Thursday, November 30, 2023

ВОЛФГАНГ ПАУЛИ: Интерпретација на Природата и Психата

The influence of Archetypical Ideas on the Scientific Theories of Kepler

 

The physicist Pauli, recipient of the Nobel Prize in1945, discusses the polemic between the 17th century scientist Kepler and the alchemist Robert Fludd. He demonstrates the irreconcilability of scientific and alchemical premises in the late Renaissance, shown particularly in the discrepancies of the symbols used by these two authors. Translated by Priscilla Silz.

 

5.

The next step in Kepler’s hierarchical arrangement of the cosmos, which we have already traced from the trinitarian Godhead and the ideas in the Mind of God through their spherical model down to the physical world, the sun, and the heavenly bodies revolving about it, lead us now to the individual souls.

We have already said that for Kepler the earth is a living thing like man. As living bodies have hair, so does the earth have grass and trees, the cicadas being its dandruff; as living creatures secrete urine in a bladder, so do the mountains make springs; sulfur and volcanic products correspond with excrement, metals and rainwater to blood and sweat; the sea water is the earth’s nourishment. As a living being the earth has a soul, the anima terrae, with qualities that can be regarded as to a large extent analogous to those of human soul, the anima hominis. We can therefore understand by individual soul the anima terrae and the souls of the planets as well as the human souls. At the same time the anima terrae is also a formative power (facultas formatrix) in the earth’s interior and expresses, for example, the five regular bodies in precious stones and fossils. In this Kepler follows views also held by Paracelsus. The latter had employed the concept of the “Archaeus” as a formative principle of nature which, as signator, also creates signaturae. As a matter of fact Kepler admitted in his dispute with Fludd that the latter could also call the anima terrae “Archaeus” if he preferred that. It is important that in a Kepler’s view the anima terrae is responsible for the weather and also for a meteoric phenomena. Too much rain, for instance, is an illness of the earth.

Now Kepler’s characteristic basic idea concerning the individual soul is that is, as an image of God however imperfect, partly a point and partly a circle: “anima est punctum qualitativum”. This theory goes back to neo-Platonic and neo-Pythagorean philosophers of late antiquity, in whose works similar ideas can be found.

Which functions of the soul can are attributed to the central point and which to the peripheral circle is somewhat doubtful matter. In general the contemplative and imaginative functions are assigned to the point, the active and motor effects on the body to the circle. The later, however, is also supposed to correspond to the faculty of ratiocinatio, reflection and logical conclusion. The process of the issuing forth of the soul from the central point to the periphery of the circle is often compared by Kepler to the emanating of flame. He also emphasizes expressly the analogy of this movement to the rays of light streaming from the sum as a centre, thus also establishing a connection with the radii that issue from the central point to see this process of emanation of the soul from the point to the circle as analogous to the extraversion of modern psychology, from the point of view of which creation, in Kepler’s system of ideas, would be the divine model whereas the being of God would have to be regarded as the model of introversion.

The following passage from Harmonices mundi should make Kepler’s view clear:

Firstly, the soul has the structure of a point in actuality (at least by reason of its conjunction with its body), and the figure of a circle in potentiality. Now, since it is energy, it pours itself forth from that puncti-form abode into circle. Whether it is obliged to perceive external things that surround it in spherical fashion or whether it must govern the body (the body, too, lies round about it), the soul itself is hidden within, rooted in its fixed point whence it goes out into the rest of the body by a semblance of itself. But how should it go out if not in a straight line (for that is truly a “going out”) How should it have any other way of going out, being itself both light and flame, than as the other lights go out from their sources, that is, in straight lines. It goes out, then, to the exterior of the body according to the same laws by which surrounding lights of the firmament come in towards the soul that resides in point.

 

With this conception of the soul both as a point and a circle are connected Kepler’s special views on astrology, to the discussion of which he specifically devoted the treatise Tertius interveniens. Here Kepler intervenes as a third party in the dispute between H. Roslinus, representing the point of view of traditional astrology, and P. Feselius, who disparages all astrology as superstition, in order to oppose to both authors his own essentially divergent point of view. On the first leaf of  the book, immediately after the title, appears the commentary: “A warning to sundry Theologos, Medicos, and Philosophos, in particular to D. Philipus Feselius, that they should not, in their just repudiation of star-gazing superstition, throw out the child with the bath and thus unknowingly act in contradiction to their profession”. Kepler also formulates his ideas on astrology in his earlier treatise on the new star, arguing there against Pico della Mirandola, and, in conclusive fashion, reverts once more to the subject in his chief work, Harmonices mundi.

In what follows  we shall first attempt – setting aside the question of the objective validity of astrological statements – to characterize Kepler’s integration of his own astrology, so different from the usual kind, into the whole system of his ideas on natural science, which are what interests us here.

According to Kepler, the individual soul, which he calls vis formatrix or matrtix formativa, possesses the fundamental ability to react with help of the istinctus to certain harmonious proportions which correspond to specific rational divisions of the circle. In music this intellectual power reveals itself in the perception of euphony (consonance) in certain musical intervals, an effect that Kepler thus does not explain in a purely mechanical way. Now the soul is said to have a similar specific reactability to the harmonious proportions of the angels which the rays of stellar light, striking the earth form with each other. It is with these, in Kepler’s opinion, that astrology should concern itself. According to him, then, the stars exert no special remote influence, since their true distances are of no importance to astrology and only their light rays can be regarded as effective. The soul knows about the harmonious proportions through the instinctus without conscious reflection (sine ratiocinatione) because the soul, by virtue of its circular form, is an image of God in Whom these proportions and the geometric truths following there-from exists from all eternity. Now since the soul, in consequence of its circular form, has knowledge of these, it is impressed by the external forms of configurations of rays and retain a memory of them from its very birth. I cite Kepler’s words on this:

I speak here as do the astrologers. If I should express my own opinion it would be that there is no evil star in the heavens, and this, among others, chiefly for the following reasons: it is the nature of man as such, dwelling as it does here on earth, that lends to the planetary radiations their effect on itself; just as the sense of hearing, endowed with the faculty of discerning chords, lends to music such power that it incites him who hears it to dance. I have said much on this point in my reply to the objection of Doctor Roslin to the book On the New Star and in other places, also in Book IV of the Harmonices, passim, especially Chapter 7.

For, the punctum naturale (the natural soul in every human being or also in the terrestrial globe itself) has as much power as a real circulum. In puncto inest circulus in potentia propter plagas unde adveniunt radii se mutuo in hoc puncto secants.

The natural soul of man is not larger than a single point; and upon these points the shape and character of the whole heaven, be it hundred times as large as it is, are imprinted tentialiter.

The nature of the soul behaves like a point; for this reason it can also be transformed into the points of the confluxus radiorum.

 

The soul, according to Kepler, contains the idea of the zodiac within itself by virtue of its inherent circular form; but it is the planets, and not the fixed stars, which (through the intermediary of light) are the effective vehicles of astrological influence. The “distribution of the twelve signs among the seven planets” is for him fable; yet the doctrina directionum, he thinks, is based on good reason since it emphasize tha harmonious combination of two rays of light that is called an “aspect”.

(“The Interpretation of Nature and the Psyche”. C. G. Jung: SYNCHRONICITY – An Acausal Connecting Principle; W. Pauli: The Influence of Archetypical Ideas on Scientific Theories of Kepler; BOLLINGEN FOUNDATION – PANTHEON BOOKS 1955)

 

Wednesday, November 29, 2023

ЛАО ЦЕ: Книгата Тао Те


ТАО ТЕ КИНГ – Книга на Патот и Доблеста

 

I.

Тао за кој што може да се говори

не е вечното Тао.

Името кое може да се изрече

не е вечно име

 

Безименото е извор на Небото и Земјата.

Именуваното е мајка на илјадници појави.

 

Кога си ослободен од желба, ја гледаш тајната на животот.

Кога си роб на желбата, гледаш само појави.

 

Тајната и појавата се од исто потекло,

ама се разликуват по името.

Ова потекло е најголемата тајна.

Тајна во тајната.

Капија на сите тајни.

 

II.

Кога секој под небото го гледа убавото како убаво,

се раѓа сознание за грдото.

Кога секој го гледа доброто како добро,

се раѓа сознанието за зло.

 

Зашто битието и небитието растат едно од друго.

Тешкото и лесното меѓусебно се дополнуваат.

Долгото и краткото заемно се обликуваат.

Високото и ниското се одредуваат едно со друго.

Звукот и тонот создаваат созвучје.

