universalist notions, optimistically proclaimed the possibility for everyone to achieve salvation here and now by following their “inward Light.” If this was one of the main reasons for Quaker success in the English-speaking world, it was perhaps one of the reasons why their missions had no success in countries where they did not come in contact with Protestantism, with its bibliolatry, and its doctrine of predestination. To the sceptical eyes of Italian and French Catholics, Quakers seemed only exalted religious extremists tinged with madness and foolishness. It is no coincidence that, as we have seen, John Perrot, after his arrest, was quickly transferred to a mental hospital and that Cardinal Barberini in his already mentioned letter to the Inquisitor of Malta, suggested that the two Quakers he had arrested be treated as mad women.20

Emigration to America It was largely Quaker failure in their European missionary efforts, as well as the arresting of their expansion in England, that played the most important role in inspiring a new chapter in their history and led to the birth of Pennsylvania. The Quakers of the first generation had the conversion of the world as their singular ambition. Samuel Fisher wrote explicitly that “The Quakers are of the Catholick Church” and added, “The Church of Rome is but a particular Church, as that of England, or another national one may be; but the Catholick Church is general and universal . . . a Church that had its being (though the world sees it not, nor knows it)

York: Maurice Temple Smith, 1972) and the more recent David Como, Blown By the Sprit: Puritanism and the Emergence of an Antinomian Underground in PreCivil-War England (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2004); for the internalisation of religious practices cf. Leszek Koáakowski, Chrétiens sans Église. La conscience religieuse et le lien confessionnel au 17e siècle (Paris: Gallimard, 1969). 20 As a matter of fact, sometimes Quakers were interned in asylums also in Protestant countries. For example William Ames and Maerten Maertensz were thrown into the dolhuis (madhouse) of Rotterdam in 1661; William I. Hull, Benjamin Furley and Quakerism in Rotterdam (Swarthmore, PA: Swarthmore Monograph on Quaker History, No. 5, 1941), 207.

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from Abel to this day.” 21 By contrast, the Quakers of the second generation, in large part because of the failure of their missionary attempts, gradually developed a different notion of their mission. They considered themselves a dissident group among other dissenting groups in a country—Britain—where most of the population was part of a majority church. From an ideological point of view, we can say that they moved on in their aspirations, from considering themselves as the Church, to accepting their status as a sect, contradicting the sociological scheme that usually sees such movements as following along the opposite passage. The traditional interpretation of the events that led to the birth of Pennsylvania tells us that one of William Penn’s first motivations was to offer a safe haven from persecution to his coreligionists. Indeed, as the most recent historiography has highlighted, when Penn made his request to the king of England, the Quakers enjoyed, perhaps for the first time, a relative peace after decades of persecution. In fact, in November 1680, a toleration bill that would have allowed Quakers to participate in the political life of the country failed to pass only because of the dissolution of Parliament.22 Before his conversion to Quakerism around 1667, Penn had served as administrator of his father’s lands in Ireland. In the 1670s, he gained broad experience as a trustee of New Jersey. In 1674, in fact, the proprietorship of a large part of the colony of New Jersey was entrusted to a Quaker who later passed it to three trustees, including Penn. They transformed West New Jersey into a refuge for Quakers, giving to these areas a constitution that guaranteed religious and political rights to anyone, without confessional limits (Penn was involved in the political life of New Jersey until 1702). The first 230 Quakers came to New Jersey in 1677. At the end of the seventeenth century, more than two-thirds of the 3,300 inhabitants of these regions within New Jersey were Quakers, largely immigrants from London and Yorkshire.23 The Charter for Pennsylvania was issued in March 1681, and Penn, on the basis of his experience with West Jersey, proposed that the new colony would, with the exception of Catholicism, grant the widest tolerance to all faiths. Significantly, Penn published a promotional pamphlet to attract 21

Samuel Fisher, Rusticos ad Academicos (London 1660), 37. Mary K. Geiter, William Penn (Harlow: Longman, 2000). 23 On Penn see the collections of essays edited by Richard S. Dunn and Mary. Maples Dunn. The World of William Penn (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1986). For Penn’s religious views see Melvin B. Endy, William Penn and Early Quakerism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1973). 22

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settlers in 1681 (Some Account of the Province of Pennsylvania), which was followed by a broadside. This text, both in its longer version and in its more concise one, was quickly translated into German and Dutch and emphasised the economic benefits of moving to America. Interestingly, the question of religious tolerance appeared only in the background, almost as an afterthought. Other promotional texts published in subsequent years took a similar tack as well. Obviously, the emphasis on the material benefits that might accrue in emigrating to Pennsylvania does not negate the strong religious motivations that inspired Penn’s colonial ambitions. Certainly, he considered Philadelphia and Pennsylvania as a New Jerusalem, as announced by the Revelation of St. John (Rev. 3: 7–12). Pennsylvania was a Promised Land that was supposed to represent an example, a banner for all the nations of the world, a “holy experiment,” in fact. Yet such a shift in Quaker rhetoric, a shift that accentuated the strong example the movement was producing in its New World colony, marked a change from Quakerism’s beginnings, when the society’s Friends had longed “to correct the mistakes of the world.”24 It is true that, especially among German Quakers, one of the motivations that drove them to Pennsylvania was weariness with continued persecution. But, on a symbolic level, the many Quakers who immigrated from Britain and from the Palatinate to Pennsylvania expressed the hope that they had reached a new Promised Land where they were to build a New Jerusalem. They did not despair, in other words, about being forced to leave their homelands. Immigration to America, in fact, marked the end of the Quaker community in the Rhineland. Some Dutch Quakers feared the same thing would happen in the Netherlands. It is extremely significant that one of the leading exponents of the Quaker community of Amsterdam, William Sewel (grandson of an exiled Englishman who had fled to the Netherlands to escape persecution), disapproved of the decision of many of his coreligionists to leave their homelands in search of wellbeing. He did so because of the consequences that immigration was to have upon the Quaker communities outside Britain. Sewel saw the decision to emigrate, especially if undertaken because of a desire to avoid persecution, as a kind 24

William Penn, Some Account of the Province of Pennsilvania in America: Lately Granted Under the Great Seal of England to William Penn &c.: Together with Priviledges and Powers Necessary to the Well-Governing Thereof: Made Publick for the Information of Such As Are, or May Be Disposed to Transport Themselves, or Servants into Those Parts (London 1681). Cf. Hull, William Penn, 311–14. On Penn’s political thought see Andrew R. Murphy ed., The Political Writings of William Penn (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 2002).

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of desertion. He clearly expressed these feelings in a letter to an English Quaker who was considering immigration to Pennsylvania, despising the idea “of departing thither for the sake of escaping affliction.”25 Such concerns and resistances were very common. In 1682, for instance, the Quaker William Lodington felt the need to write a comprehensive response to the various objections raised against the idea of moving to America, significantly entitled Plantation Work: The Work of This Generation. In this text, Lodington explains at length that those who were going to Pennsylvania were not doing so “because Suffering” was or might “come upon” them. He added explicitly, “That Text, If they Persecute you in one City, Fly to another, concerns not our circumstances.”26 The foundation of Pennsylvania, in his and Penn’s vision, was “the work of this generation.” A call similar to that of Noah to build the ark, of Moses to lead Israel out of Egypt, of Joshua to take it to Canaan, of Ezra to build the temple, of Nehemiah to build the walls of the city, of Paul to convert the Gentiles, all examples that figure in Lodington’s pamphlet. This was a new phase, different from that of the previous generation, which, however, came to elicit a similar degree of enthusiasm. This second generation of Quakerism’s rhetoric now celebrated their movement as a further step in the path of Israel’s liberation from darkness.27 The peculiarities that characterised the first Quakers—the plain language, the refusal to take off their hats, the sober clothes—once signs of rebellion and rejection of the hierarchical order, now became markers of identity. The new model was no longer that of the Quaker “publisher of Truth,” persecuted and killed, but of the respectable merchant and farmer. Having abandoned their idea to convert the world, Quakers now accepted their new role as an Anglo-Saxon dissident sect in England, with its centre in London, and in the New World as an American church centred in Philadelphia. The eighteenth-century voyages that led some Quakers to continental Europe were demonstrative actions, totally devoid of the prophetic drive of the first decades. In contrast to the missions of the 1650s and 60s, these were not journeys aimed at the conversion of the people with whom they came into contact. I do not deny that the passage 25

William I. Hull, William Sewel of Amsterdam, 1653–1720: The First Quaker Historian of Quakerism (Swarthmore, PA: Swarthmore College, 1933), 60. 26 Cf. Steven Craig Harper, Promised Land: Penn’s Holy Experiment, the Walking Purchase, and the Dispossession of Delawares, 1600–1763 (Bethlehem, PA: Lehigh University Press 2006). 27 William Loddington, Plantation Work the Work of This Generation: Written in True-Love to All Such As Are Weightily Inclined to Transplant Themselves and Families to Any of the English Plantations in America (London 1682).

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of thousands of Quakers from England to America and that of several dozen from the Netherlands and from Rhineland after the founding of Pennsylvania often represented escape from a precarious life and persecution. Yet, at the same time, the very idea that Quakers might seek refuge and peace from suffering, rather than witnessing to their faith through martyrdom, was considered anathema to those Quakers who remained faithful to the movement’s original impulses. The new vision appeared to those surviving Quakers of the first generation as a betrayal. The founding of Pennsylvania represented an admission that the world had chosen darkness rather than the Light. As a result the movement shrank more and more from its one-time demand that all humankind experience a universal palingenesis, a Christian rebirth and regeneration in the light of the spirit. Instead Quakerism now moved to become a more limited historical creed located within two countries.

EXILE AND RETURN IN ANGLO-AMERICAN PURITANISM JOHN COFFEY

The experience of exile had a decisive impact on Anglo-American Puritanism. Puritan nonconformity was born in exile during the reign of Mary Tudor, as English Protestants were exposed to advanced forms of Reformed Protestantism in cities like Strasbourg, Basel, Zurich, Frankfurt, and Geneva. It was radicalised in exile under Elizabeth and the early Stuarts, as separatists and Congregationalists established new churches in the Netherlands and new settlements in New England. One might even argue that Puritanism as a dynamic movement within the established Church expired during its long internal exile during the Restoration, when Puritan pastors were ejected from their livings by the Act of Uniformity and banned from the vicinity of their former parishes by the Five Mile Act. This internal exile created Protestant Dissent, but the earlier foreign exiles had proved just as formative. In continental Europe and colonial America, the godly found refuge from persecution, encountered alternative models of church and state, created space for radical ecclesiastical experiments, launched propaganda campaigns, and acquired prestige as sufferers for the sake of Christ. However, exile alone would have had limited impact on English Protestantism—it was the Puritan return from exile that did most to change religious culture. By placing exile within the frame of biblical narrative (above all the story of the Jews in Babylon), Puritans infused their experience with significance and kept their eyes fixed on the prospect of restoration to their Jerusalem. Marian exiles returned in 1558–59 with rival conceptions of reformation, which led to decades of disturbance within the English Church and a fundamental rift with the Scottish Kirk. Early Stuart exiles from the Dutch Republic and New England returned in 1640 determined to rebuild the temple of Jerusalem, but their congregationalism would undermine plans for Presbyterian uniformity and change the course of the Puritan Revolution. Restoration exiles were far less influential, though we will note that the exile and return of Anglican

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Whigs in 1688 was to leave an indelible mark on English political and religious ideology. Banishing dissenters was a policy that backfired in spectacular fashion: in early modern England, exiles had a habit of returning with a vengeance. “The Reformation of the Refugees,” which Heiko Oberman saw as a principal carrier of sixteenth-century Calvinism, was one of the driving forces behind English-speaking Puritanism.1 In the English case, in contrast to Spanish Jews after 1492, or French Huguenots after 1685, the refugees would strike back.

Henrician and Marian Exiles On some accounts, the first Puritan exile was William Tyndale, the early evangelical reformer forced to flee to the Continent in the 1520s. He prepared and published his seminal translation of the Bible in Cologne, Worms, and Antwerp, before being burned at the stake (after strangulation) on the outskirts of Brussels.2 Other clerical reformers—like John Frith and Miles Coverdale—also fled abroad where they “acquired their full reformed theology.” There was “a second Reformed diaspora” in the final years of Henry VIII, involving leading reformers like John Bale, John Philpot, John Rogers, and John Hooper, now attracted to emerging “Reformed” cities like Strasbourg, Basel, and Zurich. Predictably, these exiles forged an increasingly militant Reformed identity. Yet most of the first generation of English reformers experienced conversion in England—Bilney, Latimer, and Ridley had never travelled abroad, and even Cranmer had limited exposure to “the best Reformed churches” on the Continent. As Felicity Heal has observed, “It took the Marian exile systematically to break down insularity in the attitudes of the leaders of English Protestantism.”3 Moreover, it was among the Marian exiles in the mid-1550s that the faultline between Puritans and conformists was first exposed. Under Edward VI (1547–53), England had already proved receptive to the second great wave of Protestant Reformation as Lutheranism was succeeded and overtaken by the reformed confession, articulated by 1

Heiko Oberman, “Europa Afflicta: The Reformation of the Refugees,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 83 (1992): 91–111. 2 Marshall M. Knappen, Tudor Puritanism: A Chapter in the History of Idealism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1939), chap. 1: “Tyndale and the Continental Background.” On Tyndale as a Bible translator see David Daniell, The Bible in English: Its History and Influence (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), 132–59. 3 Felicity Heal, Reformation in Britain and Ireland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 233–34, 319–20.

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imported Protestant divines like Martin Bucer and Peter Martyr Vermigli. It was during Edward’s reign that “stranger churches” were established in London, and these French, Italian, and Dutch congregations, worshipping according to foreign liturgies, gave English Protestants a glimpse of what a more thorough Reformation might produce.4 The presence of continental reformed exiles in England is not the subject of this chapter, but some played a significant part in internationalising the outlook of English Protestantism, providing inspiration to Puritan advocates of further reformation.5 Others—like Isaac Causabon, Antonis de Dominis, and Peter du Moulin—would help to define an “Anglican” ethos that distanced the Church of England from continental Calvinism, especially from Geneva.6 Yet it was the Marian exile of the 1550s that opened up the critical divergence between conformists and nonconformists. Around eight hundred evangelicals had fled the Marian persecution to the Reformed cities of Switzerland and the Rhineland: Zurich, Geneva, Basel, Strasbourg, and Frankfurt.7 It was in Frankfurt in 1554–55 that a heated 4

Susan Brigden, London and the Reformation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), 459–60, 464–65, 467–68, 561, 572, 627; Diarmaid MacCulloch, Tudor Church Militant (London: Penguin Press, 1999), 141–42, 182–83. 5 Andrew Pettegree, Foreign Protestant Communities in Sixteenth-Century London (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986); Ole Peter Grell, Dutch Calvinists in Early Stuart London: The Church in Austin Friars, 1603–1642 (Leiden: Brill, 1989); idem, Calvinist Exiles in Tudor and Stuart England (Aldershot: Scolar, 1996); G. H. Turnbull, Hartlib, Dury and Comenius: Gleanings from Hartlib’s Papers (Liverpool: University Press of Liverpool, 1947); Hugh Trevor-Roper, “Three Foreigners: The Philosophers of the Puritan Revolution,” in Religion, the Reformation and Social Change (London: Macmillan, 1967); Patrick Collinson, “Calvinism with an Anglican Face: The Stranger Churches of London and Their Superintendent,” in idem, Godly People (London: Hambledon Press, 1983); Andrew Spicer, “‘A Place of Refuge and Sanctuary of a Holy Temple’: Exile Communities and the Stranger Churches,” in Immigrants in Tudor and Early Stuart England, ed. Nigel Goose and Lien Luu (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2005), 91–109. 6 See Jean-Louis Quantin, The Church of England and Christian Antiquity: The Construction of a Confessional Identity in the Seventeenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), passim, 397; Vivienne Larminie, “The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, the du Moulin Connection, and the Location of the Church of England in the Later Seventeenth Century,” in The Religious Culture of the Huguenots, 1660–1750, ed. Anne Dunan-Page (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 55–68. 7 Christina Hallowell Garrett, The Marian Exiles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1938) is the classic study and not entirely superseded due to its comprehensive census of the exiles. For the latest research, see the articles by

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dispute arose among the exile community. The controversy centred on Cranmer’s Edwardian Prayer Book, with the conformists led by Richard Cox, and the more militant reformers by the Scotsman John Knox. The divide between the “Coxians” and the “Knoxians” (to use Patrick Collinson’s terms) does not map neatly on to the simplistic divide between “Anglicans” and “Puritans,” those umbrella terms that each cover broad swathes of the religious spectrum with considerable overlap in the middle.8 The Coxians (as well as the Knoxians) sought the blessing of John Calvin, and while they included past and future bishops like John Ponet, Edmund Grindal, and Cox himself, their staunch Reformed Protestantism was a long way from the “high church” “Anglicanism” we associate with Lancelot Andrewes or William Laud. Nevertheless, this intra-Reformed dispute was bitter and divisive. It ended with victory for the Coxians, as the town council required the English congregation to worship according to Cranmer’s Prayer Book and sent Knox into a kind of exile in Geneva, that city of refugees. Yet, this was not the end of the story, for the troubles at Frankfurt had revealed an ideological divide that would vex the Church of England for more than a century to come. The Coxian tendency (which later included many of those labelled “moderate” or “conformable” Puritans like William Perkins or John Preston) was content to pray by the book, conforming to the official English liturgy of 1552 and subsequently 1559 and 1662. The Knoxian tendency, by contrast, was sharply critical of what Calvin had called the “Popish dregs” of the Book of Common Prayer, enamoured with the Geneva Prayer Book, and insistent on the need for further reformation. From the mid-1560s, such nonconformity would be nicknamed “Puritanism,” a term subsequently stretched to cover ardent advocates of moral reformation and intense piety (“the hotter sort of Protestant”).9 Among Knox’s faction was John Foxe. During the Marian exile, he published two Latin martyrologies, laying the groundwork for his magnum

Dawson and Duguid cited below, and the website “Letters from Exile: Documents of the Marian Exile”: http://www.marianexile.div.ed.ac.uk/index.html [accessed 24 May 2016]. On the importance of refugee cities, including Basel and Geneva, see Nicholas Terpstra, Religious Refugees in Early Modern Europe: An Alternative History of the Reformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 157– 83. 8 Patrick Collinson, The Elizabethan Puritan Movement (London: Cape, 1967), 33, 72. 9 For the latest assessment of the controversy see Timothy Duguid, “The ‘Troubles’ at Frankfurt: A New Chronology,” Reformation and Renaissance Review 14 (2013): 243–68.

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opus, The Acts and Monuments (1563), a work that did much to define English Protestant national identity. In Strasbourg he collaborated with John Bale, a reformer whose seminal exposition of the book of Revelation (the first complete commentary on the text to be printed in English) had been written some years before during the reign of Henry VIII when its author was in exile in Germany.10 Working alongside Bale, who had already written anti-Roman martyrologies, Foxe composed and published the Commentarii Rerum in Ecclesia Gestarum (1554), a history of the persecution of the true church from Wyclif to Savonarola. Much of it would be incorporated into the Acts and Monuments. After his sojourn in Frankfurt, Foxe settled in Basel, where he collaborated with leading Protestant scholars like Matthias Flacius, whose major work Catalogus Testium Veritatis (1556) told the history of the true church as the story of isolated (and often persecuted) groups of faithful Christians down the centuries. Foxe assisted in its publication, and it would inform the ecclesiology of the Acts and Monuments. Working under Edward Grindal, a future archbishop of Canterbury, he published his second Latin martyrology, Rerum . . . Commentarii (1559), a work that placed English persecution in European context, bringing the story forward to cover the Marian martyrs. Exile was fundamental to Foxe’s formation as a martyrologist. In the Reformed cities of the Continent, he learned about the latest printing practices, met leading Protestant scholars, began to research and publish martyrologies, and clarified his own vision of church history under the influence of Bale and Flaccius. As his biographer explains, “Foxe had left England in 1554 penniless and relatively unknown. He returned home in October 1559 not much richer, but with a substantial reputation.”11 Meanwhile, at Geneva, John Knox had discovered “the maist perfyt schoole of Christ that ever was in the erth since the dayis of the Apostillis.” Together with the English divine Christopher Goodman, he founded and pastored the city’s English-speaking exile church. This extraordinarily productive congregation produced texts that would have an incalculable impact on Anglophone Protestantism—the “Geneva” Bible, a metrical Psalter, a service book, and incendiary political tracts.12 The

10

John N. King, “John Bale (1495–1563),” ODNB. On the influence of Bale’s work see Robert O. Smith, More Desired than Our Own Salvation: The Roots of Christian Zionism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 55–63. 11 Thomas Freeman, “John Foxe (1516/17–1587),” ODNB. 12 For what follows see Jane A. Dawson, “John Knox, Christopher Goodman and the ‘Example of Geneva’,” in The Reception of Continental Reformation in

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Geneva Bible was the remarkable achievement of a team of translators led by William Whittingham (indeed Tyndale and Whittingham remind us that the English Bible was a product of exile). Smaller than the massive folios published under Henry VIII, it was designed as a personal study Bible, complete with maps, charts, innovative chapter and verse divisions, concordances, indexes, and detailed marginal notes. James VI and I disliked the subversive tenor of some of these glosses, but the “Geneva” version went through one hundred and fifty editions between 1575 and 1644, far outselling the official “Bishops” Bible and becoming the Bible of Shakespeare as much as the Puritans. The metrical Psalm-book (sometimes known as the Anglo-Genevan Psalter) was the least controversial. Officially adopted in the Church of Scotland, it was also (in revised form) widely used and influential in England, where psalmody became the staple of Protestant parish worship. The congregation’s service book or Forme of Prayers was naturally more contentious, representing as it did a “pure” Genevan contrast to the compromised and “halfly-reformed” English Book of Common Prayer. It was used by Puritan radicals, like those who gathered at London’s Plumber’s Hall in 1567. In Scotland, its minimalist style powerfully informed the Book of Common Order, the official liturgy of the Kirk. Following the Genevan model, the Scottish liturgy did away with the liturgical calendar, set congregational responses, kneeling, and the formal burial service. Finally, Goodman and Knox wrote works of resistance theory to justify revolt against idolatrous tyrants, works that would inspire the Scottish Reformation and prefigure the Puritan Revolution of the 1640s.13 Knox and Goodman pictured Britain’s Reformed Protestants in biblical terms as Israelites in Egyptian bondage. What was needed was an Exodus that would liberate “bonde slaues,” a Moses who would confront Pharaoh and demand “deliverance.” Knox himself played this starring role in 1559 at the head of Scotland’s revolutionary Reformation, and the death of Mary Tudor and the accession of Elizabeth released English Protestants from their “popish bondage.” The title page of the Geneva Bible, Britain, ed. Polly Ha and Patrick Collinson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 107–35. On the Geneva Bible see Daniell, The Bible in English, 275–319. 13 Quentin Skinner, The Foundations of Modern Political Thought, vol. 2, The Age of Reformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), chap. 7; Carlos Eire, War against the Idols: The Reformation of Worship from Erasmus to Calvin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 301–3; John Coffey, “The Language of Liberty in Calvinist Political Thought,” in, Freedom and the Construction of Europe, ed. Martin van Gelderen and Quentin Skinner, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 1: 302–3.

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published in 1560, bore an image of the Israelites pinned against the Red Sea by the pursuing Egyptian army with Yahweh’s pillar of fire on the horizon. Under Mary, England’s Protestants had identified with the oppressed children of Israel, and many had fled Egyptian taskmasters to worship God on the Continent. Persecuted and hunted, Protestants were like the children of Israel at the Red Sea; they too had experienced a providential deliverance. As suddenly as Pharaoh, Mary Tudor and Mary of Guise had met their demise.14 The returning exiles also looked to another biblical narrative—the restoration of the Jews to rebuild Jerusalem after their Babylonian captivity. The Geneva Bible was dedicated to Queen Elizabeth and the preface hailed her as “our Zerubabbel,” the Hebrew governor who had led the initial return from exile in Babylon. James Pilkington, who had spent the Marian years in Zurich, Geneva, and Basel, returned to Cambridge to purge St John’s College of popish dons, before becoming the first Elizabethan bishop of Durham. In 1560, he published a commentary on the prophet Haggai, who had urged the returned exiles to rebuild the Jerusalem temple. Pilkington shared Haggai’s frustrations—like the Jews, who had neglected to build God’s house for forty years, the English had squandered four decades since the 1520s. They needed to “reform religion thoroughly,” looking to continental examples.15 The problem was that different exiles looked to different European models. As Jane Dawson has observed, “the ‘example of Geneva’ brought division, not unity, between England and Scotland,” leading the two countries to develop “sharply distinct, and frequently opposing, confessional identities . . . English rejection opposed Scottish absorption.”’16 Elizabeth I, stung by Knox’s Trumpet Blast against the Monstrous Regiment of Women (a tract actually targeted at Mary of Guise and Mary Tudor), was deeply suspicious of Geneva, and Calvin and Beza were guilty by association with Knox and Goodman, a troublemaker on whom the queen kept a close eye. By contrast, the regime favoured more moderate Marian exiles like Cox, Grindal, Pilkington, and John Jewell, whose Reformed Protestantism owed more to Bucer’s Strasbourg and Bullinger’s Zurich than Calvin’s Geneva. Altogether fourteen out of 14 See John Coffey, Exodus and Liberation: Deliverance Politics from John Calvin to Martin Luther King Jr. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 30–33; idem, “The Language of Liberty in Calvinist Political Thought,” 302–3. 15 Richard Bauckham, “Marian Exiles and Cambridge Puritanism: James Pilkington’s ‘Half a Score’,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 26 (1975): 137–48. 16 Dawson, “John Knox, Christopher Goodman and the ‘Example of Geneva’,” 135.

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twenty-three episcopal appointments made between 1559 and 1562 went to Marian exiles like Cox. They would ensure that the Church retained episcopal hierarchy, royal supremacy, and an attenuated sense of sacramental presence in the Eucharist, even as its theologians largely endorsed Calvinist predestinarianism.17 But if the experience of exile had led to divergence among British Reformed Protestants, it remained formative, for English conformists and nonconformists, for the Church of England and the Scottish Kirk.

Elizabethan and Early Stuart Exiles England was a Protestant state after 1558–59, but Elizabeth’s desire for clerical conformity would drive some new-styled “Puritans” into exile. Following a controversy over clerical vestments and conformity in the mid-1560s, Walter Travers and Thomas Cartwright sought refuge in Geneva where they met Theodore Beza and published a major work on church government and discipline. Cartwright went to Calvinist Heidelberg, while Travers was ordained into the Dutch Reformed Church, being succeeded as chaplain to the English Merchant Adventurers in Antwerp by Cartwright. Returning to England, the two men became the most articulate proponents of a Presbyterian reformation of the English Church, protected for a time by powerful patrons like Lord Burghley and Sir Francis Walsingham, until John Whitgift and Richard Bancroft’s royally-sanctioned campaign against Presbyterianism led to their prosecution and imprisonment. As Collinson notes, “Cartwright had spent twenty of his sixty-eight years outside England, in one kind of exile or another—more than any other English protestant.”18 His career was devoted to an unsuccessful attempt to bring the Church of England into greater alignment with continental Calvinism. The Netherlands also provided a refuge for English separatists like Robert Browne, whose Middelburg congregation published his Treatise of Reformation in 1582. After the execution of English separatist leaders in 1593, some London émigrés established a congregation at Amsterdam, where Francis Johnson became their pastor. Although separatists had broken decisively with the established Church, they had left England without abandoning it, and the Dutch Republic provided a base from 17

Diarmaid MacCulloch, “The Church of England, 1533–1603,” in Anglicanism and the Western Christian Tradition, ed. Stephen Platten (Norwich: Canterbury Press, 2003), 34–39. 18 Patrick Collinson, “Thomas Cartwright,” ODNB.

