The Image of the Baltic a Festschrift for Nils Blomkvist
Professor Nils Blomkvist on the rostrum. Photo: Anita Körner von Kern
The Image of the Baltic a Festschrift for Nils Blomkvist
Gotland University Press 10
Editors:
Michael F. Scholz Robert Bohn Carina Johansson
Publisher: Address:
Gotland University Press 2012 Gotland University S-62156 Visby
Web: www.hgo.se ISSN: 1653-7424
Phone: +46(0)498-29 99 00 ISBN: 978-91-86343-06-4
Editorial Committee:
Åke Sandström and Lena Wikström
Cover design: Cover picture:
Daniel Olsson and Lena Wikström. ”Tvekamp af Elbogen”, in Visby, during Medieval Week 2011, Carina Johansson
Contents Preface ........................................................................................................ 7
The Colours of the Middle ages The Baltic on the mental map of the Old Russian annalist............................ 11 Elena Melnikova
Livonia and the Holy See in 13th – Early 15th Centuries: Centre and Periphery of Christendom ...........................................................................23 Eva Eihmane
Architetonische und künstlerische Verbindungen zwischen Visby und Riga im 13 Jahrhundert .......................................................................41 Elita Grosmane
Between Wolin and Truso: the Southern part of the Baltic Rim at the time of Rise of the Polish State (an archaeological perspective) .............53 Andrzej Buko
Models of Settlements Formation in Polatsk Region ....................................71 Marat V Klimau
Images of History Störtebeker. Die Karriere eines Geschichtsbildes ........................................85 Robert Bohn
Auf den Spuren der Ritter und Zaren: Reval im Blick russischer Touristen unter Nikolaj I .............................................................................101 Karsten Brüggeman
Der Beginn der Neuzeit in der Geschichte Lettlands: zu Problemen des Dialogs mit der Vergangenheit in der lettischen Historiographie . ............... 111 Valda Kļava
The Face of the Enemy? The Image of the GDR in the Danish Media ........ 125 Thomas Wegener Friis, Marius Hansen, Jesper C. M. Henriksen, Jesper Thestrup Henriksen, Frank Jensen, Rune E. H. Smidt
The Medieval in the Modern: The Cathedral and the Skyscraper in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis . ............................................................................145 Erik Tängerstad
Von Schweden über die Ostsee in das Heilige Römische Reich Deutscher Nation. „Der Löwe aus Mitternacht” als Retter des evangelischen Glaubens in Deutschland ..........................................................................165 Jens E. Olesen
Gotland – the Pearl of the Baltic Peter of Dacia and the Urban Revolution . .................................................185 Nils Blomkvist
The Conception of an Egalitarian Gotlandic Peasant Society . ...................203 Tryggve Siltberg
Frustration and Revenge? Gotland strikes back – during the long 15th Century, 1390’s–1525 .........................................................................229 Hain Rebas
Multiple visions from a Baltic shoreline – Richard Berghs quest for a school of Swedish painting in Vision, scene from Visby........................... 247 Lars Wängdahl
Das deutsche Konsulat in Visby im zweiten Weltkrieg. Ein Archivbericht . ..255 Michael F. Scholz
Nils Blomkvist’s scholarly production ........................................................271 Authors .....................................................................................................279
Preface Over 16–18 October 2008, a conference was arranged within the permanent Baltic Rim seminar series at Gotland University under the title, The Image of the Baltic – a Thousand-Years’ Perspective. The invitation to the event had made it clear that this was a special occasion, even a “celebration conference”. The motive for this was also stated – the time-honored leader of the Baltic Rim seminar, Professor Nils Blomkvist, had his 65th birthday during the summer holidays, and some of his colleagues had taken over the arrangements in order to highlight this chronological landmark. Consequently, many of his old scholarly friends from the Baltic Rim fields of study – and some new ones – had gathered to discuss the role of images in the historical disciplines. The participants came from Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Russia, Poland, Denmark and Germany, not to mention many Gotlanders. Nils Blomkvist received his PhD at the University of Uppsala in 1979. His dissertation dealt with the genesis of the Swedish city of Kalmar in the 12th–14th centuries. The book aroused interest among students of the Hanse, and since 1980 Nils has been a member of the Hansische Geschichtsverein . His early production deals mainly with medieval urbanism and trade. Working as an archivist for ten years and almost as long as head of research at the National Board of Antiquities in Stockholm, he returned fully to Academia in the late 1990s with the intention of fulfilling a gradually maturing research idea that all of a sudden had become possible to carry out, namely the comparative study of the medieval process of Europeanization east and west of the Baltic. With generous support from the Bank of Sweden Tercentenary Foundation he was able to form the multinational and interdisciplinary research project, “Culture Clash or Compromise?” (CCC), subtitled The Importance of Regional Survival Strategies in the Europeanization of the Baltic Rim. The project involved some twenty scholars – archaeologists, historians and human geographers – representing seven countries on the Baltic Rim. The CCC project was in working existence from 1996 to 2005 when it formally ended, although its final publication appeared as late as in 2009. Its rich results are presented in 11 volumes of compiled CCC papers. The project’s introduction and conclusion were however published as number 11 and 12 of the series Acta Visbyensia. Apart from its scholarly residue the CCC project has been important in building up modern links between researchers east and west of the Baltic, and Nils has over the years become an international authority on medieval matters concerning the Baltic and its Rim. He has contributed to many specialist conferences, and in 2007 he was invited to the Oxford Round Table, for which occasion he wrote a paper on the longue durée development of the Baltic Rim until the 21st century. It was accepted for publication in Forum on Public Policy under the title, The Baltic from European Sea of Trouble to Global Interface.
s is seen in Nils’ list of scholarly productions, brought together by his wife A Carin, he has published more than one hundred works on medieval topics, often focusing on processes of change in Scandinavia and the Baltic region as a whole. His major work is “The Discovery of the Baltic: The Reception of a Catholic World-System in the European North (1075–1225)”, published in 2005 by Brill’s of Leiden & Boston (782 pp), wherein many classical scholarly problems are revisited. And, a new approach to the period’s narrative sources brings to life Scandinavian, German, Russian, Finno–Ugrian and Balt attitudes and daily toils in the midst of a change of epic dimensions. esides his work as a researcher, Nils Blomkvist has also been a highly B appreciated and valued teacher at Gotland University since its establishment in 1998. A good bit of his lecturing time has of course been devoted to various aspects of the Middle Ages, having developed courses such as “The long Middle Ages”, “The Golden Age of Gotland” and “The Birth of Europe”. As with all teachers working in smaller universities, Nils has however also taught in fields outside of his speciality and has developed a particular interest in interdisciplinary courses. His teaching has covered most historical periods, and he has supervised the writing of many theses at all student levels while carrying out his share of the university’s administrative burdens. Now a selection of the papers that were presented at that occasion have been converted into a Festschrift , including Nils Blomkvist’s own Högtidsföreläsning (“festive lecture”), Peter of Dacia and the Urban Revolution, which he gave at the closure of the conference. In 2010 Nils finally retired from his professorship in medieval history at Gotland University. This anthology, together with the conference that was its origin, is his colleagues’ way of honouring him at the moment when he leaves us to manage on our own. Finally, we want to address a special thanks to the society DBW (De Badande Vännerna) and the Gotland University for their engagement and the financial support that made the conference and this book possible. Erika Sandström, Carina Johansson, Michael F. Scholz, Gotland University Robert Bohn, Universität zu Flensburg
The Colours of the Middle ages
Gotland University Press 10
The Baltic on the mental map of the Old Russian annalist Elena Melnikova
The Old Russian Primary Chronicle written in the 1110s opens with a survey of the habitable world (called by the Greeks the oikoumene).1 The text belongs to the type of the so-called Table of nations deriving from the Biblical enumeration of the descendents of Noa’s three sons in the Book of Genesis.2 Already in the early Christian writings the Biblical Table of nations was combined with the antique division of the habitable world in three parts. In this construction Asia became Shem’s lot, Africa – Ham’s lot, and Europe – Japheth’s lot.3 The early Christian writers enlarged a highly limited number of nations listed in the Bible by including peoples familiar to them and unknown to the compilers of the Genesis.4 The amplification of the Table of Nations became a wide-spread practice in medieval geography.5 The compiler of the Primary Chronicle was no exception. In the title of his chronicle he posed three questions: “Where has the Russian land originated from? Who was the first ruler in Kiev? How has the Russian land become [what it is]?”.6 In answering them he attributed extraordinary importance to the inclusion of peoples of Ancient Rus into the space of the Christian world and turned to this theme three times. 1
2 3
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5
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Dmitrij S. Likhachev with additions by Mikhail B. Sverlov under the general supervision by Vera P. Adrianova–Peretz (eds.), Povest’ vremennych let (S.Peterburg, 1996), pp. 7–8 (further – PVL). English translation: Samuel H. Cross, Olgerd P. Sherbowitz–Wetzor (transl.), The Russian Primary Chronicle. Laurentian text (Cambridge, Mass., 1953), p. 52 (further – PC).
Gen. IX,18–Х,32. Wagner Siegfried, Die Stammtafel des Menschengeschlechtes (Saarbrücken, 1947); Simons Jan, “The ‘Table of Nations’ (Gen. 10): Its General Structure and Meaning”, Ondtestamentische Studien 10 (1954), S. 155–184. This attribution appeared as early as the fourth century in Quaestiones hebraicae in Genesim of St. Jerome (340/342–429): Eusebii Hieronymi Liber Hebraicarum Quaestionum in Genesim, in: Jacques- Paul Migne (ed.), Patrologiae cursus completus, Ser. Latina 23 (Paris, 1865), col. 988–1005. The first additions were made already by Eusebius of Caesaria and St. Jerome. The most influential in medieval Western Europe was the Table of nations in Isidor’s of Seville Etymologies L. IX.II: Wallace Martin Lindsay (ed.), Isidori Hispalensis Etymologiae, sive originum libri XX (Oxford, 1911), and in Byzantium it spread through the works of Hyppolitus of Rome: Adolf Bauer (ed.), Hyppolytus. Werke 4. Die Chronik (Berlin, 1955), § 47–49. Thus, the Old Icelandic treatise Fra þui huar huerr Noa sona bygði heiminn existing in two versions adds to the list of the Jafethides the names of Scandinavian countries Suiþioð, Danmorc, Noregi together with Suiþioð in micla and ‘Kylfinga lande þat kollum ver Garða riki’: Melnikova Elena A., Drevneskandinavskie geographicheskie sochinenija. Teksty, perevod, kommentarij (Moscow, 1986), p. 133–134. Here and further I cite Cross’s and Scherbowitz–Wetzor’s translation of the Primary Chronicle with my emendations.
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irst, he places his Table of Nations in the very beginning of his compilation F contrary to his Byzantine prototypes where this topic was dealt with in chronologically suitable place, i.e. after the mention of the Flood.7 Second, he describes the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks providing a more detailed description of Eastern Europe.8 Third, while telling about the voyage of apostle Andrew to Eastern Europe, he stresses Andrew’s itinerary similar to the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks.9 This persistent interest in geographical matters is tightly connected with annalist’s efforts to represent Eastern Slavs as an integral part of the Christian world. He does it in many different ways10 and supports the spiritual integration of Eastern Slavs into the family of Christian nations by their common origin from Japheth and their sharing the common space.
The Old Russian Table of Nations The lists of Asian, African and South-European lands in the Table of Nations in the Primary Chronicle are borrowed from the Byzantine chronicles of George the Monk and John of Malala.11 They are supplemented with the description of Eastern and Northern Europe unknown to Byzantine authors. In these sections the Old Russian annalist based on his own knowledge and presented his own perception of this part of the world. The text can be divided in three sections: A – description of the Byzantine world borrowed from George the Monk and John of Malala, B – the enumeration of Eastern European rivers, C – the description of Europe. It runs as follows:12 A.
To the lot of Japheth fell the northern and the western sections, including Media, Albania, Armenia (both little and great), Cappadocia, Paphlagonia, Galatia, Colchis, Bosporus, Maeotis, Dervis, Sarmatia, Tauria,13 Scythia, Thrace, Macedonia, Dalmatia, Molossia, Thessaly, Locris, Pellene (which is also called the Peloponnese), Arcadia, Epirus, Illyria, the Slavs,14 Lychnitis and Adriaca, from which the Adriatic Sea is named. He received also
7 8 9 10
PVL, pp. 7–8; PC, p. 52. PVL, pp. 8–9; PC, p. 53. PVL, p. 9; PC, pp. 53–54. Thus, he tells that long before the Christianization apostle Andrew came to the Kievan hills to proclaim the glorious Christian future of the would-to-be city. Later the annalist states that the first Christian teacher of the Slavs, Methodius, is told to be the pupil of apostle Paul, thus Christianity of Slavic peoples was apostolic (in fact, Methodius lived in the ninth century; the Slavs who were baptized by St. Methodius were Moravians; Eastern Slavs came to Christianity only in the end of the tenth century). Carolus de Boor (ed.), Georgii Monachi Chronicon. Ed. anni 1904 correctiorem curavit Peter Wirth (München, 1978), p. 55–56; Ioannes Thurn (ed.), Ioannis Malalae Chronographia I.6 (Berolini, 2000); English translation: Elisabeth Jeffreys, Michael Jeffreys, Roger Scott (transl.), The Chronicle of John Malala (Melbourne, 1986), p. 5. The original text of the compiler of the Primary Chronicle is printed in italics. “Bosporus, Maeotis, Dervis, Sarmatia, Tauria” are rendered in the translation as land names though in the original they are ethnic names “Bosporii, Meoti, Derevi, Sarmati, Tauriani” (PC, p. 7). Here and below interpolations of the Old Russian annalist are italisized.
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12 13 14
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B.
C.
the islands of Britain, Sicily, Euboea, Rhodes, Chios, Lesbos, Cythera, Zacynthus, Cephallenia, Ithaca, and Corcyra, as well as a portion of the land of Asia called Ionia, and the river Tigris flowing between the Medes and Babylon as far as the Pontus to the north the Danube, the Dniester, and the Caucasinian15 Mountains, which are called Hungarian, and thence even to the Dnieper and other rivers, the Desna, the Pripeť, the Dvina, the Volkhov, the Volga, which flows eastward into the portion of Shem. 1. In the share of Japheth there dwell Rus’, Chud’, and all the nations: Merya, Muroma, Ves’, Mordva, Chud’ beyond the portages, Perm’, Pechera, Yam’, Ugra, Litva, Zimegola, Kors’, Let’gola, Ljub’. And the Lyakhs, and the Prussians, and Chud’ dwell on the [shores of the] Varangian Sea. 2. On [the shores of] that same sea there dwell the Varangians eastward as far as the portion of Shem. They likewise dwell on [the shores of] that same sea to the west as far as the land of the English and the French. 3. The following nations belong also to the race of Japheth: the Varangians, the Swedes,16 the Norwegians, the Gotlanders, the Rus’, the English, the Spaniards, the Italians, the Romans, the Germans, the French, the Venetians, the Genoese, and others. They dwell from the west to the south and adjoin the Hamitic tribe.17
The annalist’s originality in depiction of Europe shows up first of all in presentation of regions unknown to his predecessors. But it also reveals itself in methods of constructing his own part of the Table of Nations different from that in his Byzantine sources. irst, Byzantine authors use traditional names for the thirds of the oikoumene: F Asia, Africa (Lybia), Europe. The Old Russian annalist never mentions these and introduces his own designations: “East” (vostokъ), “West” (zapad), “Noon” or “Noon-lands” (poludenje, poludennye strany), “Midnight” or “Midnight-lands” (polunoshchje, polnoshchnye strany). All these terms belong to the common Slavic vocabulary and reflect the archaic solar system of orientation according to cardinal points.18 econd, the list derived from Byzantine chronicles consists of names of lands that S partially existed only in antiquity (Babylon, Assyria, Colchis, Bosporus, Maeotis, 15 16 17 18
The name Caucasinian (the Caucasus) is a misspelling for Carpathian Mountains. The Old Russian Svei corresponds to Old Icelandic Svíar, the population of Central Sweden. PVL, pp. 7–8; PC, p. 51–52. The word vostokъ is connected with the idea of sunrise, zapadъ – with the sunset, the noon is the central point in the movement of the sun when it is in its zenith and the midnight marks its opposite point (Melnikova Elena A., “Prostransvennaja orientatsija v ‘Povesti vremennykh let’, Drevnejshije gosudarstva Vostochnoj Evropy. 2005 god. Prostranstvo i vremja v srednevekovykh tekstakh. (Moscow, 2009).
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Scythia) and partially were contemporary (Dalmatia, Armenia). It is only very seldom that ethnic names, like Sarmatians or Taurians, occur. The Old Russian part of the Table consists on the contrary of river names and ethnic names. The two exceptions, Agnian’ska land (England) and Voloshska land (Holland?), mark the limits of habitation of peoples ascribed to the Varangians and do not belong to the list proper. hird, Byzantine historians who relied on the late antique tradition used the T ‘regional’ principle of enumeration, e.g., they started the description of Asia in the far East (India) and moved westward listing lands in Middle East, Asia Minor, and Mesopotamia successively. The compiler of the Primary Chronicle follows this pattern in describing the Asian and African thirds as well as the southern part of Europe. The original list is based however on a quite different principle. The description of Eastern Europe starts with an enumeration of rivers beginning with the Danube: … the Danube, the Dniester, and the Caucasinian Mountains, which are called Hungarian, and thence even to the Dnieper and other rivers, the Desna, the Pripeť, the Dvina, the Volkhov, the Volga… This list is notable in several aspects. The most remarkable about it is its very inclusion in the text as well as its position in the beginning of the description of a region. If ever mentioned in medieval geographical treatises, and in this case these are the four rivers flowing from the Paradise (the Geon – the Indus, the Physon – the Nile, the Tigris and the Euphrates), rivers are named at the end of the description of each third together with islands. The Old Russian annalist follows this structure while copying his Byzantine sources but he backs out of this rule when he comes to Eastern Europe. The list of rivers prefaces the characteristic of Eastern Europe as if the compiler of the Primary Chronicle cast a glance from great height on the territory he is going to describe and provide a general survey of it (section B). It is highly unusual for a medieval geographer to pay no attention to the territorial, tribal or political division of Eastern Europe. What he sees on his mental map is the rivers that constitute the basic system of communications uniting Eastern Europe into one whole and connecting it with Western Europe and the East. That is the Danube that together with the Black Sea (the Pontus) forms the border between the Byzantine world and the annalist’s own space; the Dniester that secured connections within South-Western Rus’ and linked it with the Black Sea; the Dnieper that together with its largest left and right tributaries, the Desna and the Pripjat’, formed the core road of the Old Russian state and united the Southern and Central Rus’; the Western Dvina and the Volkhov that connected the Dnieper basin with the Baltic and finally the Volga that provided access to the East. The system of river routes thus organizes and
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Map 1.
structures the space of the annalist. It also determines the itinerary paradigm of description of those parts of Europe that missed in Byzantine sources. ection C consists of three parts each with its own introduction: “In the share of S Japheth there live…”, “On the shores of the same sea there dwell…”, and “the following nations belong also to the race of Japheth…”. The first part includes 17 ethnic names belonging to Fennic and Baltic peoples that live in the northern part of Old Russian state and on the eastern and southern shores of the Baltic. All other peoples of Eastern Europe, first of all Slavic tribes, are not mentioned at all, though the annalist knows them very well and describes their customs and territories later. The second part defines the habitation of Varangians, and the third part enumerates peoples living on the
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Map 2.
northern shores of the Baltic and further to the west and south up to the Apennine peninsular in the Mediterranean. The mental map of the Old Russian annalist thus is defined by the system of river-and-sea communications in Europe. This ‘itinerary’ pattern has no parallels in either Byzantine learned literature or West-European geography. The itinerary organization of the habitable world was inherent only, as far as medieval Europe is concerned, to the Old Scandinavian culture. In it the world is divided into quarters. Each of them concentrates along one of the routes corresponding to four cardinal points: Norðvegr, Vestrvegr, Suðrvegr, and Austrvegr.19 If the Norðvegr and Suðrvegr were real roads to the north along the coast of the Atlantic (< Norway) and to the south (to Central Europe and Apennine peninsular), the Vestrvegr and Austrvegr followed the directions of the cardinal points only in their beginnings. Starting in the western part of the Baltic the first one led to the west along the North Sea coast whereas the second one led to the east along the southern coast of the Baltic, but then they turned south. The Vestrvegr spread as far as Spain and the western part of the Mediterranean and that allowed the Western quarter to include England, France, and Spain. Therefore the movement along the Vestrvegr was viewed as the movement farther to the west though the real direction was southward: thus, on his voyage to Hierusalem, Sigurd Magnusson moved west to England, then ‘farther west to France’ and still 19
Jackson Tatjana, ‘On the Old Norse System of Spatial Orientation’, Saga-Book of the Viking Society XXV. Pt. 1 (London, 1998), pp. 72–82.
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farther west to Spain.20 The Austrvegr having reached Eastern Baltic spread up east and south to the middle Volga region in the ninth and tenth centuries and to Byzantium since the tenth century. The Fennic peoples enumerated in C. 1 of the Old Russian Table of Nations occupied territories of the Northern part of Eastern Europe from the confluence of the Oka and the Volga in the east to the Finnish Gulf in the west (Map 2). They lived in the interfluve of the Oka and Volga (Mordva, Muroma), in the Jaroslavl’ region on the Volga (Merya), near the White lake (Ves’, Chud’ beyondthe-portages) and on the shores of the Finnish Gulf (Yam’, Chud’). According to archaeological materials, this was the zone of the Baltic–Volga transcontinental route that started to be operated by Scandinavians already in the eighth century and flourished until the last quarter of the tenth century when it gave way to the Dnieper route (‘the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks’).21 Scandinavian antiquities concentrate in the crucial points of the route: in the Volkov region (eighth and ninth centuries), the Jaroslavl’ region (late ninth and tenth centuries), the eastern part of the interfluve of the Oka and the Volga (tenth century). A little to the south, at the confluence of the Kama and the Volga, in Bulgar, most of Viking trade voyages ended. The annalist proceeds with the list of Baltic peoples inhabiting the SouthEastern coast of the Baltic from modern Latvia (Ljub’ and Let’gola) to Poland (Lyakhs). This was the route that originally got the name Austrvegr in Scandinavia.22 But later, as runic inscriptions testify, the name was extended to the prolongation of Baltic system of communications eastward – the Baltic–Volga route. The location of peoples named in C.1, thus, delineates the Austrvegr of the ninth and tenth centuries. The passage C.3 names the peoples of Western and South-Western Europe from England to Venice. These are, however, the peoples that inhabited only coastal territories. That might point to a foreign source of information of the Old Russian annalist, as Eastern Slavs never reached these territories, though by the end of the eleventh century Ancient Rus had many contacts with Germany, France, and England.23 Before the eleventh century the information about the nations living along the Vestrvegr and their location could hardly appear in Ancient Rus without competent mediators. The only intermediaries well acquainted both with west and east24 were Scandinavian Vikings who connected different parts of Europe since the ninth century. It is thus probable that the Old Russian annalist rendered 20
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Sigurðar saga Jórsalafara, 4–5: Finnur Jónsson (ed.), Fagrskinna. Nóregs konunga tal (København, 1902–1903), p. 328–329 (= Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur. B. XXX); Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (ed.), Snorri Sturluson. Heimskringla (Reykjavík, 1951), p. 5 (= Íslenzk Fornrit. B. XXVIII). Dubov Igor’ V., Velikij Volzhskij put’ (Leningrad, 1989). As applied to South-Eastern Baltic, it is attested already in skaldic verses of the tenth century (Jackson Tatjana N., “‘Vostochnyj put’ islandskikh korolevskikh sag”, Istorija SSSR 1976/5 (1976), pp. 164–170). It is enough to point to matrimonial connections of Jaroslav the Wise. Cf.: “Ketilfastr raised this stone after Asgautr, his father. He was in the west and east” (runic inscription U 504 of the first half of the eleventh century from Ubby, Uppland, Sweden): Sveriges runinskrifter. VII. H. 3. Upplands runinskrifter (Stockholm, 1951), pp. 353–355.
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the information that his predecessors had picked up from Varangians and their descendents, and he might contaminate it with contemporary information. In Old Scandinavian Weltbild the center from which the vegar start is the Baltic. They diverge in four directions from Western Baltic, the Danish islands and Jutland. In the Old Russian mental map the space has its focal point also in the Baltic, the Varangian Sea. The first part of the description of Europe (C. 1) ends in the South-West of the Baltic (the last nations mentioned are the Prussians and the Poles) whereas the third part (C. 3) starts with the collective designation of Scandinavian nations (the Varangians) and specific ethnonyms (Swedes, Norwegians, Gotlanders) and proceeds to Angles, etc. Thus, the Baltic is depicted as an intermediate region between the eastern and western routes. Its centrality is stressed by representing Varangians as a connecting link between both routes and by placing their description in the middle of the Old Russian Table of nations (C. 2). On [the shores of] that same sea there dwell the Varangians eastward as far as the portion of Shem. They likewise dwell [on the shores of] this sea to the west as far as the lands of the English and the French. At the time of the compilation of the Primary Chronicle this statement was absolutely anachronistic and contradicted to the situation of the late eleventh and twelfth centuries. Since the mid-eleventh century Varangians, mostly merchants, came and went after a rather short stay and only very few of them settled in Rus. There are no traces of a wide Scandinavian dispersal at that time. It is only in the ninth and tenth centuries that Scandinavian settlements spread from the Baltic to the Volga–Oka confluence, or to be more precise, Scandinavians constituted a substantial component part of the inhabitants at the settlements in that vast region. The territory in the east outlined by the compiler of the Primary Chronicle as inhibited by Varangians corresponds to the Baltic–Volga route operated by them long before the eleventh century. The same chronological boundaries are true for the depiction of the spread of Scandinavians to the west in the Primary Chronicle. England and France could be viewed as territories of their colonization only when speaking about the situation of the ninth and tenth centuries. The Baltic is supposed by the Old Russian annalist to be located in the north, so the movement to the Baltic is described as northward (‘…the Dvina… flows northward and empties into the Varangian Sea’).25 In the narrative parts of the Primary Chronicle, the northern part of the world includes also territories of North-Eastern peoples, like the Jugra.26 Another specific feature of this perception of the two routes by the Old Russian annalist is that the Austrvegr and the Vestrvegr are viewed as two different 25 26
PVL, P. 9, PC, p. 53. Melnikova Elena A. ‘Prostranstvennaja orientatsija’.
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itineraries and they do not connect in the South. The same is characteristic of Scandinavian picture of the world. According to the Primary chronicle, the two roads lead to different thirds of the Earth: the eastern branch ends in the “lot of Shem” and the western one adjoins the Hamitic nations. Thus, the mental map of the compiler of the Primary chronicle represented in the Table of nations is structured by the system of river communications in Eastern Europe and sea routes in Western Europe. The Baltic is regarded as the centre of this system, the starting point from which two branches take their beginnings, one to the east, and another to the west. This perception of Europe might go back to the early period of Scandinavian activities in Eastern Europe before the Dnieper route intercepted the importance of the Volga route.
The description of the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks Two other geographical entries in the Primary chronicle present a description of the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks. The first is included in the enumeration of places of settlement of different East Slavic tribes with explanations of the origins of their tribal names. It is usually referred to as the description of the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks following the annalist’s words, but in fact it is a much wider characteristic of river system in Eastern Europe and its connections with the Vestrvegr. 1.
2.
3.
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”When the Polyanians lived by themselves among the hills, a route existed from the Varangians to the Greeks, and from Greeks along the Dnieper, and up the Dnieper there is a portage to the Lovať, and along the Lovať, the great lake Il’men‘ is reached. The river Volkhov flows out of this lake and enters the great lake Nevo, and the mouth of this lake opens into the Varangian Sea. Over this sea one may go to Rome, and from Rome one may come over the same sea to Tsar‘grad, and from Tsar’grad one may come to the Pontus Sea, into which the river Dnieper flows. The Dnieper rises in the Okovskij forest, and flows southward, and the Dvina rises in this same forest, but flows northward and empties into the Varangian Sea. The Volga flows from this same forest eastward and discharges through seventy mouths into the Khvalisskoje Sea. By this route along the Volga it is possible to reach from Rus’ the Bulgars and the Khvalisy, and attain the region of Shem going eastward, and along the Dvina it is possible to reach the Varangians, and from the Varangians to Rome, and from Rome to the race of Ham. But the Dnieper flows through a mouth into the Pontus Sea which is called the Russian Sea, [on the shores] of which St. Andrew, Peter‘s brother taught, as it is told [further].”27
PVL, pp. 8–9; PC, p. 53.
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his passage consists of three parts of which only the first one is directly T devoted to the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks. In describing it, the annalist concentrates on its Eastern European section while its Western part is marked only by most prominent places, the Varangian Sea, Rome, Tsar’grad (Constantinople), and the Pontus (the Black Sea). It directly precedes the story about apostle Andrew’s voyage and might have been inserted in the Chronicle to provide a fuller account of his itinerary than the narration proper allowed. At the same time this description does not concentrate on it and contains much more information than was needed for this purpose (e.g., the mention of the Volga route). It is likely that this passage either existed as a separate text before the compilation of the Primary Chronicle, and was inserted by its author to present a contemporary picture of the world, or else it was written by the annalist in the process of creating the Primary Chronicle to stress the unity of the world. The second passage contains just mentions of crucial points of apostle Andrew’s itinerary: When Andrew was teaching in Sinope and came to Kherson (as has been recounted elsewhere), he observed that the mouth of the Dnieper was near by. Conceiving a desire to go to Rome, he thus journeyed to the mouth of the Dnieper. Thence he ascended the river, and by chance he halted beneath the hills upon the shore. Upon arising in the morning, he observed to the disciples who were with him, “See ye these hills? So shall the favor of God shine upon them that on this spot a great city shall arise, and God shall erect many churches therein.” He drew near the hills, and having blessed them, he set up a cross… and continued his journey up the Dnieper. He then reached the Slovenians at the point where Novgorod is now situated… And he went to Varangians and came to Rome… Andrew, after his stay in Rome, came to Sinope.28 The annalist marks the same crucial points on the way of apostle Andrew as in the preceding description: the Varangians, Rome, the Black Sea. The picture of the world in these two passages is strikingly different from that of the Table of nations. First of all, in both texts the western and the eastern branches connect in the Black Sea. Apostle Andrew starts at Synop, a large town on the southern shore of the Black Sea, travels through Eastern Europe, crosses the Varangian Sea, doubles Western Europe and returns to Synop via the Mediterranean. The Road from the Varangians to the Greeks starts in Byzantium (“from Greeks this route proceeds along the Dnieper”), leads to the Varangian Sea, then around Europe and ends at Tsar’grad (Constantinople), 28
PVL, p. 9; PC, pp. 53–54.
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map 3.
though the annalist adds that “from Tsar’grad one may come to the Pontus Sea, into which the river Dnieper flows”. Contrary to the Table of nations, it is a circumeuropean route. The eastern section of the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks is represented exclusively by the Dnieper route with its prolongation to the Baltic by the Volkhov – lake Ladoga – the Neva system that earlier formed the NorthWestern part of the Baltic–Volga route. The Dnieper route is described in details including mentions of portages. The Volga route, on the contrary, is only briefly referred to and is not connected with the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks. It is described as a separate route to the East. “By this route along the Volga it is possible to reach from Rus’ the Bulgars and the Khvalisy, and attain the region of Shem going eastward”. The Baltic–Volga route here transforms into an inner Russian communication line: it leads to the Caspian Sea now not from the Baltic but ‘from Rus’. The role of the Varangian Sea is different in these texts too. Having been presented as the center structuring the habitable space in the Table of nations, it still keeps the role of the key road junction in the North that concentrates the river-routes system of Eastern Europe. But contrary to the Table of nations, it ceased to be the only intersection of communications. There appears a second and no less important one – that is the Black sea where the Eastern (via the Dnieper) and the Western (round Western Europe) routes join. Byzantium became the second, and might be the first in importance, attraction centre of the
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Old Russian world. This picture reflects the situation that started to form in the tenth century but became dominant only in the beginning of the eleventh century.
Conclusions The perception of the Baltic in the Old Russian Primary Chronicle derives from two traditions different in time. The oldest tradition represented in the Table of nations dates back to the ninth and tenth centuries and reflects the system of communications of Eastern Europe at the time when the Baltic–Volga route was at its climax. In the picture of the habitable world that formed at that time the Baltic occupied central position because it concentrated the routes to the East and West and served as the key road junction. The Varangians who are portrayed living to the West and East of the Baltic are viewed as intermediaries between both parts of the world. This mental map has close parallels in Old Norse culture and might have been introduced by Scandinavian elite of Ancient Rus. The description of the Road from the Varangians to the Greeks depicts quite a different system of communications that took shape a century or two later. At that time the Volga route lost its importance while tight connections with Byzantium made the Dnieper route dominating. The new situation changed the priorities in constructing the mental map. The Baltic still remained an important link between Rus and Northern and Western Europe. But at the same time there appeared a second and no less significant centre of communications – the Black Sea.
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Livonia and the Holy See in 13th – Early 15th Centuries: Centre and Periphery of Christendom Eva Eihmane
Since the start of the Baltic Crusades the Papacy had been involved in the development of the territory, which subsequently was known as Livonia, and left a certain impact on the processes there. In different periods the Papal impact varied in some aspects. For the purpose of this study three to an extent overlapping periods can be discerned of slightly different impact of the Papacy in Livonia: 1) the launching of the Crusades, 2) the subjugation of the local populations, and 3) the subsequent development in the 14th–15th centuries that were marked by internal discords. The present paper will exploit the link between the Holy See as the centre of Christendom and Livonia as its periphery as a convenient thread to follow through the parallels in the development of the Baltic Eastern coast and the broader Western Christendom. The focus will heavily lie on the latter phase of the Papal involvement as, apart from being better documented and allowing more detailed analysis, it provides eloquent sources, which demonstrate very familiar human vices and weaknesses that give food for thought about the course of history of mentalities.
1.
The launching of the crusades
Papal leadership is one of the necessary components for a military campaign to be considered a crusade.1 Thus it is through the Papal support that the conquest of the would-be Livonia took place in the form of crusades. The numerous Papal bulls declaring a crusade against the Livonian heathen2 1
2
Here we follow the position of pluralists, such as Eric Christiansen, William Urban and Jonathan Riley–Smith who define crusades as holy wars thought to be directly authorised by Christ through a Pope, fought against those who were perceived to be the external or internal foes of Christendom, for a cause related to Christendom as a whole with the participants giving special vows and receiving spiritual privilegies. (Riley–Smith Jonathan (ed.), Atlas of the Crusades (New York, Oxford, 1991), pp. 23; Riley–Smith Jonathan, ‘The Crusading Movement and Historians’, Riley–Smith Jonathan (ed.), The Oxford Illustrated History of the Crusades (Oxford, 2001), pp. 8. In 1196 the first crusading bull against the Baltic pagans was issued, followed by numerous others in the subsequent years. During the seven-year long pontificate of Alexander IV (1254–1261) alone at least 13 bulls for crusades to Livonia and Prussia were issued (Šterns Indriķis, Latvijas vēsture, 1180–1290: krustakari (The History of Latvia, 1180–1290: Crusades)(Rīga, 2002), pp. 368, 370, 283).
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and placing it in the same status as the crusades to the Holy Land,3 allowed the actual leaders of the campaign to attract warriors from the Christian countries through religious motives and spiritual rewards. But how much the initiative for the respective crusade came from the Holy See? It does not require deep analysis to be forced to admit that the Pope’s ability to get truthful information about Livonia and affect the situation there was restricted. Consequently, we have to agree with scholars, such as Barbara Bombi and Anti Selart, who have come to the conclusion that the Popes reacted to local initiatives rather than actively led the crusades.4 Indeed, chronicler Henry of Livonia clearly shows Papal crusading bulls for Livonia coming in response to local petitions. For instance, it was in reaction to the request from the first Bishop Meinhard, who saw the peaceful mission hopelessly stuck, that Celestine III, granted “remission of all sins to all those who would take the cross and go to restore that newly founded church”.5 Likewise, it was in reply to the request of the second Bishop Berthold who, disappointed in the aggressive reception in his new diocese “bewailed [..] the ruin of the church of Livonia” that the Pope “granted remission of sins to all those who should take the cross and arm themselves against the perfidious Livonians”6 According to the chronicler it actually required eloquent persuasion from Bishop Albert for the Pope to grant to Livonia the status of the Land of St. Mary and re-iterate his support to the Baltic crusade at the 4th Lateran Council in 1215.7 3
4
5
6 7
Since 1170s the Popes placed the crusades on the Northern frontier of Christendom in the same category as the crusades to the Holy Land. (Jensen Carsten Selch, ‘Urban Life and the Crusades in Northern Germany and the Baltic Lands in the Early Thirteenth Century’, Murray Alan V. (ed.), Crusade and Conversion on the Baltic frontier, 1150–1500 (Aldershot, Burlington, 2001), pp. 83); The Bull ”Non parum animus noster” issued either in 1171 or 1175 called on the Scandinavian Christians to join the war against Estonians and the other pagans that caused trouble to Christians, granting the potential participants the same spiritual regards as received by the crusaders to the Holy Land. (Christiansen 1980 p. 56; Šterns 2002 p. 360). Barbara Bombi, for instance, considers that Innocent III (1198–1216) lacked a consistent plan for the conversion of pagans and reacted to local initiatives, initially not wanting the mission to the Baltic to go beyong preaching and turn into a crusade and it was only after 1204 that his policy took a turn in favour of a crusade to the would-be Livonia (Bombi Barbara, ‘Innocent III and the preadicatio to the Heathens in Livonia (1198–1204)’, Lehtonen Tuomas M.S., Jensen Kurt Villads, Malkki Janne, Ritari Katja (eds.), Medieval History Writing and Crusading Ideology (Helsinki, 2005), pp. 232– 237); Anti Selart writes that the Baltic Crusades were led from the Scandinavian and North-German power centres rather than from Rome (Selart Anti, Livland und die Rus im 13 Jahrhundert (Koln, Weimar, Bohlau, 2007), pp. 51, 53, 54. The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia (hereinafter: Henry of Livonia), I, 12. English edition used: Brundage James A. (ed. and trans.), The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia (Madison, 1961), pp.30; Latin edition used: Georgius Heinricus Pertz (ed.), Heinrici Chronicon Lyvoniae (Hannoverae, 1874), pp.5 (remissionem quipped omnium peccatorum indulsit omnibus qui ad resuscitandam illam primitivam ecclesiam accepta cruse transeant). Henry of Livonia II, 3; English edition pp. 32; Latin edition pp. 6 ([..] clam navesadiit [..] Lyvoniensis ecclesie ruinam [..]. Igitur domnus papa cunctis signum crucis accipentibus et contra Lyvones se armantibus remissionem indulget peccatorum). Henry of Livonia, XIX, 7; English edition pp. 152; Latin edition pp. 126.
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Medieval Livonia 1260.
In view of the size and diversity of Christendom under his charge, how else could the Pope have learned about the developments and needs at the frontier of the Christian world than from directly interested and/or involved persons? This was true throughout the medieval times and to an extent is perhaps still true today. Thus the policy of the Holy See was inevitably pro-active, the Papal initiatives coming in reaction to the received complaints and requests. Although naturally the Holy Land could not but be regarded by the Papacy as being more important than Livonia and the Popes had other priorities and more pressing concerns than those of a remote Northern frontier of Christendom, the Holy See did demonstrate genuine interest in the new Christian land. The spiritual head of the Christendom by definition supported the conversion of pagans and the expansion of the Christian world.
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2. The subjugation of local populations It was through the Papal involvement that the conquest of Livonia, taking the form of crusades, at least theoretically was targeted at the conversion of the local peoples. As the spiritual head of Christendom, the Pope tried to ensure that the course of the crusades follows Christian ideals and the converts receive just treatment and spiritual care. From the pontificate of Innocent III (1198–1216) until than of Alexander IV (1254–1261) the Holy See strove towards the ideal of establishing a theocratic administration in Livonia, whereby the spiritual and political power would be in the hands of bishops and the converts, directly subordinated to the Pope, would enjoy political freedom–the freedom of the children of God.8 Thus the bull issued by Honorious III (1216–1227) on 3rd January 1225 took all converts in Livonia and Prussia under the protection of the Holy See against oppression from secular lords and declared them subordinated only to Christ and the Roman Catholic Church.9 In 1227 Pope Gregory (1227–1241) IX re-confirmed the bull of Honorious III, re-asserting that converts shall enjoy the freedom of the children of God and stand under the protection of the Holy See.10 Accordingly, in December 1230 Papal vice legate in Livonia Balduin of Alna concluded a treaty with the ruler of Western Kurland (Western part of Livonia) on the conversion of his subjects and their direct subordination to the Pope.11 A similar treaty was concluded with the Eastern part of Kurland in 1231.12 The Popes in their efforts to ensure maximum freedom to the converts and prevent their oppression were trying to swim against the tide of secular interests and human weaknesses. Thus Innocent III and his successor Honorius III, struggling with the increasingly evident reality that was far from religious ideals and starting to act as a mediator and judge in the internal Livonian discords, repeatedly admonished Swordbrothers in relation to the complaints received about them, instructing ecclesiastic authorities with clerical penalties to keep them from the oppression of converts.13 In 1225 the Papal legate Wilhelm of Modena travelled through the lands of the converted Livs to preach Gospel and to explain the converts their rights and urge the secular powers to treat them fairly and in accordance with the religious ideals and “not to impose any harsh, unbearable burden upon the shoulders of
8
9 10 11 12 13
Christiansen Eric, The Northern Crusades: The Baltic and the Catholic Frontier, 1100–1525 (London, 1980), pp. 119; Švābe Arveds,’Senā Kursa’, Straumes un avoti (‘The Old Kursa (Kurland)’ in collection of articles Streams and Sources) , I vol., (Rīga, 1938), pp. 70. Šterns 2002 p. 232; Švābe Arveds (ed.), Senās Latvijas vēstures avoti (Collection „History Sources of Ancient Latvia”, hereinafter: SLVA), II vol., (Rīga, 1940), No. 110 SLVA, No. 150; Šterns 2002 p. 366 SLVA, Nr. 162; Šterns 2002 p. 231 SLVA, Nr. 163; Šterns 2002 p. 232 SLVA, Nos. 78, 99, 100; Šterns 2002 p. 365.
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the converts, but rather the sweet and light yoke of the Lord”.14 Gregory IX continuing the same policy wrote that “men signed with the mark of Christ must not be worse off than they were as limbs of the devil”.15 The Papal orders (except for those concerning purely clerical issues, which remain outside the scope of the present paper) for the most part remained a theory only. The Pope was heavily limited in his capacity to receive adequate information and enforce the implementation of his orders. Livonian powers fought against the restriction of their material interests. Thus the messengers of the potential converts of Kurland were detained from going to Rome where they were supposed to confirm their agreements with the Holy See; the Swordbrothers forayed in their territories and destroyed the texts of the treaties.16 A streamlet of complaints set its course towards the Papal Court, gradually to grow into a mighty stream. Although the Papacy failed to reach its ideals, the Papal efforts to intervene and act as a mediator and impose spiritual penalties on the perpetrators did to an extent restrain the excessive impunity and greed of the Livonian lords. However, this was less and less the case in the subsequent period with the Papacy becoming increasingly weaker and supremacy in Livonia falling into the hands of powerful and arrogant Teutonic Order.
3. Papal role in the internal Livonian power struggles in the 14th–15th centuries a)
The struggling Livonian parties as customers in the Papal market of favours
In the course of time the fight against the heathen receded into the past and in the increasing stream of complaints flowing to the Holy See the focus shifted from the oppression of converts to the aggravating internal Livonian power struggles, especially the ceaseless conflicts between the Livonian bishops on one part and the Livonian branch of the Teutonic Order on the other. With brief respites this struggle went on for almost two centuries as the disputing Livonian parties tried to resolve their mutual conflicts through the mediation of the Holy See. The Pope’s poor information about the actual situation in Livonia made his policy easy to manipulate with and inevitably resulted in the efforts from both parties to lobby their cause at the Holy See. Papal verdicts naturally favoured the party which managed to present its cause as the just one. Moreover, in the 14th–15th centuries the Holy See was especially notorious for its increasing corruption and weakness that culminated in the Great Schism. These two aspects–the corruption of the Papacy and the possibility to manipulate with Papal will– 14 15 16
Henry of Livonia, XXIX.3; English edition pp. 231; Latin edition pp. 208 ( nec Theutonici gravaminis alicuius iugum importabile neophytorum humeris imponereut, sed iugum Domini Levi). Quoted from: Christiansen 1980 p. 125; Bunge von F.G et.al (eds.), Liv-, esth und kurländisches Urkundesbuch nebst Regesten (cited as LUB), Bd. 1 (Reval, 1853), Nos. 2202–2004. SLVA, Nos 172, 204; Švābe 1938 p. 71.
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encouraged the struggling Livonian parties to resort to diplomatic skills, deceit and bribes, the latter tool, as we have a reason to suspect, occasionally being the most eloquent argument. The Papal mediation in the Livonian power struggles caused a flow of increasingly intense correspondence between the centre and periphery of Christendom. It is thanks to this link that the bulk of the most eloquent sources of the respective period were written, through which posterity has an insight into the political intricacies in late medieval Livonia. To lobby their cause permanently the struggling parties stationed their representatives at the Papal Court. The letters between the representative of the Teutonic Order, called Generalprocurator, on the one part and the Grandmaster and the Livonian Master on the other, which represent the Order’s inner correspondence and as such present the actual views within the Order and provide a reliable insight into the tendencies at the Papal Court, constitute an especially interesting group of sources that the present paper heavily relies on. These documents paint a vivid picture of the vices that ravaged at the Holy See, revealing it as a market of favours, where Papal attention and verdicts were purchased by bribes and deceit. These sources allow us to follow the way these tendencies trickling into the Livonian power circles. The Teutonic Order eagerly plunged into the Papal market of favours and skilfully operated with the available tools. The Generalprocurators in their reports constantly emphasised the need to have supporters at the Holy See from among cardinals, other court officials and even Pope’s personal servants in order for their cause to have a chance of success. It was taken for granted by all parties that such well-wishers cannot be maintained without regular gifts. The Grandmaster in numerous letters instructed the Generalprocurator to spare no money for that or other particularly important causes, while Generalprocurators constantly asked for more money and complained about the shortage of funds, insisting that larger amounts were required successfully to pursue the Order’s interests and warning that the lack of money and lesser bribes than those given by the rivals could do great harm to the Order. Giving of gifts intensified when an important matter had to be pushed through, while well-wishers were also constantly materially motivated to maintain their constant benevolence towards the Order and be ready to support it in the time of need. An early source that gives an insight into the way the Teutonic Order purchased favours at the Papal Court is Generalprocurator Conrad Gruel’s report to Grandmaster dated April 1314, which was a period of acute controversies between the Archbishop of Riga and the Teutonic Order. The source lists amounts of money given to particular ecclesiastics, the Pope included.17 Towards the end of the 14th century the flow of relevant correspondence became increasingly intense, culminating at the beginning of the 15th century. Whether the lobbying at the Papal Court intensified proportionally or else this development is 17
LUB, Bd.2 (Reval, 1855), No. 650.
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solely a reflection of growing literacy and a result of improved record-keeping, remains an open question. However, the increasing notoriety of the Papal Court and the fact that at this time the struggle among the Livonian powers focused on vital matters, notably the incorporation of Riga Archbishopric into the Teutonic Order, suggests that the mounting amount of evidence of the Livonian parties, especially Teutonic Order, lobbying their cause with unfair methods might indeed at least partially reflect the actual intensification of this tendency. Thus in 1392 the Generalprocurator complained to the Grandmaster about the slow advance of the matters of the Teutonic Order at the Holy See and suggested that the Order should get additional secret “friends and well-wishers” from among cardinals and other high-ranking courtiers, yet one cannot enjoy their benevolence without an “assertion of honour” (erunge). “Regretfully that is how things are at the Papal Court”, he sighed, “those who have and who give, they get and win”.18 In early 15th century the matters of the Order at the Holy See were in the hands of particularly outspoken and unscrupulous Generalprocurators Johann Tiergart (1419–1428) and especially his successor, the later notorious Caspar Wandofen (1428–1432),19 in 1428–1429 aided by representative of the Livonian branch of the Order Johann Sobbe,20 who presented themselves as most ardent and unscrupulous supporters of bribery, deceit and even violence. Through their relatively abundant correspondence, with purchasing of favours being its dominating topic, the respective period is comparatively well documented. It is still an open question though to what extent the tendencies, striking in these sources, can be ascribed to broader circles and a longer period of time. Thus in December 1423, when the Teutonic Order tried to counter the suspension of Pope Boniface IX’s bull, by which the Riga Dome Chapter had been incorporated into the Teutonic Order, as well as to achieve the appointment of its candidate as the bishop of Ősel–Wiek, Johann Tiergart desperately begged the Grandmaster for funding as he had to provide the traditional Christmas gifts in money and kind to the cardinal-protector and other court officials. “If I do not give them gifts according to the old tradition, I am afraid I won’t get much support and help from them either. I know these people well,” he warned.21 Caspar Wandofen was especially insistent in his requests for money for bribes, not forgetting also his own well being. Amidst insistent requests for increased 18 19
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Wer do hat und gibt, der behelt und gewinnet (LUB, Bd.3 (Reval 1857), No. 1321). See an insight into the life of Caspar Wandofen–from his rapid rise to equally rapid fall through a scandalous affair with a disreputable woman and his sudden and mysterious death–in Urban William, ‘The Diplomacy of the Teutonic Knights at the Curia’, Journal of Baltic Studies IX (1978), pp. 124–127. For a brief insight into the career of Johann Sobbe see: Klauss Milicers, ‘Vācu Ordeņa Livonijas atzara brāļi universitātēs’, Latvijas Vēstures institūta žurnāls 2 (1992), pp. 19.–22. (Translated by Kaspars Kļaviņš from: K. Militzer, Brüder aus dem livländischen Zweig des Deutschen Ordens an den Universitäten). ..wend gebe ich nicht den obscreben unsirs ordens protectori, advocato, procuratori etc. noch alder vorschrebener gewonheid, so besorgen ich mich wenig trostes und hulffe fon in. Ich kenne die lewte wol ( LUB, Bd. 7 (Riga, Moskau, 1881), No. 56).
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funding he openly praised the power of money because anything could be achieved with it. “That’s the way the world is: who gives more, is right”, he declared.22 Wandofen believed that it harmed the Teutonic Order that–as he wrote–it relied too much on justice and gave too little.23 Johann Sobbe during his relatively short stay at the Papal Court developed the same impression of it. “Without money nobody can do anything in this court nowadays,“ he wrote.24 Far less evidence is available of the bribery at the Papal Court by the opponents of the Teutonic Order in Livonia. Since the Pope could naturally be expected to favour the position of ecclesiastic authorities who usually were plaintiffs and turn against those who were regularly accused of the oppression of the church, the former had less motivation to resort to bribery. Thus there is a reason to assume that the Teutonic Order was more actively engaged in the corruption at the Papal Court than the other Livonian struggling parties. However, in face of the manipulability of the Papacy and the bribery by the Order, the Livonian ecclesiastic authorities, to have any chance of a favourable judgement in the market of favours, were forced to adopt the same practices. Raised in the same mental climate, some of them did not find it too difficult. Thus in 1429, a member of the Riga Dome Chapter, Dietrich Nagel, in a letter to the Riga Dome Chapter from Rome, where he was trying to release the Chapter from subjugation to the Order, complained about the lack of money, without which, as he wrote, nothing could be achieved. He also recommended the Chapter to consider whether it could afford the enormous costs required to settle the dispute in Rome.25 The Order’s arch-enemy Bishop of Ősel–Wiek Christian Kubant 26 (1423–1431) was especially skilled in bribery, which for him seems to have been a natural procedure. What is indicative, he came from the close circles around the Pope and was experienced in the life at the Papal Court. His experience was smoothly transferred to his office in Livonia and vehemently used in the struggle against the Order. Thus in July 1429 Wandofen expressed fear that Kubant with gifts would thoroughly upset the Order’s prospects of a positive outcome, as he was renowned for never coming empty-handed to the Pope. 27 Later the Grandmaster actually complained that Kubant with trickery, money and gifts had suppressed the truth and justice and spread lies about the Teutonic Order. Wandofen however took it for granted because he thought that Kubant had been more generous in gifts.28 22 23 24 25 26 27 28
Gelt das ist alhir der frund und der forderer dy sachen durchzubrengen, und wer do mer gebit, der hot ouch mee rechts (LUB, Bd. 8 (Riga, Moskau, 1884), No. 88, similarly in No. 328). LUB, Bd. 8, No. 350. ..sunder gelt en kan nymant in deme hove in desen tiiden wat ůtgerichten (LUB, Bd.8, No. 1). LUB, Bd.8, No. 26. Also Kuband and Kerstianus. LUB, Bd.8, No. 35. LUB, Bd.8, No. 328.
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Thus the Livonian ecclesiastic authorities joined the Order in trafficking the attitudes ruling at the Holy See into Livonia. b) The impact of the Papal mediation on Livonia Morally the most damaging side-effect for Livonia of the contacts of its power circles with the Papal Court probably was that at least those persons directly exposed these contacts seem to have been overcome by general disbelief in any chance for justice to prevail alone without money. Consequently the Livonian powers, especially the Teutonic Order, grew accustomed to the practice of solving their discords by means of bribes and adopted the attitude that with money everything could be achieved and every wrong could be turned right. American historian William Urban has a point when he suggests that the Papal Court could have actually contributed to the worldliness and arrogance of the Order itself, writing that the belief that “one cannot achieve anything without friends and that friends cannot be made except with became a political philosophy among the Teutonic Knights, which contributed greatly to the cynicism, worldliness and corruption for which they became noted in the 15th century.”29 The mental climate thus marked by corruption and purchasing of justice was a fruitful soil for impunity, unscrupulousness and off-hand application of unfair and brutal methods, encouraging the Livonian rivals, first and foremost the Teutonic Order, to go further than bribes and to resort to deceit or even violence. In broader terms, unrestrained and remorseless application of methods of force among Livonian actors was encouraged by the frequent precedents all around and the violence-saturated atmosphere of the age in general, violence that Norman Cantor, borrowing Jacob Burckhardt’s phrase, described as the violence of “terrible simplifiers”, “the violence that comes from disintegration of civilized order and the collapse of moral standards”.30 A striking example–the-so-called Union of Segewold –transpired already in 1316. The Livonian branch of the Teutonic Order, through exploitation of human passions, trickery, intimidation and physical threats brutally deprived the Riga Dome Chapter and Archbishop Friedrich (1304–1341) of their means of subsistence and forced some Archbishop’s vassals and members of the Riga Dome Chapter to conclude a union against the Archbishop during his lengthy stay in Avignon to compel him to withdraw his charges against the Order at the Papal Court and turn him from plaintiff into defendant.31 The rough demonstration of its physical superiority did not cause the Order any substantial harm apart from spiritual sanctions that it did not seem to fear much. Pope Johannes XXII (1316–1334) condemned this union and annulled it32 and in 1318 the leaders of 29 30 31 32
Urban 1978 p. 124. As opposed to “the violence stemming from primitivism, which had been common in the early middle ages” (Cantor Norman, Medieval History. The Life and Death of a Civilization, 2nd ed. (New York, 1969), pp. 516). For detailed sequence of events around the Segewold Union see: J. Haller, Die Verschwörung von Segewold 1316 (Riga, 1908). LUB, Bd. 2, Nos. 659, 660.
