A great (and unfortunately often forgotten) quote, but I don't think your translation is entirely correct. So I've taken the liberty of correcting it a bit
Ah, my personal, living and walking editorial, right there. Thanks Dementor.
A lion rises over the Balkans: The Third Bulgarian State
- Thread starter BgKnight
- Start date
Ah, my personal, living and walking editorial, right there. Thanks Dementor.
As am I. Any incarnation of Bulgaria is explored rarely in alternate history.
Thank you for the massive support everyone.
So we are back in business then, I will do the best I can do update frequently. And to start this off, here is what you all have been asking for previously, how did Solun fall in rebel hands indeed?
It won't make much clear, but it will make enough to make it interesting. Make sure to pay attention to the developing threads and changes in the rebellion, because they will come to play later as well.
But without further ado, enjoy.
The capture of Solun is another controversial event, by the time he returned, Macedonia was more or less in his grasp, he held almost total control over the region, having pacified most Turkish and Muslim populated villages, effectively canceling the Muslim threat. On one side, the assault on Solun more or less made sense, considering that while the Ottomans had limited power inside Macedonia itself, Greek Macedonia was still a threat and Solun, being the main military city in the region, was what united the Turks in their opposition.
Levski deduced that if Solun was to fall, this would more or less cancel the threat of Ottoman counter-attack into Macedonia, the same way as they attacked into Thrace, leaving him with a lot more room to maneuver his forces. But he had a huge obstacle in the way, Solun was a Greek-populated city and even though he had managed to build friendly relations with the Greeks along the campaign in Macedonia, they were still responsible for his capture. So he had to tread lightly.
In surprising twist of fate however, it was the Greeks themselves that came to Levski, not the other way around. While the whole campaign in Macedonia had been ongoing, and the Bulgarians in the north were securing victories after victories, the Greek General Spyros Milios and the revolutionary Dimitrios Botsaris (Son of Notis Botsaris, as opposed to Dimitrios Botsaris, the son of Markos Botsaris) were planning a massive revolution in Ottoman ruled Epirus. Using the Ottoman-friendly façade to stockpile weapons and arms, to plan offensives and prepare. While there was a lot of animosity between the Bulgarians and the Greeks , there was a massive drive against the Ottomans which outweigh any dislike between the two. So the Deacon and Botsaris met, on neutral ground, in heavily wooded hill in Epirus, discussing cooperation assistance. Their discussion led to one of the more interesting events in the war for independence.
"The Deacon and the Greek"
Exerts from the collection
of short stories “Makedonja
” by Dimitar Talev
© Balkan press LTD, 1963
The silent night fell upon the City of Solun, the low walls were lightly patrolled for over half a year now, even though the escape of the Deacon was still fresh in the minds of the Ottomans. As the silence slowly gripped the neighborhoods of the city, the guards slightly increased the patrols on the walls. But really, there wasn’t much to worry about, the city being surrounded by mostly flatland with just a few forests on the east of the city, leading to a mountainous region. But in reality, the forest was sparse and the hills high, making anyone advancing easily visible to the Ottomans.
So the guards waited, watched and begun to doze off, the warm evening was comfortable, the smell of the trees was homely and the tobacco tasty. Ahmed was one of these guards, looking at the beautiful landscape, turning his head around to the shimmering sea, lit up by the crescent moon. Then, he looked to the city, he could hear his friends talking to the side, but he didn’t listen, the sight was always more important.
Smiling, he explored the small tight streets, paved with whatever rocks they can get their hands on. The jagged and uneven roads spanned from wall to wall, spilling on the walls of the homes of the rayah, like some still picture of a high tide in the process of climbing the rocks on the shore. And inside their homes, the rayah, praying in their weird languages, to their prophet, the bleeding prophet, Isa. Unlike his friend Ahmed didn’t mind the Christian religion, he was quite found of their icons really; of course, he wouldn’t advertise this out loud, but he sometimes snuck in their monasteries, wearing clothes of the Greeks and hiding his face, to listen to their prayers and sermons. He quite liked the songs, they were very melodic, and he understood some Greek, so it wasn’t exactly foreign to him. It made him wonder, why did they all had to fight?
What made us so different, the Christians had Isa, but he was also in the Islamic religion, they preached love and religious tolerance, we preached it as well. But even as he asked himself that question, Ahmed felt… different. He never was much of a believer in the first place, but having spent more time with the Christians now, he felt bad for the rayah, he wanted to be close to them. Also, he had fallen in love.