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which to fire pamphlets back at their mother country. By 1603, however, it seemed as if exile-fuelled dreams of restructuring the English church had little prospect of fulfilment.19 Paradoxically, however, the conformist drive to suppress radical Puritanism would repeat the pattern of exile and return that had characterised the Marian and Elizabethan eras. Under James I and then Charles I, pushing nonconformists into exile in the Netherlands and then New England appeared to be an effective way of ridding England of disruptive elements.20 Indeed, England’s Puritan clergy increasingly channelled their energies into parish ministry and practical piety, producing a massive devotional literature that was soon being translated into Dutch and German, becoming one of the sources for Reformed and Lutheran Pietism. Their exiled brethren contributed to this effort, but in the Dutch Republic and the New World they were free to pastor congregations that became veritable laboratories for ecclesiastical reformation.21 In 1608, a group of separatists in the Nottinghamshire villages of Gainsborough and Scrooby sought refuge in Amsterdam. Led by John Robinson, John Smyth, and Richard Clifton, their congregations became “a hotbed of turbulent creativity,” issuing pamphlets attacking each other, as well as the Church of England and Dutch Reformed churches.22 They were to instigate two developments of seminal importance in the history of Anglophone Protestant culture—the creation of the English Baptist tradition, and the founding of Plymouth colony in North America. The first started with John Smyth, whose encounter with the Waterlanders, one of the main branches of the Mennonites, transformed his theology and practice. Smyth baptised himself and then proceeded to baptise members of his congregation, but when he sought admission to the Mennonites, 19

The most detailed account of these sectarian groups remains Champlin Burrage, Early English Dissenters, 1550–1641, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1912). 20 For an overview of early Stuart persecution and Puritan diaspora, see Michael Watts, The Dissenters: From the Reformation to the French Revolution (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978), 41–66; John Coffey, Persecution and Toleration in Protestant England, 1558–1689 (Harlow: Longman, 2000), 110–17, 125–30. 21 See Keith L. Sprunger, Dutch Puritanism: A History of English and Scottish Churches of the Netherlands in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Leiden: Brill, 1982); David D. Hall, A Reforming People: Puritanism and the Transformation of Public Life in New England (New York: Knopf, 2011); Francis Bremer, First Founders: American Puritans and Puritanism in an Atlantic World (Durham: University of New Hampshire Press, 2012). 22 Michael Winship, Godly Republicanism: Puritans, Pilgrims, and a City on a Hill (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), 84–88.

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Thomas Helwys led a breakaway group to return to England where, in 1612, they founded the nation’s first Baptist church.23 This tiny congregation contained within it the seeds of a revolution in church practice, for by the early twenty-first century the majority of evangelical Protestants would belong to churches (whether Baptist or charismatic/Pentecostal) that practised believer’s baptism. Of course, the rise of the believer’s baptism might well have occurred regardless of Helwys and his Dutch exile—Calvinist Baptists emerged within England during the 1630s, and it was under Cromwell that the sect achieved critical mass.24 Nevertheless, here we have another striking example of how exile could radicalise the godly. Indeed, the early General Baptists would write pamphlets denouncing all forms of religious persecution and calling for the toleration of “hereticks, Turcks, Jewes, or whatsoever.” Returning religious refugees were pioneering an anglicised version of Europe’s radical Reformation.25 The other crucial development among Separatists was associated with the congregation pastored by John Robinson at Leiden. As William Bradford later explained, the Leiden Separatists enjoyed religious freedom but were “as men in exile and in a poor condition.”26 Feeling estranged from the foreign and relatively lax culture of the Dutch, they embarked on a colonial venture that would take them across the Atlantic in 1620 to found a settlement that was more English and godlier. Bradford’s words suggest that the colony was designed to end their period of exile, to establish a settlement where they could feel at home. Plymouth Plantation was the first of New England’s Puritan colonies, and it would indeed prove permanent (though absorbed into Massachusetts). By the later nineteenth century, the Pilgrims had become part of America’s foundation myth.27 23 James R. Coggins, John Smyth’s Congregation: English Separatism, Mennonite Influence, and the Elect Nation (Waterloo, ON: Herald Press, 1991), chaps. 3–4. 24 On the dramatic rise of Baptists within Puritan culture, see John Coffey, “From Marginal to Mainstream: How Anabaptists became Baptists,” in Mirrors and Microscopes: Historical Perceptions of Baptists, ed. Douglas Weaver (Milton Keynes: Pater Noster Press, 2015), 1–24. 25 Thomas Helwys, The Mistery of Iniquity (1612), 69. See also Timothy George, “Between Pacifism and Coercion: The English Baptist Doctrine of Religious Toleration,” Mennonite Quarterly Review 58 (1984): 30–49. 26 William Bradford, Of Plymouth Plantation, 1620–1647 (New York: McGraw Hill, 1981), 28. 27 George D. Langdon, Pilgrim Colony: A History of New Plymouth, 1620–1691 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966); Nathaniel Philbrick, Mayflower: A Story of Courage, Community, and War (New York: Viking Penguin, 2006).

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The Dutch Republic and the American colonies would also become the base for a much more substantial group of Puritan reformers who adopted a radical ecclesiology without severing their ties to the English Church. After being driven underground by Whitgift and Bancroft, Presbyterianism was sustained in practice by the English Reformed church in Amsterdam, pastored by John Paget.28 More importantly, the Netherlands became the refuge for some of the most important theorists among England’s nonconformist divines, including Henry Ainsworth, Robert Parker, William Ames, and Henry Jacob. The biblical commentaries of Ainsworth, and the Latin treatises of Parker and Ames, would be mined by the next generation of Puritan clergy, and became a major source for the “Independent” belief that the power of church government lay primarily with individual congregations rather than synods, let alone bishops. As for Jacob, his Dutch exile was enlivened by discussions with Robinson, Parker, and Ames, and he returned to London in 1616 to found England’s first non-separating “congregational” church in Southwark—one that “gathered” the godly in a church covenant but remained in communion with the parish churches.29 In the reign of Charles I, another drive against nonconformity would bring a new wave of Puritan clergy to the Netherlands. Some—like Hugh Peter, Thomas Hooker, and John Davenport—would find their way to New England. Others would remain in the Netherlands until 1640. Among them were Thomas Goodwin, Philip Nye, Jeremiah Burroughs, William Bridge, and Sidrach Simpson. In congregations at Arnhem and Rotterdam, these men developed a radical puritan ecclesiology that steered a middle way between the separatism of the “Brownists” and Presbyterianism.30 At the same time, thousands of Puritans were participating in the Great Migration to New England. The Plymouth colony had been a small venture with only a few hundred souls by the late 1620s, but between 1628 and 1640 around fifteen thousand English migrants relocated to Massachusetts Bay, Connecticut, New Haven, and Rhode Island.31 This was part of a larger early modern pattern of religious exile—as Nicholas 28

Polly Ha, English Presbyterianism, 1590–1640 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011), chaps. 6–7. 29 Watts, The Dissenters, 50–62; Francis J. Bremer, Lay Empowerment and the Development of Puritanism (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan 2015), chap. 4: “Gatherings of the Saints in England and the Netherlands.” 30 Sprunger, Dutch Puritanism, 162–72, 227–32. 31 For population estimates for each settlement see Carla Pestana, The English Atlantic in an Age of Revolution (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 229–31.

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Terpstra has argued, the Reformation era “stands out as the first period in European and possibly global history when the religious refugee became a mass phenomenon.”32 The migration has been the subject of much historical controversy. Were the New Englanders impelled by religious motives or were they economic migrants? Were they largely Puritan, or only partly Puritan? And were they voluntary migrants or forced migrants, exiles fleeing persecution?33 The answers lie in both the unusual profile of the migrants and their copious motive statements for leaving England. In contrast to English migration elsewhere in the Atlantic world, the New Englanders migrated largely in family groups and with an unusual number of clergy among them (seventy-nine, of whom at least fifty-two had been in conflict with the ecclesiastical authorities). Moreover, many of the migrants moved with their pastor or with wider Puritan networks. While they wished to be assured of the economic viability of life in the New World, it is misleading to set mundane motivations against religious ones. Among the 273 who embarked on ships from Great Yarmouth and Sandwich in Kent, “the urban artisan of Puritan leaning” is typical, often accompanied by his family.34 If we accept that this was a largely Puritan migration, we are still left with the question of how it was conceptualised in religious terms. In a celebrated essay, Perry Miller argued that the godly were self-consciously engaged on an “Errand into the Wilderness,” designed in Winthrop’s words to build “a city upon a hill,” that would become a beacon to Protestant Christendom and point the way towards the kingdom of God.35 Sacvan Bercovitch developed the argument, insisting that the New England Puritans saw America as the New Israel, guaranteed to play the central role in the coming millennium.36 Avihu Zakai’s Exile and Kingdom 32

Terpstra, Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World, 4. David Cressy, Coming Over: Migration and Communication between England and New England in the Seventeenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1987); Virginia Anderson, New England’s Generation: The Great Migration and the Formation of Society and Culture in the Seventeenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); Alison Games, Migration and the Origins of the English Atlantic World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). 34 Timothy. H. Breen and Stephen Foster, “Moving to the New World: The Character of the Early Massachusetts Immigration,” William and Mary Quarterly 30 (1973): 189–222. 35 Perry Miller, Errand into the Wilderness (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1956), chap. 1. 36 Sacvan Bercovitch, The American Jeremiad (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1978); idem, The Puritan Origins of the American Self, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011). 33

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contrasted the venture of the Virginia settlers and the New Englanders. Whereas the Virginians were engaged in a Genesis-type exile, a journey to extend the empire and religion of Protestant Britain, the Puritan migration was of an Exodus-type, “severing ties with a sinful nation,” “desacralizing” England and identifying America as the new sacred space in which divine providence was bringing history to its climax.37 On this account, the New Englanders were visionary founders, not mere exiles; their migration was an errand not simply a flight, and it was driven as much by the pull of America as by the push factor of Laudian England. While there certainly were stark contrasts between the migrations to Virginia and New England, most recent scholarship has emphasised that the original Massachusetts Puritans were not intent on severing ties with England, nor did the first generation invest all their hopes in America. Far too much has been made of Winthrop’s passing (and anxious) reference to the new colony as a “Citty upon a Hill.” While Puritan settlers did see biblical Israel as an exemplum for their own colony, and while they talked of the New England Canaan, they did not see America as the typological fulfilment of ancient Israel. The sermons of Puritan New Englanders were filled with warnings of God’s wrath and destruction, and their millennial hopes were focussed not on the English in America but on the Jews and their conversion and restoration to Palestine.38 America was not the New Israel, and England was not described as a land of Egyptian bondage abandoned in the new Exodus.39 The numerous motive-statements of the migrants repeatedly stress exile rather than errand, and the negative drivers of their voyage to the New World. New England was a refuge from popery and persecution, as well as a space in which the godly could enjoy pure worship.40 This fits with the evidence that many of the clerical migrants were nonconformists in trouble with the authorities, and it suggests that the New Englanders saw themselves as forced migrants, exiles in flight from a Laudian regime 37

Avihu Zakai, Exile and Kingdom: History and Apocalypse in the Puritan Migration to America (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 65–67, 120–23, passim. 38 Theodore Dwight D. Bozeman, “The Errand in the Wilderness Reconsidered,” in To Live Ancient Lives: The Primitivist Dimension in Puritanism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1988), chap. 3; Reiner Smolinski, “Israel Redivivus: The Eschatological Limits of Puritan Typology in New England,” New England Quarterly 63 (1990): 357–95; Michael Winship, “What Puritan Guarantee,” Early American Literature 47 (2012): 411–20. 39 Coffey, Exodus and Liberation, 37–38. 40 Bozeman, “The Errand in the Wilderness Reconsidered,” 93–114.

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that was perceived as ousting the godly and introducing popish ceremonies. In many cases, they agonised over the decision to leave England, and (like the Marian exiles) were anxious to justify their flight and to stress that they were not abandoning their brethren.41 The godly had no intention of cutting their ties with England. Yet once again, the experience of exile was a radicalising force. In theory, the Massachusetts Puritans remained in communion with the episcopal Church of England and under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London; in practice, they were autonomous, separated from their bishop by three thousand miles of ocean. The settlers established scores of congregational churches where only those who had entered into a church covenant enjoyed the privileges of membership (including access to Communion)—even the franchise was restricted to church members. Here “the congregational way” was worked out in theory by divines like John Cotton and Thomas Hooker, and in practice by town churches across the colonies.42 The excitement of this new reformation led some to push further. The divine Roger Williams quickly became a thorn in the side of the Bay Colony after urging the colonists to cut all ties with the Church of England and openly questioning the power of Christian magistrates to enforce religious orthodoxy. Exasperated, the authorities sentenced him to be arrested and returned to England, but tipped off by John Winthrop he trekked through the winter snows into internal exile in Rhode Island. It quickly became a haven in its own right for religious refugees, including antinomians, separatists, Quakers, and even Jews fleeing the Portuguese Inquisition in Brazil in the late 1650s. Alienated from the Puritan state and living alongside the Narragansett Indians, Williams developed a respect for “heathenish” consciences and disenchantment with Christendom that would cause him to rethink the basic assumptions of the magisterial Reformation.43

41 Susan Hardman-Moore, “Popery, Purity and Providence: Deciphering the New England Experiment,” in Religion, Culture and Society in Early Modern Britain, ed. Anthony Fletcher and Peter Roberts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 257–89; Jonathan Wright, “Marian Exiles and the Legitimacy of Flight from Persecution,” Ecclesiastical History Review 52 (2001): 220–43. 42 Hall, A Reforming People. 43 See Patricia Rubertone, Grave Undertakings: An Archaeology of Roger Williams and the Narragansett Indians (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2001); Martha Nussbaum, Liberty of Conscience: In Defense of America’s Tradition of Religious Equality (New York; Basic Books, 2008), 34–71.

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The free grace or “antinomian controversy” of the mid-1630s posed a much greater threat to the unity of the fledgling colony, and led to the toppling of its young governor, the godly aristocratic Sir Henry Vane the younger, who returned to England with a sympathy for radical Puritanism and a suspicion of state religion. Other antinomians, including the prophetess Anne Hutchinson, were banished from the colony as Puritan exiles inflicted forced migration on their own dissidents. 44 None of this might have made much difference in England were it not for political events. The Scottish Covenanter revolt led to the summoning of the Westminster Parliament, where a Puritan junto—led by John Pym and assisted by young Sir Henry Vane—seized control at the helm of government. Weekly fast sermons were introduced, and Puritan preachers compared the turn of events to the return of the Jews from Babylon. As Achsah Guibbory has noted, “the most frequently invoked Israelite parallel” in these sermons “was to rebuilding the Temple in Jerusalem.” In the very first sermon, Cornelius Burges preached from Jeremiah: “they shall aske the way to Zion with their faces thitherward.” Another preacher declared that “our own condition [is] every way answerable” to “the state of the ancient Jewes” delivered from Babylon. “Israelite analogies,” as Guibbory puts it, “were the building blocks of nation formation.”45 Return from exile was more than a metaphor. Six of the thirty-four preachers before Parliament in 1640 to 1642 had been in exile.46 Among them was Henry Burton who, with the physician John Bastwick and the lawyer William Prynne, had been banished to the Channel Islands for his attacks on episcopacy; on their return, this Puritan triumvirate was cheered through the streets of London by enormous crowds. A far larger return migration was from New England. One in three of the godly ministers who had left for the Puritan colonies returned in the years after 1640; among students at the newly founded Harvard College, the ratio was one in two. Susan Hardman-Moore has documented over six hundred settlers who returned during the 1640s and 50s. No fewer than sixty New England men entered the parish ministry in England and Wales. The scale of the return migration confirms that New Englanders had not transferred their hopes and dreams to America.47 Enthralled by the resurgence of the Puritan 44 Michael Winship, Making Heretics: Militant Protestantism and Free Grace in Massachusetts, 1636–1641 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002). 45 Acshah Guibbory, Christian Identity, Jews, and Israel in Seventeenth-Century England (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2010), 106–13. 46 Ibid., 108. 47 Susan Hardman-Moore, Pilgrims: New World Settlers and the Call of Home (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007).

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cause in their homeland, they threw themselves into reforming the Reformation itself. For the most part, returning New Englanders played modest roles in the English Revolution, though when a rift opened up between Presbyterians and Independents in 1644, they added critical weight to the Independent faction. Some became officers in the New Model Army, others pastored gathered churches.48 The writings of John Cotton, penned in Boston, Massachusetts and printed in revolutionary London, provided the most authoritative exposition of Congregationalist principles.49 Alongside Oliver Cromwell (who had seriously considered emigration in the 1630s), Sir Henry Vane Jr emerged as one of the Independents’ leading statesmen.50 Foremost among the army’s chaplains was the New England minister Hugh Peter, who as a preacher, propagandist, and defender of the regicide, would become one of the Revolution’s most controversial figures.51 Puritans who returned from Dutch exile made an equally critical contribution to the cause of Independency. Five of the exiled ministers— Goodwin, Nye, Bridge, Burroughs, and Simpson—formed a minority group within the Westminster Assembly of Divines, which had been established in 1643 to reform the Church of England. As “the Dissenting Brethren,” these ministers fought a rearguard action against the Presbyterian majority, turning “the congregational way” into a serious option for the godly, and undermining plans for religious uniformity.52 In the Netherlands and New England, the Congregationalists “middle way” between Presbyterianism and Separatism had been tried and tested; imported to England, it would flourish. By 1660, there were around two hundred and fifty Congregational churches across England and Wales.53 More importantly, the Congregationalists had formed the core of the Independent coalition that in 1648–49 swept aside the Presbyterians, purged Parliament, executed the King, abolished monarchy and House of 48

See the biographies in Susan Hardman-Moore, Abandoning America: LifeStories from Early New England (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2013). 49 For a listing of London pamphlets about New England in the 1640s see Pestana, The English Atlantic, 235–40. 50 Violet A. Rowe, Sir Henry Vane the Younger: A Study in Political and Administrative History (London: Athlone Press, 1970). 51 Raymond Phineas Stearns, The Strenuous Puritan: Hugh Peter, 1598–1660 (Urbana: University of Illinois, 1954). 52 See Watts, The Dissenters, 62–65; Hunter Powell, The Crisis of British Protestantism: Church Power in the Puritan Revolution, 1638–44 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2015). 53 Joel Halcomb, “A Social History of Congregational Religious Practice during the Puritan Revolution,” unpublished PhD thesis, University of Cambridge 2009.

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Lords, and established a godly republic. Henry Lawrence, who had been a lay preacher in a gathered church at Arnhem in the 1630s, assumed the position of Lord President of Cromwell’s Council of State.54 Without the legacy of exile, the Congregationalists and sects may have been too weak to mount any kind of challenge to Presbyterian hegemony. The rise of the Independents sparked a major controversy over toleration, one that was powerfully informed by the experience of migration and by exposure to European multiconfessionalism. It is striking that several of the most eloquent advocates of toleration had lived in the Netherlands and witnessed Dutch pluralism.55 The Leveller Richard Overton appears to have lived in the Netherlands for a period in the 1630s, possibly joining a Mennonite congregation. Henry Robinson, closely connected to the Hartlib circle, had worked for nine years in the Netherlands as a merchant; he praised the Dutch who “permit people of all Religions to live amongst them,” even giving great freedom to the Papists.56 Hugh Peter had been a chaplain and pastor of a congregation of English exiles, and he would point to the “flourishing state” of the Dutch republic in support of its policy of toleration.57 Among the leading tolerationists was Roger Williams, who made two return visits to London in 1643–44 and 1651–52 to secure a charter for Rhode Island. Williams struck up a close friendship with Sir Henry Vane Jr, and later with John Milton, and together they were at the heart of the campaign for toleration in the revolutionary decades. Williams’s tract The Bloudy Tenent of Persecution was conceived and drafted in his New England exile, but published in England in 1644, where it quickly gained notoriety among Presbyterians and a keen readership among radical Independents, Levellers, and the New Model Army.58 “Banishment” is a significant sub-theme in Williams. The Bloudy Tenent was composed as a dialogue between Truth and Peace, and begins 54

Sprunger, Dutch Puritanism, 226–28, 230, 231, 349. See Jeremy Dupertuis Bangs, “Dutch Contributions to Religious Toleration,” Church History 79 (2010): 585–613, and John Coffey, “European Multiconfessionalism and the English Toleration Controversy, 1640–1660,” in A Companion to Multiconfessionalism in the Early Modern World, ed. Thomas Max Safley (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 341–65. 56 [Henry Robinson], Liberty of Conscience (London 1644), 47–48. 57 A. S. P. Woodhouse, ed., Puritanism and Liberty: Being the Army Debates (1647–49) from the Clarke Manuscripts, 3rd ed., with new preface (London: J.M. Dent & Sons, 1992), 138. 58 See Glenn La Fantasie, ed., The Correspondence of Roger Williams, 2 vols. (Hanover, NH: Brown University/University Press of New England, 1988). 55

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with Truth’s complaint that the two have been “banished” by “this present evill world,” and are meeting in a “darke corner.” Williams condemns the panoply of punishments meted out by the confessional state: “weapons of wrath and blood, whips, stockes, imprisonment, banishment, death.” He rebukes Constantine for banishing the Arians.59 In a reply to John Cotton’s personal attack, he makes his own forced migration from Massachusetts a cause célèbre, telling his readers of “the miserie of a Winters Banishment amongst the Barbarians.” He denies Cotton’s charge that he had banished himself by his separatism. While excommunication was practiced by the primitive Church, the New Testament provided no such warrant for “civill banishment.” Banishment had been inflicted on “multitudes of holy and faithful men and women since Q[ueen] Maries days.”60 True Christians might suffer banishment on purely religious grounds, but they should never inflict it. Banishment for dissenters did not disappear under the Cromwellian regime, though Scots Covenanters and Irish Confederates were exiled to the Caribbean for military resistance rather than religious conscience. Cromwell sent the anti-Trinitarian John Biddle into exile on the Scilly Isles to protect him from Presbyterians who sought his execution.61 The regime was also keen to protect the Rhode Island radicals against the threat from Massachusetts Bay, and Williams was not alone in finding favour with the leading Independents. The heterodox Samuel Gorton had narrowly escaped execution for blasphemy in Massachusetts, while the Baptist John Clarke had been gaoled for attacking infant baptism. All three men returned to England in the 1640s or 1650s, networked among radical sectaries and Independent grandees, and sailed home with patents or charters that would protect their fledgling settlements against the encroachment of Massachusetts. Criss-crossing the Atlantic, they turned places of exile into new homelands—Williams in Providence, Gorton in Warwick, Clarke in Newport. It was here they settled, lived and died — Clarke in 1676, Gorton in 1677, Williams in 1683—not as exiles, but as pioneers.62 Their radical Reformation would pave a path towards American religious pluralism.

59

Roger Williams, The Bloudy Tenent of Persecution (1644), 15, 30, 92. Roger Williams, Mr Cotton’s Letter lately Printed, Examined and Answered (1644), 33, 6, 9–10, 46. 61 Stephen D. Snobelen, “John Biddle (1615/16–1662),” ODNB. 62 See Jonathan Beecher Field, Errands into the Metropolis: New England Dissidents in Revolutionary London (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 2009), chaps. 2–4. 60

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Restoration Exiles The fall of the English republic and the restoration of the monarchy signalled another wave of Puritan exile as well as Royalist return. Charles II, who had spent over a decade in exile in France and the Netherlands, was hailed as the returning prince. A medal issued to commemorate his restoration depicted him as Moses returning from his banishment to confront the Egyptian taskmasters.63 The king’s chief minister Edward Hyde had himself spent more than a decade in exile where he had begun to write his magnum opus, The History of the Great Rebellion (1702–04). The long and bitter experience of defeat and retreat had made the king himself profoundly wary and deeply conscious of his vulnerability. He and his chief minister were cautious and politique, conscious that the Restoration had been made possible by the largest and most moderate Puritan faction, the Presbyterians. It was the royalist Anglican gentry, returned to Westminster after their long political exile in the province, who were determined to have their revenge. Ignoring the king’s calls for indemnity, oblivion, and liberty for tender consciences, the Cavalier Parliament enacted a series of draconian laws against religious dissenters, the centrepiece of which was the Act of Uniformity (1662). Around two thousand Puritan clergy were ejected from the parishes, and more than four thousand Baptists and Quakers were arrested and imprisoned. Over the course of the next quarter of a century, nonconformists would live through a persecution of Protestants by Protestants that in its scale and intensity was without parallel in contemporary Europe.64 Surprisingly, this “Great Persecution” did not result in another Great Migration to compare with the 1630s.65 There were, of course, Puritan exiles. Some of the regicides, in particular, fled to the continent or to North America. Edmund Ludlow sought refuge in Switzerland; John Barkstead, Miles Corbert, and John Okey, became fugitives in the Dutch Republic, before being handed over to the English authorities and executed; Edmund Whalley, William Goffe, and John Dixwell were sheltered in New Haven, Connecticut, where they are now commemorated in street names.66 A larger number of Puritan clergy moved to New 63

See Coffey, Exodus and Liberation, 58–59. Coffey, Persecution and Toleration, 166–79. 65 Gerald Cragg, Puritanism in the Period of the Great Persecution, 1660–1688 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957). 66 Gaby Mahlberg, “Les Juges Jugez, Se Justifiants (1663) and Edmund Ludlow’s Protestant Network in Seventeenth-Century Switzerland,” Historical Journal 57 (2014): 369–96; Philip Major, ed., Literatures of Exile in the English Revolution 64

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England or the Netherlands, where they pastored English congregations. Seventy-five nonconformists fled England in the wake of their ejections, with twenty-five sailing to the Americas, and the rest going to continental Europe, mainly the Dutch Republic. No fewer than nineteen graduated as doctors of medicine from Leiden between 1662 and 1684. During the “Tory Revenge” of the early 1680s, a fresh stream of radical ministers poured into Holland, including Robert Ferguson and John Howe.67 Yet, neither in numbers nor in creativity did these exiles compare with their predecessors in the 1550s or 1630s, and there is little sign of congregations migrating with their pastors. More important was the internal exile experience by many Puritan pastors in England itself, who were physically banished by the Five Mile Act (1665) from the vicinity of their former parishes, and estranged from the Church of England. Most Puritan ministers continued to attend parish worship, and eschewed separatism, but as Richard Baxter acknowledged, their own conventicles were forced into an “Independent and Separating Shape.”68 By resisting the option of migration, the Puritan clergy and their followers ensured that nonconformist congregations would become a major feature of the English religious landscape. Given their scale, banishment was no longer a policy option for the government in the way that it had been under James I. Despite its ferocity, the persecution failed; dissent was legalised in the socalled Act of Toleration in 1689. The Puritans who went into exile overseas during the 1660s never replicated the impact of their predecessors’ return. Puritan pastors who went to and fro between England and the Netherlands no longer exercised the influence of the Congregationalists in the 1630s. Puritan exile communities were no longer functioning as laboratories for innovative ecclesiastical experiments—the possibilities had been largely exhausted during the English Revolution. The only minister ejected in 1662 who joined the Dutch invasion in 1688 was Robert Ferguson, and he would soon become a turncoat.69 Edmund Ludlow did return to England in 1689 following the Glorious Revolution, but such was his notoriety as a regicide that he was quickly forced to go back to Switzerland where he died in and its Aftermath, 1640–1690 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), chaps. 9–10; idem, Writings of Exile in the English Revolution and Restoration (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), chap. 4. 67 See Cory Cotter, “Going Dutch: Beyond Bartholomew’s Day,” in “Settling the Peace of the Church”: 1662 Revisited, ed. N. H. Keeble (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 168–89. 68 Richard Baxter, Reliquiae Baxterianae (1696), 3: 43. 69 Cotter, “Going Dutch,” 189.

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Vevey, near Geneva, in 1692. He personifies the relative insignificance of Puritan exiles during the Restoration. The influential exiles of the Restoration era turned out to be two Anglican Whigs rather than Puritans (though one was from Scottish Calvinist stock while the other was raised in an English Puritan family). In the early 1680s, following their part in the unsuccessful Whig campaign to exclude James Duke of York from the royal succession, the clergyman Gilbert Burnet and the lay intellectual John Locke fled to the Netherlands. They did so during what John Marshall has called “one of the most religiously repressive decades in European history,” a moment when both Charles II and Louis XIV had sanctioned fierce persecutions of religious dissenters. In the French case, the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685 would instigate one of the major forced migrations of the early modern era, creating 150,000 religious refugees. In the Netherlands, Burnet and Locke were able to see the influx of Huguenots at first hand and observe the Dutch alternative of religious toleration. In Rotterdam, both men participated in an intellectual circle gathered around the Quaker merchant Benjamin Furly, a group which included Pierre Bayle. It was this circle —largely comprised of exiles—that was at “the epicentre of the early Enlightenment,” and helped to make toleration one of the Enlightenment’s core values.70 Burnet returned in the retinue of William III and became perhaps the major propagandist of the Glorious Revolution; Locke returned to sanction a translation of his Letter concerning Toleration (1689), a work that he defended in a number of subsequent tracts. Burnet was made Bishop of Salisbury while Locke acquired a reputation as one of the nation’s leading intellectual authorities. Their revolution principles, including toleration, were hotly contested, but over the course of the eighteenth century they would become received wisdom. In Locke and Burnet we see once more an English reformation carried out by returning exiles.