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the Order were summoned to the Holy See to answer the charges33 and that was all that the Pope could or wanted to do. Thanks to active lobbying and successful visit of the delegation of the Order at the Holy See, the success of which, most likely, was largely based on gifts, a dramatic change in favour of the Order occurred in Papal attitude in 1319 to the extent that the Pope instructed several prelates to protect the Order against offenders, even be they bishops or archbishops.34 The most notorious incident, however, was the brutal murder of the messengers of the Archbishop of Riga on their way to Rome in 1428.35 They were intercepted in Kurland and drowned under ice by reeve of Grobin Goswin von Ascheberg, who subsequently fled from Livonia. Generalprocurator Wandofen was annoyed about such unnecessary exposure and remarked that it would have been difficult to prove Goswin’s guilt if he himself had not admitted it by running away.36 The Order pursued the policy of pretending it was not involved at all and placed all blame on von Ascheberg alone, presenting it as his personal revenge.37 While the arbitration commission, which on the Order’s initiative and with its participation reviewed the matter to prevent the investigation of the incident at the Papal Court, openly condemned the murder and declared “manhunt” on von Ascheberg and his assistants,38 the public scapegoat secretly met approval and support within the Order. Wandofen’s and Sobbe’s letters, the former to hide their support, encoding von Goswin’s name as “the one, called G. from Livonia” indicated that he had for some time stayed with them in Rome and received from them financial assistance.39 This correspondence also casts doubt on W. Urban’s suggestion that it had been “the hurried change of administration” that had disrupted the implementation of the instruction of the Livonian Master to Wandolfen’s predecessor to arrest the culprits.40 Ascheberg’s services were clearly appreciated within the Order. Eventually his absolution was achieved.41 Thus neither the direct murderer was punished nor did the Order that stood behind him come to any substantial harm for this outrageous abuse. The sense of impunity encouraged unscrupulous members of the Order again and again to resort to force without any restraint. Thus Wandofen vehemently advocated deceit and violence without even considering diplomatic tools. For instance, fully approving the murder of the archbishop’s messengers, though frustrated by the insufficient efforts to cover it up, he advised similar measures against Bishop Kubant, but using a more difficult to trace tool of murder, such as poison. The Order should subsequently deny its involvement as it would be impossible to prove anything.42 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42
LUB, Bd.2, No. 661. LUB, Bd. 2, No. 669. Urban 1978 p. 126. LUB, Bd.8, No. 36. LUB, Bd.7, Nos. 718, 723, 733. LUB, Bd.7, Nos. 718, 733. LUB, Bd.7, No. 799; Bd. 8, No. 1. Urban 1978 p. 127. LUB, Bd.7, No. 69; Hildebrand H., ‚Einleitung’, LUB, Bd.7, pp. XIX. LUB, Bd.8, No.36.
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Wandofen’s frivolous remark that he would rather deal with the consequences of ten murders that compete with one living man, such as Kubant,43 indicate the efficiency of unscrupulous plotting and the ease with which with gifts any offence could be whitewashed at the Pala Court. His resourceful mind, at times even rejecting bribery as a too slow and inefficient way, always had more or less mean and deceitful suggestions ready. He repeatedly and insistently recommended the interception of messengers of their opponents.44 The most elaborate plan in this regard was his advice to arrange a pirate attack on the ship that took Bishop Kubant to Livonia and rob him of the unfavourable (for the Order) Papal bulls that he was carrying.45 Sobbe, who leaves an impression of a less refined person and seems to have outrivaled Wandofen in unscrupulousness, soon became disappointed in the relatively slow path of bribery and recommended the Livonian Master to abandon the efforts to achieve success in Rome and instead to take justice in their land in their own
Livoniae Nova Descriptio 1573–1578.
43 44 45
LUB, Bd. 8, Nr. 69. E.g., LUB, Bd.8, Nos. 175, 203, 317. LUB, Bd.8, No. 358.
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hands and to capture members of Riga Dome Chapter who had taken off the vestments of the Order.46 It testifies that the incident involving von Ascheberg had not been an isolated case and such methods were nothing out of the ordinary in the circles that the respective people moved in and were not at all discouraged in the Livonian branch of the Order. In fact, when the Order failed to achieve the reincorporation of the Riga Dome Chapter by bribes and deceit, the relevant sources convey that Sobbe’s advice was taken seriously and there was a danger of violence looming in the air in Livonia.47 Dietrich Nagel sensed it in Rome, warning the Riga Dome Chapter of the danger that the Livonian branch of the Order would use force and subsequently hush up all complaints with money.48 It was definitely also not out of their free will that the Archbishop and the Riga Dome Chapter agreed not to enforce their hard-won and greatly valued release from under the Order.49 The fact that they were the Order’s representatives in Rome that advocated such methods also illustrates that the mental environment at the Papal Court and in European educational and urban centres, where their personalities had developed, encouraged such approaches. Bishop of Ősel–Wiek Kubant is a vivid example of a product of such environment and illustrates that, while the Order with its physical supremacy did not have rivals in impunity and roughness, it did not have a monopoly on deceit. In him the Generalprocurators met their like and justly feared his unscrupulous and venomous mind and skilful intriguing and found themselves helpless in the face of Kubant’s superior talents. The Order’s Generalprocurator in numerous letters complained about Kubant’s trickery and slander. Kubant was not beyond detaining messengers either,50 nor did he hesitate to spread lies and was for instance also reported to have been associating with renegade brother of the Order Stibur and instigated him to commit a theft from Wandofen’s apartment.51 To the Grandmaster’s amazement and as a proof to his skill, Kubant actually succeeded in smuggling the document with Order’s privileges out of a monastery in Rome where the Generalprocurator had deposited it.52 An obvious result of the corruption of the Papal Court and the Pope’s incapability to affect the situation in Livonia was falling respect for the Papal institution and growing worldliness. An extreme example of worldliness is a letter of May 1429 from Johann Sobbe to the Livonian Master where he spoke very disdainfully of the Pope. He advised not to fear excommunication as it was not as horrible as priests presented it and hinted that it was naïve to honour the Pope as the God on the 46 47 48 49 50 51 52
LUB, Bd. 8, No.1 E.g. LUB, Bd.8, Nos. 26, 327, 336, 342, 366. LUB, Bd. 8, No. 26. LUB, Bd. 8, Nos. 336, 342, 852, 891. E.g., LUB, Bd. 7, No. 259. LUB, Bd. 8, Nos. 509, 522, 527. LUB, Bd. 8, Nos. 206, 350.
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earth, while in fact he should rather be regarded as a devil on earth. In Sobbe’s opinion it was also worthless to honour the current Pope – Martin V – because he would die soon anyway and his successor would be more benevolent to the Order. To crown it all, he cynically observed that a new schism – God help that it happens – would be the best solution for the Order.53 And that is the strongest emotion about the Great Western Schism (1378–1417) in the internal correspondence of the Teutonic Order (or for that matter in the Livonia-related sources in general, although pious circles must have found it unsettling). The Shism, described by historians as the most shattering crisis of the period with the doubtful validity of the communion, the concern about the earthly and eternal salvation of every Christian and the loss of the community of living and dead in heaven and on earth,54 in these circles did not provoke even a tinge of concern about the religious or moral aspects of it, just increased their disrespect for the Papacy. The letters of the Teutonic Order leave the overall impression that it found the Schism advantageous and tried to exploit it in their interests. For instance, when along with the existing Bishop of Dorpat Dietrich who was a staunch enemy of the Order, antipope Clemens VII (1378–1394) appointed his own Bishop of Dorpat, the Order seems to have aspired to use the situation to get rid of Bishop Dietrich. Reluctantly fulfilling the order of Pope Urban VI (1378–89) to dispose Livonia of the false bishop,55 the Livonian Master availed himself of the opportunity repeatedly to complain about Bishop Dietrich and asked for his withdrawal.56 Thus the Schism caused certain confusion in Livonian ecclesiastic administration and even posed risks to its security–if the letter of the Livonian Master to the Pope can be believed–the false bishop of Dorpat was threatening to sell the castles at his disposal to Russians.57 A more lasting effect of the Schism for Livonia was that the Council emerged as the higher instance than the Pope and the Riga Dome Chapter, disillusioned in the justice offered by the Papacy, took their struggle against the Order to the Council, which judged in favour of the Riga Dome Chapter, which fact in its turn, coupled with military defeats, might have made the Order more ready for a compromise and more responsive to internal Livonian solutions that eventually led to the reconciliation among the Livonian powers in 1435, which date therefore presents the chronological border of the present study. Paradoxically it was when the Pope ceased to meddle in the internal Livonian matters that reconciliation was achieved among the local powers that had been the purpose of the Pope’s 53
54 55 56 57
.. unde en vruchtet ju nocht vor den ban; de duvel en is so eislich nich als men ene malet, och de ban so grot nicht als ene uns de papen maket. [..] sunder wy armen Dutschen late nuns duncken, dat he ein erdeschs Got sy, sunder wy mochten uns woll vrilyken duncknen, dat he ein erdeschs duvel were, als he vorwar och is. [..] eder dar wert aver ein schisma unde splitteringe werdende, dat wy vele pawese krigen, dat Got jog eve, so hebbe wy aver gut don, unde deser wert jo en schende (LUB, Bd.8, No. 1). Borst Arno, Medieval Worlds: Barbarians, Heretics and Artists in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1991), pp. 121. LUB, Bd. 3, No. 1333. UKB, Bd. 3, Nos. 1140, 1144. UKB, Bd. 3, No. 1144
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meddling, which fact alone says something about the impact of Papacy on Livonia in that particular period. Thus it might be argued that eventually the Schism had more positive than negative consequences for Livonia. Last but not least the intervention and mediation of the Papal Court also directly affected the performance of the higher clerical offices in Livonia. What first and foremost strikes in this regard is the lengthy periods, in fact, the largest part of the 14th century, when the Archbishop of Riga was absent from Livonia engaging in long and expensive proceedings at the Papal Court against the Teutonic Order. For instance, Archbishop Friedrich (1304–1341) spent decades in Avignon, also Archbishop Fromhold (1348–1370) whiled away most of his time in office at the Holy See. The bribery and deceit by the Teutonic Order at the Holy See very often were aimed at achieving the Papal granting of a high-ranking clerical position to their candidate. Appointment to these positions was thus based on the candidate’s political sympathies and affiliation, with little or no concern for his suitability for the respective duty. Although election by the respective chapter or an independent Papal appointment in itself was not a guarantee of a good performance of the prelate’s function,58 nor was the appointment of the Order’s candidate a precondition for his negligence of his duties, the appointment based on affiliation greatly increased the risk that the respective diocese would not fall in the best hands possible. In fact through Papal involvement a mean circle developed. Regular election by the respective cathedral chapter or independent papal appointment more often than not meant that the respective church official would have to spend his days fighting the plots of the Order and would be unable to concentrate fully on their direct duties, not to mention the lengthy periods when they would be away at the Papal Court dedicating all effort and time to the internal Livonian struggle. The co-existence of two paths of filling the office of bishop or archbishop was also potentially a source of dangerous confusion and a tool in the hands of conflicting parties as due to the long travel time of communications it could result in two rivalling prelates fighting for the same position as was the case with the successor of Archbishop Johannes IV (1374–1393). The members of his Dome Chapter that followed him in exile after his death spitefully elected the son of the Duke of Stettin as Archbishop of Riga while the Teutonic Order achieved appointment of Johann von Wallenrode, nephew of the late Grandmaster that eventually triggered a civil war as Bishop of Dorpat Dietrich allied with the Dukes of Mecklenburg and Stettin as well as with Russians and Lithuanians with the long term goal of defeating the hated Order under the pretence of efforts to depose the latter and hand over the archbishopric to the former rival. The long, nasty and tiresome struggle of the Teutonic Order against Bishop of Ősel–Wiek Kubant is a vivid example of how much time, money and effort the Teutonic Order and the prelates from outside the ranks of the Order spent fighting 58
For example, papal appointee Johann von Lund (appointed in 1302) was not interested in this position and never came to Livonia.
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each other and the danger of co-existence two sources of filling ecclesiastical offices. The Teutonic Order plotted to replace him with the Bishop of Kurland’s brother Johann Schulte, arranging for him to be elected already after the appointment of Kubant had taken place pretending to be ignorant of the fact59 and secretly instigating Őselians to support the former and resist the latter.60 The Order, however, failed to outwit the Bishop and hide its connection with the
Constructed as the headquarters of the Teutonic Order in Livonia in 14th century, rebuilt in 16th century and undergone several major reconstructionsm, Riga Castle has always served as the seat of the central authority and still manifests the Order’s political ambitions. Photo Eva Eihmane.
rebellious vassals and Kubant, having secretly fled to Rome in 1429, took his fight with the Order to the Papal Court 61 and the struggle between Kubant and the Order continued for the rest of the former’s life. The highest ecclesiastical officials of Livonia, especially those appointed to serve as the Order’s men, often resembled “career diplomats” for whom the respective position was a step in their career and/or a source of income. Thus, in Livonia apart from the lengthy periods of the absence of prelates from their dioceses due to their proceedings in Rome against the Teutonic Order, we also come across vice of the late Medieval Christendom such as the clerical absenteeism due to the lack of sufficient commitment. 59 60 61
LUB, Bd.7, Nos. 45, 46, 49, 50, 55, 57. LUB, Bd.7, No. 51, 55 LUB, Bd. 8, Nos. 220, 230, 257. 274, 282, 283, 285, 286, 287, 288, etc.
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A vivid example is the above mentioned Johann von Wallenrode. Appointed in 1393, already in 1405 he “rented out” his archbishopric to the Teutonic Order and pursued a diplomat’s career. Later he aspired to the Archbishopric of Lűttich (that was eventually granted to him in 1418) wishing simultaneously to retain the title and income of the Archbishop of Riga that Pope Martin V however did not allow.62 Johann Tiergart continued to serve as the Order’s Generalprocurator in Rome after being appointed Bishop of Kurland (Generalprocurator 1419–1428, Bishop of Kurland 1425–1456). He arrived in his diocese in late 1425, left it again in early 1426, to return there only in 1433.63 Tiergart clearly regarded this position as too small a step in his career. Upon appointment he was promised quick transfer to a more important bishopric64 and expressed readiness to occupy the expected vacancy in the Bishopric of Dorpat65 and soon was recommended for this position.66 He however failed to get it and remained Bishop of Kurland for the rest of his life, towards the end of it even trying to leave his bishopric under the charge of his brother.67 Contacts with the Papal court also encouraged increasing personal greed and striving for luxury in the high-ranking bureaucratic and clerical circles, where living in high-style was regarded to be instrumental for the furthering of the interests of the respective entity. Thus Wandofen warned that St. John’s Order had gotten into great trouble because its procurator’s living standards had been below those expected from his status.68 Admittedly, this and similar Wandofen’s statements about the wealth of his rivals and colleagues in Rome are probably exaggerated to add weight to his own requests for money. For instance his envious complaint that the dean of Riga Dome Chapter had had six beautiful horses in Rome and a large household and in five years spent more than he himself would get in ten69 strangely contrasts with Nagel’s above mentioned admission of his shortage of funds70 and Wandofen’s own information that dean of Riga Church Andreas Patkul had died in Rome in dire poverty and debts.71 This tendency is revealed by the example of two particular products of this environment–Tiergart, who subsequently was appointed bishop of Kurland and was not at all indifferent to his own welfare,72 and especially Wandofen, whom W. Urban reveals as being “deeply influenced by the intellectual climate of the times” and practising “the habits of life appropriate to a Renaissance gentleman”.73 In 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73
LUB, Bd.5 (Riga, Moskau 1867), Nos.2130, 2234, 2238; Biographish– bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon, http://www.bautz.de/bbkl/w/wallenrode.shtml (visited on 14.08.2008) http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johann_Tiergart (visited on 20.08.2008.). LUB, Bd.7, No. 235. LUB, Bd.7, No. 259. LUB, Bd.7, Nos. 485, 486, 487. http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johann_Tiergart (visited on 20.08.2008.). LUB, Bd. 7, No.799. LUB, Bd. 8 , No. 330. LUB, Bd.8, No. 26. “.. in groszen schulden, in grosser dorfftikeit, jammer und armut gestorben ist..” (LUB, Bd.7, No. 799). E.g., LUB, Bd. 7, No. 56. Urban 1978 p. 124–127.
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1429, for instance, explaining his demands for increased allowance, he wrote that he needed six horses and an extra horse to loan to cardinals now and then, and ten servants: “I must have a solicitor to perform the Order’s business; and a scribe to write for me, a manager who buys the necessities for my house, and a servant who keeps my wine and serves it at conferences. I must have in my chamber a barber, as that is the custom in the country here, a stable master with a stableboy, and a cook with an assistant.”74 The would-be Bishop of Ősel–Wiek Caspar Schuwenpflug while working for the Order in Rome likewise, though with a little more modesty, had four horses and three servants and insisted he could not have less: one was a cook, another–a stallion boy and the third one who would accompany him.75 Finally, the contacts with the Holy See can be assumed to have served as one of the factors that stimulated among Livonian actors an aspect that is considered positive: education, which became increasingly important under the conditions of increasing bureaucracy and constant legal and diplomatic squabble. Education had become a necessity for the representatives of the Livonian powers at the Holy See,76 and was not rare in other high-ranking offices either. For example Wandofen had studied at the University of Bologna,77 the same as the Grandmaster’s nephew and bishop of Ősel–Wiek Winnrich von Kniprode,78 while Johann Wallenrode had studied in Vienna and Bologna.79 On the other hand, however, these are the educated individuals that strike with particular arrogance and wordliness, though this impression may have been caused by the fact that the educated individuals, unlike their illiterate contemporaries, had access to the corrupt circles and were able to leave evidence of their views and it is not possible to establish clearly the interdependence between these adverse tendencies and education.
Conclusions: In the crusades period the Popes enter onto the Livonian stage as the spiritual leaders of these missions. As the local populations were subjugated and converted, the Popes increasingly assumed the role of the defender of converts. Thus during and in the aftermath of the crusades the impact of the Papacy on Livonia may be regarded as positive. From the outset of the crusades, as illustrated throughout the chronological framework of the present study, the Pope had very limited ability to affect the 74 75 76 77 78 79
Ibid. pp. 125; LUB, Bd. 7, No 167. LUB, Bd. 5, No. 2262. Regarding the education of the brothers of the Teutonic Order at European Universities, see Milicers 1992. Urban 1978 p. 124. LUB, Bd. 3, No. 1148. Jähnig Bernhart, Johann von Wallenrode O.T. Erzbischof von Riga, Königlicher Rat, Deutschordensdiplomat und Bischof von Lüttich im Zeitalter des Schismas und des Konstanzer Konzils (um 1370–1419) (Bonn, 1970), pp. 4.
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situation in Livonia and receive a truthful picture of it. It inevitably made the Papal policy vis-à-vis Livonia easy to manipulate with. In the 14th–15th centuries the Popes played the role of mediators in the internal Livonian struggles. Contacts with the corrupt and Papal Court that was easy to manipulate with encouraged among Livonian power circles, especially in the Teutonic Order, unscrupulousness, impunity, arrogance, worldliness and disbelief in justice. Papal appointment of prelates based on their affiliation negatively affected the political and spiritual life in Livonia. In the 14th–15th centuries the impact of the Papacy on Livonia may on the whole be regarded as negative. The chronological distribution of relevant sources leave an impression that the negative Papal influence was the strongest in the early 15th century.
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Architetonische und künstlerische Verbindungen zwischen Visby und Riga im 13 Jahrhundert Elita Grosmane
In diesem Aufsatz werden drei Aspekte der architektonischen und künstlerischen Verbindungen zwischen Visby und den ersten deutschen Bischöfen sowie dem Erzbischof Albert Suerbeer, die im 13. Jahrhundert in Livland wirkten, betrachtet. Das 13. Jahrhundert ist für die Kunstgeschichte des Ostbaltikums besonders wichtig, weil damals ein ganz neues Konzept der kirchlichen Architektur und Kunst für längere Zeit modelliert und dadurch die weitere Entwicklung geprägt wurde. Zunächst geht es um die frühe Phase der Christianisierung Livlands und den ersten Steinbau auf dessen Boden. Zweitens um die St. Jakobskirche, die heutige Heiligen Geist Kirche in Visby und ihre Rolle in diesem Prozess. Drittens werden die Übereinstimmungen zwischen dem Nordportal am Dom zu Riga und dem Brautportal am St. Marien Dom zu Visby als typologisch verwandte Phänomene analysiert.
Vorchristliche Voraussetzungen Zuerst wird ein kurzer Einblick in die vorchristliche Baulage gegeben. In der damaligen Zeit war sie noch tief in egalitären gesellschaftlichen Strukturen verwurzelt.1 Die politische Zentralisierung in dieser Region und die damit verbundene Rivalität blieben schwach entwickelt. Die soziale Schichtung bestand natürlich schon damals. Am deutlichsten spiegelte sich dieser Gegensatz in sehr reichen und in schmucklosen Grablegungen wider, die am besten die sozialen Kontraste bezeugen. Die baugeschichtlichen Leistungen von nicht christlichen Stämmen blieben zurück. Gut bekannt und hoch entwickelt war die Holzarchitektur. Doch mit Mörtel aneinander gefügter Steinbau fand bei nicht christlichen Einwohnern keine Verwendung.2 Das bedeutet jedoch nicht, dass die Steinkonstruktionen unbenutzt blieben. Am meisten wurden diese für Wehrsystem zusammen mit Holz verwendet, aber Steine dienten nicht als Haupt-, sondern als Hilfsmaterial. Zum Beispiel die mit Ton bedeckte Schutzmauer in Ķivutkalns aus den 2.−1. 1
2
Šnē Andris `Vara, kristietība un cilvēks lībiešu sabiedrībās 12.–13. gs. sākumā` [Power, Christianity and Man in Liv societies in the 12 th und early 13th century], Kristietības ienākšana Līvzemē [The Coming of Christianity to the Land of Livs] (Rīga, 2005), 29.–34. lpp. Latvijas senākā vēsture 9. g. t. pr. Kr.- 1200. g. (Rīga, 2001), 139.–145. lpp.
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Jh. v. Chr. oder die Hügelbeerdigungen bei Limbaži (Lemsal) in Buļļumuiža aus derselben Zeit. Es gab sogar innovative Leistungen, zum Beispiel der Aufbau des Ofens in Ķenteskalns im 4.− 9. Jh., wo versucht wurde, etwas Gewölbeähnliches zu konstruieren. Aber dieses Mal ebenso ohne Verwendung von Mörtel. Die Steine wurden einfach eng zusammengepresst. Soviel bekannt ist, fand diese intuitive Erfahrung keine weitere Entwicklung. Das ist seltsam, weil es auf dem baltischen Boden viele und verschiedene Steinarten gab und schon damals aktive Handelsbeziehungen mit dem Osten und Westen bestanden, wo die Steinarchitektur bekannt war.
Die Verbreitung des Christentums und die Baugeschichte Heute ist es unmöglich, ganz genau festzustellen, wann und woher die Mörteltechnik Lettland erreichte. Möglicherweise ist das mit der am Ende des 11. Jahrhunderts in der deutschen Ansgar Chronik erwähnten katholischen Kirche verbunden, die im nordkurländischen Raum gebaut wurde und nicht mehr vorhanden ist. Wo diese Kirche lag und was als Baumaterial benutzt wurde, blieb unbekannt. Die Archäologen haben nur Schmuckkreuze skandinavischer Herkunft gefunden.3 Fast gleichzeitig verbreitete sich von Osten her im östlichen Teil Lettlands der russisch-orthodoxe Glaube. Der war besonders beim höheren Stand der dort wohnenden Letgaller beliebt. In diesem Zusammenhang werden zwei Kirchen in Kockenhusen (Koknese) und Gercike (Jersika) erwähnt. Als Beweis dafür wurde während der archäologischen Ausgrabungen eine große Anzahl von rechtgläubigen Kreuzen gefunden, die zusammen mit lokalem Schmuck getragen wurden.4 Seit der 2. Hälfte des 12. Jahrhunderts hatten deutsche Kaufleute und ihnen folgende Missionare eine entscheidende Rolle bei der Christianisierung des Baltenlandes gespielt. Am Anfang erreichten sie das Ufer der Düna auf der Suche nach Verbindungswegen mit Russland und Weißrussland. Da der Landweg zu lang und der Seeweg wegen Piraten auf der Ostsee bedrohlich war, brauchten Kaufleute und Missionare eine Zwischenstation. Für diesen Zweck war Gotland zu Beginn des Mittelalters besonders gut geeignet. Von Bauernhändlern gebildet, entwickelte sich hier ein wichtiger Hafenplatz mit dem Zentrum in Visby.
Die älteste Steinkirche im Baltischen Raum Dazu kamen die Pläne des Papstes über die nordische Kirche, die durch Bemühungen des Bremer Erzbischofs Hartwichs II. zugunsten der Erweiterung der bremischen Metropolitanherrschaft realisiert wurden. Die Aufgabe des ersten ostbaltischen Livenmissionars Meinhard vom Kloster Segeberg in Holstein war die Gründung der neuen Livländischen Diözese. Die einflussreiche Rolle der Stadt Visby bezeugten die Eintragungen in der “Livländischen Chronik” des Priesters Heinrich. Er erzählte, dass sich Bischof Meinhard für die Mission der Liven an der Düna, die seit dem Beginn des 12. Jahrhunderts unter der Tributherrschaft des Fürsten von Polozk standen, im Jahre 1184 an den Polozker 3 4
Vasks Andris, Vaska Baiba, Grāvere Rita, Latvijas aizvēsture (Rīga, 1997), 205. lpp. Vasks 1997, p. 205.
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Fürsten wandte, um die “licencia” auf ein Stück Land zu kaufen und danach in der Ortschaft Üxküll eine Kirche und eine Burg zu bauen.5
Die Kirche in Üxküll/Ikšķile. Foto: Elita Grosmane, 2005.
Schon im nächsten Jahr lud er gotländische Maurer ein. Die Kirche war der erste urkundlich belegte Steinbau im ostbaltischen Raum, der schon damals als ein widerspruchvolles Wunder betrachtet wurde. Darüber berichtete der erwähnte Chronist Heinrich. Er erzählte über die heidnischen Nachbarn der Liven – die Semgaller, die keine Vorstellung von den mit Mörtel aneinander gefügten Steinen hatten und mit langen Schifftauen kamen, um in ihrer Einfalt die Burg in die Düna hineinzuziehen.6 Doch dies mag Legende sein. In der Zwischenzeit reiste Meinhard nach Deutschland und wurde zum Bischof erhoben, was der Papst 1188 bestätigte. Bei der Kirche zu Üxküll wurde zunächst nach der Regel der Augustinerchorherren ein Domkapitel gegründet. Seit dem sind acht Jahrhunderte vergangen und noch heute steht eine im Jahr 1916 während des ersten Weltkrieges stark beschädigte Kirche – zwar nicht mehr am Ufer der Düna, sondern auf einer Insel in der Düna. Am Anfang der 70er Jahre des 20. Jahrhunderts wurde durch den Bau des Kraftwerks ein grosses Gebiet unter Wasser gesetzt und deshalb liegt die am Anfang des 16. Jahrhunderts zur Ruine verwüstete Burg völlig unter Wasser. Das, was von der Kirche übrig geblieben ist, und vom Ende des 12. Jahrhunderts bis heute mehrmals geändert wurde, liegt 28 km von Riga entferntund ist heutzutage zu 5 6
Indriķa hronika [Heinrici chronicon].- Ābrams Feldhūns, und Ēvalds Mugurēvičs (eds.) (Rīga, 1993). 49. lpp. Indriķa hronika 1993 p. 49.
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einem heiligen Ort erklärt worden, von dem aus das Christentum im Ostbaltikum verbreitet wurde. Nicht nur für die Gläubigen, sondern auch für die Archäologen, Architekturund Kunsthistoriker (zum Beispiel Helge Kjellin, Roberts Malvess, Gunārs Jansons, Jānis Graudonis u. a.) diente und dient die Kirche zu Üxküll weiterhin als ein Untersuchungsobjekt. Man weiß nämlich bis heute wenig darüber, wie diese Kirche von Anfang an aussah. Der wichtigste Anhaltspunkt für die Erforschung der Baugeschichte war der im Jahr 1968 während der letzten Ausgrabungen entdeckte Grundriss, den man mit der ersten an diesem Platz gebauten Kirche verbinden kann.7 Diese Kirche bestand aus einem Langhaus und einem gleichbreiten (10 Meter) Chor mit halbrunder romanischer Apsis. Die Wände waren aus Kalkstein im Mörtelmauerwerk gebaut, 1,45 m tief, was den Einfluss des Wehrbaus auf die Sakralarchitektur erkennen lässt. Maßgeblich und vorbildlich wirkte ihre örtlich innovative Gestaltung paradigmatisch, weil die architektonische Grundstruktur dieses Bauwerkes von bischöfischem Rang war. Auch an anderen livländischen frühchristlichen Kirchen ist ein ähnlicher Grundriss verfolgbar, doch bleibt das Thema noch im Prozess von weiteren Untersuchungen. Die folgenden Überlegungen sind mit Gotland verbunden. Einerseits haben wir einen historischen Beleg, dass die Mauermeister und offensichtlich die Inspiration von dort kamen. Andererseits sind in Gotland nur einige wenige Kirchen mit solchem Grundriss vorhanden, zum Beispiel die ursprüngliche Absiskirche in Ala aus dem 12. Jahrhundert.Diese Kirche wird als Sonderfall bezeichnet, weil der Chor und das Langhaus eine einheitliche Form bilden. Deshalb könnte sie eine frühe typologische Variante sein, die keine weitere Entwicklung fand und als das alte „Muster“, das auch nach Livland übertragen wurde, in Vergessenheit geraten wäre. Dazu hatte der Bischof im Sommer 1201 einen adligen Ritter, Konrad von Meyendorff (Conradum de Meyiendorpe), mit der Burg belehnt8 und noch später die Kirche umgebaut. Die nächste Bauphase der Kirche zu Üxküll ist, nach neuesten Untersuchungen, in der zweiten Hälfte der 20er Jahre des 13. Jahrhunderts erfolgt.9 In der Zwischenzeit hatte sichder Status der Kirche geändert. Üxküll war keine Bischofskathedrale mehr, sondern eine Gemeindekirche und wurde in dem entsprechenden Stil umgebaut. Seitdem stand in Üxküll eine zweischiffige Kirche mit geradem Abschluss des Chors. Nicht nur der Grundriss, sondern auch der Baukörper weist, wie die ältesten vorhandenen Zeichnungen der Kirche zeigen, auf Verbindungen nach Gotland hin. Es ist daher kein Zufall, dass sich für Sakralbauten neue Ideen mit der Errichtung des Zisterzienserklosters in Roma gegen Ende des 12. Jahrhunderts geltend machten. Kurz gesagt – in diesem Fall sollten zwei Hauptmerkmale der Architektur der Zisterzienser hervorgehoben werden: die Begrenzung der dekorativen Ausschmückung und die Bevorzugung des geraden Chorabschlusses. Auf dieser Grundlage entstand das Vorbild der 7 8 9
Jansons Gunārs, Ikšķiles viduslaiku baznīca un pils ( Rīga, 2004),62.–63. lpp. Indriķa hronika 1993 p. 60– 61. Jansons 2004 p. 81–82.
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meisten gotländischen Kirchen des 13. Jahrhunderts. Sie haben einen kurzen, breiten Kirchenraum mit vier Gewölben, in der Mitte des Langhauses von einem Pfeiler oder einer Säule getragen, zum Beispiel die Kirche in Linde.10 Hier sei auch die in der Mitte der Kirche in Üxküll stehende Säule erwähnt, die architektonisch und kunsthistorisch viel interpretiert wurde.11
Die Gründung der Stadt Riga und die Beziehungen mit Visby Ein anderes Beispiel erlaubt uns weitere Kontakte zwischen Riga und Visby zu verfolgen. Um 1200 veränderte sich die politische Situation in Livland. Nach dem Tode des zweiten Bischofs Berthold wurde ein Bremer Domherr namens Albert zu seinem Nachfolger gewählt. Als seine Residenzstadt hatte Albert Riga, das sich näher an der Ostsee befand, gewählt. Bald nach seiner Weihe brach der neue Bischof nach Gotland auf, dem Zentrum des Ostseeverkehrs, wo er sich mit deutschen Fernhändlern einigen wollte und bei ihnen auch Gehör fand. Weil Handelsrouten durch die unsicheren Verhältnisse an der Düna gefährdet waren, nahmen sie eine planvoll geleitete Mission nach Livland mit Interesse auf. “Vor ihnen, den Kaufleuten, Geistlichen und Pilgern, die in Gotland auf einen neuen Einsatz in Livland warteten, hat der Bischof Albert seine erste, uns sicher überlieferte Kreuzpredigt gehalten. Heinrich berichtet, dass er danach 500 Männern das Kreuz anheften konnte.”12 Der erfolgreiche Besuch endete mit der Gründung der “universitas mercatorum”, die eine Gemeinschaft der Kaufleute des Römischen Reiches war. Dies war die einzige historisch belegte Reise von Bischof Albert nach Gotland. Um diesen Bund noch mehr zu festigen, ließ der Bischof auf dem von den Liven erworbenen locus Rige eine Stadt nach gotländischem Recht errichten. Das bedeutete, dass die ersten Kaufleute in Riga dieselben Rechte wie die Kaufleute in Visby hatten. Diese sind als „Visby–Riga“ oder „Gotland–Riga– Rechte“ bekannt und wurden noch einmal im Jahre 1226 vom Legaten des Papstes in Livland, dem Bischof Wilhelm von Modena, einem frommen „Italiener aus Piemont von hoher wissenschaftlicher Bildung, juristischer Erfahrung und mit anziehenden menschlichen Eigenschaften“,13 bestätigt.14 In diesem Zusammenhang sei die Heilig-Geist-Kirche in Visby erwähnt, die im 13. Jahrhundert den Namen St. Jakob trug und mit dem Bischof Albert von Riga in Verbindung gebracht wird. In der Architekturgeschichte Gotlands wird diese Kirche, die aus einem achtseitigen Baukörper mit zwei Geschossen, der als “Langhaus” funktionierte und einem nach außen hin gerade abschließenden Chor besteht, als die originellste in Visby hervorgehoben.15 Ihre unzweifelhafte Verwandtschaft mit den Palastkapellen – zum Beispiel mit der Pfalzkapelle Karls 10 11 12 13 14 15
Lagerlöf Erland, Svahnström Gunnar, Die Kirchen Gotlands (Kiel, 1991), S. 23. Jansons 2004 p. 46–56. Gnegel–Waitschies Gisela, Bischof Albert von Riga. Ein Bremer Domherr als Kirchenfürst im Osten (Hamburg, 1958). S. 50; Indriķa hronika 1993 p.57. Mühlen Heinz von zur, `Eroberung, Christianisierung und Staatenbildung` Deutsche Geschichte im Osten Europas: Baltische Länder. Gert von Pistohlkors (Hg.) (Berlin, 1994), S. 55. Feodālā Rīga, (Rīga, 1978), 38.–39., 43. lpp. Bohrn Erik, Svahnström Gunnar, Helge Ands ruin och Hospitalet (Stockholm, 1981), S. 94–96.
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des Großen in Aachen – bezeugt, dass diese Kapelle nicht nur sakrale, sondern auch politisch-weltliche Aufgaben hatte. Das Obergeschoß war den Fürsten und ihrem Gefolge vorbehalten, das Untergeschoß für die Angehörigen des Hauses und das Volk vorgesehen. Merkwürdig ist aber, dass sich beide Geschosse des Oktagons zum Chor öffnen und allen Schichten an dem Gottesdienst teilzunehmen erlaubten. Ebenso kompliziert ist die Ostwand des Chores, wo in der Innenseite eine halbrunde Altarapsis eingebaut ist. “Hierzu gibt es keine Entsprechungen unter den Kirchen in Visby, hingegen aber unter denen auf dem Lande. Sowohl Stenkyrka als auch Öja besitzen solche Apsiden in nach außen gerade abschließenden Chören, und in letztgenannter Kirche trifft man auch auf kleine Seitenräume“.16
Die Heilig-Geist-Kirche in Visby. Foto: Elita Grosmane, 2008.
Ohne Antwort bleibt noch die Frage, wer diesen speziellen Kapellenbautypus angeregt hatte? Heute gibt es dazu nur Vermutungen. In diesem Zusammenhang sei nur noch die Datierung dieses lokal ungewöhnlichen Denkmals erwähnt. Es wird angenommen, dass das gesamte Bauwerk vor der Mitte des 13. Jahr hunderts fertig gestellt wurde. Diese Annahme unterstützt auch ein urkund licher Beleg vom 6. Juli 1226, in dem der päpstliche Legat Wilhelm von Modena das Recht Bischof Alberts auf die St. Jakobskirche in Visby bestätigte. Auch die fürstliche Typologie des Baues korrespondiert ganz gut mit den Ambitionen dieses weltlichen Bischofs, der “völlig selbständig seinen Weg zu gehen versuchte”,17 um ein legitimer Erzbischof von Livland oder sogar vom Ostbaltikum zu sein. Dieser Wunsch blieb indes unerfüllt. 16 17
Svahnström1978 p. 148–152; Lagerlöf, Svahnström 1991 p. 59.–60. Gnegel–Waitschies 1958 p. 52.
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In der Regierungszeit des nächsten Bischofs, Nicolaus, transsummierte derselbe päpstliche Legat, der jetzt Wilhelm von St. Sabina genannt wurde, am 3. Juli 1248 den vorigen Rechtsbeschluss der Livländischen Bischöfe auf die St. Jakobskirche in Visby.18 Abschliessend sei betont, dass am Anfang des 13. Jahrhunderts der erste Bischof Albert das Recht auf Eigentum in Visby erworben hatte und als Sammelort für Missionare, Kreuzfahrer und Handelsleute eine Kapelle gebaut oder genutzt hatte. Auch dass diese Kirche den Namen des Pilgers und Wallfahrtsheiligen St. Jakobus der Ältere trug, war nicht zufällig und entspricht der ursprünglichen Funktion auf dem Wallfahrtsweg über die Ostsee. In diesem Zusammenhang sei die kleinste Basilika Rigas, die St. Jakobi Kirche, die zu den frühesten kirchlichen Bauten der Stadt gehörte, genannt. Urkundlich wird die Kirche erstmals am 5. April 1226 erwähnt und als ein in der Vorstadt gelegener Bau bezeichnet – sita in suburbio civitatis Rigensis. Man kann annehmen, dass diese Kirche von Anfang an auch eine Wallfahrtskirche war. Nicht nur deshalb, weil die Kirche außerhalb der Stadtbefestigungen gebaut wurde, sondern auch, weil die Kirche in Verbindung mit dem Namen des Apostels Jakobus des Älteren eingeweiht wurde. Auf solche Weise wurde auch Riga in der Missionskette eingegliedert. Architektonisch gesehen ist der älteste Teil dieser Kirche der aus roten Ziegeln gebaute quadratische Chor, der einen anderen Grundriss als die St. Jakobskirche in Visby aufweist und deshalb zu einer anderen bauhistorischen Entwicklungsrichtung gehört.19
Der Dom zu Riga und sein Nordportal Wir kehren in das Jahr 1202 zurück, als Albert sein Bischofssitz von Üxküll nach Riga verlegte. Der erste Dom wurde damals innerhalb der Grenzen der im Jahr zuvor gegründeten Stadt Riga gebaut. Wahrscheinlich war das ein provisorischer Bau, der den Ambitionen von Bischof Albert ganz und gar nicht entsprach, Riga als ein Zentrum eines selbständigen Erzbistums unabhängig von den Suffraganrechten Hamburg−Bremens zu gründen. Deshalb wurde am Jakobstag (25. Juli 1211) außerhalb der Stadtmauern an der Düna vom Bischof Albert, der vom Klerus und Volk begleitet wurde, in einer feierlicher Prozession der Grundstein der neuen Kirche und der Klosteranlage gelegt. Schauen wir uns kurz die Baugeschichte an. Der Plan des Rigaer Domes zeigt, dass Bischof Albert ihn als eine dreischiffige Basilika mit Querschiff, Chorquadrat und Apsis bauen liess. Als das Hausteinfundament des Rigaer Domes im Chor und dem Querschiff fast die Fensterhöhe erreicht hatte, hat man den Bau mit roten Ziegeln großen Formats fortgesetzt. Der Übergang zum Backsteinbau fand in Riga ohne Planwechsel statt. Somit gehört der Dom zu Riga kunsttopographisch ebenso zur frühen europäischen Backsteinlandschaft wie in Norddeutschland, Dänemark, 18 19
Latvijas vēstures avoti. Senās Latvijas vēstures avoti 2 (Rīga, 1940) Nr. 299, 275. lpp. Grosmane Elita, `Rīgas Sv. Jēkaba baznīca viduslaikos `, Jānis Zilgalvis (sast.), Arhitektūra un māksla Rīgā. Idejas un objekti (Rīga, 2004), 9.–32. lpp.
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Der Dom zu Riga. Foto: Marika Vanaga, 2008.
Schweden und in den Niederlanden. Zugleich ist er der erste sakrale Backsteinbau im gesamten Ostbaltikum, mit dem ein für die weitere Entwicklung sehr bemerkenswerter Zeitstil definiert wurde. Wie verwickelt manchmal die Wege der Verbreitung von künstlerischen Formen waren, zeigt am besten das Nordportal des Rigaer Domes. Das Portal ist spitzbogig mit glatten Archivolten nur an der Außenseite, woran sich ein ornamentierter Gürtel anschließt. Es ist gestuft und hat drei Säulen, die sich mit Pfosten abwechseln. Die Mitte des Schaftes und der Kapitellfries sind betont. Die Türöffnung schließt kleeblattförmig mit Nasen und Lilien. Das Portal ist einfach, jedoch gut proportioniert. Verfolgen wir ein wenig, wie die Hauptbestandteile des Portals entstanden und bis nach Riga gelangt sind. Die Forschungen gehen nicht von Riga aus, sondern die typologische Variante wird zuerst auf deutschem Boden gesucht. Um kunstgeographisch und chronologisch nicht zu weit zurückzugehen, wird mit dem Westportal des Domes zu Limburg angefangen, das als Musterbeispiel gilt und mit dem Portal in Riga auffallende Ähnlichkeiten aufzeigt. Der Dom zu Limburg wurde wohl nach 1211 (gleichwie in Riga) begonnen und 1235 geweiht. Das Portal hat drei eingestellte Säulen, dreifach gestufte
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Archivolten−Rundstäbe, am Fuß des inneren Bogenlaufs sitzen zwei Männer, in der Mitte ein Dreipaß. Betont sei nur noch, dass bei der Stammbestimmung des Portals die Beziehungen zu Portalen in Adernach und Maria Laach eine besondere Rolle gespielt haben. In der Fachliteratur wird betont, dass der Aufbau des Portals zu Limburg zahlreiche Nachfolger in Westfalen gefunden hatte. Für die westfälischen Portale typische Motive sind das rundbogige Säulenportal (zum Beispiel, die Pfarrkirche zu Vreden, das Nordportal der Johanneskirche zu Billerbeck, das Westportal der Jakobikirche zu Coesfeld u. a.), wo glatte Säulen mit ornamentierten Pfosten abwechseln. Die Türöffnung schließt oft rundbogig, kleeblattförmig Das Nordportal des Rigaer Domes. (aus: Neumann W. oder mit geradem, dreieckigem Der Dom zu St. Marien in Riga (Riga,1912). Türsturz. Bemerkenswert ist die giebelförmige Portalrahmung. Im Unterschied zum Rheinland gibt es in Westfalen reich ornamentierte Gewändepfosten und Archivolten des Portals. 20 Im Norden begegnen uns ähnliche Formen am Hauptportal des Lübecker Domes im nördlichen Querschiff. Im letzten Viertel des 19. Jahrhunderts wurde bei der Restaurierung des Portals der grösste Teil des alten Bestandes ersetzt. Der jetzige Zustand ist Ergebnis des Wiederaufbaus von 1976 bis 1982. Es wird angenommen, dass das Portal von einem rheinischen Steinmetz geschaffen wurde. Dennoch spiegeln sich im Aufbau und der Verzierung des Portals nicht nur das Vorbild des Limburger Doms (mit drei eingestellten Säulen, dreifach gestuften Archivolten und besonders mit am Fuß des Bogenlaufs sitzenden Figuren) wider, sondern auch westfälische Einflüsse (reiche Ornamentik der Archivolten und Pfosten zwischen den Säulen, die Form des Tympanons). 20
Maué Hermann, Rheinisch-staufische Bauformen und Bauornamentik in der Architektur Westfalens (Köln, 1975), S. 134–154; Sauerländer Willibald, `Die kunstgeschichtliche Stellung der Figurenportale des 13. Jahrhunderts in Westfalen`, Westfalen 49 (Münster, 1971) S. 1–75.
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In der Fachliteratur wird die große Ähnlichkeit des Lübecker Nordportals mit dem Dom zu Riga betont, sogar gesagt, dass der am Lübecker Dom wirkende Steinmetz in Riga gearbeitet haben soll.21 Merkwürdig ist aber, dass in diese Gruppe auch das Brautportal des Domes zu Visby eingegliedert wird, das auf das zweite Viertel des 13. Jahrhunderts datiert und von spätromanischem Stil geprägt wurde.22 Ein in die alte Südfassade des Querschiffes eingesetztes perspektivisches Portal wäre günstiger vor der Rekonstruktion zu betrachten, wie das in der Zeichnung von F. Zetterwall aus dem Jahr 1887 wiedergegeben wird.23 In der rundbogig abgeschlossen Türöffnung mit dreieckigem Türsturz und giebelförmiger Portalrahmung kann man westfälische Merkmale beobachten. Dagegen zurückhaltender wirken drei glatte Säulen, die sich mit drei ornamentlosen Pfosten abwechseln. Besonders merkwürdig ist die Kapitellzone, die das Brautportal in die gleiche typologische Reihe mit dem Dom zu Limburg, mehreren Kirchen in Westfalen, Lübeck und Riga einzuordnen erlaubt.
Das Brautportal des Domes zu Visby. Foto: Elita Grosmane, 2008.
Daraus lässt sich schließen, dass sich hier eine ganz verwickelte Geschichte herausgebildet hat. Bei der Portalanalyse wurde verfolgt, wie die rheinischen und westfälischen Motive im Laufe des 13. Jahrhunderts miteinander verschmolzen und sich in verschiedenen Gegenden Europas verbreiteten, bis sie endlich für den Stil dieses Zeitalters charakteristisch wurden. Dazu kam noch der Stil der jeweiligen Werkstatt oder des Meisters, der Geschmack des Bestellers und all das, was der 21 22 23
Wenzel H., Lübisch-baltische Kunstbeziehungen vor 1400‘, Baltische Monatshefte (Riga, 1939), S. 203. Svahnström 1978 p. 148–152; Lagerlöf, Svahnström 1991 p. 44. Gotlands fornsal arkiv.
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Künstler an verschiedenen Orten gesehen hatte, um jedes Mal neue Varianten, die in eine typologische Gruppe eingegliedert werden können, zu schaffen. Noch einige Bemerkungen zum Stand der Forschung: Johnny Rooswal meinte, dass zwischen Schweden und dem Baltikum keine Beziehungen bestanden haben und die Entwicklung parallel verlaufen ist.24 Für Sten Karling schien, dass der Meister, den er Kölner Meister nannte, nach Riga über Bremen gekommen war.25 Gunnar Svahnström schrieb über die Marienkirche in Visby: “Man hat den Dom von Magdeburg als mögliche Inspirationsquelle herangezogen, aber dieselben Motive kommen in ziemlich ähnlicher Ausführung auch bei der Bauskulptur im Rheinland vor. Zur Modernisierung des Querschiffs gehörte auch ein neues Südportal, das sog. Brautportal, ein aus der Fassade hervortretendes perspektivisches Portal mit Satteldach.“26 Dazu kam die neueste Auffassung über die Herkunft des Nordportals am Dom zu Riga, indem die Aufmerksamkeit auf den Orden der Prämonstratenser und „nach Vorbildern aus dem Bereich der Erzdiözese Magdeburg und Nordfrankreich gerichtet“ wird.27 Wahrscheinlich ist, dass die drei von mir erwähnten Beispiele nicht die einzigen waren, die eine Verbindung zwischen Visby und Livland im Laufe des 13. Jahrhunderts bezeugen. Ich bin überzeugt, dass es noch viele andere gab. Einerseits scheint es sogar sonderbar, dass über Jahrhunderte hinweg noch so viele alte Formen, Zeichen und Symbole vorhanden sind, die uns direkt vor den Augen stehen. Wir sehen sie, doch ihre Entstehung bleibt verborgen. Andererseits schafft das für uns eine inspirationsvolle Erfoschungsmöglichkeit, hinter der Alltagsroutine in ein ganz anderes Zeitalter hineinzublicken und die Geschichte lebendig zu machen.
24 25 26 27
Roosval Johnny, Die Kirchen Gotlands(Leipzig, Stockholm, 1911),S. 119–121. Karling Sten, `Riga Domkyrka och mästaren från Köln’, Konsthistorisk Tidskrift2 (1941), S.33–34. Svahnström 1978 p. 222. Bergholde Agnese, `Rīgas Doma ziemeļu portāls`, Mākslas vēsture&teorija 11 (2008), 14. lpp.
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Between Wolin and Truso: the Southern part of the Baltic Rim at the time of Rise of the Polish State (an archaeological perspective) Andrzej Buko
Introduction Since the beginning of the Early Medieval Period, Pomerania, located along the southern coast of the Baltic Sea, has differed from other regions of the Polish Lands. The economic slump of the 5th century was not so deeply marked here. The archaeological finds belonging to the pre-Slav cultures are noted until the end of the 6th or, even to the early 7th century. Contrary to other regions settled by the Slavs, there is no archaeological evidence of the typical pattern of Slavic buildings (sunken hut), or funeral rituals specific to them. The first question is how the local post-Roman period communities assimilated the first Slavs? It is also surprising that the Scandinavians, present since the 7th century at the territories of the Polabians (Mecklemburg, Vorpommern), were not so much interested in this zone. It was only in the late 8th century that the first ports of trade came into being in Pomerania, comparable with those on the Peene River or on Rugia Island (cf. Dulinicz 1989). or many years the role of Scandinavians in creating early Slav political structures F has been under discussion. The ideas relating to this subject differ significantly: from total negation to ascribing to the newcomers a crucial role in the political and economic development of local communities. In reality, there was probably a variety of types of reciprocal relations. Firstly, I would like to emphasize the piracy of Scandinavians as well Slavs, the aim of which was to gain slaves in the south, salt from Kołobrzeg, amber, and cereals. The archaeological finds confirm that the pirates offered luxury products to the local people. Beside ornaments there are many examples of whetstones produced of Norwegian soapstone, high quality Scandinavian iron products, and many others (cf. Łosiński 1997). Starting from the late 8th century, on the southern coast of the Baltic Sea there not only Scandinavian imports, but also present were Scandinavian settlers (warriors, traders) and representatives of Scandinavian elites living among the Slavs (see: Chudziak 2003, p. 125). In this way around the Baltic Sea there grew a broad economic zone composed of the Scandinavians, Balts, Finns, Frisians and Slavs. The early ports of trade situated around the Baltic Sea played a crucial role in this development, including new born.
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The decisive impulse for of development of the region was the rise of the Baltic trading zone. In this way, the former regional trading routes became an important element of trans-European trading. As many authors note, the maritime character of the Scandinavian economy was complemented by the agrarian component? of the Slavs’ economy (Leciejewicz 1979, p. 179ff.; Łosiński 1997, p.74).
The early settlement structures The basic, although not the only, source of knowledge about the earliest history of the communities inhabiting Polish lands is the work from the first half of the 9th century known as the Bavarian Geographer. For Pomerania the names of Uelunzani and Prissani are mentioned. The occupation of that area has been well substantiated by archaeology, although it is hard to accept the 70 civitates assigned to these peoples by the writer. Surprisingly, the list does not contain anything which might correspond to the archaeologically documented settlement groups from the area of Szczecin or the lower Parsęta River. The debate concerns the cultural affiliation of the Szczecin region. The main question is whether in the pre-state period it was the main town of an independent settlement unit or an area belonging to it inhabited by the Wkrzanie, mentioned in the written sources. This question concerns also the affiliation of the areas on the lower Oder River located on the border between the Veleti, Lutize and Pomeranians (cf. Buko 2008, p. 75 ff., with references). In the pre-state period, the area from Szczecin to the lower Parsęta River (Fig. 1) was dominated by two large settlement concentrations located on the Oder River and seven smaller ones distinguished in the basin of the Parsęta and Rega rivers (cf. Łosiński 2000). The archaeological settlement complex in Świelubie (on the Parsęta River) sited 100 km east of Wolin has produced an example of burial mounds with many grave goods similar to those well recognized from Swedish Birka. According to W. Duczko (2000, p. 31) a detailed study of their features allows us to believe that some ethnic groups living there were settlers from the Mälaren valley. Perhaps an attractive argument for settling there were the salt resources in Kołobrzeg–the subject of intensive trade. But until now, it has not been possible to say from where the people buried at Świelubie originated. Perhaps it was in the nearby stronghold of Bardy as W. Łosiński (2000, p. 19) believes, which, as the archaeological data show, was linked to the local Slavic communities, or perhaps at another so far unidentified settlement centre of their own. he settlements mentioned above played a marginal role in early trade and T definitively disappeared in the late 9th or early 10th centuries. In the case of Świelubie, one can observe an example of the succession of settlement history with the movement of the centre to the nearby Kołobrzeg, the origins of which go back to the 9th century. What is more, at least in the early 10th century Kołobrzeg became an early urban centre (Łosiński 2000, p. 19). As Władysław Duczko (2000) believes, the group of Scandinavians living in the area probably came from central Sweden. After the fall of Bardy in the 11th century, traces
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Fig. 1. Early Medieval strongholds on the Parsęta river (after W. Łosiński).
of the presence of Scandinavians can be observed in the material culture at Kołobrzeg–Budzistowo (see below). The active role of Scandinavians in western Pomerania is discussed in relation to the above-ground burials called graves of the Alt Käbelich type which are one of characteristic features of the pre-state period in this area. They usually have shallow (to 40 cm deep), large, oval or round burial pits over which wooden chambers with both inhumation and cremation burials were built. There is no agreement on this matter among Polish scholars. According to Władysław Łosiński (1998) burials of this type are characteristic of the north-western Slavs from the 9th–10th centuries. Other specialists tend to believe that they represent traces of Scandinavian influences on the burial rites among the Volinians and Veleti (cf. Zoll–Adamikowa 1997). Summing up: in western Pomerania one can recognize a well defined regularity of settlement pattern. In the case of Wolin – the direct connections with the Danish milieu are evident, while in the case of the settlements on the Parsęta River, interactions with Swedish lands are much more convincing. Beside the sites discussed above, let us mention some others: the boat burial from Chełmska mound (near Koszalin) and many silver hoards from this area (cf. Duczko 2000, p. 33, with references).
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At the same time Eastern Pomerania was inhabited, as it seems, by 6 to 8 small territorial groups. And although links of Western Pomerania with the Polabian Slavs are visible in the material culture, the cultural borders between respective parts of Pomerania look quite differently depending on whether they are drawn by the historians, archaeologists, or linguists. One question which should be urgently verified is the settlement distribution in that part of the Gdańsk Bay. According to Leon Jan Łuka (1978) before Gdańsk originated, in the area of modern Gdańsk, Gdynia and Sopot there existed a dense network of settlements; strongholds connected with them have been identified in the area of modern Sopot and Gdynia–Oksywie (Fig. 2). Fig. 2. Settlement network in Eastern Pomerania in the period of state formation (after L.J. Łuka).