Она што е напред и тоа што е позади се следат едно со друго.

 

Затоа светиот човек постапува без дејствување,

подучува без зборови.

 

Десет илјади појави минуваат, тој не ги попречува.

Ништо не присвојува, ништо не очекува.

Кога ќе постигне успех, не бара признание.

Затоа тој секогаш трае.

 

III.

Кога не ги величаш луѓето од вредност

ја спречуваш зависта и препирањето.

Кога не ги цениш нештата од вредност

го спречуваш светот да краде.

Кога не гледаш посакувани предмети

го спречуваш немирот на срцето.

 

Светиот човек владее така што го празни умот на луѓето

а го полни нивното срце;

ги слабее нивните желби

а ја засилува нивната снага.

Им помага да изгубат се’ што знаат

и се што пожелуваат.

 

Кога луѓето се без знаење и желба,

оние кои мислат дека знаат

нема да се обидуваат да се мешаат.

 

Кога спроведуваш недејствување

се’ си доаѓа на свое место.

 

IV.

Тао е празен сад:

Се полни, но никогаш не дозволува да биде наполнет.

Извор без дно на се’ што постои.

 

Целата рапавост е измазнета,

сите јазли разврзани,

целата светлина ускладена,

сета прашина сталожена.

 

Тао е длабок бунар кој никогаш не пресушува.

Дали е тој нечие дете? Не знаеме.

Тој е праотец на боговите.

 

V.

Небото и Земјата се непристрасни.

За нив илјадниците појави се само пцишта од слама.

И светиот човек е непристрасен.

За него сите луѓе се само кучиња од слама.

 

Просторот меѓу Небото и Земјата е како мев,

однатре е празен, а неисцрпно дава.

Колку повеќе се користи, толку повеќе дава.

Колку повеќе за него зборуваш, толку помалку го сфаќаш.

 

Затоа светиот човек се држи на она што е во срцето.

 

VI.

Духот на долината никогаш не умира.

Тој се нарекува големата Мајка.

Неговата капија е извор на Небото и Земјата.

 

Тој е непрестајно во нас.

Ползувајќи го како ти е воља,

никогаш нема да се потроши.

 

VII.

Небото е вечно, Земјата засекогаш ќе трае.

Зошто Небото и Земјата бескрајно траат?

Тие не живеат за себе, затоа се вечни.

 

Светиот човек останува позади, ама секогаш е напред.

Одвоен е од се’, а едно е со севкупноста.

Заборава на себе си, и затоа е потполно остварен.

 

VIII.

Највисокото добро е како вода.

Водата, без никаков труд,

е благослов на илјадници суштества.

Таа тече по ниски места кои луѓето не ги ценат.

и затоа наликува на Тао.

 

Светиот човек престојува близу до тлото.

Неговиот ум е спокоен како длабоката вода.

Срцето му е, како водата, нежно и дарежливо.

Зборовите му се искрени како непрекинат воден тек.

Кога владее, едноставен е, без желби,

во работата способен, во своето делување точен.

Не се натпреварува и затоа е беспрекорен.

 

IX.

Кога ќе го преполниш тањирот

лесно ќе се прелие.

Кога многу го остриш сечилото

брзо ќе се искрза.

Кога ќе ја наполниш куќата со злато

нема да ја сочуваш.

Кога бараш богатство и слава

на патот си на сопствената пропаст.

 

Повлечи се кога задачата е извршена.

Таков е небесниот пат.

 

X.

Можеш ли да ја сочуваш немирната душа од талкања,

целата да ја посветиш на Едното и никогаш да не ја напуштиш?

Можеш ли да достигнеш нежна хармонија

со невиноста на новороденото дете?

Можеш ли да ја прочистиш внатрешната визија на Тајната

додека не видиш само светлина?

Можеш ли да ги сакаш луѓето и да управуваш со земајата

останувајќи по страна?

Можеш ли да ги отвораш и затвораш капиите на Небото

со мирот на мајката која се одмора?

Можеш ли да го согледаш секој агол на светот

без било каков напор, како ништо да не знаеш?

 

Да ее раѓа и храни без присвојувања,

да се делува без очекувања,

да се владее без потчинување,

тоа е најдлабоката Доблест.


(LAO CE-KNJIGA Tao Teknjiga Puta i Vrline, preveo i priredio Flavio Rigonat; LOM Beograd 2019)


Tuesday, November 28, 2023

КЕНЕТ ВОЛТС: Теорија на меѓународната политика

6.

Anarchic Structures and Balances of Power

 

Two tasks remain: first, to examine the character of anarchy and the expectations about outcomes associated with anarchic realms; second, to examine the ways in which expectations vary as the structure of an anarchic system changes through changes in the distribution of capabilities across nations. The second task, undertaken in chapters 7,8 and 9, requires comparing different international systems. The first, which I now turn to, is best accomplished by drawing some comparisons between behavior and outcomes in anarchic and hierarchic realms.

 

I.

1. VIOLENCE AT HOME AND ABROAD

 

The state among the states, it is often said, conducts its affairs in the brooding shadow of violence. Because some states may at any time use force, all states must be prepared to do so – or live at the mercy of their military more vigorous neighbors. Among states, the state of nature is a state of war. This is meant not in the sense that war constantly occurs, but in the sense that, with each state deciding for itself whether or not to use force, war may at any time break out. Whether in the family, the community, or the world at large, contact without at least the occasional conflict is inconceivable; and the hope that in the absence of an agent to manage or to manipulate conflicting parties the use of force will always be avoided cannot be realistically entertained. Among men as among states, anarchy, or absence of government, is associated with the occurrence of violence.

The threat of violence and the recurrent use of force are said to distinguish international from national affairs. But in the history of the world, surely most rulers have had to bear in mind that their subjects might use force to resist or overthrow them. If the absence of government is associated with the threat of violence, so also is its presence. A haphazard list of national tragedies illustrates the point all too well. The most destructive wars of the hundred years following the defeat of Napoleon took place not among states but within them. Estimates of deaths in China’s Taiping Rebellion, which began on 1851 and lasted 13 years, range as high as 20 million. In the American Civil War some 600 thousand people lost their lives. In more recent history, forced collectivization and Stalin’s purges eliminated five million Russians, and Hitler exterminated six million Jews. In some Latin American countries, coups d’etats and rebellions have been normal features in national life. Between 1948 and 1957, for example, 200 thousand Colombians were killed in civil strife. In the middle 1970’s most inhabitants of Idi Amin’s Uganda must have felt their lives becoming nasty, brutish, and short, quite as in Thomas Hobbes’s state of nature. If such cases constitute aberrations, they are uncomfortably common ones. We easily lose sight of the fact that struggles to achieve and maintain power, to establish order, and to contrive a kind of justice within states, may be bloodier that wars among them.

If anarchy is identified with chaos, destruction and death, then the distinction between anarchy and government does not tell much. Which is more precarious: the life of a state among the states, or of government in relation to its subjects? The answer varies with time or place. Among some states at some times, the actual or expected occurrence of violence is low. Within some states at some times, the actual expected occurrence of violence is high. The use of force, or the constant fear of its use, are not sufficient grounds for distinguishing international from domestic affairs. If the possible and the actual use of force mark both national or international orders, then no durable distinction between the two realms can be drawn in terms of the use or the nonuse of force. No human order is proof against violence.

To discover qualitative differences between internal and external affairs one must look for a criterion other than the occurrence of violence. The distinction between international and national realms of politics is not found in the use of the nonuse of force but in their different structures. But if the dangers of being violently attacked is greater, say, in taking an evening stroll through downtown Detroit then they are in picnicking along the French and German border, what practical difference does the difference between of structure make? Nationally as internationally, contacts generates conflict and at time issues in violence. The difference between national and international politics lies not in the use of force but in the different modes of organization for doing something about it. A government, ruling by some standard of legitimacy, arrogates to itself the right to use force – that is, to apply a variety of sanctions to control the use of force by its subjects. If some use private force, other may appeal to the government. A government has no monopoly on the use of force, as is all too evident. An effective government, however, has a monopoly on the legitimate use of force, and legitimate here means that public agents are organized to prevent ant to counter the private use of force. Citizens need not to prepare to defend themselves. Public agencies do that. A national system is not one of self-help. The international system is.