Conclusions It should be evident that exile and return were major factors in the development of English Protestantism. Despite initial appearances, English Puritan exiles were unvanquished, and the experience of exile proved remarkably constructive. Terpstra has argued that “Almost all of the major thinkers” of the Reformation era “were themselves shaped in 70 John Marshall, John Locke, Toleration, and Early Enlightenment Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 17, 493.

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some way by a period of forced migration or exile.”71 This was true of Luther, Calvin, and Menno Simons, but we have seen that it was also the case with some of England’s major religious reformers: Tyndale, Bale, Knox, Foxe, Cartwright, Helwys, Robinson, Ames, Goodwin, Nye, Vane, Williams, Locke, and Burnet. Why was exile so formative? First, it provided refuge from persecution, whether under Mary Tudor, Elizabeth I, James I, or Charles I, and the Laudians. For both the Marian exiles and the Puritan exiles of the 1630s, the decision to leave England raised an agonising case of conscience, but despite their qualms they justified flight as necessary to escape popish persecution and enjoy pure ordinances. Exiles lived to fight another day. Second, exile exposed the British to foreign models—to Geneva, Knox’s “perfyt schoole of Christ,” and other Reformed cities, to the Dutch Reformed Church, Mennonites, and toleration, even to the surprising “civility” of Narragansett Indians. These models pointed in different directions, which help to account for the fact that godly exiles were often at odds with each other. Coxians and Knoxians looked to different continental models, while John Cotton and Henry Vane Jr drew very different lessons from the Puritan experiment in Massachusetts. Yet in each of these cases, the experience of exile left a profound impression. Third, exile provided spaces in which the godly could construct laboratories of ecclesial reform, congregations, and practices that could be imported back to England itself. Presbyterianism and separatism were sustained in the Netherlands, but ultimately it was “the congregational way” which flourished, being pioneered and perfected in the Dutch Republic and New England. As Terpstra observes, “Exiles and refugees were extraordinarily active and creative wherever they landed.”72 Fourth, exile offered a base from which to launch a fusillade of propaganda, whether through scribal publications or the Puritan presses. As Andrew Pettegree reminds us, “the most inveterate and hardiest travellers were books”73; books were often sent on their journeys by refugees. Tyndale’s English translation of the Bible, the foundational work of English Protestantism, was the product of exile. During the Marian persecutions, the English congregation in Geneva became almost as influential, publishing a new translation of the Bible, a book of metrical psalms, a service book, and oppositional pamphlets. In the early Stuart period, the English congregations in Amsterdam, Leiden, and other cities, 71

Terpstra, Religious Refugees in Early Modern Europe, 134. Ibid., 19. 73 Pettegree, “Afterword,” in Ha and Collinson, The Reception of the Continental Reformation, 234. 72

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issued a veritable torrent of publications advancing radical ecclesiastical ideas.74 Fifth, exile conferred prestige on the sufferers. It is true that Puritan exiles could be accused of cowardice, desertion, even betrayal.75 In many cases, however, they gloried in their exile, comparing themselves to biblical counterparts. John Bale’s apocalyptic commentary on Revelation— The Image of Both Churches (1547)—informed its readers on the title page that its author was (like John the Seer on Patmos) “an exile also in this life, for the faythfull testimonye of Iesu.”76 The sermons of the Elizabethan bishop Edwin Sandys were published with a note that some had been preached “beyond the seas, in the time of his exile, in the raigne of Queene Marie.”77 The Separatist Francis Johnson labelled himself “an exile of Jesus Christ,” and Henry Ainsworth published a confession of faith “of certain English people living in exile.”78 William Prynne styled himself, “Mr Prynne, late exile, and close prisoner in the isle of Iersey.”79 A Presbyterian edition of Cartwright’s writings on godly magistracy reminded its readers that he had “suffered exile . . . through the tyranny of the Bishops.”80 Exile was worn as a badge of honour by rival groups— Elizabethan bishops, Jacobean separatists, and Presbyterian Parliamentarians. It was a compelling source of godly credibility. 74

Keith L. Sprunger, Trumpets from the Tower: English Puritan Printing in the Netherlands, 1600–1640 (Leiden: Brill, 1994). 75 See for example the attack of the Presbyterian heresiographer Thomas Edwards on Congregationalist exiles in the Netherlands in the 1630s: Thomas Edwards, Antapologia (1644). 76 John Bale, An Image of Both Churches . . . Compyled by Iohn Bale an Exyle also in thys Lyfe, for the Faithfull Testimony of Iesu (1547). 77 Edwin Sandys, Sermons of the most Reuerend Father in God, Edwin Archbishop of Yorke, Primat and Metropolitane of England Some Whereof were Preached in the Parts Beyond the Seas, in the Time of his Exile, in the Raigne of Queene Marie (1616). 78 Francis Johnson, An Answer to Maister H. Iacob his Defence of the Churches and Ministery of England. By Francis Iohnson an Exile of Iesus Christ (Amsterdam 1600); Henry Ainsworth, The Confession of Faith of certayn English People living in Exile, in the Low Countreyes (Amsterdam 1607). 79 William Prynne, The Humble Petition of Mr. Prynne, Late Exile, and Close Prisoner in the Isle of Iersey presented to the Honorable, the Knights, Citizens and Burgesses, of the Commons House of Parliament (London 1641); Mount-Orgueil: or Divine and Profitable Meditations . . . By VVilliam Prynne, Late Exile, and Close Prisoner in the Sayd Castle (London 1641). 80 Helps for Discovery of the Truth in Point of Toleration: Being the Judgment of that Eminent Scholler Tho. Cartwright . . . a Famous Non-conformist, for which through the Tyranny of the Bishops he was in Exile (London 1648).

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Sixth, the experience of exile eventually led some to mount a sweeping religious critique of banishment as a weapon of the confessional state. Admittedly, this was not the standard reaction. Persecuted religious exiles always condemned their persecutors, but they rarely drew the conclusion that there was no place for religious coercion in contemporary Christendom. Following Augustine, they argued that the use of force against the true religion was persecution; the use of force against heresy or schism was legitimate. Yet in the case of Roger Williams and other exiles (like his friend Henry Vane and the Leveller John Lilburne), the victims of banishment drew more sweeping conclusions, insisting that magistrates (even godly magistrates) had no coercive powers in matters of religion. By the mid-eighteenth century, this view was well on its way to becoming Protestant orthodoxy, but it emerged in part from the experience of persecution by earlier generations of radical Protestants. Finally, exile proved to be a launching ground for return. Because Puritans viewed their experience through the lens of biblical narrative, they were conditioned to expect return, even if Old Testament stories ominously suggested that exile might be long in its duration. Having identified with the Children of Israel in Egypt, or the Jews in Babylon, or the Woman taking refuge in the Wilderness from the Dragon, the godly determined to remember Jerusalem and set their hearts on returning. Even in America, England remained central to their hopes and dreams. On their return, they brought with them plans for rebuilding of the Temple, plans based on overseas Reformed churches and on the pilot projects of their own refugee congregations. In the discussions that followed, whether in Elizabethan England or revolutionary England, exile voices played a role in shaping debate out of all proportion to their numbers. Puritan reformation was in no small part a reformation of the refugees.

IV. BOUNDARIES MAINTAINED

CREATING BOUNDARIES IN EMDEN, GERMANY: CONFESSION, LANGUAGE, POOR RELIEF, AND SPACES OF THE DUTCH REFORMED REFUGEES TIMOTHY FEHLER In the northwestern corner of Germany in 1590, the regional East Frisian Diet was presented with the following “ecclesiastical complaint of the common citizenry of Emden,” a city which was dominated by Reformed (Calvinist) Protestants who requested: that [the counts of East Frisia] retain the true Christian religion, which they have had from the beginning of the Reformation for seventy years now, through God’s exceptional grace in unity and peace. . . . And that everything which is contrary to the true Christian Religion might be abolished—namely the Jewish synagogue, the [Lutheran] separation [which meets] in the New Mint, and various gatherings of the Anabaptists.1

In a portion of a volume that is focused on boundaries involving the exiled religious communities, it might seem odd to begin with an image that does not even refer to exiles, and this despite the fact that a sizeable portion of the population of the city of Emden was, in fact, made up of foreign religious refugees. Yet, the quoted passage does highlight the central religious boundaries that existed in the contemporary landscape within the region on which this essay will focus. It is therefore just as important to note that, with regard to this particular boundary in the above quotation— the religious boundary between Calvinists, Lutherans, Anabaptists, and Jews—the exile communities had largely assimilated into the civic community’s side in the current political struggles. Emden’s Calvinists were now claiming the mantle of “the true Christian Religion” in the quoted complaint. Calvinism had become dominant in the town due in part to the flood of Dutch Reformed refugees after the 1550s and the arrival of 1

Timothy Fehler, “Anabaptism and Calvinism around Emden: Disputation and Discipline,” in Politics, Gender, and Belief: The Long-Term Impact of the Reformation, ed. Amy Nelson Burnett et al. (Geneva: Droz, 2014), 179.

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an increasingly Calvinist pastorate, especially in the 1570s. Nevertheless, I would like to argue that neither survival in exile nor even potential assimilation with the host community came easy for the Dutch Reformed refugees in Emden; indeed, it required that certain boundaries be established and maintained. This essay’s investigation consolidates much recent work that has been done on Emden, Germany, in order to craft a survey of many of the boundaries that were created and broken down by the large immigrant community from the Netherlands (primarily Dutch-speaking, but with a French-Walloon contingent). Emden became a premier exile centre during the Dutch Revolt, as the town’s population at least quadrupled between 1550 and 1570.2 Most of the newcomers were refugees from the war, both religious and economic. Defining religious, linguistic, regional, and economic boundaries proved important both among and beyond the exiles. This overview focuses on the first generations of Calvinist exile congregations in Emden, particularly during the second half of the sixteenth century, as many arrived in the contexts of the Dutch Revolt and the French Wars of Religion. The essay is organised by examining the practical issues surrounding the Dutch Reformed exiles in Emden relating to boundaries formed around questions of confession (such as indicated in the opening quotation), language, poor relief, and, finally, the physical spaces of the city.

Confession By investigating the confessional development of the city, we can see that religious boundaries were developing and hardening in the second half of the century. For the most part, however, these boundaries in Emden enabled the Dutch Reformed refugees to assimilate into the town rather than serving as boundaries of isolation for the predominant exiles. Clearly, Emden’s confessional allegiance became increasingly Calvinist in the second half of the sixteenth century: a centre of International Calvinism, Emden’s role as “Geneva of the North” in the development of Reformed Protestantism has been firmly documented via its position as moederkerk (mother church) of the Dutch “churches under the cross.”3

2

Bernard Hagedorn, Ostfrieslands Handel und Schiffahrt vom Ausgang des 16. Jahrhunderts bis zum Westfällischen Frieden (1584–1648) (Berlin 1912), 2: 3. 3 Andrew Pettegree, Emden and the Dutch Revolt: Exile and the Development of Reformed Protestantism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992).

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These confessional boundaries cited in the opening quotation were most explicitly aimed at defining the religious doctrines and practices of the town against the Anabaptist congregations in the region and against the prominent Lutheranism that had the political support of the local ruling count.4 Thus, instead of being excluded by boundaries with the local community, the new Dutch-speaking immigrants, probably well over ten thousand of them, propelled the town’s institutional move towards Reformed Protestantism; and they were largely integrated into the local Reformed congregation, while the much smaller group of French-speaking Calvinist refugees from the Southern Netherlands were allowed their own church and consistory, separate from the host city.5 Indeed, at the height of the influx of Dutch refugees, the Emden church council passed a resolution that half of its new elders should be old Emdeners and half from the Dutch.6 A survey of recorded elections to the consistory, however, reveals that this resolution was put in place, not to guarantee some role for the newcomers whom we might assume were being excluded as foreigners but, rather, to reduce the growing dominance of the refugees in the local church governance and to safeguard the influence of the locals in the church’s leadership. While the Dutch Reformed refugees and their religious assimilation helped shape the local congregation’s confession from the inside, interactions with a large number of Anabaptists created a confessional challenge from the outside which has been credited with helping “the Emden church achieve a much clearer definition of its own beliefs and doctrine; and with it a position of towering influence among the growing Reformed congregations in the Netherlands.”7 Yet, despite the growing Calvinist nature of the city’s leadership and congregation, the town and territory maintained their earlier reputation for a vibrant Anabaptist 4 Heinz Schilling, Civic Calvinism in Northwestern German and the Netherlands: Sixteenth to Nineteenth Centuries (Kirksville, MO: SCJ Publishers, 1991), 30–32. 5 Timothy Fehler, “The French Congregation’s Struggle for Acceptance in Emden,” in Memory and Identity: The Huguenots in France and the Atlantic Diaspora, ed. Bertrand Van Ruymbeke and Randy J. Sparks (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2003), 74–75. In the Lutheran city Wesel, on the other hand, the Dutch Reformed refugees had to navigate a much firmer confessional boundary between them and the local congregation; Jesse Spohnholz, The Tactics of Toleration. A Refugee Community in the Age of Religious Wars (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2011), 34–68. 6 Timothy Fehler, Poor Relief and Protestantism: The Evolution of Social Welfare in Sixteenth-Century Emden (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), 114. 7 Andrew Pettegree, “The Struggle for an Orthodox Church: Calvinists and Anabaptists in East Friesland,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 70 (1988): 59.

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culture. Thus, as I have indicated in other work, the boundaries between the Emden Calvinists and Anabaptists were more porous in practice than the strict concept of “confessionalisation” will allow.8 Nevertheless, in the actions of the prominent Dutch refugee pastor Isebrand Balck, we can see the twin concerns of maintaining a Reformed congregational identity among the exiles, and countering the Anabaptist teachings. In May 1567, among the plans that he presented to the church council to deal with poor relief concerns (discussed below), Pastor Balck requested that the deacons be instructed to require refugees to present a holy certificate from their home church, to confirm their church membership so that the exiles would not burdened with “hypocrites and rogues through whom the congregation may come into trouble.”9 A few months later, Pastor Balck and a second refugee pastor proposed an intriguing idea to Emden’s consistory: namely, they would surreptitiously attempt to work their way into local Anabaptist meetings with hopes of countering the false teachings.10 Such planned subterfuge among Emden’s Calvinist leadership further indicates the reality of the religious diversity: Emden’s growing suburbs were being flooded with refugees. Indeed, the movement and complicated situation in neighbourhoods were likely enough that these two Dutch refugee ministers could anticipate being able to gain unrecognised access to the illicit, though apparently not secret, Anabaptist meetings taking place in the suburbs. Perhaps subterfuge might work to confute the Anabaptists, who were apparently attracting an unwelcome number of Dutch refugees across the confessional divide. Thus, the practice of mass migration and great movements into unfamiliar places increased the difficulty of maintaining confessional fidelity, and the refugee pastoral leaders sought means by which the community boundaries could be better maintained among religious exiles. In the Emden context, the Dutch Reformed refugees were largely within the local confessional boundaries emerging in the city. The Dutch refugees had the support of the local church and civic leadership as we can see by the general approval and acceptance of their plans and their institutional integration.

8

Fehler, “Calvinism and Anabaptism,” 204–5. Heinz Schilling and Klaus-Dieter Schreiber, eds., Die Kirchenratsprotokolle der reformierten Gemeinde Emden 1557–1620 (Cologne: Böhlau, 1989), 1: 277–78 [hereafter cited as KRP]. 10 KRP, 1: 291–92. 9

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Language In addition to the confessional similarity between the Dutch Reformed exiles and the Emden congregation, the language boundary was also small enough that the Dutch-speaking refugees in Emden avoided establishing a separate church. This is not to say that the entire refugee community wanted assimilation rather than autonomy, but the Emden officials desired to give the refugees as little separate institutional structure as possible. Due to similarities between the dialect spoken in Emden and that of the neighbouring Netherlands, the refugees did not have the linguistic problems which faced the Dutch in the other German cities of exile, such as Frankfurt. The refugees who came to Emden joined the pre-existing local church structure and placed themselves under the authority of the Emden consistory (a body made up of the congregation’s pastors and lay elders), which actually, as mentioned earlier, came to represent the opinions of the Dutch exiles as increasing numbers of refugees served as elders.11 This integration stands in contrast to the French-speaking Walloon exiles in Emden who, for reasons of language, needed to and were allowed to create their own church with offices and institutions including their own minister, elders, deacons, consistory, and school.12 Despite their small size and their autonomy from the local church’s institutions, the French-speaking (as well as the even smaller, and more briefly present English-speaking) Reformed refugee congregations were confessionally quite important to Emden.13 Although much smaller than the Emden church, these two congregations seem to have established a typical Reformed church structure. Yet the language boundaries among the exiles fostered hostilities and conflicts among otherwise confessionally like-minded refugee communities and created institutional boundaries. 11 One of many examples in Emden’s consistory minutes, in September 1564; KRP, 1: 187. 12 KRP, 1: 496, 584 (15 February 1574, 23 December 1575; Fehler, “French Congregation’s Struggle for Acceptance.” 13 The French church and its minister Jean Polyander, for example, played the key local role in the staging of the important Emden Synod of 1571. Its role was particularly significant because the leadership of Emden’s church kept itself removed from the synod’s proceedings despite the convening of the synod in the town. Of the twenty-nine participants in the synod, three were from Emden: all of them from the French church, namely Polyander, who served as secretary, and two of the French elders. Fehler, “French Congregation’s Struggle for Acceptance,” 80. The records of the Emden Synod were edited by Johann Friedrich Gerhard Goeters, Die Akten der Synode der Niederländischen Kirchen zu Emden vom 4.– 13. Oktober 1571 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1971).

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We can see the importance of the language boundary in a jurisdictional dispute between the Dutch and French deacons who administered congregational poor relief.14 Such a problem arose in a case from November 1568 in which four refugee deacons, two from the Frenchspeaking congregation and two from the Dutch congregation, asked the local consistory to settle a dispute between them.15 The complication arose over the provision of poor relief for two orphans of a French lace maker named Mathys. Apparently Mathys, “although born a Frenchman,” had participated in the Dutch congregation and not with the French. Following his death, the French deacons refused to use their poor relief funds to support Mathys’s orphaned children because he had not taken part in their congregation. The Dutch deacons, on the other hand, argued that the French should support their French poor just as the Dutch must support their own. The Emden consistory’s response set an important precedent for such disputes among refugee or immigrant groups. The consistory minutes indicate that the local elders and pastors decided that the refugee deacons should hold to the “oldest rule of all” and decide jurisdictional disputes on the basis of the “tongue” of the recipient. This rule would be especially important in determining the responsible poor relief party in cases involving orphans, because the parents might not have been active in or faithful to any congregation. In the case of Mathys, the consistory exhorted the deacons of both refugee congregations “to the liberal collection of alms” in order to ensure that the two children were provided for by the refugee community: because “it is certain that he was from their community” and not from Emden. Whichever group, French or Dutch, was found responsible in this particular conflict, the consistory was explicit that the care of these refugee orphans was the responsibility of the exiles and not of the local deacons or congregation.

14 Although the Emden French congregation’s poor relief records do not survive, we can compare the poor relief systems practised by other French-speaking exile churches. For example, see Jeannine E. Olson, Calvin and Social Welfare: Deacons and the Bourse Française (London 1989); Andrew Spicer, “Poor Relief and the Exile Communities,” in Reformations Old and New. Essays on the SocioEconomic Impact of Religious Change, c. 1470–1630, ed. Beat Kümin (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), 237–55; William John C. Moens, “The Relief of the Poor Members of the French Churches in England,” Proceedings of the Huguenot Society of London (London 1894). 15 KRP, 1: 330.

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This case and other jurisdictional conflicts clearly demonstrate deepseated friction between the Dutch and the French refugee churches.16 Despite the religious and political similarities between the French and Dutch exiles in Emden, the special minority status of the French congregation, with some autonomy afforded solely on the basis of its language, gave it an atmosphere of a voluntary church beyond the civic congregation. The Dutch refugees had largely assimilated into the Emden congregation while the French-speakers were allowed their own congregation, and the Dutch-speakers thus wanted to protect a special status of their own that they felt was deserved on the basis of their much greater numbers. Therefore, language differences not only could create boundaries between the local community and refugees, but language seems, in these Emden circumstances, to foster even firmer boundaries and sharper rivalries within the various groups of the larger refugee community. Despite their common confession and their shared refugee status, the particularities of language created tensions and boundaries between Emden’s Dutch-speaking and French-speaking refugees.

Poor Relief and Communication Networks Each of the first two sets of boundaries so far considered—confession and language—has already included reference to poor relief. Perhaps the mixed nature of poor relief, whose practice itself crosses several categories—social, economic, religious, and political—in society, makes it unsurprising that we might see in it a wide range of conflicts and questions. Poor relief seems to be a locus in which some of these other boundaries come into sharper relief. Among the most important issues that I will deal with here are the institutional mechanisms created by the wealthier refugees to control problems of poverty and the importance of networks within the refugee community (and between refugee communities in other cities) in dealing with such predicaments. The only separate formal institution created by the Dutch-speaking refugees in Emden was a “diaconate of the foreign poor” (so-called fremdlingen poor in the Emden sources), which was to be funded and administered by the Dutch refugee community, independent of the local church deacons. In fact, the local countess charged the initial Dutch 16

For example, see the acrimonious dispute between the Dutch and French deacons as they fought for the bequest of Hans de Brander’s wife in 1574; Fehler, Poor Relief and Protestantism, 230.

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refugees, as a condition of their admittance to Emden originally, to provide for their own poor and avoid becoming a burden on the local poor relief institutions of the town.17 Emden’s foreign deacons were apparently successful enough in taking care of the poor of their own community that the town experienced a significant increase in refugees and transients as Emden’s reputation as a refuge centre spread. The reality of exile created, however, many new practical concerns and questions about survival, both of individual refugees and of the community. Under the circumstances of exile, strategies surrounding practical poor relief often became paramount, especially during periods of acute crisis.18 The arrival of hundreds, or in Emden’s case, thousands of religious refugees into a city over a short period of time produced a multitude of problems and considerations. The elaboration of an extensive and sophisticated system of poor relief was an absolute necessity if the host city’s institutions were not to break down under the strain of new demands placed on local resources. Indeed, for exile to be a viable means to escape persecution it required adequate poor relief. Certainly, local rulers and elites would have second thoughts about hosting large numbers of immigrants if that community could not feed itself. For these reasons, poor relief of refugees was not merely a charitable matter of care for individual members of the community but also a political matter of the exile community’s continued acceptance by the host society. The Dutchspeaking refugee congregation in Emden soon developed an extensive poor relief system, administered by a Dutch Reformed diaconate separate from the local Emden deacons. Religious exiles were cut off from most of the traditional sources of income in their new setting and were typically excluded from local charity provision. Without access to local taxes or institutions and outside of the long-lasting neighbourhood relationships within the host city, refugees learned the vital importance of word-of-mouth within their community and of relationships to their home towns or regions. As we have seen, factors of language and religious confession obviously influenced the level of integration into the host society.

17 J. J. van Toorenenbergen, ed., Stukken betreffende de Diaconie der Vreemdelingen te Emden (Utrecht 1876), 2; Fehler, Poor Relief and Protestantism, 131. 18 For a fuller discussion of poor relief as a survival strategy for coping with exile, see Timothy Fehler, “Coping with Poverty: Dutch Reformed Exiles in Emden, Germany,” in Religious Diaspora in Early Modern Europe, ed. Timothy Fehler et al. (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2014), 121–35.

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Whatever the level of political and social integration, the experience of exile, often coupled with the ill-effects of war, exacerbated for the refugee community any other negative local economic circumstances. During periods of economic crisis, and without the local taxes or endowments available to them, Reformed exile deacons can be found making rather large personal loans to their community in order to finance their relief to those in need.19 This points to the fact that such Reformed deacons and elders came overwhelmingly from the wealthiest and most connected level of the exiles. Despite their financial activities, wealthy merchants often devoted a great deal of time and resources as Calvinist deacons and elders. Not all exiles arrived penniless, of course, and as already stated, the host community typically expected the exile community to provide the necessary resources to support their own poor members. Thus the refugees’ account books reveal the results of the appeals to wealthier members during times of exceptional need. In order to administer poor relief in such difficult circumstances, it was incumbent upon the exile deacons to be able to identify and work with both the poor and the wealthy co-religionists from their same homeland who had also taken exile in the town. The investigation of the circumstances in Emden in 1567 during a period of extraordinary growth of the exile community there provides a useful case study for our analysis of relevant factors facing the Dutch refugees.20 The essay has already referred to Dutch refugee pastor Isebrand Balck above. This episode in the late spring of 1567 marked a moment when the Reformed exiles struggled to cope with their new circumstances created by massive immigration in the immediate aftermath of the large scale outbreak of fighting in the Dutch Revolt. Pastor Balck proposed to the Emden consistory a number of poor relief reforms for the fremdlingen (foreign Dutch) deacons. The manner in which some of Balck’s proposals were ultimately instituted reflects the importance of the regional communication networks within the refugee community. At the 1 May 1567 meeting of Emden’s local church consistory, which was attended by refugee “brothers from various congregations: Antwerp, Ghent, Amsterdam and all other surrounding lands,” the exiled Antwerp minister Balck proposed a series of reforms to deal with the “present emergency” (yegenwordige noodt) facing the city.21 He began by suggesting that the exile diaconate be fully staffed with eight deacons because of the “distress from the countless arrivals and exiles.” However, 19

Fehler, “Coping with Poverty,” 130. Ibid., 125–29. 21 KRP, 1: 277–78. 20

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in order to represent the newly arriving refugees, the deacons should now be selected based on their “nation” or province in the Netherlands. Each provincial community should choose its own deacons: two from Flanders, two from Brabant, two from Holland and two from West Friesland, provinces which were the largest sources of refugees in Emden. Pastor Balck’s petition suggests that some in the refugee community might have been upset with the previous arrangement, feeling that their region was under-represented or even neglected in matters of poor relief. Such perceptions could create tensions and rivalries, especially when communication networks from home were so important among the exiles. Unlike local deacons who administered their alms within the boundaries of a specified neighbourhood of the town, the fremdlingen deacons had to cross through the entire city and suburbs to distribute their poor relief. Thus the exile deacons depended on the word-of-mouth of their compatriots in order to keep track of the ever-growing, everchanging, and oft-transient refugee community in Emden. We saw above that Pastor Balck also requested that the deacons be instructed to require recipients to present a holy certificate from their home church. The purpose of this was to prevent a common problem experienced by exile churches: since such payments were a drain on the community’s limited finances, there were even serious attempts in Reformed Synods to ensure that the exile churches were supporting genuinely poor “brothers” rather than mere vagabonds surviving on the community’s alms.22 These religious leaders in exile wanted to make sure that people did not travel between refugee communities without reason, and if they received alms from one community, this should then be recorded on their attestation. The Emden account books reveal many disbursements to passers-by; the religious leaders wanted to differentiate between those co-religionists who were travelling out of need (and deserving of support) and those common vagrants (not deserving of support). It is striking that this complaint against the transient poor—and the attempt to establish a clearer boundary between the refugees—came not from the host city’s local government but rather from the exile leadership who wanted to guard their own refugee status, and it reveals a common strategy adopted by many Calvinist exile communities. 22

See for instance the provisions of the 1565 Calvinist National Synod of Paris (and referred to by several subsequent synods), John Quick, ed., Synodicon in Gallia Reformata: Or, the Acts, Decisions, Decrees, and Canons of those Famous National Councils of the Reformed Churches in France (London 1692), 1: 60, 73, 76, 117, 137, 192, 349. The 1571 Emden Synod of the Dutch Reformed Church also took up the matter, Goeters, Akten der Synode, 44–51.