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Łuka believes that the earlier system of settlements went into decline when a stronghold was built in Gdańsk (see below). This may indicate that it took over the functions and prerogatives of the earlier tribal centres on the shores of the Gdańsk Bay. Some indirect indications concerning the chronology of these events have been provided by the recent excavations at Janów Pomorski, the assumed crafts and trade centre of Truso, located on Lake Drużno at the territory of the Prussians. The archaeological material, including numerous imports collected in that settlement suggests that between the 9th and early 11th century it was a vibrant centre (Jagodziński 2001). If that was the case, the situation would be similar to that of Puck, which, however, after a decline (?) in the early Piast period began to exist again, although was not able to compete with Gdańsk again. Due to the poor state of research any further statements, and the more so, conclusions, seem quite risky and without any evidence to support them. The question of Scandinavian settlers in the area of the Gdańsk Bay is not so well recognized as in the case of Western Pomerania. In this context special attention has been paid to the burials from Ciepłe near Gniew. Before the Second World War some very rich burials were explored there, including one of a warrior with a sword and horseman’s equipment and weights (cf. Żak 1957; Kara 1998, p. 509). There are different interpretations concerning the significance of this grave. Some scholars stress the mercantile aspect of these finds, while others emphasize the representatives of Scandinavian elites – royal warriors, who maintained a very high social status in the local Slavic milieu (cf. Chudziak 2003). According W. Duczko (2000, p. 35) they most probably had connections with the Danish milieu located on the British Islands. esides Ciepłe, the other archaeological sites located around the Bay of Gdańsk B are still poorly investigated. Only a few authors have mentioned archaeological finds probably of Scandinavian origin (cf. Żak 1963). But the detailed data, as well character of contacts, intensity and importance, remain beyond archaeological analysis. An exception is Truso located in the Prussian territory (see below).
The pagan cult centres There are some interesting examples showing archaeological evidence of old pagan cult in early Mediaeval Pomerania. The best known one was identified at Trzebiatów (West Pomeranian voivodeship). The complex is located on an elevation of a height of 5–6 m surrounded with marshes. The very name of the place, as it has been remarked by Aleksander Gieysztor (1982, 180), indicates giving offerings (from Slavic trzeba–a pagan offering). The site is not far from the bank of the Rega River. It is a 10 x 13 m oval structure, surrounded with a ditch with two large hearths of diameters 1.2 m and 1.3 m. Inside the oval, three postholes, triangular in cross-section, were identified, accompanied by pairs of postholes located outside. Another similar complex was discovered 65 m to the south-west of the one described above. It was remarked that the oval outline was slightly smaller (8 x 10 m) and the ditch although narrower (1 m) was twice as deep (1 m). Inside only
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one hearth was recorded. The excavations also revealed that in the ditches there were fragments of pottery dated to the 9th–10th century, charcoal, and animal bones. The finds from the ditches were interpreted by Władysław Filipowiak (1967) as remains of offerings. The post-holes of surprisingly large diameters may be, according to the excavator, holes left by stone idols. But there is no reliable archaeological evidence supporting the hypothesis of the stone idols. Near the village of Smołdzino, on the bank of the Łupawa River, there is a high hill with steep slopes, located c. 7 km away from the sea. In local tradition this hill (Fig. 3) called Rowokół (115 m above the sea level) was believed to be the holy mountain of the Słowińcy, inhabiting the territory in the neighbourhood of Lakes Gardno and Łebskie (Grucza, Ślaski 1970). The researchers excavated an oval fortified settlement located on the south-eastern slope of the hill next to which there is a spring. The artefacts collected from Rowokół, consisted mainly of pottery, coming from various epochs and periods, until recent times. But it was established that the structure enjoyed its greatest importance in the 9th–11th century. It is worth mentioning that at the top of the hill a chapel of St. Nicholas was built in the Middle Ages and a cemetery was established around it. Was the church built at an old cult site? If not, then why was it not erected near one of the settlements located at the foot of the hill (cf. Malinowski 2004)?
Fig. 3. Smołdzino on Lake Gardno: Mount Rowokół, view from the north-west (photo: A. Buko).
nother site is Mount Chełmska (also called Krzyżanka) near Koszalin. Being A close to the sea (less than 9 km away) the elevation (137 m above the sea level) dominates the area. The excavations were first conducted in the 19th century and continued after the Second World War (cf. Janocha 1966, 1974). They revealed traces starting from the prehistoric times. The Medieval phase is represented by 7 hearth pits, two large fires, an outline of a structure (sometimes identified with a pagan kącina [shrine]), a damaged boat burial and numerous stray finds. The pits, which are dated to the 9th–11th century, formed a circle around the summit. In one of them a vessel full of animal bones was found, which may be the
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remains of an offering. Traces of a 4.5 x 2.5 m structure, the presumable kącina, with a small hearth in the south-western corner were discovered below the graves of an Early Medieval cemetery. In this context the discovery of a fragment of an Early Medieval boat with the limbs of a human skeleton found inside is particularly interesting. Some researchers believe that these may be remains of a Scandinavian boat burial. Although this possibility cannot be excluded, it cannot be fully justified either. The remains of both a thirteenth century chapel (mentioned in written sources after the year 1263) and of a church from the mid-15th century were identified during the excavations. According to Henryk Janocha (1988) there is some evidence that Mount Chełmska could have had cultic functions as early as the Iron Age. Whether or not these are interpreted as the remains of a pagan shrine must remain conjecture due to the lack of unequivocal evidence. The hypothesis is to some extent supported by the fact that the monks were brought to this place and a Christian church was built at the top of the hill. The written sources also mention a pagan shrine of Triglav in Szczecin, but so far no archaeological evidence has been found (cf. Gieysztor 1982, p. 121 ff. with references).
Evidence of early ports of trade and progress of urbanization I n contrast to other regions of the Polish Lands, there are several sites in Pomerania, recognized by archaeologists as evidence of early urbanization. They cluster in two regions: the first one, in the west, includes Szczecin, Wolin and Kołobrzeg, while the eastern cluster is composed of Gdansk and Puck; moreover, before the 10th century, Truso, sited at the territory of the Prussians, played a special role. In the pre-state period the development of the Pomeranian centres followed a different course. The location on the sea coast and trade relations fostered the early development of crafts and trade centres following their own rules and retaining in the Piast times their own specific character. This concerned both the ideology and economy, including exchange. According to the results of recent investigations, Western Pomerania achieved a high level of a monetary trade economy earlier than the other regions of the state, that is, in the pre-state period (Łosiński 1996, 1997). The earliest ‘towns’ on the Baltic coast were primarily centres of intensive trade exchange and quickly developing crafts. The main element of their topography was; besides the stronghold, the port. Besides its role in the long-distance exchange it had many other, equally important, functions. The development of the earliest crafts and trade centres was also enhanced by the multi-ethnicity of their inhabitants, which was reflected both in the written sources and in the material culture (cf. Leciejewicz 1962 with references). In the archaeological literature one may find opinions that the early Piast crafts and trade centres in Western Pomerania are specific because they developed from earlier centres of the pre-state period (Łosiński 1996). They probably played similar roles as the later crafts and trade centres but also had important political functions. It may be thus said that during almost the whole 10th century it was not the Piasts from Gniezno, but the north-Polabian and Pomeranian Slavs and the Scandinavian arrivals that decided on the trends of development of economic
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and political life at these territories. In such conditions not only technical skills in the scope of material culture but also the customs and the sphere of social behaviours were transferred. This hypothesis can be illustrated by the example of Wolin which developed continually from the late 7th century, starting as an agricultural and fishing settlement, through a crafts and trade centre to become a settlement complex with early urban features (Filipowiak, Gundlach 1972). The Piasts seem to have found the ‘cosmopolitan’ centre of Wolin, the most important settlement in the region (which had reached the peak of its greatness before the rise of the Piast state), unsuitable for their purposes. Its origins were almost 50 years later than similar sites known from Polabian lands. The layout of Wolin did not change much between the 9th and 12th century. The main street ran along the east–west axis. The earliest streets of the 9th century were paved with planks set on beams. In the first half of the 10th century the beams were transversal and the planks were longitudinal. In that century the streets were 205 cm wide and there were also narrow passages between the houses. One of the peculiarities of Wolin, besides its spatial organisation, is its dwelling pattern. According to the archaeological data, besides the buildings of palisade construction typical of Saxon and Scandinavian building traditions, there are many other kinds characteristic for the Slavic milieu (Filipowiak, Gundlach 1992). According to the general opinion, most of the archaeological finds, including the silver hoards from the town and its vicinity, show direct relations with the Danish milieu (cf. Żak 1963/1967, p. 42; Duczko 2000, p. 29). There is much evidence of a Scandinavian presence in Wolin. Already in the times of Mieszko I, in 986, Harald Bluetooth is said to have found shelter there during his fights with rebelling nobles and his own son; tradition also has it that he died there. The finds from that centre indeed indicate a considerable participation of the Danish Scandinavians in its earliest history. Nevertheless it is very hard to define the origins of this centre as Scandinavian, particularly when we take in consideration that it was developing on the basis of the local, Slavic settlement, and – moreover – when there are no examples of quarters of the settlement which differ ethnically or culturally. For this reason, much more convincing are opinions about the cohabitation in Wolin of representatives of different ethnic groups, including the Scandinavians (cf. Żak 1963, p. 43). Wolin’s old traditions are reminded every year by an annual international event known as “The Viking festivals”. Neighbouring to Wolin, Kamień, located only 6 km away from the Baltic Sea, developed rapidly in the next decades. It originated in the 9th century, initially it was a fishing village and from the 10th century it was a settlement in the Wolin agglomeration (Filipowiak 1959). In the pre-Piast period (the 11th century) it quickly became an independent urban centre with a stronghold built close to the coast. It had favourable conditions for agriculture and fishing and was located on the water route leading from the north to the south (its axis was the Oder River and the Baltic Sea) and on the route to Hamburg through Wolin and towards Novgorod. Near Kamień there was also a junction of sea and land routes leading towards Kołobrzeg, Gdańsk and Szczecin. The town began to develop intensively from the 11th century owing to the growth of local market. The natural resources
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in Kamień included the deposits of amber and the salines located near the town; there also developed local trade in the salt from Kołobrzeg. In its eastern part a port (with a customs house) was built and along the Karpina River, numerous fishing villages. In its western part, in the area occupied later by the mediaeval chartered town, from the 11th century there developed a large fortified settlement. Outside the ramparts there was St. Nicholas’ church with a biritual cemetery dated to the 9th–12th century. Szczecin, located to the west of Wolin, developed in much the same way. The earliest stronghold there dates back to the late 8th century. Its occupation by the Piasts from Gniezno in the 980s created a comfortable starting point for further expansion to the west, to the territories of the Veleti and Obodrites (cf. Leciejewicz 2000, p.139). In the western part of the region, Kołobrzeg played a key role at the outset of the Polish state. The earliest stronghold was built there to replace another tribal centre at Bardy located on the right bank of the Parsęta River. Before the arrival of the Piasts, its inhabitants were involved in fishing, animal husbandry and crafts. They also made salt from sea water, using the nearby salines. The compactly arranged homes in the stronghold and well-developed crafts indicate that already in the 10th century the earliest Kołobrzeg and the neighbouring settlements had the character of a crafts and trade centre and after the fall of Bardy it served as the main tribal centre in the area. The situation continued until the second half of the 10th century when it was entirely redeveloped. The ramparts were rebuilt, in part reusing beams taken from an earlier construction. According to the recent dendrochronological analyses, the rampart of the stronghold was built in the 980s with the use of the ‘hook construction’ characteristic for many such structures of the early Piast monarchy. Kołobrzeg must have played an important role in the policy of the first Piasts. It is therefore not surprising that the above-described investments were accompanied by many changes in crafts. This finds expression, for example, in a more advanced mode of pottery production. These changes may indicate important transformations in the social structure of the inhabitants when the centre was taken over by the Piasts. The importance of Kołobrzeg in the newly formed organization of the state of the Polanie was established for good when a bishopric was created there at the Gniezno Summit in the year 1000 (Leciejewicz, Rębkowski 2000). ther centres developing in the region, such as Białogard, Pyrzyce or Stargard O originated in the 9th century as fortified centres taken over and rebuilt by the first Piasts. This development was due to their importance within the old territorial units (and later castellanies) and to their location on the routes from Great Poland to the Baltic trade emporia (Łosiński 1996).
Truso: port of trade in Prussian territory In 1982 in a small locality called Janów Pomorski (near Elbląg) the remains of a large trading settlement were identified (cf. Jagodziński, Kasprzycka 1991; Jagodziński 2001). For the next decades until the present, this site has
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been the subject of archaeological investigation. Today we know that the early Mediaeval port of trade was sited on the river Dzierzgoń. All this area is recognized as a zone of intensive commercial contacts between the Balts, Slavs and Scandinavians from the early Early Middle Ages. There is considerable archaeological evidence that in the 9th century, this area was settled by the Scandinavians, the mediaeval cemetery identified some years ago in Elbląg. he site at Janów Pomorski (recognized as the famous Truso) covers c. 15 ha. T The form (long houses) and spatial arrangement of the buildings is very much like the pattern known from Danish Haithabu (Jagodziński 2001). Besides the long houses there are many structures relating to the waterside of the harbour and areas where boats were repaired and maintained (Fig. 4). The remains of nine such boats have been identified as a result of archaeological investigation.
Fig. 4. The harbour area of Early Medieval Truso (after M. Jagodziński).
here is much archaeological evidence from Truso confirming the early trade T and craftsmanship; this concerns activities relating to amber, antler, animal bone, glass, iron and silver. Hundreds of coins from the site and many elements of scales and weights identified inside buildings provide evidence about the importance of early trade in the everyday life of Truso’s inhabitants. Special attention has been paid to the coin finds from Truso. Most of them are Arabic dirhems dated from the 730s /770s to 821/822; the other coins relate to Hedeby, and other ones come from the British Islands, e.g., an Ethelwulf’s denar of 845– 848. It remains a mystery why there were so many coins before, but none of them is later than the mid-9th century. Such a chronology seems contradictory to the dating of many of the other finds, including ornaments and pottery. Some authors
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believe that some oriental coins from the 8th/9th centuries were still in circulation in the 10th century (cf. Bartczak, Jagodziński, Suchodolski 2004, p. 44). So far, no clear answer to the question about the factors responsible for such a situation has been found and that is why this problem remains under investigation. he pattern of spatial organization recognized in Truso was very common over T a wide area around the Baltic Sea between the 8th–12th centuries. According to the archaeological data the first settlers, however, may have arrived earlier (the second half of the 8th century?) and the ultimate decline of Truso, which took place in the mid-11th century, was preceded and caused by some unknown events. They may have been connected with the Piasts’ expansion towards the estuary of the Vistula River, which ended with building Gdańsk. The appearance in the 970s of a strong rival in long distance trade, additionally politically and militarily supported by the Piast state led to the decline and ultimate fall of Truso in the 11th century. It is impressive that, after centuries, no more traces of the old centre are left. Even the tradition about particular meaning of this place has completely disappeared.
Early monetary zone? Truso mentioned above and some western Pomeranian’s sites achieved a high level of monetary trade economy earlier than the other regions of the state, that is, in the pre-state period (Łosiński 1996, 1997). The earliest ‘towns’ on the Baltic coast were primarily centres of intensive trade exchange and quickly developing crafts. The main element of their topography was, besides the stronghold, the port. Besides its role in the long-distance exchange it had many other, equally important, functions. The development of the earliest crafts and trade centres was also enhanced by the multi-ethnicity of their inhabitants, which was reflected both in the written sources and in the material culture. he example of Truso, but also some other ports of trade in Pomerania mentioned T above, give evidence that in the northern part of Polish territory, monetary long distance trade arose earlier than in other regions of the Polish lands (cf. Łosiński 1996). During the pre-state period (8th–early 10th centuries) Arab dirhems were predominant; from the whole Polish territory there are 26000 such finds (Suchodolski 2001). Such a significant supply of Arab silver continued without break until the late 10th century, but in the early 11th it stopped (idem). Together with the decline of Arab silver, from the late 10th century Byzantine milaresions appear in the Baltic Sea area. In terms of the number found, Poland (138 items) occupies the third place after the Swedish islands and Estonia. Since the late 10th century denars from the German Empire also occur in the Polish territory in the southern Baltic area; in this time they are predominant; we know of 84 000 such finds from Mediaeval hoards, which gives Poland the second position (after Sweden) among all the countries situated around the Baltic Sea. There are also some coins of Carolingian origins, but they are relatively few (idem, p. 90ff). The problem of the change of balance of payment in the area around the Baltic from the east (Arab) to the west (European) (cf. Łosiński 1996, p. 166 ff.) is
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still a subject of debate. The symptoms of the beginnings of a monetary crisis appear in the mid-10th century, but the opinions concerning the factors which were responsible for such a situation are different. According to S. Suchodolski (2001, p. 94 ff.) the Baltic trade during the 10th century was unprofitable for Arab merchants, because the goods imported till then–such as furs, slaves, etc., might have turned out to be too expensive in a new political and economic situation (there was less silver, which meant an increase in its price ?). Let us remember about long distances between the Near East and the Baltic Sea area. In such a situation merchants from the West, encouraged by the Vikings, particularly the Varangians movement, intercepted the prerogatives of eastern traders. As a result, the Baltic countries were bound up with the west European economy.
Problem of Gdańsk origins and mysterious Puck Gdańsk, the principal urban centre located in the eastern part of the region, despite the long history of investigations remains an archaeological enigma. Many scholars are convinced that its appearance is in direct relation with expansion of the Piasts to the areas near the Vistula river estuary. In this understanding Gdańsk might have been the main centre supporting the new power. It is however, curious, that whereas in the former case new important centres were built in the borderland, in Eastern Pomerania archaeology has not revealed a similar phenomenon. A fuller knowledge about the origins of Gdańsk would provide answers for many of the existing questions. However, the interpretations of recent discoveries are unclear, and thus can serve as a basis for formulating various, often contradictory, hypotheses (cf. Jażdżewski 1961; Zbierski 1978; Lepówna 1998; Paner 1998). In the earlier archaeological literature it was postulated that today’s town originated in the last quarter of the 10th century. Yet the wooden elements of structures discovered under the Town Hall, dated to the 930s have inspired other hypotheses about the earliest (pre-state) stronghold, earlier than so-called ‘ducal stronghold’, erected to the north on the Motława river (Fig. 5). Władysław Łosiński even considered the possibility that these are traces of the Piasts’ interest in Eastern Pomerania even before the mid-10th century (Łosiński 2003). The problem thus concerns a basic issue: did the Piasts build a completely new centre or was it created alongside another one, existing from the pre-state times? If the latter is true then the new stronghold, competing with the older one, took over more and more of the prerogatives of the old centre, which was bound to lead to its decline. Another problem with making the reconstruction of the settlement pattern at the outset of the state more difficult is the poor state of research in the Gdańsk region. In fact it is not known which of the local centres were founded by the early Piasts. A good example is the origins of Puck located c. 50 km to the north of Gdańsk . There is a well established view that the centre appeared relatively late, at the end of the Early Middle Ages, whereas the discoveries in the Bay of Puck of old wharfs associated with archaeological material dated to the pre-state period as well as significant pottery assemblages collected from the area of the town and dated to the 9th century indicate that this view should be urgently reconsidered (cf. Auch 2001). It is quite possible that Puck existed earlier than Gdańsk as a crafts
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Fig. 5. Topography of Early Medieval Gdańsk (after A. Buko).
and trade centre serving the local hinterland. In contrast to the other early coastal centres there are no imports connected with the zone of exchange in the Baltic littoral (cf. Bogucki 2005). If that was the case then Early Medieval Gdańsk was not only competition but could have posed a threat to the very existence of Puck or even be the cause of its fall in the 10th–11th centuries. It is possible that there are three periods in the early history of Puck: the oldest (tribal) one, indicated by the discoveries mentioned above, a period of decline when the town might have even been deserted, caused by the appearance of the Piasts in the Gdańsk Bay (there are no finds datable to that period), and the revival of the centre at the end of the 13th century (Early Middle Ages), represented by many archaeological finds. The word ‘revival’ does not indicate that there was any direct connection between the settlement centre from the late pre-state period and the one of the end of the Middle Ages. I mean here only the reuse of a location favourable for settlement.
Concluding remarks The turn of the 10th and 11th centuries brought about changes and a pronounced development of the settlement network in Pomerania. Characteristically, the growth in numbers affected primarily the open
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settlements. Only a few of the large tribal strongholds survived and the other ones were incorporated into the system of the early Piast state. It has been also recorded that only 8 per cent of barrow burials corresponded to the areas inhabited in the late pre-state period. The presence of such necropolises in the former settlement voids is treated as a proof that the previously empty areas were settled. The fact that such people were settled at the periphery and in the areas between the local communities is considered as a manifestation of opposition to the new faith; in this understanding the peripheral settlement zones settled in the 11th century served as refuges (Łosiński (1980) 1981). According to the archaeological evidence, Western Pomerania and its main centres, formed before the birth of the state, constituted valuable economic capital for the Piasts. However, their inhabitants had a sense of their own power and strength. For that reason the fight for Pomerania was so dramatic in Mieszko’s times. The incorporation of the region into Poland, like early Christianization achieved by establishing a bishopric in Kołobrzeg as early as 1000, did not eradicate the pagan beliefs existing there nor did it form a lasting bond with the Gniezno state. This is shown by the later history of Pomerania which split away from Poland within a few decades and especially by the secondary Christianizing mission conducted in the 12th century by Otto of Bamberg. These activities were accompanied by the (re)conquest of these lands by Bolesław Wrymouth, who also encountered considerable difficulties (cf. Rębkowski 2007). The expansion of the Piasts the southeast of the 970s resulted in many changes on the map of northern Poland. There is much evidence which suggests that there was an expansion of the Piasts to the areas near the Vistula river estuary. In this case their aspirations were clearly more modest, for they only built (or took over) the coastal site of Gdańsk, which, however, ensured effective control over the coast. Yet, it is curious that whereas in the former case new important centres were built in the borderland, in Eastern Pomerania archaeology has not revealed a similar phenomenon. Another problem making the reconstruction of settlement situation at the outset of the state more difficult is the poor state of research in the Gdańsk region. In fact it is not known which of the local centres were founded by the early Piasts. It should be assumed that the unprecedented development of the whole Gdańsk agglomeration of the 11th and 12th centuries stimulated the development of a network of settlements on the Gdańsk Bay. A possible effect of these complex and overlapping processes might have been the reappearance of the town of Puck in the 13th century, this time for good. One can only state that when the Piasts were occupying Eastern Pomerania, they used a completely different strategy from the one used in Southern Poland. They invested in building one economically strong coastal centre and did not try any further urbanization of the region (cf. Buko 2008, p.199). It has been also recorded that only eight per cent of barrow burials corresponded to the areas inhabited in the late pre-state period. The presence of such
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necropolises in the former settlement voids is treated as a proof that the previously empty areas were settled. This process is especially evident in the 11th century. The assemblages of grave goods in barrow cemeteries with no military equipment indicate that the deceased differed in their social status. In turn the barrow cemeteries from the 11th century may be interpreted as cemeteries of free peasants (cf. Łosiński (1980 (1981)). The fact that such people were settled at the periphery and in areas between the local communities is considered as a manifestation of opposition to the new faith; in this understanding the peripheral settlement zones settled in the 11th century served as refuges. This settlement pattern might have been stimulated by the new rulers. The fact that in most cases the cemeteries are small may indicate that the settlers made up small groups and thus their villages consisted of at most several homesteads. But from the beginnings their demographic potential was much lower than the population buried at the same time at flat cemeteries.
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Literature Auch Michał, 2001. Problematyka i stan badań nad naczyniami wczesnośredniowiecznymi z terenu Pomorza Gdańskiego, MA thesis typescript, Institute of Archaeology, Warsaw, University (Warszawa 2003). Bartczak Andrzej, Jagodziński Marek F., Suchodolski Stanisław, „Monety z VIII i IX w. odkryte w Janowie Pomorskim, gm. Elbląg – dawnym Truso”, Wiadomości Numizmatyczne, 48 (2004) pp. 21–48. Bogucki Mateusz, Najstarsze ośrodki handlowo-rzemieślnicze strefy nadbałtyckiej. Początki i podstawy rozwoju we wczesnym średniowieczu , Ph.D. manuscript at the Institute of Archeology, University of Warsaw (Warsaw, 2005). Buko Andrzej, The Archaeology of Early Medieval Poland. Discoverieshypotheses interpretations, Brill (Leiden–Boston, 2008), p. 519. Chudziak Wojciech, “Wczesnośredniowieczne “importy” skandynawskie z Kałdusa pod Chełmem na Pomorzu Wschodnim”, in: Marek Dulinicz (ed.), Słowianie i ich sąsiedzi we wczesnym średniowieczu (Lublin– Warsaw 2003), pp. 117–126. Duczko Władyslaw, “Obecność skandynawska na Pomorzu i słowiańska w Skandynawii we wczesnym średniowieczu”, Lech Leciejewicz, Marian Rębkowski (eds.) Salsa Cholbergensis: Kołobrzeg w średniowieczu (Kołobrzeg, 2000), pp. 23–44. Dulinicz Marek, „Uwagi o początkach ośrodków handlowych na południowym rzegu Bałtyku (VIII–IXw.)”, Sławomir Moździoch (ed.), Centrum i zaplecze we wczesnośredniowiecznej Europie Środkowej (Wroclaw, 1999), pp. 97–110. Filipowiak Władysław, Kamień wczesnodziejowy, (Szczecin 1959), p. 82. Filipowiak Władysław, Gundlach Heinz, Wolin–Vineta. Die tatsächliche Legende vom Untergang und Aufstieg der Stadt (Rostock 1992), p. 137. Gieysztor Aleksander, Mitologia Słowian (Warszawa, 1982), p. 272. Grucza Franciszek, Ślaski Kazimierz, Rowokół, Słownik Starożytności Słowiańskich. Encyklopedyczny zarys kultury Słowian od czasów najdawniejszych do schyłku wieku XII, Labuda Gerard and Stieber Zygmunt eds. (Wrocław, 1970), pp. 560. Jagodziński Marek, “Truso–Siedlung und Hafen im slawisch-etnischen Grenzgebiet”, Alfred Wieczorek, Hans-Martin Hinz (eds.), Europas Mitte um 1000, Beiträge zur Geschichte, Kunst und Archäologie 1 (Stuttgart, 2000), pp. 170–174. Jagodziński Marek, Kasprzycka Maria, “The early medieval craft and commercial centre at Janów Pomorski near Elbląg on the South Baltic Coast”, Antiquity 65 (1991), pp. 696–715. Janocha Henryk, 1966. Wyniki prac badawczych przeprowadzonych w latach 1959 i 1960 na 68
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Górze Chełmskiej (Krzyżance) koło Koszalina. Część I, Materiały Zachodniopomorskie 12 (1966) pp. 383–480. – Wyniki prac badawczych przeprowadzonych w latach 1961 i 1962 na Górze Chełmskiej (Krzyżance) koło Koszalina. Część II, Materiały Zachodniopomorskie 20, (1974), pp. 31–167. Jażdżewski Konrad, Gdańsk wczesnośredniowieczny w świetle wykopalisk (Gdańsk, 1961), p. 59 Kara Michał, “Wczesnośredniowieczny grób uzbrojonego kupca z miejscowości Ciepłe na Pomorzu Gdańskim w świetle ponownej analizy chronologicznej”, Hanna Kóčka-Krenz, Władysław Łosiński (eds.), Kraje słowiańskie w wiekach średnich: Profanum i sacrum (Poznań, 1998), pp. 505–524. Leciejewicz Lech, Początki nadmorskich miast na Pomorzu Zachodnim (Wrocław, 1962), p. 377. Normanowie (Wrocław 1979), p. 210. – “Pomorze Zachodnie w projekcie badawczym poświęconym Polsce w dobie zjazdu gnieźnieńskiego”, Andrzej Buko, Zygmunt Świechowski (eds.), Osadnictwo i architektura ziem polskich w dobie Zjazdu Gnieźnieńskiego (Warsaw, 2000), pp. 139–143. Leciejewicz Lech, Rębkowski Marian (eds.), Salsa Cholbergensis: Kolobrzeg w średniowieczu (Kołobrzeg 2000), pp. 13–22. Leciejewicz Lech, Rębkowski Marian, Kołobrzeg. Średniowieczne miasto nad Bałtykiem Kołobrzeg 2000, p. 139. Lepówna Barbara, Urbs Gyddanyzc w świetle badań archeologicznych dawnej placówki IHKM PAN w Gdańsku, in Gdańsk średniowieczny w świetle najnowszych badań archeologicznych i historycznych, Henryk. Paner ed. (Gdańsk, 1998) p. 147–166. Łosiński Władysław, „Kolonizacja wewnętrzna ziem pomorskich w XI w., jej charakter i tło społeczne w świetle danych archeologii (na podstawie materiałów nekropolicznych), Slavia Antiqua, 27 ([1980]1981), pp. 65–77. – “Chronologia, skala i drogi napływu monet arabskich do krajów europejskich u schyłku IX i w X w”, Slavia Antiqua 34 (1993) pp. 1–41. – “Miejsce Pomorza i Wielkopolski w kształtowaniu się gospodarki towarowo-pieniężnej w Polsce wczesnofeudalnej”, Slavia Antiqua 37 (1996), pp. 163–180. – “Rola kontaktów ze Skandynawią w dziejach gospodarczych Słowian Nadbałtyckich”, Przegląd Archeologiczny 45 (1997), pp. 73–86. – „Z badań nad obrządkiem pogrzebowym w północnego odłamu Słowian zachodnich w świetle nowszych badań”, Kóčka-Krenz H, W. Łosiński (eds.) Kraje słowiańskie w wiekach średnich. Profanum i sacrum (Poznań, 1998), pp. 473–483. – “Osadnictwo plemienne w dorzeczu Parsęty we wczesnym średniowieczu”, Lech 69
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– Początki wczesnośredniowiecznego Gdańska–problem widziany z daleka, Slavia Antiqua 42 (2003), pp. 52–61. Łuka Leon Jan, Ziemia gdańska w okresie wczesnośredniowiecznym (od VII w. do połowy X w.),. E. Cieślak ed. Historia Gdańska (Gdańsk, 1978), 25–68. Malinowski Tadeusz, „Charakter pobytu człowieka w pradziejach i średniowieczu na szczycie góry Rowokół” Jerzy Libera and Anna Zakościelna eds., Przez pradzieje i średniowiecze, (Lublin, 2004), pp. 289–299. Paner Henryk, ed., Gdańsk średniowieczny w świetle najnowszych badań archeologicznych i historycznych, Gdańsk 1998, p. 229. Rębkowski Marian, Chrystianizacja Pomorza Zachodniego. Studium Arecheologiczne, (Szczecin, 2007), p. 278. Suchodolski Stanisław, “Change of transcontinental contacts as indicated by coins in the Baltic zone around year 1000”, Przemysław Urbańczyk (ed.), Europe around the year 1000 (Warsaw, 2001), pp. 85–100. Żak Jan, “Czy grób uzbrojonego jeźdźca z Ciepłego, pow. tczewski, jest grobem skandynawskim?”, Archeologia Polski 1 (1957), pp. 164–180. – “Importy” skandynawskie na ziemiach zachodniosłowiańskich od IX do XI wieku, vol. 1: Część katalogowa; vol. 2: Część analityczna; vol. 3: Część syntetyczna (Poznań, 1963 (1, 2), 1967 (3) ). Zbierski Andrzej, „Rozwój przestrzenny Gdańska w IX–XIII w.” , E. Cieślak ed. Historia Gdańska, 1 (Gdańsk 1978), pp. 71–125. Zoll-Adamikowa Helena, Stan badań nad obrzędowością pogrzebową Słowian, Slavia Antiqua 38 (1997), pp. 65–80.
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Models of Settlements Formation in Polatsk Region Marat V Klimau
The concept of the Baltic region can include many aspects affecting various issues of Baltic society development. So, considering the Baltic as the image of socium we can speak about people, their social organization or about material culture. The Polatsk region presented in the article is the original bridge connecting the Baltic sea-coast and the Eastern lands of the Ancient Russia which especially can be seen during the existence of the trade route ‘From the Varangians to the Greeks’. Taking into account the intersection of different culture traditions our interest lies in studying various aspects of vital activity of the region while considering various ways of settlements formation and development. According, this publication presents 4 models of settlement developments in the Polatsk region as the samples of the basic elements formation of the settlements structure.
Model I. Polatsk-city So, let’s start from Polatsk where I provided the research in 1995–1996 and in 2008 (fig. 1). The archeological excavations are arranged annually in this city. There were studied generally the issues of topography and handicraft activity of the city, but the issue of the city’s origin had not been solved until this time.1 We are not going to discuss the historiography of the problem and to name all the researchers as it is the subject of the separate study, but we would like to provide our own vision of the problem. The majority of the researchers connect the issue of Polatsk’s origin with its role as the Krivichi Center.2 From this point of view the Center is considered to be ‘strange’ in some way. If such cities as Minsk, Zaslavl and others appeared in the place of burial mounds accumulated in an over populated region, so what we will have concerning Polatsk? Let’s look at the plan of kurgan locations around Polatsk and mark that the earliest burial mounds around Polatsk are single and located at random around the city (fig. 2:10, 30, 38). We would like to note that L.V. Alekseev plotted burial mounds onto the map trying to outline the Polatsk volost borders and presented the Polatsk volost by accumulation of burial mounds, but this volost does not surround the city uniformly around its center.3 In this case we can discuss the issue that probably the kurgans can not reflect objectively picture Polatsk during the early period of its history. It means that we should apply the analysis of the number of the settlements.
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Figure 1: Map of monuments.
Fig 2: Kurgans around of Polatsk.
Figure 3: Forests around of Polatsk.
Figure 4: Hillforts around of Polatsk.
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As a result of the archaeological prospects we localized rural settlements of the Хth—ХIIIth centuries around Polatsk, but the number of such settlements is small within the chronological frames. It can be explained. The number of microregions suitable for living around Polatsk was insufficient and mainly on the river banks and lakeside. The agricultural development of the territory around Polatsk was minimal because of surrounding forests, marshes and low soil quality (bonitet).4 Let’s look at the contemporary map of the forest borders which occupies almost all space around the city (fig. 3). So why did Polatsk city appear exactly in the microregion uncomfortable for living? It is known that the basic element for city foundation during that period was the hillfort, frequently used during earlier historical period usually at early Iron Age. Let’s analyze the map with hillforts in the nearest Polatsk region (fig. 4). A portion of them are distant from the Western Dvina and the others were not used for some reason as the alternative to Polatsk one. Why? Probably Polatsk played a big role in the promotion of the Arabic coin silverdirhems. We also will have a look at the map made by G.V.Shtykhov where we can see the well-known hidden treasures of dirhams and dinars.5 Despite the fact that the biggest hidden treasure of dirhams found in the village of Kazianki, which is in 5 km from Polatsk, consisted of approximately 12000 coins, it’s mostly a rare fortuity than appropriateness which is marked also by the main researcher of the hidden treasure considering it as the money of Dvina ships robbers 6 (fig. 5:15). All those issues were discussed to understand the appearance of Polatsk particularly here. And of course while clearing up the issue we have doubts that the Palata River played some essential role in Polatsk foundation except the fact that the name of the city was given due to the presence of the ancient settlement site with the same name. The Palata River is too marshy and archeologically a ‘desert’, if to speak about finding of the monuments of the IXth century along its stream proved by the works of the author of the publication as early as in 1997.7 All mentioned above testify to the fact that the location of the future city was not connected with a densely populated and convenient living microregion. The microregion provided the other important function which was communicative one on our opinion. Let’s analyze the scheme provided by the author where all rivers of the Belarusian Podvinnie are shown as straight lines according to their length (fig. 6). The analysis of the scheme shows clearly that Polatsk was situated almost in the middle of the biggest Dvina tributaries from the Eastern and Western parts. This location of the city does not look accidental, and its foundation is premeditated during the Slavic colonization as a station located in the middle of the communicative river system which provided more effective territory control. There is no doubt that the Scandinavian guests estimated the convenient city location later and used the communicative function of Polatsk in their own aims as Rurik did and thus contributed to city development as an important trading station. The communication model of Polatsk foundation is coordinated with some reconstructions of Polatsk Principality creation. This is the way the Rogvolod Principality looks like (who, as it is well-known ‘ came from
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behind the sea’, according to reconstruction of G.Semenchuk.8 The Principality borders at the end of the IXth century cover Dvina rivers basin. So on our opinion in the future it is necessary to take into account the full matrix of materials on all of the rivers to solve the issue about the Polatsk genesis.
Model II. Maskovichi-trade-industrial settlement This interesting ancient settlement site was investigated by L.V.Duchits and it is situated at Slavic–Baltic border9 (fig 1:2). As a result of the archeological excavations it was discovered that the ancient settlement site had no serious fortification construction (banks and ditches). Despite the fact that we can find a highly-expressed military aspect in clothing material of the settlement, you should not consider this settlement as a completely military one. The prosperity of the settlement can be seen at the end of the ХІth —beginning of the ХІІІth centuries proven by definite kind of ceramic dishes with nimbus wrapping inside. The unique trade-marks at the bottom part of the dishes and their variety show that the dishes were produced in the settlement for a small region. The population additionally was involved in industrial activity and trade. The big number of the worship items as small crosses and crosses-encolpion show the high cultural level of the inhabitants (fig. 7). But the most interesting thing for us is that we can find the items of the Scandinavian origin in the settlement and runic inscriptions on bones (fig. 8). These inscriptions were well studied and published.10 Who were those Scandinavians? In our opinion we can speak here already not about classic Vikings but about the merchants who settled our land and previously were forced out of Scandinavia and became useful in the region as the most mobile element of the community. Thus, the model of the development of Mascovichi supposed the creation of the military post which supposedly at the end of the ХІth–ХІІth centuries transformed into the microregional industrial and trade center and lost its primary basic military function.
Model III. Lisna-center of Volost There is one more interesting model of settlement formation and development connected with the administration function of the local volost center. Lisna can be the example of such settlement partially studied by us in 2006–2007 (fig. 1:4). Lisna as a volost center is mentioned in the documents of the XVIth century.11 It is located on the river bank which flows into the big lake, it is situated near the big number of marshes and forests and at present it is a rural settlement. The area was not a densely populated region and accumulation of population cannot be the factor assisted to Lisna formation as a microregional center. In this connection it is enough to compare the amount of land of the two neighboring volosts free from forest and marshes – Osvei and Lisna (fig. 9). In the last case the percentage of the adapted territory is minimal. Of course fishing played a big role in the economy of Lisna inhabitants, as proven by the big number of fish-hooks found during archaeological excavations. The findings helped to get the artifacts which pointed to the factors that assisted transformation of the settlement into the volost center. There were collected the artifacts describing the presence of
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Figure 5: Treasures IX–XI cn. in Polatsk kingdom (by Shtykhov).
Figure 6: All rivers of the Belarusian Podvinnie.
Figure 7: Crosses from Maskovichi (by L.V. Duchits, 1991).
Figure 8: Runic inscriptions on bones from Maskovichi (by L.V. Duchits, E.A. Melnikova).,
Figure 9: Volost of Lisna.
Figure 10: Artefacts from Lisna.
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the military men in the settlement and we think they were the representatives of Polatsk prince (fig 10:2–12). One of the remarkable finds is a spindle whole made of slate with graffiti close to Scandinavian runic symbols (fig. 10:1). Based on the mentioned above facts we express our opinion that namely the control function over the river route was first the main one and later assisted to transformation of the ordinary rural settlement into the volost center with the administrative functions. Supposedly the volost united all settlements which were located along the the Lisna lakeside.12
Model IV. Luchna – feudal country estate of unfortified type And the last model of settlement development is connected directly with the feudalization process. We studied the feudal country estate located 15 km from Polatsk. The total area of excavations made up more than 2184 square meters (fig. 1:3). The country estate was located on the left bank of the Dvina River in front of its bend. Its formation related to the ХІth century and its growth can be marked in the ХІІth century where we find the same ceramic dishes as in Maskovichi.13 There were found the remains of the rich material culture here:keys and locks parts (fig. 11:7–9), rider’s and horse equipment , arms 14 ( fig. 11:10–13), various coloured metal ornaments (fig. 11:4) and what is very important, this list includes clasps for books and the articles of the Christian worship (fig. 11:1–3, 5–6).15 The rich material culture in connection with the items belonged to ordinary peasants and feudal lords allows us to consider the settlement as a feudal country estate.16 The appearance of, i.e.,settlement shows the process of „settling of the squad on the land“, the transfer of land to men-at-arms of the Princeboyars as relative land property which could be inherited. New feudal lords created their country estates as Luchna in the countryside and surrounded them by the houses of the feudal-dependent peasants creating new type of settlements symbiotic by nature. The material showed that the presented models reflect various ways of settlements development. There are some the most important factors assisted to the foundation of the settlements, which are the following:communicative, administrative and feudalization process in the Eastern–Slavic society. Those factors assisted to transformation of the ordinary rural settlements into the regional urban (Polatsk city) or into microregional centers (Maskovichi, Lisna, and Luchna). The representatives of Scandinavia being the important element of the administrative– military and trade structure of the Eastern–Slavic society of the ІХth—ХІІth centuries acted as a catalyst intensifying the affect of the factors.
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Notes 1
Shtykhov G.V. Ancient Polatsk. Minsk: Nauka i Tekhnika, 1975. p.135: Illstr.Tarasau S.V.Polatsk IX–XVII cent.: History and Topography. Minsk: Belaruskaya Navuka, 1998, p.183, illstr. Duk D.U.Polatsk Site of Ancient Settlement: Myths and Realities// International research conference’ History and Archeology of Polatsk and Polatsk Area’: theses of reports, Polatsk, October 23–24 2007, p.21–23.
2
Alekseev L.V. Western Lands of Pre-Mongolian Russia: History, Archeology, Culture Essays: in 2 books Nauka v.1 2006. p.58–59.
3
Alekseev L.V. Polask Land (History Essays of Soviet Belorussia) in IX–XIII Nauka, 1966, p.215, 221.
4
Klimau M.V. Peculiarities of Settling in Polatsk Region: X-middle XVI.//Historic–Archeological Collection. #21. 2006. p.130; Klimau M.Village Settlements of Polatsk Region in 10th –middle 16th centuries//Abstracts book of 12 the annual meeting, 19–24 September 2006, Cracow, s.157–160.
5
Shtykhov G.V. Hidden Treasures of Polatsk Land of the X–XIII Centuries (topography and general description)//Middle Age Belarus. Navuka i Tehnika, 1993, p.85, fig.28.
6
Ryabtsevich V.N.Koziankovskoje Treasury//Materials of the IV International Conference. History and Archeology of Polatsk and Polatsk Area’: October 23–24, 2002, Polatsk, 2003, p.209.
7
Klimau M.V.Report on Archeological Excavations and Prospects in 1997 on the Territory of Polatsk Region./Archive of the Institute of History , the Belarus National Academy of Sciences. Report №1704, p.14–16.
8
Semyanchuk G.M.Polatsk Land in the XIIth–first Half of the XIIIth centuries (Changes in political–administrative and territorial structures)// News of the Belarus National Academy of Sciences.1992, №3–4, p.41, fig.1.
9
Duchits L.U. Braslau Lake Area in the IX–XIVth Centuries. Minsk: Navuka I Tehnika, 1991, p.37–62.
10
Duchits L.V., Melnikova E.A. Inscriptions and Signs on Bones from the Site of Ancient Settlement Maskovichi (northern–western Belarus)// Ancient States on the territory of the USSR (1980), 1981, p.185–216.
11
Statements of the Western Russia Concerning the History of the Western Russia, Collected and Published by the Archeographic Commission , 1846, v.1, report №19, p.284; Polatsk City Court Acts of 1533–1539//Belarus Archive. Mensk, v.II (XV–XVI), report №175, p.128–129.
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Klimau M.V. Formation of Lisnyanskaya Volost in Polatsk Principality.// International research conference ‘History and Archeology of Polatsk and Polatsk Area’: October 23–24, 2007, Polatsk, 2007, p.132.
13
Klimau M.V.Luchna-1: Stratography and Chronology of a Feudal Country Estate.//the materials of the IV international conference ‘History and Archeology of Polatsk and Polatsk Area’: October 23–24, 2002, Polatsk, p.152.
14
Klimau M.V.Harness, Military Equipment of a Rider and a Horse from the Monument Luchna-1 (according to the materials of the archeological excavations 1999–2000)// Materials on Belarus Archeology №3 2001, p.261.
15
Klimau M.V. Items of the Christian Worship from the Monument Luchna-1.//Education and Humane Value of Belarus in Retrospective of Time.–materials of the international research conference, 30–31 May 2002, Novopolotsk, 2002, p.44–47.
16
Klimau M.V. The Problem of the Feudal Country Estates of NonCastle Type at the Territory of Belarus: I–XVI centuries (according to the materials of Luchno monument 1)//Archeology and History of Pskov and Pskov land. The materials of the scientific seminar, Pskov, 2006, p.293–303.
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Images of History
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Störtebeker. Die Karriere eines Geschichtsbildes Robert Bohn
Klaus Störtebeker ist die populärste Figur in der deutschen Seeräubergeschichte. Seit Jahrhunderten hat sich um ihn ein weites Geflecht von Legenden gebildet, die in zahllosen Erzählungen, Romanen und Schauspielen sowie vor allem auch in bildlichen Darstellungen zum Ausdruck gebracht wurden. In jüngster Zeit sind diese Legenden sogar wiederholt Stoff filmischer Dramatisierung geworden. Zu all dem steht in merkwürdigem Kontrast, dass die wissenschaftlich abgesicherten Kenntnisse über Störtebeker mehr als dürftig sind. Denn es gibt auf ihn bezogen nur knappe, mehrdeutige zeitgenössische chronikalische Erwähnungen und nur wenige und zudem vage urkundliche Hinweise.1 Selbst der Zeitpunkt seiner spektakulär geschilderten Hinrichtung ist unsicher: es kann im Oktober 1400 oder 1401, aber ebenso 1402 gewesen sein. Für jedes dieser drei Daten gibt es Hinweise. Die Fachwissenschaft ist sich letztlich aber uneins, welches Jahr das richtige ist. Mehrheitlich hat man sich indes auf 1401 festgelegt. Gleichwohl steht weiterhin die Frage im Raum, ob der in der Legende überlieferte Störtebeker historische Authentizität beanspruchen kann. Die Legendenbildung über Störtebeker und seine Kumpane, die Vitalienbrüder, setzte früh ein. Nahezu alles, was mit den historisch belegten Vitalienbrüdern zu tun hat, wurde im deutschsprachigen Schrifttum im Laufe der Zeit auf die Person Störtebeker fokussiert, in der sich solchermaßen ein Geschehen verdichtet, das im realen historischen Kontext sowohl räumlich wie zeitlich wesentlich umfassender, aber auch deutlich zusammenhangloser war, als es in dieser Legende zum Ausdruck kommt. In der Störtebeker-Legende sind mehrere und durchaus auch unterschiedliche Erzählungen und Einzelsagen aus verschiedenen norddeutschen Küstenregionen zu einem Sagenstoff zusammengefügt worden, der alle Bereiche des Lebens und der Taten des Seeräubers Störtebeker und seiner Kumpane umfasst. In den Einzelsagen geht es um deren Verstecke und Schätze, um Beutezüge, um persönliche Eigenschaften Störtebekers und seiner Gefährten, um die Gegner und Verbündeten und nicht zuletzt – und in vielen Erzählungen ist dies der Kern – um Gefangennahme und Hinrichtung. Der Hansehistoriker Karl Koppmann, der sich in der zweiten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts als erster mit der Störtebekerlegende wissenschaftlich 1
Die älteste chronikalische Überlieferung findet sich in der sogenannten Lübecker Rufus–Chronik, die zwischen 1430 und 1438 entstanden ist. Karl Koppmann: Die Chroniken der niedersächsischen Städte, Lübeck, Bd. III, Leipzig 1902.
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auseinander gesetzt hat, hat eine Systematisierung dieses in fast fünf Jahrhunderten entstandenen Legendenkomplexes in vier Gruppen vorgenommen:2 Zur ersten Gruppe zählte er die Überlieferungen über die Herkunft und Verwandtschaftsverhältnisse Störtebekers. Diese Einzelsagen reichen räumlich von Ostfriesland bis zur Insel Rügen. Mindestens 15 sagenhafte Geburtsorte wurden gezählt. Quellenmäßig nachzuweisen ist allerdings nur die Namensnennung eines Störtebekers in Wismar. Dort steht im liber proscriptorum, einer Art Strafverzeichnis, unter dem Jahr 1380 ein Eintrag über eine Prügelei, möglicherweise eine, wie wir heute sagen würden, Wirtshausschlägerei, bei der zwei Personen körperlichen Schaden erlitten; einer davon ein gewisser Nicolao Stortebeker.3 Die Strafe für die zwei Raufbolde war hart: sie müssen die schützende Stadt verlassen und rechtlos und friedlos ins Aus-Land ziehen. Störtebeker – hier noch das Opfer – mag zu dieser Zeit noch Heranwachsender gewesen sein. Die soziale Herkunft und Klassenzugehörigkeit Störtebekers ist den Legenden nach ebenso kunterbunt: sie reicht vom Knecht über einen Bauernsohn bis zum verarmten bzw. deklassierten mecklenburgischen oder auch ostfriesischen Kleinadligen respektive Häuptling. Die zweite Gruppe umfasst der Einteilung Koppmanns zufolge die in den Einzelsagen aufgeführten und insgesamt kaum überschaubaren Verstecke und Stützpunkte, die es sowohl an der Ostsee- als auch der Nordseeküste gegeben haben soll. Die meisten liegen in Pommern, Mecklenburg, Holstein und Ostfriesland. Aber auch in Skandinavien, insbesondere auf der Ostseeinsel Gotland, fanden sich der Legende nach solche Schlupfwinkel. Auf Gotland soll es befestigte Anlagen, gar Burgen genannt, in Slite und am Lojsta-See gegeben haben. In Mecklenburg und Pommern hausten Störtebeker und seine Schar diesen Erzählungen zufolge vornehmlich in Höhlen auf der Insel Rügen. Am bekanntesten ist die nach ihm benannte Störtebeker-Höhle bei Stubbenkammer. In Holstein und Ostfriesland waren es dagegen vorzugsweise Kirchen und Kirchtürme wie derjenige von Marienhafe in Ostfriesland nahe der Leybucht. Hier in Marienhafe soll Störtebeker sogar den großen Kirchturm erbaut oder zumindest aufgestockt haben, um nicht nur einen Zufluchtsort zu haben, sondern zudem eine Landmarke, die weit von See aus zu erkennen und anzusteuern war. Als dritte Gruppe fasste Koppmann die verschiedenen mit Störtebeker und seinen Vitalienbrüdern in Verbindung gebrachten Sagen über ihre geraubten Schätze zusammen. Auch sie umfassen ein breites Spektrum: von goldenen und silbernen Gebrauchsgegenständen, Münzen aller Art, kostbarem Schmuck, teueren 2 3
Karl Koppmann: Der Seeräuber Klaus Störtebeker in Geschichte und Sage, Hansische Geschichtsblätter 3 (1877), S. 35–58. Matthias Puhle: Die Vitalienbrüder. Klaus Störtebeker und die Seeräuber der Hansezeit, Frankfurt/New York 1992, S. 23f. Gregor Rohmann: Der Kaperfahrer Johann Stortebeker aus Danzig, in: Hansische Geschichtsblätter 125 (2007), S. 105 bezweifelt allerdings gut begründet die Übereinstimmung dieses Wismarer Wirtshausschlägers mit unserem Klaus Störtebeker.
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Gewändern und Stoffen bis hin zu dem angeblich im Schiffsmast verborgenen eingeschmolzenen Gold und Silber. Viel Gold ist einer Sage zufolge von einem Handwerker zufällig beim Abwracken des Störtbekerschen Schiffes entdeckt und großen Teils als Dachbedeckung für die Hamburger Katharinenkirche verwendet worden. Beim großen Brand Hamburgs von 1842 sei es dann verloren gegangen. Störtebeker-Schätze sollen anderen Erzählungen zufolge auch bei Burg auf Fehmarn und in Höhlen im Kreidefelsen der Stubbenkammer auf Rügen verborgen worden sein. Und bei Schwabstedt in Holstein habe Störtebeker eine Wiese mit einer goldenen Kette umzäunen lassen, auf der die Seeräuber Gelage abzuhalten pflegten. Als sie einmal dort angegriffen wurden, sollen sie die goldene Kette im nahe gelegenen Moor versenkt haben. Schließlich die vierte Gruppe: sie ist zugleich die spannendste und geheimnisvollste, weil mit vielen schauerlichen Elementen versehen. Vor allem sie wird in Schauspielen und im Film immer wieder dramaturgisch neu aufbereitet. Hierin wird die Gefangennahme und Hinrichtung Störtebekers und seiner rund 70 Kumpane beschrieben. Die auf die Gefangennahme bezogene Grundaussage ist, dass Störtebeker nur durch eine List überwunden werden konnte. Dabei hat sich eine Erzähl-Version verfestigt, der zufolge ein von Hamburger Kaufleuten und Reedern bezahlter Fischer nachts bei hartem Wetter an der Leeseite des in der Elbmündung vor Anker liegenden Schiffs Störtebekers Schutz suchen durfte, dann aber arglistig geschmolzenes Blei in dessen Steuerruder goss. Dadurch wurde das Schiff Störtebekers manövrierunfähig und tags darauf leichte Beute der Hamburger. Anders als durch Hinterhältigkeit, so der Kerngedanke dieser Volkssage, wäre Störtebeker nicht zu ergreifen gewesen. Eine hinterhältige List spielt auch in der Sage von der Hinrichtung der Störtebekermannschaft auf der Hamburger Richtstätte Grasbrook vor den Toren der Stadt einen Tag nach der Gefangennahme eine zentrale Rolle. Das Spektakuläre dieser Massenhinrichtung hat viel dazu beigetragen, diesen Teil des Geschehens um Störtebeker phantasievoll anzureichern. So soll etwa der Weg von der Gerichtsverhandlung im Rathaus zur Richtstätte einer feierlichen Prozession geglichen haben, denn den Seeräubern war vom Rat der Stadt zugestanden worden, in festlicher Kleidung und mit Musikbegleitung dorthin zu ziehen. Ganz im Mittelpunkt des Hinrichtungsgeschehens steht aber die Legende, der zufolge diejenigen von seinen Kumpanen verschont werden sollten, an denen Störtebeker nach seiner Enthauptung noch vorbeizugehen vermochte. Die Sage berichtet, dass erst ein vor die Füße geworfener Klotz – in einer Abwandlung war es ein gestelltes Bein – den Kopflosen zu Fall brachte. An fünf bis elf – je nach Erzählvariante – seiner Leute soll er bis zu dem herbeigeführten Sturz vorbeigekommen sein. Hier wie auch bei anderen Elementen der Störtebekerlegende kommen stets regional bezogene Vorlieben zum Ausdruck: so wird vom Gold im Schiffsmast sowie von Gefangennahme und Hinrichtung vorwiegend in Hamburg erzählt, die Schatzhorte in Höhlen und Hünengräbern und deren piratisches Zustandekommen dagegen sind Erzählstoff in Pommern (Rügen) bzw. in
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Abb. 1: Die Radierung des Augsburger Künstlers Daniel Hopfer aus dem Jahr 1515 zeigt Kunz von der Rosen, den Ratgeber Kaiser Maximilans I. Quelle: Jörgen Bracker (Hrsg.): Gottes Freund – aller Welt Feind. Von Seeraub und Konvoifahrt, Hamburg 2001, S. 39.