Ah, the curse of separation, he though as his face flushed red with embarrassment, why must they be of two different kinds? He looked over at the stables, to the horses, and imagined the beautiful Katerina, cleaning the stables. Her face, white and pure, like the moons tears. She was a Bulgarian, an Orthodox Christian, he was a Turk, a Muslim, they were from two different worlds. Yet, the look that girl gave him, the smile she hid so quickly when he responded, the hushed whispers and confessions they had exchanged.
The closer he got to her, the more he realized the rayah were not some animals to be culled, they were people, humans, beautiful and calm people who took on everything his kind lashed at them. He knew he could have her any time he wished, he was a Turk after all, he could just bring her to his guard house and have his way with her. But he didn’t want that, no, he wanted this girl to be with him, to love him, not to hate him. He was not a monster.
He sighed, realizing that even though they both shared this though, they could never be together, he could not marry her unless she changed her religion, and her parents will never allow her to marry a lowly guard from the local Bashi-bouzuk unit. He looked at the trees that covered the east, his mind was still wandering when he noticed the movement and froze.
He though it was wolfs at first, some sort of animal, but those were not animals, oh allah, those were far from animals. And so many of them; he froze in his seat, standing there, staring, he wanted to jump up, go to the horn, proclaim their arrival, he knew this was it and he can’t waste time. But something was stopping him. With a scared expression he glanced quickly at his “friends”, the rest of the guards had teased him endlessly for his relationship with the Christian, and he searched deep and realized he held no love for them. But it was his duty.
He stood up and closed on them, they were playing cards and smoking tobacco, a few of them were sleeping already, there was only three half-awoken turks really. He touched the shoulder of one of them and whispered “Ill be back in a bit, I need to take a piss.”
“Ok fine, just be quick about it.” The old man waved dismissively without even looking at Ahmed, suddenly he felt calmer, his heart still pounding, but now he was sort-off excused, he had enough time to hide, change out of the clothes. Maybe even reach his family with Katerina’s family, save them, will they be thankful? Perhaps, they might even allow him to marry her, oh what a joy that would be.
As he slipped down-stares to the guard tower at the gate, with a half-smile on his face, he froze once again, the smile disappeared. He was standing in a pool of blood; the gate-party was dead and before him, like angels of death, stood two Greek males. They had white robes on, he recognized that uniform and it filled him with fear, those were revolutionary uniforms. However they hadn’t noticed him, as the stares were in a reasonably dark place, away from the two men, they were still busy finishing off one of the Turks who was struggling quietly.
Ahmed, almost in a dream, jumped forward, grabbed one of them and pulled him to the side, he was larger than the Greek, so he easily pressed the man to the side wall. In a lightning move, the other one pulled a pistol on Ahmed, but the youth managed to whisper “STOP” in Greek; this caused a moment of hesitation in the revolutionary.
“Stop…” he continued quietly in broken Greek “I will not rat you…” pointing upwards to his comrades on the roof. “let me live.”
“You expect us to believe that.” The free revolutionary said that, arming his pistol with one hand
“Yes. “ Ahmed said, slowly releasing the second revolutionary, and pulling out his pistol and knife handle-first, he lifted his hands up to show willingness to cooperate. “You need three people to open door, I help.” He continued in Greek, as the two revolutionaries looked puzzled. They looked at each other, and without a word, but still pointing their pistols at Ahmed, sneaked to primitive gate’s bar, once Ahmed had gripped it with both of his hands, so did the Greeks, lifting the heavy bar up and over the latches holding it. The sound produced was not much, but it was enough to raise suspicion, so once they had slowly put it on the ground, Ahmed signaled the Greeks to be quiet.
He heard no commotion up stairs, so he grabbed one side of the massive gate, signaling to the Greeks to join him. He whispered “Once gate open, sound much, colleagues hear, we run.”