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Pastor Balck’s second reform would require that the deacons make a written list of the wealth and assets of the Dutch refugees—by individual name—so that the fremdlingen deacons could collect alms appropriately. This was a method of alms collection different from that of Emden’s local deacons and seems, rather, inspired by the particular circumstances of coping with exile and, by necessity, developing charitable institutions de novo without pre-existing endowments to which local institutions had access. Finally, Balck requested the creation of what amounted to a separate Dutch Reformed consistory of exile pastors and elders to discuss problems. The Emden consistory praised Pastor Balck’s initial suggestions, as they approved them, but understandably rejected the final proposal, which in essence called for the creation of an independent refugee consistory. Emden’s church leaders would allow or even mandate that the exile community take responsibility to care for their own poor with greater oversight, but they would grant the refugees no religious or governing autonomy. Religious exile was not usually a matter of a single migration from one place to another place—rather it was a series of movements, sometimes even over generations. Exile, therefore, both was dependent upon networks and word-of-mouth, and also had the effect of building or establishing broader networks across a larger geographic exile. Pastor Balck, for example, travelled to at least five more cities as a religious exile before returning to the Netherlands, where he cultivated the diverse network of connections that he developed during exile.23 The wealthier members of the community often determined the exile destination, and effective poor relief could determine the scale of acceptance by or integration into the host community. Pastors and deacons, therefore, helped establish control over the local exile congregation and also contacts with fellow Calvinists, often also refugees, across Europe. These broad networks certainly shared common theological and religious outlooks; yet they were often held together more by the experience of exile and the feeling of being God’s chosen people than by the fine points of Calvinist doctrine.24 Thus with their shared history of persecution and flight, the religious exile network could be more easily mobilised to respond to crises. Exile churches were frequently both the objects of foreign appeals for resources and also the recipients of 23 Timothy Fehler, “Conflict and Compromise in International Calvinism: Ysbrand Trabius Balck’s Pastoral Mediations in Exile and Beyond,” Reformation and Renaissance Review 10/3 (2008): 294. 24 See, for example, Heiko Oberman, “Europa Afflicta: The Reformation of the Refugees,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 83 (1992): 91–110.

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international donations. The account books of Calvinist exile congregations contain fairly frequent indications of monetary contributions raised for and received from their brothers and sisters in various lands: for example, from the French Churches in England to Wesel or Emden or Geneva; from Scotland to the French Churches; from a friend “under the cross” in Antwerp to the Emden fremdlingen deacons; from Southampton to Canterbury.25 A study of bequests to the French exile church in Southampton reveals only a few made by locals, but most made by merchants and travellers, though not necessarily by refugees.26 Ole Peter Grell has recently described a particular, extensive Calvinist refugee network that extended across Europe in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century. Grell’s international network of “Brethren in Christ” was built on the Reformed exile experience and reinforced by extensive commercial, educational, and familial relationships as well as collections that it organised on behalf of Calvinist refugees in periods of crisis.27

Spaces Sources clearly document the presence in and around Emden of Calvinists, Lutherans, Jews, Catholics, Anabaptists, and other radical Protestants. Moreover, as this essay has been analysing, there were at least three sizeable refugee communities: Dutch-speaking, French-speaking, and, for a time, English. I will close this case study of Emden’s Dutch Reformed refugee community by presenting an introductory topography of the city’s development during this period of religious change and occasional conflict. Living next to each other in the city and its environs created possibilities for conflict, while, at the same time, requiring strategies for religious co-existence. The 1550s brought the first of the truly dramatic shifts in urban development: the beginnings of a major influx of refugees after 1554, along with a socio-economic crisis (triggered by bad harvests, food and housing shortages, and inflation) around 1557. The 1554 arrival of the 25

Compare, for instance, Spohnholz: Tactics of Toleration, 92–93; Spicer, “Poor Relief,” 246; the Emden accounts which have been partially published by Toorenenbergen, Stukken, e.g., 18; Gemeente Archief te Delft: Archief van de Kerkeraad van de Nederlands Hervormde Gemeente, “Handelingen van de Algemene Kerkeraad” (e.g., 28 December 1582, 19 December 1583). 26 Spicer, “Poor Relief,” 247. 27 Ole Peter Grell, Brethren in Christ: A Calvinist Network in Reformation Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011).

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Dutch refugees who had left English refuge with the accession of Mary Tudor to the throne was merely the beginning of the influx of refugees into Emden. Concerned by this new competition prompted by Emden’s growing trade and tax rolls, the Amsterdam city council commissioned two travellers to report on activities in Emden in 1555. Among the many details in their letter to the Amsterdam council, we can see confirmation of the housing situation in the booming Emden suburbs. They reported that the Faldern suburbs to the east of town, “in which mostly the foreign nations live, which have recently come here,” were now being developed with the construction of some two hundred houses and newly laid out streets. They also recounted to the Amsterdam city council that the houses now cost “half again as much as they had cost five or six years ago” and further related specific examples of houses which were recently purchased for almost three hundred per cent of their price only two and three years before.28 (Fig. 1. Map of Emden, c. 1575.) Beyond the refugees’ settlement patterns especially in the suburbs, the previously mentioned linguistic boundary between the French and Dutch refugees was given a spatial component as the French congregation was provided its own civic building on the outskirts of town for its church services, while the Dutch worshipped in the town church with the local congregation.29 The economic and housing turmoil of these years, followed by a period of food shortages, also facilitated the expulsion of the remaining Franciscan friars from their monastery.30 The current urban needs ultimately convinced East Frisian Countess Anna to expel the friars—a long-sought-after goal for several people in Emden—and to move Emden’s orphanage/hospital (so-called Gasthaus) into their buildings. In the next three years, the Gasthaus also sold off the adjacent properties to several dozen local citizens as a way of financing the necessary renovations to the new Gasthaus. This major action facilitated the creation 28

Their letter was published in Rudolf Häpke, ed., Niederländische Akten und Urkunden zur Geschichte der Hanse und zur deutschen Seegeschichte (Munich: Dunker & Humblot, 1913), 1: 576–78. 29 The East Frisian Countess Anna legally recognised the French Reformed congregation in Emden in 1554, and they were authorised to hold their worship services in the ground floor room of the large Stadthalle, which was located to the east of the Franciscan monastery on the outer edge of the Middle Faldern suburbs; Stadtachiv Emden, I. Reg., No. 405, f. 1; reprinted by J. N. Pleines, “Die französisch reformirte Kirche zu Emden,” Geschichtsblätter der Deutschen Hugenotten-Vereins (1894): 14–15. 30 On the social welfare changes triggered especially during and after the economic crises around 1557, see Fehler, Poor Relief and Protestantism, chap. 4.

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Map of Emden, c. 1575 Legend: A- Area “outside the Northern Gates,” c. 1500; referred to as the “new town,” c. 1520. The oldest part of Emden was south of this portion of town. B- Middle Faldern suburb (referred to as “the new town,” c. 1560) C- Gross-Faldern suburb D- Klein-Faldern suburb 1- The Count’s castle 2- The town church (Grosse Kirche), adjacent to the river and oldest streets in Emden 3- The New Mint (Neue Münze) 4- Franciscan Monastery until 1557; thereafter Gasthaus (and Gasthaus Church) 5- Stadthalle 6- City Hall (Rathaus, built 1574) Source: “Emvda, vulgo Embden urbs Frisiae orientalis primaria,” in Georg Braun and Frans Hogenberg, Civitates Orbis Terrarum (Cologne 1575), no. 32.

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of additional housing in one of the remaining undeveloped areas of Middle Faldern, which had previously been in the suburbs of Emden but which was now becoming the centre of the booming town.31 As the Dutch rebel forces faced setbacks by early 1567, a widespread explosion of emigration took place before the advancing Spanish Catholic troops. Dutch exiles flooded into refugee communities across western Germany and in England. No fewer than four thousand sought refuge in Emden at this time.32 An immigration of this size put further massive pressure on the economic resources and housing of the small town, and the exiles ended up especially in the developing Faldern suburbs. Yet the account books of the fremdlingen deacons administering relief to the poor immigrants reveal that a sizable number frequently found accommodation in the houses of earlier residents of the town: some lived in the homes of fellow immigrants, but many seem to have lived with local families. So, as Jesse Spohnholz found with Wesel, the Dutch immigrants were spread throughout the city—though perhaps Emden’s were housed proportionally a bit more in the suburbs than in Wesel where the distribution seems more even.33 The fear of the Spanish Duke of Alba’s possible advance with his army into East Frisia (and even Emden) after the 1568 Battle of Jemgum inspired both days of prayer and thanksgiving and also a building project to expand Emden’s external fortifications of the city, and this brought the former suburbs of Middle Faldern fully within the city walls. The amount of time these immigrants lived in Emden was highly fluid; some spent years or ended up settling permanently; for some Emden was one stop before moving to another exile community. Although large-scale migrations ended about 1575 and many immigrants returned to the Netherlands (even if not to their original homes), the period around 1570 was the highpoint in the social and economic development of Emden. The demographic explosion and the resulting settlement of the Faldern suburbs led Emden to officially incorporate Gross-Faldern and Klein-Faldern into the city itself. Thus, in the final quarter of the sixteenth century we find an institutional religious topography that is reflected in the buildings on the sixteenthcentury Emden map. Reformed services were held at the traditional Grosse Kirche and newly in the Gasthaus church, in the new town centre; 31

For a fuller analysis of these spatial boundaries, see my forthcoming essay, “Coexistence and Confessionalization: Emden’s Topography of Religious Pluralism,” in Topographies of Tolerance and Intolerance: Reponses to Religious Pluralism in Reformation Europe, ed. Victoria Christman and Marjorie E. Plummer. 32 Fehler, Poor Relief and Protestantism, 185–89, 277. 33 Spohnholz, Tactics of Toleration, 191–94.

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the French-speaking (Walloon) Reformed congregation had earlier been given use of the Stadthalle, not far from the Franciscans/Gasthaus. Lutherans were overfilling the New Mint during their services and even receiving property transfers from the Reformed church under the patronage of the Count.34 Beyond these formal meeting places, we have already seen the additional scattering of Anabaptist meetings in Faldern and outside the northern gates. And the newly constructed Judenstrasse at the northern edge of Faldern became the location of Jewish worship, described as a “synagogue” in the 1590 Emden complaint which opened this essay. Finally, as mentioned in the preceding section on poor relief, the different methods and practices of poor relief between the local and foreign deacons also had a spatial component. While the local deacons divided the town into five neighbourhoods with specifically named streets to demarcate the separate areas for distribution among the local poor,35 the foreign deacons divided their poor relief duties among deacons from different regions in their home Netherlands and were responsible for managing, within their regional networks, poor relief concerns for refugees across the entire town and not merely those within a particular spatial division of the city.

Conclusions Surviving account books indicate that Reformed exile congregations often established a more coherent and much larger poor relief system than that of the host society, sometimes with expenditures three or four times as large.36 While Emden’s exile deacons and pastors did support transient poor, they generally struggled to demarcate their own religious community from other exiles or other confessional groups. As we have seen, some boundaries marked the refugee communities as “others” and maintained their particular identities, while at the same time other boundaries broke down and thus enabled at least partial assimilation into the host 34

KRP, 2: 835–37. For complaints about the property transfers which were giving the Lutheran congregation some financial stability during the late 1580s and early 1590s, see E. Meiners, Oostvrieschlandts Kerkelyke Geschiedenisse of een historisch en oordeelkundig verhaal: Van het gene nopens het Kerkelyke in Oostvrieschlandt, en byzonder te Emden, is voorgevallen, zedert den tydt der Hervorminge, of de Jaren 1519, en 1520, tot op den huidigen dag (Groningen 1738), 2: 271–73, 276–78. 35 KRP, 2: 660–62 (17 February 1576). 36 Fehler, Poor Relief and Protestantism, 277–78; Spicer, “Poor Relief,” 255.

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community. Moreover, mere refugee status did not necessarily indicate a fully shared identity with other refugees; but, rather, boundaries were just as likely to develop or be maintained between various groups of refugees as between the hosts and refugees: people brought their home backgrounds, language, history, and conflicts with them into exile. In the end, then, the refugee pastor Isebrand Balck’s proposal highlights several of the crucial issues facing religious exile communities that we find similarly in other towns. First, the local and refugee leaders recognised the need to have adequate numbers of trained relief administrators who had the respect from and knowledge of their respective constituencies. Second, they wanted to take advantage of existing communication networks among the refugees to ensure that both sources of wealth and poverty were brought to the attention of authorities. Third, the refugee community wanted the ability to exercise more oversight over subsequent arrivals. And finally, the refugees desired as much autonomy as possible—in both poor relief and other community activities; however, the local officials were reluctant to cede much authority, and the fact that Pastor Balck had to make his petition before the local church council illustrates the exile community’s dependence upon the host church and civic leaders’ permission. Just as crises arose during periods of tremendous immigration, so too could financial difficulties appear when the influx of refugees dried up, such as when a period of warfare ended and large numbers of exiles might return home. Moreover after another generation or two in exile, the loss of a common personal experience of flight and persecution tends to deplete the impetus behind the exile network, and the refugee communities begin to lose their links with that past. Exile becomes part of their history and their family, perhaps, but it can lose its immediacy. Thus, while the experience of exile deeply affected the religious practices of the Reformed in early modern Europe, from poor relief to theology, within any particular community the periods in which we can observe the effects seem to be of limited duration: either the exiles return home or subsequent generations assimilate and lose the urgency of feeling in exile. In Emden’s case the institutional boundaries that remained in existence (such as the continuation of the Fremdlingen Diaconate to the present day) seemed to lose their original practical functions and became largely ornamental. The urgent reality of exile created new boundaries that could be difficult to navigate around, but as the case of Emden’s Reformed refugees demonstrates, there is no single formula to help us easily disentangle the complicated concerns that intersected to construct or break down boundaries around or between the refugee communities.

MEMORIES OF A BYGONE DIASPORA: HUGUENOT RECONSTRUCTED IDENTITY IN GILDED AGE AMERICA BERTRAND VAN RUYMBEKE

Huguenot: A Foreign Word? The term Huguenot, specific to French history, is a good place to start this essay. Its origins are disputed but most historians agree on one etymology. This word would come from eidgenossen, a Swiss-German term meaning confederates and coined on the occasion of the rebellion of the Genevans against their lord, the Duke of Savoy, in the early sixteenth century. Once imported into France in the 1560s it first became eyguenot or eiguenotz and finally huguenot.1 What is certain though is that the term Huguenot was very rarely used in France until the late nineteenth century. In the mid-1500s French Protestants were generically called luthériens. King Henry II (1547–1559), for example, spoke of “cette infâme canaille luthérienne” (“that vile Lutheran rabble”).2 In the 1600s, Huguenots were designated as members of the RPR or Religion Prétendue Réformée (selfstyled reformed religion). Today, and since the 1960s, with the secularisation of French society, Huguenots have been simply and generically referred to as protestants. The word huguenot therefore was mostly used in the last third of the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century in France with a derogative connotation. I argue that the word came into disuse in French and was imported once again from the Anglo-American world. The term 1

Janet G. Gray, “The Origin of the Word Huguenot,” Sixteenth Century Journal 14 (1983): 349–59 and Pierre Bourguet, Huguenots. Le sobriquet mystérieux (Paris: Les bergers et les mages, 1959). The other most common etymology has the word mean supporters of legendary king Hugon in Tours, Huguenots being “petits hugon,” the diminutive suffix “not” playing the same role as in Jeannot, “petit Jean” with an affective or derogatory connotation. 2 Janine Garrison, Les Protestants au XVIe siècle (Paris: Fayard, 1988), 185.

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huguenot became a gallicised form of Huguenot and since the 1960s acquired (in French) a new—and this time positive as well as memorial— connotation.3 This transfer occurred in the 1870s and 1880s when books were published in English on the Huguenot diaspora and when Huguenot Societies were founded in New York, London, and Charleston, South Carolina.

Writing the History of the Refuge from Abroad The 1850s were a crucial decade for the history of French Protestantism in France. In 1852 the Société de l’Histoire du Protestantisme Français was founded in Paris. The founders wished to collect manuscripts and books on Huguenot history as well as oral traditions in France but also to gather information on the refugees’ influence wherever they settled. Their intention was to show that French religious history was not limited to Catholicism and to reintegrate the Huguenots into the French national narrative. The following year Alsatian historian Charles Weiss published his seminal and monumental two-volume study of the Refuge, entitled Histoire des réfugiés protestants de France depuis la révocation de l’Edit de Nantes jusqu’à nos jours. Weiss coined the term “refuge” to designate the post-revocation exodus. In a footnote Weiss acknowledged that “the word refuge applied to all refugees settled in the countries that offered them asylum is not French . . .” and explained that he borrowed it from “expatriated authors” forced to invent new terms. In this sweeping survey Weiss discussed refugees in Brandenburg, England, the Netherlands, Switzerland, Denmark, Sweden, and Russia, but also more surprisingly for the time period, America, South Africa, and Suriname. Yet Weiss aspired to much more. Beyond the Refuge he wished to “in some ways fill a void in our [i.e., French] national history.”4 Weiss had a ground-breaking intuition. He underlined the fact that the history of the diaspora would be done outside of France. Hence his novel 3

This is also Patrick Cabanel’s opinion; see his Histoire des protestants en France XVIe–XXIe siècles (Paris: Fayard, 2012), 1001–1007. Cabanel rightfully speaks of a semantic transfer from “mot stigmata” to “mot mémoire” (1007). Outside French Protestant circles the term Huguenot is being primarily used by historians as in “le Refuge Huguenot” to designate the exodus. Most French people would not know what the word means. 4 Weiss spelled refuge with a lower case “r” whereas French historians now use a capital. Charles Weiss, Histoire des réfugiés protestants de France depuis la révocation de l’Edit de Nantes jusqu’à nos jours (Paris: Charpentier, 1853; repr., Paris 2007), 5 n. 1 and 1.

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and neological use of the term Refuge. In a way the Refuge, like the term itself, was not French. After all, the Huguenots had left France and permanently settled abroad nearly two centuries before. Their story was necessarily woven into the national histories of the countries and places where they had settled. Weiss’s interest in this diasporic history by the way was probably not foreign to his being from a borderland area about to be violently fought by France and Germany. He also could see France from the outside. Another of Weiss’s novel use for a French historian was that of the term réfugiés. The word connotes two important ideas. It implies, first, that the Huguenots were victims of Catholic absolutism and left France seeking refuge or protection and, second, that their migration is being described from the perspective of the host societies. Seventeenth-century French authorities labelled them fugitives, not refugees, as in the “Listes des fugitifs” that were compiled by the intendants (provincial administrators) to identify the Huguenots who had left their communities and eventually France itself. What is interesting though is that the term became accepted in France, beyond and in the wake of Weiss’s work, although to French historians these displaced Huguenots were anything but refugees. In English the word refugee can be traced back precisely to the Huguenot immigration to England, the first massive wave of immigrants the country, principally London, had to face. Soon after the publication of Weiss’s study, in 1860, the influential French historian Jules Michelet published his Louis XIV et la Révocation de l’édit de Nantes in which the Huguenots are depicted as victims of Louis XIV’s absolutism. Considering the phenomenal impression of Michelet’s work on France’s collective memory and perception of its history this condemnation of Louis XIV and rehabilitation of the Huguenots, fueled by the historian’s republicanism, is noteworthy. Michelet exhumed the history of French Protestants from “under the ashes of oblivion,” as his biographer Paul Viallaneix nicely put it. 5 In his opening words he even declared that the Revocation held the place for the seventeenth century as the Revolution did for the eighteenth.6 One could not give more visibility to the Protestants and their emigration in French history. Michelet’s emphasis was on the Revocation, its causes and consequences as well as Louis XIV’s (or the monarchy’s) responsibility in what he perceived as more than a tragedy, a political mistake. The Revocation belongs to France’s history. In this way Michelet’s focus 5

Jules Michelet, De la Révocation de l’Edit de Nantes à la Guerre des Cévennes, ed. Paul Viallaniex (Paris: Presses du Languedoc, 1985), iv. 6 Ibid., v.

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differs from Weiss’s and confirms Weiss’s hunch. French historians do not write on the diaspora itself but rather its causes and its impact on France’s economy and how their dispersion benefited France’s Protestant rivals. Thus in 1867, in the wake of Michelet’s saga, Scottish reformer and educator Samuel Smiles published his thorough The Huguenots: Their Settlement, Churches and Industries in England and Ireland. 7 Smiles’s intention was precisely to show how much England had benefited from the Huguenots’ industry and skills. Whereas Weiss underlined the cultural benefits of the dispersion on the European-wide influence of French culture and language, Smiles emphasised the economic impact of the Huguenot immigration on England. Renewing with a historiographic trend rooted in Voltaire’s Le Siècle de Louis XIV, which would last over a century, both stressed the loss to France.

Huguenot Memory in America: North and South As early as 1854, Weiss’s study was translated into English and published in New York “with an American appendix by a descendant of the Huguenots.” The translator, Henry William Herbert, was a historical novelist (one of his novels dealt with the Fronde 8 ) and translator of Alexandre Dumas and Eugène Sue. This translation guaranteed Weiss wide readership at least in the English-speaking countries of the dispersion. In America, Herbert placed the “expatriated Huguenots” on the pantheon of the country’s founders in adding them to the famed George Bancroft list enumerating “the adventurous companions of Smith, the Puritan felons that freighted the fleet of Winthrop, [and] the Quaker outlaws that fled from jails with a Newgate prisoner as their sovereign”!9 Thirty years later, the tercentenary commemorations of the Revocation (1685–1885) brought Huguenot history and memory into the spotlight. As early as 1883, New York Huguenots founded the Huguenot Society of America. The name was not, as one might think, a sign of New York arrogance. Simply put, it was then the only Huguenot Society in America. It was a surprisingly precocious foundation when one considers that the American colonies were marginal to the dispersion with a total of no more than three thousand refugees out of at least one hundred and eighty thousand. This development can only be explained by the wave of ethnic 7 Samuel Smiles, The Huguenots: Their Settlements, Churches and Industries (London: John Murray, 1867). 8 Weiss, Histoire des réfugiés, 1. 9 George Bancroft, History of the United States from the Discovery of the American Continent (Boston: Little Brown & Co. 1859), 2: 453.

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and patriotic pride that followed the 1876 centennial in the United States.10 In America, Huguenot memory was one among many ethno-religious groups. It carried prestige nonetheless due to the early arrival of the refugees on American shores—before 1720 for the most part—and to the no less early foundation of their genealogical societies.11 Huguenot ethnic self-celebration thus preceded that of other American groups of nonEnglish stock. The Dutch founded the Holland Society in New York in 1886, the Scotch-Irish met in a Congress in 1889, and the American-Irish Historical Society was created in 1897. In the 1880s, all American historical societies were also genealogical and patriotic. It was in this spirit that the Huguenot Society of America was founded. It was a way for Huguenot descendants to be part of American mainstream memory. As French historian François Weil notes, these groups “used genealogy to attempt to counterbalance what they perceived as the undue weight of Anglo-Saxonism.”12 Although Huguenot refugees were persecuted Calvinists, and consequently potential heroes, they were nonetheless French—that is, not “Anglo-Saxon.” In 1912 an American chronicler wrote that “the Huguenot was a French Puritan, in substance identical to the English Puritans [and] not fundamentally different from a Catholic Frenchman, except that he averaged higher.”13

10

Bertrand Van Ruymbeke and François Weil, “Du melting-pot à l’histoire atlantique. Historiographie du Refuge et mémoire huguenote aux États-Unis (1880–2006),” in Les huguenots et l’Atlantique, vol. 2, Fidélités, racines et mémoires, ed. Mickaël Augeron, Didier Poton, and Bertrand Van Ruymbeke (Paris: Les Indes Savantes, 2012), 217–29; and Huguenot Society of America. History, Organization, Activities, Membership, Constitution, Huguenot Ancestors, and Other Matters of Interest (New York 1963). 11 As evidence of this prestige in the mid-nineteenth century, South Carolina Unionist James Pettigrew “huguenotted” his name into Petigru or from Irish to French, as told by Mary Boykin Chestnut in her Civil War diary. Comer Vann Woodward, ed., Mary Chestnut’s Civil War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981), 366. See also William Henry Pease and Jane H. Pease, James-Louis Petigru: Southern Conservative, Southern Dissenter (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2002). 12 François Weil, Family Trees. A History of Genealogy in America (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), 135. 13 Transactions of the Huguenot Society of South Carolina 19 (1912): 29. See also Bernard Cottret, “Frenchmen by Birth, Huguenots by the Grace of God. Some Aspects of the Huguenot Myth,” in Memory and Identity. The Huguenots in France and the Atlantic Diaspora, ed. Bertrand Van Ruymbeke and Randy J. Sparks (Columbia: University of South Carolina, 2003), 310–24.

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Calvinism thus became a redeeming quality for Protestants of Latin extraction and their migration acted as a selective process. In the United States, as well as in the British Isles and Germany, the term “Huguenot” actually includes more than the Protestants who left France. “Huguenot” also refers to the Walloons, the Swiss Calvinists, the Waldenses, and the Orangeois. 14 The word Huguenot means Frenchspeaking Protestants, even if the Huguenots proper, that is Calvinists from the kingdom of France, far outnumbered other refugees. Perhaps this is why Anglo-American historiography is fond of the lexical association “French Huguenots” which is strictly speaking improper or at least redundant since Huguenots only came from France. Other Calvinists are named differently. Probably because of sheer numbers and the prestige carried in some places by having an ancestor who escaped clandestinely from absolutist France, the Huguenot absorption of other groups’ memory has gone unnoticed. Only in New York, did it lead to an intense rivalry. In their quest for founders, the Huguenot Society of America and the Holland Society coveted the Walloons who arrived in the Hudson Bay in 1624. They were French-speaking Protestants, therefore “Huguenots,” yet they were sent across the Atlantic by the Dutch West India Company. Who could therefore boast of having founded New York: the Huguenot or Holland Society? To complicate matters, “Were not the Walloons rather from Belgium?” asked French-speaking Belgian historians. In the 1920s, Lucy Green wrote about the “Walloon founding of New Amsterdam,” but William E. Griffis wrote of “the Belgic Pilgrim Fathers of the Middle States.”15 Sixty years later Robert Goffin in his Les Wallons, fondateurs de New York—suggesting that New York was a more impressive name than New Amsterdam—still described the Dutch settlement in the 1620s as “a Walloon village in a corner of the New World”!16 Eventually the Huguenots 14 The Orangeois came from the Principality of Orange, in southern France, seized by Louis XIV in 1702. 15 William E. Griffis, The Story of the Walloons, at Home, in Lands of Exiles and in America (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1923) and Lucy G. Green, The De Forests and the Walloon Founding of New Amsterdam (New York 1924). See also Bertrand Van Ruymbeke, “The Huguenot and Walloon Elements in New Netherland and Seventeenth-Century New York: Identity, History, and Memory,” in Revisiting New Netherland. Perspectives on Early Dutch America, ed. Joyce D. Goodfriend (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 41–54. 16 Robert Goffin, Les wallons, fondateurs de New York (Gilly, Belgium: Institut Jules Destrée, 1970), 95. This book was inspired by a larger hymn to the Belgians in the United States written by Goffin while he had taken refuge in New York during WWII entitled De Pierre Minuit aux Roosevelt, l’épopée belge aux ÉtatsUnis (New York 1943).

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won. The New York Walloon legacy was claimed by the Huguenot Society. As early as 1885, the New York Huguenots suggested that their brethren in Charleston form a local, meaning southern branch of their Society. Twenty years after the end of the Civil War, the Huguenot ancestor served as a fraternising mediator between two former enemies. These men had all lived through the deadly maelstrom of the Civil War. Honoring a common ancestor—the émigré—was their way to participate in the process of reunion that was at play in the nation at large in the Reconstruction and the Gilded Age.17 When in February 1885, upon the occasion of the Revocation bicentennial commemorations, E. F. Delancy, president of the Huguenot Society of America, wrote to W. G. DeSaussure in Charleston, Delancy invited South Carolina Huguenots to individually join the Huguenot Society in order to form a “General Committee of Gentlemen of French Protestants” representing the historical Huguenot settlements. 18 This invitation raised much enthusiasm in Charleston but instead of joining the New York society South Carolina Huguenots founded their own society a month later. Reunion, yes, absorption, no! After all there were limits to what Southerners were ready to do even on behalf of the heroic colonial ancestors.19 Charles W. Baird’s History of the Huguenot Emigration to America was also published in 1885. 20 Baird was a New York Presbyterian minister. He had accompanied his father, the Reverend Robert Baird, in his missionary activities in Europe. Charles W. Baird was particularly sensitive to the cause of a Protestant minority in a Catholic country. Hence the story of the Huguenots’ flight appealed to him. 21 Translated into French a year after its publication, Charles Baird’s two-volume study of the Huguenot migrations across the Atlantic still stands as an important 17

On this fascinating issue, see David W. Blight, Race and Reunion: The Civil War in American Memory (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001). 18 “Correspondence leading to the Organization of the Huguenot Society of South Carolina,” The Transactions of the Huguenot Society of South Carolina 4 (1899): 3. 19 Various Huguenot Societies were created in the United States in the first half of the twentieth century. One of the largest was the Huguenot Society of the Founders of Manakin in the Colony of Virginia (1922). Today the National Huguenot Society, founded in 1951, has over forty state chapters. 20 Charles W. Baird, History of the Huguenot Emigration to America, 2 vols. (New York: Dodd, Mead & Co., 1885). 21 His father Robert Baird included a chapter on the Huguenots in his 1842 Religion in America and his brother Henry Martyn Baird also published books on the French Reformation and the Revocation.

