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In May of 1764, King Theodore struck at the economic foundations of the Church in Corsica with a series of edicts. Firstly, all the revenues of vacant sees and benefices would hereby accrue to the crown; secondly, ecclesiastical mortmain was drastically reformed and gifts of land to the Church were restricted; thirdly, the tithe was definitively declared to be a royal prerogative; finally, the last of these edicts ordered the closure of dozens of monasteries which were deemed too small to be viable and the expropriation of their lands and properties. Theodore argued that these measures were necessary to protect the kingdom’s finances and ensure the good stewardship of its agricultural land, which was of particular importance at this time given the great Italian famine of 1764.[1] Nevertheless, many guessed that these acts were really intended to punish the Church after their “interference” in the Borgu Riot arrests of the previous autumn, and interpreted the May Edicts as the king’s vengeance.

These edicts were much less consequential than they appeared. The financial implications were fairly minor: Theodore was already in control of most of the Church’s landed revenues thanks to his occupation of ecclesiastical property, significant gifts of land to the Church were rare, the tithe was already in de facto royal hands since the Revolution, and monastic holdings made up a vanishingly small sliver of Corsican arable land. Nor did the decrees stir up great domestic controversy, even among the clergy. Most of the monasteries targeted for closure really were tiny, with the vast majority having fewer than half a dozen monks. Such communities depended on local charity and their holdings were often little more than a communal garden. The measure was welcomed by many in the ecclesiastical hierarchy of Corsica as a step towards reform, as it was thought that the consolidation of monastic houses would make it easier to restore discipline and regularity to the island’s often wayward monks.

In Rome, however, Theodore’s decrees were seen as part of a broader context of regalist attacks upon the Church across Europe. In many Catholic countries this aggression was particularly focused on the Society of Jesus, which was perceived as holding too much wealth and influence and suspected of being more loyal to Rome than to their national kings. The Jesuits were expelled from Portugal in 1759, and France eventually followed suit in 1763. In the minor Bourbon court of Parma, the fiercely anticlerical prime minister Guillaume du Tillot had recently imposed new taxes on Church property and restrictions upon ecclesiastical mortmain, which were especially galling to Rome because the Papacy still claimed Parma as its own fief.[2] It did not go unnoticed that Theodore’s edict against mortmain appeared to be directly cribbed from Tillot’s policy in Parma. Theodore’s impudence thus represented not merely the greed of one eccentric kinglet, but the newest salvo against a Papacy under siege.

Consequently, the policy of Pope Clement XIII towards Corsica was not primarily about Corsica. Every new usurpation of ecclesiastical rights further exposed Rome’s weakness, and inspired monarchs to take ever bolder moves against Church authority and prerogatives. Some within the Curia believed that the Pope needed to make an example of someone, and the parvenu King of Corsica seemed like the perfect candidate. Despite his grudging recognition by the European powers he was still seen in many courts as something of a joke or curiosity, and having been alienated from France in the recent war it seemed unlikely that the Bourbons would rush to his defense.

On July 3rd - just a week after Eleanora’s death - Cardinal Neri Maria Corsini, the head of the Roman Inquisition, published a condemnation of Theodore’s various infringements on ecclesiastical lands and monastic establishments. The Corsican clergy were instructed to disregard the king’s new edicts as illegal and to preach against his usurpations. Here, however, Rome committed a serious blunder. Faithful to the principles of ecclesiastical hierarchy, the Curia did not transmit its orders directly to Corsica’s curates or bishops, but to the responsible archbishops. For the Diocese of Mariana in the north this was Giuseppe Saporiti, the Archbishop of Genoa, as despite the concessions Theodore had won in 1753 the establishment of a native archbishop for Corsica was not among them.


Theodore could not have asked for a better enemy. A Genoese native, Saporiti had been archbishop since 1745, and like all Genoese archbishops during the rebellion he had been an overt partisan of the Republic and enemy of the naziunali. Saporiti enthusiastically embraced this opportunity to undermine Theodore, and gave instructions to the Bishop of Mariana on how to proceed. As it happened, however, the chancellor of the Diocese of Mariana was Luigi Angelo Zerbi, who was not only a fierce naziunale but one of the founding members of the devoti. When Saporiti’s instructions passed through his hands, he immediately handed the letter over to the foreign minister, Don Pasquale Paoli.