 

2. INTERDEPENDANCE AND INTEGRATION

 

The political significance of interdependence varies depending on whether a realm is organized, with relations on authority specified and established, or remains formally unorganized. Insofar as a realm is formally organized, its units are free to specialize, to pursue their own interests without concern for developing the means of maintaining their identity and preserving their security in the presence of others. They are free to specialize because they have no reason to fear the increased interdependence that goes with specialization. If those who specialize most benefit most, then competition in specialization ensues. Goods are manufactured, grain is produced, law and order are maintained, commerce is conducted, and financial services are provided by people who ever more narrowly specialize. In simple economic terms, the cobbler depends on the tailor for his pants and the tailor on the cobbler for his shoes, and each would be ill-clad without services of the other. In simple political terms, Kansas depends on Washington for protection and regulation and Washington depends on Kansas for beef and wheat. In saying that in such situations interdependence is close, one need not maintain that the one part could not learn to live without the other. One need only say that the coast of breaking the interdependent relation would be high. Persons and institutions depend heavily on one another because of the different tasks they perform and the different goods they produce and exchange. The parts of a polity bind themselves together by their differences (cf. Durkheim 1893, p. 212).

Differences between national and international structures are reflected in the ways the units of each system define their ends and develop the means for reaching them. In anarchic realms, like units co-act. In hierarchic realm, the units are differentiated, and they tend to increase the extent of their specialization. Differentiated units become closely interdependent, the more closely so as their specialization proceeds. Because of the difference of the structure, interdependence within and interdependence among nations are two distinct concepts. So as to follow the logicians’ admonition to keep a single meaning for a given term throughout one’s discourse. I shall use “integration” to describe the condition within nations and “interdependence” to describe the condition among them.

Although states are like units functionally they differ vastly in their capabilities. Out of such differences something of a division of labor develops (see Chapter 9). The division of labor across nations, however, is slight in comparison with the highly articulated division of labor among them. Integration draws the parts of a nation closely together. Interdependence among nations leaves them loosely connected. Although the integration of the nations is often talked about, it seldom takes place. Nations could mutually enrich themselves by further dividing not just the labor that goes into the production of goods but also some of the other tasks they perform, such as political management and military defense. Who dos their integration not take place? The structure of international politics limits the cooperation of states in two ways.

In a self-help system each of the units spends a portion of its effort, not in forwarding its own good, but in providing the means of protection itself against others. Specialization in a system of divided labor works to everyone’s advantage, though not equally so. Inequality in expected distribution of the increased product works strongly against extension of the division of labor internationally. When faced with the possibility of cooperating for mutual gain, states that feel insecure must ask how the gain will be divided. They are compelled to ask not “Will both of us gain” but “Who will gain more?” If an expected gain is to be divided, say, in a ration of two to one, one state may use its disproportionate gain to implement a policy intended to damage or destroy the other. Even the prospect of large absolute gains for both parties does not elicit their cooperation so long as each fears how the other will use its increased capabilities. Notice that the impediments to collaboration may not lie in the character and the immediate intention of either party. Instead, the condition of insecurity – at the least, the uncertainty of each about the other’s future intentions and actions – works against their cooperation.

In any self-help system, units worry about their survival, and the worry conditions their behavior. Oligopolistic markets limit the cooperation of states. Within rules laid down by governments, whether firms survive and prosper depends on their own effort. Firms need not to protect themselves physically against assaults from other firms. They are free to concentrate on their economic interests. As economic entities, however, they live in a self-help world. All want to increase profits. If they run undue risks in the effort to do so, they must expect to suffer the consequences. As William Fellner says, it is “impossible to maximize joint gains without the collusive handling of all relevant variables”. And this can be accomplished only by “complete disarmament of firms in relations to each other”. But cannot sensibly disarm even to increase their profits. This statement qualifies, rather than contradicts, the assumption that firms aim at maximum profits. To maximize profits tomorrow as well as today, firms first have to survive. Pooling all resources implies, again as Fellner puts in, “discounting the future possibilities of all participating firms” (1949, p. 35). But the future cannot be discounted. The relative strength of firms changes over time in ways that cannot be foreseen. Firms are constrained to strike a compromise between maximizing their profits and minimizing the danger of their own demise. Each of two firms may be better off if one of them accepts compensation from the other in return of withdrawing from some part of the market. But a firm that accepts smaller markets, in exchange for larger profits will be gravely disadvantaged if, for example, a price war should break out as part of renewed struggle for markets. If possible, one must resist accepting smaller markets in return for larger profits (…). “It is”, Fellner insists, “not advisable to disarm in relation to one’s rivals” (p. 199). Why not? Because “the potentiality of renewed warfare always exists” (p. 177). Fellner’s reasoning is much like the reasoning that led Lenin to believe that capitalist countries would never be able to cooperate with their mutual enrichment in one vast imperial enterprise. Like nations, oligopolistic firms must be more concerned with relative strength than with absolute advantage.

A state worries about a division of possible gains that may favor others more than itself. That is the first way in which the structure of international politics limits the cooperation of states. A state also worries lest it become dependent on others through cooperative endeavors and exchanges of goods and services. That is the second way in which the structure of international politics limits the cooperation of states. The more a state specialize, the more it relies on others to supply the materials and goods that it is not producing. The larger the state’s imports and exports, the more it depends on others. The world’s well-being would be increased if an ever more elaborate division of labor were developed, but states would thereby place themselves in situations of ever closer interdependence. Some states may not resist that. For small and ill-endowed states the costs of doing so are excessively high. But states that can resist becoming ever more enmeshed with others ordinarily do so in either or moth ways. States that are heavily dependent, or closely interdependent, worry about securing that which they depend on. The high interdependence of states means that the states in question experience, or are subject to, the common vulnerability that high interdependence entails. Like other organizations, states seek to control what they depend on or to lessen the extent of their dependency. This simple thought explains quite a bit of the behavior of the states; their imperial thrusts to widen the scope of their control and their autarchic strivings toward grater self-sufficiency.

Structures encourage certain behaviors and penalize those who do not respond to the encouragement. Nationally, many lament the extreme development of the division of labor, a development that results in the allocation of ever narrower tasks to the individuals. And yet, specialization proceeds, and its extent is a measure of the development of the societies. In a formally organized realm a premium is put on each unit’s being able to specialize in order to increase its value to others in a system of divided labor. The domestic imperative is “specialize”! Internationally, many lament the resources states spend unproductively for their own defense and the opportunities they miss to enhance the welfare of their people through cooperation with other states. And yet the ways of states change little. In an unorganized realm each unit’s incentive is to put itself in a position to be able to take care of itself since no one else can be counted to do so. The international imperative is “take care of yourself”! Some leaders of nations may understand that the well-being of all of them would increase through their participation in a fuller division of labor. But to act on the idea would be to act on a domestic imperative, an imperative that does not run internationally. What one might want to do in absence of structural constraints is different from what one is encouraged to do in their presence. States do not willingly place themselves in situations of increased dependence. In a self-help system, considerations of security subordinate economic gain to political interest.

What each state does for itself is much like what all others are doing. They are denied the advantages that a full division of labor, political as well as economic, would provide. Defense spending, moreover, is unproductive for all and unavoidable for most. Rather than increased well-being, their reward is in the maintenance of their autonomy. States compete, but not by contributing their individual efforts to the joint production of goods for their mutual benefit. Here is a second big difference between international-political and economic system, one which is discussed in part I, section 4, of the next chapter.

 

3. STRUCTURES AND STRATEGIES

 

(Kenneth Waltz: Theory of International Politics; University of California – Berkeley; Addison-Wesley Publishing Company 1979)

 

 

Friday, November 24, 2023

БАРУХ СПИНОЗА: Теолошко-Политички Трактат

Предговор

Д-р Анте Фиаменго

 

ТЕОЛОШКО-ПОЛИТИЧКИОТ ТРАКТАТ НА СПИНОЗА

 

III

...

До кои резултати (кои, како што изјавува самиот Спиноза, се плод на неговото длабоко размислување) го довела Спиноза неговата аналитичка и историско-критичка постапка?

Грижливото испитување го довеле Спиноза до заклучок дека многу книги од „Стариот Завет“ не се автентични, дека ги напишале други автори, а не оние на кои што им се припишуваат, како и дека тие книги, во добар дел, се наследени во фрагменти. Така на пример, Спиноза смета дека „Пентатеух“ не го напишал Мојсиј, туку некој автор кој живеел многу после него; дека „Книгата на Законот Божји“ за која е сигурно дека ја напишал Мојсиј, не е „’Пентатеух’, ами сосема друга книга“... итн. Исто така, не е автентична ниту „Книгата на Исус Навин“, туку – како што смета Спиноза – е напишана многу векови после смртта на Исус Навин. Спиноза мисли дека пишувачот на тие книги, како и на некои други, бил Езра, оти за тоа „постојат повеќе силни причини“. Освен тоа, разни книги како на пример, „Пророштвото на Јеремија“, „Книгата на Језекиј“, „Книгата Данилова“, „Првата книга на Езра“ итн. Се само фрагментарни, пророчки фрагменти, и како такви во голема мерка неверодостојни.