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work on the Refuge. 22 Baird wrote in the biased, anti-Catholic, and hagiographical style of his days, but he relied meticulously on archival sources. His book is full of information on individual refugees and transcriptions of documents. A little before Baird, British historian and archivist Reginald Lane Poole published his A History of the Huguenots of the Dispersion at the Recall of the Edict of Nantes.23 Poole’s tone is even more anti-Catholic than Baird’s and decidedly anti-Louis XIV with chapters as “The Tyranny” and “Commercial Decadence” in reference to the widespread yet erroneous belief in Huguenot circles, then and now, that the exodus caused France’s economic collapse.24 Poole surveyed all places within the Refuge and concluded his book with chapters on “The Power of the Refugees.” Baird and Poole rode the wave of late nineteenthcentury dominant “Anglo-Saxonism” and wrote books with a militant Protestant spirit. Their tone is unapologetic, almost vindictive, and certainly confident.

The Huguenot “Race” and French “Blood” Late nineteenth-century descendants of refugees forged what they called the “Huguenot race.” In this form of genealogical eugenics, cultural and personal characteristics were transmitted through the blood. For the Huguenots, these were industry, honesty, nobility, and faith. These traits formed the basis of what Etienne François, referring to the Berlin Huguenots, called “le légendaire Huguenot.”25 It is striking that Huguenot memory, be it in the United States, Germany, Britain or South Africa, has sanctified the same characteristics: faith, industry, nobility, courage, and patriotism.26 This is clearly an illustration of the hobsbawmian paradigm 22 Charles W. Baird, Histoire des réfugiés huguenots en Amérique (Toulouse: Société des livres religieux, 1886). 23 Reginald L. Poole, A History of the Huguenots of the Dispersion at the Recall of the Edict of Nantes (London: Macmillan & Co., 1880). 24 On this point see Myriam Yardeni, “Naissance et essor d’un mythe: la révocation de l’Edit de Nantes et le déclin économique de la France,” Bulletin de la Société de l’Histoire du Protestantisme Français 139 (1993): 76–96. 25 Etienne François, “Du patriote prussien au meilleur des Allemands,” in Le Refuge huguenot, ed. Michèle Magdelaine and Rudolf von Thadden (Paris: Armond Colin, 1985), 229. 26 In France, since Michelet, the Huguenots have also been associated with republicanism. Michelet wrote that with their first national synod in 1559 the Huguenots gave France “la République, l’idée et la chose et le mot.” Quoted in Michelet, De la Révocation, ii. A parallel can be made with George Bancroft and

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of “invented tradition.” 27 In the American South particularly, a place where the gentry was deified in the nineteenth century, Huguenot refugees were perceived as necessarily of noble extraction, a paradigm I have called elsewhere “noblesse and Frenchness.” 28 The figure of the Huguenot ancestor admirably merges two nineteenth-century antinomic American cultural figures: the New England Puritan and the Southern planter. He is a nobleman and a Calvinist who is a Puritan aristocrat, an honest and hardworking planter who has savoir-vivre nonetheless. Most likely unknowingly Huguenot hagiographers and prominent descendants renewed with the concept of race as a noble pedigree. But in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, in this post-Darwinian age, it became racialized. A case in point is Lucian J. Fosdick’s 1906 book called The French Blood in America. Despite the generic word “French” the book is a narrative and simple (there are no notes) account of the Huguenot migration to America. In a very telling way the Huguenots are brandished as an example to the (Catholic) Québécois who were then settling in New England. In his introduction Fosdick wrote: It is the author’s conviction that the French who of late years have been pouring into New England . . . may be greatly stimulated by the example of their fellow countrymen of an earlier day . . . ; [for] it was the distinction and one source of the wide spread influence of the early French settlers that they assimilated thoroughly and rapidly . . . becoming American instead of striving to perpetuate race prejudice and peculiarity.29

Beyond the amalgam of French Protestants and Catholic Québécois as “fellow countrymen” and the confusion between colonial settlers and nineteenth-century immigrants, the message is clear. Although the book discusses the Huguenot migration to the thirteen mainland colonies, it is addressed to the Québécois settling in New England. In the case of our present discussion, what matters is the use of the racially connoted term “blood.” The generic use of the term “French” is based on the assumption that all people who speak a variant of the French language are necessarily his followers who rooted American democracy in the Puritan (Calvinist) 1620 Mayflower Compact. 27 Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 28 Bertrand Van Ruymbeke, “Cavalier et Puritan: l’ancêtre huguenot au prisme de l’histoire américaine,” Diasporas. Histoire et Sociétés 5 (2004): 12–22. 29 Lucian J. Fosdick, The French Blood in America (New York: F. H. Revell, 1906), 12.

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French and share the same “blood” and through it inherited the— presumably French—characteristics. The Huguenot race leads to the French race.30 The concept of “Huguenot race” is fascinating to observe in its implied nationalistic, even “racial” in the sense it carried in the 1880s, meanings. It superbly reveals how Huguenot descendants were profoundly integrated in their countries. American Huguenots were not, despite all their claims, speaking as Huguenots, meaning French Protestants, precisely because they were not French. Let us make no mistake: claiming to be a Huguenot or to have “Huguenot blood” did not mean being French, Francophone or for that matter Francophile. In nineteenth-century America, being French meant essentially being a Catholic peasant. This is the ambiguity which lay at the core of nineteenth-century Huguenot identity. Huguenot descendants in the United States were no doubt proud of being of French Protestant ancestry yet they were prouder of being American.

30

In still racially-conscious post-apartheid South Africa, another distant place within the Refuge, this idea of a Huguenot race, as one can imagine, has had a particular meaning. In 2007, a South African geneticist stated that exactly “26.43% of the Afrikaner blood was of French origin”! This is what French historian Marilyn Garcia-Chapleau calls “le legs génétique” (the genetic legacy). Marilyn Garcia-Chapleau, Le Refuge huguenot du cap de Bonne-Espérance. Genèse, assimilation, héritage (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2016), 349–52.

THE DOMESTIC AND INTERNATIONAL ROLES OF THE EARLY MODERN IRISH CATHOLIC DIASPORA THOMAS O’CONNOR

Introduction The sixteenth century saw the continued consolidation of dynastic authority in England, France, Spain, and elsewhere in Europe.1 This vast political evolution was accompanied by changes in religious government and organisation, sometimes with the intention of replacing international papal authority with state churches and always with the consolidation of dynastic power in mind. Among the many consequences of these changes was the displacement, voluntary and forced, of demurring individuals and groups. Because, in the English case, the religious reforms were state-imposed, failure to acquiesce was considered treasonable. Non-conformity was sanctioned by a combination of capital punishment, property confiscation, fines, and civil marginalisation.2 By the end of the sixteenth century, the Anglican reform had made considerable progress in England. In the Tudors’ Irish kingdom, however, the changes failed to gain traction, even among those sections of Irish society most loyal to the crown. The scale of the failure ruled out the successful forcible imposition of conformity. Instead, a mixture of property confiscation, plantation of English colonists

 1

For the best recent overview of the Irish situation, see Sean J. Connolly, Contested Island: Ireland, 1460–1630 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); idem, Divided Kingdom: Ireland, 1630–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). 2 For Ireland and England see John Morrill, “The Causes of the Popery Laws: Paradoxes and Inevitabilities,” in John Bergin et al., eds., New Perspectives on the Penal Laws (Dublin: Eighteenth Century Ireland, 2011), 55–73.

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and political exclusion eventually produced a Protestant state with a Catholic majority.3 In Ireland, the political imposition and maintenance of Protestant authority was attended by important changes in property ownership and consequent internal movement of individuals and communities. The most important of these occurred in the northern province of Ulster in the early seventeenth century. To curb the Gaelic clans there, native landowners were replaced by Scots Presbyterian and English Anglican colonists. Later, in the 1650s, a transplantation of Catholic landowners from the rest of Ireland to the western province of Connacht took place. This was to facilitate the compensation, with Catholic property, of Cromwellian military that had been key to the parliamentary reconquest of Ireland. All plantations involved population displacements, with departing Catholics replaced by incoming Protestants, mostly Anglian and Presbyterians, but with smaller groups of Huguenot, Palatinate, Quaker and other denominations arriving as well. The demographic superiority of Catholics ensured that even where Protestant plantation was successful, Catholics remained in intermediary roles and as a necessary source of labour. The internal dislocation of Catholics was accompanied by Catholic migration out of the country, mostly to Iberia, France, the Netherlands, and the Empire and also, from the seventeenth century, to English overseas colonies. 4 The largest of the Europe-bound migrant flows, numbering eventually in the tens of thousands, were military in composition, consisting mostly of the defeated troops of vanquished antigovernment forces. 5 They occurred in distinct phases, usually on the conclusion of periods of unrest, as in the 1580s, early 1600s, 1650s, and 1690s. These military exiles were recruited into foreign Catholic armies, some of which established dedicated Irish regiments. Recruitment continued during peacetime but, apart from officer ranks, tended to fall off after the 1730s. It would be inaccurate to describe these complex internal and international displacements as simply religious in character or motivation,

 3

For the eighteenth-century apotheosis of this system see Ian McBride, Eighteenth-Century Ireland: The Isle of Slaves (London: Gill & Macmillan, 2009); Patrick J. Corish, The Irish Catholic Experience: A Historical Survey (Dublin: Gill & Macmillan, 1984); Louis Cullen, “Catholics under the Penal Laws,” in Eighteenth Century Ireland 1 (1986): 23–36. 4 Alexander Murdoch, British Migration, 1603–1914 (Houndsmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005). 5 For the Spanish case see Eduard de Mesa, The Irish in the Spanish Armies in the Seventeenth Century (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2014).

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though they obviously possessed a religious dimension. However, there were certain strands of the Irish migrant phenomenon, which were, in an obvious way, direct responses to Tudor religious reforms. They were smaller in scale than the grand migrant movements just mentioned and, though sometimes nested within them, remained distinct. It is the purpose of this essay to distinguish two of these strands, with a view to revisiting a problematic shared by researchers of all early modern religious migrations, namely the relative weight to be accorded the various push and pull factors operating within complex migration systems6 that drew people across the increasingly well-defined state and religious boundaries of early modern Europe. The essay begins with some historiographical remarks. It proceeds to identify two distinct religious strands within the broader migrant phenomenon, examining their evolution and activity in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Particular attention is paid to the links between these migrant groups and both their originating communities in Ireland and the larger Irish migrant groups abroad. The essay concludes with a set of remarks on the running down of these migrant strands, by outlining how a combination of domestic and international factors interacted to secularise Irish migration in the second half of the eighteenth century and reorient it towards the English-speaking world, especially North America.

A Historiographical Note To an extent, research into early modern Irish migration continues to be influenced by interpretations inherited from the nineteenth century. These were calibrated across a heuristic scale between Catholic nationalist and Protestant loyalist views and presumed, on the part of the migrant, or exile, a pronounced motivational simplicity. In their accounts, historians in the Catholic nationalist tradition identified state-supported religious persecution as the primary push factor. 7 Historians in the Protestant loyalist tradition preferred to see migration as a consequence of Catholic

 6

On the notion of “migration system” see James H. Jackson Jr. and Leslie Page Moch, “Migration and the Social History of Modern Europe,” Historical Methods 22 (1989): 27–36. 7 A classic example is William Burke, The Irish Priests in the Penal Times (1660– 1760) (Waterford: N. Harvey & Co., 1914).

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self-exclusion from the body politic, the result of an irrational attachment to a foreign political authority.8 Thanks to new studies on early modern Irish migration to Europe,9 the surprisingly resilient older historiographies have been yielding slowly before more nuanced explanations of this complex phenomenon. 10 Research has begun to refocus, sources permitting, on the precise relationship, within migration systems, between domestic religious, political, and economic conditions on the one side and migrant motivation on the other, with particular reference both to social and geographic variation and also to ethnic and cultural factors.11 The picture emerging suggests a sophisticated motivational sensitivity among migrants, both to political and religious factors and also to altering economic and geopolitical conditions regionally and further afield. Second, recent research has begun to appreciate the significance of return migration. In particular there has been a growing appreciation of the role of abroad migrant institutions, like the continental Catholic colleges, the Irish regiments in foreign armies and overseas Irish merchant communities, not only in circulating migrants out of the country but also in feeding them back home to service domestic Catholic communities in varied capacities.12 These abroad institutions also provided a complex range of

 8

For a survey of the traditional interpretations see James Kelly, “The Historiography of the Penal Laws,” in New Perspectives on the Penal Laws, ed. John Bergin et al. (Dublin: Eighteenth Century Ireland, 2011), 27–52. 9 Inter alia, see Óscar Recio Morales, ed., Redes de nación y espacios de poder: la comunidad irlandesa en España y la América española, 1600–1825 (Madrid 2012); Thomas O’Connor and Mary Ann Lyons, eds., The Ulster Earls in Baroque Europe: Refashioning Irish Identities, 1600–1800 (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2010); Patrick Fitzgerald and Brian Lambkin, Migration in Irish History, 1607– 2007 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Nathalie Genet-Rouffiac, Le Grand Exil: les Jacobites en France, 1688–1715 (Paris: Service historique de la Défense, 2007); María Begoña Villar García, ed., La emigración irlandesa en el siglo XVIII (Málaga: Universidad de Málaga, 2000). 10 For the historiography of the Spanish wing of the diaspora see Óscar Recio Morales, Ireland and the Spanish Empire, 1600–1825, trans. Michael White (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2010), chap. 1. 11 One of the ground-breaking articles was by Louis Cullen, “The Irish Diaspora,” in Europeans on the Move: Studies on European Migration, 1500–1800, ed. Nicholas Canny (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 113–49. 12 Thomas O’Connor, “New Perspectives on the Irish Continental College Network, 1590–1801,” in College Communities in Exile: Education, Migration and Catholicism in Early Modern Europe, ed. Liam Chambers and Thomas O’Connor (Manchester, forthcoming 2017).

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services to the broader Irish diaspora, to other diasporas and, of course, to host societies. This has opened up new areas of enquiry, as historians explore the complex interplay between permanent and temporary migrants and how ongoing links between the diaspora and their sending communities were expressed through financial exchanges, such as student bourses, banking networks, technical exchange, and knowledge transfer.13 Third, new work has helped heighten awareness of the tensions between different strands of the Irish migrant movement, revealing the self-interest of specific migrant sub-groups and the range of integration strategies they employed. 14 Migrants brought their social, geographical and cultural prejudices with them and these coloured expatriate community life. Fourthly, a start has been made in setting the Irish migrant phenomenon in the context of other contemporary human movements.15 This has served to underline the similarities between Irish migrants and contemporary “national” migrations, uncovering the tensions that inevitably resulted from competition for opportunity and patronage. This trend has intersected with the so-called ‘three kingdoms’ historiography, with the result that English, Scots and Irish migration strands, so often considered separately, are now viewed together within their larger European and global contexts.

Diasporic Origins This essay concentrates on the specifically religious strands of the early modern diaspora that became a feature of Irish migrant mobility from the fourth decade of the sixteenth century. As elsewhere in Europe, religiously motivated migration from Ireland occurred within a broader context of

 13

Thomas O’Connor, Irish Voices from the Spanish Inquisition: Migrants, Converts and Brokers in Early Modern Iberia (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), esp. part 3. 14 Ciaran O’Scea, Surviving Kinsale: Irish Emigration and Identity Formation in Early Modern Spain, 1601–40 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2015), esp. part 3. 15 Bernardo J. García García and Óscar Recio Morales, eds., Las corporaciones de nación en la monarquía hispánica (1580–1750) (Madrid: Fundación Carlos Amberes, 2014); David Worthington, ed., British and Irish Experiences and Impressions of Central Europe, c.1560–1688 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2012) and idem, British and Irish Emigrants and Exiles in Europe, 1603–1688 (Leiden: Brill, 2009); Alexia Grosjean and Steve Murdoch, Scottish Communities Abroad in the Early Modern Period (Leiden: Brill, 2005); María Begoña Villar García et al., eds., Los extranjeros en la España moderna, 2 vols. (Málaga: Universidad de Málaga, 2003).

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increased mobility for certain social groups. From the early sixteenth century, potential Irish migrants had more and surer ways of leaving Ireland than ever before and could follow well-established commercial routes in their journeys overseas. In the decades before religious troubles began in Ireland, the range and density of these routes increased. Some of this expansion was due to strengthening commercial activity, stimulated by the Portuguese and Spanish explorations, 16 and by expanding local economies, particularly in port hinterlands. 17 The enhanced commercial activity brought prosperity to Irish port towns, particularly those engaged in trade with France and Iberia and led to the establishment of small Irish abroad communities in ports like Bilbao, Lisbon, and Seville. 18 The significance of this network of commercial contacts grew from the 1540s as new mobile migrant groups, some of them drawn from the port elites, set their sights on continental destinations. If there was, by mid-century, a distinctly religious diaspora, one that was recognizably “Catholic,” it might be identified, initially at least, with the increased mobility of two particular categories of migrant. The first of these consisted of students heading for continental universities. Because Ireland had no domestic university until the 1592 foundation of Trinity College in Dublin, established to educate Protestant clergy, there was a long tradition of Irish attendance at English, Scottish, and continental institutions.19 In the aftermath of the reforms introduced by Henry VIII the Irish student flow to England weakened, but from the 1540s, Irish names begin to appear in greater numbers in the registers of certain continental universities. The second, mid-sixteenth century migrant group that might be described as Catholic commenced in the late 1550s and was mostly clerical in composition. It consisted of papal bishops displaced by Elizabeth I’s appointment of Anglican prelates to Irish sees. Both these migrant movements were embedded in a broader range of dislocations, economic and political in nature, variously catalysed by the classic early

 16

Daviken Studnicki-Gizbert, A Nation upon the Ocean Sea: Portugal’s Atlantic Diaspora and the Crisis of the Spanish Empire, 1492–1640 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 17–39. 17 María Begoña Villar García, “Ingleses y irlandeses en España,” in La inmigración en España, ed. Antonio Eiras Roel and Domingo L. González López (Santiago: Universidad de Santiago de Compostela, 2004), 31–76. 18 For Seville, for example, see Enique Otte, Sevilla y sus mercaderes a fines de la Edad Media (Seville: Fundación El Monte, 1996), 84, 120–24, 154, 193, 235. 19 For England, see Virginia Davis, “Material Relating to Irish Clergy in England in the Late Middle Ages,” Archivium Hibernicum 56 (2002): 7–50; eadem, “Irish Clergy in Late Medieval England,” Irish Historical Studies 32 (2000): 145–60.

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modern trifecta of state-building, religious reform, and economic dislocation. Consequently, even when identifiable “Catholic” migrant groups were concerned, their displacements were rarely purely religious in character.20

Students on the Move The geographical origin of the Irish Catholic student diaspora in the sixteenth century was from the merchant elites of the port towns on the southern coast, principally in the province of Munster. The main cities concerned were Waterford, Wexford, Cork, Limerick, and Galway, along with their hinterlands. Their merchant families, of twelfth-century Anglo– Norman origin with names like Wadding, Arthur, and Walsh, historically maintained close commercial links with Spanish and Portuguese ports. From the 1540s a small number of students with these family names begin to appear in local university registers, beginning in Louvain, 21 and followed by Salamanca,22 Alcalá,23 Paris,24 and Rome.25 In directing their sons to these universities it would seem that the Irish merchant elites were adapting the old style foreign apprenticeship system to a new end: that of supplying educated and orthodox teachers and clergy for their schools and churches. A number of factors help explain this development. First, the religious changes imposed by Henry VIII and Edward VI troubled the religiously conservative mercantile elites, who, though loyal to their monarch, remained attached to the old religion. Consequently, a university stay in now heretical England was no longer the attractive option it had been previously. Funding and reputation also mattered. In the case of Louvain, for instance, Irish students were attracted

 20

Karin Schüller, Die Beziehungen zwischen Spanien und Irland im 16. Und 17. Jahrhundert (Münster: Aschendorff, 1999), 75–106. 21 Jeroen Nilis, “Irish Students in Leuven,” Archivium Hibernicum 60 (2006–7): 1– 304. 22 Hugh Fenning, “Students at the Irish College at Salamanca, 1592–1638,” Archivium Hibernicum 62 (2009): 7–36. 23 Óscar Recio Morales, Irlanda en Alcalá (Alcalá: Fundación Colegio del Rey 2004); Patricia O Connell, The Irish College at Alcalá de Henares, 1649–1785 (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 1997). 24 Laurence W. B. Brockliss and Patrick Ferté, “Prosopography of Irish Clerics in the Universities of Paris and Toulouse, 1573–1792,” Archivium Hibernicum 58 (2004): 1–166; idem, “Irish Clerics in France in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries: A Statistical Survey,” Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 87 C (1987), 527–72. 25 Hugh Fenning, “Irishmen Ordained at Rome, 1572–1697,” Archivium Hibernicum 59 (2005): 1–36.

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by its strong international reputation for academic excellence and religious orthodoxy.26 It is also true that some of the incoming Irish managed to garner financial support from factions within the university, individuals and groups who represented different and often competing versions of the ongoing orthodox Catholic reform. The Limerick student, Richard Creagh, for instance, who enrolled in Louvain in the late 1540s, was assisted by Michael Baius (1513–89), a leader of the rigorist Augustinian strand of the Catholic reform there. 27 Later Creagh was also supported by the local Jesuits, who at this time were struggling, in the face of opponents like Baius, to win a place in the local university hierarchy.28 This student outflow slowed during the 1550s when Mary Tudor and Philip II became queen and king of Ireland, restoring the country to the papal fold. 29 However, the accession of Elizabeth in 1558 signaled the official return of Ireland to Protestantism. The student outflow resumed, continuing until the end of the ancien régime.

Bishops “sans domicile fixe” At the same time, in the late 1550s, certain segments of the Marian clergy came under pressure. Initially, Elizabeth I retained the loyalty of most of the bishops approved by her half-sister. However, as they died out she replaced them with prelates who rejected papal authority. Rome doggedly continued to appoint its own bishops to Irish dioceses. These papal bishops, drawn mostly from the religious orders and often graduates of the Catholic universities were deprived of access to their diocesan revenues in Ireland, such as they were. One alternative was to throw themselves on the mercies of continental patrons, in the first place the papacy but also foreign prelates, religious houses and their own expatriate countrymen. Consequently, alongside the students, and sometimes including them, small episcopal households set themselves up in Lisbon, Alcalá, Madrid,

 26

Bruno Boute, Academic Interests and Catholic Confessionalisation: The Louvain Privileges of Nomination to Ecclesiastical Benefices (Leiden: Brill, 2010), passim. 27 Colm Lennon, An Irish Prisoner of Conscience of the Tudor Era: Archbishop Richard Creagh of Armagh, 1523–86 (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2000). 28 Edmund Hogan, Ibernia Ignatiana (Dublin: Societas Typographica Dubliniensis, 1884), 15. 29 Henry A. Jeffries, ‘”The Irish Parliament of 1560: the Anglican Reforms Authorised,” Irish Historical Studies 26 (1988): 128–41. For a revised view see idem, “Elizabeth’s Reformation in the Irish Pale,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 66 (2015): 524–42.

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and Santiago as Irish papal clergy circulated between Iberia, Rome, the Netherlands, and Ireland, cap in hand. These two foundational strands of the early modern Irish Catholic diaspora numbered initially in the tens and later in the hundreds, and were by no means a happy household. At one end of the spectrum was someone like Richard Creagh of Limerick, a Louvain alumnus and later papal appointee, in 1563, to the diocese of Armagh in the northern province of Ulster. When he returned to Ireland from the Netherlands to take up his appointment, he took back with him a depoliticised, accommodationist, and pastorally-centred idea of episcopacy. This caused him to fall between two stools, getting short shrift from both his Catholic flock and the Dublin Protestant administration. He ended his days in the Tower of London. At the other end of the migrant spectrum stood figures like Redmund Gallagher, the papal bishop of Killala in the western province of Connacht. He was ostensibly no less pious than Creagh but much more politically engaged, in his case on the side of the Gaelic nobility of the north. Following his arrival in Lisbon in the 1560s, he intrigued enthusiastically with the Portuguese and the Spanish for a military intervention in Ireland against the Elizabethan regime. The tensions between militant and accommodationist migrants sometimes took on an ethnic colouring. Creagh was one of the largely loyalist descendants of the twelfth-century Norman settlers in Ireland, called the “Old English.” They were well represented in the port towns and tended, despite their attachment to the old religion and their openness to its reformed versions, to favour some forms of accommodation with the Protestant regime in Dublin. Gallagher, for his part, was one of the socalled “Old Irish” of Gaelic origin, who, in the mid sixteenth century, were most firmly entrenched in the northern province of Ulster. They were generally less inclined to accept the government’s administrative yoke. This was not always for purely religious reasons. In the 1590s the Old Irish leadership presented themselves to potential Catholic supporters in Spain and Rome as officers of the Church militant.30

The Diaspora Takes Root Most migrants, students, and clergy—accommodationists and militants alike—initially saw their European sojourn as a temporary absence from home. However, the worsening political and military situation in Ireland,



30 Hiram Morgan, “Policy and Propaganda in Hugh O’Neill’s Connection with Europe,” in O’Connor and Lyons, The Ulster Earls and Baroque Europe, 18–52.

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marked by the 1601 defeat of the Old Irish Catholics and their Old English allies under Hugh O’Neill, earl of Tyrone, altered the nature and role of the diaspora. It now began to take on the character of a permanent presence abroad. Even before the 1604 Treaty of London,31 both strands of the Irish Catholic diaspora began to accept that migration was a permanent fact of life. Needless to say, the chimera of a Catholic restoration retained its motivating potential but only as a rhetorical device. As such it was used to justify the continued migrant presence abroad and to solicit support from pious continental donors. In general, however, a more politique realism held sway. It led most of the Irish diaspora to look hard-headedly to their long-term future on the continent. In particular, the religious diaspora, both student and episcopal, considered the practicalities of providing Catholic clergy and teachers for the domestic Catholic churches that incomplete anglicanisation had permitted to survive in Ireland. The result was that though students and papal clergy had little choice, given their religious sympathies, but to go abroad, many to permanent exile, a number returned home to serve on what had become the Irish mission. In time this established a durable link between expatriates and their originating communities, setting up a circular migrant flow out to the continent for training and back to the originating society for religious ministry.

The First Diasporic Institutions In view of the impossibility of providing a Catholic educational system in Ireland and the permanency of the Irish Protestant regime, the institutionalisation of the student and clerical diaspora tended to occur around projects to set up student hostels and, more ambitiously, to establish seminaries after the new Catholic reform model. The process took different forms according to local conditions. One of the best documented cases is that of the Irish student community in Lisbon. In the late sixteenth century, the Portuguese capital had the largest Irish clerical and merchant community in Iberia. Pastorally they were under the care of exiled Irish clergy, including Jesuits like the militant Robert Rochford (d. 1588) and the more politique John Howling. From the 1580s Howling had grown concerned about the welfare of younger Irish migrants, especially those with potential as Catholic missionaries. In order to cater for them,

 31

Albert J. Loomie, “Toleration and Diplomacy: The Religious Issue in Anglo– Spanish Relations, 1604–1605,” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 53/ 6 (1963): 1–60.