The revolutionaries only nodded, clasping the door tightly. The noise quickly filled the courtyard, as the three men pulled as hard as they could; the sounds probably awoke everyone in the vicinity, especially the people above. Ahmed was hearing their yells
“What the hell is going on? Ahmed, what are you doing you brat?” but the door was open now, and Ahmed ran, he ran as fast as he could, his footsteps echoing along the uneven roads. He tripped a couple of times, but he got back on his feet again and again, and continued running, he knew he was running for his life, and he knew how bad it was when the massive rebel yell drowned his footsteps. He was throwing articles of clothing as he ran, first he discarded his fez, then he removed the uniform on his upper body, but he kept his pistol and saber, he couldn't lose that, not yet.
He ran, he collected his parents, and continued running, he could see the fires staring at the gates, he could see the garrisons awakening, he heard the gunfire. The lights slowly crept to him, the gunfire was drawing near, the screams of death and sounds of combat were on him. He pulled his parents with him, yelling at them to hurry, as the old people struggled after him. He finally reached the monastery he was going to, he kicked the door, finding the priest praying. He was relieved to see Katerina and her family there, they were looking at him with fear and blood in their eyes, tears filled the eyes of the priest. But Ahmed fell to his knees, he turned around and yelled to his parents to do the same, before turning back to see Katerina’s beautiful face. This filled him with the power to say the words that came out of his mouth next.
“Baptize me father.”
----------
“Victory!” the yell thundered above Solun, music was filling the city’s streets, as a line of Ottoman soldiers, tied together with chains, was marched forward. Thousands were piling around Vasil Levski and Dimitrios Botsaris, who stood side by side, waving at the crowds, but generally looking consumed in their conversation. The Bulgarian’s face was only skin and bones, but his body was as sturdy as always, his short stature had an eerie majesty to it. Botsaris’ long hear flowed around his bony face as well, much taller than his Bulgarian counterpart, the revolutionary had placed a bony arm on the deacon’s shoulder. It was a general show of unity, but even with that, once can easily the reluctance on their faces.
"Scenes from a free Solun"
So we are back in business then, I will do the best I can do update frequently. And to start this off, here is what you all have been asking for previously, how did Solun fall in rebel hands indeed?
It won't make much clear, but it will make enough to make it interesting. Make sure to pay attention to the developing threads and changes in the rebellion, because they will come to play later as well.
But without further ado, enjoy.
Excerpts from: “The True History of the Liberation
1860-1870” by Prof. Bozhidar Dimitrov
© Balkan Press Ltd., 1994
1860-1870” by Prof. Bozhidar Dimitrov
© Balkan Press Ltd., 1994
The capture of Solun is another controversial event, by the time he returned, Macedonia was more or less in his grasp, he held almost total control over the region, having pacified most Turkish and Muslim populated villages, effectively canceling the Muslim threat. On one side, the assault on Solun more or less made sense, considering that while the Ottomans had limited power inside Macedonia itself, Greek Macedonia was still a threat and Solun, being the main military city in the region, was what united the Turks in their opposition.
Levski deduced that if Solun was to fall, this would more or less cancel the threat of Ottoman counter-attack into Macedonia, the same way as they attacked into Thrace, leaving him with a lot more room to maneuver his forces. But he had a huge obstacle in the way, Solun was a Greek-populated city and even though he had managed to build friendly relations with the Greeks along the campaign in Macedonia, they were still responsible for his capture. So he had to tread lightly.
In surprising twist of fate however, it was the Greeks themselves that came to Levski, not the other way around. While the whole campaign in Macedonia had been ongoing, and the Bulgarians in the north were securing victories after victories, the Greek General Spyros Milios and the revolutionary Dimitrios Botsaris (Son of Notis Botsaris, as opposed to Dimitrios Botsaris, the son of Markos Botsaris) were planning a massive revolution in Ottoman ruled Epirus. Using the Ottoman-friendly façade to stockpile weapons and arms, to plan offensives and prepare. While there was a lot of animosity between the Bulgarians and the Greeks , there was a massive drive against the Ottomans which outweigh any dislike between the two. So the Deacon and Botsaris met, on neutral ground, in heavily wooded hill in Epirus, discussing cooperation assistance. Their discussion led to one of the more interesting events in the war for independence.
"The Deacon and the Greek"
Exerts from the collection
of short stories “Makedonja
” by Dimitar Talev
© Balkan press LTD, 1963
The silent night fell upon the City of Solun, the low walls were lightly patrolled for over half a year now, even though the escape of the Deacon was still fresh in the minds of the Ottomans. As the silence slowly gripped the neighborhoods of the city, the guards slightly increased the patrols on the walls. But really, there wasn’t much to worry about, the city being surrounded by mostly flatland with just a few forests on the east of the city, leading to a mountainous region. But in reality, the forest was sparse and the hills high, making anyone advancing easily visible to the Ottomans.