Текстовите на светите книги, според мислењето на Спиноза, изобилуваат со многубројни противречности (на пример, притчата за Јосиф и Јаков), несогласувања и материјални грешки (на пример во датумите и временските пресметки), со празнини и пропусти, а што нужно ја намалува вредноста на „Писмото“ како такво.

Една од поочигледните противречности се разликите во суштинските концепции помеѓу Мојсиј и Христос, Јаков и Павле, Мојсиевата религија и Христијанскта религија. На пример, Мојсиј се третира како законодавец, а за Христос се нагласува дека не „дошол да востановува закони као законодавец, туку да донесе морална поука како учител“. Во однос на прашањето на спасението, попстои битна разлика меѓу Павловото и гледиштето на Јаков. Павле учи „дека спасението зависи само од милоста Божја, дека нолпј не може да се фали со своите дела, туку единствено со верата“, додека напротив, Јаков учи оти „човек треба да биде просудуван и по неговите дела, а не само по верата“. Мојсиевата религија е закон на татковината, а Христовата – на луѓето „од сите времиња и сталежи“. Национално-ограничената Мојсиева религија станува Христијанско-космополитска, која што се обраќа кон сите луѓе без разлика.

Спиноза остро ја критикува верзијата дека во буквите на „Писмото“ се крие длабоки тајни, за чие објаснување се способни само посебни толкувачи и чувари. „Не знам дали слепата и глупа оддаденост или надуеното самољубие ги наведуваат да се прикажуваат како единствени чувари на Божјите тајни; ама знам дека во нивните книги сум наоѓал само детинести суеверја, наместо тајни за кои тврдат дека ги поседуваат. Сум ги читал, а дури и сум видел некои Кабалисти на чија лудост не сум можел доволно да се изначудам“. Исто така, Спиноза смета дека не може да се говори за непогречивоста на пророците и папите, ниту може на нивниот авторитет да се заснова нешто цврсто.

Меѓу најзанимливите резултати до кои доаѓа Спиноза во критиката на „Писмото“ секако спаѓа неговото гледање на проблемот на односот меѓу верата и разумот, теологијата и филозофијата, целта на „Писмото“ и целта на филозофијата, на односот помеѓу разумот и теологијата во поглед на извеноста на теоретските ставови, како и на прашањето на религиозната слобода.

Спиноза смета дека ниту еден апостол немал поголема склоност кон филозофирање од Павле. Додека тој се впуштал во теоретски дискусии, другите апостоли, проповедајќи ја религијата среде Евреите – тоест среде народот кој ја презирал филозофијата – „проповедале вера ослободена од филозофски теоретизирања“. Не порекнувајќи некои филозофски елементи во „Писмото“, Спиноза изрично кажува дека нив ги има мошне малку и дека се тие сосем едноставни. Анализирајќи го проблемот на односот меѓу филозофијата и теологијата на разни места во „Трактатот“ Спиноза изрично нагласува дека „измеѓу верата или теологијата и филозофијата нема никаква врска или било каква сродност“, така што е нужно да се одвои филозофијата од теологијата. Ваквиот основен аспект од којшто е пишуван Спинозиниот „Теолошко-политички трактат“ представувал одлучувачки удар на вековната теза на христијанските теолози, посебно на схоластичката филозофија, дека филозофијата е слугинка на теологијата, ancilla theologiae. Ккао што правилно забележува Brunschvicg, со тоа се урнати односите помеѓу содржината на позитивните религии и вистината од филозофски карактер, кои владееле во XVII век.

Одвојувањето на филозофијата од теологијата и на теологијата од филозофијата, што всушност значи практично спроведување на Спинозината концепција дека се тоа две сосема самостојни и дивергентни духовни сфери, произлегува од неколку основни елементи, како од теориска така и од психолошко-социјална природа. На чисто теориски план, ова раздвојување е потребно поради тоа што задача на филозофијата е да им пружи на луѓето теориско спознавање на светот, додека наспроти тоа, религијата „нема никакво право да поставува теориски догми за светот“; филозофијата по Спиноза нема никаква друга цел освен вистината, додека напротив „верата не ја бара толку вистината колку побожноста“; според него, основи на фолозофијата се „општи поими“, кои се изведуваат од самата природа, додека основи на верата се историјата и јазикот, а тие треба да се бараат во „Писмото“ и Откровението.

Доменот на филозофијата лежи во интелектуалната сфера, таа по својата битност е рационалистичка, додека напротив, религијата главно почива на психолошката и сферата на вољата. Конкретно говорејќи, основната цел на религијата – „Писмото“ – не лежи во проучување и медитација, туку во верување, во побожност, во послушание и покорување. Или како што вели Спиноза: „Подрачје на разумот е вистината и мудроста, додека побожноста и покорноста се подраќје на теологијата“. Ако религијата изискува такви морално-психолошки црти кај луѓето, тогаш е разбирливо дека нејзината улога е да ги држи луѓето во потчинета положба, мошне потребна на монарсите и властодршците.

Бидејќи религијата може да има многу негативни, кобни последици во општествениот живот, Спиноза бара полна слобода во однос на религијата, дури и нејзино потчинување на државната управа. Интересирајќи се за религиозниот либертинизам, за најширока вереска толеранција во добата на страотна верска нетрпеливост, на верски прогони и спалување на ломачи, Спиноза врз себе је навлекол омразата на сите конфесии од своата епоха, не само на рабинските догматичари, ама од друга страна, стекнал и мошне големи симпатии кај слободоумните луѓе во својата ера и во подоцнежните векови.

Проблематиката на односот религија – црква – држава, тоест општествено-политичката страна на религијата, Спиноза ја обработува во последните поглавја на своето дело. Иако тој политички дел заостанува зад првиот оддел и според длабината и по обемноста. Преку низа остри критички примедби, Спиноза овде ни се открива како попстојан карактер, слободен демократски мислител, и рационалист. Низ овие глави најизразито  се манифестира тесната врска на Спиноза со конкретните општествено-политички околности на Холандија во таа доба, пред се’ неговата блискост со идеите на Јан де Вит, познат државник не само во Холандија, туку и во целата Европа.

Ако за Спинозиното филозофирање во целина важи Брушвицговата напомена дека тој и’ се посветил на филозофијата затоа што барал да го реши прашањето како треба да се живее, за кој цел и почнал да ги набљудува луѓето околу себе, тогаш тоа првенствено важи за „Теолошко-Политичкиот Трактат“. Посматрајќи го животот околу себе, а вооружен со основните идеи на политичките доктрини од својата епоха, пред се’ со концепциите на Хобсовиот „Левијатан“, Спиноза на политички план истакнува некои ставови, кои во добар дел претставувале барања на граѓанската класа и на буржоаската револуција во борбата против феудалниот општествен систем. Иако Спинозините ставови во својата бит се антифеудално усмерени, и не секогаш се доволно консеквентни и докрај револуционерни, тие сепак ни го претставуваат Спиноза како решителен критичар на феудализмот.

...

 

(СПИНОЗА: Теолошко-Политички Трактат; изд. Култура 1957 год. СФРЈ)

 

 

Thursday, November 16, 2023

КЕМБРИЏ: Новата Средновековна Историја VII

Chapter 29

RUSSIA: Nancy Shields Kollmann

Russia’ is the state descended from the grand principality that coalesced around Moscow in the fourteenth century and began the historical continuum that extended to the Russian Empire (1725 – 1917), the Soviet Union (1917–91) and modern Russia. The fifteenth century was one of the most significant, and underappreciated, centuries in Russian history. At the century’s beginning the grand principality of Muscovy stretched form Mozhaisk (about 100 miles to Moscow’s west) eastward to the Suzdal’ – Nizhnii Novgorod grand principality (subject in part of Moscow since 1392), from Riazan’ in the south-east to the northern forests of Beloozero, Vologda and Ustiug. But its power was more tenuous than this geographical expanse would suggest. Moscow’s hold in the north and in Suzdal’ was superficial; surrounding Moscow lay myriad principalities ranging from the weak Rostov an Iaroslavl’ to the more potent grand principalities of Riazan’ and Tver’. Powerful rivals included the city republics of Novgorod and Pskov, not forgetting the grand duchy of Lithuania. Yet by the end of the century Moscow had achieved clear dominance in this area often called north-east Rus’ (in reference to the Kiev Rus’ state that flourished from the tenth to the twelfth centuries and bequeathed to Muscovy some important heritages). The key to Moscow success lay in the means, both institutional and symbolic, that it devised to consolidate its authority and to exploit and mobilise social resources. Those means of governance and ideological constructions endured for at last the next two centuries, and resonated beyond.