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Howling and a number of Portuguese patrons established a confraternity with the aim of providing permanent accommodation. By 1590 they had secured premises that lodged about a dozen students.32 A similar development took place in Salamanca. In this case efforts to establish a college centred on the household of Thomas Strong, exiled bishop of Ossory. In the 1580s he was acting as an auxiliary bishop in Santiago. His small retinue of clerical students was initially looked after by the Santiago Jesuits but later, under Strong’s protegé, Thomas White, they travelled to Valladolid to petition Philip II for support. In doing this they followed the example of their English co-vassals, who in 1589, under Robert Persons SJ, had acquired their own seminary. White eventually secured a royal grant and was permitted to set up house near the University of Salamanca from 1592, under Jesuit management.33 A little later, in Santiago, another collegial community coalesced around the Munster cleric, Eugene MacCarthy.34 He had come to Spain in the wake of the failed Spanish intervention in Kinsale in 1601. Originally the institution he headed was intended to cater for the education of the lay sons of the exiled Gaelic nobility, formerly allied with the defeated Spanish. After a row, fed by reports of student misconduct and bad management, the institution was placed under Jesuit control in 1611, assuming the discipline of a seminary proper. Meanwhile, in the Netherlands, Irish students attending local universities had been making do, living off scholarships and handouts. Some lodged in William Allen’s English college in Douai, which had been founded in 1569. Although exiled English, Irish, and Scots Catholics sometimes shared accommodation, they preferred to run their own collegial institutions. A secular priest called Thomas Cusack, from the diocese of Meath, opened a string of hostels for Irish students in the 1590s and 1600s, at Douai, Antwerp, and elsewhere.35 Similar institutions were opened in Lille and also in France, at Bordeaux, and Toulouse.36

 32

Patricia O Connell, The Irish College in Lisbon (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2001). 33 Monica Henchy, “The Irish College at Salamanca,” The Irish Quarterly Review 70/278–79 (1981): 220–27. 34 Patricia O Connell, The Irish College at Santiago de Compostela, 1605–1769 (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2007). 35 John Brady, “Father Christopher Cusack and the Irish College of Douai, 1594– 1624,” in Measgra Mhichíl Uí Chléirigh, ed. Sylvester O’Sullivan (Dublin: Assisi Press, 1943), 98–107. 36 John Silke, “The Irish Abroad, 1534–1691,” in A New History of Ireland, vol. 3, Early Modern Ireland, 1534–1691, ed. T. W. Moody et al. (Oxford: Clarendon

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It is clear from the numbers concerned that not all of the students accommodated by the colleges were intended for the priesthood. The college at Douai, for instance, which produced only a handful of priests in any given year, reportedly accommodated nearly one hundred students in 1599. Obviously, the Douai establishment was also catering for lay migrants. Indeed, according to a government spy, about sixty of the Douai student cohort in 1600 were sons of gentry families in the Dublin area.37 It appears that already in the early 1600s, at least some of the colleges were functioning as offshore extensions of complex social, economic, and religious networks in Ireland, circulating out-coming students either back to Ireland or onwards to careers of permanent or semi-permanent exile in Europe or the European empires. From the early 1600s the Spanish colleges had to cope with an influx of lay migrants, mostly defeated troops of the rebellious Ulster earls who sought refuge abroad.38 In the longer term, providing services to the larger diaspora became a crucial activity of these colleges, along with the preparation of Catholic clergy.

Funding These early colleges were tiny institutions, catering for no more than a dozen students and constantly plagued by financial difficulties. For money, the early rectors relied on handouts from the monarchy, the charity of local clergy, and the generosity of expatriate merchants and military in Spanish service, as well as collections taken up in Ireland. Private family resources also played a role.39 In parrying financial troubles, the Irish clerical diaspora developed an intriguing expertise in colonising troubled or defunct continental institutions. In Rome, Luke Wadding OFM acquired the failed Franciscan college of St Isidore for the Irish Franciscans. Later, in 1677, the Irish secured a permanent Paris foothold when a number of astute petitioners gained the defunct Lombard college and its endowments for their students. Early in the eighteenth century, Irish clergy in the city gradually took over

 Press, 1976), 587–633; Timothy J. Walsh, The Irish Continental College Movement: The Colleges at Bordeaux, Toulouse and Lille (Cork: Golden Eagle Books, 1973). 37 Calendar of Sate Papers Domestic, 1598–1601, 496–97. 38 Ciaran O’Scea, “The Devotional World of the Irish Catholic Exile in EarlyModern Galicia, 1598–1666,” in The Irish in Europe, 1580–1815, ed. Thomas O’Connor (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2001), 27–48. 39 On funding see Brian Mac Cuarta, “Irish Government Lists of Catholic Personnel, c. 1613,” Archivium Hibernicum (2015): 52–85, at 73.

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the German natio of the Sorbonne, an association of medieval origin intended to provide services to masters and students from Northern Europe.40 As guests of foreign powers and dependents of local ecclesiastical factions, the migrant Irish were careful about taking sides in the theological disputes that were a feature of Catholic universities at the time. Already in the sixteenth century, Irish students like Peter Lombard in Louvain had learned to align themselves strategically with competing university factions. This became an even more important feature of Irish student life in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Irish students were involved in theological broils in Salamanca in the 1660s, and later, in Paris, took part in the Jansenist controversies. There they played a key role in Cardinal Fleury’s successful attempts to flush out Jansenist clergy and staff from the Sorbonne and city parishes.41

Student Selection Like the larger Irish diaspora, its student component was frequently divided. This was in part due to competition for the limited number of seminary places available in the colleges. Selection criteria were usually based on geographical and social factors and there was a distinct ethnic undercurrent too, as different colleges catered for specific geographical, social and ethnic groups. The Irish Franciscans, for instance, particularly Old Irish friars of Gaelic culture and language, were miffed at alleged Irish Jesuit preference for Old English students of English language and mixed culture for their colleges in Lisbon and Salamanca. Under the leadership of Florence Conry, the Franciscans set about establishing their own collegial network, beginning with the college of Saint Anthony, established in Louvain in 1607. However, the Irish Franciscans also had a strong Old English membership. One of their number, the Waterford-born Luke Wadding, secured premises for the Irish Franciscans in Rome in 1625. He was also involved in the establishment of a Roman college for Irish seculars in 1627, though it later fell controversially under Jesuit management. A third Irish Franciscan college was set up in Prague in 1629, under the auspices of the local archbishop, part of the re-

 40

Priscilla O’Connor, “Irish Clerics in the University of Paris 1570–1770,” Ph.D. dissertation, National University of Ireland, Maynooth, 2006. 41 Thomas O’Connor, Irish Jansenists, 1600–1670: Religion and Politics in Flanders, France, Ireland and Rome (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2008), chap. 2.

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catholicization of the region after the early stages of the Thirty Years War.42 For its part, the papacy, although strong on the rhetoric of clerical education, usually lacked the means to do much about it. Pius IV had proposed a Catholic schools, seminary, and university network for Ireland in 1564,43 but it was not until the setting up of Propaganda Fide in 1622 that a dedicated papal agency directly funded an Irish seminary foundation. In 1622, the archbishop of Dublin, Eugene Matthews [McMahon], secured Propaganda Fide aid to set up a college for secular clergy in Louvain, joining the already established Franciscans there. An Irish Dominican college followed in 1624. By the end of the 1620s, the network of Irish colleges was densest in Spain and the Spanish Netherlands. However, from the middle of the seventeenth century, as Spain’s military star set following their defeat at Rocroi in 1643, the Irish student population gravitated, like their military contemporaries, 44 to France, where colleges had been established in Paris, 45 Toulouse, 46 and Bordeaux, and later in Nantes, Poitiers, and elsewhere. From the end of the seventeenth century, it was France, rather than Spain or the Netherlands, which took the lead in hosting the Irish clerics, supplying seminary clergy to the Irish mission.

Subornment of Irish Clergy The Irish Catholic diaspora and its collegial network remained closely linked to their originating communities in Ireland. This was due in large part to the success of the abroad colleges in educating a small but influential proportion of the clergy and in returning them to pastoral



42 Jan PaĜez and Hedvika KuchaĜova, The Irish Franciscans in Prague, 1629–1786 (Prague: Karolenum Press, 2015). 43 See papal bull dated 31 May 1564, cited in Spicilegium Ossoriense, ed. P. F. Moran, 3 vols. (Dublin: Browne and Nolan, 1874), 1: 32–38; Edmund Hogan, ed., Ibernia Ignatiana (Dublin: Societas Typographica Dubliniensis, 1880), 14–15. 44 See Eduardo de Mesa, The Irish in the Spanish Armies in the Seventeenth Century (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2014), 216. 45 Laurence W. B. Brockliss and Patrick Ferté, “Irish Clerics in France in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries: A Statistical Study,” Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 87C (1987), 527–72; “Prosopography of Irish Clerics in the Universities of Paris and Toulouse, 1573–1792,” Archivium Hibernicum 58 (2004): 7–166. 46 Patrick Ferté, “List of Superiors of the Irish College Toulouse, 1619–1793,” Archivium Hibernicum 63 (2010): 285–98.

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service in Ireland.47 Only a percentage of the total Irish clergy, however, benefited from a continental sojourn, perhaps as few as thirty per cent of the total active clergy. Poorer students continued to be ordained at home and most of these received no seminary formation, either at home or abroad. The minority who did were ordained prior to their continental sojourn and, while abroad, eked out an existence from Mass stipends and income from the administration of the sacraments (stole fees). Given the precarious state of the domestic Irish church and the financial challenges for students living abroad, it is hardly surprising that there was considerable leakage out of the colleges to religious ministries abroad. Perhaps as many as half the starting student population attending the colleges never returned home and it is likely that they were never intended to do so.48 Some of them were absorbed into the local churches and the Spanish mission. Others trickled away, opting for careers in the Spanish, French, and Austrian churches, armies, in trade or the professions, or simply disappearing into the host society. In the case of the religious orders, the colleges acted as recruiting grounds for their international operations and many of the most talented clerical products of the Irish colleges never served at home. Surprisingly, this high level of clerical alienation from the native mission was not a major concern at the time, occasional episcopal misgivings notwithstanding On the contrary, it appears that the colleges were actually intended to distribute Irish talent abroad and there are striking examples of Irish collegians forsaking Ireland for the Spanish provinces of the great religious orders like the Jesuits, Franciscans, and Dominicans. Once in the order they were naturalised and free to circulate within the province like native Spaniards. The Waterford born Michael Wadding, following his entry into the Irish college in Salamanca, was recruited by the Jesuits and posted to Mexico where from 1619 he served in Native American missions in Sonora and Sinaloa, on the modern Mexico-Arizona border. He later returned to teaching and administrative work in Puebla and Mexico. While working as assessor for the inquisition he also took up the spiritual direction of two remarkable Mexican mystics,



47 For recent work see Áine Hensey, “A Database of Catholics Reported to be in South-Eastern Ireland, 1557–1650,” Archivium Hibernicum (2015): 1–51; Mac Cuarta, “Irish Government Lists of Catholic Personnel,” 52–85. 48 Laurence W. B. Brockliss, “The Irish Colleges on the Continent,” in O’Connor and Lyons, The Ulster Earls and Baroque Europe, 142–65, at 162–63.

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María de Jesús Tomellín and Isabel de la Encarnación Bonilla. 49 One suspects that it was in part at least Wadding’s foreign origins and adaptive talents that enabled him to avoid trouble with the local Inquisition, an institution famously impatient of the sort of mystical religion espoused by the nuns. Wadding was only one member of his clan to take the collegial route out of Ireland into international ecclesiastical activity.50 His brother, Peter, became Jesuit chancellor of the University of Prague.51 Another brother, Ambrose (d. 1619), also joined the Jesuits and taught theology and Hebrew in the Bavarian town of Dillingen. A third (half-) brother, Luke, joined the Jesuits at Villagarcía in 1610 and taught in the Colegio Imperial in Madrid. A first cousin, Paul Sherlock, was assessor for the Inquisition in Valladolid. 52 The already mentioned Luke Wadding OFM in Rome, another first cousin, became official historian of the Franciscans and assessor for the Roman Inquisition. Richard Wadding OSA, yet another cousin, lectured in the University of Coimbra and worked for the local Inquisition.53 This was a significant brain drain but not one that the lay members of the Wadding family necessarily lamented. These young men were far too talented for the limited opportunities offered by the marginalised Catholic Church in seventeenth-century Ireland. For their relatives, as for so many other Irish Catholic families, the colleges conveyed family members into the sort of careers that religious and political changes at home had closed off to them. Accordingly it was in foreign destinations that Irish clerics attached to the colleges and chaplaincies managed to access otherwise closed foreign institutions, like the Inquisition. From the 1560s at least, Irish clergy acted as inquisition interpreters in Seville and elsewhere, reconciling English speaking Protestants. This continued throughout the

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Asunción Lavrin and Rosalva Loreto López, eds., La escritura femenina en la espiritualidad barroca novohispana. Siglos xvii y xviii (Puebla: Universidad de las Americas, 2002). 50 See Thomas Worcester, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Jesuits (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008); Joseph A. Gagliano et al., eds., Jesuit Encounters in the New World: Jesuit Chroniclers, Geographers, Educators and Missionaries in the Americas, 1549–1767 (Rome: Institutum Historicum Societatis Iesu, 1997). 51 Paul O’Dea, SJ, “Father Peter Wadding SJ: Chancellor of the University of Prague, 1629–1641,” Studies 30/119 (1941): 337–48. 52 Deposition of William Casey, Madrid, 1 Feb. 1644 (Archivo Histórico Nacional Madrid [AHN], Inquisition [INQ], 1319, [2]). 53 Deposition of John Convey Beare, Madrid, 6 Mar. 1644 (AHN INQ, 1319 [2]).

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ancien régime. 54 Diasporic clerics also acted as character witnesses in inquisitorial processes, as commissioners, theological experts and, more rarely, as book censors.55 College governance reflected the international dimension of the Irish colleges mission. Although incoming students to the colleges were required to take an oath to return to the mission, they also vowed obedience to the college rector. It was often he, rather than the student’s bishop, who had the decisive role in deciding on the cleric’s future. In Spain, most of the colleges were under Jesuit rather than secular or episcopal government. Accordingly, they tended to operate somewhat independently of the dispersed Irish hierarchy and of native diocesan structures. This absence of episcopal oversight was taken for granted by the Holy See. A 1626 papal bull allowed the ordination of Irish clerics on the word of a superior of an Irish college, without the usual letters dimissorial from the candidate’s bishop. If Trent was the council that consecrated the pastoral and governmental role of the bishop in the Catholic renewal, that role was only indirectly reflected in either the governance or the clerical output of the Irish continental college network.

Serving the Wider Diaspora As already mentioned, the abroad colleges, as well as producing educated clergy for the home mission and highflyers for the international church, also existed to assist non-clerical Irish migrants in their transition from Irish subjects of the English monarch to citizens of the world. As the colleges fed students back to Ireland as priests, they also processed young men outwards to lives abroad, the vast majority of these permanently. On one level, college staff and students served to keep the diaspora together in their capacity as military chaplains to Irish units in Spanish and French service and also as hospital chaplains. 56 They also arranged

 54

In 1743 John Lacy, a former student of the college in Bordeaux, assisted with the conversion of the Icelander, Isaac Moses Thomas Johnson, whose return to Rome had been allegedly sparked by a divine visitation while onshore in Belfast (AHN INQ Lib. 1156, fols. 92r–100v). 55 Thomas O’Connor, “Entre castigo y asimilación: los irlandeses y la Inquisición española (1580–1750),” in Las corporaciones de la nación en la monarquía hispánica (1580–1750), ed. Bernardo J. García García and Oscar Recio Morales (Madrid: Fundación Carlos de Amberes, 2014), 279–96. 56 Benjamin Hazard, “A New Company of Crusader like that of St John Capistran: Interaction between Irish Military Units and Franciscan Chaplains, 1579–1654,” Extranjeros en el ejército: militares irlandeses en la sociedad española, 1580–

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accommodation for lay migrants, providing then with a broad range of services. The colleges acted as centres of sociability, helping migrants maintain contact, and allowed them to define and celebrate their identity, notably by hosting national feasts, like St Patrick’s Day. Certain colleges, like Louvain, Rome and Prague in the seventeenth and Paris in the eighteenth century, went further, fulfilling important cultural functions too.57 These activities included antiquarianism, history, and lexicography. More prosaically, the colleges provided the paperwork that migrants needed to access continental careers. They wrote up testimonials for their expatriate countrymen and gave advice and support to incoming migrants of all backgrounds, and not just Catholics. In 1708 the celebrated deist, John Toland, called on the Irish Franciscans in Prague to obtain letters of recommendation. This sort of college service was delivered across the diaspora, including Spain, where Irish immigrants, most numerous in the eighteenth century, sought status as hidalgo, or admission to the military orders, to the Inquisition’s familiatura or to full blown nationality, in order to trade with the Americas, for instance. Because the Spanish authorities required complete genealogies to ensure limpieza de sangre, even from the Catholic Irish, the colleges and their expatriate clergy frequently assisted applicants in preparing the necessary documentation, translating from Latin and English into Spanish.58 Across the Pyrenees, the French colleges provided similar services. College staff prepared actes de notoriété or certificates of identity to visiting Irish in need of them for transactions with French state institutions. They also acted with power of attorney for absent compatriots. A significant iteration of this activity was the establishment of the rights of heirs to the property of intestates, a common feature of diasporic communities everywhere. In Paris, putative heirs, often military men, absent on campaign, relied on clergy to act on their behalf. Paris college staff also played sophisticated financial roles on behalf of Jacobite compatriots, holding monies in trust, drawing up wills and providing

 1818, ed. Enrique García Hernán and Oscar Recio Morales (Madrid: Ministeria de Defensa, 2007), 181–97. 57 Raymond Gillespie and Ruairí Ó hUiginn. eds., Irish Europe, 1600–1650: Writing and Learning (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2013); Proinsias Mac Cana, Collège des Irlandais Paris and Irish Studies (Dublin: Institute for Advanced Studies, School of Celtic Studies, 2001); Maurice Caillet, “La bibliothèque du Collège des Irlandais et son fonds des livres anciens,” in Mélanges de la bibliothèque de la Sorbonne 2 (1991): 151–63. 58 Samuel Fannin, “Documents of Irish Interest in the Archivo de la diputación Foral de Bizkaia,” Archivium Hibernicum 64 (2011): 170–93.

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investment advice.59 Indeed, financial servicing was a crucial instance of crossover between different strands of the diaspora. The removal of James II from the thrones of England, Ireland, and Scotland in 1688 sparked both a human exodus and also a flight of capital towards the continent. International bankers, like the Irish man Daniel Arthur in Paris and Edward Crean in Madrid helped manage this transfer, thus keeping the Jacobite diaspora more or less financially afloat. The college clergy contributed to this effort too, providing lower level financial services to absent Jacobites, many of whom were away on military campaigns for Louis XIV. On their behalf, college clerics managed rentes drawn on sums invested with the Paris Hôtel de Ville and also investments in government stocks such as the aides et gabelle. For the Irish bishops, they arranged to receive on their behalf monies voted for their support by the Assemblée du clergé.

Reorientation of Diaspora Throughout the eighteenth century in particular, the clerical diaspora in the Irish college network had a steadying influence on Catholic life in Ireland, supplying a generally obedient clergy to a largely quiescent Catholic people. It also helped circulate frustrated Catholics out of the country to careers closed to them at home on account of religion. The second half of the eighteenth century, however, saw the gradual erosion of the conditions that had sustained the Irish Catholic diaspora. Dynastically, the Irish were released in mid-century from their fatal attraction to the Stuarts by papal refusal to recognise the Stuart succession. Thereafter they were free to give their loyalty to the Protestant Hanoverians. At home, social pressures, especially rapid population growth, economic prosperity and heightening Catholic expectations began to disturb the relative stability of the Irish Protestant state. Moreover, the suppression of the Society of Jesus proved a disaster for Jesuit-run Irish colleges, especially in Portugal (1759) and Spain (1767). Government consolidation in Austria led to the suppression of the Irish Franciscan college in Prague (1786). From the late 1780s, unrest in France eventually caused the closure of colleges in France, the Austrian Netherlands, and the Italian Peninsula.

 59

Priscilla O’Connor, “Irish Clerics and Jacobites in Early Eighteenth-Century Paris (1700–30),” in O’Connor, The Irish in Europe, 1580–1815, 175–90. On sources, see Liam Swords, “Calendar of Irish Material in the Files of Jean Fromont, Notary at Paris, 1701–1730 in the Archives Nationales, Paris: Part 1, 1701–1715,” Collectanea Hibernica 34–5 (1992–3): 77–115, with part two, in Collectanea Hibernica 36–7 (1994–5): 85–139.

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Within other strands of the Irish diaspora, this was also a time of great flux. For fighting men, the appeal of the continental armies had been declining since before mid-century. Alternative employment opportunities opened up in the Americas and also in the East India Company, the British navy and, with the repeal of some of the anti-Catholic penal laws in the 1790s, in the British army. 60 Even the merchants, who traditionally transported the diaspora abroad, found themselves in an expanding commercial environment where the American market competed with traditional commercial networks in Europe. The trading Irish followed the money and, while by no means abandoning their traditional bases in Spanish and French ports, opened up new operations across the Atlantic. For the clerical diaspora, the late eighteenth-century college closures were of special significance. The ensuing difficulty of supplying clergy to the growing Catholic population in Ireland placed the Irish bishops, who by then were tolerated and active in the country, in a difficult situation. Some, benefitting from the repeal of anti-Catholic legislation by the Irish Parliament in the 1780s, had already set up domestic diocesan seminaries. They were unable, however, to cope with the immediate crisis provoked by the close of the French and Dutch colleges. At about the same time, the growing risk of political unrest in Ireland rather unexpectedly prompted the Protestant government to approach the Catholic hierarchy with a proposal to cooperate in setting up a royal Catholic seminary in Ireland.61 With the opening of Maynooth College, near Dublin, in 1795, the priestproducing capacity of the continental colleges was transferred back home. After the Napoleonic wars, the partially restored Irish colleges network in Europe failed to recover fully this crucial dimension of its historical raison d’être.

Conclusions The early modern Irish Catholic diaspora was a movement of people occurring in historical time. It was a rather untidy human affair, associated with the classic early modern troika of state-building, religious change, and economic dislocation. Largely Catholic in composition, only particular strands, two of which have been examined here, can reasonably be described as Catholic in both composition and motivation.

 60

For a general overview, Thomas Bartlett and Keith Jeffery, A Military History of Ireland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 61 Patrick J. Corish, Maynooth College, 1795–1995 (Dublin: Gill & Macmillan, 1995), chap. 1.

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The diaspora in general has a strong historiographical pedigree and traditionally features prominently in the Irish popular imagination. As noted in the first part of this essay, from the nineteenth century in particular its historical reality was refracted, on the Catholic side, through nationalist lenses of various thicknesses to produce a rhetorical diaspora that until quite recently held sway even in the academy. Only in the past half-century or so has historical research begun to excavate the original diaspora in all its variety and to restore it to its original ambiguity. Comparing the rhetorical diaspora to the historical phenomenon and comparing both to other historical and rhetorical religious diasporas is a stimulating, demanding and chastening exercise and one of the valuable opportunities the conference that inspired this collection of essays has provided.62

 62

For more broad-ranging recent work see Tadhg Ó hAnnracháin, Catholic Europe, 1592–1648: Centre and Peripheries (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015).

CONTRIBUTORS

GABRIEL AUDISIO, agrégé de l’Université (1969), doctor in History (1984), is emeritus professor of early modern history at the Aix-Marseille University. He specialised in religious and cultural history. He has published in French, English, German and Italian, including The Waldensian Dissent c. 1170–c. 1570 (1999) and Preachers by Night. The Waldensian Barbes (15th–16th Centuries) (2007). Currently, he is a Member of the laboratory TELEMME (MMSH, Aix-en-Provence), member and archivist of the Académie de Nîmes, and author in the Revue Française de Généalogie. EMESE BÁLINT recently finished her Marie Curie Research Fellowship at the European University Institute in Florence (2012–2016), dealing with the circulation of Anabaptist craftsmen in early modern Europe. Her recent publications focus on the migration mechanisms and the survival strategies of the Anabaptists in exile. Addressing the technological aspect of the research, Balint published in History of Technology, and is preparing a book manuscript for Amsterdam University Press. JOHN COFFEY is professor of early modern history at the University of Leicester. He has published extensively on seventeenth-century Protestantism, and is the co-editor (with Paul Lim) of The Cambridge Companion to Puritanism (2008). He is the author of a number of monographs, including Persecution and Toleration in Protestant England, 1558–1689 (2000) and Exodus and Liberation: Deliverance Politics from John Calvin to Martin Luther King Jr (2014). He is part of a team preparing a major critical edition of Richard Baxter’s memoir, Reliquiae Baxteriane (forthcoming). NICCOLÒ FATTORI is completing his PhD in the history department at Royal Holloway University of London. His research works focuses on the post-Byzantine Greek diaspora in Italy between the fifteenth and the seventeenth centuries, and in general the history of Balkan migrations to Western Europe between the Middle Ages and the early modern period, with a particular focus on the case of Adriatic Central Italy and the city of Ancona. He is especially concerned with the interaction between the immigrant groups and the host societies, with the related economic, social and religious implications. He has published several articles on the subject,

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including a contribution to the forthcoming volume Receptions of Hellenism in Early Modern Europe – Transmission, Representation, Exchange, edited by Natasha Constantinidou and Han Lamers. TIMOTHY FEHLER is professor of history at Furman University in South Carolina, where he teaches early modern European history and also serves as Director of the university’s Office of Undergraduate Research and Internships. His research interests and publications have centred primarily on questions of poor relief, religious refugees, and toleration and coexistence among various religious communities, particularly in north western Germany and the Netherlands in the sixteenth century. He is the author of Poor Relief and Protestantism: the Evolution of Poor Relief in Early Modern Emden (1999), and co-edited the book Religious Diaspora in Early Modern Europe: Strategies of Exile (2014). WILLEM FRIJHOFF studied philosophy and theology in the Netherlands, and history and social sciences in Paris where he worked for ten years at the EHESS. He completed his PhD (social sciences) in 1981 at Tilburg University, and was awarded an honorary doctorate from the University of Mons-Hainaut in 1998. In 1983–1997 he held the chair of the history of mentalities of pre-industrial societies at Erasmus University Rotterdam, and in 1997–2007 of early modern history at the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam. After his retirement he served as visiting professor at Antwerp University and Radboud University Nijmegen. At present he holds the G.Ph. Verhagen Chair in Humanities (Cultural History) at Erasmus University. He chaired the research program “Cultural Dynamics” (NOW, 2003–2014), and is the 2011 recipient of the Descartes-Huygens Award for Franco-Dutch Scientific Cooperation. His research revolves around problems of education, universities, religion, memory, identity and language in early modern history. His books in English include Embodied Belief (2012), Fulfilling God’s Mission: The Two Worlds of Dominie Everardus Bogardus, 1607–1647 (2007) and 1650: Hard-Won Unity (with Marieke Spies, 2004). At present he is preparing a monograph on the international network around the Dutch and French Catholic merchant family Eelkens/Elquens in the early 1600s, provisionally entitled A Different Golden Age. YOSEF KAPLAN is Bernard Cherrick Emeritus Professor of Jewish History at the Hebrew University. He has written many studies on Iberian Jewry in the late Middle Ages, the Iberian conversos, the Sephardic Diaspora, and the early Enlightenment in Jewish society. His books include From

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Christianity to Judaism. The Story of Isaac Orobio de Castro (Oxford 1989); Les Nouveaux-Juifs d'Amsterdam (Paris 1999); An Alternarive Path to Modernity. The Sephardi Diaspora in Western Europe (Leiden, Boston and Köln 2000). His most recent publications include The Dutch Intersection. The Jews and the Netherlands in Modern History (2008), and The Religious Cultures of Dutch Jewry (edited with Dan Michman; 2017). CHRISTOPHER MARTINUZZI is a post-doctoral researcher in the history department at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. After receiving his BA and MA at the University of Florence, Italy, Martinuzzi defended his PhD dissertation, entitled Thomas Müntzer and the Reformation in Allstedt. Political Conflict and Religious Controversy in Saxony in the Dawning Years of the Reformation, at the Scuola Normale Superiore (Pisa) in January 2016. His current research interests are the relation between violence and religion, the history of the Reformation, the Radical Reformation and Sacred Music in Reformation Europe. MARTIN MULSOW is professor of intellectual history at the University of Erfurt and director of the Gotha Research Center. He studied philosophy in Tübingen, Berlin, and Munich; in 2005–2008 he was professor of history at Rutgers University, New Jersey. He is a member of several German academies and was a member of the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton (2002/3), the Wissenschaftskolleg in Berlin (2012/13) and the NIAS in Amsterdam (2017). His work on Renaissance philosophy, the history of early modern scholarship and the radical enlightenment received many prizes, among them the Berlin-Brandenburg Academy of Sciences (2012) and the Anna-Krüger-Prize (2014). Among his publications are Moderne aus dem Untergrund. Radikale Frühaufklärung in Deutschland, 1680–1720 (2002; English translation: Enlightenment Underground, 2015); Die unanständige Gelehrtenrepublik. Wissen, Libertinage und Komunikation in der Frühen Neuzeit (2007; English translation forthcoming); Prekäres Wissen. Eine andere Ideengeschichte der Frühen Neuzeit (2012). SARA T. NALLE is professor emerita at William Paterson University of New Jersey (USA). She specializes in the social, religious, and cultural history of early modern Spain. She is the author of two books, God in La Mancha: Religious Reform and the People of Cuenca, 1500–1650 (1992) and Mad for God: Bartolomé Sánchez, the Secret Messiah of Cardenete (2001), and many articles, most recently, “Literacy among Judeoconversa Women in Iberia and in Amsterdam, 1560–1700,” in Early Modern

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Women: An Interdisciplinary Journal 11/1 (2016): 69–89, and “A Minority within a Minority: The New and Old Jewish Converts of Sigüenza, 1492– 1570,” in The Early Modern Hispanic World: Transnational and Interdisciplinary Approaches, ed. Kimberly Lynn and Erin Kathleen Rowe (2016, 89–118). JAMES NELSON NOVOA is currently assistant professor of Spanish and Medieval and Renaissance studies at the University of Ottawa. From October 2014 to December 2015 he was a visiting scholar under Prof. Kaplan’s ERC project and he previously held postdoctoral fellowships in Portugal after obtaining his PhD in Spanish literature from the University of Valencia in Spain. The author of two books, several articles and book chapters, his research has dealt with cultural ties between the Italian and Iberian peninsulas in the Late Middle Ages and early modern period, Iberian conversos and Sephardic Jews as cultural intermediaries and questions of cultural and religious identity among Portuguese conversos in early modern Italy. THOMAS O’CONNOR holds his doctorate from the Sorbonne in Paris and is professor of European history at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. He has authored several works on the Irish abroad, including a study of Irish Jansenists. His latest book (2016) examines the role of British migrants in the Spanish Inquisition. Currently co-editing two collections on British, Dutch, and German Catholic colleges abroad, he is editor of the historical sources journal Archivium Hibernicum and directs Maynooth’s Irish in Europe Project. LUCIA RASPE teaches in the Jewish Studies department of Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität Frankfurt am Main, where she completed her PhD in 2003 and her Habilitation in 2011; she currently also serves as exhibition curator at the Jewish Museum Berlin. She has held fellowships at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, at the Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies of the University of Pennsylvania and at the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies of the University of Oxford. Her publications include Jüdische Hagiographie im mittelalterlichen Aschkenas (2006), as well as numerous articles on narrative, memory, and identity in premodern Ashkenazic culture. Her present research focuses on the impact the expulsions of the fifteenth century, the migration to new centres of settlement and the advent of printing had on the geography of Ashkenazic liturgy in the early modern period.