So the guards waited, watched and begun to doze off, the warm evening was comfortable, the smell of the trees was homely and the tobacco tasty. Ahmed was one of these guards, looking at the beautiful landscape, turning his head around to the shimmering sea, lit up by the crescent moon. Then, he looked to the city, he could hear his friends talking to the side, but he didn’t listen, the sight was always more important.
Smiling, he explored the small tight streets, paved with whatever rocks they can get their hands on. The jagged and uneven roads spanned from wall to wall, spilling on the walls of the homes of the rayah, like some still picture of a high tide in the process of climbing the rocks on the shore. And inside their homes, the rayah, praying in their weird languages, to their prophet, the bleeding prophet, Isa. Unlike his friend Ahmed didn’t mind the Christian religion, he was quite found of their icons really; of course, he wouldn’t advertise this out loud, but he sometimes snuck in their monasteries, wearing clothes of the Greeks and hiding his face, to listen to their prayers and sermons. He quite liked the songs, they were very melodic, and he understood some Greek, so it wasn’t exactly foreign to him. It made him wonder, why did they all had to fight?
What made us so different, the Christians had Isa, but he was also in the Islamic religion, they preached love and religious tolerance, we preached it as well. But even as he asked himself that question, Ahmed felt… different. He never was much of a believer in the first place, but having spent more time with the Christians now, he felt bad for the rayah, he wanted to be close to them. Also, he had fallen in love.
Ah, the curse of separation, he though as his face flushed red with embarrassment, why must they be of two different kinds? He looked over at the stables, to the horses, and imagined the beautiful Katerina, cleaning the stables. Her face, white and pure, like the moons tears. She was a Bulgarian, an Orthodox Christian, he was a Turk, a Muslim, they were from two different worlds. Yet, the look that girl gave him, the smile she hid so quickly when he responded, the hushed whispers and confessions they had exchanged.
The closer he got to her, the more he realized the rayah were not some animals to be culled, they were people, humans, beautiful and calm people who took on everything his kind lashed at them. He knew he could have her any time he wished, he was a Turk after all, he could just bring her to his guard house and have his way with her. But he didn’t want that, no, he wanted this girl to be with him, to love him, not to hate him. He was not a monster.
He sighed, realizing that even though they both shared this though, they could never be together, he could not marry her unless she changed her religion, and her parents will never allow her to marry a lowly guard from the local Bashi-bouzuk unit. He looked at the trees that covered the east, his mind was still wandering when he noticed the movement and froze.
He though it was wolfs at first, some sort of animal, but those were not animals, oh allah, those were far from animals. And so many of them; he froze in his seat, standing there, staring, he wanted to jump up, go to the horn, proclaim their arrival, he knew this was it and he can’t waste time. But something was stopping him. With a scared expression he glanced quickly at his “friends”, the rest of the guards had teased him endlessly for his relationship with the Christian, and he searched deep and realized he held no love for them. But it was his duty.
He stood up and closed on them, they were playing cards and smoking tobacco, a few of them were sleeping already, there was only three half-awoken turks really. He touched the shoulder of one of them and whispered “Ill be back in a bit, I need to take a piss.”
“Ok fine, just be quick about it.” The old man waved dismissively without even looking at Ahmed, suddenly he felt calmer, his heart still pounding, but now he was sort-off excused, he had enough time to hide, change out of the clothes. Maybe even reach his family with Katerina’s family, save them, will they be thankful? Perhaps, they might even allow him to marry her, oh what a joy that would be.
As he slipped down-stares to the guard tower at the gate, with a half-smile on his face, he froze once again, the smile disappeared. He was standing in a pool of blood; the gate-party was dead and before him, like angels of death, stood two Greek males. They had white robes on, he recognized that uniform and it filled him with fear, those were revolutionary uniforms. However they hadn’t noticed him, as the stares were in a reasonably dark place, away from the two men, they were still busy finishing off one of the Turks who was struggling quietly.
Ahmed, almost in a dream, jumped forward, grabbed one of them and pulled him to the side, he was larger than the Greek, so he easily pressed the man to the side wall. In a lightning move, the other one pulled a pistol on Ahmed, but the youth managed to whisper “STOP” in Greek; this caused a moment of hesitation in the revolutionary.