Sources for fifteenth century Russia are by no means abundant, but in some areas, such as politics and diplomacy, they are remarkably rich. Chronicles flourished, with codices being compiled in the grand duchy (Smolensk), Ukraine, Moscow, Tver’, Rostov, Vologda, Perm, Novgorod and Pskov. Jan Dlugosz’s history reflects on the grand duchy and the north east offer interesting accounts (Gilbert de Lannoy, Josafo Barbaro, Ambrogio Contarini and others). Treaties survive from Novgorod, Pskov, Moscow, Tver’ and the grand duchy with neighbouring powers and appanage kinsmen. Muscovite princely will also survive. For social and economic history, extant source are much weaker. Secular and ecclesiastical lawcodes from the Kiev era (the Nomocanon, or Kormchaia kniga; the Just Measure, or Meriolo pravednoe; the charters of Vladimir and Iaroslav; the Russian law, or Russkaia Pravda) continued to be copied, edited and applied in the grand duchy, Novgorod and the north-east. Codifications of law and judicial procedure also appear: Pskov, 1397; the grand duchy, 1488; Moscow, 1497. The Lithuanian state chancellery record, collected in the ‘Metrika’, are rich, while for Muscovy only military muster rolls and some diplomatic records were produced at the court. For north-east Rus’, there survive documents of land transfer, wills, genealogies, some litigation over land, a few Novgorod and Tver’ cadastres and a charter of local government (to Beloozero, 1488). Finally, saints’ lives offer details of daily life.

The chronicle of Muscowy’s regional expansion and geopolitical interaction displays vividly Moscow’ success. The dynamics of geopolitics in this century were structured by Moscow’s rivalry with the grand duchy of Lithuania. The Kipchak khanate (or so-called Golden Horde) westernmost outpost of the Mongol Empire, populated primarily by Tatars, - had disintegrated by the early decades of the century and its splinter groups played only supporting roles in the regional balance of power: the Khanate of Kazan’ existed by the 1440’s, producing khanate in Kasimov in 1452 that generally acted as a Muscovite pawn; the Crimean Khanate was controlled by the Girey clan by the 1443; the Great Horde on the lower Volga coalesced in the wake of the destruction of Sarai by Timur (Tamerlane) in the first years of the century. The arenas of geopolitics focused on the region’s two spheres of commercial activity, the Baltic and Volga. From the mid-fifteenth century the Baltic witnessed a trading boom that lasted until the early seventeenth. It focused on grain exports from Polish, Ukrainian and Belarus’an hinterlands, shipped at Stettin, Danzig, Konigsberg and Memel. Portes and trade centres farther north – the Livonian towns of Riga, Dorpat (Tartu) and Reval (Tallinn), as well as Novgorod and Pskov – continued to export forest products, primarily furs and wax. A prominent casualty of the heated competition on the Baltic was the Hanseatic League, whose monopoly on Baltic trade disintegrated from the pressure of various forces: national governments anxious to capture income from the Hansa towns; the competition of Dutch, English, South German and Swedish merchants; and a breakdown of discipline within the League itself. By the second half of the century Novgorod’s economy also declined precipitously.

Novgorod became embroiled in self-destructive conflicts with Hansa; it suffered from competition in Pskov, Smolensk, Polotsk, Moscow and Kazan’ (which was taking over the middle Volga and Kama basin from the Volga Bulgar khanate, which had been decimated by the collapse of the Mongol Empire at he end of the fourteenth century); Novgorod’s trade empire proved to be inflexible, for it remained based on squirrel fur when European demand shifted to luxury fur by mid-century.

The Baltic trade enhanced inland routes extending from Moscow and Tver’ westward to Novgorod and Pskov or to centres in the grand duchy such as Velikie Luki, Toropets, Vitebsk and Polotsk (both on the western Dvina), Smolensk and Vilnius. With trade on the Volga river eclipsed by Tatar strife, the Dnieper returned to its Kievan-era glory. Towns of the grand duchy on the Dnieper route, such as Chernihiv (on the Desna), Smolensk, Pereiaslav and Kiev, (all on the Dnieper), Turov (on the Pripet) and Volodymyr on in Volhynia flourished, while north-east Rus’ merchants developed trade routes through Kolomna and Riazan’ (on the Oka) to the upper Oka basin and on the head-waters of Desna, Dnieper and Don, and across the steppe to the Black Sea. The transit of goods to and from Europe and the east – once traversing the Mongol ‘silk road’ across the steppe trough an axis at the Caspian Sea – now pivoted around the Black Sea. Genoese colonies at Soldaia (Sudak, Sorozh) and Kaffa not only received annual expeditions of northern merchants from towns in the grand duchy and north-east Rus’, but sent their own merchants (Italians, Tatars, Greeks, Armenians, Jews) in return. The Crimean’s Horde trading centres at Ochakov and Perekop also prospered, even after Turkish conquest in 1475. It is thus no coincidence that the principal objects of connection between the grand duchy and Moscow lay on these routes: Novgorod, Pskov, Tver’ Smolensk and the upper Oka basin.

The rivalry between the grand duchy and Moscow simmered throughout the first half of the century. In the first third of the century the towering figure of Grand Duke Vytautas (1383 – 1430) overshadowed the relationship. Driven by a desire to assert his control from the Vistula to the Volga and to safeguard the integrity of the grand duchy in its dynastic union with Poland (1385), Vytautas was the most important political figure of his generation in Eastern Europe. Having failed in the first when defeated by the Great Hordeat the Vorskla river in 1399, he none the less succeeded in the second goal through Union of Horodlo (1413). By virtue of the marriage, in 1391, of his daughter, Sophia, to Grand Prince Vasilii I Dymitrievich (1389 – 1425) and Vasilii I’s naming him guardian of his underage son, Vytautas exerted influence in Moscow. He refrained from taking over Muscovy in 1425 when the ten-year-old Vasilii II (1425–62) inherited the throne. Instead, in the late 1420s Vytautas acted on other fronts, pursuing campaigns against Pskov (1426) and Novgorod (1428) and securing treaties of subordination from the still independent princes of Pronsk, Riazan’ and Tver’. In 1429 Vytautas agreed to accept a king’s crown from the Holu Roman Emperor, but he died in 1430 while the crown was en route, blocking from reaching him by Vytautas’s anxious rivals in Poland, and the Papacy and the Teutonic and Livonian Orders.

Vytautas’s death set off a succession struggle in the grand duchy which prevented it from playing an active role in the north-east Rus’ politics. In the 1430s and 1440s the grand principality of Moscow was similarly embroiled, the issues being dynastic succession and regional tensions. When the deaths of Vytautas and of Metropolitan Fotii (1431) deprived Vasilii II of effective patronage and mediators, the young ruler’s uncle, Iurii of Galich (with a capital at Zvenigorod), challenged him for the throne. Since early in the fourteenth century the Daniilovich dynasti had been practising de facto primogeniture (despite traditions of collateral succession in the Ruirikide dynasty from which it stemmed), because heirs were few and mortality high. Prince Iurii’s claim threatened in the main the boyar clans, who had flourished under the predictability of linear succession; support for the young heir was therefore strong. The dynastic struggles flared for almost twenty years, in two phases. Prince Iurii won the Kremlin briefly in 1434, but died later that year. His son, Vasilii Kosoi, continued the challenge, but was blinded in 1435, temporary ending the hostilities. These were renewed in 1445, when the defeat and temporary capture of Vasilii II by the Kazan’ Tatarts opened opportunity from Prince Iurii’s second son, Dmitrii Shemiaka. Shemiaka seized the Kremlin and Vasilii II in 1446, blinding him in retaliation for Kosoi’s mutilation. The war ended later that year with the expulsion of Shemiaka from the Kremlin and a victory for Vasilii II, his boyars and the principles of linear succession and central control.