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NICHOLAS TERPSTRA is professor of history at the University of Toronto. His research has been at the intersection of politics, religion, gender, and charity, and recently has included a broader investigation into early modern religious refugees. His publications include Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World (2015), Cultures of Charity: Women, Politics, and the Reform of Poor Relief in Renaissance Italy (2013) which won the Marraro Prize of the American Historical Association and the Goodhart Gordan Prize of the Renaissance Society of America, Lost Girls: Sex and Death in Renaissance Florence (2010), Abandoned Children of the Italian Renaissance: Orphan Care in Florence and Bologna (2005), and Lay Confraternities and Civic Religion in Renaissance Bologna (1995), which was awarded the Marraro Prize of the Society for Italian Historical Studies. BERTRAND VAN RUYMBEKE is professor of American history and civilization at the Université de Paris VIII and senior member of the Institut Universitaire de France. He is the author of L’Amérique avant les États-Unis. Une histoire de l’Amérique anglaise 1497–1776 (2013, revised paperback edition 2016) and From New Babylon to Eden. The Huguenots and their Migration to Colonial South Carolina (2006); and co-editor of A Companion to the Huguenots (2016), The Atlantic World of Anthony Benezet (1713–1784). From French Reformation to North American Quaker Antislavery Activism (2016), Histoire des Souffrances du sieur Elie Neau, sur les galères, et dans les cachots de Marseille (2014), Protestantisme et Révolutions (2012), Les Huguenots et l’Atlantique (2 vols., 2008–12), Naissance de l’Amérique du Nord. Les actes fondateurs, 1607–1776 (2008), Constructing Early Modern Empires. Proprietary Ventures in the Atlantic World, 1550–1700 (2007), Protestantisme et Autorité (2005), and Memory and Identity. The Huguenots in France and the Atlantic Diaspora (2003). STEFANO VILLANI is associate professor in early modern European history at the University of Maryland, College Park (associate professor at the University of Pisa until 2010). He has worked on the Quaker missions in the Mediterranean and published numerous articles and books in this area: Tremolanti e papisti (1996); Il calzolaio quacchero e il finto cadì (2001); A True Account of the Great Tryals and Cruel Sufferings Undergone by Those Two Faithful Servants of God, Katherine Evans and Sarah Cheevers (2003). More recently he has worked on the religious history of the English community in Livorno and on the Italian translations of the Book of Common Prayer and has published an intellectual biography of

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one of the nineteenth-century translators: George Frederick Nott (17681841). Un ecclesiastico anglicano tra teologia, letteratura, arte, archeologia, bibliofilia e collezionismo (2012). He has co-edited with Alison Yarrington and Julia Kelly the Proceedings of the conference “In Medias Res”: British-Italian Cultural Transactions – British Academy Colloquium 3: Travels and Translations (2013). GERARD WIEGERS is professor of religious studies at the Faculty of Humanities at the University of Amsterdam. He has published widely on the relations between Islam and other religions in Europe and the Muslim West, the history of Islamic and Jewish minorities in Europe, and on issues of method and theory in the study of religion. He is Project Leader of the NWO funded project Delicate Relations: Muslims and Jews in Amsterdam and London. With P.S. van Koningsveld he is preparing a critical edition of the Granadan Sacromonte Lead Books. His most recent books are A‫ۊ‬mad Ibn Qâsim Al-‫ۉ‬ajarî: Kitâb Nâ‫܈‬ir al-Dîn ‘alâ ‘l-Qawm al-Kâfirîn (The supporter of religion against the infidel), edited with P.S. van Koningsveld and Q. al-Samarrai (2015), and The Expulsion of the Moriscos of Spain. A Mediterranean Diaspora, edited with M. GarcíaArenal (2014).

INDEX OF NAMES AND PLACES

Abbot of Berlanga, 161 Abdelkerim Ben Aly Perez, 183 Adrianople, 281 Adriatic Sea, 46–48, 58 Africa, 2, 246. see also North Africa Agalli, Stefano, 64 Agh, Stephen, 107n42 Aguila, Catalina del, 153, 164 Aguila, family del, 153, 174 Aguila, Francisco del, 152–154 Aguila, Ynés del, 164 Aguila, Ysabel del, 164 Aguilar, Moses Raphael d’, 113 Aguilera (inquisitor), 161 Ahmed I, Ottoman sultan, 180 Ainsworth, Henry, 299, 311 Alamanno, Nicola, 85 Alba, Ferdinand Alvarez de Toledo, Duke of, IX, 131, 328 Albania, 47 Albergati, Niccolò, 8 Alberti, Giovanni, 67 Alcalá, 347, 348 Alcalá, Pedro de, 168 Alcalá de los Gazules, 158 Alexander VI, Pope, 249 Alexander VII, Pope, 281 Algiers, 178, 184, 185n25 Alicastro, Alesandro Demetrii, 93 Alkmaar, 279 Allen, William, 351 Allstedt, 220, 224, 228, 229, 238 Almani, Guglielmo, 91 Almazán, 148–149, 150, 154, 163–164 Almería, 151, 157–158 Alonso (doctor), 160 Alsace, 208, 220 Altdorf, 99 Álvarez, Leonor, 167

Álvarez, María, 167 Álvarez, Ysabel, 167 America (colonial)/United States of America, 1, 109, 279, 283, 286– 288, 289, 297–304, 306, 307, 312, 332, 334–337, 338, 339–340, 343 Americas, 246, 358, 360. see also Central America; South America Ames, William, 284n20, 299, 310 Amira, Giorgio, 86 Amsterdam, VIII, X, XIII, 17, 100n20, 103, 105–108, 110, 112–114, 119, 123–124, 126, 127–128, 134, 189, 194, 195, 196–200, 201, 202–205, 272, 279, 286, 296, 297, 299, 310, 322, 326 Ancona, 33, 44, 45–49, 50, 51, 52–53, 56–64, 66–67, 68–93, 189, 248, 250, 251 Andalucía, 150, 151, 152, 157, 173 Andrewes, Lancelot, 292 Andronicus II, Byzantine emperor, 48 Androvino, Giovanni, 90 Angelo (Jewish tailor), 243, 259 Anna of Oldenburg, Regent of East Frisia, 326 António, Diogo, 261–263 Antonio Georgii, 83 Antonio Martini, 84 Antonio Michaelis, 82 Antwerp, IX, 133, 137, 290, 296, 322, 325, 351 Apostoli, Nicola Georgii, 74 Apulia, 208 Aragon, VII,VIII, 146–147, 172, 176, 184 Architetto, Alessandro Ioannis, 87 Arendt, Hannah, 225 Arfani, Giovanni Michaelis, 77

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Argentina, 196 Argiroffo, Cosma, 75 Argiroffo, Giorgio, 76 Argiroffo, Girolamo, 78–79 Argirofo, Vinzeno Laurentii, 82 Argirokastron, 58 Argiropapuzo, Domenico, 91 Ariza, Antón de, 172 Armagh, 349 Arnauld family, 127 Arnhem, 299, 305 Arronches, 152, 157 Arthur, Daniel, 359 Arzila (now Asilah), 157, 159–160, 161 Asia, 23, 246. see also South Asia Astorga, 159 Atienza, 148, 151, 152–154, 155–157, 161, 164–167 Atienza, Ana de, 165 Atienza, Francisco de, 164 Atienza, Hernando de, 165 Audisio, Gabriel, 208–217, 362 Augsburg, 19, 185, 232, 236, 237 Auria, Benedetto d,' 57n48 Auspitz, 240–241 Austerlitz, 239–240 Austria, 220, 240, 359 Ávila, Antonio de, 154–156, 165 Avloniti, Andrea, 93 Avloniti, Nicola Michaelis, 89 Avraham ben Moshe, 39 Badajoz, 151, 152, 154, 155, 158 Baer, Yitzhak, XI-XIII, 145n2, 149 Bainton, Roland, 219n1 Baird, Charles W., 337–338 Baird, Robert, 337 Baius, Michael, 348 Balani, Giorgio Iohannis, 77 Balck, Isebrand, 317, 322–324, 330 Bale, John, 290, 293, 310, 311 Balguerie family, 124 Bálint, Emese, 218–241, 362 Balkans, 2, 47, 176 Bancroft, George, 334, 338–339n26

369

Bancroft, Richard, 296, 299 Barbados, 279–280 Barberini, Francesco, 282, 284 Barkstead, John, 307 Barros, Cristovão de, 242 Basel, IX, 18, 108, 220, 232–233, 289, 290, 291, 293, 295 Basilio Alexii, 69 Basilisco, Luca, 87 Bastwick, John, 303 Baturi, Costantino, 69 Bavaria, 208 Baxter, Richard, 308 Bayle, Pierre, X, 104, 122, 141, 309 Bayonne, VIII, 189, 193 Bayreuth, 115 Beckley, Beatrice, 281 Beinart, Haim, 144–146, 147, 148n12, 148n14 Belfast, 357n54 Belgium, 336. see also Netherlands; Southern Netherlands Beltrán, Francisco, 163 Benedtto (triccolus), 93 Bercovitch, Sacvan, 300 Bergen op Zoom, 133 Berlanga, 148, 151, 157, 158, 167–168 Berlanga, Juan de, 161, 167 Berlanga, Ysabel de, 167 Berlin, XII, 101n20, 109, 112 Bernard de Luxembourg, 210 Bernardino of Siena, 10, 11 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo, 260 Beuthen, 110 Beza, Theodore, 295, 296 Biagio Pauli, 75 Bibra, 236 Bichon van IJsselmonde family, 124 Bidache, 193 Biddle, John, 112, 306 Bilbao, 346 Bilney, Thomas, 290 Black Sea, 48, 53 Blanca, Elvira la, 164 Blanca, Mari la, 164 Blaurock, Georg, 233

370

Index of Names and Places

Blaxinii, Giovanni, 77 Bohemia, IX, 208, 216, 220 Bois-le-Duc, 133 Bologna, 7–8, 10–11, 14–15, 17–18, 19, 258 Bonfil, Robert, 201 Bordeaux, VIII, 189, 193, 196, 197, 351, 354 Boreel, Adam, 128–129 Boskowitz, Johanka von, 240 Boston (MA), 280, 304 Brabant, 133, 134, 323 Bracht, Thieleman van, 21 Braços, Andrea de, 259 Bradford, William, 298 Bragança, 152 Brandenburg, 95, 98–99, 105, 141, 208, 211–212, 332 Brazil, VIII, 242, 258, 271, 302 Breckling, Friedrich, 113 Breda, 133 Bredero, Gerbrand Adriaenszoon, 123 Brescello, 32 Bretio, Marco Antonio, 74 Bridge, William, 299, 304 Browne, Robert, 129, 296 Brussels, 137, 290 Bucer, Martin, 213, 291, 295 Buena, Helena, 165 Bullinger, Heinrich, 295 Buratto, Nicola Damiani, 72 Burges, Cornelius, 303 Burgo de Osma, 151n22 Burnet, Gilbert, 309, 310 Burrough, Edward, 279 Burroughs, Jeremiah, 299, 304 Burton, Henry, 303 Caballero, Ynés, 166 Abd al-cAzƯz al-QurashƯ, 180 c Abd al-RafƯc, Muতammad b., 179–180 Cabrières d’Avignon, 213 Cáceres, 160 Cairo, 185 Calabria, 208 Calauda, Michele, 79 c

Calaughiro, Matteo, 74 Calegros, Clemente, 91 Calvin, John, 2, 3, 23, 213, 292, 295, 310 Cambridge, 104, 295 Camilli, Angelo, 88 Canada, 2, 4 Canari, Nicolai, 85 Cania, Cristodulo Ioannis de, 57n44 Cantera Montenegro, E., 151n22 Canterbury, 325 Capsambeli, Frangia, 89 Caracena, 168 Cardeus, Giorgio, 70 Cardoso, Isaac, 199 Caribbean, VIII, 2, 193, 306 Cariopoli, Giovanni, 88 Carmi, Avraham, 32 Carrete Parrondo, Carlos 145 Cartwright, Thomas, 296, 310, 311 Casa, Cristoforo, 76 Castaño González, Javier, 149–150n19 Castelo Rodrigo, 152, 155 Castile, VII, VIII, 144, 146–148, 156– 157, 160, 176. see also New Castile; Old Castile Castillo, Lorenzo del, 170 Castoriano, Demetrio, 91 Castro, Juan de, 168 Caterina Greca, 61 Caton, William, 278 Causabon, Isaac, 291 Cavazza, Pietro, 74 Cavestri, Costantino, 73 Central America, 23. see also Mexico Central Europe, XI, 225 Cervantes, Miguel de, 184–185 Chabot family, 124 Charchiopoli, Alessandro, 74 Charles I, King of England, 297, 299, 304, 310 Charles II, King of England, 102, 280, 282, 307, 309 Charles III, Duke of Savoy, 331 Charles XI, King of Sweden, 102 Charleston (SC), 332, 337

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Chielli, Domenico Ioannis, 73 Chimina, Giacomino Pauli, 85 Chios, 48, 57n44, 58, 64, 65 Chirnelli, Gianni, 9 Chmielnicki, IX Christian V, King of Denmark, 102 Christina, Queen of Sweden, 275 Cibdad, Francisco de, 165 Cibdad, Luis de, 165 Ciriaco Nicolai, 83 Città di Castello, 61n60 Ciudad Rodrigo, 151, 152–157 Clarke, John, 306 Clement VII, Pope, 49, 51, 67, 261 Clement VIII, Pope, 17n23 Clemente, Claudio, 200 Clifton, Richard, 297 Cluj, 113 Coburg, 34, 39 Codino, Giovanni, 91 Codofre, Giovanni, 90 Coffey, John, 289–312, 362 Coimbra, 258 Colinsentia, Clemente, 91 Collinson, Patrick, 219n1, 296 Collot d’Escury family, 124 Cologne, 30, 137, 290 Columeno, Costantino, 69 Comenius, John Amos, X, 127 Conci, Antonio, 58n48, 75 Connacht, 349 Connecticut, 299 Conry, Florence, 353 Constantinople, VII, 48, 54, 180 Contos, Demetrio, 91 Cooper, Anthony Ashley, 4th Earl of Shaftesbury, 109 Copenhagen, 102 Corbert, Miles, 307 Cordella, Petrus/Pietro, 54n37, 72 Córdoba, 149 Coressi, Antonio Demetrii, 58n48, 74 Coressi, Giorgio Iohannis, 57–58n48, 76 Coressi, Manuele Georgii, 57n48, 79 Coressi, Nicola Demetrii, 57n48, 58, 80

371

Coressi, Pietro, 85 Coressi family, 57–58 Cork, 347 Coroni, 58–59 Cortés, Alonso de, 167 Cortés, Pedro, 149 Cosenti, Pietro Stamatti, 73 Cosimo I de Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, 245–246, 248, 255, 262 Cosmo, Stefano, 282 Costa, Uriel da, 192 Costantino Manolli, 69 Costantino Zannis, 69 Costas (barcarolus), 87 Costatino (famulus antianorum), 82 Cotrocoius, Francesco, 92 Cotton, John, 302, 304, 306, 310 Covarrubias, Alonso, 160 Coverdale, Miles, 290 Cox, Richard, 292, 295 Cranmer, Thomas, 290, 292 Cromwell, Oliver, X Creagh, Richard, 348, 349 Crean, Edward, 359 Crell, Christoph, jr., 102 Crell, Christoph, sr., 99, 103 Crell, Daniel, 104, 106 Crell, Dorothea, 109 Crell, Johann, 96, 99, 110–111 Crell, Paul, 104 Crell, Samuel, 94, 96, 100, 102–109, 111–116 Crell, Theophilia, 109 Cremona, 30, 38 Crespin, Jean, 21 Creti, Nicola, 58n48, 80 Creuzburg, 99 Cristodulo Iohannis, 69 Croce, Baldassare, 256 Cromwell, Oliver, 298, 304, 306 Cudworth Masham, Damaris, 103 Cudworth, Ralph, 94, 103 Cuenca, 149, 152 Curaçao, 199 Curiel, Adam (Pérez da Costa, Diego), 196

372

Index of Names and Places

Curiel, Jacob (Nunes da Costa, Duarte), 195 Curiel, Moses (Nunes da Costa, Jerónimo), 195 Curiel-Nunes da Costa famly, 195 Curtesius, Giovanni, 77 Curtesius, Manuele Chiriachi, 79 Cusack, Thomas, 351 Cutruli, Nicola, 92 Cyprus, 58 Dalmatia, 47 Damiano (priest), 49 Danzig, 100–101n20, 102 Dauphiné, 208, 214, 215 Davenport, John, 299 Dawson, Jane, 295 De la Cerda family, 158 Delancy, E. F., 337 Demetrio (from Servia), 90 Demetrio Ioannes, 89 Demetrio Manolli, 83, 93 Demetrio Nicolai (massarus), 86 Demetrio Nicolai (pelliparius), 70 Demetrio Nicolai (sutor), 69 Denck, Hans, 220, 231, 235–236, 241 Denmark, 94, 332 DeSaussure, W. G., 337 Descartes, René, 105 Deza, 158, 160 Diachi, Michele, 90 Dilligen, 356 Dinis, Feliciana, 242 Ditmer, Reinier van, 106 Dixwell, John, 307 Dominis, Antonis de, 291 Douai/Douay, IX, 137, 351–352 Dublin, 346, 349, 352, 360 Duccio Birri, 70 Dumas, Alexandre, 334 Dunavi, Marino Ioannes, 79 Dury, John, X Dutch Republic. see Netherlands Dutilh family, 124 Dyer, Mary, 280

Eastern Europe, XI, 23, 27, 42, 48, 176 Edward VI, King of England, IX, 290– 291, 347 Egypt, 178, 182 Eindhoven, 133 El Puerto de Santa María, 157–158 Elbing, X Elena (cousin of Diego de Funes), 153 Elizabeth I, Queen of England, IX, 289, 294–295, 296, 310, 346, 348 Elvas, 155, 156 Emden, 280, 314–326, 327, 328–330 Encarnación Bonilla, Isabel de la, 356 England, VIII, IX, X, 2, 94, 95, 101n20, 103, 112, 113, 114, 117, 131, 133, 139, 141, 193, 219n1, 277–279, 283, 284–285, 287–288, 290, 290–298, 300–308, 310, 312, 325, 328, 332, 333–334, 336, 338, 341, 346, 347 Eparchi, Demetrio Christophari, 76 Erasmus, Desiderius, 111 Erfurt, 232 Escarigo, 156–157 Eschauzier family, 124 Eugenius IV, Pope, 10 Euripoti, Giovanni, 65, 83 Europe, VII, VIII, 3–5, 7, 17–18, 20, 22, 117, 128, 136, 176, 185, 187– 188, 189–190, 210, 218, 223, 230n29, 241, 244, 245, 246, 250, 274, 283, 287, 289, 307–308, 324– 325, 330, 337, 341–346, 352, 360. see also Central Europe; Eastern Europe; Northern Europe; Western Europe Évora, 156 Extremadura, 150, 151, 157, 158 Eymerich, Nicolau, 210 Fattori, Nicolló, 44–93, 362–363 Fehler, Timothy, 314–330, 363 Felbinger, Jeremias, 112–113 Ferdinand I de Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, 265 Ferguson, Robert, 308

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Fernandes, Feliciana, 271 Fernandes, Miguel, 242–243, 253, 255, 258, 259, 265, 268 Ferrara, 33, 189, 249, 251, 268 Fez, 184 Figueira da Foz, 157 Filaretti da Tebe, Giovanni, 63 Fisher, Mary, 281 Fisher, Samuel, 282, 284 Flacius, Matthias, 293 Flanders, 134, 323 Florence, 6, 15, 48, 195, 268, 271 Floreni/Pelaganus, Giovanni, 78 Fonseca, António da, 255, 256, 261, 264 Fonseca, Gabriel da, 260, 261 Fonseca, Jacome da, 262, 262–263, 264 Fonseca, Jerónimo da, 242–243, 255– 256, 257 Fonseca, Manuel Fernandes da, 257 Fonseca, Violante da, 255, 260 Fonseca family, 275 Fosdick, Lucian J., 339 Fox, George, 277, 279 Foxe, John, 3, 21, 292–293, 310 France, VIII, IX, X, 2, 39, 43, 100, 117–123, 125, 127, 131, 134, 135, 137, 139, 178, 180, 183, 185, 186, 193, 197, 216, 281, 307, 331–334, 336, 341, 342, 346, 351, 354, 358, 359 Francesco (from Athens), 88 Francesco Laurentii, 88 Franchi, Giacomo Nicolai, 70 Francisci, Giacomo, 58 Franck, Kasper, 230n29 François, Etienne, 338 Franconia, 29, 30 Frankenhausen, 233 Frankfurt, IX, 289, 291–292 Frascati, 261 Frederick III, Elector of Saxony, 225 Friedrich Wilhelm, Elector Brandenburg, 101n20 Friesland, 133

373

Frijhoff, Willem, 117–142, 363 Frith, John, 290 Friuli, 30 Fuente, Alonso de la, 172 Fuente, Rodrigo de la, 169 Fuentepinilla, 168 Fulda, 137 Funes, Diego de, 153, 154n29, 165 Furly, Benjamin, 104, 309 Furtado, Pedro, 262, 262–264 Gainsborough, 297 Gallagher, Redmund, 349 Gallego, Andrés, 171 Galway, 347 García, Martín, 150 García de la Fuente, Pedro, 150, 163 Garona, Basilio, 85 Gazules, Alcalá de los, 158 Gelves, 157 Geneva, X, 3, 19, 289, 291, 293, 295, 296, 310, 325 Genoa, 58 Georgio Manollis, 83 Georgio Marci, 88 Germany, IX, XI, 4–5, 28–30, 33, 35, 42–43, 127, 131, 133, 185, 218, 220, 225, 229, 231–232, 234, 280, 293, 314–315, 328, 333, 336, 338 Geromegiatos, Matteo, 92 Gerva, Apostolo, 87 Ghent, 322 Giacomo Francisci, 70 Giacomo Greco, 60 Giacomo Ioannis, 73 Giannello Gerogii, 70 Gilles, P., 213 Giorgio (from Corfu), 85 Giorgio Andree, 90 Giorgio da Sebenico, 47 Giorgio Donati, 92 Giorgio Greco, 64 Giorgio Iohannis, 93 Giorgio Marci, 70 Giorgio Mauritium, 86 Giorgio Michaellis, 93

374

Index of Names and Places

Giorgio Micheli, 77 Giovanni (capitanus), 87 Giovanni (from Rhodes), 90 Giovanni Georgii, 83–84 Giovanni Theodori, 86 Glückstadt, 195 Goertz, Hans-Jünger, 223 Goffe, William, 307 Goffin, Robert, 336 Gois, Francisco, 255, 271 Gomini, Giovanni, 78 González, Alonso, 163 González, Leonor, 172 Goodman, Christopher, 293–294, 295 Goodwin, Thomas, 299, 304, 310 Gorton, Samuel, 306 Gotis, Antonio Stephani de, 69 Graciana, 150n20 Granada, VIII, 23, 184, 273 Great Yarmouth, 300 Grebel, Conrad, 220, 222, 224, 225, 226–228, 233, 235, 241 Green, Lucy, 336 Gregory XIII, Pope, 45 Grell, Peter, 325 Griesel (today GryĪyna), 99 Griffis, William E., 336 Grimianis, Nicola Vasilii, 86 Grindal, Edmund, 292, 293, 295 Griot, Pierre, 211, 214 Groningen, 120 Guadalajara, 148 Guelders (province), 127 Gui, Bernard, 210–211 Guibbory, Achsah, 303 Haarlem, 126, 133, 279 al-ণajarƯ, 185 Halle, 226 Halperin Donghi, Tulio, 187 Hamburg, VIII, XIII, 112, 189, 194, 195, 199, 200, 201, 204, 280 Hardman-Moore, Susan, 303 Hartlib, Samuel, X Haynes, Hopton, 107n42 Heal, Felicity, 290

Hegau, 231–232 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 5, 22 Heidelberg, 296 Helwys,, 310 Henderson, John, 15 Henrietta Maria of France, Queen consort of England, 282 Henry II, King of France, 331 Henry VIII, King of England, 5, 290, 293, 294, 346, 347 Herbert, Henry William, 334 Hernández, Ana, 167 Herrera, García de, 168 Himmelfarb, Milton, XII Holland (province), 125, 127, 133, 134, 139, 323. see also Netherlands Hölzel, Hieronymus, 231 Hooker, Thomas, 299, 302 Hooper, John, 290 Hornachos, 186 Hoverbeck, Johann von, 101n20 Howe, John, 308 Howling, John, 350–351 Hubmaier, Balthasar, 220, 236–238, 239 Hudson Bay, 336 Hugh O’Neill, earl of Tyrone, 350 Hugwald, Ulrich, 232–233 Hujuff, Hans, 220, 226, 228 Hungary, 48, 134, 176, 220 Huss, Jan, 5 Hut, Hans, 220–221, 222, 224, 230– 232, 235–236, 237–238, 239, 241 Hutchinson, Anne, 302 Hutter, Jakob, 220, 240–241 Huygens family, 135 Hyde, Edward, 307 Ianua, Cristoforo Calvi Belliocchi de, 58n48 Ianua, Girolamo Sarra de, 57n48 Ianua, Pietro Calvi Belliocchi de, 58n48 Iassi, Matteo Nicolai, 71 Iberia. see Portugal; Spain