Abb. 2: Das Störtebekerdenkmal in der Stadt Marienhafe in Ostfriesland. Quelle: Damals. Das Magazin für Geschichte und Kultur, 4/2006, S. 41.
Abb. 3: Die HopferRadierung wurde um 1690 vom Kunsthändler David Funck als Porträt Störtebekers unter die Leute gebracht. Quelle: Damals. Das Magazin für Geschichte und Kultur, 4/2006, S. 4.
Abb. 5: Auf der anderen Seite sieht man den damals aktuellen Seeräuberfeind der Hansestadt, den Franzosen Jean Baert. Quelle: wie Abb. 4.
Abb. 4: Um 1700 prägte Hamburg eine Medaille, auf deren einen Seite Störtebeker abgebildet ist. Quelle: Jörgen Bracker (Hrsg.): Gottes Freund – aller Welt Feind. Von Seeraub und Konvoifahrt, Hamburg 2001, S. 44.
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Holstein. In Ostfriesland geht es überwiegend um Störtebekers Beteiligung am regionalen Freiheitskampf der dortigen friesischen Häuptlinge gegen Feudalfürsten und hansische Geldsäcke. Allgemein wird Störtebeker der Legende nach zwar als gewalttätiger und weder sich noch andere schonender Seeräuber geschildert, doch ist er Armen und Bedürftigen gegenüber hilfsbereit und nur die Obrigkeit und die Reichen haben ihn zu fürchten. Das Schlagwort „Gottes Freund und aller Welt Feind“ bürgerte sich in den Erzählungen ein und setzte sich in den Köpfen bis auf den heutigen Tag fest. Auch sein einprägsamer sonderlicher Name, die niederdeutsche Abwandlung von ‚Stürz den Becher’, der auf Trinkfestigkeit hinweist, war der Legendenbildung förderlich. Natürlich ist an diesem Störtebeker–Vitalienbrüder-Stoff nicht alles Erfindung. Im späten 14. Jahrhundert hatte das weit verbreitete Kaperwesen einen rechtlichen und politischen Rahmen geschaffen, der auch als Bezugspunkt für die Ereignisse zu gelten hat, aus denen heraus die späteren Erzählungen um Störtebeker und seine Leute entstanden sind. Kaperwesen und Seeraub hatten zu dieser Zeit im Nord- und Ostseeraum eine neue Qualität erreicht. Dies sollte in den Kämpfen um die Macht, die in den letzten Jahrzehnten des 14. Jahrhunderts und Anfang des 15. Jahrhunderts in Nordeuropa herrschten, eine ausschlaggebende Rolle spielen. Dank einer ausgeprägten Hanseforschung, insbesondere in Deutschland, sind die Rolle des Seeraubs in diesen machtpolitischen Auseinandersetzungen und insbesondere die Beteiligung norddeutscher Kaperfahrer, unter anderem auch der sogenannten Vitalienbrüder, weitgehend geklärt. Insofern fand auch eine wissenschaftliche Scheidung von historischen Fakten und den um sie herum gesponnenen Legenden in Bezug auf Störtebeker und die Vitalienbrüder statt, die in neueren Publikationen thematisiert wird.4 Obwohl es sich bei den Vitalienbrüdern um eine Seeräuberschar von mehreren Hundert Männern gehandelt hat, treten uns nur ganz wenige namentlich entgegen. Und unter den ganz wenigen nimmt der sagenhafte Klaus Störtebeker die absolute Hauptrolle ein. Wie kam es dazu? Wie bei allen Sagen und Legenden gibt es auch um Störtebeker allerlei Ungereimtes, Widersprüchliches und auch Kurioses. Da ist zum Beispiel sein Porträt: Der Legende entsprechend hatte man sich einen kräftigen, urwüchsigen Mann mit entschlossenen, aber zugleich aufrichtigen Zügen vorzustellen. Doch auf ein entsprechendes Abbild musste man rund dreihundert Jahre warten. Dafür hat sich dieses Bild dann aber bis auf den heutigen Tag nahezu unverändert erhalten. Der hier Abgebildete ist nicht Klaus Störtebeker. Auf dieser Radierung des Augsburger Künstlers Daniel Hopfer aus dem Jahr 1515 ist der Ratgeber Kaiser 4
Matthias Puhle, Die Vitalienbrüder; sowie Jörgen Bracker (Hrsg.): Gottes Freund – aller Welt Feind. Von Seeraub und Konvoifahrt. Störtebeker und die Folgen, Bremen 2001. Ralf Wiechmann e.a. (Hrsg.), Klaus Störtebeker. Ein Mythos wird entschlüsselt, München 2003. Wilfried Ehbrecht (Hrsg.), Störtebeker. 600 Jahre nach seinem Tod, Trier 2005.
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Maximilians I., Kunz von der Rosen, dargestellt. Doch in diesem Abbild fand man den geeigneten Charakterkopf, der seitdem für denjenigen Störtebekers gehalten wurde. Schaut man sich das Störtebeker–Denkmal vor dem Kirchturm in Marienhafe in Ostfriesland von 1992 genauer an, so erkennt man in der Gestaltung des Kopfes ohne weiteres die Hopfer–Vorlage wieder. Die ungebrochene Karriere dieses Porträts mit der Zuordnung zu Störtebeker begann um 1690 und wurde durch den Nürnberger Kunsthändler David Funck in Szene gesetzt, der die ursprünglich namenlose Druckplatte Hopfers mit der Namenslegende ‚Claus Stürtz den Becher’ versah. Funck scheint mit diesem Portrait vor 300 Jahren geschäftstüchtig ein seinerzeitiges Bedürfnis Hamburgs bedient zu haben. Die Stadt wollte sich am Ende des 17. Jahrhunderts publizistisch ihrer historisch bedeutenden militärischen Leistungen zur See rühmen – und zwar als „uralte kaiserliche und des Hl. Römischen Reiches freie See- und Handelsstadt“, wie es in einem 1696 erschienenen Buch zur Stadtgeschichte heißt. Zu den herausragenden Leistungen gehörte natürlich auch die Niederringung der Vitalienbrüder und ihres inzwischen berühmt berüchtigten Anführers Störtebeker, dessen Bildnis nach der Funckschen Vorlage auch in diesem Buch von 1696 abgedruckt worden ist. Kurz nach dem Erscheinen des Buches, als Hamburg wieder einmal gegen Kaperfahrer und Seeräuber rüstete, wurde in Hamburg zudem eine goldene Medaille mit dem inzwischen kanonischen vermeintlichen Konterfei Störtebekers auf der einen und dem des aktuellen und in diesem Fall französischen Freibeuters Jean Baert auf der anderen Seite geprägt. Diese französischen Kaperfahrer unter dem Befehl Baerts versuchten um 1700, eine Handelssperre gegen die Niederlande aufzurichten, wobei sie auch die Unterelbe in ihre Kaperei einbezogen – zum Schaden des Hamburger Seehandels. Historische Leistung und gegenwärtige Aufgabe Hamburgs wurden solchermaßen miteinander bildlich verknüpft. Auf einem Flugblatt, das in diesem Zusammenhang im Jahre 1701 im Auftrag des Hamburger Rats verbreitet wurde und das zum 300sten Jahrestag der Hinrichtung der Vitalienbrüder wie das fünf Jahre zuvor erschienene Buch die Leistungen der Stadt im Kampf gegen den Seeraub unterstreichen und mit der aktuellen piratischen Bedrohung verknüpfen sollte, wird das ganze Geschehen in Szene gesetzt. Dergleichen bildliche Darstellungen vermochten auch damals schon den einfachen Geistern eindrücklicher ein Geschichtsbild zu vermitteln als gelehrte Bücher. Zumal es mit der Lesefähigkeit auch allgemein nicht so weit her war. Vor den Türmen der Hansestadt auf der anderen Seite des Wassers hat der Künstler hier das Gesamtgeschehen dieser Hinrichtung von 1401 dargestellt: Den Kampf der beiden Schiffe mit dem Rammstoß des Hamburger Schiffes, der Bunten Kuh, vor dem Entern des Piratenschiffes. Im Wasser treiben Wracks bzw. Schiffsteile, und im Vordergrund, auf dem Grasbrook, sehen wir das Hinrichtungsgeschehen mit den bereits abgeschlagenen Köpfen auf den Pfählen groß im Hintergrund. Den Rosenschen Störtebeker können wir nicht
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so leicht identifizieren. Doch schauen wir genauer hin, so ist der Charakterkopf unter denen am unteren rechten Bildrand zu erkennen, die unter Musikgeleit zur Richtstätte geführt werden. Was fällt an dem Flugblatt noch auf? Kleidung, Bewaffnung und Schiffstypen sind historisierend. Das ist nicht spätes 14., sondern spätes 17. Jahrhundert. Pumphosen, Geschützdecks und dreimastige Karavellen gab es zu Störtebekers Zeiten nicht. Die Vitalienbrüder wie auch ihre Gegner fuhren auf einmastigen Koggen und die trugen noch keine Kanonen. Gleichwohl erfüllte das Flugblatt seinen Zweck. Es stellt szenische verdichtet (im doppelten Sinn des Wortes) die Ereignisse dar – und zwar so, wie Hamburg sie vermitteln wollte. Als 200 Jahre später, um 1890, Johannes Gehrts einen Holzstich schuf, auf dem der letzte Kampf Störtebekers gegen die Hamburger dargestellt wird, hat er dem am Mast kämpfenden Seeräuberhauptmann ebenfalls dieselben Rosenschen Gesichtszüge verliehen. Auch in späteren theatralischen oder filmischen Umsetzungen versuchte man, dieser Vorlage gerecht zu werden. Der Kupferstich von Hopfer des Kunz von der Rosen machte übrigens auch südlich der Alpen Karriere. Wie hier bei der Abbildung eines italienischen Condottiere. Die räumlichen und zeitlichen Ursprünge von Sagen, Mythen und Legenden sind im Unterschied zu den historischen Ereignissen, von denen sie handeln, bekanntlich schwieriger zu ermitteln. Das gilt auch für die Legendenbildung um Störtebeker. Zunächst nur mündlich und regional begrenzt unter den Küstenbewohnern bzw. in Küstenstädten wie Hamburg oder Lübeck tradiert und dabei schon nach Gusto abgewandelt und ausgeschmückt, wird der Erzählstoff erst rund 150 Jahre nach den historischen Ereignissen, also um 1550, erstmals in Form des sogenannten Störtebekerliedes gedruckt zu Papier und unters Volk gebracht. Schon vorher hatten aber einige Chronisten in norddeutschen Küstenstädten, vor allem die Lübecker, die eine und andere und dabei mehr oder weniger zutreffende, auf die jeweilige Region oder den Ort bezogene Episode des piratischen Wirkens der Vitalienbrüder festgehalten, ohne jedoch eine zusammenhängende Geschichte zu erzählen. Einigen dieser Chronisten zufolge gingen die Raubzüge der Vitalienbrüder sogar bis ins Mittelmeer und in den Orient. In einer Erzählung waren sie sogar Gäste bei dem Gelage eines muselmanischen Sultans, als dieser seine Tochter verheiratete. Als das gute Hamburger Bier bei dieser Festlichkeit zur Neige gegangen war, segelten die Vitalienbrüder, so die Erzählung, kurzerhand zur Elbmündung zurück, um Nachschub zu kapern. Das wurde ihnen allerdings zum Verhängnis, denn dort lauerten schon die Verfolger auf sie. Chronistik und Volkssage haben sich durchaus wechselseitig beeinflusst. Einen besonderen Beitrag lieferten die Chronisten zum einen durch die Namensfestlegungen bei den Vitalienbrüdern sowie durch die Gewichtung
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der ihnen zugeschriebenen Taten. Erst durch diese Chronisten tritt der uns bekannte Klaus Störtebeker als – buchstäblich – großer Seeräuberkapitän auf die Bühne der Geschichte, während – wie man heute weiß – historisch bedeutendere und quellenmäßig hinreichend belegte Anführer wie Godeke Michels oder interessantere Gestalten unter den Vitalienbrüdern wie der Magister Wigbold ihm gegenüber zurückgesetzt werden. Seit dem Störtebekerlied ist diese zentrale Rolle Störtebekers unumstößlich. In diesem in mehreren Versionen verbreiteten Lied kommt allerlei Fiktion und Vermischung vor. Sein über Jahrhunderte ständig erfolgter Neudruck weist auf seine weite Verbreitung und Beliebtheit hin. Es lieferte gewissermaßen in komprimierter Form den Grundstoff für weitere und teilweise „hemmungslose“ (M. Puhle) Ausschmückungen und Einzelsagen, die dann seit dem 17. Jahrhundert in vielfältige künstlerische Produkte von Drama und Roman bis zur Oper umgesetzt wurden. So erschien 1701, zum vermeintlichen 300sten Jahrestag der Hinrichtung, nicht nur das genannte Flugblatt, sondern zudem wurde in Hamburg eine zwei Abende füllende Oper mit dem Titel „Störtebeker und Gödje Michel“ aufgeführt. 1725 folgte ein Schauspiel, in dem mit dem Anführer Störtebeker an der Spitze alle möglichen namentlich bekannten vitalianischen Seeräuber jener Zeit in einer Geschichte auftreten, die im Heiligen Land – wo sie gefangen genommen werden – beginnt und auf dem Hamburger Grasbrook endet, wo die Schar der zu Richtenden inzwischen auf 150 angewachsen ist. Seeräubergeschichten hatten zu dieser Zeit überall in Europa Konjunktur. Vor allem in England nahmen die seinerzeitigen seeräuberischen Taten in der Karibik und im Indischen Ozean in der Publizistik einen breiten Raum ein.5 Es war ja, wie man so schön sagte, das Goldene Zeitalter der Piraterie. In Deutschland hatte man, anders als in Frankreich, den Niederlanden und ganz zu schweigen von England, nur diese eine Seeräubergeschichte von Bedeutung, und deshalb die fortgesetzte Arbeit am Thema Störtebeker und dessen öffentliche Erinnerung. Dabei – und mehr noch in der nachfolgenden Zeit – wird deutlich, dass zwei Interessenmotive ineinander floßen: zum einen wurde mit der Störtebekergeschichte ein in der Bevölkerung manifestes Bedürfnis nach Heldensagen nach dem Muster des Robin-Hood-Mythos (Rächer der kleinen Leute und der Verfolgten) bedient, zum anderen instrumentalisierten die Obrigkeit und später politische Interessengruppen den Stoff. Der erste, der für sein Nachleben propagandistischen Nutzen aus dem Kampf gegen die Vitalienbrüder zog, war der Kaufmann und Reeder Simon von Utrecht. Seit 1426 war er Hamburger Ratsherr und seit 1432 dort Bürgermeister. Er vermochte es, sich zum eigentlichen Gegenspieler Störtebekers zu stilisieren, dem die Hansestadt die Abwehr der Seeräubergefahr zu verdanken hatte. In Wirklichkeit hatte der Holländer erst 1399 das Bürgerrecht in Hamburg 5
Exemplarisch zusammengefasst in der Daniel Defoe (unter dem Pseudonym Capt. Charles Johnson) zugeschriebenen Kompilation: A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates etc., London 1742.
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Abb. 6: Hinrichtungsszene der Vitalienbrüder auf einem Hamburger Flugblatt von 1701. Quelle: Jörgen Bracker (Hrsg.): Gottes Freund – aller Welt Feind. Von Seeraub und Konvoifahrt, Hamburg 2001, S. 84.
Abb. 7: Der letzte Kampf Störtebekers. Holzstich von Johannes Gehrts um 1890. Quelle: Damals. Das Magazin für Geschichte und Kultur, 4/2006, S. 37.
Abb. 8: Gefangennahme Störtebekers. Holzstich von Johannes Gehrts um 1890. Quelle: wie Abb. 7. Abb. 9: Kupferstich des italienischen Meisters di Cordova um 1516. Quelle: Jörgen Bracker (Hrsg.): Gottes Freund – aller Welt Feind. Von Seeraub und Konvoifahrt, Hamburg 2001, S. 41.
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erworben und war beim Kampf gegen die Vitalienbrüder vermutlich nicht persönlich, sondern nur mit einem seiner Schiffe beteiligt. Das Kommando führten die Ratsherren Schoke, Jenefelt und Lange, und deren Flaggschiff, von dem aus angeblich das letzte Gefecht gegen Störtebeker geführt wurde, die ‚Bunte Kuh’, gehörte dem Ratsherren Nyenkerken und nicht, wie sich in der auf Hamburg bezogenen Legende verfestigt hat, Simon von Utrecht. In späteren Variationen der Legende wird das Schiff kurioser Weise auch Störtebeker zugeschrieben. Simon von Utrecht scheint vor seiner Übersiedlung nach Hamburg selbst einer der zahlreichen holländischen Kaperfahrer in der Nordsee gewesen zu sein, der die Seite gewechselt hatte.6 Leute wie ihn konnte die Stadt Hamburg in ihrem Bestreben, den Seehandel nach England zu sichern und ihre Einflusssphäre nach Ostfriesland zu erweitern, am Ende des 14. Jahrhunderts gut gebrauchen. Und das erklärt auch seinen erstaunlichen Aufstieg in die städtische Führungsschicht bis ins Bürgermeisteramt. Die Erinnerung an diesen Bürgermeister und dessen Kampf gegen die Seeräuber in der Nordsee blühte aber erst eigentlich im letzten Drittel des 17. Jahrhunderts auf, als Hamburger Handelsschiffe erneut von Seeraub und Kapergefahr stark heimgesucht wurden. Diesmal war es die so genannte Barbareskengefahr: Korsaren von der nordafrikanischen Küste aus Städten wie Algier und Tunis oder aus Marokko. Sie bedrohten die gesamte abendländische Seefahrt nicht nur im Mittelmeer, sondern auch an der europäischen Atlantikküste, ja sogar bis in die Nordsee.7 An die erfolgreiche Seeräuberjagd Simon von Utrechts sollte nun angeknüpft werden, und man erinnerte sich nun auch an sein Testament, in dem er der Stadt eine bestimmte Summe für den Bau von Polizeischiffen vermacht hatte. Kaum hatte man diese vergessene Geldquelle für den Bau neuer so genannter Konvoischiffe, die die Hamburger Handelsschiffe auf ihrer Fahrt zur Iberischen Halbinsel schützen sollten, gesichtet, setzte die öffentliche Lobpreisung von Utrechts ein, der er bis heute seine Popularität in der städtischen Memoria zu verdanken hat.8 Und darin spielen die Ereignisse um die Vitalienbrüder und Störtebeker eine zentrale Rolle, deren Bild als Hamburger Staatsfeinde nun endgültig zementiert war, während ihnen in den Erzählungen andernorts die Funktion von Sozialrebellen zugeschrieben wurde. Auf dem Hamburger Bilderbogen von 1701 (siehe Abbildung) wird das ganze Geschehen von Gefangennahme und Hinrichtung in der Lesart zusammengefasst, wie sie sich bis dahin in Hamburg durchgesetzt hatte. Es ist eine bunte Mischung aus Fiktion und historisierender Darstellung. Sie sollte für die Hamburger ordnungspolitischen Leistungen propagandistisch wirksam sein und wurde darum als Flugblatt unter das Volk gebracht. Seitdem ist die Störtebekerlegende immer wieder aufs Neue als Stoff für unzählige Dramen, Romane und Schauspiele aufgegriffen und mit aktuellen Bedürfnissen verbunden worden. Viele bekannte Dichter des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts haben 6 7 8
Gregor Rohmann, Der Kaperfahrer Johann Stortebeker aus Danzig, S. 90. Robert Bohn: Von Sklavenkassen und Konvoifahrten. Die arabischen Seeräuber und die deutsche Seefahrt im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, in: Thomas Stamm–Kuhlmann e.a. (Hrsg.). Geschichtsbilder, Stuttgart 2003, S. 25–37. Jörgen Bracker: Klaus Störtebeker – nur einer von ihnen, in: Wiechmann 2003, S. 40.
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sich daran versucht: Achim von Arnim, Clemens Brentano, Joachim Ringelnatz und natürlich Gorch Fock, um nur einige der Bedeutenderen zu nennen. Auch der von der See begeisterte Theodor Fontane adaptierte die Legende, mit der er sich jahrelang beschäftigte, ohne allerdings seinen StörtebekerRoman vor seinem Tod 1898 fertig stellen zu können. Schon in seiner frühen Jugend begegnete ihm das Motiv bei den Sommerferien in Heringsdorf auf Usedom, wo es der Legende nach ja auch ein Versteck Störtebekers gab: die Störtebeker–Kuhle. Jahre später, bei Besuchen im ostfriesischen Marienhafe, wurde Fontane immer wieder von neuem vom Störtebeker-Stoff gepackt. 1895 begann er mit den Vorarbeiten zu einem Roman, der, wie er schreibt, „von allem abweicht, was ich bisher geschrieben habe, und der überhaupt von allem Dagewesenen abweicht. (...) Der Stoff in seiner mittelalterlichen Seeromantik und seiner sozialdemokratischen Modernität (...) reizt mich ungeheuer“. So also schreibt Fontane über sein neues Romanprojekt. Mit diesem Roman hätte Fontane den alten Seeräuber direkt in der aktuellen Politik sozialdemokratischer Kundgebungen und wilhelminischer Flottenrüstung angesiedelt. Der Roman, für den er den Titel ‚Die Likedeeler’ vorgesehen hatte, blieb bekanntlich Fragment. Dieses besitzt allerdings – auf die Zeit nach der Hinrichtung Störtebekers und auf das Kommunistische Manifest anspielend – den schönen Schlusssatz: „In der Kirche geht das Gespenst Störtebekers um, aber das Gespenst der Likedeeler geht um die ganze Welt.“ 9 Im frühen 20. Jahrhundert kamen die bei Fontane angedeuteten ideologischen und politischen Versatzstücke verstärkt hinzu.10 Man entdeckte in den Vitalienbrüdern auf der einen Seite die völkisch-nationalen nordischen Freiheitskämpfer und Eroberer, auf der anderen die spätmittelalterlichen Klassenkämpfer. Der expressionistische Schriftsteller Hans Leip veröffentlicht 1925 seinen Roman ‚Godekes Knecht’, in dem zwar der Magister Wigbold im Mittelpunkt steht, Störtebeker aber der piratische Bezugspunkt ist: „Da gab uns Störtebeker das Gesetz: Mein ist auch Dein! Und lehrte es uns: Frei ist die See, und vogelfrei sind der Erde Krämer.“ Kurz darauf, 1927, brachte Erwin Piscator das Drama ‚Gewitter über Gottland’ von Ehm Welk auf die Berliner Volksbühne mit einem sozialrevolutionären Störtebeker als Protagonist der Unterdrückten, der sich gegen die Bourgeoisie der Hansestädte auflehnt (Hauptrolle: Heinrich George). Die extrem politisierte Inszenierung, in der einer der Seeräuber sogar in Leninmaske auftrat, führte zu Piscators fristloser Entlassung. Die Nationalsozialisten wollten dieser Art Instrumentalisierung der Figur Störtebeker natürlich nicht nachstehen. In ihrem Sinne wird das bereits in der bündisch-romantischen Jungendbewegung der zwanziger Jahre verankerte Bild rassistisch verschärft. Die Vitalienbrüder mit Störtebeker als Führer erscheinen darin aggressiv und gnadenlos. Die seeräuberische Heimtücke 9 10
Theodor Fontane: Sämtliche Werke, Bd. 24: Fragmente und frühe Erzählungen, Nachträge, hrsg. von Rainer Bachmann u. Peter Bramböck, München 1975, S. 353–395. Hierzu und im folgenden: Volker Henn: Das Störtebeker-Bild in der erzählenden Literatur des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, in: Störtebeker – 600 Jahre nach seinem Tod, Hansische Studien XV, Trier 2005, S. 273–290.
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wird, so Goebbels, zu „nordischer List“ und ihre Seeräuberei überhaupt zum „Recht der Herrenrasse“ auf Eroberung. Allein im Jahre 1936 wurden auf Deutschlands gleichgeschalteten Bühnen neun verschiedene StörtebekerDramen aufgeführt.11 Nach dem Krieg und der Gründung zweier deutscher Staaten erhielt Störtebeker eine neue Aufgabe. Der unseligen Jugendliteratur der Nazis galt es etwas Neues, Besseres entgegen zu setzen. Im Westen wurde dies mit vermeintlich unpolitischem Impetus in Gestalt von Sachbüchern in Szene gesetzt. Im Osten, in der DDR also, im dezidierten Erziehungsauftrag der Partei. Diesen Auftrag übernahm bezogen auf den Störtebeker-Mythos der Schriftsteller Willi Bredel. 1950 erschien sein Roman ‚Die Vitalienbrüder’ mit einem Störtebeker im Rahmen der alltbekannten Ereignisse zur Hansezeit aber mit klassenkämpferischer Aktualität.12 Der mit Störtebeker als Protagonisten geschilderte Kampf der Unterschichten soll die historische Notwendigkeit für den Aufbau einer sozialistischen Gesellschaft aufzeigen. Auf der Grundlage dieses Romans schuf der DDR-Staatsdichter Kurth Barthel 1960 ein Störtebeker-Schauspiel mit einer noch extremeren klassenkämpferischen Grundaussage.13 Dieses vier Stunden lange Stück wurde zu DDR-Zeiten in Ralswiek auf Rügen auf einer Freilichtbühne aufgeführt. Die Vitalienbrüder traten darin als Vorkämpfer des Sozialismus im Kampf gegen den durch die Hansekaufleute verkörperten Kapitalismus auf. Hierbei wurde ein weiterer Mythos ins Zentrum gerückt, nämlich der von den Vitalienbrüdern als ‚Likedeeler’, als Gleichteiler. Unter dieser aus dem Holländischen stammenden Bezeichnung tauchen sie indes im zeitgenössischen niederdeutschen Schrifttum nur ganz spärlich auf, wurden als solche dann aber in Volkssagen umso stärker popularisiert. Die Seeräuber um Störtebeker erscheinen in Ralswiek solchermaßen dramaturgisch aufbereitet als eine quasi revolutionäre, frühkommunistische Gemeinschaft. Gewissermaßen als ein gesellschaftlicher Gegenentwurf, was allerdings durch keine einzige zeitgenössische Quelle historisch gedeckt wird. Weder teilten sie ihr Raubgut untereinander zu gleichen Teilen, noch beschenkten sie in ‚Robin-Hood-Manier’ die Armen und Bedürftigen. Wie die Quellen belegen, hatten die Vitalienbrüder nur ein Motiv für ihre Raubzüge: reine Habgier. Sie waren keine Sozialrebellen, sondern ganz gewöhnliche Piraten, wie es sie zu allen Zeiten und auf allen Meeren gegeben hat. Störtebeker wurde in Ralswiek solchermaßen zum Vorläufer Thomas Müntzers und Ernst Thälmanns. Nach der deutschen Vereinigung 1990 wurden die Ralswieker StörtebekerFestspiele 1993 wieder aufgenommen, allerdings mit neuer Inszenierung und nur noch als Touristenspektakel ohne Anspruch historischer oder politischer Belehrung. Hierin unterscheiden sich diese Festspiele nicht von Störtebekerspielen andernorts an der deutschen Nord- und Ostseeküste, wie 11 12 13
Vgl. Maser Werner, Das Regime, Berlin 1990, S. 141. Willi Bredel: Die Vitalienbrüder. Ein historischer Roman für die Jugend, Schwerin 1950. Kurt Barthel: Die Legende vom Klaus Störtebeker, Rostock 1960.
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etwa in Marienhafe in Ostfriesland. Alles ist eine an historischen Eckdaten festgemachte, aber ansonsten nach Phantasie bunt ausgeschmückte, mittelalterliche Kostüm- und Kulissenshow. Die Veranstalter auf Rügen zählen pro Jahr in der ‚Festspielzeit’ rund 300.000 und mehr Zuschauer. Am anderen Ende, in Ostfriesland lockt man alljährlich ebenfalls Zehntausende zu den dortigen Störtebeker-Festspielen. Neue Medien haben den Störtebeker-Stoff ebenfalls aufgegriffen, so dass die Zahl der Bearbeitungen in Comics, Film und Unterhaltungselektronik vollends unüberschaubar geworden ist. Die Legende vom Freiheit liebenden, nur reiche hansische Pfeffersäcke oder übermütige Fürsten bedrohenden, dem einfachen Volk aber helfenden Seeräuber lebt darin wie eh und je. Dieser fortdauernden Pflege des Mythos hat das Bemühen der Fachwissenschaft, ihm fehlende Historizität nachzuweisen, nicht schaden können. Karl Koppmann ist schon vor über 130 Jahren dem nahe gekommen, worum es bei dieser Pepetuierung der Störtebeker-Legende geht: „In einem ewigen Kampfe stehen Sage und Geschichte einander gegenüber. Beide beschäftigen sich mit der Vergangenheit. In der Geschichte waltet der herrschende Verstand des Historikers. Seine Arbeitsweise besteht darin, das Wahre vom Unwahren und vom Zweifelhaften zu sondern und die einzelnen Bausteine (...) in ihrem Verhältnis zum Ganzen zu erkennen. In der Sage dagegen herrscht das Erinnerungsvermögen des Volkes; (...) ihr Bestreben ist darauf gerichtet, das Vergangene in einem anschaulichen, lebensvollen Bilde festzuhalten. Sie gibt den Ereignissen einen bestimmten Mann zum Repräsentanten und einen bestimmten Ort zum Hintergrund. (...) Störtebeker ist (...) Repräsentant jener Seeräuberscharen, welche unter dem Namen der Vitalienbrüder zwei Menschenalter hindurch Ostsee und Nordsee dem Kaufmann unsicher machten.“14
14
Karl Koppmann: Der Seeräuber Klaus Störtebeker in Geschichte und Sage, S. 37.
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Auf den Spuren der Ritter und Zaren: Reval im Blick russischer Touristen unter Nikolaj I* Karsten Brüggeman
Rei sen bildet, so heißt es. Das Kennenlernen fremder Kulturen war für reformorientierte Russen nach dem Vaterländischen Krieg gegen Napoléon, die so genannten späteren „Dekabristen“, sogar politisches Programm. Nie zuvor waren so viele Russen gleichzeitig in Europa gewesen wie während der Verfolgung des großen Korsen. Als sie zurückkamen, veröffentlichten viele Offiziere ihre Tagebücher und setzten ihre Reisen fort. Nun konnten die Daheimgebliebenen, die des Lesens kundig waren, an diesen Betrachtungen teilhaben, die viele ehemalige Soldaten nun aber auch in die unbekannten Winkel des eigenen Reiches führten. Diese Entdeckung der Fremde Russlands war ein kolossales Ereignis, entdeckte die europäisierte russische Elite doch auch den fremden eigenen, den russischen Bauern, mit dem sie im Krieg Seit an Seit gekämpft hatte. Mit einer unklaren Vorstellung von „Europa“ im Geiste galt es aber auch eine Region zu entdecken, die an den Grenzen des Reiches lag und vollkommen anders war: die drei deutsch und protestantisch geprägten Ostseeprovinzen Estland, Livland und Kurland. Nach 1820 gab es hier aber zudem etwas zu bestaunen, was es im übrigen Reich noch nicht gab: aus der Leibeigenschaft befreite Bauern. Es war dieses sozialpolitische Interesse, dass den ersten berühmten russischen Revalreisenden an die Ostseeküste trieb: Aleksandr Bestužev-Marlinskij, ein junger Gardeoffizier, der nicht am Krieg gegen Napoléon teilgenommen hatte und sich nun in den Grenzgebieten des Reichs auf die Suche nach Utopien machte. Seine „Poezdka v Revel’“, die 1821 erschien, wurde zu einem der ersten Bestseller der jungen russischen Literaturgeschichte.1 Darüber hinaus wurde sein Werk zu einem buchstäblichen Wegbereiter (und -begleiter) für die russische Er-Fahrung der Ostseeküste. Hierin glich er einmal mehr Aleksandr Puškin, *
Die Abfassung dieses Beitrags wurde ermöglicht mit Hilfe der estnischen staatlichen Wissenschaftsförderung SF0130038s09. Hierbei handelt es sich um eine Vorstudie zur in Arbeit befindlichen, von der DFG geförderten Habilitationsschrift des Verfassers zum Thema Repräsentation und Legitimation russischer Herrschaft im Baltikum im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert.
1
Isakov, Sergej G., ‘Revel’ v izobraženii russkich pisatelej i chudožnikov 1820–1840ch godov’, Sergej Docenko (ed.), “Tallinskij tekst” v russkoj kul’ture. Sbornik v čest’ prof. I.Z. Belobrovcevoj – k 60-letiju so dnja roždenija (Tallinn 2006, = Baltijskij archiv. Russkaja kul’tura v Pribaltike, 11), S. 19–42, hier S. 24. Bestužev, Aleksandr, Poezdka v Revel’ (Sanktpeterburg 1821), hier zit. n. Bestushew, Alexander A.: Eine Reise nach Reval (Berlin 1992).
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dessen Helden nach Ansicht von Louise McReynolds „by presenting exotica as obtainable“ den Russen Reisen in den Süden schmackhaft gemacht hatten.2 Bestužev präsentierte seinem staunenden Publikum Europa als erreichbar – in Form der estländischen Hauptstadt. Dass sein Buch zudem einen sozialpolitischen Subtext besaß, legen schon Bestuževs enge Kontakte zu den Verschwörern des Dezember 1825 nahe. Allerdings wusste er aus eigener Erfahrung, dass die Zensur sämtliche Hinweise auf die Problematik Leibeigenschaft streichen würde.3 Über das vergangene Leid der Bevölkerung ließ man ihn jedoch schreiben, denn schließlich, so Bestužev einleitend, habe sich „der Zustand der hiesigen Bauernschaft hinsichtlich ihres sittlichen wie körperlichen Befindens unter dem Einfluß der dauerhaften Freiheit, die ihr von unserem Monarchen gewährt wurde, deutlich verbessert“.4 Andreas Schönle zufolge war dieses Lob für Aleksandrs Bauernreform als Hinweis an den Zaren gedacht, die Bauern im ganzen Reich zu befreien.5 Schönle zufolge hat Bestužev bewusst eine utopische und „largely fictional“ Präsentation der Revaler Gesellschaft seiner historischen Chronik vorangeschickt, voller ethnischer Harmonie und sozialer Befriedung. Er fühlte sich in der Revaler Welt „dem Ideal meiner utopischen Vorstellungen“ doch sehr nah, schrieb der Reisende euphorisch. Er pries die Klugheit und Schönheit der Frauen, die positiven Einflüsse der „sittlichen Schönheit“ auf die „Schönheit der Körper“ und den Verzicht auf Moden sowie auf Tee und Knoblauch in der lokalen Küche. Schönles Argumentation wird dadurch gestützt, dass Bestužev selbst seine von der Revaler Gesellschaft des Jahres 1821 versinnbildliche Vorstellung einer sozialen Utopie in das Bild gekleidet hat, der Rousseau selbst hätte hier eine Art empirisches Modell für seine „Erziehungsregeln“ finden und Émile sich somit von der „Glut der Erfahrung“ – und nicht vom „Meteor der Phantasie“ – leiten lassen können.6 Reval als Ort einer russischen sozialen Utopie mit aufgeklärten Bürgern und freien Bauern? Auch wenn man angesichts der nach 1825 veröffentlichten Arbeiten so weit dann doch nicht gehen mag, blieb ein utopisches Element. So projizierte der Petersburger Zensor David Mackevič Ende der 1840er Jahre das Ideal des Nikolajitischen Zeitalters auf die baltische Hafenstadt: Reval habe ihm gefallen aufgrund seiner „altertümlichen, originellen Physionomie“. Es sei einem Menschen ähnlich, „der in seinem langen Leben viele Launen des Schicksals 2
3
4 5 6
McReynolds, Louise, ‘The Prerevolutionary Russian Tourist: Commercialization in the Nineteenth Centruy’, Anne E. Gorsuch, Diane P. Koenker (eds.), Turizm. The Russian and East European Tourist under Capitalism and Socialism (Ithaca, London, 2006), S. 17–42, hier S. 22. Bazanov, Vasilij G., Očerki dekabristskoj literatury. Publicistika. Proza. Kritika (Moskva 1953), S. 294; Isakov, Sergej G., Pribaltika v russkoj literature 1820-ch–1869-ch godov. V dvuch tomach, Diss. … kand. fil. nauk, Tartu–Leningrad 1962, tom 1, S. 204f.; vgl. Schönle, Andreas, Authenticity and Fiction in the Russian Literary Journey, 1790–1840 (Cambridge, MA., London, 2000), S. 132, Anm. 53, S. 253f. Zu Bestuževs Verbindung mit den Dekabristen vgl. A. A. Pokrovskij (ed.), Vosstanie dekabristov. Materialy, t. I, Dela Verchovnogo ugolovnogo suda i sledstvennoj komissii, kasajuščiesja gosudarstvennych prestupnikov (Moskva–Leningrad, 1925), S. 423–473. Bestushew 1992, S. 25f., 124. Schönle 2000, S. 132. Bestuzhew 1992, S. 36–40; Schönle 2000, S. 131, 139.
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erlebt hat, und der sich eine gewisse religiöse Verehrung der Sitten und Überlieferungen der Väter bewahrt“ habe. Es jage „nicht den (…) Neuerungen nach“ und lasse sich nicht „von ihrem falschen Glanz leiten“.7 Was war dies anderes als eine Art Anti-Utopie im Vergleich zu Bestužev? Für Mackevič unterschied sich Reval durch seine „stillen Gesichter, äußerliche Wohlgestalt und Ordnung“ idealerweise von (russischen) Großstädten: Dass es hier weder Betrunkene noch Bettler gab, zeige die vorbildlichen Sitten der Revaler, die von allen „Geschwüren der Gesellschaft“ erlöst seien. Veränderungen jedoch, oder gar Sozialreformen hatten in dieser Variante der Revaler Idylle keinen Platz, denn sie würden die altertümliche Physiognomie nur empfindlich stören. „Soziale Utopie“ und „konservative Idylle“ – zwischen diesen beiden Polen lag das russische Baltikumbild zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts, wobei in beiden Fällen der Revaler Spiegel dazu diente, zwischen den Zeilen Kritik an den herrschenden Verhältnissen im Reich zu formulieren. Die Stadt lag nah genug an St. Petersburg, um als Vergleichmaßstab zu dienen und war ja schließlich auch schon seit über einem Jahrhundert Teil des Imperiums. Auf der anderen Seite war sie fremd genug, um glaubwürdig für eine Alternative zu stehen. Grundsätzliches Thema jedoch blieb dabei in allen Texten über die Region die Annäherung an das „eigene Fremde“. Dieses so nahe „russische Deutschland“ war am Ende der 1820er Jahre zur äußerst modischen Reiseziel vor allem der feinen Petersburger Gesellschaft geworden. Zu dem Anziehungspunkt gerade der kulturellen Elite geriet der Salon der Karamzina, der Witwe des Schriftstellers und Hofhistoriographen Nikolaj Karamzin, der in den Sommermonaten aus der Hauptstadt nach Reval zog. In den daraufhin in den „dicken Journalen“ erschienenen Reiseberichte – z.B. unter dem Titel „Auch meine Reise nach Reval“8 – wurden zwei Aspekte der russischen Faszination an den Ostseeprovinzen deutlich: das „Romantische“ der historischen Landschaft und die touristische Komponente der jungen Kurorte. Während die touristische Komponente sich zunächst auf die Beschreibung der Badefreuden beschränkte, war es das romantische Flair, das die Besucher von den Ostseeprovinzen schwärmen ließ: Burgen, Schlösser, Ritterabenteuer. Autoren wie Bestužev lieferten mit Erzählungen wie „Das Revaler Turnier“ oder „Schloss Wenden“ den imaginativen Kontext für die spezielle baltische Erfahrung gleich mit, die in erster Linie eine literarische war. Denn es kam ein spezieller Aspekt der russischen Romantik hinzu, der meist mit dem Begriff des „Ossianismus“ umschrieben wird. Die fiktiven Gesänge des schottischen Barden Ossian hatten eine Begeisterung für alles Nordische ausgelöst, die in Russland auf besonders fruchtbaren Boden stieß, seitdem Finnland dem Imperium einverleibt worden war. Zwar sah man sich gern auch selbst als „nordisches“ Volk, doch galten die Finnen als authentischer. Diese Finnenbegeisterung wiederum übertrug sich auch auf ihre Verwandten, die Esten. Schon Bestužev hatte ihren Freiheitsdrang mit 7 8
Mackevič, David, ‘Revel’. Gel’zingfors’, ders., Putevye zametki (Kiev 1856), S. 1–28, hier S. 21f. Svin’in, Pavel P., ‘I moja poezdka v Revel’ 1827 goda’, Otečestvennye Zapiski 1828, č. 33, No. 93, S. 3–43; No. 94, S. 339–379; No. 95, S. 534–562.
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dem der Schweizer oder Griechen verglichen; das estnische Epos „Kalevipoeg“ wurde in der russischen Kritik sofort mit der Ilias gleichgesetzt. So vergaß der Estlandreisende der Zeit niemals, etwa beim Anblick der stürmischen Ostsee, seine Leser davon zu überzeugen, er sei dabei von wahren „ossianischen“ Gefühlen überwältigt worden.9 Damals wurde ein im russischen Kontext zu betrachtender baltischer „Sehnsuchtsraum“ konstruiert, eine russische Variante von Europa, die ja noch in der Sowjetzeit unter der Chiffre „naš zapad“ populär war. Dabei unterlag es keinem Zweifel, dass Reval und Riga einen genuinen Teil Russlands darstellten. Schon Bestužev schrieb von der baltischen Regionalgeschichte ja als wertvolle Bereicherung der eigenen russischen Chroniken. Noch gab es zur Zeit Nikolajs II. aber keinen Ansatzpunkt für eine ethnopolitisch motivierte Sicht auf die Region, die sich erst nach der Jahrhundertmitte entwickeln sollte. Nach Paul Buskovitch war der russische Oberschichtendiskurs von einem „kosmoplitischen Monarchismus“ geprägt. Faddej Bulgarin, wortgewaltiger Redakteur der re gierungsnahen Zeitung „Nördliche Biene“ und seit 1828 Gutsbesitzer in der Nähe von Dorpat, kann als bekanntestes Beispiel einer durchaus auch sozialkritischen essayistischen Annäherung an baltische Besonderheiten dienen, der aber die Betonung der stabilen sozialen Ordnung in der Region Herzenssache war. So war Bulgarin durchaus in der Lage, in ein und demselben Text die Deutschbalten dafür zu kritisieren, dass sie es immer noch nicht für notwendig erachteten, wenigstens ein bisschen die Sprache ihres geliebten Zaren zu erlernen, und zugleich letzteren in den höchsten Tönen dafür zu loben, dass Deutsch als Sprache der Wissenschaft Sprache der Universität Dorpat blieb.10 Trotzdem lässt sich anhand der zahlreichen Reisebeschreibungen der 1820er– 1850er Jahre, wie auch mit Hilfe der ersten Reiseführer über Reval eine Tendenz ablesen, die Stadt in gewisser Weise „russländischer“ zu machen. Während bei Bestužev noch vor allem das Fremde, das Europäische, Deutsche im Mittelpunkt stand, kommen im Laufe der Zeit immer mehr Details in den Blick des russischen Reisenden, die mit der eigenen Geschichte oder Gegenwart zu tun hatten: Hier wurde Reval zu einem baltischen Erinnerungsort für Peter den Großen und die Dynastie der Romanovs. In dieser Perspektive wurde das Fremde, für manche auch: das Unangenehme an der mittelalterlichen Revaler Altstadt – die viel zu engen Straßen, die merkwürdigen Gerüche, die spitztürmigen gotischen Kirchen – durch zwei „eigene“ Elemente überlagert. Zum einen durch die in den entsprechenden Texten betonte Topographie der Toten in den Kirchen der Stadt. So hatten in Reval, „inmitten des Russischen Landes“, wie ein Reiseführer erklärte, die sterblichen Überreste zweier Feldherren ihre letzte Ruhe gefunden, deren Einfluss auf das militärische Schicksal Russlands gewaltig gewesen sei: „De la Gardie, der [Narva] im Sturm den Russen entriss, und de Croÿ, der sich den 9 10
Grundlegend hierzu Isakov 1962. Bulgarin, Faddej V., ‘Progulka po Livonii’, ders., Sočinenija, t. 3 (Sanktpeterburg, 1836), S. 293–511.
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Schweden ergab.“11 Mehr noch als diese historische Koinzidenz war es aber der Umstand, dass der Leichnam des russischen Kommandierenden bei der Schlacht um Narva 1700, Feldmarschall Charles Eugène de Croÿ (1651–1702), auch nach mehr als einem Jahrhundert immer noch vollständig erhalten und seit 1818 zur Besichtigung in der St. Nikolaikirche freigegeben worden war. Bald war die mumifizierte Leiche derartig abgegriffen, wie Mackevič berichtete, dass man nur noch mit „Entsetzen“ dabei zusehen konnte, wie der Kirchendiener zur Freude der Besucher die Leiche entblößte und an ihr herumstieß.12 Trotzdem war De Croÿ zu einer leibhaftigen Legende geworden, zu einer Revaler Reliquie. „Jeder Fremde“, so schrieb noch Werner Bergengruen in seinem „Tod von Reval“, der nach Reval kommt, und all dem „Schaubesitz“ der Nikolaikirche, darunter der berühmte „Totentanz“, „keinen Blick“ schenke – „den seligen Herzog läßt er nicht unbesucht“.13 Dies galt auch für die russischen Besucher der Zeit, die meist mehr Platz in ihren Berichten dem abenteuerlichen Lebensweg des Herzogs sowie den phantastischen Umständen der geheimnisvollen Konservierung seiner Leiche widmeten als der Darstellung der übrigen Sehenswürdigkeiten der Stadt.14 De Croÿ galt zudem als Vertrauter Peters I., sodass diese schillernde Figur, deren kostspieliger Lebenswandel als schwedischer Kriegsgefangener in Reval dazu geführt hatte, dass nach seinem überraschenden Tod seine Schuldner und die Stadt ihm kein standesgemäßes, d. h. kostspieliges Begräbnis gewähren wollten, zu einer Art Ikone des frühen Tourismus in Reval werden konnte. Erst zur Regierungszeit Alexanders II. wurde dem Herzog schließlich doch noch ein Begräbnis zuteil.15 Peter I. wurde zum wichtigsten Bezugspunkt für den russischen Touristen zurzeit Nikolajs I. Seinetwegen wurde auch der Besuch etwa des Schwarzenhäupterhauses in der Altstadt zum notwendigen Bestandteil eines jeden Revalbesuchs, hatte sich der Zar doch seinerzeit eigenhändig in das Gästebuch der Bruderschaft eingetragen.16 Schon Bestužev hatte sich 11 12 13 14
15
16
Džunkovskij, S. S., Poezdka v Revel’ i Gel’singfors v 1839 godu. S primečanijami dlja poseščajuščich ėti goroda i s istoričeskim obozreniem drevnostej Revelja (Sanktpeterburg 1840), S. 83. Mackevič 1856, S. 13–15, hier S. 15. Bergengruen, Werner, Der Tod von Reval. Kuriose Geschichten aus einer alten Stadt (München 1979), S. 37. Deršau, Fedor K., ‘Revel’’, Literaturnaja Gazeta 1843, Nr. 27 (11.7.1843), S. 515–520, hier S. 517; Bekker, Vil’gel’m I., Poezdka v Ostzejskie gubernii (Moskva 1852), S. 19–21; S[amojlov], N., Gapsal’ drevnij razrušennyj zamok v Ėstljandii i pro onom togož imeni uezdnyj gorod, gde pol’zujutsja morskimi vannami, s vidom zamka (Sanktpeterburg 1842), S. 3; Slučevskij, Konstantin K., Po Severu Rossii. T. III, Baltijskaja storona. Putešestvija ich Imperatorskich Vysočestv Velikogo Knjazja Vladimira Aleksandroviča i Velikoj Knjagini Marii Pavlovny v 1886 i 1887 gg. S kartoju puti (S-Peterburg, 1888), S. 5; Miljukov, Aleksandr, ‘Poezdka v Revel’ i Gel’singfors v 1849 g.’, Otečestvennye zapiski 11 (1849), t. 67, Nr. 12, otd. I., S. 201–238, hier S. 213–216. ‘Sobor sv. Nikolaja v Revele’, Illjustrirovannyj Semejnyj Listok 3 (1861), Bd. IV, S. 154f.; Semenov, Petr P. (ed.), Živopisnaja Rossija. Otečestvo naše v ego zemel’nom, istoričeskom, plemennom, ėkonomičeskom i bytovom značenii, T. 2, č. 2, Severozapadnye okrainy Rossii. Pribaltijskij kraj (Sanktpeterburg, Moskva, 1883), S. 222. Deršau 1843, S. 518; Džunkovskij 1840, S. 71f.; Miljukov 1849, S. 208.
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gerühmte, aus demselben Pokal wie Peter getrunken zu haben,17 und Aleksandr Miljukov bewunderte 1847 den großen Saal, dessen Wände im Verlauf der letzten vier Jahrhunderte vom Zigarrenrauch „aller europäischen Nationen“ geschwärzt worden seien.18 Dass die Schwarzenhäupter schon lange nicht mehr ihrer Aufgabe, die Stadt zu verteidigen, nachkommen mussten, dass Katharina II. ihrem Ältermann den Titel eines Hauptmanns verliehen hatte, dass sich die Tätigkeit der Bruderschaft im 19. Jahrhundert vor allem im Bereich der Wohltätigkeit niederschlug und sie bei Besuchen gekrönter Häupter die Ehrenwache stellen durften, all dies bewies zugleich die Integration dieser alten Revaler Institution in die Repräsentation des Imperiums und der Dynastie. Ohne dass dies in der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts explizit erwähnt werden musste, stellten die Schwarzenhäupter somit in mancher Hinsicht einen Beleg dafür da, wie weit die viel beschworene „Verschmelzung“ der Ostseeprovinzen mit dem Reich gehen konnte.19 Unter den zahlreichen russischen Erinnerungsorten Revals, die mit dem Namen Peters verbunden waren, nahm Schloss Katharinental (Ekaterinental’; Kadriorg) den wichtigsten Platz ein: Schließlich war es die „gewandte Hand“ des Zaren, die den Park zu einem der „reizendsten der Welt“ gemacht hatte.20 Katharinental war das sichtbarste und eindruckvollste Symbol des Machtwechsels, dem der russische Tourist des 19. Jahrhunderts seine Reverenz erwies. Die Verbindung mit St. Petersburg, die in diesem Bau angelegt ist, geht über die sichtbare architektonische Parallele hinaus. Der Kulturhistoriker Georgij P. Prošin hat auf die intime Verbindung aufmerksam gemacht, die zwischen zwei nach Katarina I. benannten Schlossanlagen besteht: dem Revaler Katharinental und dem Schloss Katharinenhof südwestlich Petersburgs. Beide Anlagen sind nicht sehr groß, außerhalb der eigentlichen Stadt gelegen und öffnen sich zum Meer hin; außerdem bildeten sie gleichsam die Eckpunkte der Straße, die beide Städte miteinander verband. Mit Recht wies Prošin zudem auf die Symbolik der Anlage hin, die im Kontext der Machtstrukturen im alten Reval gelesen werden müsse: Während die bürgerliche Macht sowie die der Gilden horizontal auf den Plätzen der Unterstadt und die ritterliche Herrschaft vertikal auf dem Domberg eingenistet gewesen sei, platzierte der Zar die imperiale Macht „ein wenig zur Seite, aber nahebei“. 21 Mit Sicherheit verwies der Bau, der bereits vor dem Frieden von Nystadt begonnen worden war, nicht nur auf die Bedeutung Revals in der 17 18 19
20 21
Bestuzhew 1992, S. 103. Miljukov 1849, S. 208. Zum Thema „Russifizierung“ siehe Weeks, Theodore R., ‘Russification: Word and Practice 1863–1914’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 148 (2004), S. 471–489. Zum Baltikum vgl. Brüggemann, Karsten, ‘Wie der Revaler Domberg zum Moskauer Kreml wurde: Zur lokalen Repräsentation imperialer Herrschaft im späten Zarenreich’, Jörg Baberowski, David Feest, Christoph Gumb (eds.), Imperiale Herrschaft in der Provinz. Repräsentationen politischer Macht im späten Zarenreich (Frankfurt/M., 2008, = Eigene und Fremde Welten, 11), S. 172–195. Eine der ersten Beschreibungen bei Svin’in, I moja poezdka, S. 546–550 (Zitat S. 547). Prošin, Georgij P., ‘Ot Ekateringofa do Ekaterintalja’, Sergej Docenko (ed.), “Tallinskij tekst” v russkoj kul’ture. Sbornik v čest’ prof. I.Z. Belobrovcevoj – k 60-letiju so dnja roždenija (Tallinn 2006, = Baltijskij archiv. Russkaja kul’tura v Pribaltike, 11), S. 67–77, hier S. 43f.; Svin’in 1828, S. 5–11, 537f., 546; Džunkovskij 1840, S. 43.
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strategischen Ausweitung des Reichs nach Westen, an die Ostsee, sondern sollte zugleich das Imperium in all seinem Glanz und seiner Pracht der kargen Bürgerund Ritterwelt der alten Hansestadt gegenüberstellen.
Used by permission of Estonian History Museum.
Die russischen Reisenden des 19. Jahrhunderts wussten diesen Ort dementsprechend zu schätzen. Einer stellte fest, dass die ganze Parkanlage als „Denkmal“ des großen Reformers für jeden Russen „entzückend“ sei, 22 andere wiesen mit besonderem Nachdruck darauf hin, dass Peter eigenhändig drei Backsteine in die Schlossmauer eingesetzt hatte, welche unverputzt geblieben seien und an den Zaren erinnerten.23 Hinzu kam noch eine weitere „Reliquie der Stadt“:24 das von Peter I. bis 1723 während seiner Aufenthalte bewohnte und bis heute erhaltene Häuschen im Park, sodass das seeseitig gelegene Areal Katharinental zu einer Art Freiluftmuseum für den Flotten-Zaren und damit auch als Erinnerungsort für die Begründung der russischen Herrschaft in den Ostseeprovinzen etabliert wurde. Neben dieser in den Texten zu verfolgenden Verengung der historischen Perspektive auf das „russische“ Reval gab es eine weitere Sehenswürdigkeit 22 23 24
Deršau 1843, S. 518f. Svin’in 1828, S. 548; Deršau 1843, S. 518f.; Semenov 1883, S. 223. Carskie dni v Revele. 23–26 ijulja 1902 g. (Revel’ 1903), S. 1.