Don Pasquale had been working diligently since the end of the French occupation to reenter national politics. After returning to Corsica in the care of the British Navy, he was shunned by his old ally Prime Minister Gianpietro Gaffori and his ministry. But Gaffori could not control the pieve elections, and thanks to the support of his own influential clan Don Pasquale was elected as a procuratore for Rostino in 1759. He failed in a bid to be elected to the Diet in that year, but eventually succeeded in 1761. This achievement was a testament to his own charisma and clan network, but also a symptom of Corsica’s postwar political fragmentation and Gaffori’s increasingly tenuous hold on power.

Although the French and British armies had sailed away, their presence had seriously degraded the unity of the Corsican state. The power of the central government had never been strong, but foreign occupation had discredited and weakened Gaffori’s authority. As was typical in Corsican history, the weakening of formal authority encouraged a return to local and familial politics. The royal luogotenenti were becoming difficult to control, and often abused their authority to steadily turn the provinces into their own private fiefdoms. Vendetta killings, which seem to have declined in the immediate post-independence era, were back on the rise. The broad coalition of interior, northern naziunali which had made up Gaffori’s vague “faction” in the late 1740s and early 1750s was splintering into smaller regional and clan alliances. Simultaneously, the prime minister was subjected to increasing criticism from both the aristocratic gigliati and a small but outspoken cadre of educated “liberals.” Although his actual position was unchallenged, Gaffori relied on an ever-narrower base of support in the consulta and no longer had the ability to shape the Diet - or carry out national policy - as he wished.

Gaffori’s weakness allowed Paoli to advance his political career despite the prime minister’s hostility, mainly by flattering the king. Despite being elected to a body whose principal duty was to restrain royal power, Paoli ingratiated himself to Theodore by his staunch support of the king’s policies, particularly when it came to religion and economics. Both an Anglophile and an Asphodelian, Paoli was a vocal promoter of commerce and free trade and an outspoken defender of immigration and religious liberty. Along with his considerable personal charisma, this adherence ensured his swift rise. None missed the fact that Paoli’s election to the dieta was strongly supported by - and would have been impossible without - the “royal electors,” those procuratori appointed directly by Theodore.

Still, frustrated by the relative powerlessness of the Diet, Paoli yearned for a post in the royal ministry. The opportunity came sooner than he expected with the resignation of Foreign Minister Giovan Vincente Garelli in 1762, who ostensibly bowed out due to infirmity but was probably a casualty of British diplomatic pressure. The British could not bring themselves to trust the man who had signed the Convention of Ajaccio with the French, and suspected Garelli of Francophile leanings. The British consul wrote acidly to his superiors that Garelli was not only a “slavish” follower of the Bourbon envoys, but “just as arrogant as he is incompetent.” To the delight of the British - and the chagrin of Gaffori - Theodore appointed Paoli as Garelli’s replacement over the strong objections of the prime minister.
Despite fears that Paoli would show himself to be a dangerous radical, his appointment was not followed by any ministerial purge or sudden pivot in Corsican foreign affairs. His only controversial appointment was to tap the old revolutionary Father Gregorio Salvini of Nessa as the kingdom’s envoy to Rome. Salvini was certainly qualified for the job; he had acquired his doctorate in civil and canon law in the Roman academy and knew Roman politics well. But although Salvini was a clergyman trained in the heart of the Catholic world, he was also a firebrand naziunale who had been one of the earliest propagandists of the revolt. No mere armchair revolutionary, Salvini had also famously smuggled gunpowder to the insurgents and made his way onto the Republic’s “no amnesty” list of the most notorious rebels. Although now approaching 70 years of age, Salvini was still sharp and declared himself up to the task.

Paoli acquired the “Saporiti letters” in July 1764, just weeks before the consulta generale, and was set upon using them. Taking the rostrum during the general session, Don Pasquale produced the letters from his waistcoat and claimed to have uncovered a “conspiracy” between Genoa and the Curia to undermine the kingdom. It is generally agreed that Paoli probably hoped to frame further regalist acts - for Theodore was already planning his next moves - as a defense against Genoa rather than an attack upon Rome. But Paoli was too successful, as sympathetic delegates turned their fury squarely on the Republic and began calling for war with Genoa. Tensions between Corsica and her former colonial master had been growing since the late 1750s, aggravated mainly by disputes over maritime rights, a subject which the Treaty of Monaco had not addressed. The Corsicans accused the Genoese of harvesting fish and coral in their waters and allowing foreigners to use Bonifacio as a base for this exploitation. Economic rivalry, however, was not the only incentive to belligerence. Certainly some of those who advocated war stood to benefit materially from securing Corsican waters, but many others saw a victorious nationalist war as a cure for the nation’s political disunity and malaise.