“Stop…” he continued quietly in broken Greek “I will not rat you…” pointing upwards to his comrades on the roof. “let me live.”
“You expect us to believe that.” The free revolutionary said that, arming his pistol with one hand
“Yes. “ Ahmed said, slowly releasing the second revolutionary, and pulling out his pistol and knife handle-first, he lifted his hands up to show willingness to cooperate. “You need three people to open door, I help.” He continued in Greek, as the two revolutionaries looked puzzled. They looked at each other, and without a word, but still pointing their pistols at Ahmed, sneaked to primitive gate’s bar, once Ahmed had gripped it with both of his hands, so did the Greeks, lifting the heavy bar up and over the latches holding it. The sound produced was not much, but it was enough to raise suspicion, so once they had slowly put it on the ground, Ahmed signaled the Greeks to be quiet.
He heard no commotion up stairs, so he grabbed one side of the massive gate, signaling to the Greeks to join him. He whispered “Once gate open, sound much, colleagues hear, we run.”
The revolutionaries only nodded, clasping the door tightly. The noise quickly filled the courtyard, as the three men pulled as hard as they could; the sounds probably awoke everyone in the vicinity, especially the people above. Ahmed was hearing their yells
“What the hell is going on? Ahmed, what are you doing you brat?” but the door was open now, and Ahmed ran, he ran as fast as he could, his footsteps echoing along the uneven roads. He tripped a couple of times, but he got back on his feet again and again, and continued running, he knew he was running for his life, and he knew how bad it was when the massive rebel yell drowned his footsteps. He was throwing articles of clothing as he ran, first he discarded his fez, then he removed the uniform on his upper body, but he kept his pistol and saber, he couldn't lose that, not yet.
He ran, he collected his parents, and continued running, he could see the fires staring at the gates, he could see the garrisons awakening, he heard the gunfire. The lights slowly crept to him, the gunfire was drawing near, the screams of death and sounds of combat were on him. He pulled his parents with him, yelling at them to hurry, as the old people struggled after him. He finally reached the monastery he was going to, he kicked the door, finding the priest praying. He was relieved to see Katerina and her family there, they were looking at him with fear and blood in their eyes, tears filled the eyes of the priest. But Ahmed fell to his knees, he turned around and yelled to his parents to do the same, before turning back to see Katerina’s beautiful face. This filled him with the power to say the words that came out of his mouth next.
“Baptize me father.”
----------
“Victory!” the yell thundered above Solun, music was filling the city’s streets, as a line of Ottoman soldiers, tied together with chains, was marched forward. Thousands were piling around Vasil Levski and Dimitrios Botsaris, who stood side by side, waving at the crowds, but generally looking consumed in their conversation. The Bulgarian’s face was only skin and bones, but his body was as sturdy as always, his short stature had an eerie majesty to it. Botsaris’ long hear flowed around his bony face as well, much taller than his Bulgarian counterpart, the revolutionary had placed a bony arm on the deacon’s shoulder. It was a general show of unity, but even with that, once can easily the reluctance on their faces.
"Scenes from a free Solun"
Vive la revolution!
I like the title of the book 'The True History'. Implies there's a lot of discreditable work and nationalist myths floating around.
There always are, and I will get to that in the future. But sufficed to say, everything is there for a reason
Thanks!
And lets just say that Ahmed has reasons to fear for his life, that coupled with love can make a man take a rash decision.
Flamelord said:
The Ride never ends
Exerts from “My confession”
by Stefan Stambolov © Balkan Press LTD, 1934
by Stefan Stambolov © Balkan Press LTD, 1934
I ran north, with my tail between my legs, running from the Ottomans as fast as I can. It pained me, the image of Sofia burned in my mind, the ashes of the city still in my nostrils, the cold seeping through my tattered clothes, the wounds hurting me as I walked. I suffered, but I deserved it, I had abandoned my brothers, I had left my post, I should have died then and there, but instead my instincts pushed me, one more step, one more breath, keep moving, keep running.