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imperialen Rangs in der näheren Umgebung Revals, die jedoch auf die Repräsentation des gegenwärtigen Reichs zielte: Schloss Fall, das Anwesen des Geheimdienstchefs Graf Benckendorff, errichtet 1833 im neugotischen Stil an einem Wasserfall.25 Vor allem aber der sich entlang des Flusses Keila zur Ostsee erstreckende Park zog die Besucher an. Hatte der Sibirier Bekker in Katharinental noch „südliche“ Vegetation vermisst, sah er sich hier, auf einem der „schönsten Güter Europas“, in dieser „Pracht im Norden Russlands“, in das „klassische Italien“ versetzt.26 Tatsächlich gab es neben den einheimischen Bäumen wie Eiche, Linde und Ahorn auch einige exotische Exemplare, die besondere Aussichtspunkte markierten oder im speziell für sie eingerichteten Treibhäusern gediehen, wie Palmen, Orangenbäume und Wein – später kamen auch noch japanische Bäume von den Kurilen hinzu.27 So kombinierte Fall ganz im Sinne der Romantik lokale, „nationale“ Vegetation mit einer gewissen Exotik – der Exotik des Reiches insgesamt.28 Dieser Park an der Ostsee diente der Repräsentation der vielfältigen Natur des Imperiums und versinnbildlichte ihre Beherrschung. Zudem symbolisierte er in der Person Benckendorffs wie kein anderes Objekt der Region den bereits erwähnten „cosmopolitan monarchism“ der Ära Nikolajs I.29 Man geht somit nicht fehl, Fall als einen imperialen Wallfahrtsort inmitten der deutschen Ostseeprovinzen Russlands zu bezeichnen. Darauf verwiesen die Superlative, die in den Beschreibungen Falls immer zu finden sind.30 Für russische Touristen wurde Fall zu einem „must see“, vergleichbar etwa mit dem Brunnen von Bachčisaray auf der Krim.31 So entschied ein anonymer Autor noch zu Beginn der 1850er Jahre, während eines Aufenthalts in Reval nicht nach Fall zu fahren, sei wie ein Besuch Roms, ohne den Papst zu sehen.32 Fall evozierte in den Augen 25
26 27 28 29
30
31 32
Winkler, Friedrich, ‘Die Parkanlage zu Schloß Fall in Estland’, Zeitschrift für bildende Gartenkunst 4 (1893), S. 167–171; Umanec, S. I., ‘Zamok Fall’ pod Revelem’, ders. Vospominanija o knjaze S.V. Šachovskom i baltijskie očerki (S.-Peterburg, 1899), S. 73–93; Hein, Ants, ‘Aed ja aeg. Piirjooni eesti aiakunsti vanemast ajaloost’, Olev Abner, Silja Konsa, Kersti Lootus, Urve Sinijärv (eds.), Eesti pargid, kd. 1 (Tallinn, 2007), S. 15–87, hier S. 77, siehe auch ebenda, S. 167–173. Bekker 1852, S. 33f. Winkler 1893, S. 168–170. Lichačev, Dmitrij S., Poėzija sadov. K semantike sadovo-parkovych stilej. Sad kak tekst (S.-Peterburg, 1991), S. 213, 264, 294. Bushkovitch, Paul, ‘What Is Russia? Russian National Identity and the State, 1500–1917’, Andreas Kappeler, Zenon Kohut, Frank Sysyn, Mark von Hagen (eds.), Culture, Nation and Identity: The Ukrainian-Russian Encounter (1600–1945) (Edmonton, Toronto, 2003), S. 144–161, hier S. 154. Der Poet Fedor I. Tjutčev (1803–1873), der 1843 bei Benckendorff gastierte, schrieb seiner Frau begeistert, selbst in den malerischsten Ländern müsse man Fall schön finden. Zit. n. Ponomareva, Galina, ‘Tjutčev i Revel’’, Ljubov’ Kiseleva (ed.), Puškinskie čtenija v Tartu 3. Materialy meždunarodnoj naučnoj konferencii, posvjaščennoj 220-letiju V. A. Žukovskogo i 200-letiju F. I. Tjutčeva (Tartu, 2004), S. 406–416. Zu Bachčisaray siehe Jobst, Kerstin S., Die Perle des Imperiums. Der russische KrimDiskurs im Zarenreich (Konstanz, 2007, = Historische Kulturwissenschaft, 11); Winkler 1893, S. 168. ‘Poezdka v Fal’’, Moda, žurnal dlja svetskich ljudej 1851, No. 19, S. 147, hier zit. n. Isakov, Sergej G., ‘Russkij kul’turnyj očag «na revel’skich vodach»’, ders., Očerki russkoj kul’tury v Ėstonii (Tallinn 2005), S. 98–123, hier S. 100. Ähnlich noch zu Beginn der 1880er Jahre Semenov 1883, S. 275.
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der Betrachter explizite Vergleiche mit den „exotischen“ Perlen Russlands wie der Krim oder dem Kaukasus und konnte bei dieser Gegenüberstellung durchaus mithalten.33 Dieser Überschwang angesichts eines dem Besucher offen stehenden Privatgrundstücks im äußersten Westen des Reichs muss im kulturellen Kontext gesehen werden. Natürlich war es schon aus Zensurgründen unmöglich, Benckendorff auch nur indirekt zu kritisieren. Aber die Begeisterung über dessen Anwesen war nicht nur eine devote Geste gegenüber dem allmächtigen Leiter der III. Abteilung, denn von Schloss Fall waren auch ausländische Besucher fasziniert.34 Wenn Katharinental im Kontext des „imperial travel“ die glorreiche Vergangenheit verkörperte und einen Erinnerungsort für Peter I. und die Eroberung der Ostseeküste darstellte, war Fall ein gegenwartsbezogenes Symbol für die Herrschaft der Dynastie unter Nikolaj I. Die symbolischen Handlungen der Herrscher markierten aber auch einen signifikanten Unterschied im Umgang mit der Ostseeregion: Hatte Peter in Katharinental „nördlich“ konnotierte Kastanien gepflanzt, setzten Nikolaj und seine Kinder in Fall „russische“ Birken.35 In gewisser Weise trat Fall in ein vergleichbares symbolisches Verhältnis zur Natur der Ostseeprovinzen wie die ideale Barockhauptstadt St. Petersburg zu den mittelalterlich verwinkelten Altstädten der Hansehäfen. Während sich letztere mehr oder weniger einem Einbezug in die Repräsentation der Dynastie entzogen, bot Fall gleich in mehrfacher Hinsicht das ideale Imperium en miniature. Es war „schön“ und „harmonisch“ dank der ordnenden Hand seines Besitzers, der wiederum einer der höchsten Repräsentanten der Macht war. Der Garten stellte sodann aufgrund der vielfältigen, ausgesuchten Vegetation gleichsam eine Metapher für das Reich insgesamt dar. Schließlich war Fall dank der Spuren, die Nikolaj I. und seine Familie hinterlassen hatten, ein Erinnerungsort der Dynastie, der gekrönt wurde durch einen gusseisernen „gothischen Tempel“, der 1833 aus Anlass der Anwesenheit des Zaren errichtet worden war.36 In der Folge vergaß keiner der schreibenden Besucher der Anlage, diesen, wie es hieß, für das Herz jedes Russen emotional nahen Ort zu preisen. Auch der einfache Tourist konnte sich in Fall der Gunst und Gnade des Zaren versichern. Somit traf Fall den Geschmack der Zeit und ließ die touristische Reise nach Reval – im Gegensatz zur Fahrt in die „klassischen“ europäischen Kurorte – gleichsam zu einer patriotischen Aktion werden. Während Puškin vor dem Überschreiten der symbolischen Grenze zwischen Europa und Asien im Kaukasus noch zurückschreckte,37 machten Orte wie Fall die Ostseeprovinzen 33 34 35 36 37
ŠČ., M., ‘Poezdka v Fal’ (Otryvok iz pis’ma k redaktoru)’ Odesskij vestnik, 24.7.1837, Nr. 59, hier zit. n. Isakov 1962, S. 150; Winkler 1893, S. 167. Rigby–Eastlake, Elizabeth, A Residence on the Shores of the Baltic. Described in a Series of Letters in Two Volumes (London, 1841), Vol. 2, S. 142–158; Winkler 1893, S. 167, zu Sonntag S. 169. Džunkovskij 1840, S. 51f.; Ponomareva 2004. Winkler 1893, S. 170; Džunkovskij 1840, S. 56f. Lichačev, Poėzija sadov, S. 224 Vgl. hierzu Jahn, Hubertus F. ‘‘Us‘: Russians on Russianess’, Simon Franklin, Emma Widdis (eds.), National Identity in Russian Culture. An Introduction (Cambridge, 2004), S. 53–73, hier S. 53–56.
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zu einem imperial-russischen Ort, dessen „Fremdheit“, dessen „Europa-Sein“ durch die Repräsentation der Dynastie und ihrer Vergangenheit in europäischer Form gleichsam aufgehoben wurde. Russland war in diesem Sinne integraler Bestandteil Europas, was nirgends deutlicher wurde als an der Ostseeküste. Noch spielte es bei der russischen Betrachtung der Region keine wesentliche Rolle, ob diese integrative Funktion der Region zugleich auch „russisch“ im ethnischen Sinn konnotiert war. Benckendorffs Position gewährleistete Loyalität, die er symbolisch in seinem Park für die ganze Region ableistete: Direkt gegenüber dem Schloss auf der anderen Seite des Flusses hatte er zudem eine orthodoxe Kirche errichten lassen.38 In Fall setzte sich somit auch die deutschbaltisch-russische Symbiose der Ära Nikolajs I. ein eigenes Denkmal.
38
Winkler 1893, S. 168.
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Der Beginn der Neuzeit in der Geschichte Lettlands: zu Problemen des Dialogs mit der Vergangenheit in der lettischen Historiographie Valda Kļava
Jeder Historiker führt bei der Forschung einen Dialog mit der Vergangenheit und stellt an die Vergangenheit aktuelle Fragen seiner Zeit. Dadurch veranschaulicht er die Einstellung seiner Zivilisation und seiner Generation zum Gegenstand der Forschung. Auf diese Weise wird die Vorstellung von der Zugehörigkeit konkreter historischer Ereignisse zu schon bekannten und in der Geschichtswissenschaft akzeptierten Prozessen definiert und damit die Struktur der geschichtlichen Perspektive geformt.1 In der gegenwärtigen lettischen Geschichtsschreibung treten unverkennbar Schwierigkeiten in der Frage der Abgrenzung der Epochen von Mittelalter und Neuzeit und beim Definieren der Schwelle zur Neuzeit in der Geschichte Lettlands auf. Die Erkenntnisse über das vor allem auf der politischen Ebene bis zum Ende des livländischen Staatensystems erstarrten Mittelalters führen zu den Vorstellungen von einem Entwicklungsweg der Geschichte Lettlands (bzw. Livlands), der sich von dem europäischen Weg unterschied. Somit wird die Epochengrenze mit dem politischen Wandel seit 1561 gleichgesetzt. 2 Bestenfalls wird versucht, bei der Auslegung der historischen Ereignisse eine Grenze um 1500 ‘mechanisch’ zu setzen, um sich an das europäische Vorbild anzupassen und die Geschichte Lettlands der gesamteuropäischen Geschichte näher zu bringen, ohne die Konzeption von den prinzipiellen Besonderheiten der historischen Entwicklung Lettlands in dieser Zeitperiode aufzugeben.3 Die erwähnten Fragestellungen4 könnten prinzipiell als eine Äußerung in
1 2 3 4
Vgl. Arnold Esch, Zeitalter und Menschenalter. Historiker und die Erfahrung vergangener Gegenwart (München, 1994), S. 9–38. Arnolds Spekke, Edgars Dunsdorfs, Latvijas vēsture 1500–1600[Geschichte Lettlands 1500–1600] (Stockholm, 1964), S. 16. Indriķis Šterns, Latvijas vēsture 1290–1500 [Geschichte Lettlands 1290–1500] (Rīga, 1997), S. 11. Die Werke von Arnolds Spekke, Edgars Dunsdorfs und Indriķis Šterns als die umfangreichsten gesamtgeschichtlichen Darstellungen in der mittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Geschichte Lettlands üben einen grossen Einfluss auf die lettische Geschichtswissenschaft.
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der Diskussion über die Relativität der Periodisierung der Geschichte5 angesehen werden, wenn nicht die Idee über eine besondere, die allgemeinen Zusammenhänge der Geschichte überwiegende Eigenartigkeit der lokalen Geschichte vorherrschte. Solchermaßen ist der Dualismus bei der Bestimmung des Beginns der Neuzeit in der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung zu beobachten: Europa im Allgemeinen und Lettland im Einzelnen werden getrennt verstanden.6 Diese widerspruchsvolle Interpretation aktualisiert die Frage nach der Universalität der Zusammenhänge der Entwicklung in einem historischen Raum oder sogar über die Grenzen dieses Raumes (Europa im 15.–16. Jh.). Die Vorstellung von der Dominanz der lokalen Besonderheiten wirkt auf das Gesamtbild der Neuzeit und auch auf das Gesamtbild des Mittelalaters und bleibt im Geschichtsbewusstsein haften. Wo sind die Gründe für diese eigenartige Situation zu suchen? Die Antwort ist in der Spezifik der verhältnismässig kurzen und komplizierten Entwicklung der lettischen Historiographiezu finden.7 Die wichtigsten sind drei Faktoren, die hier weiter erörtert werden.
Unter dem Einfluss nationaler Ideale (die Zwischenkriegszeit) Der erste Faktor liegt in den besonderen Entwicklungsbedingungen der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung zur Zeit ihrer Entstehung am Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts und der anfänglichen Formierung in der Zwischenkriegsperiode. Damals wurden die Grundkonzeptionen ausgearbeitet, die das ganze Jahrhundert die Deutungen der Geschichte Lettlands sehr stark beeinflussten (die Ursachen der lang andauernden Lebensfähigkeit dieser Erscheinung werden im Artikel weiter behandelt). Die erwähnte Besonderheit der Verhältnisse bedeutete, dass die in den ersten Jahrzehnten des 20. Jahrhunderts entstandenen Interpretationen der Geschichte Lettlands (bzw. gleichzeitig auch die des Ostseeraumes), 5
6
7
Vgl. Hans E. Bödeker, Ernst Hinrichs, ‘Alteuropa – Frühe Neuzeit – Moderne Welt? Perspektiven der Forschung’, Hans E. Bödeker, Ernst Hinrichs (Hg.), Alteuropa – Ancien Regime – Frühe Neuzeit. Probleme und Methoden der Forschung (Stuttgart, 1991), S. 11–50; Joachim Heinzle, ‘Einleitung; Modernes Mittelalter’, Joachim Heinzle (Hg.), Modernes Mittelalter. Neue Bilder einer populären Epoche (Frankfurt/M, Leipzig, 1999), S. 9–29; Rudolf Vierhaus,Frühe Neuzeit – Frühe Moderne? Forschungen zur Vielschichtigkeit von Übergangsprozessen(Göttingen, 1992), S. 13–25. Dem Stand in der Geschichtsschreibung folgend, muß der Autor des neuerschienenen Hilfsmittels in der Geschichte in seinem Kommentar zur Periodisierung mit Vorsicht feststellen: „Weil in verschiedenen Regionen Europas wesentliche Unterschiede [der historischen Entwicklung] existierten, sind bei der Betrachtung der Geschichte einzelner Länder (z.B.Lettlands), wesentliche Abweichungen von diesen [allgemeingültigen für die europäische Geschichte] chronologischen Grenzen möglich” (Juris Goldmanis, Latvijas un pasaules vēsture. Notikumi, jēdzieni, personības [Weltgeschichte und die Geschichte Lettlands. Ereignisse, Begriffe, Persönlichkeiten] (Rīga, 2007), S.90. Ilgvars Misāns, ‘Geschichtswissenschaft in Lettland nach 1990. Zwischen Tradition und Neuorientierung’, Österreichische Osthefte 44 (2002), S.179–193, hier: S. 187.
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die in die Historiographie von den Wissenschaftlern eingeführt und im Geschichtsbewusstsein des Durchschnittsletten verwurzelt wurden, als eine Reaktion auf die Vormachtstellung der Deutschbalten anzusehen ist. Die lettischen Historiker der zwanziger, dreißiger Jahre des vergangenen Jahrhunderts sahen ihre Hauptaufgabe in der Ausarbeitung eines national geprägten Geschichtsbildes, um das von dem nationalen Erwachen hervorgerufene und durch die Gründung des Nationalstaates gesteigerte Selbstbewusstsein des Volkes in der Wissenschaft und im Bildungswesen zu verkörpern und zugleich um sich der von deutschbaltischen Historikern vertretenen Auffassung der Geschichte Lettlands entgegenzusetzen.8 Da die Atmosphäre äusserst zugespitzt war und politisch und national motivierte Interpretationen außerordentlich an Bedeutung gewannen, ist es kein Wunder, dass es oft zu extremen und dogmatischen Anschauungen führte. Das Prinzip, die Geschichte Lettlands nach besonderen lokalen, national und politisch gefärbten Kriterien zu gliedern, wurde schon von der deutschbaltischen Geschichtsschreibung eingeführt. Die deutschbaltische Historiographie zielte darauf, den Zeitraum, in dem in Livland eine von äußeren Kräften uneingeschränkte und über die einheimische Landesbevölkerung dominierende deutsche Macht existierte, als grundlegend bei der Bestimmung der geschichtlichen Perioden anzusehen. Ausgehend von dieser Konzeption wurde die Epochenwende mit dem Ende der „Periode der Selbstständigkeit Livlands”,9 d.h. mit der Auflösung des livländischen Staatensystems in der Mitte des 16. Jahrhunderts gleichgesetzt.10 Diese Konzeption, die aus dem Geschichtsbewusstsein der Deutschbalten über ihre besondere Rolle in der Geschichte Lettlands stammte,11 zog ihre Bedeutung aus der Übereinstimmmung mit dem aus der hegelianischen Deutung des Staates entwickelten, im 19. Jahrhundert populären Konzept der entscheidenden Einwirkung der politischen Faktoren auf den geschichtlichen Prozess.12 Als 1918 nach der Gründung des unabhängigen lettischen Staates die Entwicklung der nationalen Geschichtsschreibung begann, sahen die Historiker ihre Hauptaufgabe in der Ausarbeitung einer neuen, äußerst national gezielten Konzeption der Geschichte Lettlands. Das Ziel dieser Konzeption war, den 8
9 10
11 12
Ebd. S. 186–188; Ilgvars Misāns, ‘Gute Zeiten? Schlechte Zeiten? Die „Schwedenzeiten” in der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung’, Florian Anton, Leonid Luks (Hg.), Deutschland, Russland und das Baltikum. Beiträge zu einer Geschichte wechselvoller Beziehungen. Festschrift zum 85. Geburtstag von Peter Krupnikow (Köln, Weimar, Wien, 2005), S. 67–85, hier: S. 68, 71. Leonid Arbusow (Sen.), Grundriss der Geschichte Liv-, Est- und Kurlands (Riga, 1908), S. 13. Auch die deutschbaltische Historiographie der Nachkriegszeit hält fest am ‘Epochenjahr’ 1561 (Heinz von zur Mühlen, ‘Livland von der Christianisierung bis zum Ende seiner Selbstständigkeit (etwa 1180–1561)’, Gert von Pistohkors (Hg.), Deutsche Geschichte im Osten Europas. Baltische Länder (Berlin, 1994), S. 173.). Vgl. Arveds Švābe, ‘Latviešu vēstures uzdevumi [Die Aufgaben der lettischen Geschichte]’, Straumes un avoti 2 (1963), S. 5–112, hier: S. 67. Reinhard Blänkner, „Absolutismus”und ‘frühmoderner Staat”. Probleme und Perspektiven der Forschung, Frühe Neuzeit – Frühe Moderne? (Göttingen, 1992), S. 48–74, hier: S. 51.
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deutschbaltischen Auffassungen entgegenzuwirken und das lettische Volk ins Zentrum des Geschichtsbildes zu stellen.13 In Bezug auf die Interpretation der Epochengrenze zwischen dem Mittelalter und der Neuzeit bedeutete dies, dass die bisher bekannte Gliederung der Geschichte, nach der die Perioden an die Stufe und Form der deutschen Herrschaft im Baltikum angebunden waren, jetzt bekämpft wurde. Dabei stieß die junge lettische Geschichtsschreibung aber auf Schwierigkeiten, die nicht ohne Einfluss auf die erwünschten Ergebnisse bleiben konnten, und zwar: a) sie konnte nicht den Forschungsergebnissen der deutschbaltischen Historiographie und der von ihr aufgebauten Quellenbasis entgehen;14 b) das lettische Volk, in dessen Interessen nun das Geschichtsbild ausgearbeitet werden sollte, war in der behandelten Zeitspanne (Mittelalter und Neuzeit) von den führenden Positionen und Strukturen der Gesellschaft fast völlig ausgeschlossen15, c) unter den Wissenschaftlern, die sich in Lettland mit der Geschichte zu beschäftigen begannen, gab es nur einige fachgebildete Historiker.16 In dieser Situation war das massgebende Argument bei der Ausarbeitung einer neuen Konzeption die damals aktualisierte Verfechtung der nationalen Interessen. Besonders markant wurde die in der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung der zwanziger und dreißiger Jahre vorherrschende Stimmung von Arveds Švābe ausgedrückt. „Die deutschen Historiker des Baltikums schrieben nicht die Geschichte der Letten und der Esten, sondern die Geschichte eigener Kolonien in Lettland und in Estland, wodurch ihre Geschichtsschreibung die historischen Ereignisse mehr den Aktualitäten ihrer Ideologie als denen der Geschichte untergeordnet hat”,17 beschuldigt er die deutschbaltische Historiographie. Švābe kritisiert die von den deutschbaltischen Historikern ausgearbeitete Periodisierung der Geschichte Lettlands: „die von der deutschen Historiographie bevorzugte These von der grossen Mission der Deutschen im Osten gilt nicht weiter als Prinzip der Periodisierung der Geschichte. Aber von diesem Standpunkt aus wurden die Ereignisse der Geschichte Lettlands systematisiert und die Erscheinungen der lettischen politischen, Glaubens-, Literatur, Rechts- und sogar Sprachgeschichte betrachtet. So teilte A. von Richter (1857–59) die baltische Geschichte in 3 Perioden ein: 1) die Zeit vor dem Eindringen der Deutschen; 13
14
15 16 17
Vgl. Misāns 2005 S. 68; Teodors Zeids, Latviešu vēstures zinātnes attīstība [Die Entwicklung der lettischen Geschichtswissenschaft] (Rīga, 1939), S. 3–6; Gert von Pistohlkors, ‘Die Deutschen in der Geschichte der baltischen Länder Estland und Lettland’, Gert von Pistohlkors (Hg.), Deutsche Geschichte im Osten Europas. Baltische Länder (Berlin, 1994), S. 13–24, hier: S. 20–23. Nach Quellen, die das lettische Volk widerspiegeln und als eine Alternative zum deutschbaltischen Geschichtsbild dienen können, wurde absichtlich gesucht: vgl. Arnolds Spekke, Latvieši un Livonija 16. gs. [Letten und Livland im 16. Jh.] (Rīga, 1990). Wiederholte Ausgabe von 1935. Das lettische Volk kommt in den Quellen der behandelten Zeitperiode vergleichend wenig und thematisch beschränkt vor. Der Mangel an Fachhistorikern galt als Ergebnis der von Deutschbalten eingeführten und verteidigten und vom russischen Zarismus unterstūtzten Wissenschafts- und Bildungspolitik (Zeids 1939 S. 3–4). Arveds Švābe, Latvijas tiesību vēsture [Die lettische Rechtsgeschichte] (Rīga, 1935), S. 13.
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2) die Zeit der rein germanischen Entwicklung; 3) das Baltikum als Provinz fremder Staaten. L.Arbusow Sen. (1907) erkannte nur die Zweiteilung an: 1) die Periode der Selbstständigkeit Livlands und 2) Livland und Estland als Provinzen der Nachbarstaaten. Ihn interessierte weder die Geschichte der Letten vor der deutschen Zeit noch das historische Schicksal des lettischen Volkes innerhalb der beiden genannten Zeitperioden. Aus seiner Darstellung ist nicht zu ersehen, dass auch Letten und Esten im Baltikum gelebt haben. Ins Zentrum ist das Zeitalter gestellt, als Lettland und Estland eine Provinz Deutschlands war. Das sei das goldene Zeitalter Livlands gewesen, dem die Barbarisierung der deutschen Kultur in polnischen, schwedischen und russischen Zeiten folgte”.18 Als Antwort auf diese Kritik schlägt Švābe seine Variante der Periodisierung vor: „Für die Letten waren die Deutschen ein ebenso fremdes Volk wie andere ihre Nachbarn, und die Zeitperiode der sog. livländischen Selbstständigkeit war die Zeit gleicher politischer Abhängigkeit wie alle weiteren Zeiten bis zur Entstehung des lettischen Nationalstaates. Aus der lettischen Sicht sollte die Periodisierung der Geschichte des lettischen Volkes nach anderen Prinzipien erfolgen, indem die alten Zeiten der Selbständigkeit des lettischen Volkes (bis zum Eindringen der Deutschen am Anfang des 13.Jhs) und die Neuzeit (seit 18.11.1918) voneinander abgegrenzt werden. “Für uns war das ‘dunkle Mittelalter’ die 700 Jahre lange Zeit der Abhängigkeit, die wir entsprechend in deutsche (...), polnische (...), schwedische (...) und russische (...) Zeiten einteilen”.19 In der von Švābe konzipierten Stellungnahme ist eine kämpferische Position zu erkennen – die Interessen des Volkes werden als entscheidendes Argument genutzt, ohne nach tieferen Begründungen wissenschaftlichen Charakters zu suchen. Trotz seiner gegen die Deutschbalten gerichteten Kritik, benutzt Švābe in seiner Periodisierung praktisch dieselben Kriterien, welche von deutschbaltischen Historikern verwendet wurden. Diese von A.Švābe konzipierte Einteilung der Geschichte Lettlands war sehr populär unter den national gesinnten Historikern.20 Eine anschauliche Widerspiegelung fand diese Einteilung in den Schulbüchern (bzw. im Unterrichtsprogramm) der Zwischenkriegszeit, wodurch sie eine direkte und tiefe Einwirkung auf das Geschichtsbewusstsein des Volkes auzusüben imstande war. In den von den Historikern F.Zālītis21 und P.Dreimanis,22 vom Schriftsteller A.Grīns23 und vom schon erwähnten Rechtshistoriker A.Švābe24 verfassten
18 19 20 21 22 23 24
Ebd. S. 14. Ebd. S. 14–15. Vgl. Ilgvars Butulis, ‚Auswirkungen der autoritären Ideologie von Kārlis Ulmanis auf die lettische Geschichtsschreibung’, Mati Laur, Karsten Brüggemann (Hg.), Forschungen zur baltischen Geschichte 2 (2007), S. 149–158. Frīdis Zālītis, Latvijas vēsture vidusskolām [Geschichte Lettlands fürMittelschulen] (Rīga, 1937). Wiederholte Ausgabe 1991. Pēteris Dreimanis, Latvijas vēsture vidusskolām. [Geschcihte Lettlands für Mittelschulen.] (Rīga, 1937). Aleksandrs Grīns, Latvijas vēsture pamatskolām, sastādīts pēc 1935. gada programmas[Geschichte Lettlands für Grundschulen, nach dem Programm des Jahres 1935 verfasst] (Rīga, 1939). Arveds Švābe Latvijas vēsture, 1. daļa [Geschichte Lettlands, Teil 1] (Rīga, 1990). Wiederholte Ausgabe von: Rīga, 1925.
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Schulbüchern25 wurden die geschichtlichen Zeitperioden Mittelalter und Neuzeit in ihrer begrifflichen Bedeutung und der inneren strukturellen Einheit entweder von national gefärbten Akzenten in den Schatten gestellt oder gar nicht erwähnt. Die inhaltliche Strukturierung der Schulbücher folgte genau dem von A.Švābe dargelegten Schema und teilte die Geschichte in drei Perioden ein: 1) die Ur- oder Vorgeschichte, 2) die Zeitperiode des unabhängigen Lettlands, 3) der Zeitraum zwischen den beiden Zeitperioden, der in deutsche, polnische, schwedische und russische Zeiten26 eingeteilt wurde. Charakteristisch neben den genannten eigenartigen Prinzipien der Periodisierung scheinen auch die Bemühungen der Verfasser, die Begriffe ‘Urgeschichte’ oder ‘Vorgeschichte’ und ihre nähere Einteilung zu erklären,27 während gleichzeitig für den Zeitraum vom 13. bis zum 20. Jahrhundert solche Versuche fehlen. Die strukturellen Unterschiede zwischen dem Mittelalter und der Neuzeit scheinen für die Autoren der Schulbücher unwichtig zu sein. Die Epochengrenze bleibt verschwommen. Außerhalb des Kreises der national gesinnten Historiker der zwanziger und dreißiger Jahre sind auch anders ausgerichtete Ansichten in den Fragen der Periodisierung zu finden. Der in Lettland lebende russische Historiker deutscher Herkunft Robert Vipper hielt es in seinen Werken verallgemeinernden Charakters immer für nötig, auf die Prinzipien der Einteilung der Geschichte hinzuweisen und sie ausführlich zu erklären.28 In den von ihm verfassten Schulbüchern kennzeichnet R.Vipper die zweite Hälfte des 15. Jahrhunderts und den Anfang des 16. Jahrhunderts als die Übergangszeit vom Mittelalter zur Neuzeit.29 Als R.Vipper in den Einführungen zu beiden Bänden seiner Gesamtdarstellung ‘Geschichte der Neuzeit’ die Aufmerksamkeit des Lesers auf die Schwierigkeiten lenkte, mit denen der Forscher konfrontiert wird, wenn er die Epochenwende festsetzen und datieren will, und damit das Problem des Beginnes des neuen Europa aktualisierte,30 erweckten seine Theorien das Interesse anderer Historiker des damaligen Lettlands.31 Leider wurde diese von R.Vipper vorgeschlagene Diskussion über die Epochenwende vom Mittelalter zur Neuzeit auf keinerlei Weise auf die Geschichte Lettlands projiziert. Für den Verfasser, der sich mit der allgemeinen Geschichte beschäftigte, blieb aber die Thematik der Geschichte 25 26 27 28
29 30 31
Der Mangel an fachlich gebildeten Historikern im neugegründeten Staat (vgl. Anm. 16) beeinflusste wesentlich den Bestand der Schulbuchautoren (Teodors Zeids, ‘Priekšvārds’ [Vorwort], Arveds Švābe, Latvijas vēsture, 1.daļa, S. 3.–19. Eingehender über die in der lettischen Geschichtssliteratur vorhandenen Nuansen in der Charakteristik der fremden Herrschaft in Lettland: Misāns 2005. Dreimanis 1937 S. 3–5; Švābe 1990 S. 20–23. Roberts Vipers, Jauno laiku vēsture, 1. daļa: Atradumu, reformācijas un reliģisko karu laikmets [Geschichte der Neuzeit, 1. Teil: Das Zeitalter der Erfindungen, der Reformation und der Glaubenskriege], (Rīga, 1930); 2. daļa: Absolūtās monarhijas un triju lielo revolūciju laikmets (1640–1795) [2. Teil: Das Zeitalter der absoluten Monarchie und der drei großen Revolutionen (1640–1795)] (Rīga, 1937). Roberts Vipers, Vispārējā vēsture, II daļa: Viduslaiki [Allgemeine Geschichte, II Teil: Mittelalter] (Rīga, 1926); Роберт Виппер, Учебник истории. Новое время [Schulbuch der Geschichte. Neuzeit] (Riga, 1928), S. 5, 7. Vipers 1930 S. 9–10; Vipers 1937 S. 1. Marģeris Stepermanis, ‘Recenzija.: R.Vipers, Jauno laiku vēsture [Rezension: R.Wipper, Geschichte der Neuzeit]’, Latvijas Vēstures Institūta Žurnāls 1 (1938), S. 144–146.
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Lettlands ziemlich fremd. Unter solchen Verhältnissen entwickelte sich die Forschung und Deutung der Geschichte Lettlands und der gesamteuropäischen Geschichte gewissermaßen parallel. Zusammenfassend kann man feststellen, dass die am Anfang der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung herrschende Orientierung an nationalen und nationalpolitischen Werten, die dank der spezifischen Kriterien der Periodisierung und Charakteristik der geschichtlichen Epochen in den Vordergrund gestellt wurden, in Bezug auf die Geschichte Lettlands zum Verlust des Interesses für den Beginn der Neuzeit als den Bestandteil einer strukturierten Deutung der Perioden der Geschichte führte. Allgemeine Zusammenhänge, die den Charakter der Epochen der europäischen Geschichte bilden, wurden in den Hintergrund gestellt und die Interessen des lettischen Volkes ins Zentrum gerückt. Das stimulierte die Ausgrenzung der lettischen Geschichte aus der gesamteuropāischen und eröffnete den Weg zu einer gewissermaßen ‘’amputierten’ Historie’.32
Druck der Politisierung (die zweite Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts) Die Neigung zur national ausgerichteten Geschichte, die in der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung der zwanziger und dreissiger Jahre zu beobachten ist, ist nicht nur als Äußerung der lokalen politischen Aktualitäten zu verstehen, sondern auch als Ausdruck der in der gesamten europäischen Historiographie der Zwischenkriegszeit herrschenden allgemeinen Tendenz. Die Besonderheit der Entwicklung der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung liegt aber darin, dass sie eine lange Zeit nicht im Stande war, diese mononationale Betrachtungsweise zu überwinden. Wenn man nach weiteren Faktoren sucht, unter deren Einwirkung die spezifische Stellungnahme der gegenwärtigen lettischen Geschichtsschreibung zu Beginn der Neuzeit entstanden ist, findet man einen Faktor in den Verhältnissen, unter denen wesentliche Elemente der in der Zwischenkriegszeit ausgearbeiteten Interpretationen der Geschichte Lettlands für fast die ganze zweite Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts erhalten blieben. Als nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg die lettische Geschichtsschreibung sich in zwei Zweige teilte (im Exil und im sowjetischen Lettland), die sich unter prinzipiell unterschiedlichen Bedingungen weiter entwickelten, verlor die national tendierte Betrachtungsweise nicht an ihrer Bedeutung und übte nach wie vor ihren Einfluss aufdie Prinzipien der Periodisierung der Geschichte Lettlands aus. Die lettischen Historiker, die sich nach dem Krieg im Westen niedergelassen haben, sahen ihre Mission im Aufrechterhalten der Ideale des unabhängigen Lettlands. In deren Wissenschaft äußerte sich das als Fortsetzung der Forschungstraditionen der zwanziger und dreißiger Jahre, als im Zentrum die Betonung der Interessen und der Rolle des lettischen Volkes lag. Die 32
Indrek Kiverik, Rezension: Ralph Tuchtenhagen. Geschichte der baltischen Länder, Mati Laur, Karsten Brüggemann (Hg.), Forschungen zur baltischen Geschichte 3 (2008), S. 255–261, hier S. 256.
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Exilhistoriker verloren den Kontakt zu der Heimat, die sich jenseits des ‘eisernen Vorhangs’ befand, zu den Archiven und zu neuesten Forschungsaktivitäten der in Lettland wirkenden Historiker. Dadurch waren sie gezwungen, ihre Theorien auf einer begrenzten materiellen Grundlage zu entwickeln. Andererseits lernten sie die neuesten Entwicklungsrichtungen in der westlichenHistoriographie kennen, und das waren Voraussetzungen für die Modernisierung der Interpretationen. Die größten Autoritäten unter den lettischen Historikern im Exil – Arnolds Spekke und Edgars Dunsdorfs – haben große Bemühungen darangesetzt, um die Interpretationen der Geschichte Lettlands den innovativsten historiographischen Tendenzen näher zu bringen. Dennoch waren sie nicht bereit, die frühere Tradition der national geprägten Betrachtungsweise und ihre Folgen völlig aufzugeben. A. Spekke versuchte in seiner „Geschichte Lettlands”33 mit Hilfe der Akzentuierung allgemeiner, besonders aussenpolitischer Prozesse der lettischen Geschichte eine europäische Dimension beizumessen. Seine im Rahmen der damaligen lettischen Geschichtsschreibung revolutionäre Ansicht über das 16. Jahrhundert als die Zeit, in der „wir an der Schwelle zu modernen Zeiten stehen”,34 wollte er jedoch, abgesehen vom Thema der Spannungen zwischen den Großmächten im Ostseeraum, nicht eingehender entwickeln und weder chronologisch noch begrifflich präzisieren. Ähnlich deutete Edgars Dunsdorfs in der gemeinsam mit A. Spekke verfassten ‘Geschichte Lettlands’35 auf den Zusammenhang zwischen den allgemeinen politischen Prozessen des 16. Jahrhunderts in Europa „in moderner umgestalteter Welt” und auf die daraus folgende Hoffnungslosigkeit Livlands. Er blieb doch der Meinung, dass Alt-Livland seiner Struktur und seinem Wesen nach der mittelalterlichen Welt angehörte.36 Etwa 20 Jahre später in der Einleitung zum Schulbuch der Geschichte Lettlands schreibt E. Dunsdorfs: „[..] seit in der Geschichte Lettlands das Mittelalter angefangen hat, das man ebenso wie im übrigen Europa bis zur Mitte des 15.Jhs zählen kann. Weiter beginnt die Neuzeit”.37 Dennoch wird der Inhalt des Buches von ihm nach anderen Prinzipien geordnet, und zwar: 1) die Urgeschichte, 2) der Übergang zu historischen Zeiten, 3) das geteilte Lettland, 4) Lettland unter dem russischen Joch, 5) das 20. Jahrhundert. Durch diese Einteilung, die eine Variante des schon bekannten Prinzips darstellte, wurden die Grenze zwischen Mittelalter und Neuzeit und die strukturellen Unterschiede beider Epochen wieder verwischt. In derselben Zeit fokusiert der aus den damaligen politischen Aktualitäten entstandene Akzent auf die gegen die russische Herrschaft gerichtete Kritik die Beibehaltung der national motivierten Interpretationen. Nach wie vor wurde die Geschichte Lettlands als Geschichte des lettischen Volkes verstanden. Andererseits muss man betonen, 33 34 35 36 37
Arnolds Spekke, Latvijas vēsture. Latvjutautas likteņcīņas Eiropas krustceļos [Geschcihte Lettlands. Die Schicksaalkämpfe des lettischen Volkes an den Wegscheiden Europas] (Rīga, 2003). Wiederholte Ausgabe von: Stockholm, 1948. Ebd. S. 169. Spekke, Dunsdorfs 1964. Ebd. S. 16–17. Edgars Dunsdorfs, Latvijas vēsture skolai un pašmācībai [Geschichte Lettlands für Schule und Selbstunterricht] (Lincoln, 1980), S. 5.
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dass es in Werken von E. Dunsdorfs und A. Spekke wenigstens Versuche gibt, die lettische Geschichte der europäischen Geschichte nahezustellen. Wie die Strukturierung und der Inhalt des geschichtlichen Materials zeigt, blieb in Wirklichkeit das Objekt der Darstellung – die Geschichte Lettlands – von grundlegenden gesamteuropäischen Prozessen getrennt, obwohl man theoretisch die Ūbereinstimmung zwischen den beiden zu erreichen suchte. Neben den von E. Dunsdorfs und A. Spekke vertretenen Neuerungen hielten sich die meisten der Exilhistoriker an die Traditionen der Geschichtsschreibung der Zwischenkriegszeit.38 Im sowjetischen Lettland, wo die Geschichtswissenschaft unter den Druck der marxistischen Dogmatik gelangte und jede Forschungsaktivität in den engen Rahmen der Theorie der gesellschaftlich-ökonomischen Formationen ‘eingeklemmt’ wurde, wurde die Frage von einer Zeitenwende am Ende des 15. und am Anfang des 16. Jahrhunderts gar nicht gestellt und über den eventuell frühneuzeitlichen Charakter des 16. Jahrhunderts nicht polemisiert. Der Zeitabschnitt vom Anfang des 16. Jahrhunderts bis in die Mitte des 17. Jahrhunderts galt als das späte Mittelalter.39 Daraus folgte automatisch die Erkenntnis über die Zugehörigkeit der historischen Ereignisse des 16. Jahrhunderts zum Mittelalter. Aber „ähnlich wie in der lettischen Historiographie der zwanziger und dreißiger Jahre und der des Exils setzte man auch in Sowjetlettland nach 1940/1945 nach wie vor die Geschichte Lettlands praktisch mit der Geschichte des lettischen Volkes gleich”.40 Die Interessen des Volkes als Kriterium bei der Einschätzung der historischen Ereignisse blieben aktuell, in diesem Fall aber nicht mehr im Kontext des historischen Weges zum unabhängigen Nationalstaat, sondern im Kontext der marxistischen Dogmatik als Bestandteil derTheorie des Klassenkampfes. Als Hauptgegenstand der mittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Geschichte Lettlands galt die Darstellung der Unterdrückung des lettischen Volkes unter der Macht der ausländischen Ausbeuter und die Schilderung des Widerstandes der Letten gegen die deutschen, polnischen und schwedischen Feudalherren als Beispiel des Klassenkampfes im Feudalismus und am Anfang des Kapitalismus. Dabei wurden alle in die historischen Ereignisse im Baltikum verwickelten Nationen in den Schatten der außerordentlich positiven historischen Rolle Russlands und der Russen in der Geschichte Lettlands gestellt.41 Solchermaßen begünstigte das marxistische Konzept die Beibehaltung der verwischten Grenze zwischen dem Mittelalter und der Neuzeit und des nationalen Akzents in der Charakteristik des Zeitalters. In den in Sowjetlettland verfassten Werken allgemeinen Charakters folgen den dem „Frühen” und „Entwickelten Feudalismus” gewidmeten Kapiteln 38
39 40 41
Vgl. Y.B. Agnis Balodis, Latvijas un latviešu tautas vēsture [Geschichte Lettlands und des lettischen Volkes] (Rīga, 1991). Lettische Ausgabe von: Agnis Balodis, Lettlands och det lettiska folkets historia (Stockholm, 1990); Pēteris Dreimanis, Latvju tautas vēsture [Geschichte des lettischen Volkes] (Kopenhagen, 1957);Alberts Ozols, Latvijas vēsture,I daļa: Līdz 1914. gadam [Geschichte Lettlands, I Teil: Bis zum Jahre 1914], (Lincoln, 1979). S.D. Skazkins, Viduslaiku vēsture, I [Geschichte des Mittelalters, I] (Rīga, 1971). Misāns 2005 S. 80–81. Vgl. Ebd.S. 81.
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Darstellungen, die nach der nationalen Zugehörigkeit der herrschenden Macht thematisiert sind.42 Dadurch gab es auch in der Interpretation der marxistischen Geschichtsschreibung kein Interesse an der Artikulation des strukturellen Wandels zur Neuzeit im 16. Jahrhundert. Zum Glück können wir heute diese ideologisierten Theorien vergessen, dennoch muss der Anteil der marxistischen Historiographie an der spezifischen Interpretation der lettischen Geschichte, wo der Anfang der Neuzeit verwischt ist, von uns berücksichtigt werden. Man kann konstatieren, dass die stark politisierten Verhältnisse der Entwicklung der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung in der zweiten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts die Beibehaltung der mononationalen Sichtweise beim Betrachten und Einschätzen der historischen Prozessen in Lettland begünstigten. Wenn auch die Voraussetzungen zu dieser Tendenz ebenso wie auch die Interpretation der Rolle des Volkes auf jeder Seite des ‘eisernen Vorhangs’ grundsätzlich unterschiedlich waren, wollten im Grossen und Ganzen sowohl die Exilhistoriker als auch die Sowjetmarxisten in Lettland die Gesellschaft als ein Ganzes nicht darstellen und verstehen. Immer rückte die Darstellung der Lage und der Interessen der lettischen Landbevölkerung die allgemeinen Zusammenhänge der historischen Entwicklung in den Hintergrund. Im Ergebnis dieser Sachlage wurden die Probleme der inneren Kontinuität und der strukturgebenden Elemente der Epoche von den Forschern vernachlässigt oder von anderen Prioritäten erzetzt.
Last der Traditionen und fachliche Probleme (seit 1991) Der dritte Faktor ist in der Lage der Geschichtsforschung im gegenwärtigen Lettland zu suchen. Die Anzahl der Forscher, die sich heutzutage in Lettland mit der Frühen Neuzeit beschäftigen, ist außerst gering, ihre Bemühungen sind auf die Erforschung einzelner, isolierter Themen gerichtet.43 Es mangelt an neuen Werken und modernen Fragestellungen.44 Es gibt nur eine tröstliche Ausnahme: die seit der Mitte der neunziger Jahre begonnene, im Rahmen der Zusammenarbeit mit der Mainzer Universität entwickelte Erforschung des Herzogtums Kurland und Semigallen ist zur Erörterung nicht nur faktologischer, sondern auch theoretischer Probleme angelegt. Die Analyse der Verwaltungsform und der Wirtschaft des Herzogtums im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert hat die Aufmerksamkeit der Forscher auf die Elemente des frühmodernen Staates und der frühkapitalistischen Wirtschaft gelenkt und damit den Grund für eine 42
43 44
Jānis Zutis (Hg.), Latvijas PSR vēsture, 1.sēj. [Geschichte der Lettischen SSR, Bd. 1] (Rīga, 1953); Янис Зутис (Hg.), История Латвийской ССР, т. 1 [Geschichte der Lettischen SSR, Bd. 1] (Riga, 1952); Aleksandrs Drīzulis (Hg.), Latvijas PSR vēsture. No vissenākajiem laikiem līdz mūsu dienām, 1. sēj. [Geschichte der Lettischen SSR. Von der Urzeit bis zur Gegenwart, Bd.1] (Rīga, 1986). Vgl Gvido Straube, ‘Zu den Institutionen der historischen Forschung in Lettland’, Mati Laur, Karsten Brüggemann (Hg.), Forschungen zur baltischen Geschichte 2 (2007), S. 203–207, hier: S. 204–205. Die Schlussfolgerung von I. Misāns über den Stand in der Erforschung der Periode der schwedischen Herrschaft in Lettland ist in vollem Maße auf die meissten Themen der Frühen Neuzeit zu beziehen (Misāns 2005 S. 67).
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innovative Einstellung zur frühneuzeitlichen Geschichte Lettlands geschaffen.45 Die erste Hälfte des 16.Jahrunderts bleibt aber bis heute wie eine ‘graue Zone’ im Schatten anderer Prioritäten. Einige Untersuchungen in der Geschichte der livländischen Hansestädte in der 1.Hälfte des 16.Jahrhunderts haben zur Feststellung einiger symptomatischer, für die Frühe Neuzeit charakteristischer Erscheinungen geführt.46 Dennoch sind sich bisher die meissten Historiker der Aktualität einer Diskussion über die Periodisierung der Geschichte Lettlands nicht bewusst.47 Man muss auch bemerken, dass am Anfang der neunziger Jahre nach der Wiederherstellung der staatlichen Unabhängigkeit viele der Autoren der zwanziger und dreißiger Jahre und die von Exilhistorikern verfassten Werke erneut herausgegeben wurden, die nicht nur die vom Marxismus geschaffene thematische und konzeptuelle Einseitigkeit auszugleichen halfen, sondern leider auch zur Wahrung und zum Aktualisieren veralteter Ansichten beitrugen.48 Die verwickelte Lage in der Erforschung des Beginnes der Neuzeit in der Geschichte Lettlands mit ihrer inhaltlichen Ungenauigkeit und widersprüchlichen Interpretationen wird auch in den seit 1991 verfassten Schulbbüchern reflektiert. Da kann man das ganze Spektrum von Problemen, die die Deutung des Beginnes der Neuzeit anbetrifft, in ihrer Vielseitigkeit leicht erkennen. Auf Grund der Stellung der Autoren zur der hier betrachteten Zeitenwende können die Schulbücher in eine breite Amplitude geordnet werden. An einem Ende stehen diejenige, in denen die Geschichte Lettlands als eine Reihe von chronologisch geordneten Ereignissen vorgestellt wird, ohne auf die historischen Epochen und deren Wende zu verweisen. Zu dieser Gruppe gehören vorwiegend die Lehrbücher, die am Anfang der neunziger Jahre unter starkem Einfluss der wieder zugänglich und aus politischer Sicht aktuell gewordenen Literatur der Zwischenkriegszeit und Exils verfasst wurden.49 Am anderen Ende stehen die Schulbücher, die am Ende der neunziger und in den letzten Jahren verfasst worden sind und deren Autoren den allgemeingültigen Prinzipien der 45
46 47
48 49
Vgl. Erwin Oberländer (Hg.), Das Herzogtum Kurland, 1561–1795. Verfassung, Wirtschaft, Gesellschaft, Bd. 2(Lüneburg, 2001); Ervins Oberlenders, ‘Kurzemes hercogiste Eiropas vēstures kontekstā – pētījumu perspektīvas [Das Herzogtum Kurland in der europäischen Geschichte – Perspektiven der Forschung]’, Acta Historica Vindavensia I (2001), S. 19–26. Vgl. Z.B. Ilgvars Misāns, ‘Integration durch den Handel: die Einheit des Ostseeraumes zur Hansezeit’, Saeculum. Jahrbuchfūr Universalgeschichte 56/II (2005), S. 227–239, hier: S. 238. Eingehender über aktuelle Fragen in der Erforschung des Anfangs der Frühen Neuzeit in der Geschichte Lettlands: Valda Kļava, ‘Vai nepieciešama diskusija par 16. gadsimtu Latvijas vēsturē? [Braucht man eine Diskussion über das 16. Jahrhundert in der Geschichte Lettlands?’, Latvijas Vēsture. Jaunie un jaunākie laiki, 3/63 (2006), S. 88–94. Švābe 1990 (1925); Balodis 1991 (1990); Zālītis 1991 (1937); Spekke 1995 (1935) u.a. Vgl. Indulis Ķeniņš, Latvijas vēsture. Mācību grāmata vispārizglītojošām skolām [Geschichte Lettlands. Lehrbuch fūr allgemeinbildende Schulen] (Rīga, 1992); Odisejs Kostanda (Hg.), Latvijas vēsture skolas vecuma bērniem [Geschichte Lettlands für Schulkinder] (Rīga, 1993); Ivars Baumerts u.a., Latvijas vēstures pamatjautājumi [Grundfragen der Geschichte Lettlands] (Rīga, 1998); Gunārs Kurlovičs, Andris Tomašūns, Latvijas vēsture vidusskolai, I [Geschichte Lettlands für Mittelschule, I] (Rīga, 1999).
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Periodisierung der europäischen Geschichte folgen.50 Dennoch spürt man wegen der geschilderten Sachlage in der wissenschaftlichen Forschung beim Projizieren des lettischen Materials auf die in der europäischen Geschichte adaptierten Epochengrenzen oft gewisse Schwierigkeiten (z.B. in der Terminologie, beim Synchronisieren der Ereignisse nach ihrem epochalen Charakter, bei der Charakteristik der Modernisierungstendenzen). Anschaulich wird diese komplizierte Situation von einem erfahrenen Schulbuchautor in der Einführung zu seinem neuesten Werk charakterisiert: „In vielen der Geschichte Lettlands gewidmeten Werken ist in die Periode des Mittelalters auch das 16. Jahrhundert eingeordnet. Der Autor ist jedoch der Meinung, dass man in der Chronologie mit anderen Ländern und Völkern Europas, die den Beginn der Neuzeit mit dem 16. Jahrhundert datieren, übereinstimmen muss.51 Unter diesen Umständen muss man feststellen, dass die lettische Geschichtsschreibung in der Erforschung der Wende vom Mittelalter zur Neuzeit in der Geschichte Lettlands ihre ersten Schritte macht, besonders wenn die Aufmerksamkeit auf das 16. Jahrhundert und dessen erste Hälfte gelenkt wird. Die Deutung und Datierung des Beginnes der Frühen Neuzeit bleibt verwischt, die Einwirkung der Zusammenhänge der Epochenwende auf die Ereignisse der lettischen Geschichte – unklar. Im Grossen und Ganzen sind die politischen Formen der Organisation der Gesellschaft massgebend geblieben und dienen immer noch als ‘Meilensteine’ bei der Charakteristik der Entwicklungsphasen der mittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Geschichte Lettlands.
Schlussfolgerungen Die in diesem Artikel kurz skizzierten Zusammenhänge der Entwicklung der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung von ihren Anfängen bis auf unsere Tage weisen auf politisierte, ethnische, organisatorische und mentale Gründe hin, die die Interpretation des Zeitraumes in der Geschichte Lettlands, der in der allgemeinen europäischen Geschichte als Beginn der Neuzeit verstanden wird, wesentlich komplizieren. Besonders problematisch scheint in diesem Zusammenhang die erste Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts, die lange Zeit traditionell als Bestandteil des Mittelalters verstanden wurde.Von der Periode der Formung der lettischen Historiographie ist die Tendenzzur gewissen Abtrennung der Geschichte Lettlands von den gesamteuropäischen Zusammenhängen der Entwicklung geerbt, die bis auf den heutigen Tag nicht in vollem Maße bewältigt ist. Die Wirkung des genannten Problems geht weit über den engen Kreis der 50
51
Vgl. Vilnis Purēns, Latvijas vēsture. Skolotāju grāmata [Geschichte Lettlands. Lehrbegleitband] (Rīga, 1998); Ilgvars Butulis u.a., Pasaules vēsture vidusskolai, II [Weltgeschichte für Mittelschule II] (Rīga, 2001); Sarmīte Goldmane u.a., Vēsture pamatskolai. Jaunie laiki [Geschichte für Grundschule. Neuzeit] (Rīga, 2003); Indulis Ķeniņš, Latvija gadsimtu lokos, II d.:Viduslaiki 13.–15. gs. [Lettland in Jahrhunderten, T. II: Mittelalter 13.–15. Jh.] (Rīga, 2005); Vilnis Purēns, Latvijas vēsture pamatskolai, 2.daļa [Geschichte Lettlands für Grundschule, Teil 2] (Rīga, 2007); Valdis Klišāns, Vēsture vidusskolai. Skolotāju grāmata [Geschichte für Mittelschule. Lehrbegleitband] (Rīga, 2008). Ķeniņš 2005 S. 5.
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Fachhistoriker und die wissenschaftlichen Fragestellungen hinaus. Die jahrzehntenlange Neigung zur Abtrennung der Geschichte Lettlands hat das Geschichtsbewusstsein des Volkes tief beeinflusst: die Stereotypen wurden verankert, die Romantisierung der Vergangenheit gefördert, nationalpolitische Werte anstatt allgemeiner Gesetzmäßigkeiten in den Vordergrund gestellt. Gleichzeitig wird mit dieser vorgefassten Interpretation der lettischen Geschichte auch das Bild des Beginns der Neuzeit im Ostseeraum und in Europa in seiner Gesamtheit deformiert. Zur Zeit gibt es keine begründete Aussicht für eine Umwertung der von der Tradition des 20. Jahrhunderts geerbten Konzeptionen, weil die meisten Ereignisse der Geschichte Lettlands im 16. Jahrhundert (wie viele der Frühen Neuzeit im allgemeinen) nicht mit Hilfe moderner Methoden und innovativer Fragestellungen von lettischen Historikern erforscht und die Ergebnisse der neuesten westlichen Forschungen, die die Geschichte Lettlands im 16. Jahrhundert anbelangen, in der lettischen Geschichtsschreibung nicht allumfassend adaptiert sind. Ungelöste Probleme von Organisation und Finanzierung der Forschungstätigkeit im gegenwärtigen Lettland hemmen die Verbesserung der Lage zusätzlich. Man kann die Bestrebungen zur Abschaffung der Absonderung der lettischen Geschichte und zugleich den Mangel an ausreichenden theoretischen Ausarbeitungen feststellen. Die Erforschung und das Konzipieren des Beginnes der Neuzeit in der Geschichte Lettlands bleibt offen. Das hier erörterte Problem gilt als der Aussdruck der „Rechenschaft”, die das lettische Volk mit Hilfe der Geschichte „über seine Vergangenheit”52 zu geben versucht.
52
Die berühmte Definition von Johan Huizinga zit. nach: Vierhaus 1992 S.13.