The failure of the opposition can be attributed to its incoherence. The most consistent supporter of the Galich princes were trading centres of the upper Volga and northern territories rich in furs: Kostroma, Galich, Vologda, Beloozero and the city republic of Viatka (with its capital in Khlynov). Prince Ivan of Mozhaisk, whose lands approached the border with the grand duchy, also threw in his lot, as did Suzdal’ – Nizhnii Novgorod. Although an in-law of Prince Iurii, the Lithuanian Grand Duke Svitrigaila (1430-2) was too embroiled in his own struggles for the throne in the grand duchy to help; disarray among the Tatars prevented them for playing a consistent role. Novgorod tried to play both sides by sheltering both Vasilii II and Prince Vasilii Kosoi in 1434, but by the 1440s it openly supported Prince Dmitrii Shemiaka, offering him sanctuary in 1446. He died there in 1453, poisoned perhaps on Vasilii II’s orders. Tver initially supported the opposition, but in 1446 allied with Vasilii II, affirming the alliance with the betrothal of the future Ivan III ( 1462 – 1505) to Grand Prince Mikhail’s daughter, Mariia. Finally, in 1449 the grand duchy agreed not to intervene, and renounce its designed to Novgorod and Tver’. Thus, the opposition to Vasilii II was diffuse and tentative.

One loser in the dynastic war was the Moscow Danilovich dynasty in itself, since the principal of linear succession proved to be costly; Ivan III forbade and delayed marriages of several of his brothers, so that Iurii and Adrei the younger died unmarried, Andrei of Uglich was arrested in 1491 with his two sons, and died in captivity, and Boris of Volok Lamskii lived in constant tension with Ivan III. The majority of Vasilii II’s remaining kinsmen were persecuted after the dynastyc war: two descendants of Dmitrii Shemiaka and Ivan of Mozhaisk, who had fled to the grand duchy in the 1440s, were enticed back to Muscovy in 1500 and one, Shemiaka grandson, was arrested with his son in 1523 (both died in prison). The loyal Prince Vasilii Iaroslavich of Borovsk was also arrested with most of his sons in 1456 and died soon thereafter. This stringent policy continued until Ivan IV (1533–84) was left with no direct or collateral male kin and the dynasty died out with his last son < Fedor, in 1598.

There were two clean winners in this struggle, of which one was the Moscow boyar elite. That body’s origin can be traced to the late fourteenth century in a core of families that founded hereditarily privileged military clans whose senior members had the hereditary right to serve as boyars. The dignity gave them access to power, status, land and other largesse from the grand prince. Surviving the dynastic war, this core retained pre-eminence into the sixteenth century. The second victor in the dynastic war was the grand principality of Moscow itself. In the 1450’s and 1460s Moscow consolidated its control of remaining independent north-east Rus’ principalities: Riazan’, through complex marital connections from 1456 to 1521; Iaroslavl’, in 1463; and Rostov Velikii, in 1463 and 1474. From the 1460’s Moscow embarked on a concerted military and missionary effort to consolidate control on lands where Muscovite authority had been claimed since the 1360s: Vichegda Perm’ and Perm’ Velikaia on the upper Kama. By the 1489 conquest of Viatka and that of Iugra and Voguly tribes of the Urals in 1499, Moscow came to dominate these fur-rich lands.

The defeats of Novgorod and Tver’ constituted Moscow’s greatest achievements in the wake of the dynastic wars. Novgorod held obstinately throughout the fifteenth century to a myopic foreign policy, the product of its ruling boyar oligarchy. Reforms from the first third of the fifteenth century increased the collective mayoralty (posadnichestvo) from six to eighteen; the number rose to twenty-four and eventually to thirty-four by the end of the century. The council of lords (sovet gospod, composed of all current and past mayors and thousandmen, chaired by archbishop), became larger still (fifty or sixty members), representing almost all of the city’s boyar families. This was decisive turn to oligarchy, marking the mayoralty’s transformation from a political office to a corporate estate, symbolized by the use of coins of an image modelled on the seal of oligarchic Venice. After these reforms the famed town council (veche) of Novgorod became a rubber stamp.

Recognizing the rising power of Moscow, Novgorod enlisted Lithuanian and Suzdal’ (Shuiskii) princes as defenders of the town and developed ever stronger pro-Lithuanian parties (although some groups advocated compromise with Moscow). After Shemiaka’s death in 1453 in Novgorod, Moscow attacked the city and exacted harsh retribution. By the treaty of Iazhelbitsy, Moscow ostensibly agreed to maintain Novgorodian ‘tradition’ (starina, poshlina), but restricted political associations, exacted a huge fine, claimed territory in Beloozero lands and, worst of all, imposed the grand prince’s court as highest court of appeal. In 1471, still defiant, the boyars of Novgorod agreed to accept Casimir, king of Poland and grand duke of Lithuania, as their sovereign. This apostasy prompted Moscow to mount a coalition with Tver’ and Pskov against Novgorod; falling to receive help from Casimir, Novgorod fell in a bloody defeat at the Shelon’ river. The treaty of Korostyn’ reaffirmed the Iazhelbitsy terms, claimed Vologda and Volok Lamskii, forbade Novgorod to consort with the grand duchy and forced the city to issue a new judicial charter in Ivan III’s name.

It was persuasively argued that Moscow’s goal in Novgorod were merely to establish a loyal government; it was intransigence of the pro-Lithuanian factions which drove Ivan III to more radical measures. In 1478, after the abortive military campaign, Novgorod capitulated. Ivan III took over its hinterland, dismantled the urban government, installed Moscow vicegerents (namestniki) and, over the next decade, exiled hundreds of Novgorod merchant, boyar and lesser landholding families to lands in central Muscovy, confiscating all boyar-owned property, almost all of the archbishop’s lands and about three-quarters of monastic estates, about 80 per cent of seigniorial properties in all. On about half of these, Moscow introduced conditional land tenure (pomest’e). The northern Dvina lands and most of the Obonezhskaia fifth were not distributed as pomestiia because their land was inhospitable for farming and too sparsely settled. The rest were reserved for the grand prince and tax-paying communes. Finally, Ivan III summarily closed down the German Hansa neighbourhood in Novgorod in 1494 for twenty years, giving preferential treatment to his newly founded (1492) fortress and trade depot at Ivangorod on the Gulf of Finland.

Clearly, both lack of military preparedness and political mismanagement played role in Novgorod’s defeat. It had failed to make effective alliance or to compromise with Moscow. Its intransigence is well characterised by Archbishop Evtimii (1429–58). Under him three major chronicle codices and five lesser redactions were compiled, providing an alternative vision to Muscovite all-Rus’ compendia. In 1436 he initiated cults associated with the victory of the Novgorodians against the Suzdalians in 1169 (an allegory for Novgorod’s rivalry with Moscow), a victory commemorated in icons and in tales and saint’s lives, the later commissioned by Serbian writer, Pakhomii Logofet. In 1439 Evtimii also canonised nine Novgorod archbishops and several eleventh- and twelfth-century princes, all revered for espousing Novgorodian liberties. The most spectacular of the anti-Muscovite Novgorodian compositions of the fifteenth century was the legendary ‘Tale of the White Cowl’, which linked Novgorod with Byzantium and Kiev Rus’ as the recipient of the white cowl, given by the Roman Emperor Constantine the Great to Pope Sylvester, and miraculously transported from Rome to Constantinople and the to Novgorod as emblem of the city’s claim to universal political authority.

Archbishop Evtimii also evoked Novgorod’s past in architecture, rebuilding several churches according to their original designs. At the same time, Novgorodian icon painting reached a zenith, continuing traditions of austere composition and subject matter, bright palette and emotional directness. Other realms of culture flourished: the Novgorodian Archbishop Genadii (1484 – 1504) assembled translators and writers to make the first full Slav translation of the Bible, and to compose polemics against Moscow pretensions on Novgorodoan church property and ecclesiastical autonomy, as well as against the Judaisers. This group of free-thinkers in Novgorod and Moscow was accused of Jewish practises and anti-Trinitarianism, but their full beliefs are difficult to ascertain due to a paucity of non-tendentious sources. In the climate of oligarchy, Archbishop Evtimii’s activities had no galvanizing effect on the populace. Rather, they epitomised the stubborn wilfulness of Novgorod’s boyars, who met every victorious Muscovite embassy in 1456, 1471 and 1478 with proposals based on thirteenth-century treaties that preserved ‘tradition’ and restricted princely authority to a minimum.