Despite this outcry, no war was constitutionally possible without the support of the king, and Theodore was dead set against it. His public position was that while he would defend Corsican interests, he was loathe to breach the dearly-bought peace with Corsicans now enjoyed, and did not intend to impugn the honor of the crown by breaching the Treaty of Monaco. More pragmatically, the king also knew that the kingdom was manifestly unready for war, and suspected that even if victory was possible the great powers would not let him get away with it. In particular, a new Corso-Genoese war would certainly trigger a crisis with Austria, which was generally friendly towards the Corsican government but had also been positioning itself as the Republic’s protector since the Genoese Revolution.

In the end the belligerent flame burned itself out. The incident merely provided a further demonstration that the consulta, an impermanent body of amateurs which required a two-thirds supermajority to do anything of consequence, was not a legislature worthy of the name. It also provided a further demonstration to Gaffori, who was convinced that stirring up war had been Paoli’s aim all along, that the upstart foreign minister was a dangerous liability who would drag the country into disaster.

This debacle notwithstanding, Theodore evidently considered the “Saporiti conspiracy” to be sufficient grounds for further action. A list of new decrees was drawn up, no longer confined to ecclesiastical lands but aiming at the fundamental relationship between church and state. It proved to be too much for Gaffori, who as prime minister was charged with enforcing the king’s decrees. Although he was no zealous defender of Rome, Gaffori disagreed with what he saw as needless provocation and was uncomfortable being the Church’s antagonist. He had swallowed the May edicts, but he was unwilling to continue in the direction Theodore was now leading.

Gaffori declared his intent to resign rather than promulgate the new edicts. It was a tactic that the count had used several times before, and had always been successful. Theodore, however, apparently understood what Gaffori did not - that the count was no longer the “indispensable man” he had once been. His political dominance was waning, and the host of notabili who would welcome his downfall was larger than ever. Rather than being cowed by Gaffori’s threat, the king accepted his resignation.


The fall of Gaffori ministry caught even his enemies by surprise. Fearing to alienate powerful families that might take dismissal as a mortal insult, Theodore rarely sacked his officials. Giafferi had served as prime minister - eventually in name only - until he dropped dead, and many assumed that Gaffori would follow his example. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that Don Gianpietro would accept his “resignation” with ill grace and turn against the king, perhaps even rising in revolt. In the event, however, Thedore was wise enough to handle Gaffori’s resignation with tact. In recognition of his long and faithful service, the king elevated the outgoing prime minister to the rank of marquis and awarded him a life pension. Gaffori went quietly; at the moment he probably did not have the support to do otherwise. At 60 years of age he was not quite ready for retirement, but his decades of political dominance were finished.

Paoli seemed to be the most dynamic force in the ministry and enjoyed the favor of the king, but would not be Gaffori’s successor. The king may have suspected that appointing Gaffori’s rival to succeed him would provoke Don Gianpietro and would not be healthy for national political unity. The king instead settled upon Count Simone Pietro Frediani, a 65 year old nobleman from the village of Penta in Casinca. Frediani was chosen more for his loyalty and agreeability than any particular political skills: He had been an unwavering royalist since 1736, had a respectable (if not particularly notable) revolutionary career, and was on good terms with Gaffori. Paoli, however, was hardly frozen out. He was appointed as Secretary of State, a move which suggested where real influence lay - Gaffori himself had served in this capacity during the prime ministry of the senescent Don Luigi Giafferi, and had been the real power within the government. Contrary to some expectations, however, Frediani was not a mere cipher. Although not blessed with great gifts as a statesman, he sensibly tried to position himself as a moderating, uniting force between disparate factions.

Now the king could proceed with his plans. To address the immediate “threat” the king issued the Rescritto alla consulta generale del 1764, an official reply to the concerns raised in the assembly. This document declared that, to defend the country from foreign clerical “subversion,” formal communication between the Corsican clergy and Rome was illicit unless authorized by the crown. Appeals to Rome were prohibited. The rescript also claimed that the king possessed the inherent privilege of the regium exequatur, the right to delay the promulgation or publishing of papal decrees until they were given royal approval.[3] This latter assertion was particularly bold; no less a king than Carlos III of Spain had himself claimed the regium exequatur in 1762, only to quietly rescind the decree less than a year later under ecclesiastical pressure.