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The Face of the Enemy? The Image of the GDR in the Danish Media Thomas Wegener Friis, Marius Hansen, Jesper C. M. Henriksen, Jesper Thestrup Henriksen, Frank Jensen, Rune E. H. Smidt
”The best part of the Harz is in East Germany”, wrote the social democrat daily Aktuelt in 1975. It informed the readers that “hotel standards are the same as anywhere else in Europe”, “food is pretty much like in West Germany and there is a lot of specialties” and “shops are well equipped”.1 Overall, a nice place to take the family for the summer holidays. No word about the police state, the suppression or other gloomy subjects. Comparing the praise from 1975 – the high of the so-called détente – with the image of the former East German state drawn by today’s historians, one might think that it is not the same country being portrayed. The GDR image after the fall of the Berlin Wall has been dominated by stories of the dreaded Stasi (the Ministry of State Security – MfS) and dictatorship. It is a story about distress and longing for Western values and material standards. If people had told this story in the days of the détente or even during colder times of the Cold War, they would most likely have been labelled “cold warriors”. A third image of the GDR was the official version from the East German propaganda apparatus. The communist party SED2 was extremely active within what today would be labelled “public diplomacy”. The aim for the East German communists was to present the Western public with a positive and flattering image of how it was possible to make socialism work in a modern industrial state. The methods and content of the propaganda, which Scandinavians were confronted with, has in the last decade been described in various historical works.3 1 2 3
’Den bedste del af Harzen ligger i Østtyskland’. Aktuelt. 1975. p. 6. Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschland: The Socialist Unity Party of Germany. See for instance: Linderoth Andreas, Kampen för erkännande. DDR:s utrikespolitik gentemot Sverige 1949–1972 (Lund, 2002). Muschik Alexander M, Die beiden deutschen Staaten und das neutrale Schweden. Ein Dreiecksbeziehung im Schatten der offenen Deutschlandfrage 1949–1972 (Greifswald, 2005). Abraham Nils, Die politische Auslandsarbeit der DDR in Schweden. Zur Public Diplomacy der DDR gegenüber Schweden nach der diplomatischen Anerkennung (1972–1989) (Greifswald, 2006). Almgreen Birgitta, Inte bara Stasi. Relationer Sverige–DDR 1949–1990 (Stockholm, 2009). For a historiographical overview of the relations between the GDR and the Nordic Countries see: Friis Thomas Wegener, ‘Forskning i forholdet DDR–Norden’, Andreas Linderoth and Thomas Wegener Friis (eds.), DDR & Norden (Odense, 2005), pp. 9–22.
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Overall, the aim was to achieve an image, which described the GDR as: • • • •
a state of peace (supporting the argument that socialism equals peace) an antifascist state, which unlike West Germany, had learned from its dark past a successful industrial nation with a modern social system as a state of sophisticated culture and a world leader in sports
This bundle of arguments would ultimately – at least in the minds of the SED propagandists – lead to a positive stance towards, not only East Germany, but also the general concept of “real existing socialism”. The public diplomacy therefore was not only an effort to generate goodwill for the East German state abroad, but also a first step in paving the way for a communist revolution or transition process, also in the Nordic countries. How theory was supposed to become reality, the GDR’s chief propagandist Manfred Feist, leader of the SED’s central committee’s Department for Foreign Information, expressed at a conference for East German ambassadors in Berlin in 1986. In his speech, he concluded: First of all: Our general political line as confirmed by the party conference – to do everything for the people, for the happiness of the people, for a life in peace – constantly wins us more friends. It forces politicians of different orientation to respect us. And it objectively strengthens the shining political light of the GDR and it strengthens its political weight. Yes, it creates constantly stronger, positive influence on all people, even those who do not approve of our political system – yes, sometimes even anticommunists. They must however recognize that we are capable of great deeds and that we persistently promote peace. Second: Let us face it. The GDR has created something which our friends acknowledge, and which even our enemies cannot overlook. It is no longer possible to deny our dynamic and cultural development, our success within economy, social welfare and culture, and in such areas as education, healthcare, sports, and a number of other areas. That is why our significance in the ideological class struggle is ever growing. It gives us a new and better position to once and for all tell the broad masses the truth about the GDR and the real existing socialism. Third: It gets increasingly obvious that imperialism has become a barrier for general progress, and that the development within science and industry has deepened the contradictions within capitalism. This leads to mass unemployment and social cuts, which hurts the broad masses. It shows the rotten character of
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the crumbling capitalism. This makes it even more promising for us in our ideological mission to reveal the misanthropic core of imperialism.4 The propaganda activities had two faces. On the one hand, the GDR sought to flood the Nordic public with positive information about the socialist society in the GDR. This was done in a variety of ways, through brochures partly in Nordic languages, through films and art, through political tourism, or through direct contact and persuasion of the journalists, teachers, writers or other socalled “multiplicators”. To these goals, the GDR used a large number of different institutions from unions and party organizations to friendship societies. On the other hand, the GDR tried strictly to control the information flow, and it took measures against the alleged opponents of the communist regime. The attempts to restrict information and fight alternative ideas were to a large extent the job of the party and the state security. How the GDR and partly other communist states wanted to influence the Danish public and maybe even Danish politics, was one of the questions in the government white book on Denmark during the Cold War, from 2005. The white book described the above-mentioned apparatus, and concluded:
The socialist countries did not succeed in achieving any real change in central questions, neither in Danish politics nor in the general political attitude. This includes primarily big questions like the membership of NATO and the EEC. The socialist countries also only had limited success in creating a positive image of their own political system.5
However, the author of the white book’s conclusion actually failed to look into the actual image in the Danish public or even in the media. Furthermore, it primarily focused on foreign policy decisions, which were well out of range of Eastern European propaganda – even by their own most optimistic standards. About the general image of the socialist countries, the conclusion seemed based on gut feeling instead of empiric study. This article tries to follow the development of the image of the GDR in three national newspapers of different political orientation (social democratic, liberal, and conservative) from the mid 1950s to the late 1980s. The analysis looks on the overall development of the image and the general tendency in different phases of the Cold War. Thereafter it looks into three specific areas: • • •
The GDR government and legitimacy The GDR as the home of espionage and Stasi The GDR as a successful industrial nation
4
SAPMO–Barch: DY30/Vorl. SED/40672: ”Aktuelle Fragen der Auslandsinformation der DDR. Referat: Mitglied desZK der SED und Leiter der Abteilung Auslandsinformation des ZK der SED, gen. Manfred Feist”. 25.4.1986. pp. 11–12. Danmark under den Kolde Krig. Bd. 4 (København, 2005), p. 62.
5
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The choice of these areas is based on their specific importance, either in the propaganda of the Cold War or in the historical debate after the Cold War. Dealing with these areas it is of importance, not only how the image changed, it is also of relevance how the GDR image corresponds with our current knowledge of the SED-dictatorship. The subtitle of the opening article from 1975 is worth noticing, it states: “The GDR offers tourists more than this – and it is not at all difficult to get into East Germany”. From today’s perspective, one might not have focused on how easy it was for Westerners to travel into the German Democratic Republic, but how difficult it was for the GDR citizens to leave the proclaimed “workers and peasants paradise”. Rosy articles like this one must have pleased East German party officials. However, seen from a modern historical viewpoint, even much less, must have been considered a success for the East German public diplomacy. The overall question must therefore be: Was it possible to draw attention away from dictatorship and police state and instead make the GDR appear like an almost normal country?
The General Picture The survey of the GDR in the Danish newspaper–media revealed some general tendencies in how the press operated during the Cold War. The number of articles in the Danish media was notably higher in the first half of the Cold War than in the second half. The largest amount – in both quantity and size – of articles was in 1955, whereas 1975, the year of the Helsinki conference, marked an all time low. This result suggests that the sheer amount of media coverage had only little to do with the GDR’s foreign policy. When articles concerning East Germany peaked in 1955, it was a time when the GDR had still only limited space to manoeuvre. This year the Soviet Union gave the GDR government their official sovereignty back, still, the fate of the country was in the hands of the politburo in Moscow and their ever-changing policy on Germany. Furthermore, the GDR was denied recognition by the Western world. Thus, the country had almost no foreign policy initiatives or activities. In the years to come, 1956–1958, the GDR formulated a policy towards the neighbouring Nordic countries and initiated its campaign for a formal diplomatic recognition.6 However, this work did not bear fruit until 1972/73. After the German–German Grundlagenvertrag, the Nordic countries followed suit and formally accepted the East German partition. Back in 1955, the GDR had hardly formulated any policy towards Denmark, or any means to pursue one, or to engage in propaganda. Why did such a large number of articles mention East Germany at this early time? The answer lies in the different categories of the articles. For many years, the predominant type of media interest towards East Germany was in connection with international politics. Germany’s role as playground for the superpowers in the Cold War of the 6
Scholz Michael F‚’Die Nordeuropa-Politik der DDR (bis 1963)’, Robert Bohn, Jürgen Elvert, Karl Kristian Lammers (eds.), Deutsch–Skandinavische Beziehungen nach 1945 (Stuttgart, 2000), pp. 33, 39 and 41. Friis Thomas Wegener, Den nye nabo. DDRs forhold til Danmark (København, 2001), p. 43.
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1950s made East Germany interesting to an international and Western public. The unsolved German question and symbolic conflict in Europe at this time, was of most significant interest. International diplomacy dealing with the German problem – like for instance the Geneva conference – the recurring crises in Berlin, the refugee tsunami, social and political unrest made the Soviet dominated part of Germany resurface time and again. Figure 1: Amount of full pages printed, and the main categories covered in the Danish newspapers.7
As can be seen on figure 1, when Willy Brandt’s Ostpolitik led to a solution of the German problem in the early 1970s, the GDR almost disappeared out of the international news. This also made the country less interesting to the public outside of Germany. The so-called second Cold War gave way for an increased interest in Eastern Europe. At this time, the GDR played a very different role than in the 1950s and 1960s. The German question did not resurface. Instead, the GDR played a somewhat ambiguous role. On the one hand, the GDR was the closest and best-known communist country, and on the other, the two Germanys tried to uphold an international dialogue during a time of crisis. The way East Germany was portrayed in the first decade of its existence was much to the dismay of the SED-regime. Figure 2 below shows the tendency 7
The figure shows the calculated number of full pages printed rather than the number of articles. The articles variation in size would contribute to a distorted image of how much text that was actually printed about the GDR.
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developments over time.8 As can be seen on the diagram, the tendency on how the GDR was portrayed in this period was rather negative. Even though the changes in sentiment were not dramatic, it is striking how the newspapers’ attitude towards the GDR follows the conjunctures of the Cold War. The development of the tendency-coefficient corresponds with the traditional Western interpretation and periodisation of Cold War tension, as for instance found in the works of Geir Lundestad.9 Figure 2: Tendency-coefficient during the Cold War.
As in a traditional Western view, the second Berlin crisis and the Cuban crisis marked a significant low point. It also ushered a new era. Both crises showed that world politics needed new mechanisms to handle the East–West conflict. It had an almost immediate effect on the media image of the GDR. The viewpoint that East and West should try resolving their security matters in a diplomatic and more peaceful way led to the 1970s détente and “almost” meant 8
9
The tendency-coefficient is a value between 1 and -1, where 1 represents a totally positive material and -1 represents a totally negative material. For more about the statistical methods, see: Smidt Rune E H, ’Danmark under den kolde krig. Den danske presses billede af DDR I perioden 1955 til 1987’, Rubicon, No. 4.17 (Odense, Dec. 2009), pp. 84–107. Hadenius Stig & Weibull Lennart, Press, radio, tv. En bok om massmedia i dagens samhälle, 2.ed (Stockholm, 1973), pp. 59–64. Lundestad Geir, East, West, North and South. Major Developments in International Relations since 1945. 5.ed (Oxford, 2005). Klaus Petersen & N.A. Sørensen (eds.): Den kolde krig på hjemmefronten (Odense, 2004), p. 9. Danmark under den kolde krig. Den sikkerhedspolitiske situation 1945–1991, Bd. 4, pp. 25–38.
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the end of the Cold War, which in the press by this time was often mentioned as a past phenomenon – something which happened back in the 1950s. For Germany, the most decisive change was of course the Ostpolitik, the Grundlagenvertrag, and the European détente framework of the Helsinki accord in 1975. Détente rubbed off into the newspapers, in terms of a pragmatic approach to the GDR and the Eastern Bloc. The criticism was played down, and wishes for a broader economic cooperation appeared. In this period, the GDR almost seemed to be a “normal” country. The tendency-coefficient was steadily moving towards zero, and even became slightly positive at the height of détente. As shown in figure 1, it also led to a situation where East Germany or the German question was taken off the media agenda. Since it was no longer an ongoing conflict, it attracted no particular attention. This fits perfectly with the classic news criteria: sensation, conflict, relevance and identification. However, in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the tension between East and West began to grow stronger and again the Danish newspapers’ image of the GDR reflected this. The image culminated in the most negative image of the GDR over the entire period, in the mid 1980s, and then phased back to a more neutral image, along with the lessened tensions between the blocs, towards the end of the Cold War. In this context, it is interesting that Western interpretation of détente was drastically different from the view in the communist camp. Seen from Moscow or East Berlin détente was by no means meant as an ideological ceasefire. It was for instance commented by Valery Jegorov of the central committee of the CPSU in his work on “peaceful coexistence” where he corrects various false Western interpretations of world politics: The bourgeois ideologists speculate in putting the peaceful coexistence and the striving of the people of the world for peace, to their own use. They try to equal it to a political ‘status quo’. This is a very peculiar definition of ‘peaceful coexistence’. The aim is to force the socialist countries to give a warranty for all eternity for the system of exploitation from the capitalist countries. This definition is altogether unrealistic. It contradicts the laws of human progress, which inevitable will lead from a lower state of social economic society to a higher.10 These contradictory ways of dealing with détente also led to seemingly paradox developments in the Eastern societies. Whereas Western observers thought that détente might lead to an ease of the oppression of the people of Eastern Europe, instead it just made the oppression mechanisms more subtle. In the GDR, the Ministry of State Security bloomed during détente. It doubled the number of employees from approx. 40.000 in the early 1970s to approx. 80.000 in the early 10
Jegorow Waleri Nikolajewitsch, Friedliche koexistenz und revolutionärer Prozess (East Berlin, 1972), p. 230.
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1980s.11 Their main objective was to stem the consequences of détente. This dramatic development was nonetheless hardly noticed in the Danish press. What does the close correspondence between traditional Western scholars and the Danish media show? It might only suggest that Danish scholars read newspapers – a comforting, but not very revealing thought. The close correlation might also point to a more disturbing hypothesis, namely that Western media in general was much closer linked to the political agenda and the political mood, than traditional press theory might suggest. If the media image was primarily guided by the general political notion, then where does that leave room for a free and critical press? It is worth noticing that there is hardly any difference in how the three Danish newspapers portrayed the GDR, even though they had very different political backgrounds. A logic explanation to this is that the newspapers to a large degree depended on international press agencies. Either as direct telegrams from the agencies – this in average constituted about one fourth of the news – or in a more or less processed form. Especially Reuters and the West German press agency DPA were used. However, the East German press agency ADN, the party newspaper Neues Deutschland and the periodical Die Weltbühne were also among some of the favourites. The East German media was usually used to present official announcements. The dependency on especially Western agencies in Germany and the relative low number of journalist with an expert knowledge on the GDR, to some extent made the Danish news image an echo or reflection of the West German debate.
A Question of Legitimacy The unsolved question of German unity, as foreseen in the Potsdam agreement of 1945, made the birth of the GDR in 1949 highly controversial and one of the milestones in the early Cold War. To the readers of the Danish newspapers from the 1950s to the early 1960s, the East German communist regime’s lack of legitimacy came as no surprise. The image of the political system in the GDR was poor. The newspaper Jyllands-Posten was in the mid 1950s provoked by a published letter to the editor which claimed that there was no significant difference between the communist and Western states. The newspaper strongly disagreed. The crucial difference was the communist states’ lack of human rights and personal freedom, including freedom of speech. According to the newspaper, it was exactly the lack of such rights which fuelled the East German popular revolt in 1953.12 The Soviet military intervention in 1953 along with the Berlin Wall remained icons of the communist repression. The lack of political freedom was the least problematic topic from a communist point of view. This issue found an expression under the headline: “The East 11 12
Gieseke Jens, ‘Deutsche Demokratische Republik’, Lukasz Kaminski, Krzysztof Persak and Jens Gieseke (eds.) Handbuch der kommunistischen Geheimdienste in Osteuropa 1944–1991 (Berlin, 2009), p. 214. ’Er der nogen forskel?’. Politiken, 21.8.1955.
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Germans are allowed to Criticize – Just not the Regime.” The newspaper reported, that nearly everything could be criticized in the GDR, except, no one dared to criticize the regime.13 The newspaper Socialdemokraten14 quoted Danish workers, who had visited the GDR, that the East German “election procedure has nothing to do with democracy, in the way we understand it.”15 The most problematic issue in the Danish newspapers in the late 1950s and early 1960s, seen from East Berlin, was probably the general focus on the people fleeing the GDR. Moreover, the newspapers explained the defection as a result of the regimes cruelty. The first issue was the Soviet demand for armament of the GDR’s “People’s Army” beginning in 1955. In all three newspapers, it was made clear that the public discontent with this decision was massive, and many of the young East Germans that fled to West Germany in accelerating numbers, fled to avoid military duty.16 According to Socialdemokraten, a young man who refused military service, was fired from his job and denied further employment almost anywhere else. It seemed his only choices were to work in the uranium mines or to accept the military service. Instead, he decided to escape to West Germany.17 The image of a cruel communist regime was only to become worse. The numbers of refugees from the GDR once again escalated in the early 1960s. The newspapers ascribed this development to the forced collectivization of the East German farmers. The rhetorical tone in the Danish newspapers, towards the East German communist regime, was harsh. One of the newspapers announced in the article “East German Farmers Facing a Catastrophe”, that ten thousands of farmers had been deprived of their property by use of force. The steady stream of refugees made it possible to write stories which left no illusions about the character of the SED-regime. The social democratic newspaper, Aktuelt wrote that the East German regime had forced these changes on the East German farmers by means of psychological and physical terror, and that “the methods in principle reminded of Stalin’s barbarous collectivization”. “What has happened is a brutal compulsory arrangement, dictated by a police state rule, which is only in power by virtue of Soviet bayonets and tanks”. The article further established that “to suppose that the East German dictatorship has initiated the campaign on own initiative, seems unlikely. Even a doctrinaire fanatic like Ulbricht would not have overlooked the risk – and thereby the danger – that thousands of farmers and farm workers would flee from the East German agriculture”.18 Descriptions like “...slaves by force and terror”19 and “the motive behind the barbarity” gave the clear impression of a medieval regime. The reasons however, 13 14 15 16 17 18 19
’Østtyskerne maa gerne kritisere – blot ikke regimet’. Politiken, 25.3.1955. The newspaper Socialdemokraten changed its name to Aktuelt in 1959 ’Danske arbejdere bag jerntæppet’. Socialdemokraten, 19.5.1955. See for instance: ’Flugten fra Øst’, Socialdemokraten, 4.7.1955. ’Vil ikke være geværpiger’. Politiken, 5.5.1955. ’Strøm af unge mænd flygter til Vesttyskland’. Politiken, 25.5.1955 and ’153.000 østtyskere flygtet i aar’. Politiken, 31.12.1955. ’Hvorledes folkepolitiet skaffer sig frivillige’. Socialdemokraten, 9.6.1955. ’Motivet bag barbariet’, Aktuelt, 24.4.1960. ’Østtyske bønder foran en katastrofe’, Aktuelt, 28.3.1960.
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should be sought in Moscow. Khrushchev allegedly wanted to create a GDR so fundamentally different from West Germany, that reunification would become impossible.20 The beginning of détente in 1963 and onwards, initiated a change in the description of the East German communist regime. The newspapers’ focus shifted from mass-defections caused by the cruelty of the regime, to issues such as political rights, freedom of press and speech, not to mention political dissidents. Even though this was sure not altogether positive, it was still an improvement of the GDR image, which was no longer associated with inhumanity, barbarity and the likes. Evidently the political system in the GDR was still seen as alien to Danish and Western standards with its heavy use of propaganda to make people “think the right thing”.21 In addition, as it was formulated in a headline: “In the GDR the Mandates are distributed before the Election and the Communists Always gets the Most”.22 This, strange as it may have seemed to the reader, suggests some awkward sort of democracy. Moreover, other political parties were allowed to participate in the elections, and would get a minority share of the votes. However, it was not a real democracy. For instance, one journalist noted rather sarcastically that “in the GDR, even the liberals are for communism”.23 In this period, the communist leaders also began to appear in a slightly less negative way. When the liberal newspaper Jyllands-Posten, asked people in the streets of East Berlin what they thought of Walther Ulbricht, one claimed that Ulbricht and his regime had actually improved over the years, although people would rather be without him.24 From the mid 1960s and during the early 1970s, the newspapers turned their focus on the demands for greater political freedom in the Eastern Bloc, including the GDR. This gave space to East German dissidents such as Professor Robert Havemann, who challenged the communist regime with demands for more personal freedom, an actual pluralistic political system, and unrestricted freedom of speech.25 The latter could apparently still be a risky affair, if people did not subscribe to “the truth” of the regime.26 Another highly profiled dissident was the poet and musician Wolf Biermann, whose critical artistic production was aimed at the East German government.27 However, criticizing the regime had its consequences. Biermann faced an occupational ban following his critical 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
’Motivet bag Barbariet’, Aktuelt, 24.4.1960. ’Ikke farligt folk tænker, når bare de tænker rigtigt!’, Aktuelt 1.10.1970 and ’En ære at være propagandist i DDR’ ,Politiken 7.10.1970. ’I DDR fordeles mandaterne før valget og kommunisterne får de fleste’, Aktuelt 5.10.1970. Ibid. ’Bare det var os’, Politiken 21.9.1970. ’Partiet i (DDR) har ikke altid ret’, Aktuelt, 5.4.1965 and ’DDRs rebel går til angreb’, Jyllands-Posten, 6.11.1970. ’Ikke farligt, når bare de tænker rigtigt!’, Aktuelt 1.10.1970. ’Han tordner mod systemet fra sin frivillige celle’. Aktuelt, 14.6.1970 and ’Åben opfordring til at styrte Ulbricht’, Jyllands-Posten, 14.6.1970.
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expressions against the regime. He was not allowed to perform in public, or publicize his poetry. Professor Havemann was dismissed from his university job, and was regularly interrogated by the MfS, following his critique of the regime.28 A denominator of Biermann and Havemann was their political position as convinced communists. Their goal was a reform of the GDR-system, in order to achieve a real communist society, but not necessarily a dismantling of the GDR itself.29 Wolf Biermann was the foremost problem for the communist regime during the first decade of the 1970s, causing embarrassment and difficulties in The GDR’s public diplomacy. The East German decision to expel Biermann in 1976 only made the problem worse.30 He then became a symbol in Western media to the political intolerance in the GDR. A defining issue in the last decade of the GDR’s existence was “The Wall”. One way or the other this ageing structure and, more generally, the heavily fortified border between the two Germanys, stuck to the communist regime. Of course, unpleasant stories about the East German citizens’ defection over The Wall had occasionally surfaced in the 1970s,31 but this would become more pronounced in the 1980s. This fitted nicely with the strengthened East–West conflict where the US from 1977 stepped up its criticism of the human rights situation in the communist countries.32 When East German citizens started occupying West German embassies in Eastern Europe from the mid 1980s, it gave way to a new kind of human-interest stories. First of all their struggle had convincing drama, second, it gave Western journalists a new source of information from a large group of discontent GDR citizens.33 In the late autumn of 1985, the Danish press had still stories about mines and automatic shooting devices, even though these had been taken out of duty following West German pressure in 1983. These “death machines” literally begged for bad publicity.34 However, what is noticeable is why the border shootings had a revival especially in 1980s when the Cold War got colder. The fact that border crossing in East Germany was lethal was old news, and the automatic shooting devices had been in service since 1970. As a curiosity, it was not all East Germans who were kept behind The Wall. The article “The GDR are Sneaking Aids Diseased over The Wall”, claimed that 28 29 30 31 32 33 34
Ibid; ’DDRs rebel går til angreb’ Jyllands-Posten, 6.11.1970 and ’Kommunistisk oprører i DDR’ Jyllands-Posten, 15.10.1970. Ibid. See also: Almgren Birgitta, Inte bara Stasi... Relationer Sverige – DDR 1949– 1990 (Stockholm, 2009), pp. 54–58. Almgren Birgitta, Inte bara Stasi... Relationer Sverige – DDR 1949–1990 (Stockholm, 2009), pp. 174f and Abraham Nils, Die Politische Auslandsarbeit der DDR in Schweden (Berlin, 2007), pp. 287–291. See for instance: ’161.000 sluppet ud af DDR siden muren kom’, Jyllands-Posten 25.8.1975 and ’76 DDR-fanger kom ’over’ i sidste måned’ Politiken, 7.11.1975. Danmark under den Kolde Krig Bd. 3 (Copenhagen, 2005), p. 55. See for instance: ’DDR-flygtninge hjem med håb om udrejse’, Jylland-Posten, 3.1.1985 and ‚Flugtdrama slut’, Aktuelt, 3.1.1985. ’Dødsmaskiner ved grænsen fjernet’, Jyllands-Posten, 2.11.1985. ’Dødsmaskiner langs DDRs grænse fjernet’, Politiken, 3.11.1985 and ’Ophæver skydeordren’, Aktuelt, 18.11.1985.
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East German homosexuals were quietly being expelled from the country if they had been diagnosed with Aids. Apparently, Aids did not exist in GDR – at least not officially – and those who were diseased had no place in “the real existing socialism”.35 The Wall stopped the bleeding of citizens in the 1960s and it somewhat stabilized the country. However, it stayed as a constant reminder of the regimes illegitimacy. This was the unstable foundation which the public diplomacy had to build on for thirty years. It was no easy job to brand an enemy police state, who imprisoned its own citizens, as a normal state. Nevertheless, even though the political leadership remained illegitimate in the Danish press, they were from the 1970s onward, less and less depicted as Soviet puppets. It was not at all positive, but it was better to appear as a regime lacking democratic legitimacy, than merely as a Soviet vassal. Thus, for some time, especially in the 1960s and 1970s, it was possible to divert attention to other topics. In 1975, the Danish newspapers’ readers could enjoy articles like: “Campers and Motorists now have an Easier time in the GDR”, “Stop! Where Everybody else Drives By”, “Cities in the GDR, that Tourists Don’t Visit” and “GDR Transforms Brown Coal Pit into Recreational Area”.36 However, in times of increasing international tension, topics like the Berlin Wall came back to the East German communists like a boomerang.
A Leading Industrial Nation? In 1990, during the German reunification process, the federal agency Treuhand, assigned to handle the privatization of the former East German industrial sector, estimated the outcome of this process. The Treuhand ascertained that they would be able to make a profit of approximately 350 billion DM. However, four years later, concluding the privatization process, the group stood with a deficit of 204.4 billion DM.37 In other words; the image of the East German industrial sector had been thoroughly exaggerated. It seems that the SED’s Department of Foreign Information had some success pulling down a smokescreen in front of the Western world, which portrayed the GDR as one of the world’s leading industrial nations. The image of the strong industrial communist nation did not reach Denmark until the early 1960s. Overlooking the Danish newspapers from 1955, there is a complete absence of articles describing a strong East German industry. The stories dealing with any economic subject from the “Eastern Zone” – as it was most commonly named – were, with very few exceptions, about the lack of food and supplies to meet the daily needs of the East German population. Alongside these articles, a few stories about how the industries were not able to meet their expected 35 36
37
’DDR lemper AIDS-ramte over muren’, Aktuelt, 31.10.1985. See also ’AIDS over Muren’. Jyllands-Posten, 3.11.1985. ’Campingturister og bilister får det lettere i DDR’, Politiken, 02.23.1975. ’Stop lige, hvor alle de andre kører forbi’, Politiken, 2.23.1975. ’DDR-storbyer hvor turister ikke kommer’, Politiken, 5.8.1975. ’DDR forvandler brunkulslejer til ferieområde’, Politiken, 3.30.1975. ’Den bedste del af Harzen ligger i Østtyskland’, Aktuelt, 3.4.1975. Görtemaker Manfred, Die Berliner Republik. Wiedervereinigung und Neuorientierung (Berlin–Brandenburg, 2009), p. 92.
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output also appeared.38 The “slow start” of the strong industrial and economical image can be contributed to the fact that after the Second World War-bombings, most of the infrastructure in the GDR was under reconstruction, not to mention that the plans set for the late 1950s were later widely regarded as unrealistic, even by the SED themselves.39 On those grounds, it seems quite an accomplishment that the GDR was able to start conveying an image of a strong industrial nation from the beginning of the 1960s. A number of factors contributed to this however. In 1956, the GDR established a trade-office in Copenhagen that in the following years would come to participate in distribution of propaganda in Denmark as well as being the only “official” representation the East German state could establish on Danish soil until Denmark legally recognized the state in 1973.40 Additionally, 1956 was the year that the first edition of the journal GDR-Review was printed. It would become one of the SED’s most important tools for distribution of propaganda in the Scandinavian countries.41 After the trade-office and the journal GDR-Review settled in the Danish community, and after the completed reconstruction of most of the industry, the industrial propaganda started to show up in the Danish newspapers. The readers of Politiken and Aktuelt were respectively on May 23 and 29, 1960, presented with a very informative ad about the industrial power of the GDR. The ad, which by the way did its best to appear as a theme-page produced by the newspapers’ own staffs, informed the reader about the great progress the East German state had achieved industrially. The power of the industry, if counted by heads of the citizens, was no less than four times the size of the world average – “and that is simply astonishing”. Within the area of electrical energy production, the GDR was allegedly the fifth strongest in the world, as they stood for no less than 40 percent of the world’s brown coal production. Nevertheless, the achievements did not end here. “Regarding the production and consumption of artificial fibres – calculated by heads of the citizens – the GDR takes top placement in the entire world”. According to the ad, the industrial sector of the GDR had achieved these wonderful results with help from Soviet Union experts, but nonetheless also because the working class in the country, after the Second World War and the Nazi-monstrosities, “took history in their own hands. They do not want a repetition of the politics, which had brought so much misfortune upon them. (…) And they do it [work hard in the industry] by the conviction, that this is the only true way to keep the peace and secure a happy future”.42 This was, however, just an ad, and the attentive reader might not have taken it to be more than just that. Nevertheless, a week after Aktuelt printed the ad, a 38 39 40 41 42
See for instance: ’Nytaars–Opsang fra Ulbricht’, Jyllands-Posten, 2.1.1955 and ’Østtysk Industriproduktion bagud’, Social Demokraten, 31.10.1955. Kommission des Politbüros des ZK der SED: Geschichte der SED. Abriβ (East Berlin, 1978), pp. 379–380. Friis Thomas Wegener, Den nye Nabo (København, 2000), p. 43. Abraham Nils & Friis Thomas Wegener, ’Verdens 10. stærkeste industrination?’ Arbejderhistorie, no. 2, (2008), pp 74–78. ’Den tyske demokratiske republiks industrielle kraft’ Politiken, 23.5.1960 and Aktuelt, 29.5.1960.
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background article about the GDR and its future appeared. This time it was a Danish journalist reporting from a press-delegation tour of the East German state. The first thing that comes to mind when reading this article, is that throughout the text, there is a very critical approach to the propaganda the journalist witnessed while his hosts were dragging him around the “show-case” cities of the GDR. Nevertheless, the journalist noted that the modern industrial buildings he could see – “where there a few years earlier, used to be only marsh and forest” – were very real, and that “imagining that the power plants and factories will not bring a bonus, when it comes to increased living standards in the years to come, would be to put ones head in the bush”.43 Alongside the dawning of the strong industrial image from the early 1960s, the stories about the poor economic conditions in the country, continued. The majority of articles concerning economic matters, from the mid 1950s to the early 1980s, were about the lack of food and everyday groceries. However, a number of articles with headlines flashing words like “Miserable Economy” or even “Bankrupt” also began to appear in the years before the Danish recognition, which not only added to the image of the poor economy, but also gave the impression that West Germany and Willy Brandt’s Ostpolitik was the reason why the GDR did not perish.44 However, alongside the articles about lack of everyday groceries, or the poor economic situation, stories about the potential of the industry kept giving the impression that the crisis must have been a passing phase. In 1970 a journalist wrote an article about the lack of supplies and the poor economy, but also established – much in line with the rhetoric used by the GDR itself – that the country had “evolved into a strong, self-conscious industrial nation – the ninth or tenth strongest in the world”. So it would be “illusionistic, wishful thinking from the Adenauer-days”, to believe that the GDR was about to break down economically. The journalist concluded afterwards that: “It is clear that the great leap, the GDR has planned for the year 1970 in a stiff centrally planned economy, is bound to lead to shortages and lack of supply in many areas, because the (…) communist-party, has given advantages to specific branches of the industry, when it comes to investments and supplies”.45 This article not only shows the Danish journalist’s view on the industry, but also helps answer the obvious question that rises from the paradox of a strong industry combined with such economic hardships. Namely, why the newspapers did not wonder where all the supposed income from this strong industry went. This 43 44
45
’Østtysklands store spring’, Aktuelt, 7.6.1960. ’Elendig økonomi har tvunget Øst mod Vest’, Jyllands-Posten, 4.1.1970. ’Bonn hindrer DDR-fallit’, Jyllands-Posten, 12.9.1970. The trade-tariffs the GDR had to pay when trading with West Germany were much lower than they would have been, if West Germany had recognized the GDR as a foreign country. ’Måske udspil fra DDR, der mangler alverdens ting’, Jyllands-Posten, 19.1.1970. Flemming Sørensen, who was an operative for the East German intelligence branch HV A, as well as a journalist on Jyllands-Posten, wrote this and a number of other articles, used in this article. However, Flemming Sørensen, or ‘der Flame’, was not assigned to produce or convey propaganda for the East German state. BStU AIM 175/87. I, vol. 2, 5.9.1982. Auskunftsbericht, IMS ”Heinrich” – Reg. Nr. 3719/60. Though the rhetoric comes out similar to the one used in the GDR’s own public diplomacy, a statistical analysis of the tendency in Sørensens writings in 1970, support that his articles about the GDR, overall had a neutral approach.
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particular journalist seems to have found an explanation in a confusing resourceallocation in the centrally planned economy – the communist party and their plan, could simply not foresee where the future needs for resources lay. The previously mentioned journalist, who in 1960, advised the readers of Aktuelt not to put their heads in the bush, was perhaps a bit too optimistic. Throughout the Cold War, articles about the poor living standards, as well as a general poor economy in the country kept appearing, though the frequency became much lower after the Danish recognition in 1973. An interesting side to this however, is that a number of the few articles about the economy that were printed in the 1980s, undertook a focus-shift from portraying a poor economy by Western standards, to portraying a good economy by Eastern standards.46 The paradox inferred from an image of a poor economy up until the beginning of the 1980s along with a strong industry remained virtually unanswered, which is explainable by the newspapers’ approach to the communist regime and the centrally planned economy. There is not much doubt that the Danish journalists did not believe that the centrally planned economy could compete with the market-economy of the West. However, it seems that during détente, in spite of economic hardships caused by an incompetent or at least not very effective resource-management, the general image was that the GDR would eventually prosper because of the great industrial potential. In the second half of the cold war, this image was, along with the focus-shift towards a good economy by Eastern standards, helped along with ads and articles from East German channels about the “impressive” results of the economic plans.47 In the 1980s, during the second Cold War, the number of economic reports from the GDR dropped significantly. These kinds of stories were simply not as exciting as stories about rearmament, international politics, and especially spies and espionage. Focus shifted to, for instance the defection of the leader of West German counterespionage Hans-Joachim Tiedge and the revealing of his shady association with the GDR in 1985. This gave very little room for stories about the East German industry or economy.48
Stasi in the Danish Media The Ministry of State Security, or Stasi, has by far been the most important topic in the historical debate about the GDR since 1990. Uncounted articles, books and billions of Euros have been spent on this subject. It is no exaggeration that Stasi and the GDR are synonymous for most people in the Western World. It is 46 47
48
See for instance: ”Honecker vil snart takke af.” In: Aktuelt, 30.4.1985. See for instance: ’DDRs økonomiske status i dag’, Politiken, 8.5.1975 and ’De hidtil bedste år’, DDR-Revy, no. 5/6 (1976), pp. 36–37. The same economical figures were even used by a so-called “Eastern Research” team from the University of Southern Denmark in Esbjerg (Southern Jutland at the time) in a publication from 1978. Qvortrup Jens, ’Økonomisk udvikling og planlægning’, Jens-Jørgen Jensen, Andreas Jørgensen & Jens Qvortrup (eds.): DDR. Det andet Tyskland (Esbjerg, 1978), p. 116. In 1985, the three newspapers printed no less than 84 articles about East German spies and espionage, and only 7 articles about economic or industrial subjects from the country.
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not possible to research, or to talk about the GDR without taking the Stasi into account. In 2009 the Swedish researcher Birgitta Almgreen published the book “Inte bara Stasi” (Not Just the Stasi) about the East German–Swedish relations. Despite the title, the book describes various aspects of the Stasi. However, the book also deals with one of the subjects, which has been somewhat overlooked in the German research, namely the espionage in the West. Dominant in the last 20 years’ discussion, has by far been the oppression within the GDR. But how was this in the 40 years that the GDR actually existed? Were the Stasi and its repression a known issue in the Danish and Western public during the Cold War? The short answer is that back then, everything was different. In 1960, the West German Ministry of the Interior published a report on the number of arrested spies working for the MfS. According to an article from the same year in the newspaper Jyllands-Posten, based on the report, the MfS was quickly becoming a major player in the European spy-game and had no less than 11.000 spies in West Germany.49 In 1970, the number of MfS agents in West Germany was growing. An article from that year proclaimed that of the 16.000 agents from socialist countries in West Germany, 80 percent were working for the MfS. This number was about four times as many as the actual number, on which historians today agree.50 In the 1950s Danes could read MfS-related stories about kidnappings, tapping of phone-lines in West Germany, and even a spectacular attempt to poison and kill a West German official.51 The aforementioned article brought the Stasi a lot closer to Denmark though, since it stated that: “the regime in East Germany is on its way to form a special task force of 2.000 agents, who are to execute secret missions in its neighbouring countries”.52 Suddenly the mysterious agents would begin to infiltrate the Danes’ own backyards. In the 1960s and 1970s, the angle shifted from bloodthirsty cutthroats to modern intelligence. In 1970, Aktuelt reported how and why spies were recruited. “The experience from a number of espionage affairs shows that most are not spies out of ideology or belief, but because of economic difficulties or because of a not so clean past, factors that the Eastern intelligence agencies will be swift to take advantage of. A common method for the agencies is to get a man and a woman into an embarrassing situation, and afterwards threatening to send compromising pictures to their spouses. Most men and women will then prefer to be recruited by the agency, and avoid causing problems with the family”.53 Once more, this is contradictory to the research of the last 20 years, which has pointed out that blackmail was a marginal recruitment motive, whereas most GDR 49 50
51 52 53
’Bonn har anholdt 18.300 Spioner paa otte Aar’, Jyllands-Posten, 18.5.1960. In 1989, the number of East German agents in West Germany was around 3.000, and it seems plausible to think that this was one of the highest amounts ever. The total number of East German agents in West Germany over the entire Cold War was 12.000. Helmut Müller–Enbergs: Inoffizielle Mitarbeiter des Ministeriums für Staatssicherheit. Teil 3: Statistiken. Berlin 2008. ’Øst-agent dømt for giftmord-forsøg’ Politiken, 18.5.1955. Ibid. ’16.000 østspioner i vesttyskland’, Aktuelt, 12.3.1970.
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agents had political motives – especially in the 1970s when leftist persuasions amongst the youth made Western countries easy prey.54 Spy-scandals were of course obvious good stories. Some of the most prominent was the exposure of Willy Brandt’s close aide Günter Guillaume in 1974, and the chief of West German counterintelligence Hans-Joachim Tiedge in 1985. These big spy cases helped built the legend of the MfS as one the world’s leading espionage services. Whereas the building of the East German espionage legend had a spy-romantic glance, this did not apply to the Western counterintelligence agencies. The media coverage of the trial against Guillaume in 1975 was far more critical towards the West German intelligence service, than it was interested in making Guillaume and the MfS the villains of the story. The West German intelligence service faced criticism for its knowledge of Guillaume being an MfS agent, before the scandal ultimately caused Brandt to resign as chancellor.55 The newspapers looked for answers in Willy Brandt’s personal life, where he was known to be fond of women and not completely psychological stable. An article from 1975 mentioned that, when the pressure got to him in the days before the scandal broke out, in May 1974, he allegedly said, “If I had had a pistol on me, I would have put an end to this”.56 The newspapers were quick to react when several high-ranking agents were compromised, and had to flee to the GDR in the late summer of 1985. The sensational news was, that the agent, Hans-Joachim Tiedge, was the head of West Germany’s counterintelligence, and that a person of his importance was in the hands of the MfS.57 Several articles were eager to predict that this was the end of Helmut Kohl as chancellor and Friedrich Zimmermann as Minister of the Interior, but neither Kohl nor Zimmermann resigned because of Tiedge. Like the scandal 11 years earlier, the critics in the newspapers were upset that not enough had been done to prevent it, and that the politicians had covered over Tiedge, whom the newspapers described as “an ideal victim of Eastern extortion. He was a heavy drinker, what you would call ‘psychological out of balance’ and he owed a lot of money to creditors. It had been like this for years, but there had been no political intervention”.58 What is interesting about the newspapers’ coverage of topics related to MfS’ work is that espionage weighs a disproportionate amount, compared to a topic like suppression of the people. The lack of focus on the repression tells us that this was not considered as relevant as spies and espionage. This was a simple question about identification. Spies in the West mattered to us, whereas spies in the East were significantly less relevant. 54
55 56 57 58
Georg Herbstritt: Bundesbürger im Dienst der DDR-Spionage. Göttingen 2007. p. 376. Helmut Müller–Enbergs: Inoffizielle Mitarbeiter des Ministeriums für Staatssicherheit. Teil 2: Anleitung für die Arbeit mit Agenten, Kundschafter und Spionen in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (Berlin, 1998) p. 135. ’Nu starter sagen mod spionen, der fældede Willy Brandt’, Jyllands-Posten, 21.6.1975. ’Willy Brandt ville skyde sig under spionskandalen’, Aktuelt, 19.11.1975. ’Kohl forbød politi at aflytte spioner’, Aktuelt, 19.9.1985. ’Spionjægeren var selv spion for DDR’, Aktuelt, 24.8.1975.
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Throughout the Cold War however, there were several examples of “bad publicity” connected to the oppression of individuals – most notable in the Biermann-case – as well as stories about defections and refugees. These stories were only in the rarest cases associated with the MfS. The later infamous state security had in the Danish media only little to do with repression. The Stasi was primarily an espionage risk to the Western democracies. Since 1989, the Stasi has often been portrayed as extraordinary in both size and in working methods. The Danish Cold War newspapers gave another impression, namely that the methods used by the MfS were not any worse than what other secret services did, and occasionally, articles that showed a positive image of the MfS, could be found. As an example, an article in Politiken from 1985, tells the story about how the MfS had received a tip from the West German police that led to the arrest of two Arabic terrorists on their way to an airport in West Berlin, with plans to hijack an American commercial airliner.59 The West German newspaper Die Welt was quoted, that “the arrests are the first results of an international cooperation against terrorism, which had recently been discussed between the US and the Soviet Union”.60 The research post 1990 has shown how the GDR not only harboured, but also aided both West European and Arabic terrorists.61 The general image of the MfS in the Danish newspapers shows that the MfS’ activities were considered somewhat “legitimate”. Although having spies lurking around in the backyard was never a pleasant thing, the newspapers gave the image, that the rules of the spy-game were the same for the secret services on both sides of the iron curtain.
Everybody Likes Sports The one area in which the GDR usually looked good, regardless of the conjunctures of the Cold War, was sports. The newspapers’ coverage of sports in, and from the GDR was in general neutral or positive. Sports articles were often short, with only enough space to recount for the course of a given match and its result. The form simply restrained the contents. There was no space for background analysis and scrutiny into political motives. And since the GDR was a formidable sports nation – repeatedly amongst the most winning in the Olympics – their performances were praiseworthy. However, the Danish newspapers primarily dealt with Danish sports. Therefore, sports from the GDR were for the most part interesting only when it included Denmark, or when it was in connection with international competitions. The GDR propagandist used sports political, and did this to a large extent at home and abroad. And in this field, for a very broad public, it appeared extremely 59 60 61
’Østtysk politi afslørede to terrorister’, Politiken, 14.7.1985. Ibid. Ploetz Michael, ‘Mit RAF, Roten Brigaden und Action Directe. Terrorismus und Rechtsextremismus in der Strategie von SED und KPdSU’, Zeitschrift des Forschungsverbund SED-Staat. (Nr.22/2007). pp. 117–144.
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successful.62 In international politics, the recognition campaign for instance, this seemingly apolitical area was used to establish the GDR as a superior sports nation a long time before it was formally recognized.63 Sports were maybe the most positive part of the GDR brand. However, not even this part of the image survived the collapse of the East German state. Today sports and GDR has a negative ring to it, since the stories about systematic doping abuse and invalidity have come to light.64
Concluding Remarks The image of the GDR in the Danish newspapers was significantly different from “the GDR we know today”. One might even think it was a completely different country. However, in many ways it was. The GDR during the Cold War was an extremely controlled society, especially after the building of the Berlin Wall. After the East German communist regime had closed its borders, it did everything it could to control the flow of information to the West. Moreover, it succeeded in doing this to a large extent. The GDR we know after 1990 is properly the most transparent society in Europe. Almost all archives were opened and historians flooded them by the hundreds, after the Berlin Wall fell. It killed off many myths and illusions about the so-called “real existing socialism”. Even though the communist regime tried to control the GDR image, the Danish newspapers of the Cold War show that the image did not correspond with the wishes of the SED. The GDR was not depicted as the progressive, successful, modern state such as the East Berlin officials wanted it to be. The newspapers rather created an image of an illegitimate regime, which had a confusing, but modestly successful economy with a large industrial potential, and was very able within niches such as espionage and sports. The East German propaganda could of course not make the Berlin Wall or the uprising in 1953 disappear. Nonetheless, it could divert some of the interest away from most of the gloomy sides of the repression. The highly symbolic case of Wolfgang Biermann only scratched the surface of the oppression, which millions of people in the communist states lived under every day. The success of East German public diplomacy was not that it made people in the West believe in all its propagandistic lies, it was the fact that it from time to time managed to make the repressive regime look almost normal. The GDR image was not stable. It changed to a large degree in the course of the Cold War. The ups and downs of the image correspond with the Cold War 62
63 64
Krankenhagen Stefan and Klein Patrick, ’Om forturnere, fireårsplaner og mesterstjerner – et samlet blikk på DDR-idrettens historie’, Benedikt Jager, Jon Raundalen, DDR – Det det var. Østtysk kultur- og hverdagshistorie. (Oslo, 2009). pp. 254–278. See for instance: Lammers Karl Christian, ’Da DBU syntes på nippet til at anerkende DDR. En mindre kendt episode om sport og politik under den kolde krig’, Klaus Petersen & N.A. Sørensen (eds.): Den kolde krig på hjemmefronten (Odense, 2004). Patrick Klein: ‘Katarina Witt eller The biggest loser’, Benedikt Jager, Jon Raundalen: DDR – Det det var. Østtysk kultur- og hverdagshistorie (Oslo, 2009). pp. 279–282.
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periodisation of traditional Western scholars, to a remarkable degree. When tensions were high the press dug up dirt on East Germany, when tensions were low, the dirt became less dirty. The Danish press was in this, depending on their politicians to set the agenda. If Western governments were dealing with East Berlin, the journalists would see sunny Harz mountains, whereas when tensions rose, the journalists were more likely to see the landmines and automatic shooting devices (even at times, when they were no longer in use) keeping the citizens of the Harz from fleeing.
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The Medieval in the Modern: The Cathedral and the Skyscraper in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis1 Erik Tängerstad
Introduction At the centre of the Weimar German classic silent film Metropolis (1924–27) there is a modern skyscraper and a medieval cathedral. Roughly, the film begins by showing inequality and social tension around the modern skyscraper, and ends with reconciliation and renewed spirit of community on the stairs to the medieval cathedral. Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, of course, is a film that has had extensive impact on filmmaking ever since it was first presented. This impact can be seen in classical movies from Frankenstein and Dracula2 over the Wizard of Oz to 2001: A Space Odyssey. Also movies like Blade Runner and Robocop pay explicit tribute to the legacy of Metropolis, and the film series Star Wars (1977–2005) could hardly have been conceived without it. Moreover, images from this film have become modern day icons with recurrent appearances in mass cultural contexts. In 1984, for example, the acclaimed producer of film and disco music Giorgio Moroder made a Metropolis edition backed up by his own music. Moroder’s version was soon followed by other artists, who used images from Metropolis in their music videos, for instance, Queen’s Radio Gaga or Madonna’s Express Yourself.3 The importance of this film’s legacy can be grasped in the fact that the restored version from 2001 is part of UNESCO’s list Memory of the World. It was the first feature film ever to be taken up on that list.4 In short, Metropolis is regarded a cornerstone within twentieth century popular culture, as well as in the history of science fiction film, because of its special effects, but also because of the vision of city of the future and of the images of the robot. No film class or other form of cinema education would be complete without a screening of this film. 1
2 3 4
An earlier version of this essay was presented at a conference held to honour Professor Nils Blomkvist at his 65th birthday: The Image of the Baltic. A thousand year’s perspective, conference held in Visby, Sweden, October 16–18, 2008. The author would like to thank the conference participants for valuable remarks. Karl Freund, who had been the cinematographer of Metropolis, was also the cinematographer of Dracula: he had moved to Hollywood in the late 1920s. Cf. Elsaesser, Thomas: Metropolis (London, BFI, 2000), pp. 57–69. For more information, see the homepage of UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation) http://portal.unesco.org/ci/en/ev.php-URL_ ID=23221&URL_DO=DO_TOPIC&URL_SECTION=201.html (2010-02-18).
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At the same time, Metropolis is notorious, both because of its supposedly flawed plot, and because of its proper history. At the time for its production in the mid 1920s, this German made film was regarded the world’s most expensive film production to date. Soon after its premiere in 1927, the production company Ufa went bankrupt and the blame was put on this one expensive film production, which had exceeded its budget frames many times over. When exported to the United States a few months after its world premiere in Berlin, it was reedited and dramatically shortened. It was then shortened once more during its second German run. This means that various versions of the film exist, although the original that opened in January 1927 has been (at least until 2008) considered to be lost. The paradox of having a must-see classic film that only exists in fragments has led, naturally, to a quest for the lost original. The search for the complete version of Metropolis can almost be compared with the search for the Holy Grail, and it has often tended to overshadow that which is to been seen in the available fragments. The search for the unseen original film has in effect hindered a more systematic analysis of the skyscraper and the cathedral that is really there to be seen. Although there exist a number of different more or less restored versions of this film, versions that sometimes differ notably in between one another, the basic verdict has remained the same: Metropolis is technically brilliant, although based on a naïve and/or incomprehensible plot. “Good film, bad story” is an often-heard conclusion. All the same, the enigmatic original 1927 version has remained a challenge and every now and then new archival materials are discovered, findings that often lead to revisions of existing film interpretations. In this sense, earlier interpretations of the film have been reputed over time and it is likely that the film will be reconsidered also in times to come. Against this background, the existence of a vast and growing literature on Metropolis comes as no surprise. And, of course, this essay contributes to that literature. In 2002 what was supposed to be the ultimate restored version of Metropolis (the version listed by UNESCO) opened at the Berlinale (the Berlin film festival). That was a version that runs for about two hours of the originally two-and-a-half-hour film. At the time it was considered unlikely that more of the original film footage would ever surface. In 2008 the unlikely occurred and an almost complete print of the original version was indeed found in an Argentinean film archive. However, that print was in poor state, being a 16 mm copy of a scratched, dusty, and poorly kept 35 mm print, which now has been discarded and destroyed. It was nevertheless possible to restore most of that 16 mm print, and to make out of it an almost complete two-and-half-hour version of the original film. On February 12, 2010, this newly restored and supposedly full-length version of Metropolis opened at the Berlinale. Immediately, re-evaluations of this classic film started.5 5
The German weekly newspaper Die Zeit has had extensive coverage of the story on the newly discovered and restored print of Metropolis. Cf. the German newspaper’s coverage, which in part is the newspaper’s own English language translations of its articles: http://www.zeit.de/online/2008/27/metropolis-vorab-englisch (2010-02-18). http://www.zeit.de/2010/07/Metropolis-07 (2010-02-18). http://www.zeit.de/kultur/film/2010-02/film-metropolis (2010-02-18).
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The aim of this essay is to take a closer look at the tension between the notions of the cathedral and the skyscraper in Metropolis, and in so doing, trying to get a grip on the larger question on the role of the medieval within the modernity.6 However, given the new information disclosed in the just presented 2010 version, some reflections on the overall plot of Metropolis will also be put forward. To fulfil that aim one has take another look at the film and be prepared to go against the grain of major thrusts made in the established literature on Metropolis. The argument that will be outlined in this essay is founded in the conviction that to make sense out of the film’s narrative, one has to regard Metropolis as a consciously made anti-expressionist film. Since it is usually thought to be an expressionist film, the idea of understanding it as an antiexpressionist film will challenge the bulk of the interpretations of Metropolis. Moreover, it will here be claimed that the film should be seen as an articulated critique of Bauhaus and the ideological stance of that school, and that it specifically confronts the work of architect Bruno Taut. Arguably, Metropolis puts up a visual dispute with the basic notion that guided the Bauhaus school from its outset: the idea that the skyscraper should be for the future city what the cathedral had been for the past one. The Bauhaus tradition includes the view of an ongoing movement from the medieval cathedral to the modern skyscraper, and that the skyscraper should be seen as promising welfare and the good life. By reversing that view as a deplorable tragedy that only can end in the dissolution of society as such, Metropolis goes against Taut’s and the Bauhaus’ perspectives, respectively. If one sees the film’s plotline as leading from inequality and social tension around the modern skyscraper to reconciliation and renewed spirit of community on the stairs to the medieval cathedral, one will be able to make sense out of the film’s narrative. Of course, being able to make sense out of that narrative does not mean that one agrees with it. This essay does not intend to defend the ideas of Fritz Lang and Thea von Harbou, the director and scriptwriter (at the time also a married couple), when they worked on Metropolis. Here, instead, the claim is that the narrative of Metropolis is completely coherent, and that the end of the film comes as the logical conclusion of that narrative. But in order to see the film’s narrative structure, one has to be prepared to revise virtually everything written about it. Doing that is the challenge presented in this essay. The claim here is that the key when unlocking the narrative structure of Metropolis is the way in which the notions of the modern skyscraper and the medieval cathedral are presented in the film. This essay will first present the film and the common interpretations of it, before going to the central issue of the medieval in the modern, and the demonstration of how Metropolis rejects expressionism and criticises Bauhaus. 6
The following essay will draw on, as well as critically revise an earlier essay of mine on this theme. Tängerstad, Erik: “Filmen Metropolis som källa till historisk forskning” in Häften för kritiska studier (Stockholm) No. 3/1999, pp. 33–48.