As Muscovy subjugated Novgorod, tensions continued between the grand duchy and Moscow. King/Grand Duke Casimir allied with the Great Horde in late 1460s; in consequence Moscow turned to the Crimean Khanate, an alliance that endured until 1512. Expecting Lithuanian aid that never came, the Great Horde mounted a major campaign against Moscow in 1480, but was easily pushed back, presaging its final conquest by Moscow in 1502. The ‘stand on the Ugra river’ was immortalised beyond all real significance by Bishop Vassian Rylo of Rostov Velikii in the late fifteenth century and has come to signify the ’throwing of the Mongol Yoke’, although effective authority of the Kipchak khanate over north-east Rus’ had already disintegrated in the first half of the century.

Chapter 30

BYZANTIUM: THE ROMAN ORTODOX WORLD, 1393 – 1492: Anthony Bryer

CHRONOLOGY AND DEFINITION

Byzantines were perhaps more concerned than most medieval people with the insecure business of measuring time and defining authority. There was not much they could do about either, but naming is a taming of forces of nature and anarchy, and placed the humblest in relation to the stability of God. Byzantines called the order “taxis”. They craved taxis all the more in the fifteenth century Anno Domini, because for Ortodox Christians, who counted by the Anno Mundi, it was, quite simply, the end of the secular world. For subjects of either, or both, emperor and patriarch of Constantinople the New Rome, the world was created of 1 September 5508 BC. Gennadios II Scholarios, Sultan Mehemmed II’s first patriarch after the fall of the Constantinople to the Ottoman Turks on 19 May 1453, put matters in cosmic proportion by foretelling the doomsday on 1 September 1492, the end of the seventh millennium AM. In 1393, the first year of the last century of the world, Patriarch Antonios IV (1389–97) had put matter in taxis. Grand Prince Vasilii I of Moscow (1389 – 1425) had complained that while there was Church, there did not seem to be a credible emperor in Constantinople, to which the patriarch replied that ‘it is not possible to have a Church without an emperor. Yea, even if, by the permission of God, the nations [i.e. the Turks] now encircle the government and residence of the emperor… he is still an emperor and autocrat of the Romans – that is to say of all Christians.’

The truth was that in 1393 the Ottoman Sultan Bayazid I, who had in 1389 won his throne and the vassalage of Serbia on the battlefield of Kosovo, annexed Bulgaria and was preparing to encircle the government and the residence of the emperor Manuel II Palaiologos (1391 – 1425) in Constantinople, a blockade which was only broken when the sultan was captured by Timur at Ankara in 1402. The Mongols, however, soon left Anatolia, but not before reviving the nexus of emirates from which the Ottomans had sprung in what is now Turkey. Thrown into civil war until the emergence of Mehemmed I (1413–21), the Ottomans regrouped in their most recent Balkan conquest, giving Byzantium a half-century’s respite. By 1453 the city was far from being a bulwark of the west against the hordes of Asia: indeed, the reverse. In secular terms the Ottoman state already ruled farm more Orthodox Christians than dis the Byzantine emperor. It was a European ruler, based in Balkans, that Sultan Mehemmed II (1444–6, 1451–81) finally took Constantinople as a preliminary to his conquest and reconquest of Anatolia, which occupied the rest of his reign.

The Ottomans were not people but a dynasty; nor did their Muslim subjects then call themselves ‘Turks’. Patriarch Antonios used the term ‘nation’ (Greek ethnos, Latin natio) pejoratively to describe such barbarians – but he did not call himself ‘Greek’ either, let alone ‘Helene’, which meant ancient pagan. He signed himself, in Greek, as ‘Our Moderation, Antonios, elect of God, archbishop of Constantinople the New Rome, and ecumenical patriarch’. Today we call his flock ‘Byzantines’. But this is as helpful as calling the French ‘Lutetians’, after the classical name of their capital in Paris. So far as Antonios was concerned, he and his flock were Christian subjects of the first Constanine’s New Rome. Hence use is made of their own self-denominator of ‘Roman Orthodox’ to describe them in this chapter.

In the fifteenth century, ‘Byzantines’ still called themselves ‘Romans’ (Greek Romaioi), synonymous with ‘Christians’; in Greek their Church was Catholic, or ecumenical. But Emperor John VIII Palaiologos (1425–48) had to appeal for support to an older Rome and another catholic Church against the encircling Ottomans. John would have been surprised to find himself described in the Latin version of the subsequent decree of the Union of the Churches as ‘emperor of the Greeks’, for he had actually subscribed to it in purple in Florence on 6 July 1439 as ‘in Christ God faithful emperor and autocrat of the Romans’ – his sprawling signature is in Greek. But the emperor was emphatically Roman and his people soon confirmed their Orthodox identity too – by generally rejecting the Council of Florence.

This discussion of time and title may sound antiquarian today, but it is vital to an understanding of the identity of the Roman Orthodox in the fifteenth century. It coincided roughly with the ninth century of the Muslim era, when it was the Ottomans who first named Byzantines for what they were: subjects of a Church which had survived an empire, called ‘Rum’, or Romans. The definition holds to this day, mostly vividly when a villager in north-eastern Turkey explains that ‘This was Roman country; they spoke Christian here’.

If this chapter were limited to the Byzantine Empire in the fifteenth century, it would be halved by the fall of Constantinople in 1453 which indeed resounded in the west, where historians have made that date one to remember, without quite explaining why. In truth, the change of municipal government in Constantinople was important, not so much in the west as to those whom it principally involved: the Roman Orthodox. The arrangements made between sultan and patriarch in 1454 may have been shadowy, but they introduced a new order, or taxis, which ensured the future of Roman Orthodox incorporated in later conquest of Morea and the Pontos. Their internal politics still depended on who said what at Florence in 1439, but Roman Orthodox bonds which survived the conquest were older and simpler: those of patronage and patris – homeland.

This chapter therefore concentrates on the Roman Orthodox in the last century of their world: AM 6901 – 7000, or AD 1393 – 1492. It concentrates on four homelands, based on Salonica, Mistra, Constantinople and Trebizond. It must exclude other Orthodox, Greek-speaking or not, under Venetian, Hospitaller or local ‘Latin’ or ‘Frankish’ (mostly what would now be termed Italian) rule along Adriatic coast, in the Aegean and (until 1523) the Dodecanese, or (until 1571) Cyprus. It excludes Albania (conquered from 1397 to 1497), Bulgaria (1393) and Herzegovina and southern Bosnia (1463–5). It excludes the lands north of the Danube which emerged from the fourteenth century as posthumous Byzantine states (and were to adopt the very name of ‘Romania’), being Wallachia (eventually incorporated as tributary from 1462 to 1512). It must even exclude the peoples of Crimea, whom Mehemmed II made tributary in 1475, turning the Black sea into Ottoman lake: Khazars, Armenians and Karaite Jews ruled by Crim-Tatar khans, Roman Orthodox princes of Gotthia and Genoese consuls of Kaffa.

By the end of the century only two eastern Christian rulers survived wholly independent of the Ottoman Empire. Ethiopia had subscribed to the Union of Florence, but its Solomonic king, the negus Na’od (1478 – 1508) had an Orthodoxy of his own. Moscow had rejected Florence, so was Orthodox enough; Grand Prince Ivan III (1462 – 1505) had even married the niece of Constantine XI Palaiologos, last emperor in Constantinople (1449–53). But New Rome did not grant Russia its patriarchate until 1589, on the grounds that Old Rome forfeited the title, and Moscow could never enter the bottom of the list as Third Rome.

At the end of the seventh millennium in Constantinople, Patriarch Maximos IV (1491–7) was spared the embarrassment which faces all who foretell a Day of Judgement which comes and goes without incident, for by AM 7000 most Roman Orthodox had adopted the western computation of AD 1492. Instead, he could say with more conviction than had his predecessor, Antonios, a century before, that while since 1453 it was demonstrably possible to have a Church without an emperor, it was now possible to have a Church with a sultan – indeed for Orthodox a sultan was preferable to a doge or a pope. Patriarch Maximos urged the Republic of Venice to grant rights and freedom of worship to Roman Orthodox in the Ionian Islands which they enjoyed in the Ottoman Empire, while the Roman Orthodox Church in Cyprus had to wait until 1571 for the Ottoman conquest of the island to restore its autonomy. Under Sultan Bayazid II in 1492, the identity, survival or even prosperity of the Roman Orthodox were more assured that they had seemed to be in 1393, when Bayazid I had threatened an emperor in Constantinople.

SALONICA AND ITS BISHOPS

The city of Salonica has many names: Greek Thessalonike, Roman Thessalonika, Slav Solun, Venetian Salonicchio, Turkish Selanic, and Hebrew Slonki. For all these peoples it appeared to be the strategic or commercial key to the Balkans. The city stands close to where the Axios river (Vardar) is crossed by the Via Egnatia before it debouches into the Aegean Sea. The river, which rises deep in the Balkans, brought Slav traders to the annual fair of St Demetrios, patron of Salonica and (through their Salonican evangelists Sts Cyril and Methodios) of all Slavs, each 26 October. The Egnatian highway runs from Adriatic coast to Constantinople, so linking Old and New Rome at Salonica.