Slaveykov was on my shoulders, so we moved slowly, I was struggling along on the rocky roads in the Balkan. The cold seeping through the pieces of leather that passed for my shoes. I was crying, I am not afraid to admit it, I was weak. I could hear the dogs all over the mountains, the hounds, chasing what was left of our destroyed force. I could hear the occasional yell from a rebel who was discovered, the shots, and the death. The city was burning on my back, I could see it from the mountains, but I only though about how to survive. There was no cause in those mountains, there was no fight for freedom or the liberation of Bulgaria. There was only a single though, a single word that rang in your mind. Survive.
To this day, I remember little of what happened, I remember running through the snow, up the mountains, I remember hiding for squads of Ottomans days on end, and continuing the trek. I remember the pain in my abdomen, form hunger, I remember the pure happiness I felt when I found a bird’s nest, it was a little winter bird, a tit, it was so pretty, yellow and all. It is an image I will dream about all my life, as this little bird’s nest saved me, its eggs provided food for me and Slaveykov, who was slowly coming back to life. He could walk more and more every day, even though the cold was destroying our bodies, we pressed forward.
After a week of walking, I had found myself away from the Ottoman units, high in the mountains, attempting to cross; it is there that I witnessed the kindness of people. There are always little houses or sheds along the way; we avoided villages, as to avoid being ratted out. But in every shed we visited, in every home we entered, we were warmly accepted. The storms had picked up in the mountains and people were quick to provide protection from the storms to us. We lied we were hunters, and while most of them didn’t believe a word of that, they accepted it with a smile and let us rest. We had our wounds patched, we received food and help, and we were back on the road as quick as we could. This is how we survived and dragged ourselves on the other side, joining the trickle of survivors heading north, to the forces of Benkovski and Botev. I had a bone to pick with both of them, but now was not the time.
Sofia burning
Excerpt from: “Writings on Bulgaria’s Uprisings”
by Zahari Stoyanov; 1884–1892.
I was in my tent, when the news came about. Benkovski walked in, his face pale, sweat on his forehead, a crumpled hat in his hands, with the orthodox cross barely visible. He sat down next to me, but didn’t look at my face, he stared at the ground.
“We should have moved.” He said, after a long moment of silence, looking at me. I was puzzled, so I looked at him with confusion; he didn’t move for a few more moments, I didn’t dare touch or say anything. “Sofia has fallen, they are all dead. The Ottomans burned much of the city.”
My mouth fell open, I stared at the man, I am sure my face turned pale as well. But he didn’t look at me, he continued to stare at the ground. “The Ottomans have rounded up all the stragglers and will be moving against us as soon as possible, they are already raiding deep into our territories.”
“Benkovski…” I could only say, what was there to say? Sorry? For what? They knew the costs, but it still pained me, it hurt me to hear of their loss, of the destruction. I knew Sofia, it was a beautiful town, filled with people of all color and religion. But now, it was nothing, the Ottomans had punished us for the rebellion, and if we don’t do something, it is but first of many deaths.
“What now?” I asked instead, bringing my attention to the matter at hand. Georgi finally looked at me, his face was still showing great pain, he was not a man that took the lives of people easily and threw them away. “We fight, Zahari, we fight for our lost brothers.”
“But where?”
“We will hold the Ottomans at Shipka, if we lose the pass, we lose the North.”
Excerpts from “The History of Serbia
” by John K. Cox
© Greenwood LTD, 2002
” by John K. Cox
© Greenwood LTD, 2002
The situation in Bosnia was quickly unraveling, the Austrian supported forces were more and more pushed north by the Serbs. As the Serbian army found itself free from Ottoman problems, it charged north, and at the end of 1876, the beginning of 1877, before the siege of Sofia in Bulgaria. The Serbs managed to free Banja Luka from the Austrian backed rebels and pushed them far north, smashing rebel bands wherever they met them. This was a problem for Austria, which was already gearing for intervention, as it meant that the Austrian army would not only meet the Ottomans, but also the Serbs. It at that moment, Count Gyula Andrássy met with Prince Alexander Gorchakov and the two men, in a pitched and long discussion, decided the future of the Balkans. It was obvious Serbia could not fall in the hands of the Austrians, so Andrassy agreed to allow the Russians to influence Serbia, but in return he wanted to divide influence over Bulgaria and Bosnia to fall into Austrian-Hungarian hands. The agreement that Gorchakov gave Andassy is still discussed to this day, but it paved the way to the revival of League of the Three Emperors, a major power-tipper in the European Concert.
A British political cartoon