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Metropolis and its Interpreters Since the film is well known and its plot often retold, here only a brief reminder will be presented. Metropolis shows a supposed city of the future, which is organised vertically, so that the workers live and work below ground level, the middle class (which hardly comes to the forefront in the film) on the ground level, and the powerful decision makers dwell in skyscrapers’ rooftops. The distance, both in space and in social order, between the workers below ground level, and the decision makers on the skyscrapers’ top floors eventually provokes a rebellion among the workers. That rebellion threatens the very existence of the city. The film ends with a handshake in the portal of the cathedral between the foreman of the workers and the city’s executive manger: equality and communication has been restored within the organic unity of traditional society. It is the manager’s son who mediates this handshake after having accepted the worker’s foreman as his equal. When he also manages to have his father accepting the foreman as his equal, the film ends. All existing versions of the film open and end with the motto: “Between the Hand and the Head there must be a mediating Heart”. The workers can then be seen as the “Hand” of the city, while the decision makers are the “Head”. The lack of a mediating “Heart” is what puts the whole construction at peril. Instead of suggesting that the amorphous and vague middle class would be this failing “Heart”, the film poses the enigmatic pair of Maria (a mysterious woman who never is properly presented to the viewer) and Freder Fredersen (the son of the city’s executive manger, Joh Fredersen) in that position. The basic relationship shown in Metropolis is friendship and loyalty between men, especially the functioning friendship between Freder and the (former) white-collar employee Josaphat, and the defunct friendship between Joh Fredersen and the inventor Rotwang. The story takes its point of departure in the circumstance that Joh and Rotwang once had been good friends, until they became rivals over a woman, Hel. Eventually Joh and Hel became a pair. However, she died when giving birth to Freder. After her death, Rotwang dedicated his life to invent a mechanical replica of the woman he still loved. The film shows how Joh demands that Rotwang should model the replica after Maria, not Hel, because Joh believes that by controlling the image of Maria he will be able to control the workers too. Rotwang obeys Joh’s demand, although he secretly plans revenge on his former friend, who once took the love of his life away from him. Rotwang indeed makes the replica look like Maria, although he programs this Maschinenmench (“machine-human” – the word “robot” is not used in the original version of Metropolis7) to be opposite to “the real” Maria with regards to character 7
Since it has become habitual to see Maschinenmench Maria as a robot, it should be pointed out that Lang and von Harbou had not come across the notion of “robot” when outlining the Metropolis manuscript, which instead was inspired by the notion of Frankenstein’s monster. The modern notion of “robot” can be traced back to a 1921 theatre play: R.U.R by Karel Capek. When the play opened in Berlin in 1925, Lang and von Harbou saw it. However, at that time they had already laid out the manuscript of Metropolis, which does not contain any references to a “robot”. It can be reasonably argued that rather than showing a robot in Metropolis, Lang and von Harbou have set the notion of what a robot should look like through their visualisation of Maschinenmench Maria.
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traits. When “the real” Maria preaches stoic calm and patience in the face of an unjust system, the Maschinenmench Maria preaches revolt. When watching the film, one should notice that Rotwang has lost his right hand, and instead uses a skilfully made artificial hand. Since he lacks the hand, no mediating heart could ever connect his head and hand. That circumstance singles out Rotwang to be the prime antagonist of Metropolis. The film’s motto emphasis an organic unity between head, hand, and mediating heart, thereby leaving un-organic technology to be the vicious force that threatens this organic unity. It should also be noticed that the organic unity is exclusively restricted to men. Throughout the film, women are reduced to remote objects, either they are alluring girls like the ones in the so-called “Eternal Garden”, or threatening working-class women; they could be absent mothers that never appear as is the case with dead Hel, or idealised icons as the two versions of Maria. In any case, women are not part of organic male unity.8 Instead, women are shown to be an overwhelming menace to friendship between men, as in the case of Hel, or that of Rotwang’s replica Maschinenmench Maria, which provokes old friends to fight and even to kill one another. These observations should be kept in mind when remembering that at the Bauhaus school most students were women (although most teachers – called “masters” – were men), and that the school taught how to come up with technical solutions to help making modern everyday life more rational and comfortable. There will soon be reason to come back to Metropolis’s implemented critique of Bauhaus. First, however, something should be said about the ways this film has conventionally been understood. The day after the 2010 premiere of the newly restored full-length version of Metropolis, the reviewer of the British newspaper The Independent, Kaleem Aftab, wrote: Even in its edited form and with its many narrative jumps, Lang’s tale about the struggle between the workers and the owners in a capitalist dystopia achieved classic status, largely because of its impressive production design, which drew on the popular art forms of the time, from German Expressionism to Art Deco and Modernism.9 This quote sums up the dominant view, namely that the imagery of Metropolis is in line with “the popular art forms of the time, from German Expressionism to Art Deco and Modernism”, not actively opposing these “art forms of the time”. This 8
9
The lost imagery found in 2008 and presented in 2010 underlines the homoerotic tensions that were hinted in previous versions of Metropolis. Especially the newly found scenes showing Freder and Josaphat alone in Freder’s apartment emphasises the implicit tension. Aftab, Kaleem: “First Night: Metropolis (uncut), Berlin Film Festival” in The Independent, 2010-02-13.
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is, I claim, a mistaken interpretation that has precluded interpreters from making sense of the film narrative, especially its ending. As mentioned, Metropolis has a reputation for being notorious. Although it remains a cornerstone in the history of cinema, it is repeatedly denounced for its poor and incoherent narrative. As early as 1927, the year that the film had its premiere, the Spanish film critic and later renowned filmmaker Luis Buñuel wrote that “Metropolis is not one film. Metropolis is two films joined by the belly, but with divergent, indeed extremely antagonistic, spiritual needs”. Buñuel continued: Those who consider the cinema as a discreet teller of tales will suffer profound disillusion with Metropolis. What it tells us is trivial, pretentious, pedantic, hackneyed romanticism. But if we put before the story the plastic-photogenic basis of the film, then Metropolis will come up to any standards, will overwhelm us as the most marvellous picture book imaginable. Imaging, then, two antipodean elements held under the same sign, in the zones of our sensibility.10 This dual, indeed “antipodean”, character of the film has shaped its succeeding legacy. Commentators and film scholars have wrestled the film at numerous occasions in order to make sense out of it, but with little or no success. For example, in her famous essay on expressionism within early German cinema, The Haunted Screen, Lotte Eisner wrote: “These days many passages in Metropolis seem old-fashioned and even vaguely ridiculous, especially those in which the Kolossal is overlarded [sic!] with sentiment. […] To detect the beauty of the light and shapes in Metropolis, as in many other German films, we need to go beneath the surface.”11 Others have not been as tactful as Eisner. In his by now classic essay on the culture of the Weimar Republic, Weimar Culture, historian Peter Gay gave this verdict: As early as 1927, the greatly overrated director Fritz Lang brought out the tasteless extravaganza Metropolis which would be of no importance had it not been taken so seriously and acclaimed so widely. Metropolis is a fantasy without imagination, a picturesque, ill-conceived and essentially reactionary tale which has only a few good shots of mass movement and rising waters to recommend it.12 10
11
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Buñuel, Luis: ‘Metropolis’ in Gaceta Literaria (Madrid), May 1, 1927. To English by Francisco Aranda, a translation that first appeared in Luis Buñuel: A Critical Biography (New York: DaCapoPress, 1976). This review, as well as others on the film Metropolis from 1927 can be found through http://www.michaelorgan.org.au/Metroh.htm (2010-02-18). Eisner, Lotte: The Haunted Screen (Berkeley & Los Angels: UCP, 1973 [1969]), p. 223. This essay was first published in French, as L’Ecran Démoniaque, in 1952. The author revised it before it was being reissued in 1965. Cf. the following quote by Eisner, which should be compared with Kracauer’s below presented view: “Apart from these machinemen, Lang seeks more and more to make groups of extras fall into a geometrical pattern. […] In Metropolis it becomes a basic factor of the architecture itself, immobilized with other bodies into triangles, ellipses or semicircles.” Eisner 1973, p. 229. Gay, Peter: Weimar Culture. The Outsider as Insider (London et al: Penguin, 1974 [1969]), p. 148.
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It could be mentioned here that what Gay liked about it was precisely that which Siegfried Kracauer, author of From Caligari to Hitler, an influential study on Weimar cinema, disliked about the film. To Kracauer, the way that Lang has structured and choreographed masses of extras, for example during the scene of rising waters drowning the workers’ city, has to be seen as a sort of demiurge-inaction who made ornaments out of groups of human beings.13 Kracauer claimed that by using large groups of people to construct more or less decorative effects of “mass ornamentation”, Lang depersonalised the people he filmed and paved way for upcoming Nazi aesthetics. Kracauer also claimed that the film’s ending was a deceit: The concession [Joh Fredersen] makes [on the stairs to the cathedral] amounts to a policy of appeasement that not only prevents the workers from winning their cause, but enables him to tighten his grip on them. […] In fact, Maria’s demand that the heart mediate between hand and brain could well have been formulated by Goebbles.14 It is not clear, however, that the label proto-Nazi fits Metropolis since Third Reich film scholars denounced the film. In 1943, for example, Otto Kriegk dismissed Metropolis because of its supposed foreign and non-German traits. According to Kriegk, the film was at one and the same time both too American and proto-Bolshevik: With Metropolis the alien elements in the German cinema had reached the point of catastrophe. On the one hand, [the film] tried to imitate the soulless civilisation of America by going one better. Megalomania was matched with megalomania. If skyscraper was piled on skyscraper, surely those of New York would feel defeated […]. Furthermore, if one added, the makers must have thought, enough of ‘German spirituality’ which was supposed to be superior to the American [way of life], and if one tackled the social question even more radically than the Americans were said to do, then one could not but pass the finishing line way ahead of them. […] In Italy and Turkey the film was banned after a few showings. The reason given was the film’s ‘Bolshevik tendency’. In Germany at the time people of all political colours were baffled as to what could possibly be Bolshevik about the film. Today we know better.15 13
14 15
Kracauer, Siegfried: From Caligari to Hitler. A Psychological History of the German Film (Princeton: PUP, 1974 [1947]), p. 149f. See also, Kracauer, Siegfried: Theorie des Films. Die Errettung der äußerern Wirklichkeit (Frankfurt a M: Suhrkamp, 1985 [1964]), p. 97. The latter book is a by Kracauer himself revised German translation of the originally English language book Theory of Film. The Redemption of Physical Reality (New York: OUP, 1960). The German translation was made by Friedrich Walter and Ruth Zellschan. Kracauer 1974, pp. 163–164. Otto Kriegk, quoted in Elsaesser 2000, p. 44. Elseasser has done the translation and shortening of the quote. The provenience of the quote is, as given by Elsaesser, Kriegk, Otto: Der deutsche Film im Spiegel der UFA. 25 Jahre Kampf und Vollendung (Berlin: Ufa-Buchverlag, 1943), p. 88f.
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Apparently, the complexity of the film is so great that nobody appears comfortable with it. In a fairly recent monograph on the films of Fritz Lang, Tom Gunning opens his chapter on the film with the following sentence: “Metropolis remains the albatross around Lang’s neck, condemned, or at least partially condemned, by critics and film-makers (including, at points, Lang himself)”.16 In a painstaking attempt, Gunning struggles to understand the film in terms of allegory over modernity. His effort, however, does not appear to convince even himself. “What a hoot this film is!” he exclaims in the midst of his own analyses of it.17 Especially the way the film ends he finds particularly dissatisfactory: “Everyone hates this ending” (Gunning’s emphasis), he claims.18 Gunning also writes that during a private discussion about the film, renown Weimar-film historian Anton Kaes suggested that perhaps the film never was intended to have a coherent narrative, and hence there could be no fitting ending: “that Metropolis is conceived basically as a series of sensations, a film of disparate attractions rather than narrative integration, and that Lang simply didn’t care that much about pulling it all together in a final satisfying coherence”.19 In his own writings, Kaes never develops his argument that far. He has tried, instead, to place the film within the specific historical context of the Weimar Republic struggling to find its place within modernity without being able to come to terms with the traumas of a lost war that left the population starving within a ruined state and collapsed economy. The context, thereby, was one of people being unable to mourn their dead and their lost social being, as well as collectively held self identity: As Metropolis illustrates, [these utopian ideals concerning community and affinity] could be reactivated as an antidote to unlimited progress and technology. […] The idealism of Metropolis should be seen, then, not as a ‘fault’ of the film but as a historically explainable attempt to fight these tendencies of modernity that have undeniably shown themselves to be cruel and dehumanizing. Viewed in its historical context, the film thus dramatizes the protest of German modernism against an overpowering modernity – a modernity that had undermined and negated its emancipatory and utopian potential.20 Kaes is a researcher who in his person bridges the divide between film scholars and historians of the Weimar Republic. He can therefore base analyses of 16
17 18 19 20
Gunning, Tom: The Films of Fritz Lang. Allegories of Vision and Modernity (London: BFI, 2000), p. 52. The claim that Lang himself should have been dissatisfied with the film, Gunning takes from an interview that filmmaker Peter Bogdanovish made with Lang and then published as Fritz Lang in America in 1967. Gunning 2000, p. 70. Gunning 2000, p. 78. Gunning 2000, p. 79f. Gunning is not clear what of this idea is Kaes’s and what of it is his own. Kaes, Anton: “Metropolis (1927). City, Cinema, Modernity” in Noah Isenberg (ed.): Weimar Cinema (New York: CUP, 2009), p. 188.
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the narrative structure of Metropolis upon first-hand knowledge of the context of Weimar Germany. Because of this reason, his assertion of a “protest of German modernism against an overpowering modernity – a modernity that had undermined and negated its emancipatory and utopian potential” should be taken earnestly and be subjected to a serious scrutiny. Indeed, Kaes, in his essay from 2009, appears to be hinting that Metropolis should be seen as going against modernism instead of being in line with it.
The Medieval in the Modern Following Kaes, Metropolis should be placed within its historical context. The claim of this essay is that the film should be seen within a modern long-drawn debate about how to perceive the Middle Ages. From the early modern era, which started with the renaissance and the reformation, to the present day, the lasting notion of “the Middle Ages” has been that of “the Dark Ages”; the thousand-years period of decline between the end of Antiquity and the beginning of Modernity. The Middle Ages, then, has often been regarded as the dark and reactionary antithesis to the illuminated and progressive Modernity. In this sense, “their” Middle Ages constitute the very opposite to “our” Modern Era, at least according to a well-known and widespread modern idea. And so a basic demarcation between “us” and “them” is constituted: “we” are civilised and modern, being illuminated by reason and acting progressively when improving society, while “they” are backwards and medieval, refraining improvement and held back by uncivilised customs. Although being the dominant narrative, this vision of the Middle Ages has not been the only one offered, however. Even if the above version of history has become dominant, it never was the only one. At least one alternative story became quite successful, especially during the decades surrounding the turn of the century 1900. That other modern story focused the supposed unity of the medieval society, a unity that did not break up families and traditions, that did not separate artists from artisans, art from craft. A medieval society characterised by a gothic that had its shadows, no doubt, but also its stability and unity, its solidity and its inherent, yet steadily developing quality. Following the works of John Ruskin, William Morris, and Philip Webb, this idea developed within the Arts and Crafts Movement. That movement emanated in Great Britain. It spread over Europe during the late nineteenth century, then continuing worldwide around the turn of the century 1900. And it boomed during the years immediately preceding the outbreak of the Great War. This was the idea behind the aesthetic ideals of the trends in design and architecture that were called “Art Deco”, “Art Nouveau”, or sometimes “Jugendstil”. During the early decades of the twentieth century, therefore, distinctly different notions of the medieval were confronting one another within modernity. On the one side, there were the Middle Ages being the Dark Ages, the absolute opposite to the Modern Era. Here, it is possible to speak of a distinction between “us” and “them”: “we – who are modern and progressive” and “them – who are backward and medieval”. On the other side, the Middle Ages also constituted the very origin
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of the Modern Era, so that the medieval was at the core of modernity, instead of being its opposite. Here, it is possible to speak of identification with the medieval period, inhibiting the above “us” and “them” distinction: “we” are “we” also with the people of the Middle Ages, as we recognise and are inspired of the medieval elements in our everyday life. This duality became activated in the discourse of the city to come, and especially with regards to the sky-scraping buildings that were thought to characterise the city of the future. In the medieval city centre one would find the cathedral. In the centre of the future city one were to find the skyscraper. So which was the relationship between the medieval cathedral and the modern skyscraper? Was the medieval cathedral the direct opposite of the modern skyscraper? Or was it rather the other way around, so that the new skyscraper was the modern equivalent to the traditional cathedral? To what extent was the skyscraper the ultimate sign of modern fragmentation and destruction of all traditional values, and to what extent was it instead sustaining those values within modernity? Did the notions of the cathedral and the skyscraper signify the divide between the medieval and the modern, or, instead, did the pair cathedral-skyscraper bridge that divide?21 The Bauhaus school can be seen as the prime propagator for the connection between the medieval cathedral and the modern skyscraper. Founded in Weimar in 1919, it had been conceived upon the idea of a basic unity between arts and crafts, which can be traced back to the very name “Bauhaus”. It was architect Walter Gropius, thinking that the clearest expression of a unity between arts and crafts was to be found within architecture, who founded the Bauhaus school. The prolongation of architecture, he thought, was the collective construction of harmonious societies, especially in the cases of constructing key buildings and of urban planning. At the centre of medieval cities lay the cathedral, or rather the building ground upon which the cathedral was to be erected. Around the building ground lay the workshops where the artisans in a collective effort created the cathedral. In German these workshops were known as die Bauhütte or die Bauhäuser. The name “das Bauhaus” thus literally means “the workshop” with a clear reference to the construction of the gothic cathedral. The Bauhaus school took both its name and its vocation from the medieval tradition and practice of collectively erecting the cathedral – the one big publicly constructed 21
The significant contrast between the notions of the cathedral and the skyscraper within modern discourse could be noticed, for example, in the early works of the Bauhaus school in Weimar around the turn of the decade 1920. Not every commentator, however, has noticed this contrast. For instance, in his work on the Weimar German discourse on the notion of the skyscraper, Dietrich Neumann has discussed both the Bauhaus school and the film Metropolis without mentioning the notion of the cathedral. Neuman, Dietrich: Die Wolkenkratzer kommen! Deutsche Hochhäuser der zwanziger Jahre. Debatten, Projekte. Bauen (Braunschweig/Wiesbaden: Vieweg, 1995). Neumann, Dietrich (ed.): Filmarchitekture. Von Metropolis bis Blade Runner (München & New York: Prestel, 1996). On the other hand, Staffan Källström has studied the notion of the medieval cathedral within modernity in general, and the Bauhaus school in particular, although without mentioning the notion of the skyscraper, nor the film Metropolis. Källström, Staffan: Framtidens katedral. Medeltidsdröm och utopisk modernism (Stockholm: Carlssons, 2000).
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artwork. It saw itself as the modern equivalent to the medieval workshops around the cathedral construction sites. To the Bauhaus school, the modern equivalent to the cathedral was the skyscraper. Here, a utopian idea and an ideology were brought forward: on the rubble and ruins left by the war and collapsed state, a new unity should be conceived. The notion of a trajectory from the past of the medieval cathedral to the future of the modern skyscraper was pivotal to the young Bauhaus school in the early 1920s. The roots of the Bauhaus school can be traced back to the organisation (Deutscher) Werkbund, founded in 1907 by designers and industrialists who promoted the making and production of modern-styled goods for a worldwide market. For the Werkbund, the then current Arts and Crafts Movement, which drew its inspiration from the works of architects and designers, was an important source of inspiration. Already in the mid nineteenth century, art historian John Ruskin had rejected the supposedly Renascence idea of a distinction between the originality of art and the commonness of handicraft. Ruskin, instead, propagated that which he took to be the medieval unity of arts and crafts, as it was manifested especially in the collective building of gothic cathedrals. One idea guiding this fin-de-siècle trend of a unity between arts and craft was the recreation of the working communities that once had enabled the building of medieval cathedrals. For example, Peter Behrens, an architect and one of the founders of Werkbund, called the industrial plant he drew for the Berlin-based company AEG a “cathedral for work”. That plant was built in 1908–09. One of Behrens’s assistants at that time was above-mentioned Walter Gropius. In 1910, Gropius opened his own architect office. The year after he, together with Adolf Meyer, outlined the Fagus shoe factory. This was the first so-called “curtain wall” building ever to be made. In 1912 Gropius was elected full member of the Werkbund, and in 1919 he founded the Bauhaus school. On the front page of the so-called Bauhaus Manifesto of that year was a wood-engraved image of a gothic cathedral.22 The notion of the cathedral was thus explicitly used when the Bauhaus school formed its own image and self-understanding. In July 1919 (shortly after the signing of the Peace Treaty at Versailles), Gropius held a speech in which he referred to the “dreadfully catastrophic phase of world history” in which they found themselves; a phase, he said, that both changed the way that life was led and the inner constitutions of people. To these profound changes, he continued, they had to respond by offering new expressions. In response to the present crisis they, at the school, had to contribute when being “carried by a condensed big public spiritually-religious idea that eventually had to find its crystallised expression in a huge collective artwork”. “And”, he continued, “this great collective artwork, this cathedral of the future, will thereafter send its radiating 22
On the Arts and Crafts Movements and the pre-history of the Bauhaus school, see Droste, Magdalena: Bauhaus 1919–1933 (Berlin et al: Taschen, 1991). See also Källström 2000.
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reflections into the smallest items of everyday life”.23 The religious, or pseudoreligious, tone used when referring to the notion of the cathedral should not be missed, neither should the feeling of living in the shadow of an apocalyptic age.
Metropolis As already mentioned, it has become habitual to think that Metropolis merely illustrates the architectonical ideas and the city-planning ideals that were produced within Weimar Germany in general, and at the Bauhaus school in particular. However, this essay makes the claim that nothing could be more misleading. Metropolis was outlined as a visual and narrative assault on the very groundwork upon which the Bauhaus school had been founded. Nevertheless, both the makers of the film Metropolis and the founders of the Bauhaus school were united in their joint appreciation for the medieval cathedral, as well as in their scepticism of post-Renaissance modernity. In the above-made distinction between two distinct understandings of the medieval in the modern, Metropolis was outlined to take a distinctly third position. Instead of seeing the Middle Ages either as the antipode of modernity, or as the root of the Modern Era, Metropolis made the claim that the Middle Ages provided the remedy to the crises provoked by modernity. In this sense, Metropolis can be seen to be in line with the stance of the Bauhaus school in so far as that the film and the school both recognised the medieval origin of modernity – thereby jointly making a distinction towards those who claimed that the Middle Ages was the antithesis of the Modern Era. However, when the Bauhaus school took the spirits of the Middle Ages to be its source of inspiration when further developing modernity, Metropolis presented the idea that only a return to those spirits of the Middle Ages can save us from further developing modernity. In this sense, Metropolis can be seen to have consciously outlined and presented a Bauhaus-critical approach, an approach that surely was intended to be ambivalent and challenging, rather than conclusive – because in that way the film would attract bigger audiences and provoke more debate and public interest too. More debate means more public relations and more interest in the film, which would make more people prone to go and see the film. And, ultimately, it is in the interest of every producing film company to sell the film it produces in order to have invested money returned with as big profit as it is possible. Ufa, the producer of Metropolis, was no exception to the rule – especially since Ufa fell through a deep economic crisis in 1925, a crisis that forced the company into bankruptcy in early 1927. 23
Gropius, Walter: “Ansprache an die Studierenden des Staatlichen Bauhauses, gehalten aus Anlaß der Jahresausstellung von Schülerarbeiten im Juli 1919” in Hans M. Winler (ed.): Das Bauhaus 1919–1933. Weimar, Dessau, Berlin und die nachfolge in Chicago seit 1937 (Berlin: Bramsche, 19753ed [1962]), p. 45f. “Und dieses große Kunstwerk der Gesamtheit, dieses Kathedrale der Zukunft, wird dann mit seiner Lichtfülle bis in die kleinsten Dinge des täglischen Lebens hineinstrahlen”, my translation, ET.
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To pin down how Metropolis criticises the Bauhaus approach, one should take a closer look at its production, which for the then current film-production practices had both a remarkably big budget and an exceptionally drawn-out shooting time. When it took about a month to shot an average film, the filming of Metropolis lasted for more than a year.24 Novelist and scriptwriter Thea von Harbou and film director Fritz Lang met in 1920 when they both were working for Erich Pommer’s film company DeclaBioscop. Together Pommer, von Harbou, Lang created a string of film successes in 1920–21, which paved the way for Decla-Bioscop’s merger with the German giant film corporation Ufa in late 1922. In 1921 von Harbou and Lang married. The successful collaboration between the three continued and in 1924 they made the film Die Nibelungen for Ufa. That film became an international success and in the autumn of that year Pommer and Lang went to the United States to promote it. Before the trip, the three had outlined a script for their next film: Metropolis.25 It has often been claimed that Fritz Lang got the idea for making the film when seeing the skyline of New York.26 Since the film was already in pre-production before the trip started, there are reasons to conclude that Lang projected his vision of Metropolis onto the New York skyline, rather than the other way around. If so, he would have projected his German-based notions about the United States and New York onto the project, instead of bringing American notions back to Germany to be used in Metropolis. The point, then, is that the idea behind Metropolis emanated from a German discourse on skyscrapers and the future city, not an inspiration of American practice when building skyscrapers. For its survival in a costly high-risk business, Ufa was dependent on exporting its film productions. To be competitive in the international film market, Ufa gave priority to expensive and spectacular productions that would put its competitors in the shadow and, if nothing else, attract audiences worldwide because of their stunning visual qualities. Ufa thereby ran the risk of falling in between contradictory interests, namely on the one hand developing art film within the context of German discourses, and on the other hand developing commercially competitive movies for an international film market. The case of Metropolis illustrates these contradictory interests: Ufa produced a film that it hoped should be a hit in New York, even though the film from a distant German perspective explicitly criticised New York. Central in the American tradition of moviemaking are (both then and now) wellknown movie stars and easy-to-follow narratives. The production of visual art per se is not a priority within Hollywood moviemaking (although sometimes the 24 25
26
About the production history of Metropolis, cf. Gehler & Kasten (eds.): Fritz Lang. Die Stimme von Metropolis (Berlin: Henschel Verlag, 1990), Bertetto, Paolo: Fritz Lang Metropolis (Torino: Lindau, 2001), and Elsaesser (2000). About the relationship between Pommer, von Harbou, and Lang, as well as the initiative behind the Metropolis film project, cf. Hardt, Ursula: From Caligari to California. Eric Pommer’s Life in the International Film Wars (Providence & Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1996), pp. 53ff. Cf. Töteberg, Michael: Fritz Lang (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1985), p. 52.
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mentioning of film as a form of art is being paid lip service). In the Hollywood tradition, the concept “art film” is primarily used when talking about noncommercial film projects as opposed to commercial moviemaking.27 Metropolis, on the other hand, was a film project without internationally acclaimed stars – the leading roles were either played by debutants or actors known virtually only in Berlin – with a complex narrative, and with high artistic ambitions. It was not only a film made in the expressionist tradition that had been launched by the international surprise success The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919), but also – and this is the key claim made in this essay – Metropolis was a German film that consciously departed from and explicitly criticised that German tradition of film expressionism. Hence, it is misleading to see Metropolis as the fulfilment of the German expressionist tradition that started with The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Instead, Metropolis ought to be seen as a film actively and explicitly trying to revoke the tradition of German expressionist film from The Cabinet of Dr Caligari and onwards.28 Regardless, any discussion about the relationship between the film Metropolis and the German expressionist film tradition would have been lost on contemporary American movie audiences that were out to see a spectacular film with well-known movie stars and an easy-to-follow story. If Ufa indeed invested money in the Metropolis project to have a film that could be a success in the United States, the company certainly did not make it easy for itself. Apparently, crises-ridden Ufa had lost direction around the mid 1920s. Even though the company suffered a deep economic crisis at the time, the more crucial problem, still, was the company’s lack of a cohesive policy when dealing with that economic crisis. In fact, Ufa seems to have been in freefall during the period 1925–26 (the years immediately before its bankruptcy in April 1927). If so, the film project Metropolis should be seen as a consequence of the troubled state of the company, not as the cause of the troubles (although much blame for the company’s calamites was projected onto this film project after Ufa’s bankruptcy).29 Given the format of the film, the idea that Metropolis could be an instant box-office success in the United States appears to have been based rather on wishful thinking during a period of overwhelming crisis than on rational calculations on behalf of the Ufa management. It should also be kept in mind that in order to avoid immediate bankruptcy in late 1925 (halfway through the shooting of Metropolis), Ufa was in effect granted a much-needed loan from the 27 28
29
About Hollywood-style moviemaking, cf. Bordwell, Staiger, Thompson: The Classical Hollywood Cinema. Film style & mode of production to 1960 (London & New York, Routledge 1988 [1985]). The films made by Lang and von Harbou during the early 1920s are generally taken to be prime exponents of so-called Weimar German expressionist filmmaking. It is here proposed that their understanding of expressionist art is scrutinised more thoroughly. In the film Dr. Mabuse, der Spieler (1922), they let Mabuse say, “expressionism is just a game”. Later, Lang distanced himself from the notion of expressionist film, and said that he just used it as an effect. See Töteberg (1985), p. 38. About the crisis in Ufa, cf. Kreimeier, Klaus: Die UFA Story. Geschichte eines Filmkonzerns (München: Wilhelm Heyne Verlag, 1992), chapter 11, pp. 146–156.
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Hollywood studios Paramount and MGM when accepting the conditions of the so-called Parufamet (Paramount–Ufa–MGM) agreement in December 1925. In January 1926, in the midst of what appears to have been inner tensions in the Ufa board of directors, Pommer, who was a member of that board of directors and also the producer of Metropolis, left Ufa. That meant that at a crucial state during its production, the Metropolis film project was left without an executive producer.30 Moreover, it should be kept in mind too, that no skyscrapers had been built in Berlin at the time for the making of Metropolis, although an intense debate on whether or not skyscrapers should be erected had been going on for years. This debate had not any real correspondent in, for example, New York, where skyscrapers had been erected already before the war. A latter-day observer should also keep in mind that the outcome of the First World War had an altogether different implication in New York and the United States, than it had in Berlin and Weimar Germany. Yet – and this is here the paradox – Ufa seems to have produced Metropolis as a film primarily made for the American film market.
Metropolis as a Provocation The proposition made in this essay is that narrative and visual aspects of Metropolis consciously challenges the early Weimar-German Bauhaus tradition. But since the challenge was bound to a contemporary German, or indeed Berlin context, it was almost certainly lost on American audiences. Seen against that background, it becomes difficult to understand why Pommer and Ufa gave green light to the Metropolis production in the first place. What is clear is that Metropolis fell flat when being seen by American distributors in early 1927. It led to dramatic cuts and to a re-edition of the film: almost a fourth of the original film footage was cut out, and the rest was re-edited to such an extent that an entirely new plotline was created. First in 2010 it has been possible to see what the original film actually looked like. Also before 2010 it has been possible to reconstruct and intellectually envisage the original version of the film, although seeing the original helps understanding the film plot, of course. In any case, it has always been apparent that the narrative of Metropolis is dotted with Biblical references. The skyscraper in the centre of Metropolis is called “the new tower of Babel”, and there is a clear allusion that the future city of Metropolis is the coming of a city of Babel – a notion that was in line with a popular tendency in Weimar Germany of comparing New York (and to some extent also Berlin) with the city of Babel. Rotwang’s fall from the roof of the gothic cathedral at the end of the film comes close to the fall to earth of archangel Lucifer (the fallen angel that is often identified as Satan), a fall that enables “the Heart’s” mediation between “the Hand” and “the Head” that ends the film. Also, as is well known, down in the workers city below ground level, the “real” Maria holds a sermon in which she 30
Cf. Hardt (1996), pp. 87ff.
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tells the story of the tower of Babel. According to Maria, the original Tower of Babel was the result of certain hubris among the city’s decision makers. The motto of the Tower of Babel was, Maria tells her congregation of workers: “Great is the world and its creator! And great is humanity!” – the theme of hubris is made explicit: men try to equal God. Maria continues by stating that the decision makers of Babel did not themselves have any contact with the slaves that actually built the tower. Or in Maria’s terminology, “the Head” did not have any contact with “the Hand” since there was no mediating “Heart” functioning in between those who organised the work and those who carried it out. The consequence, she says, was that “the song of praise among some became the curse for others”. That led to revolt, social collapse, anarchy, and the dissolution of society as such. Within the overall narrative of Metropolis, the point made by Maria’s sermon is the underlining of the claim that if “the Head” of the city Metropolis – personified by Joh Fredersen – did not turn away from its ambitions of creating a mechanical world equalising the natural one, and if it did not connect with “the Hand” – i.e., the workers – then society would fall pray for revolt, anarchy, and finally destruction and dissolution. The Biblical connotations used in the film can be seen, too, in the transformation of the huge machine that turns into the man-eating monster Moloch; Rotwang’s “false” Maria, who (as has become explicit in the 2010 version of the film) is outlined as the Whore of Babylon; the crosses behind the “real” Maria during her sermon, etc. Put together, these connotations are used in the film to awaken tacit understanding among the film’s spectators. If these tacit understandings do not exist among the spectators the film will fall flat in the eyes of its beholders. Modern references to phenomena connected with the Middle Ages are constantly played out in Metropolis. In that sense, the film’s narrative, including the ending, only becomes understandable among audiences that already are aware of the tacit discourses referred to by the film’s imagery. To audiences that do not share these sets of references or discourses, the narrative of the film appears strange or even unintelligible. Seen from this perspective, the film appears to be a double allegory. On the one hand, the city – called “Metropolis” in the film31 – is an allegory of the Biblical city of Babel, and the story about the fall of the Tower of Babel. On the other hand, “Metropolis” as a city of the future can be seen as an allegory over the then present-day modernity, too. If so, the city “Metropolis” would not be the city of the future as much as it would be a dystrophic caricature of the present mega cities of the 1920s, such as for example New York or Berlin. Seen in the light of the debate on “Amerikanisumus” within the Weimar Republic, therefore, the city “Metropolis” could be understood to represent the then contemporary 31
For the sake of clarity, the difference between the film Metropolis, and the city “Metropolis” within the film should be kept apart, especially since Metropolis is laid out to be a critique of “Metropolis”.
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United States and New York (or, for that, matter the Weimar Republic and Berlin). If so, the film Metropolis can be said to have constituted the warning that an unbound modern development would lead to disaster and social dissolution, and that the only remedy is returning to known traditions as they have been passed on since the Middle Ages. The use of the notion of the symbol Babel as a double allegory is recurrently made throughout the film. Although the city “Metropolis” should be the city of the future, the people in the film often are seen using cars and cloths that can be directly connected with Berlin of the mid 1920s. For example, after Freder has witnessed a disastrous explosion in the city of the workers, and have envisaged how the machine transforms into Moloch, he rushes back up to ground level and his car – clearly identifiable as a car from the mid 1920s – where he instructs his waiting chauffeur: “To the New Tower of Babel. To my father.”
Kirche fort, dafür Turm Babel The idea of making a film that revoked the modern vision as it was presented, for example, by the Bauhaus school becomes clear when studying the way the film was outlined during its production. When preparing the storyboard for the coming film, art director Erich Kettelhut sketched the centre of the city so that the gothic cathedral was placed in the city centre. Directly on that sketch, with a red pen, Lang has crossed out the cathedral and written (in German) “Kirche fort dafür Turm Babel” (“Take away the church and put the Tower of Babel in its place”). In Kettelhut’s next sketch a huge skyscraper has taken the place of the cathedral. That image, with one small correction, became the lasting one within the actual film.32 The small correction was that the deck at the top of the skyscraper – where airplanes were to lift and land – had been changed into a number of hangers that circumscribed the top of the building like an adorned crown. Here, the film spectator should remember the work of architect Bruno Taut, a work that was well known in Weimar Germany around the mid 1920s. Bruno Taut, who was a friend of Gropius’ as well as a distant associate of the Bauhaus school, had in 1919 published a book called Die Stadtkrone (“The City Crown”). In that book, Taut presented his idea of a new form of urban planning in which the future city should be centred around one major building, preferably a skyscraper. The idea was that this central building should be the node not only of the city’s physical space, but also of the unity and solidarity of the city’s community: this future building should be what the medieval cathedral used to have been. In 1919, Taut also wrote a piece he called Der Weltbaumeister (“The Constructor of the World”) that was perceived as an “Architecture Play for a Symphonic Orchestra”. It was a theatre play of sorts, which should be staged on a theatre stage, beginning with the imagery of a gothic cathedral that would
32
Cf. Neumann (ed.: 1996).
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crumble and be exchanged with a tall crystal building (“Kristallhaus”).33 Taut’s direction was clear: from the medieval cathedral to the modern skyscraper. By shaping the skyscraper in Metropolis as a form of City Crown, and then showing it to be the node of inequality and social tension, Lang managed to revoke and challenge the very foundation of Taut’s vision. Lang’s direction in Metropolis was contrary to Taut’s: from the modern skyscraper to the medieval cathedral. But of course, to get the magnitude of Lang’s provocative challenge, one had first to be at least acquainted with Taut’s initial vision. In 1924–26 Taut had his breakthrough as an architect. During these years, Taut’s major and, later world-famous, residential developments were constructed around Berlin: to be mentioned are the Siedlung Schillerpark in Berlin-Wedding, the Hufeisensidlung (the Horseshoe Development) in Berlin-Britz, and Onkel Toms Hütte Siedlung in Berlin–Zehlendorf. These residential developments are now taken up on the UNESCO World Heritage Site (as Metropolis is on the UNESCO Memorial of the World List).34 At the same time as Taut’s developments were being built, Lang’s Metropolis was being produced. The way Metropolis explicitly challenged the architectural discourse of its day was immediately noticed among Berlin’s cultural elite of the day – but it was hardly noticed among everyday film audiences outside of Berlin and of Germany. Furthermore, it has only to a limited degree been noted in the literature on Lang’s Metropolis film.
Conclusion The aim of this essay has been to take a closer look at the tension between the notions of the cathedral and the skyscraper in Metropolis, and in so doing, trying to get a grip on the larger question on the role of the medieval within the modernity. Usually, Metropolis is seen to be in line with German modernism at large, and especially with the architectural notions applied at the Bauhaus school or by architects like Bruno Taut. The film is also generally seen to be in line with the traditions of Weimar German film expressionism in the wake of the film The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. This essay argues that such perspectives misunderstand the intentions behind the film project Metropolis. The point made here is that even though both early Bauhaus and the film Metropolis used the image of the medieval cathedral as a marker for the future to come, they used it differently, not to say contrarily. That which in the Bauhaus school was looked upon as a promise, was in Metropolis depicted as a menace. In that sense Metropolis should be seen running counter to the Bauhaus tradition, not going along with it. Both Bauhaus and Lang’s Metropolis can be placed 33
34
About Taut’s work during and directly after the First World War, cf. Ricci, Giacomo: La Cattedrale del Futuro, Bruno Taut 1914–1921 (Roma: Officina Edizioni, 1982); about his work Der Weltbaumeister, cf. Salotti, Gian Domenico & Manfredini, Manfredo A.: Bruno Taut Der Weltbaumeister. L’interno e la rappresentazione nelle ricerche verso un’architettura di vetro (Milano: FrancoAngeli, 1998): the latter work contains a full reprint of Taut’s Der Weltbaumeister. For more information, see the homepage of UNESCO: http://whc.unesco.org/en/ list/1239 (2010-02-18).
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within a vivid debate on the modernity in general, and on the future of society and of city architecture in particular. Both early Bauhaus and Lang’s Metropolis criticise Americanised, liberal, free-market modernity. But Lang’s Metropolis does not support the Bauhaus notion of a future modelled on the understanding that the workshops around the medieval cathedral-building sites should be seen to inspire technical innovation. Instead, in Metropolis the inventor Rotwang is the evil genius, the film’s prime antagonist: inventing new technology is here viewed as a form of hubris and as a potential threat. In that sense, Lang’s Metropolis promotes a different understanding of both the medieval cathedral and of the future. When the Bauhaus perspective proposed a progressive development from the medieval cathedral to equality and prosperity around the future skyscraper, the perspective of Metropolis was the contrary: from inequality and social tension around the modern skyscraper to reconciliation and renewed spirit of community on the stairs to the medieval cathedral. When Taut, Gropius, and others in and around the orbit of the Bauhaus school thought that the modern skyscraper should be seen not only as the future correspondent to the medieval cathedral, but also as the node that generated community and order, the base for future development and wellbeing, Lang and von Harbou used their film to outline a devastating critique of that approach. When the Bauhaus school can be seen to have drawn a line of development from the medieval cathedral of the past to future equality, community, and prosperity around the skyscraper of tomorrow, Metropolis shows the reverse line of development: the film begins by showing inequality and social tension around the modern skyscraper, and ends with reconciliation and renewed spirit of community on the stairs to the medieval cathedral. When seen in that perspective, whether liking it or not, the narrative of the film Metropolis makes sense, and its ending comes as the narrative’s logical conclusion.
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Von Schweden über die Ostsee in das Heilige Römische Reich Deutscher Nation. „Der Löwe aus Mitternacht” als Retter des evangelischen Glaubens in Deutschland Jens E. Olesen
Das Königreich Schweden (inkl. Finnland) war an der Jahrhundertwende 1600 weitgehend noch ein rückständiges und auf Agrarproduktion basierendes Land, schaffte aber im dritten Jahrzehnt des 17. Jahrhunderts den großen Sprung zum modernsten Verwaltungsstaat Europas. Der Hauptfaktor dieser Entwicklung war allem Anschein nach die Effektivisierung und Optimierung der Finanzverwaltung. Sie schuf u.a. eine stabile Grundlage für die Aufbringung der Kosten zum Beispiel für die Ausstattung der Armeen und der Flotte.1 Als König Karl IX. 1611 starb, wurde sein Sohn Gustav II. Adolf sein Nachfolger. Der junge König übernahm ein Reich, das sich auf dem Weg zu einer europäischen Macht befand. Die Beziehungen des Königshauses zu Polen gingen auf den Streit zwischen Herzog Karl von Södermanland (dem späteren König Karl IX.) mit König Sigismund (Sohn von Johann III, König 1568–1592 und Bruder von Karl IX.) zurück. Dies sollte Schweden bis zum Frieden von Oliva 1660 beschäftigen. Bereits 1561 hatte König Erik XIV. Estland besetzt und eine Politik eingeleitet, die Schweden im 17. Jahrhundert zur dominierenden Macht im Ostseegebiet machen sollte. Ende des 16. Jahrhunderts erweiterte Schweden seine Besitzungen in Estland und eroberte die Stadt Narva in Rußland. Ein inneres Chaos in Rußland erleichterte die schwedischen imperialen Bestrebungen. Nach jahrelangen Auseinandersetzungen wurde 1617 der Frieden von Stolbovo geschlossen. Schweden erhielt die Provinzen Kexholm und Ingermanland. Rußland war damit von der Ostsee abgeschnitten. In den folgenden Jahren kämpften die Schweden in Polen und verlegten 1630 den Krieg in das Heilige Römische Reich Deutscher Nation.2 Die militärischen und verwaltungsmäßigen Reformen des jungen Königs Gustav II. Adolfs, um Schweden als Machtstaat gezielt und fundiert aufzubauen, sind in 1 2
Jens E. Olesen, Der schwedische Machtstaat als Kriegsunternehmer 1620–1660, in: Gustav Adolf. König von Schweden. Die Kraft der Erinnerung 1632–2007, Hg. Maik Reichel und Inger Schuberth, Dößel 2007,S. 49–60, hier S. 49. Göran Behre, Lars-Olof Larsson, Eva Österberg, Sveriges historia 1521–1809, Fallköping 2001, S. 74ff, 86ff, 102ff. Lennart Hedberg, Karl IX. Företagarfursten och envaldshärskaren, Stockholm 2009. Sten Carlsson und Jerker Rosén, Svensk Historia Bd. 1, Stockholm 1969 (3. Aufl.), S. 297ff, 399ff.
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der Forschung längst bekannt. Auch die Kriegsereignisse wurden eingehend von der Forschung untersucht. Gustav II. Adolf war laut der modernen Forschung ein kluger Realpolitiker, der die Gegner angriff, wenn diese innere Probleme hatten. Die konfessionellen Aspekte spielten für das schwedische Eingreifen in den Dreißigjährigen Krieg im Reich nur eine untergeordnete Rolle. Die Kriegsauseinandersetzungen spielten sich auf vielen Ebenen ab, wie im modernen Krieg.3 Die Forschung hat sich bis vor wenigen Jahrzehnten generell nur wenig mit der frühneuzeitlichen skandinavischen Presse- und Öffentlichkeitsarbeit beschäftigt. Eine Ausnahme bilden die Veröffentlichungen von Göran Rystad, der die Kriegsnachrichten und die Propaganda während des Dreißigjährigen Krieges erforschte. Er analysierte besonders die Kriegsrelationen, vor allem die Schlacht bei Nördlingen 1634 in den gleichzeitigen gedruckten Kriegsberichten. Trotz des großen und leicht erklärlichen Interesses, das die Geschichtsforschung aus verschiedenen Gründen schon seit jeher für den Dreißigjährigen Krieg hatte, dauerte es verhältnismäßig lange, bis man die in der damaligen Publizistik in so außerordentlich reichem Maße vorhandene Propaganda zum Gegenstand einer wissenschaftlichen Untersuchung machte. Tatsächlich bedeutete der Dreißigjährige Krieg den Durchbruch der modernen Propaganda, soweit sie sich des Druckes als Mittel für ihre Ziele bediente. Denn niemals vorher wurde im politischen und im konfessionellen Kämpfen die Druckerpresse so intensiv eingesetzt; große Mengen von Pamphleten, Flugblättern und Flugschriften verschiedenster Art wurden über ganz Europa verbreitet.4 Im Folgenden sollen einige ausgewählte und zentrale Darstellungen des schwedischen Königs auf deutschen Flugblättern aus dem Dreißigjährigen Krieg näher analysiert werden, um der lange währenden Symbolkraft des Königs als Retter des evangelischen Glaubens gerecht zu werden. Die Schweden selbst betrieben u.a. mit Pressepublizistik und Medaillons eine massive Öffentlichkeitsarbeit im Deutschen Reich, um die Stimmung für den Evangelischen Kampf anzustacheln.5 Von den protestantischen Autoren wurde der schwedische König zwar als christlicher Heilsbringer verklärt. Die protestantischen Reichsfürsten folgten ihm aber am Anfang nur zögerlich, ließen doch dessen immer offenkundiger werdende eigene Machtinteressen sie um ihre Libertät fürchten. Mit dem Eingreifen Schwedens 1630, vollends aber mit dem offenen Kriegseintritt Frankreichs 1635, weitete sich der Dreißigjährige 3 4
5
Sie u.a. Michael Roberts, Gustavus Adolphus and the Rise of Sweden, London 1973. Göran Rystad, Kriegsnachrichten und Propaganda während des Dreissigjährigen Krieges. Die Schlacht bei Nördlingen in den gleichzeitigen, gedruckten Kriegsberichten, Lund 1960 (= Skrifter utgivna av Vetenskapssocieteten i Lund, 54). Siehe spätestens Annette Hempel, „Eigentlicher Bericht/So wol auch Abcontrafeytung.“ Eine Untersuchung der nicht-allegorischen Nachrichtenblätter zu den Schlachten und Belagerungen der schwedischen Armee unter Gustav II Adolf (1628/30–1632, Frankfurt am Main 2000 (= Europäische Hochschulschriften Reihe III, Bd. 878). Hermann Maué, Sebastian Dadlers Medaillen auf König Gustav Adolf von Schweden, in:Gustav Adolf. König von Schweden. Die Kraft der Erinnerung 1632–2007, Hg. Maik Reichel und Inger Schuberth, Dößel 2007, S. 105–114.
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Schwedische Rettung der christlichen Kirchen. Anno 1631.
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Krieg endgültig zu einem europäischen Ringen um die politische Hegemonie auf dem Kontinent aus, waren die religiösen Motive zu diesem Zeitpunkt nachrangig geworden.6
”Cum duplicantur lateris venit Moses”
I. In Schweden wurde im 16. und Anfang des 17. Jhdts. der Gotenkult intensiviert, eine ”Verdichtung” gotizistischer Ideen und Handlungen, welche die Regierungszeit des großen Schwedenkönigs zur Blütezeit dieses Geschichtsbildes werden ließ. Zwar steht Gustav II. Adolf in einer langen Tradition der Wertschätzung der alten Goten, die sowohl allgemein in der Bevölkerung als auch speziell in seiner Familie stark ausgeprägt war. Doch viele der politischen Funktionen wurden erst in seiner Regierungszeit evident, entfalteten erst am 6
Stefan Fangmeier, Thorsten Heese, Axel E. Walter (Red.), „Was umb und umb wird seyn wird alles Frieden heissen“. Die Zeit des Dreißigjährigen Krieges in alten Drucken, Osnabrück 1998, S. 6–7. Betreffend den Dreißigjährigen Krieg, siehe Christoph Kampmann, Europa und das Reich im Dreißigjährigen Krieg. Geschichte eines europäischen Konflikts, Marburg 2007. Jenny Öhman, Der Kampf um den Frieden. Schweden und der Kaiser im Dreissigjährigen krieg, Wien 2005.
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Beginn des 17. Jahrhunderts ihre volle Wirkung. Zugleich begann mit dem Ausgreifen der Macht Schwedens über die Ostsee (Dominium Maris Baltici) und dem neuen ”Alexanderzug” Gustav II. Adolfs der schwedische Gotizismus eine neue ”welthistorische” Dimension anzunehmen, die in jüngster Zeit zum Gegenstand internationaler Forschung wurde.7 Die Frage, warum König Gustav II. Adolf in den 30-jährigen Krieg eingriff, ist von vielen Historikern und Literaten umfassend diskutiert worden. Die Meinungen kann man laut dem schwedischen Historiker Sverker Oredsson in mehrere Kategorien einordnen: angefangen bei den im veröffentlichten schwedischen Kriegsmanifest 1630 vorgegebenen Gründen respektive der Unterstützung des verbündeten Stralsund 1627–28 über die Verteidigung wahlweise der Glaubensfreiheit allgemein oder des Protestantismus im besonderen, der deutschen ”Libertät”, des europäischen Gleichgewichtes, der eigenen Dynastie oder ganz allgemein bis hin zu einem – wiederum wirtschaftlich oder gesellschaftlich legitimierten – Angriffs- und Eroberungskrieg.8 Der Gotizismus befand sich nicht in diesem umfangreichen Katalog möglicher Kriegsgründe. Für Sverker Oredsson verfestigten sich drei zentrale Motivkreise in der schwedischen Propaganda als Grundlage der schwedischen Ideologie. Es sind dies ”der biblische, besonders der alttestammentliche, mit einem Zug von Chiliasmus, der gotische und der klassische”: Ich bin der Löw von Mitternacht mit dir will ich frisch fechten. Ich streite ja durch Gottes Krafft Gott helffe dem Gereichten. Für den biblisch-alttestamentlichen Motivkreis ist der Löwe- und König-ausdem-Norden von großer Bedeutung, aber auch der Vergleich Gustav II. Adolfs mit biblischen Helden (Gideon) oder dem Pelikan als Symbol fur den Heiland spielt eine Rolle. Zu den ”klassischen” Motiven zählt vor allem die GUSTAVUS – AUGUSTUS-Metapher.9 Was den gotischen Motivkreis anbelangt, so greift Oredsson auf die offensichtlichen Manifestationen Gustav Adolfscher Gotenverehrung zurück: Krönungsturnier 1617 und Abschiedsrede 1630 ”mahnten zu Tapferkeit und Verwegenheit: Was den Vorvätern gelang, sollte auch der neuen Generation glücken. Ein Leben voller kriegerischer Heldentaten konnte als der einzig richtige Lebensstil geschildert werden (...)”. Daraus zieht Oredsson den Schluß, daß im Schweden der Frühen Neuzeit eine ”Ideologie” herrschte, die sich ”außerordentlich gut für Eroberungszüge eignete (...)”. Es handelte sich insgesamt um einen schwedischen Angriffskrieg, der sich auf eine entsprechende gut 7 8 9
Patrik Hall, Den svenskaste historien. Nationalism i Sverige under sex sekler, Stockholm 2000, S. 37–42. Andreas Zellhuber, Der gotische Weg in den deutschen Krieg – Gustav Adolf und der schwedische Gotizismus, Augsburg 2002 Sverker Oredsson, Gustav Adolf, Sverige och trettioåriga kriget. Historieskrivning och kult, Lund 1992 (= Biblioteca Historica Lundensis 70), S. 12f, 241ff, 284ff. Oredsson 1992 (wie Anm. 8), S. 27f.
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fundierten Ideologie stützen konnte. Die Hauptleistung der Forschungsarbeit Sverker Oredssons besteht in der Interpretation der Verknüpfung der GotenIdeologie mit den beiden anderen benannten Motivkreisen: ”Fassen wir die drei Motivkreise zusammen, zeigt es sich, daß sowohl die Kopplung mit der gotischen Ideologie als auch die mit den Gestalten des Alten Testaments besagt, daß es sich um Heldentaten handelt. Die Anknüpfung an die Bibel besagt weiter, daß es sich um einen gerechtfertigten Krieg handelt, und daß Gustav II. Adolf der Krieger Gottes ist. Der Vergleich mit Augustus klärt weiter darüber auf, daß er einen gerechtfertigten Krieg führte, um einen dauernden Frieden zu erreichen. Die Heldenverehrung in Anknüpfung an die gotische Ideologie wurde veredelt, indem sie mit dem biblischen und den augustinischen Motivkreis verbunden wurde”.10
II. Die Bezeichnung ”Der Löwe aus dem Norden” knüpft an eine berühmte Symbolkette an. Paracelsus, ein Schweizer Arzt und Philosoph mit dem Namen Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim (1493–1541), hatte vorausgesagt, daß ein goldener Löwe aus dem Norden den Adler (dieser bezog sich auf den Kaiser des Heiligen Römischen Reiches deutscher Nation) angreifen und besiegen wurde. Vor dem Sieg des Löwen würden aber allerhand Plagen und Heimsuchungen über die Völker kommen. Der gewaltige Löwe mit seinem kleinen Heer des Gerechten, gestärkt durch die Allmacht Gottes, die Herrschaft des Bösen zerschlagen, das Zepter des Adlers greifen und ganz Europa und Teile Asiens und Afrikas unterwerfen. Die Völker werden mit Freude und reich an Wunder und großen Taten dem gottesfürchtigen Herrscher huldigen. Die Werke von Paracelsus wurden 1622 veröffentlicht (Neuauflage im Jahre 1625).11 Das Symbol des Löwen war auf diese Weise vielen bekannt und wurde in der Anfangsphase des 30-jährigen Krieges zuerst von Friedrich von der Pfalz – dem Winterkönig – verwendet, danach vom dänischen König Christian IV. durch seine Intervention im Dreißigjährigen Krieg, blieb aber dann bei Gustav II. Adolf. Dieses Symbol wurde durch die tiefe Spaltung zwischen Protestanten und Katholiken intensiv ausgenutzt. Damit die Prophezeihung des Paracelsus die richtige Wirkung erhielt, war es erforderlich, daß diese eine gute Basis in der Bibel hatte. Jesaja sprach von einem Mann, der im Norden aufersteht und ”Über die Landesherren hinwegschreitet, als wären sie Lehmboden”. Jeremia prophezeite ein Volk aus dem Norden und setzte dies mit einem Löwen gleich, der aus dem Dickicht des Jordanlandes auf das üppige Weideland kommt. Das Buch Daniel erzählt, wie der König im südlichen Land mächtig wird, aber der König aus dem Nordland rückt heran und keiner kann sich ihm in den Weg stellen. ”Er wird sich in dem herrlichen Land festsetzen und die Zerstörung 10 11
Oredsson 1992 (wie Anm. 8), S. 30. Nils Ahnlund, Gustav Adolf, lejonprofetian och astrologian, in: (Svenskt) Historisk Tidskrift 1939, s. 34–51. Betr. Paracelsus, siehe oben Anm. 9 undVolker Zimmermann (.), Paracelsus. Das Werk – die Rezeption, Stuttgart 1995.