This time the Papacy did not settle for half-measures. A heated debate between Father Salvini and papal representatives in Rome failed to lead anywhere, with Salvini playing the role that Paoli had intended and insisting that every decree thus far was the legitimate exercise of sovereign power. Following this abortive attempt at negotiation, the papacy unleashed its ultimate sanction. Citing the annual bull In Coena Domini, which imposed latae sententiae excommunication upon those who committed “the usurpation of church goods, or their sequestration without leave of the proper ecclesiastical authorities” and “the subjection of ecclesiastics to lay courts,” Pope Clement handed down the Monitorio di Corsica in November of 1764, a papal brief which declared Theodore “and all his accomplices” to be under anathema.[A]

Theodore and his ministers had expected some pushback, but they seem to have been legitimately caught off guard by the strength of Rome’s response. Although Theodore was admittedly claiming privileges by sudden fiat which other (and far more powerful) kings had accumulated over centuries, technically nothing in the Rescritto was novel. Certainly they had not expected such a draconian punishment as excommunication, which had not been levied against a head of state for more than a hundred years.[4]

Frediani advised the king that they should consider negotiating a de-escalation, but Rome had inadvertently ensured that this was impossible. To the king’s indignant fury, he discovered that the Monitorio contained language which implied that Rome still maintained its ancient claim to Corsica as part of the papal patrimony. This convinced him that backing down would not merely be a retreat from regalist policy, but an admission that the King of Corsica was no longer truly sovereign over his own island. Citing the Rescritto, the king refused to grant the exequatur to In Coena Domini or the Monitorio di Corsica, declaring that they were not valid in the kingdom and that any person publishing, circulating, or even possessing them was guilty of treason. On November 26th the king suspended diplomatic relations with the Holy See, ordering the recall of Father Salvini and the immediate expulsion of Rome’s representatives from the country. With all communication between Corsica and Rome terminated, the diplomatic spat between Theodore and Clement had become a de facto schism.


Footnotes
[1] An unusually dry winter followed by a cold and wet spring led to widespread crop failures in 1764, beginning a cycle of famine and disease that continued through 1767. The epicenter of the famine was the Kingdom of Naples, where up to 5% of the entire population perished. Although the direct effects of the famine were mostly limited to southern and central Italy, the effects of the catastrophe in Naples were felt as far away as Piedmont, causing high bread prices and considerable anxiety. There was no mass death in Corsica in 1764, but the island was not completely isolated from the Italian market and these were years of belt-tightening for the Corsican poor.
[2] The first Duke of Parma, Pier Luigi Farnese, was granted the duchy as a fief by his (illegitimate) father, Pope Paul III. Because of its original status as a papal fief, Rome’s official position was that after the death of Antonio Farnese in 1731, the last male line Farnese duke, Parma ought to have reverted to the papacy. The European powers ignored this claim and allowed the duchy to pass to the infante Carlos (later Carlos II of Spain), then to Austria, and finally to Carlos’s brother Felipe, all in the face of the Pope’s strong objections.
[3] The exequatur (meaning “let it be executed”) originated during the Western Schism when there were multiple papal claimants. Concerned that his faithful followers might be deceived by false decrees from his rivals, Pope Urban VI authorized certain ecclesiastics to confirm the authenticity of papal bulls before they were allowed to go into legal force, and certain lay princes eventually gained this authority as well. It was soon realized, however, that a monarch with this power might withhold a bull’s confirmation indefinitely, not because he doubted a decree’s authenticity but simply because he disliked it. In time, certain kings claimed that the right to grant or withhold this authorization was an inherent power of the crown rather than a privilege given to them by Rome, and the regium exequatur was born. Despite attempts by the Church to quash the practice, it was too useful for kings to give up and eventually became widespread.
[4] The last sovereign to suffer this sanction was the Duke of Parma in 1641, who launched an invasion of the Papal States in a dispute over the lordship of Castro.

Timeline Notes
[A] This update is easier to read if you know a little bit of ecclesiastical Latin. A latae sententiae (“sentence passed”) excommunication, sometimes known as an “automatic excommunication,” occurs without a legal process or anyone having to officially declare it so. Certain sins - apostasy, for instance - make one automatically excommunicated whether or not anyone else knows of the sin; the very act of sinning makes one ipso facto an excommunicate. In this case, according to In Coena Domini usurping church goods incurs just such an excommunication. By publishing the “Monitorio di Corsica” Clement is technically not "excommunicating" Theodore, but rather informing him that he is presently in a state of anathema for his sins, which is why it’s a monitorio (a warning, from the Latin monēre, “to warn”). The distinction, however, is probably lost on most non-theologians of the time.