The Slavs found Salonica was a key which they could not turn. Even the most aggressive of Serbian tsars, Stefan Urosh IV, surnamed Dushan (1331–55), was unable to take the long-desired city of St Demetrios. By contrast its shallow harbor and October fair were not particular attractive to Italian traders even when they were actually offered its key in 1423. By the Salonica had developed another reputation. As the second city of the Byzantine and (eventually) Ottoman Empire, its relationship with the capital in Constantinople was always uneasy. Even when ruled by a secondary member of the imperial family, it gained a local identity a sort of a city-state of its own, with a recognizable if inchoate local leadership, often headed by its archbishop.

The fourteenth-century urban and peasant uprising of western Europe were paralleled in Byzantium. In western terms, revolutionary Salonica become a ‘commune’ from 1342 to 1350. In truth, its urban and artisanal mass was only just critical enough to claim local self-determination behind the great walls of the city, with a still shadowy political ideology called ‘Zealot’. But Salonica did not forget those heady days. Its ‘commune’ was a hardly surprising response to outside pressures: civil war in Byzantium (1341-7), the Ottoman entry into Europe (1345–54) and the death of Dushan (1345), all compounded by the Black Death (1347-8). Yet in Salonica these years are marked by some of the finest surviving late Byzantine decorated churches and by career of the last great Father of the Roman Orthodox Church: St Gregory Palamas. Palamas was archbishop of Salonica from 1347 to 1359. His doctrines were confirmed by the Roman Orthodox Church in the next century and remain vital spiritual ideology of the Slav Orthodox in particular. The essentially mystical theology of Palamas maintained that the unknowable essence of God could be approached by revelation rather than reason, and hence was in direct opposition to the Aristotelian scholasticism of the western Church. On the nearby monastic commune of Mount Athos, Palamism was given expression by Hesychasts – best described as ‘Quietists’ – whose spiritual connections with the political ‘Zealots’ were both obvious and obscure.

The Ottomans first besieged Salonica from 1383 to 1387. Local leadership was divided between its governor, the future emperor Manuel II Palaiologos, and its archbishop, Isidore Glabas (1380-4, 1389–96). Manuel told his subjects to defy Turkish ultimatum. On St Demetrios Day 1383 Glabas warned his flock to mend their ways, just as St Paul had twice written to the Thessalonians on hope, discipline and premature thoughts of the end of the world. Salonica dully fell in 1387. In 1393 archbishop ventured back to his see. He found that the world there had not ended. Indeed, Ottoman occupation was more tolerable than Manuel had threatened. Sultan Bayazid had granted the citizens special favuors and had left the infrastructure of Byzantine local government and its officers largely at place.

The facts were that that Ottomans could do no other. Vastly outnumbered by the people they conquered, their problem was manpower: there were too few Muslims to go round, and of those, too few Turks. The solution was obvious. While the conversion of an Orthodox Christians to Islam could be swift and relatively painless, it takes longer to turn Roman into a Turk, which is a theme of this chapter. Yet there were short-cuts. In a sermon delivered in occupied Salonica in 1395 Archbishop Glabas was early to report on an expedient which may date from the first substantial Ottoman establishment in Europe, at Gallipoli in the Dardanelles in 1354. It is called devshirme (‘recruitment’) in Turkish and paidomazoma (‘harvest of children’) in Greek. This ‘child levy’ took Christians for training in the Ottoman administration and, especially, in the ‘new army’ (Turkish yeni cheri; English janissary). Girsl could aspire to the Harem. It was such converts who were the most eager for further conquest. Their advancement, especially after the battle of Ankara in 1402, led to tension with old Anatolian Turkish leadership, which was to come to a head in 1453.

In the aftermath of Timur’s victory at Ankara, Salonica reverted to Byzantium in 1403. Once again its archbishop provided characteristic leadership. Archbishop Symeon of Salonica (1416/17 – 29), urged his flock to keep firmly Roman and Orthodox. An ardent Hesychast, he sought to restore the identity of the city in the face of Venetian and Ottoman pressure. It was difficult to know who constituted the greater threat: the Turks, converts from Orthodoxy included, who were sent to chastise the Salonicans for their sins, or the Venetians who were to infect them with the plague of heresy. From St Sophia, Constantinople, Symeon reintroduced public liturgy to his own cathedral of St Sophia in Salonica, and, as in Constantinople, regulated a twice-daily street procession of the protecting icon of the Mother of God called Hodegetria. But in Constantinople Manuel II Palaiologos (1391 – 1425), by then aged seventy-three, was now more cautious. In 1423, unable to defend Salonica against the Ottomans, the emperor invited the Republic of Venice to do it for him. Archbishop Symeon tried to rally his Roman Orthodox by chastising them in the name of St Demetrios, on whose miraculous defense of the city in the past he wrote a great discourse in Venetian occupied Salonica in 1427/8. Actually, the Venetians were initially welcomed as no great friends of the pope in Rome, but found the place expensive to defend and the Salonicans doing deals with Turks. The end rally came with Archbishop Symeon’s death late in 1429, which meant that the Ottomans finally took a demoralized city on 29 March 1430. The Venetian captains had slipped away; the icon of Hodgetria was smashed; and 7000 Salonicans were taken captive.

What happened next is partly revealed in Ottoman tahrir defters, tax and census registers. Short of manpower, the Ottomans correctly targeted cities such as Salonica, first to Islamicise, and then Turkicise. Outside the walls the overwhelmingly peasant population could await assimilation. Sultan Mehemed II had a declared policy of demographic manipulation, today called ‘ethnic cleansing’, which has good Byzantine precedent. The Ottoman term was surgun (forcible deportation an resettlement), which, along with devshirme, noted by Glabas, and natural erosion by conversion, should soon have made Salonica the second Ottoman city of the Empire. But this did not happen. The place recovered slowly after 1430, within walls enclosing about 285 hectares, which in medieval Mediterranean terms could encompass a population of 30.000 or more.

In fact, Salonica had an adult population of about 10,414 by 1478, which doubled to 20,331 in c. 1500 and only tripled to reach 29,220 by 1519. The precision of Ottoman registers is spurious (for it omits tax-evaders and tax-exempt), but the scale is reliable enough. Clearly, resettlement and conversion were belated. In 1478 the city had a Muslim population of 4,320 but its Christian (Roman Orthodox) element, with 6,094 souls was still in absolute majority with 59 per cent of households. By c. 1500 the Christian population had grown to 7,986 but, with 8,575 the Muslim population had doubled to reach, for the first time, a simple majority of 42 percent of the inhabitants of Salonica. But about 1500 a third category was introduced, if incompletely recorded: 3,770 Jews. By 1519, 15,715 Jews were registered: 54 per cent of the population of Salonica, an absolute majority which they maintained until the semi-conversion of many to Islam with that of their false Messiah, Sabbatai Zavi (1625–76) after 1666.

The conversion of the major city of the Balkans, from the staunchly Roman Orthodox see of Archbishops Palamas, Glabas and Symeon, first into a Muslim stronghold and then into the largest Jew city in the world, all within space of four decades, needs explanation. In the past, Byzantine emperors had in turn invited western Christian powers and Ottoman Turks to fight their wars with against Orthodox Serbs and Bulgars for them, and regretted the expedient. Now the Ottoman state was faced with a grater, demographic war. If Salonica could not be turned Turk, a third urban element could be introduced. Before 1430 there is evidence for a few Greeks-peaking and Karaite Jews in the city, not even registered in 1478. But after their conquest of Granada in 1492, the Catholic sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabel, expelled their Spanish (Sephardic) Jews, who spoke Ladino (or ‘Latin’). Bayazid II welcomed them through Constantinople, largely to settle in Salonica. It was the greatest surgun of all. Ottoman demographic strategy, if such it was, meant that Salonica did not have a Roman Orthodox majority again until after 1912, when it fell to Greece, once more to become second city.

 

THE MOREA, THE COUNCIL OF FLORENCE AND PLETHON

(“THE NEW CAMBRIDGE MEDIEVAL HISTORY” Volume VII c. 1415 – 1500 edited by Christopher Allmand, Professor of Medieval History in the University of Liverpool; Cambridge University press, first published 1998, reprinted 2006)