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Ibn Ardutiel, Abraham, 145n2 Ibn RabƯc, 184 Ignatius of Loyola, 253 India, 271 Innocent X, Pope, 260 Ioannina, 58 Ireland, X, 127, 279, 285, 336, 341– 350, 352, 354–357, 359–360. see also Northern Ireland Israel, State of, XI Isserlein, Yisrael, 33 Italy, VII, VIII, IX, 11, 15, 27–32, 34– 37, 39–43, 44–45, 47, 53, 61, 63, 95, 127, 178, 189–190, 208, 216, 245–246, 248–250, 253–254, 256, 259–260, 265, 267–268, 271, 272, 274, 281, 282, 283, 359 Jacob, family s,' 124 Jacob, Henry, 299 Jacopo da Voragine, 21 James II and VII, King of England and Scotland, 310, 359 James VI and I, of Scotland and England, 294, 297, 308, 310 Jan II Kasimir, King of Poland, 100– 101n20 Jan III Sobieski, 101n20 Jansen, Cornelius, 126 Jérez de la Frontera, 160 Jerusalem, XI. 281 Jesús Tomellín, María de, 356 Jewell, John, 295 João II, King of Portugal, 151, 155 João III, King of Portugal, 247 John, Elector of Saxony, 225 John the Seer, 311 Johnson, Francis, 296, 311 Johnson, Isaac Moses Thomas, 357n54 Jordan, Charles Etienne, 105 Joris, David, 3 Josel of Höchstädt, 33 Kamen, Henry, 147 Kaplan, Debra, 19 Kaplan, Yosef, 16, 17, 189–205, 363–364

375

Karlstadt, Andreas, 5, 219–220, 223– 224, 228, 230n29, 234, 238, 241 Killala, 349 Kinsale, 351 Kleist, Heinrich von, 224 Klettgau, 231–232 Knox, John, 292, 293–294, 295, 310 Königswalde (today Lubniewice), 99, 105 Konstanz, 34, 237 Krakow, 43 Krefeld, 280 Kriegsheim, 280 Kronborg, 94, 102 Krstiü, Tijana, 16 La Rota, 160 Labastide-Clairance, 193 Labopoulo, Giovanni, 77 Lacy, John, 357n54 Lamego, 255, 262 Lascari Paleologo, Alessio, 61–62 Latimer, Hugh, 290 Laud, William, 292 Laura, Giorgio, 77 Lawrence, Henry, 305 Le Cène, Charles, 111 Le Clerc, Jean, 107, 108, 111 Lefèvre de Montigny family, 124 Leghorn, see Livorno Leiden, IX, 100n20, 119, 133, 141, 298, 310 Leo X, Pope, 49 León, 159 León, Francisca de, 170 Levant, VIII, 246, 250, 266 Libanisios, Giorgio, 91 Libya, 178 Liechtenstein, Leonhard von, 237 Lilburne, John, 312 Lille, 351 Lima, 196 Limborch, Philipp van, 103, 107 Limerick, 347 Linda, Gracia, 166 Lisbon, 346, 348, 349, 350, 353

376

Index of Names and Places

Lithuania, IX, 27, 100 Livorno, VIII, XIII, 189, 199, 252, 266, 267, 272, 281 Locke, John, 94, 103–104, 105, 309, 310 Lodington, William, 287 Lombard, Peter, 353 Lombardy, 31 London, VIII, XIII, 18, 37, 111, 189, 194, 196, 198, 199, 200, 204, 285, 287, 299, 304, 305, 332, 333 Lopes, Francisco, 196 Lopes Suasso, Antonio (Suasso, Isaac Israel), 196–197 López, Antonio, 168 López, Diego, 154–156 López, Felipa, 166 López, Francisco, 154–156 López, Juan, 169 López, Leonor, 166 López, Mayor, 154–156, 165 López Coronel, Ruy, 163 López de Calatayud, Diego, 172 López family, 154–156 Lotto, Lorenzo, 50 Louis Bonaparte, King of Holland, 126 Louis XIV, King of France, X, 117, 125, 128, 135, 141, 309, 333, 338, 359 Louvain, IX, 137, 347–348, 353–354, 358 Low Countries. see Netherlands Luca Nicolai, 71 Lucassen, Jan, 118n2 Lucina, 260 Ludlow, Edmund, 307, 308–309 Ludwig, of Brandenburg, 101n20 Luffe, John, 281 Luigi Ioannis, 85 Luis, Antónia, 256 Luis, Diogo, 255 Luther, Martin, 4–5, 22, 23, 213, 218– 220, 223, 224, 227–228, 229–230, 232, 233–234, 238, 241, 310 Lyon, 208, 209

MacCarthy, Eugene, 351 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 200 Madrid, 195, 257, 348, 356, 359 Maertensz, Maerten, 284n20 Magdeburg, 116 Maghreb, VIII Mai, Stamatto Theodori, 85 Mainz, 30, 33 Malines, 137 Malta, 283 Mantua, 30 Mantz, Felix, 233 Manuel I, Byzantine emperor, 48 Manuel I, King of Portugal, VII, 246 Manuele (cobbler), 71 Manuele Constantini, 86 Manuele Georgii, 71, 79 Manussi, Andrea, 88 Manz, Felix, 222 Marchand, Prosper, 107, 109 Marco (capitis bombarderorum), 83 Mariano (priest), 65, 83 Mariasaal, 240 Marie de Medici, Queen of France, 271 Marino Ioannis, 87 Márquez, Juan, 200 Marshall, John, 309 Marsham, Robert, 103n29 Martinuzzi, Christopher, 218–241, 364 Maruda, Giorgio, 77 Mary I, Queen of England, IX, 289, 294–295, 310, 326, 348 Mary of Guise, Queen consort of Scotland, 294, 295 Masham, Francis, 103n29 Massachusetts, IX, 280, 298, 306, 310 Massachusetts Bay, 299, 302, 306 Masson, Pierre, 212–213, 214, 216 Mathys (French lace maker), 319 Matthews, Eugene, 354 Maurice of Nassau, 137 Maurodi, Alessandro, 62 Maurodi, Alessandro Constantini, 74 Maurodi, Costantino, 62 Maurodi, Costantino Manolis, 75

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Mavrokordato, Giacomo, 76 Mavrokordato, Giovanni Sergii, 77 Mavrokordato, Pantaleone Sergii, 85 Mavrokordato, Tommaso Iacobi, 82 Mayorga, 158–160 McNeil, John, 219n1 Meath, 351 Medina, Catalina de, 172 Medina, Gabriel de, 173 Medina del Campo, 157 Medinaceli, 148, 151, 157–158, 168– 169 Mediterranean, 150–151 Melgaço, 152 Méndez, Francisco, 169 Merback, Mitchell, 19 Mestre, 30, 31, 33, 39, 40 Mexico, VIII, 355 Michael Korybut Wisniowiecki, King of Poland, 101n20 Michele (proseneta), 80 Michele Emanuellis, 86 Michele Nicolai, 80, 86 Michelet, Jules, 333–334 Micoccio (nocchiero), 87 Micognati, Giorgio Cornelii, 86 Micognati, Luigi Georgii, 86 Middelburg, 133, 296 Middle East, 2 MierzeĔski, Jan, 102n23 Milan, 249, 271 Mill, John, 108 Miller, Peter, 300 Milton, John, 305 Miranda do Douro, 255 Mircaopulos, Demetrio, 91 Modena, 7, 13–14, 15 Molines, Jean de, 216 Moltalto, Philoteo Eliau (Montalto, Rodrigo Felipe), 271 Monchy, family de, 124 Monoianni, Manuele, 79 Montalto, Rodrigo Felipe (Moltalto, Philoteo Eliau), 271 Montemor-o-Velho, 152, 157 Monza, 33

377

Moore, R. I., 3, 16 Morales, Francisca de, 172 Morales, Francisco de, 166 Morales, Isabel de, 172 Moratti, Teofilatto, 92 Moravia, IX, X, 3, 95, 236, 239, 240 Morel, Georges, 212–213, 214, 215, 216 Morgan, Joseph, 182–183 Mori, Giorgio Nicolai, 93 Morocco, 178, 186, 242 Morsztyn, Jan Andrzej, 102n24 Morsztyn, Severin, 100n20 Morsztyn, SzczĊsny, 100, 102n23 Morsztyn, Zbigniew, 101n20, 102 Mosé Furlano di Consiglio Sacerdoti,, 38 Moshe ben Seligmann, 35–36, 39, 40 Moshe ben Yekutiel Hakohen, 38 Moulin, Peter du, 291 Mühlhausen, 232, 236 Mulsow, Martin, 94–116, 364 Munster, 347 Münster, 137 Müntzer, Thomas, 5, 219–224, 226– 233, 234–236, 238, 241 MurƗd Pasha, 180 Muxacar, Juan de, 169 Nalle, Sara T., 144–174, 364–365 Nantes, X, 354 Naples, 252 Natana, Giovanni, 65, 83 Nauplion, 58 Navarre, 150–151 Naxos, 58 Neapoli Romanie, Onorfio de, 65 Nebbia, Cesare, 256 Netherlands, IX, X, 95, 100n20, 101n20, 106–108, 113, 115, 117– 130, 132, 135–142, 176–177, 193, 197, 204, 279, 280, 283, 286, 288, 289, 296–299, 304–305, 307, 307– 309, 310, 315–316, 323, 324, 328– 329, 332, 342, 349, 351, 354, 359. see also Northern Netherlands; Southern Netherlands

378

Index of Names and Places

Netto (Diogo de Roma), 263, 264 Neuchâtel, 214 New Amsterdam. see New York New Castile, 172 New England, 280, 289, 297, 299– 301, 304, 310, 339 New Haven, 299, 307 New Jersey, 280, 285 New York, 280, 332, 334–337 Newport (RI), 306 Newton, Isaac, 94 Nicola Alexii, 81 Nicola Bartholomei (marinarius), 84 Nicola Bartholomei (patronum), 87 Nicola Georgii, 72, 81 Nicola Ioannis (barcarolus), 86 Nicola Ioannis (coltrarius), 72 Nicolai, Henry, 100n20 Nikolsburg, 220, 237–238, 239 Nirenberg, David, 17 North Africa, VII, 23, 145, 151, 152, 155, 178, 186, 189, 273 Northern Europe, X, 8, 152, 177, 353 Northern Ireland, 2, 338 Northern Netherlands, 118n2, 121, 126, 131, 132, 136, 140 Notara, Basilio Georgii, 84 Novoa, James Nelson, 242–276, 365 Nunes da Costa, Duarte (Curiel, Jacob), 195 Nunes da Costa, Jerónimo (Curiel, Moses), 195 Núñez, Diego, 158–161, 171 Núñez, Gabriel, 169 Núñez, Pero, 157 Núñez family, 159–160 Nuremberg, 19, 33, 38, 99, 220, 231, 233, 236 Nye, Philip, 299, 304, 310 Nye, Stephen, 113 Oberman, Heiko, 2, 23, 290 O'Connor, Thomas, 341–361, 365 Œcolampadius, Johannes, 213, 220, 232–233 Okey, John, 307

Old Castile, 152, 171 Oldebarnevelt, Johan van, 137 Olivença, 152, 157 Oliviero Michaglie, 72 Onofrio (priest), 82 Origen, 116 Orlamünde, 220, 228, 238 Ossory, 351 Ottoman Empire VII Oulx, 212 Overton, Richard, 305 Oxford, 104–105 Pacomio de Rodi, 83 Pacti, Demetrio, 86 Padua, 30, 31, 33 Padua, Matteo, 89 Pafnuzio (priest), 65 Paget, John, 299 Paleologo, Giovanni, 78 Palestine, XI-XII, 301 Pálfi, Sigismond, 107n42, 113–114 Pando Pauli, 87 Paolo Paleologo Tagaris, 49 Papadoulos, Nicola, 81 Papal States, 48 Paraschive, Teodoro, 82 Paris, X, 347, 352–353, 354, 358, 359 Parker, Robert, 299 Parma, 37 Paroleiro, Lourenço, 268 Pascal family, 127 Patavinum, Antonio, 65, 82 Patropuli, Andrea Ioannis, 68 Paudi, Stamatto, 82 Paul III, Pope, 254, 261 Paul IV, Pope, 17n23, 251, 253 Pavia, 30, 31 Paz, Duarte de, 261–263, 262, 264 Pena, Francisco, 210 Peña, Catalina de, 166 Peña, Juan de la, 169 Peña, Rodrigo de la, 158, 169 Penn, William, 285–287 Pennsylvania, 284–287 Pereyra, Abraham Israel, 200, 202, 203

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Pérez, Leonor, 164 Pérez da Costa, Diego (Curiel, Adam), 196 Peri, Vittorio, 44 Perkins, William, 292 Perrot, John, 281–282, 284 Persons, Robert, 351 Peru (Viceroyalty of), VIII, 195–196 Pesaro, 33 Peter, Hugh, 299, 304, 305 Petersen, Eleonora, 116 Petersen, Johann Wilhelm, 116 Pettegree, Andrew, 310 Petzold, Sebastian, 115 Philadelphia, 286–288 Philip II, King of Spain, 348, 351 Philip III, King of Spain, VIII, 176, 180 Philpot, John, 290 Piccioli, Giacomo Iohannis, 70 Piciotto, Alesandro, 91 Piedmont, 128, 208, 212 Pietro (from Šibenik), 90 Pietro Gregorii, 90 Pilkington, James, 295 Pinto, António, 258–259 Pinto, Francisco Vaz, 259 Pinto family, 197, 275 Pirkheimer, Willibald, 233 Pisa, 242, 243, 246, 252, 253, 255, 259–260, 265, 267, 268, 271 Pius II, Pope, 48 Pius IV, Pope, 353 Plaidemus, Marco, 79 Plithachi, Giovanni, 91 Plymouth (MA), IX, 297–298, 299 Poitiers, 354 Poland, IX, X, 27, 28, 95, 97–100, 134, 198, 220 Poli, Giorgio Iohannis, 76 Politi, Antonio, 57, 88 Politi, Bartolomeo, 57, 69 Politi, Costantino Bartholomei, 57, 75–76 Politi, Diana, 57 Politi, Domenico, 70

379

Politi, Michele Bartholomei, 54, 57, 71–72 Politi, Nicola Michaelis, 57, 90 Politi, Paolo Nicolai, 88 Politi, Tommaso, 57 Politi de Rodi, Domenico, 57n44 Politi family, 57 Pomerania, 208 Ponet, John, 292 Poole, Reginals Lane, 338 Porto, 159, 242, 255 Portobuffolè, 33 Portugal, VII, VIII, XIII, 17, 20, 22, 134, 144–146, 147–148, 150–157, 151, 159, 190–195, 197, 202, 242, 244, 246–247, 250, 255–256, 258– 259, 261–264, 274–275, 281, 283, 342, 346, 349, 359 Potosí, 195, 196 Poxudi, Filippo, 73 Pozzo, Antonio dal, 268 Prado, Juan de, 192 Prague, 353, 358, 359 Prague, Luc de, 216 Premendario, Agatia, 74 Premendario, Nicola, 81 Preston, John, 292 Preuß, Johann, 99, 111, 113 Primicherus, Giovanni, 71 Procathumenos, Duca Nicolai, 76 Protonotario de Zante, Pierfilippo, 65, 83 Provence, 208, 211, 212, 215 Providence, 306 Prussia, X, 117, 119 Prynne, William, 303, 311 Puebla, 355 Pufendorf, Samuel von, 105 Pym, John, 303 Rabat, 186 Rachani, Nicola, 80 Radi, Giorgio Iohannis, 76 Radziwill, Boguslaw, 99, 102n24 Radziwill, Caroline Louise, 101n20, 102n24

380

Index of Names and Places

Rakow, 98, 99 Ralli, Antonio, 84 Ralli, Costantino, 57n48, 75 Ralli, Demetrio Iohannis, 76 Ralli, Teodoro Demetri, 85 Ralli-Melichi, Giovanni, 77 Ramadan, Tariq, 187 Rapp, Gutta (Jutta), 33 Raspe, Lucia, 26–43, 365 Rattenberg am Inn, 240 Rattopoli, Marco Theodori, 83 Rattopoli, Theodoro Petri, 83 Ravensburg, 34 Recanati, 61, 62 Regensburg, 19, 30, 236 Reginald Pole, 3 Rendi, Tommaso Stamatti, 85 Reublin, Wilhelm, 237, 240 Rheims, IX Rhineland, 29, 119, 137, 283, 286, 288, 291 Rhode Island, 280, 299, 302, 305 Ribera, Juan de, 273 Ricote (character in Don Quixote), 184–185 Ridley, Nicholas, 290 Rimbaud, Arthur, 208 Rinck, Melchior, 220 Rios, Alonso de, 158, 170 Robinson, Henry, 305 Robinson, John, 297, 298, 299, 310 Roche, Michel de la, 107 Rochford, Robert, 350 Rodi, Pacomio de, 65 Rodiani, Monica, 62 Rodrigo, Daniel, 267 Rodríguez, Ana, 168 Rogers, John, 290 Roma, Jean de, 211 Rome, 137, 242–244, 248, 252, 253– 259, 258–266, 272–276, 281–282, 347, 348, 349, 352, 353, 357n54, 358 Rotondò, Antonio, 219n1, 223 Rotterdam, X, 119, 123–124, 133, 141, 279, 284n20, 309

Rouen, IX, 193 Ruarus, Martin, 100n20, 105 Russia, X, 23, 332 Saavedra Fajardo, Diego de, 200 Sabbatai Zevi, 203 Safed, 196 Salamanca, 347, 351, 353, 355 Salzburg, 19 Samos, 58 Sancho Panza (character in Don Quixote), 184–185 Sandomir, 97 Sandwich (Kent), 300 Sandys, Edwin, 311 Santa María, 151 Santa Maria, Ýñigo, 168 Santa Maria, Ysabel de, 168 Santiago, 349, 351 Santorio, Giulio Antonio, 268 Sattler, Michael, 225 Saurus, Giorgio, 91 Savonarola, Girolamo, 6, 22 Saxony, 220–221, 229 Scalamonti, Giovanni Battista, 60 Scanda, Costantino Ioannes, 92 Scania, 102 Scartambucci, Giacomo, 90 Schiada, Giorgio Zacherie, 70 Schiada, Giovanni Zacherie, 89 Schiada, Zaccaria Antonii, 85–86 Schiendeti, Costantino, 92 Schilizza, Giovanni Pantaleonis, 84 Schilling, Heinz VII Schlichting, Jonas, 105 Schoenaich, Johann von, 110 Schützinger, Sigmund, 240 Schwenckfeld, Caspar, 230n29 Scilly Isles, 306 Scotland,IX, 2, 294, 325, 336, 338 Scrini, Stamatto Pantaleonis, 85 Scrooby, 297 Scuri, Giovanni Georgii, 93 Sebastian, King of Portugal, 242 Segura, García de, 166 Seitz, Johann Christian, 112, 115

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Selchow (today ĩelechów), 99 Seligmann (Yitzhak; Bonaventura), 34, 35 Senigallia, 26 Sergipe, 242 Serlina, 41–42 Serón, Gabriel de, 168 Serre, Giorgio Michaelis, 84 Servetus, Michael, 107, 113 Servo, Nicola Michaglie, 80 Sesaurus, Marco, 79 Severo Iohannis, 73 Seville, 346, 356 Sewel, William, 286–287 Seyssel, Claude, 211 Sguri, Giovanni Nicolai, 78 Shaftesbury, 109 Sherlock, Paul, 356 Shlomo bar Shimshon, 37 Shmuel ben Seligmann, 36 Sicily, VII Sidonia, García de, 170 SienieĔski, Jan, 98 Sigüenza, 145, 148–149, 151, 158 Silesia, IX, 98–99, 99, 110 Silva, Juan de, 154 Simons, Menno, 3, 310 Simpson, Sidrach, 299, 304 Sinaloa, 355 Smaller Poland, 110 Smidali, Statto, 73 Smiles, Samuel, 334 Smyth, John, 297–298 Solevio, Demetrio Michellis, 69–70 Solevio, Nicola Demetrii, 72 Solmiani, Giorgio, 84 Sonora, 355 Sorg-Froschauer, Simprecht, 237 Soria, 148, 150, 158 Soria, Francisco de, 171 Soria, Magdalena de, 157n35, 170 Soria, María de, 170, 171 Soten, Hayyim Rapp, 33 South Africa, 332, 338, 340n30 South America, 23, 195–196 South Asia, 2

381

Southampton, 325 Southern Netherlands, IX, 126–127, 131, 134, 137, 139, 193, 316 Souverain, Jacques, 111 Soyer, François, 144, 147 Sozzino, Fausto, 101, 105 Spain, VII,VIII, IX, XII, 17, 20, 22, 23, 26, 134, 135, 147–148, 151, 175–179, 182–186, 188, 190–194, 196–197, 202, 246–247, 249–250, 258, 264, 273, 281, 283, 341, 342, 346, 349, 351, 354, 357, 358, 359 Spanopulo, Zaccaria, 74 Spencer, John, 104 Speyer, 30, 33 Spies, Marijke, 138 Spinoza, Baruch, 105, 112, 128, 192, 197 Spiritualis, Giovanni, 89 Spohnholz, Jesse, 328 St. Jean de Luz, 193 Stamatto Georgii, 89 Stamatto Thome, 87 Stamira (or Stamura), 47 Statti, Guglielmo, 88 Stayer, James, 221–222, 226 Stegmann, Joachim, 112 Stephani, Zanni Stephani de, 73 Sterzing, 240 Stinstra, Johannes, 109 Stouppa, Jean-Baptiste, 128–129 Strasbourg, IX, 19, 289, 290, 291, 293, 295 Strategopuli, 58 Strategopulo, Giovanni Maria Georgii, 89 Strategopulo, Michele Georgii, 89–90 Strategopulo, Nicola Georgii, 88 Strodtmann, Christoph, 94–95n2 Strong, Thomas, 351 Stuckey, Alice, 102 Styria, 237 Suasso, Isaac Israel (Lopes Suasso, Antonio), 196–197 Sue, Eugène, 334 Sugduri, Giovanni, 77

382

Index of Names and Places

Suriname, 199, 332 Swabia, 29, 30 Sweden, IX, X, 94, 101n20, 102, 332 Switzerland, IX, X, 208, 214, 220, 291, 307, 308–309, 332 Tarle,Gregorio, 79 Tavares, Maria, 147 Teixeira, Antonio, 271 Teixeira, Bianca, 271 Teixeira, Clara, 271 Teixeira, Feliciana Nis, 271 Teixeira, Rui, 242–243, 253, 255, 265, 268, 271 Teixeira family, 268, 271–272 Terpstra, Nicholas, VIII, 1–24, 299– 300, 309, 310, 366 Terrer, 184, 188 The Hague, X, XIII, 113 Theodorini, Giovanni, 71 Thomas Helwys, 298 Thuringia, 225, 226, 229, 236 Timm, Erika, 27 Toland, John, 358 Toledo, 152n26 Tolosa, Luis de, 158, 170 Toronto, 2 Torres, Gabriel de, 171 Torres, Juan de, 170 Toulouse, 351, 354 Tovar family, 157 Transylvania, IX, X, 95 Travers, Walter, 296 Treviso, 30, 31, 33, 36, 38 Tromba, Angelo Iacobi, 68 Trundafilo, Giorgio, 77 Tunis, 178, 180–181 Tunisia, 178, 183, 186 Tuscany, 6, 195, 246, 252, 255, 263– 264, 265, 271, 281 Tyndale, William, 290, 310 Tyrol, 236, 240, 240–241 Uffenbach, Konrad Zacharias, 106 Ulm, 33, 34, 35, 36 Ulster, 342, 349

United States of America. see America (colonial)/United States of America Uquillas, Francisco de, 156–157, 167 Uquillas family, 156–157 USA. see America (colonial)/United States of America Utrecht (city), 137 Utrecht (province), 127 Uzero, Pedro de, 168 Valacudi, Nicola, 80 Valcudi, Giovanni, 77 Valderas, Benito, 165 Valdes, Juan de, 230n29 Valence, Daniel de, 216 Valencia, VIII, 176, 177, 273 Valladolid, 351, 356 Valona, 58 Valona, Pierto Stefano, 92 Van Charante, family, 124 Van Ruymbeke, Bertrand, 331–340, 366 Vane, Henry, 302, 303, 305, 310, 312 Vane, Henry, Jr., 304, 310 Varipati, Michele Nicolai, 84 Vaudès (Valdo or Valdès), 208, 209, 210, 213 Vechner, Georg, 110, 112 Velasco family, 157 Veneto, 33 Venice, XIII, 31, 33, 38, 39, 41, 47, 58, 189, 193, 196, 250–252, 266– 267, 268, 271, 272, 282 Vermigli, Peter Martyr, 291 Verona, 199 Vestarchi, Nicola Ioannis, 80 Vestarchi, Pantaleone, 89 Vevey, 309 Veyssière La Croze, Mathurin , 109 Viallaneix, Paul, 333 Vicente, Ana, 164 Vicenza, 33 Vilani, Stefano, 277–288, 366–367 Villagracía, 356 Villalón, 160

Early Modern Ethnic and Religious Communities in Exile Villeneuve, family de, 124 Vincenzo Leoni, 82 Vingle, Pierre de, 214 Virginia, 301 Vitoria, Francisco de, 195–196 Vittorio (priest), 65 Vlasopulo, Giovanni, 74 Volentiera, Bartolomeo, 75 Voltaire, 334 Voro, Giorgio, 76 Vossius, Isaac, 94, 103 Vrostino, Luigi Demetrii, 73 Vulnica, Giorgio, 77 Vulsinatum, Matteo, 79 Vulsinatum, Tommaso, 85 Wadding, Ambrose, 356 Wadding, Luke, 356 Wadding, Luke OFM, 352, 353, 356 Wadding, Michael, 355–356 Wadding, Peter, 356 Wadding, Richard, 356 Wadding family, 356 Waldshut, 236–237 Wales, 2, 303–304, 338 Walkenried, 238 Walsingham, Francis, 296 al-WansharƯsƯ, 184 Warsaw, 102 Wartburg, 4–5 Warwick (RI), 306 Waterford, 347 Weil, François, 335 Weil, Yaakov, 36 Weinreich, Max, 27–28 Weiss, Charles, 332–334 Wenceslas IV, King of Germany, 28 Wesel, 325, 328 West Friesland, 323 Western Europe, 99, 192, 194–196, 198 Wetstein, Johann Jakob, 95n2, 108

383

Wexford, 347 Whalley, Edmund, 307 White, Thomas, 351 White Mountain, IX Whitgift, John, 296, 299 Whittingham, William, 294 Wiedemann, Jakob, 238, 239 Wiegers, Gerard, 175–188, 367 William Cecil, 1st Baron Burghley, 296 William III, King of England, 120, 309 Williams, George H., 219n1, 223 Williams, Roger, 302, 305–306, 310, 312 Winthrop, John, 300, 301, 302 Wittenberg, 220, 232, 236, 238 Worms, 33, 290 Wos, Jan Wladislaw, 45 Würtemberg, 236 Yaakov Mattityahu ben Seligmann, 34 Yent, Zalman, 38 Yerushalmi, Yosef H., 191 Yorkshire, 285 Zaconinus, Michele, 92 Zadar, 47 Zai, Giovanni Stamatti, 77 Zai, Stamatto Ioannis, 81–82 Zakai, Avihu, 300–301 Zamora, 152, 160 Zamora, Francisco de, 171 Zaunring, Jörg, 240 Zealand, 133 Zeleme, Nicola, 88 Zille, Polo Lazzari, 73 Zinzendorf, Nicolaus Ludwig von, 109 Zuchi, Caloianni, 87 Zurich, IX, 18–19, 213, 220, 222, 226, 233, 235, 236–237, 289, 290, 291, 295 Zwingli, Huldrych, 227, 237