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wird durch seine Hand kommen”. – In evangelischen Kreisen betrachtete man jetzt König Gustav Adolf als den ”Leu von Mitternacht”, der ”der Babylonischen Huren einen Stoß geben wird und den Jesuiten die eckickten Mützen umkehren”. Das vierte Buch Esra, das nicht zu den kanonischen Schriften gehört, berichtete, wie der Löwe aus dem Wald zur Verkündigung des Herren Gerichts über die Grausamkeit des Adlers und dem ungerechten Regiment erweckt wird. Daniel hatte von den vier Weltreichen gesprochen, wovon das letzte aus Eisen sei. Diese Auffassung stimmte mit den klassischen Autoren überein. Dort glaubte man an vier Weltmonarchien: die assyrisch–babylonische, medisch–persische, griechisch–makedonische und römische. Im Mittelalter und noch bis in das 17. Jhdt. hinein war man der Meinung, noch in der Zeit der römischen Weltmonarchie zu leben. Die Bezeichnung ”Das Heilige Römische Reich Deutscher Nation” spricht für sich.12 Der Glaube, am Ende des vierten und letzten Weltreiches zu leben, war Grund apokalyptischer Vorstellungen. In den 1620-Jahren hatten die Rosenkreuzer (gegr. 1614) Hochkonjunktur, ein Geheimbund mit einer reichen Bildsprache. Auch viele lutherische Priester schlossen sich trotz Verbotes den Rosenkreuzern an.13 Der Glaube, Gustav II. Adolf sei ein von Gott gesandter Löwe gegen den habsburgischen Adler, erlitt natürlich – als Gustav Adolf 1632 in der Schlacht bei Lützen fiel – großen Schaden, aber die symbolische Deutung konnte doch so modifiziert werden, daß die Schweden hauptsächlich der Löwe waren, nicht nur Gustav II. Adolf. In den Jahren 1630 und 1631 wurde in Deutschland ein Flugblatt mit dem Text ”Schwedische Rettung der Christlichen Kirchen” verbreitet, dessen Auftraggeber und Künstler unbekannt ist. Die Datierung 1630 kann nicht mit Sicherheit bestätigt werden, dafür spricht aber das thematisierte Bild der Überfahrt der Schweden aus ihrem bergigen Land ins Deutsche Reich (Abb. 1).14 Auf dem Bild ist eine von zwei Pfeilern umgebene Kirche ”Ecclesia” zu sehen. Auf der einen Spitze befindet sich ein Auge, das Gottessymbol, auf der anderen Pfeilerspitze eine Hand, die einen Globus hält. Auf der Kirche sitzt ein Pelikan, ein Vogel, dem nachgesagt wurde, daß er seine Jungen mit dem eigenen Blut füttert, und der hier für Christus steht. Auf dem Boden unter der Kirche stehen die Worte ”Verbum Domini manet in aeternum” (des Herren Wort bleibt in Ewigkeit). 12 13 14
Sverker Oredsson, Gustav II Adolf, Malmö 2007, S. 188–190. Ahnlund 1939 (wie Anm.11), S. 47. Oredsson 2007 (wie Anm. 12), S. 190. Wolfgang Harms (Hg.), Die Sammlung der Herzog August Bibliothek in Wolfenbüttel, Bd. 2, München 1980, S. 383. Ein Druck mit dem Jahr 1631 könnte möglicherweise auf eine zweite Druckauflage hinweisen. Oredsson 2007 (wie Anm. 12), S. 190–191. Olaf Mörke, „Der Schwede lebet noch“. Die Bildformung Gustav Adolfs in Deutschland nach der Schlacht bei Lützen, in: Gustav Adolf. König von Schweden. Die Kraft der Erinnerung 1632–2007, Hg. Maik Reichel und Inger Schuberth, Dößel 2007, S. 83–92, hier besonders S. 85–87. Betr. das Schiff als christliches Symbol, siehe übrigens das Lied „Es kommt ein Schiff, geladen“ vom Daniel Sudermann (1550–1631) verfasst etwa 1626.
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Die Bedrohung der Kirche wird durch mehrere zerstörte Pfeiler dargestellt. Dies sind Symbole für die Pfalz, Mähren, Augsburg, Österreich und Böhmen. Unterhalb der Kirche liegt ein Drache und bewacht seine Beute. Er hat sieben Köpfe. Auf einem sitzt eine päpstliche Tiara. Das Monster schließt an das Bild in der Offenbarung des Johannes an, den feuerroten Drachen mit den sieben Köpfen, zehn Hörnern und sieben Kronen auf diesen Häuptern. Dieser Drache erhielt später die Bezeichnungen Teufel und Satan. Gegen ihn kämpfen erfolgreich Michael und dessen Engel. Aber im nächsten Kapitel, der Offenbarung, steigt ein neues Ungeheuer aus dem Meer, das auf seinen Hörnern zehn Kronen trägt und auf der Haut lästerliche Namen hat. Dieses Ungeheuer ist nicht der Teufel selbst, sondern die Macht, die er auf der Welt repräsentiert. Weiter steht ”Die ganze Welt war von Bewunderung für das Ungeheuer ergriffen und folgte ihm. Und man verehrte den Drachen, da er dem Ungeheuer die Macht gegeben hatte, und man verehrte das Ungeheuer und sprach ”Wer ist wie das Ungeheuer?” Wer kann dagegen streiten?” (Off. 12 und 13). Aber dem Bild auf dem deutschen Flugblatt zufolge ist die Rettung nah. Ein schwedisches Kriegsschiff mit einer blau-gelben Flagge landet an der Küste. Im Hintergrund an Land ist ein Truppenlager zu sehen. Auf einem Kreuz des Segels steht ”In hoc signo vinces” (In diesem Zeichen wirst Du siegen), Worte, die gemeinsam mit dem Kreuz für Kaiser Konstantin, dem Herrscher, der das Christentum zur Staatsreligion erhob, geleuchtet haben sollen. Oben am Mast thront der Wetterhahn und die schwedische Kreuzflagge. Daß dieses Schiff von Gott gesandt ist, zeigt ein Engel mit einer Posaune, der im Achterschiff am Ruder steht und den direkten Kurs Richtung Feind ansteuert. Vom Schiff aus betritt ein gekrönter, stolzer und unerschrockener Löwe das Land. In den beiden Vorderpranken hält er ein Schwert. Es ist klar, daß er jetzt das mehrköpfige katholische Ungeheuer angreifen wird. Unter dem Bild befindet sich ein Text, der mit der symbolbeladenen Illustration in dichterischer Form zusammenwirkt. Die letzten Zeilen lauten: Ein hochgekrönter Lew großmühtig sprang auffs Land Vnd frewdig mit sein Schwerdt eiffrig zum Drachen rand Drauff hört ich ein Geschrey: Jauchzet ihr Exulanten Auch all die ihr seyd Religions Verwandten Barmhertzigkeit hat Gott durch sein Allmächtigkeit In der Allwissenheit vns allen zubereit Von Ewigkeit zu Ewigkeit. Die Exulanten waren die Protestanten, die zum Großteil aus Böhmen und Mähren vertrieben worden waren. Sie hatten nun Grund zum Jubel, als Gustav Adolf mit dem schwedischen Heer kam. Und das gilt auch für alle anderen Religionsverwandten. Letzteres war ein von Gustav Adolf verwendeter Begriff für die mit einem gemeinsamen Glauben. In diesem Zusammenhang spricht vieles dafür, daß dies für die lutherischen und reformierten Christen galt. Hauptsache es waren keine Katholiken.
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Bereits ab Jahreswechsel 1627/28 hatte Gustav Adolf in den Hansestädten in Norddeutschland durch seinen Agenten Ludwig Rasche sich vielleicht selbst als der Löwe aus dem Norden darstellen lassen. Man kann sich auch an die starke Löwensymbolik auf dem Schiff Vasa erinnern, das einige Jahre vor dem Eintreten in den deutschen Krieg gebaut worden und 1628 versunken war. Auf dem Schiff wird das Bild des Löwen mit dem christlichen Krieger, miles christianus, kombiniert.15 Ob Gustav Adolf selbst an die Löwen-Prophezeihung glaubte, ist aber zweifelhaft. Sowohl er als sein Kanzler Axel Oxenstierna waren beide rational denkende Menschen. Wichtig ist aber, daß der König und die schwedische Propaganda diese Löwen-Prophezeihung gezielt ausnutzten. Wenn Gustav Adolf für die Protestanten ein von Gott gesandter Helfer wurden, belebte dies ihren Mut und sie konnten wieder an den Sieg glauben.16 Schweden war 1630 beim Eingreifen in den Dreißig-jährigen Krieg diplomatisch isoliert. Kein regierender deutsch-protestantischer Fürst wollte ein schwedisches Eingreifen in den Krieg. Viele einzelne Protestanten wünschten es aber. Hier zog Gustav II. Adolf Nutzen aus der Prophezeihung und den eskatologischen Vorstellungen. Oder wie Wallenstein es ausdrückte: ”Die Protestanten warteten auf Gustav Adolf wie die Juden auf den Messias”.17 Es herrscht kein Zweifel, daß die zeitgenössische politische Propaganda Gustav II. Adolf als Beispielgestalt des christlichen Streiters, als ein ”miles christianus” und Anführer des Heeres darstellte. Damit erreichte man die moralische Legitimation des Kriegseintritts Schwedens und konnte Werbung unter den Evangelischen verbreiten. In der Publizistik wurde die Propaganda strategisch genau kalkuliert eingesetzt.18 Die protestantisch ausgerichtete Presse verschwieg zunächst den Tod des Schwedenkönigs in der Schlacht bei Lützen. Im Dezember 1632 versuchte man die Nachricht vom Tod Gustav II. Adolf in gewundener Sprache in der Publizistik über den Sieg bei Lützen einzubeziehen. Das Schlachtfeld bei Lützen, der Ort des Todes, wurde als siegreiches Osterfeld dargestellt, denn Ostern gilt als Sinnbild für die Auferstehung und geistiges Weiterleben. Die Guten und Gerechten sollten sich um das Exemplum des Schwedenkönigs versammeln. Nach einer gewissen zeitlichen Distanz zum Tod Gustav II. Adolfs war es möglich, neben der Lamentatio (Wehklagen) und Laudatio (Lobrede) auch die Consolatio und Memoria in die Publizistik einzubeziehen. Die Memoria zielte auf die intensive und immerwährende Verbindung der Trauernden mit dem Toten. Ein lateinisches Flugblatt mit dem Titel ”In regem non mortuum” verzeichnete mehrere Sprüche, u.a. ”UT VIVANT MORRIOR” (ich starb damit sie leben). Dieser Spruch verweist auf den Opfertod Gustav Adolfs. 15 16 17 18
Ahnlund 1939 (wie Anm. 11), S. 47. Oredsson 2007 (wie Anm.), S. 192. Vgl. Ahnlund 1939 (wie Anm.11), S. 42f. Siehe u.a. Oredsson 2007 (wie Anm. 12), S. 192. Siehe grundlegend zum „miles christianus“: Andreas Wang, Der „Miles christianus“ im 16. Und 17. Jahrhundert und seine mittelalterliche Tradition. Ein Beitrag zum Verhältnisvon sprachlicher und graphischer Bildlichkeit, Bern/Frankfurt am Main 1975.
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König Gustav II. Adolf wurde in der Publizistik als Nachfolger des in der Bibel auftretenden Judas Makkabaus dargestellt (vgl. Jes. 46,11 und 1. Macc. 9,21). Desweiteren wurde er, wie erwähnt, als ”Löwe aus Mitternacht” beschrieben. Hierbei wurden biblische Weissagungen mit mittelalterlicher Tierallegorik und Heraldik verbunden. Der Löwe als Wappentier bedeutete für den Träger Tapferkeit und Stärke und die damit verbundene moralische und militarische Überlegenheit über andere (1. Macc 3,4; Jer. 4,5–7; Jes 41,25). Die tiefe übertriebene Frömmigkeit und die Eroberungspläne zur Errettung der ”Ecclesia” wurden als selbstloser Kampf dargestellt. Die Publizistik versuchte, den Rezipienten deutlich zu machen, daß Gustav II. Adolf und der Sinn seines Lebens unsterblich sind. Mit Hilfe der Publizistik sollte die Kriegsmüdigkeit der Bevölkerung überwunden und die evangelische Bevölkerung zum Durchhalten aufgerufen werden.19
III. Die Drohperspektiven in Nordeuropa in den 1620er Jahren mit einer Festigung der Machtstellung des katholischen Kaisers in Norddeutschland und vor allem die Pläne zur Errichtung einer kaiserlichen Ostseeherrschaft durch Wallenstein als Admiral des Baltischen Meres, aber auch die Bedrohung des Protestantismus selbst, veranlaßten Gustav II. Adolf mit Erlaubnis des schwedischen Reichstages schon im Jahre 1628 zum Eingreifen in den 30-jährigen Krieg. Ende Juni 1630 landete der König mit seinem Heer bei Peenemünde auf Usedom in Pommern. Er schloß Bündnisverträge mit den Herzögen von Pommern und Mecklenburg und bewegte sich Richtung Mitteldeutschland.20 Tillys Truppen eroberten und zerstörten Anfang Mai 1631 zunächst Magdeburg, ohne Gegenmaßnahmen der Schweden. Warum die Schweden der Stadt nicht zur Hilfe kamen, läßt sich wohl damit erklären, daß Gustav II. Adolf noch keine militärische Auseinandersetzung riskieren wollte. Er fühlte sich offenbar noch nicht militärisch stark genug. Der König rechtfertigte seine Politik in Flugblättern und konnte erst mit dem glänzenden Sieg über die kaiserlichen Truppen im September 1631 bei Breitenfeld seine moralische Position wieder festigen. Der Sieg der Schweden bei Breitenfeld wurde als göttliche Rache für die Zerstörung Magdeburgs interpretiert. Waren die deutschen Fürsten dem König vorher gegenüber eher zurückhaltend, wurde Gustav II. Adolf jetzt von mehreren protestantischen Fürsten anerkannt. Dieser Sieg öffnete dem Schwedenkönig den Weg nach Südwest- und Süddeutschland. Seine Armeen zogen über Erfurt, Würzburg, Aschaffenburg, Frankfurt am Main. 21
19 20 21
Vgl. spätestens Hans-Christian Huf (Hg.), Mit Gottes Segen in die Hölle. Der Dreissigjährige Krieg, München 2003, S. 209ff. Oredsson 2007 (wie Anm. 12), S. 199ff. Betr. Magdeburg, siehe u.a. das Sammelband von Margit Scholz, Christina Neuß (Red.), Konfession, Krieg und Katastropfe. Magdeburgs Geschick im Dreißigjährigen Krieg. Tagung des Vereins für Kirchengeschichte der Kirchenprovinz Sachsen, Magdeburg 9.–10. Mai 2005, Magdeburg 2006.
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Angesichts der angespannten Lage wurde Wallenstein wieder zum Feldherren berufen. Unterdessen rückten Gustav II. Adolfs Truppen nach Bayern vor. Im April 1632 kam es bei Rain am Lech zum Aufeinandertreffen der Truppen, wobei Tilly tödlich verwundet wurde. Der Schwedenkönig zog über Augsburg nach München, wandte sich aber dann wieder nach Norden.22 Nach der Vertreibung der Sachsen aus Böhmen führte Wallenstein seine Armee in die Oberpfalz und unterbrach dadurch Gustav II. Adolfs Verbindungswege nach Mittel- und Norddeutschland. Gustav II. Adolf wurde jetzt gezwungen, sein Heer bei Nürnberg zu verschanzen. Auch Wallenstein bezog bei Zimdorf ein Lager. Es entwickelte sich ein Stellungskrieg. Gustav Adolf wandte sich erneut nach Süden und zog nach Bayern, während Wallenstein nordwärts nach Thüringen und Sachsen marschierte. Sein Ziel war Leipzig, das er im Oktober einnahm. Wallenstein beabsichtigte, sein Heer in Sachsen Winterquartiere beziehen zu lassen. Die dringenden Bitten des Kurfürsten von Sachsen riefen Gustav II. Adolf zurück, der sich den Verlust Sachsens nicht leisten konnte.23 Wieder erwarten zog Gustav II. Adolf nach Leipzig. Wallenstein bezog vor der Stadt Lützen eine Verteidigungsstellung. Am 6. November 1632 kam es schließlich zu der bislang blutigsten Schlacht des Krieges. Im Handgemenge fanden sowohl Pappenheim als Gustav II. Adolf den Tod. Die Nachricht wirkte sich auf beiden Seiten unterschiedlich aus. Auf der schwedischen Seite war es der junge Herzog Bernhard von Sachsen–Weimar (1604–1639), der die verwirrten Söldner mit dem Ruf nach Rache um sich scharrte und sie in den Angriff führte. Die Reiter Pappenheims ergriffen dagegen die Flucht. Aufgrund des schnellen Abzugs Wallensteins, betrachteten sich die Schweden als Sieger.24 Zur Unterstützung des Kampfes für die Befreiung der Protestanten im Reich und somit auch des schwedischen Königs wurde 1632 und allem Anschein nach vor der Schlacht bei Lützen ein Flugblatt von Georg Koler in Nürnberg erarbeitet und in Umlauf gebracht. Ob die Schweden selbst die Initiative ergriffen und den Auftrag vergaben, ist nicht bekannt und läßt sich nicht mit sicherheit feststellen (Abb. 2).25 Die Uberschrift des Flugblatts ”Cum duplicantur lateres venit Moses” – ”Wenn man die Ziegel duplirt, so kompt Moses und liberirt” bezieht sich auf die 22 23 24
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Oredsson 2007 (wie Anm. 12), S. 261ff. Hans Pehle, Der „Rheinübergang“ des Schwedenkönigs Gustav II. Adolf. Ein Ereignis im Dreißigjährigen Krieg, Riedstadt– Goddelau 2000, S. 87ff. Oredsson 2007 (wie Anm. 12), S. 264ff.Pehle 2000 (wie Anm. 22), S. 134ff, 146ff. Betr. Lützen 1632, siehe Maik Reichel und Inger Schuberth (Hg.),Gustav Adolf. König von Schweden. Die Kraft der Erinnerung 1632–2007, Dößel 2007, passim. Bo Eriksson, Lützen 1632. Ett ödesdigert beslut, Stockholm 2007. Andere Beiträge, siehe u.a. auch Johannes Paul, Gustav Adolf. Christ und Held, Göttingen 1964, S. 88ff. Die Geschichte des Lützen-Denkmals: Inger Schuberth, Lützen. På spaning efter ett minne, Stockholm 2007. Christoph Stölzl, Deutsche Geschichte in Bildern, Berlin 1995, S. 95. Für die Diskussion um die Beteiligung der Schweden bei der Produktion von Propaganda ist es auch von Bedeutung, dass die Schweden später in Mainz Propagandadrucke mit Löwenmotive veröffentlichten.
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Sklavenarbeit des Volkes Israel in Ägypten (Ex 5) und setzt die deutschen Protestanten mit den geknechteten Israeliten, den Schwedenkönig mit Moses gleich. Als die Zahl zu brennender Ziegel verdoppelt und die Frondienste des Volkes Israel immer drückender wurden, sandte Gott zu dessen Rettung Moses. In der Mitte des Bildes steht König Gustav II. Adolf von Schweden und empfängt aus der Hand Gottes – Feuerschein und Volke symbolisieren die Gegenwart Gottes – aus dem Himmel das Schwert des gerechten Krieges, daneben die Inschrift ”Nim hin das heilige Schwert, das dir Gott schencket damit soltu die Feinde schlagen” (2 Makk 15,V. 16). Mit diesem Zitat aus dem zweiten Buch der Makkabaer wird Gustav Adolf in eine Reihe mit dem jüdischen Helden und Glaubenskrieger Judas Maccabeus gestellt, der vor dem Kampf seine Mitstreiter ermahnte, ihr Vertrauen und ihre Hoffnung auf die Hilfe des Herrn zu setzen. In der Form eines Nimbus umgibt das Haupt Gustav Adolfs ein Zitat aus Psalm. 34, V. 9, aus dessen Wortanfängen der Name des Schwedenkönigs, GUSTAV SVED gebildet und damit gleichsam als biblische Vorankündigung auf sein Eingreifen im Reich gedeutet werden kann: ”GUSTATE ET VIDETE QUAM SUAVIS EST DOMINUS” (”Kostet und sehet, wie freundlich der Herr ist”). König Gustav Adolf im Harnisch, in der linken Hand den Feldherrenstab, hat seinen Helm und beide Kriegshandschuhe abgelegt und trägt bereits den Lorbeerkranz des kommenden Siegers. Im rechten Bildteil ist die schwedische Flotte auf der Ostsee dargestellt, die von Schweden nach Pommern segelt. Aus fernem Land wird der Befreier des Protestantismus von Gott selbst herbeigerufen, wie die Jesaja-Inschrift darüber zu erkennen gibt: ”Ich ruffe einem Vogel vom Auffgang und einem Mann der meinen anschlag thue aus fernem Lande. Was ich sage, das lasse ich kommen, was ich dencke, das thue ich auch” (Jes 46 V. 11). Am Heck des vorderen Schiffes ist das schwedische Reichswappen mit den drei Kronen deutlich zu erkennen, im Zeichen des auf dem Mast befindlichen Kreuzes nimmt das schwedische Herer den Kampf in Deutschland auf. Auf dem Heck steht ein schwedischer Krieger, der sein Schwert zum Schwur gegen den Himmel streckt und damit die Geste Gustav II. Adolfs wiederholt, der das Schwert vom Himmel her empfängt. Die schwedische Hauptstadt Stockholm ist im Hintergrund der wilden Landschaft zu sehen, hinter ihr geht die Sonne auf. Auf der linken Bildseite wird das bereits an Land gegangene schwedische Heer dargestellt, das aufmerksam der Predigt eines evangelischen Pfarrers zuhört. Unter den Soldaten haben sich auch interessanterweise Bauern aus Pommern gemischt, denen jetzt das Evangelium frei und ungehindert verkündet werden kann und die im Zeichen des gemeinsamen Glaubens mit den Schweden im Einvernehmen stehen. Der in diesem Zusammenhang zitierte Psalmvers bekräftigt die Sendung der Schweden zur Hilfe für die unterdrückten Gläubigen, die Gott angerufen haben: ”Weil denn die Elenden verstöret werden, und die Armen seufftzen, will ich auff, spricht der herr, Ich will eine hulffe schaffen, dass man getrost keren sol” (Ps 12, V. 6). Im Hintergrund sind die bereits ”befreiten” Inseln Wollin, Usedom und Rügen und die Stadte Wolgast und Stralsund deutlich zu erkennen.
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In der Leiste unten wird links ein Motiv aus der Apokalypse des Johannes dargestellt, der Altar des Lammes mit den Gebeinen der um des wahren Glaubens willen getoteter Martyrer: ”Als das Lamm das fünfte Siegel öffnete, sah ich unter dem Altar die Seelen aller, die hingeschlachtet worden waren wegen des Wortes Gottes und wegen des Zeugnisses, das sie abgelegt hatten. Und sie schrien mit großer Stimm und sprachen: Herr du heiliger und warhafftiger, wie lange richtestu und rechest nicht unser Blut an denen, die auff Erden wonen” (Off 6, V.9–10). Der letzte Satz wird in dem Spruchband über der Abbildung zitiert. In der Mitte der Leiste unten wird von zwei Putten ein Bild mit den drei Bischofsstädten Mainz, Bamberg und Würzburg gezeigt, in welche gerade die schwedische Armee einrückt. Hinter der Stadt Würzburg ist die fürstbischöfliche Residenz Marienburg zu erkennen. Die geistlichen Staaten der Reichskirche werden hier als die eigentlichen Feinde des Evangeliums vorgestellt, die von Gustav II. Adolf und den Schweden bekämpft werden. Der schwedische Vormarsch von Pommern bis an Rhein und Main wird somit als gerechter Krieg und Befreiungskampf interpretiert. Dies kann Gustav Adolf nur gelingen, da er mit Hilfe Gottes laut des im Spruchband formulierten Psalmverses auch die Mauern des befestigten Bischofsresidenzen überwinden kann: ”Denn mit dir kann ich kriegwolck zerschmeissen und mit meinem Gott uber die Mawren Springen” (Ps 18, V. 30). Rechts wird auf der Bildleiste eine Folterkammer dargestellt, in der Bekenner des Evangeliums gefangengehalten und gequält werden. Dazu der Bibelspruch: ”Lass fur dich komen das Seufftzen der Gefangenen nach deinem großen Arm, Behalt die Kinder des Todes” (Ps 79, V. 11). Der zitierte Psalm klagt über die Zerstörung Jerusalems durch die Heiden und fordert Gott selbst zur Rache für diese Schmach auf. Die drei Bilder in der unteren Leiste untermauern die Unterdrückung der Protestanten, vor allem in den geistlichen Fürstentümern des Heiligen Römischen Reiches, was eine Anspielung auf das Restitutionsedikt enthält. Die göttliche Beauftragung König Gustav II. Adolfs im Hauptbild rechtfertigt insgesamt das schwedische Eingreifen im Reich zur Rettung der deutschen Protestanten. Die Nachricht über den Tod Gustav II. Adolfs in der Schlacht bei Lützen Anfang November 1632 wirkte erschütternd auf die anti-kaiserlich Gesinnten, daß sofort Legendenbildungen einsetzten, bis hin zu dem Versuch, den König publizistisch am Leben zu halten. Vermutlich wurden die ersten Meldungen vom Ende des schwedischen Medienhelden gezielt zurückgehalten. Es war allenfalls von einem Sieg der Schweden und einer Verwundung des Königs die Rede. Erst drei Wochen nach der Schlacht gelangten erste Informationen über den Tod Gustav Adolfs an die Öffentlichkeit – und sorgten für große Konfusion. In einem Bericht der schlesischen ”Wöchentlichen Zeitung” heißt es auf Seite eins, daß der König von einer Kugel am Arm getroffen wurde. Auf Seite zwei wird gemeldet, er sei mit dem Leben davongekommen, und den Schluß bildet ein kurzer ”Extract eines glaubwürdigen Schreibens”, wonach der König bei Leipzig die Truppen Wallensteins verfolgte.26 26
Huf 2003 (wie Anm. 19), S. 226f.
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Die propagandistische Verklärung des unbesiegbaren Löwen wirkte also über dessen Tod hinaus. Auf einem berühmten Flugblatt prangte das gezielt gestreute Gerücht: ”Der Schwede lebet noch” (Abb. 3).27 Dazu Martin Knauer: ”In Erinnerung an die göttliche Mission des Königs versuchte das pro-schwedische Lager mit diesem Schlachtruf die auseinander strebenden protestantischen Mächte politisch zu einen”.28 Der Text des Blattes ist durchdrungen von Durchhalteparolen: ”Lauter Glück und lauter Sieg/Folget ihm und seinem Krieg”. Das Flugblatt ”Der Schwede lebet noch” wurde 1633 in Sachsen gedruckt, und sollte als Zweck die Protestanten von ihrer Niederschlagenheit über den Tod Gustav II. Adolfs befreien und sie zum erneuten Kampf gegen das Papsttum ermuntern. König Gustav Adolf wurde in Siegerpose auf einem gekrönten Felsen dargestellt. Damit wurde auf die unerschütterliche Beständigkeit verwiesen, mit der der schwedische König für seine Überzeugungen eingetreten war. In der rechten erhobenen Hand hält er ein Schwert, welches umwunden ist von Ölzweigen, in der linken Hand einen Marschallstab. Über dem Kopfe des Königs halten zwei Engel mit Palmenwedeln einen Kranz. Neben Gustav II. Adolf befinden sich noch zwei weitere gekrönte Felsen: Auf dem linken Felsen ist das schwedische Wappen und auf dem linken das sächsische Wappen, welches auf die Verbundenheit mit Sachsen verweist. Die anderen Teile der Grafik sind antithetisch aufeinander bezogen. Am Ufer im Hintergrund bedrängt ein von links heranrückendes Heer seine Feinde. Das Windgesicht symbolisiert den göttlichen Beistand und es bläst in Richtung des fliehenden feindlichen Heeres und des mit der Papsttiara gekrönten Drachens der Apokalypse, welcher rechts im Wasser steht und die heilsgeschichtlichen Dimension des Hintergrundgeschehen andeutet. Desweiteren beinhaltet das Flugblatt eine Klage- und Trostschrift, welche unter der Grafik angeordnet ist. Die Textspalten sind in Anordnung, Metrik und Inhalt genau aufeinander abgestimmt. In der linken Spalte beklagen die Frauen FAMOSE, URANOSE, SULAMITIN und MECHTHILDE den Tod, und TrostMeisterin MELPOSE verkundet, dass der Schwedenkönig noch lange leben würde, bis er Papst und Papsttum besiegt hat, selbst über seinen Tod hinaus. In der rechten Spalte werden die Leser dagegen in kontrafaszinierender Form zum Jubel animiert. Die protestantische Propaganda stilisierte den schwedischen König zum gottgesandten Retter der christlichen Kirche. Das publizierte Echo ist entsprechend der Propaganda zum Tod Gustav II. Adolfs, einige der Wochenzeitungen bestritten zunächst den Tod des Königs; hier ist der Titel aber im übertragenen Sinn zu lesen. Auch dieses Flugblatt feiert Gustav II. Adolf als christlichen Kämpfer und göttlichen Helden. Es werden Elemente der Heraldik (Wappen, drei Kronen), der antiken Mythologie (Fama, Urania, Melpomene & Mnemosyne), der Bibel (siebenköpfiger Drache der Apokalypse), der Typologie (Unser Makkabeer), der historische Wirklichkeit (Schlachtszene) und Allegorien 27 28
Harms 1980 (wie Anm. 14), S. 535. Mörke 2007 (wie Anm. 14), S. 88–91. Betr. den Opfertod des schwedischen Königs, siehe u.a.auch das Flugblatt „In regem non mortuum.“ Nach Huf zitiert (siehe Anm. 26).
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um die Bedeutung des Schwedenkönigs hervorzuheben. Gerade das Muster des biblischen Glaubensstreiters und Kämpfers gegen die Unterdrückung durch ungläubige ermöglicht es, in Gustav Adolf den Vollstrecker apokalyptischer und alttestamentlicher Weissagungen zu sehen.
IV. Der Friedenschluß beendete den deutschen Krieg und schaffte in Münster und Osnabrück 1648 ein stabiles Staatensystem, das bis zum Wiener Kongress 1815 währte. In diesem Prozeß hatte Gustav II. Adolf von Schweden durch seine militärische Hilfe an Stralsund 1628 und das Eingreifen zwei Jahre später in den Dreißigjährigen Krieg persönlich und mit dem eigenen Leben bezahlt. Schweden stieg in seiner Regierungszeit endgültig zur Großmacht auf.29 Für sein Eingreifen in den deutschen Krieg wurde Gustav Adolf besonders nach der siegreichen Schlacht bei Breitenfeld im September 1631 von den Evangelischen als Heldenkönig verehrt. Gustav II. Adolf wurde jetzt oft als der lang ersehnte ”Löwe aus Mitternacht” charakterisiert und in der Propaganda verbreitet. In mehreren Flugblättern wurde durch Abbildung des Königs für den protestantischen Kampf gegen die Katholiken symbolkräftige Überzeugungsund Öffentlichkeitsarbeit geleistet. Inwieweit die Schweden als Auftraggeber fungierten, läßt sich nicht mit Sicherheit feststellen, aber völlig passiv auf diesem Gebiet waren sie nicht. Gustav II. Adolfs Kampf für die deutsche ”Libertät” machte ihn mit seinem Tod bei Lützen im November 1632 zum Martyrer. Wie Christus errang er durch seinen Tod den eigentlichen Sieg (Abb. 3). Der König lebte in der Publizistik und in der Propaganda über den eigenen Tod hinaus als ein starkes Symbol und als ein Sammlungs- und Hoffnungsträger für den gemeinsamen fortgesetzten Kampf gegen die kaiserlichen und katholischen Kräfte weiter: Der Schwede lebet noch vnd wird auch ewig leben, Wenn Christus wird das Reich dem Vater vbergeben, Vnd rufen alle Welt: Da liget Babels Joch Im tiessen Hellen Pful Der Schwede lebet noch. Zusammenfassend kann gesagt werden, dass die drei bildlichen Flugblätter über das Eingreifen und die Taten Gustav II. Adolfs und der Schweden im Dreißigjährigen Krieg in verschiedenen Phasen in den Jahren 1630–1633 darstellen und untermauern. In der Flugschrift „Rettung der Evangelischen Kirchen“ von etwa 1630–31, geht es um die Hoffnungen und die Erwartungen, die dem Löwen aus dem Norden zugeschrieben wurden. Das Flugblatt 29
Göran Behre u.a. 2001 (wie Anm. 2), S. 110ff.
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konzentriert sich allgemein auf den konfessionellen Konflikt im Reich und die Zerstörung der rechten, evangelischen Kirche sowie auf die göttliche Sendung des schwedischen Retters. In dem zweiten Flugblatt handelt es sich um den gerechten Kampf für die Befreiung der Protestanten auf deutschem Boden und um konkrete Ereignisse. In dem dritten und letzten Flugblatt, entstanden nach der Schlacht bei Lützen in November 1632, zeigt sich eine ikonographische Kontinuität vom lebenden zum toten König. Der Fels, auf dem er steht, symbolisiert die Festigkeit der Kirche, des Wortes Christi oder des Evangeliums schlechthin. Sinnfällig erscheint die Bibel als Grundlage für das Handeln Gustav Adolfs, das mit dem Verweis auf den Drachen der Apokalypse in einen heilsgeschichtlichen Kontext gesetzt wird. Sehr schnell nach Lützen unternahmen auf diese Weise protestantische Propagandisten den erfolgreichen Versuch, dem Schwedenkönig als Heldengestalt gleichsam Unsterblichkeit zu verleihen. Sie gestalteten und prägten damit ein Bild vom Leben und Wirken des Königs, das in Deutschland bis in die jüngere Vergangenheit hinein vorherrschend blieb.
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Peter of Dacia and the Urban Revolution Nils Blomkvist
A mendicant friar from Gotland in Cologne’s struggle for autonomy The idea that this conference should address the use of images in the historian’s practice – be it as sources, objects of interpretation, means of explanation, shortcuts to a thousand words or merely as illustrations – has much pleased me. Albeit I rarely have been using pictures for any of these purposes, I have always been fascinated by their potential, so I embrace the challenge and depart from two on my journey. The first one is a photo taken in Kölnisches Stadtmuseum (the City Museum of Cologne). You see a stone relief depicting a medieval battle between two groups of armoured knights, one of which is supported by two warlike angels, the other by the Devil. The picture is divided by a crenulated crest carrying seven human heads in the indentations. On top of the pinnacles men and women stand in prayer, and above them, finally, two burgomasters, kneeling in front of the crucified Christ, and above it all the coat of arms of Cologne. ou could easily spend more than thousand words to describe it in details, but Y that would even so tell us very little if the sculptured image wasn’t completed with a short text: Anno Domini MCCLXVIII up der heiliger more naicht do wart hier durch de mure gebrochen, which means that on the night of the Holy More in the year of the Lord 1268 a breach was made in the city wall. The Holy More refers to the tradition of St.Gereon and the Theban legion, celebrated martyrs just off Cologne in Roman times. The reference dates the incident to October 15, almost precisely 740 years before this lecture is given (October 18, 2008). The relief was however ordered by the Council of Cologne almost 100 years after the incident (although before 1378), hence the memory it conveyed must have carried a lot of meaning for the then councillors. It was mortared into the city wall close by the Ulrepforte where the incident had occurred. The out-door position made it accessible to everyone interested, but also caused erosion over the centuries and its present state is the result of several restorations.1 Hence its visual content is easy prey for historians’ source criticism – in many ways, but not in all. The first thing we should ask is: why was it ordered and displayed like this? 1
Kölnisches Stadtmuseum, Auswahlkatalog. Die Schlacht an der Ulrepforte, R. Dieckhoff, Köln 1984 pp. 147–49; cf. e.g. Dietmar, Carl, Das Mittelalterliche Köln, Köln 2006 pp. 22, 237f.
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A stone relief preserved in /Kölnisches Stadtmuseum/, which was mounted on the city wall by the /Ulrepforte/, not later than 1378, to commemorate a politically decisive street fight that had occurred in this part of the city in 1268. The relief is of great dimensions: 265 cm high and 235 cm wide. The photographic quality could indeed have been better, but its content is difficult to catch at its present placing, without professional camera lightning technology, and I warmly thank art historian Margit Gerhards, Aachen, for providing it to me.
This picture of the upper part of the Ulrepforte stone relief gives a somewhat better view of the work’s sculptural content. Photo: Margit Gerhards.
The second image from which this narrative departs is a reconstruction of a seal imprint in wax appending to a Swedish charter from 1279. It’s a mere inch high but like the hundred times larger stone relief from Cologne, it communicates a somewhat similar Christian message through the means of iconography. The lower part shows a kneeling friar in deep prayers, over him two saints keep watch – the apostle Peter and the Dominican martyr Peter of Verona. Its reconstructed inscription, as well as the preserved charter, reveal that the seal belonged to Peter of Dacia, the Gotlander who is remembered as “Sweden’s first author”, who happened to be present in Cologne during the incident of 1268.
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The obvious answer is: for political reasons. It commemorates a counter revolution that failed. The story that goes with it is that the Stadtherr (Lord of the City), Archbishop Engelbert II, for some years had been kept imprisoned by one of his vassals whereas the citizens of Cologne had made a revolution and begun to rule the city on their own. But in October 1268, some of Engelbert’s more loyal vassals tried to restore the order by a coup, setting it in motion with cunningly calculated timing on one of the city’s festive nights, S:t Gereon – the Holy More – who was a protector of the city. Their hope of success was fuelled by information of a split amongst the townspeople: the patricians, dominated by fifteen leading commercial dynasties, had sided up against the plain burghers. Legend tells that the coup makers had dug a hole under the city wall, but were given away by a false helper on the inside – a personality called Habenit (he who has nothing). Much of this is likely to be folklore spun around the relief, not least since the text says nothing about the digging of a hole. In any case, the operation failed after some nightly street fighting, which cost the life of the rebel city bailiff Matthias Overstolz, but the forces of the legitimate Stadtherr were driven out.2 owever freedom came slowly to Cologne. After negotiations in 1270 the H Archbishop was back in his residence. Some years later – in 1288 – the urban patricians gained a higher degree of control after the military showdown with his successor Siegfried von Westerburg at the Battle of Worringen, but even in the 14th century the archiepiscopal authority remained a factor of power which couldn’t be neglected. By then, however, the patricians were under political pressure from the lower social strata, and this may present the motive behind the disclosure of the Ulrepforte monument, believed to be the first of its kind in Germany. Its aim would be to remind all Colognians that their real oppressor always was the archiepiscopal power, against which they were compelled to unite at present and in the future. Even if the message of the relief is anti-clerical, we must however note that it is conveyed in the ecclesiastical language of iconography. It is a burgher’s interpretation of the eternal Christian struggle between good and evil: Christ supervises it, celestial forces help the good rebels, and the Devil strikes a blow for the evil archbishop. The heads in the crest’s indentations are thought to originally have been the skulls of the city’s saintly protectors, including St.Gereon and S:ta Ursula, misinterpreted by a 17th century sculptor trying to restore them. And the crowd standing praying has been interpreted as their respective followers, the Theban legion and the 11 000 virgins (two sainted collectives, but in verity two ancient grave fields providing material for Cologne’s colossal trade with relics). Without going into details, the main message is clear. Christ and the sainthood of Cologne condemn the archbishop, wishing the bourgeois element to stay in control.3 What has this to do with our theme of 1000 years around the Baltic? A good deal, I should think. 2 3
Dietmar 2006 (as note 1) pp. 12–39. Kulturhistoriskt Lexikon för Nordisk Medeltid (KL), Malmö 1956–78s.v. Ursula, L Gjerløw & al; Kölnisches Stadtmuseum, Auswahlkatalog, St. Gereon – Die ”Goldenen Heiligen”, M-L Schwering, Köln 1984 pp. 245–48; Dietmar 2006 pp. 184–87, 189–91.
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Let us turn to image number two. It is a hundred times smaller, a mere inch high – an imprint in the wax of a seal. But it looks a bit like the previous image because it also conveys a message by means of iconography. The lowest quarter shows a kneeling friar, deeply sunken in prayer, the mid-field shows two saints helping him, just as the saints of Cologne assisted its rightminded burghers. The role of saints of course is to function as transmitters between people on earth and God in his three persons. These particular saints have been identified as two Peters, the celebrated evangelist holding his key(s) and the lesser known Peter of Verona, martyr saint of the Dominicans, who died in 1252. As in the large image from Cologne, the crucified Christ is overlooking it all.4 he similar organization of the two images demonstrates that they have been T designed within the same ideological framework, indeed within the same cosmology; but as in the previous case we would not understand much if the image had not had a brief text attached to it. The seal’s inscription tells us – what we may have guessed – that the friar’s name was also Peter, that he was a Dominican at the House of Skänninge. It had been attached to a letter issued in March 13, 1279, in which we read that Peter’s by-name was Gothensis, ‘the Gotlander’, and hence we are able to identify the owner of this seal with the Gotland born Dominican Peter of Dacia, said to be Sweden’s first author.5 lso one gets the impression that the traits of the kneeling friar are individual. A A face worked out in details – high forehead, straight nose and marked chin – which makes one suspect that the engraver has tried to catch his portrait. How nice if so, but the idea is of course another easy prey for source criticism; let us just state that the praying friar gives a cultivated and respect-awing impression. What makes the combining of the Cologne stone relief and the Friar’s seal meaningful is that in the autumn of 1268, when Archbishop Engelbert’s friends made their assault on the Ulrepforte, Peter Gothensis of Dacia happened to be inside the same city wall, being a student at the Dominican College in Cologne. That is the good news; the bad news is that he says nothing about it in his writings. Sweden’s oldest, substantial literary work is a biography of the supposedly holy young woman Christina – daughter of a fairly wealthy peasant in the village of Stommeln, 17 km north-west of Cologne. By ordinary standards, she was a problematic girl who had run away from home at the age of 13 to join a community of beguines in the city, after which she refused to follow her weeping mother back home, instead going directly into ostentatious prayers 4
Schmid, Toni, Om klosterkult och klosterliv på Gotland, Boken om Gotland I, Visby 1945 p. 429. For the lives of these saints, see e.g. Pegelow, Ingalill, Helgonlegender i ord och bild, Stockholm 2006 pp. 222–27. 5 DS 667. Here the date of issue is mistakenly given to be March 27, 1279, which is often repeated in the literature. The identification of the seal’s owner with Petrus de Dacia has not been considered a problem by scholars who have accepted it – e.g. Schück 1916 p. 180f; Gallén 1946 p. 118f, 232 (as in note 5). However others have passed over the letter’s existence in silence, perhaps in doubt of its attribution; hence I have made a thorough investigation in my forthcoming book (see note 8), with a confirming result – i.a. Peter was by-named Gothensis in early letters from his friends in Cologne.
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and meditation. She soon suffered from what has been called holy anorexia, becoming suicidal instigated by the Devil, and under Peter’s own eyes she developed the capacity to stigmatize. She was “discovered” and attended to by the Dominicans of Cologne, who turned her into a regional celebrity. As a student Peter often came to visit her, and after their first encounter shortly before Christmas in 1267, they instantaneously had fallen in some kind of love. The story of their passion – in Christ and between each other – is a very touching as well as strange one to the average modern materialist. Yet it is full of clear-eyed observations of daily life, not only in Cologne and Stommeln, but also at places in Sweden and on Gotland. The manuscript is preserved in Aachen.6 It constitutes the greatest single source to the 13th century Europeanization of Sweden, which historians have so far neglected – it has indeed been studied as a religious document and as literature, but very little as a historical one7 so I am working on a book now, about Peter and Christina in their capacity of time witnesses and do not wish to discuss that aspect any more here.8 I nstead I will focus on the phenomenon of urban uprisings similar to the one that occurred in Cologne when Peter was there, and particularly ask the question whether he wasn’t after all impressed by the experience. I do this because as an old man he had to face a similar incident in his hometown of Visby, which he does mention briefly, however passing over in silence that he also was given a role to play in it. In other words, the memorial relief of Cologne makes me associate with the urban quest for legal and political autonomy in the 13th century, whereas Peter’s seal asks for the role of the Mendicant orders, Dominicans and Franciscans, within this famous historical process.
Urban revolution, urban expansion – and the role of mendicants In the 13th century Cologne was the biggest, richest and most modern city in the German part of the so-called German-Roman Empire which, apart from Germany, also included Northern Italy where the imperial power however was much weaker. During conflicts between pope and emperor from the mid-11th century on, many cities in northern Italy had grasped almost complete freedom 6
7
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Codex Iuliacensis. Hs 599, Bischöfliches Diözesanarchiv, Aachen; editions by Papebroch, Acta Sanctorum, Junii, T. IV 1707; Paulson, Johannes, Petri de Dacia: Vita Christinae Stumbulensis. Gotoburgi 1896. Swedish translation: Lundén, Tryggve, Petrus de Dacia. Om den saliga jungfrun Kristina av Stommeln. Stockholm 1950 (1965). For the most important scholarship on Peter and Christina, cf. Schück, Henrik, Vår förste författare, Stockholm 1916; Gallén, Jarl, La Province de Dacie de l’Ordre des Frères Prêcheurs I. Helsingfors 1946; Nieveler, Peter, Codex Iuliacensis. Christina von Stommeln und Petrus von Dacien – ihr Leben und Nachleben in Geschichte, Kunst und Literatur. Mönchengladbach 1975; Ochsner Friedrich, Petrus de Dacia Gothensis. Mystiker der Freundschaft, Visby 1975; Asztalos, Monika, Petrus de Dacia om Christina från Stommeln. En kärleks historia. Uppsala. 1991; for a survey of literature, see Bohman, Lennart, Den litterära bilden av Petrus de Dacia. Gotländskt arkiv 1982. The manuscript in Swedish carries the preliminary title Tidsvittnen – Peter Gotlänning, Kristi brud och 1200-talets storbråk.
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and acted like sovereign states, governed in ancient Roman republican forms by their elected councils. They were famous for their quasi-democratic structure, as well as for their inclination to overdue political violence. The comparatively smaller German cities remained more or less un-free under their Landesherren, the princes.9 I n the case of Cologne, I have already mentioned that the archbishop was its sovereign lord, who was a prince elector (Kurfürst) too, and one of the most powerful persons in the realm; when the going was good he could muster more than 4000 vassals. The church province stretched down to the Rhine estuary and included western Westphalia, where his suffragan bishops played the same role on their level. So it was no small challenge the freedom seeking burghers had taken upon themselves. It is interesting to find that the leading light among the Cologne Dominicans – the famous former Paris teacher Albertus Magnus – played a leading role as a mediator between the burghers and the archbishop. Two preserved documents of his hand from 1252 and 1258 – known in literature as die kleine and grosse Schied – tried to elaborate the rights of the burghers, without declining the position of their prince ecclesiastical. It was also Albert who had negotiated the abovementioned release of Archbishop Engelbert in 1270. o why had he – a friar and scholar, the greatest expert on Aristotle of his time S – done that? A few motives seem obvious: unlike other churches, the German one was feudally integrated in the state. That was what the papal/imperial conflict was all about. And the German Reich was fundamentally a system for the nourishment of the two exalted estates of priesthood and knighthood, through the daily toil of their peasants. In this system, burghers formed no estate of their own, merely a different breed of peasantry. The mental rigidity and arrogance of the princes and their vassals was monumental; they didn’t observe that the burghers generated enormous value, but thought they could burden them as they pleased, by parasiting on the Rhine traffic and endangering Cologne’s all important international network.10 ominicans were no part of this. They had formed as an order of priests, wellD trained for work in the rapidly growing cities. Their mendicancy was a technical expression for them being supported by allegedly voluntary alms rather than by agricultural holdings, as traditional monks were. Indeed they lived by the hands 9
10
The study of urbanisation over time reached a degree of scientific maturity during the second half of the 20th century by the combined application of economic, sociological, spatial and legal-historical theories and methods. It will suffice here to refer to Hide, J.K., Society and Politics in Medieval Italy: The Evolution of the Civil Life, 1000–1350, London 1973; Waley, David, The Italian City-Republics, New York 1978; Haase, Carl (ed.), Die Stadt des Mittelalters I, Darmstadt 1969; for a more recent survey cf. Hohenberg, P.M. & Hollen Lees, Lynn, The Making of Urban Europe 1000–1994, Cambridge, Mass. & London, England 1995. Laufner, Richard, Das rheinische Städtewesen im Hochmittelalter, in: Die Städte Mitteleuropas im 12. Und 13. Jahrhundert, Linz 1963, pp. 27–49; Ennen, Edith, Kölner Wirdschaft im Frü- und Hochmittelalter, in: Zwei Jahrtausende Kölner Wirdschaft, 1, Köln 1975 pp. 87–193; Groten, Manfred, Köln im 13. Jahrhundert, Köln, Weimar, Wien 1995; Stehkämper, Hugo, Pro bono pacis – Albertus Magnus als Friedensvermittler und Schiedsrichter, in: Archiv für Diplomatik 23, 297–382.
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of merchants, craftsmen and visiting countryside-dwellers. Also they served directly under the papacy, and were hence independent of the diocese hierarchy – in all this very similar to the Franciscans. From the papal point of view, both were organized to purvey spiritual front soldiers in the struggle against heresy, false learning and general disorder. But their close contact with ordinary people made them think along lines that again and again disturbed the canonistic views of the Curia. The Dominicans of Cologne seem to have been a radical lot, who supported people’s endeavour to establish direct communication with God, without taking the detour over ecclesiastical expertise – that which with a degrading word has been called mysticism – and there was a social dimension to it as well.11 Peter’s writings about Christina of Stommeln are fully in line with this. Paradoxically the freeing of a German city first occurred on the Baltic Rim. Here the fall of Henry the Lion and the weakening of the archbishops of Bremen had left a political vacuum, in which Lübeck was assuming leadership. Applying a conscious German-nationalistic mobilization, the city led the campaign to defeat Valdemar II of Denmark in the 1220s. And as a reward emperor Frederick II promoted it to a city of the realm (Reichsstadt) in 1226. Put on par with the regional princes it introduced an Italian style of councillor rule. Almost at the same time Dominicans (and Franciscans) spread over northern Europe. In the late 1220s they settled down in Lübeck as well as in Visby. In the following decades however the societal structure of the empire was more or less collapsing. During the chaotic so-called kaiserlose Periode cities assumed political leadership over large parts of Germany, often by forming alliances with each other and tying up the local aristocracies in them. hrough Lübeck a lot of western German capital and know-how was pumped T into Baltic Rim expansion projects. This had begun under Henry the Lion, who started by making approaches to all northern kingdoms, but found a joint-venture with Gotland to be the most fruitful solution. In the much discussed Artlenburg privilege of 1161 he gave the merchants of Gotland the same rights as his own in Saxony, which in due course made German merchants settling down on Gotland under similar conditions. When Henry was exiled in 1181, a new phase was immediately begun as the Bremen archbishop started to send missionaries via Gotland into Livonia. The action was closely involved with the promotion of German and Gotlandic trade; which was intensified by the turn of the century by the launching of formal crusades against the East Baltic tribes. This however brought a much wider interest from the Rhineland and Westphalian cities and aristocracies, who soon overhauled the northern Germans. Riga was founded and later Reval (which today we call Tallinn), and some 20 towns of lesser importance. The two big cities were in practice part of the complicated colonial rule that evolved in Livonia.12 11 12
Cf. Southern, R. W., Medieval Humanism and Other Studies, Oxford 1970 pp. 19–26. Lübeck 1226. Reichsfreiheit und frühe Stadt, edd. Ahlers, O. & al., Lübeck 1976; Dollinger, Philippe, La Hanse, Paris 1964; Stoob, Heinz, Die Hanse, Graz, Wien, Köln 1995; Blomkvist, Nils, The Discovery of the Baltic. The Reception of a Catholic Worldsystem in the European North (AD 1075–1225).
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”Cologne, Lübeck and Visby. Three urban settings that were well known to Peter, who all underwent revolutionary socio-economical transformations during his life time, partly under his own eyes.” Map drawing by Susanne Westergaard..
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y using Gotland as their base, the Germans to some extent avoided clashes B with the old powers of Denmark and Sweden. Gotland belonged to the sphere of Sweden, but had a free position, allowing Gotlanders to uphold a foreign policy of their own. Denmark for some time tried to match the Germans, with systematic commercial approaches towards the east, backed by crusading enterprises. Some 50 towns and cities emerged, most of them comparatively small but a few, such as Schleswig, Roskilde and Lund fairly large. A particular trait was the system of Canute guilds – spread to most cities – by which the Valdemarian kings endeavoured to inspire as well as check Danish commercial effort. It has been claimed that the late 12th century saw the forming of a centralized Danish state, but that is in need of modification – later in the 13th century the country suffered new internal crises, including series of conflicts between kings and archbishops.13 But there were Canute guilds in many Swedish towns as well, reminiscent of a period when Danish influence had been strong. Swedish kingship had been fairly weak up until 1250, due to rivalling dynasties and late Europeanization. Thereafter kings of jarl Birger’s dynasty achieved a more monolithic dominance by accepting the demands of the international church and opening up for cooperation with the Lübeckian system. A centralized state was definitely established by Birger’s younger son Magnus called Ladulås (1275–90), who pushed his older brother aside by a coup, and crushed a following rebellion of a group of leading magnates in 1278–80. Some 35 smaller and medium sized towns emerged in medieval mainland Sweden cum Finland. Quickly Stockholm outgrew the others. Unlike in Denmark, many Germans had settled in the larger ones; but they were not entirely free either; jarl Birger had stated that they should become Swedes and follow the laws of the country.14 In both Scandinavian countries we meet the terminology of councillor rule – burgomaster, council, burghers – but that doesn’t mean that cities obtained full autonomy, merely that the kings guaranteed that they were exempt of the regional laws and entitled to follow an urban one. So this was a compromise. The only city that didn’t fit into the pattern was the largest of them all, Visby, which in a legal sense was embedded in the concept of Gotland well into the second half of the 13th century, during which period the island itself was reckoned as a city in international treaties, whereas Visby was considered a mere agglomeration on its coast. Hence Visby was a kind of Cologne of the North, and very much its lookalike too, albeit three times smaller.15 13
14 15
Gelting, Michael, The Kingdom of Denmark, in: Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy, Cambridge 2007 pp. 73–120. Cf. Hermansson, Lars, Släkt, vänner och makt. En studie av elitens politiska kultur i 1100-talets Danmark, Göteborg 2000; Carelli, Peter, En kapitalistisk anda, Kulturella förändringar i 1100-talets Danmark, Lund 2001; Lind, John & al, Danske korståg. Krig og mission i Østersøen, København 2004; Andersson, Hans, Urbanisierte Ortschaften und lateinische Terminologie, Göteborg 1971 pp. 44–89, Wallin, Curt, Knutsgillena i det medeltida Sverige, Historiskt arkiv 16, Stockholm 1975 pp. 59–90,117–26. Blomkvist, Nils & al. The Kingdom of Sweden, in: Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy, Cambridge 2007 pp. 167–213; Wallin 1975 (as note 13) pp 13–46 & passim; Andersson 1971 (as in note 13) pp. 90–108. Blomkvist 2005 (as note 12) pp. 469–501.
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Peter of Dacia’s rebellious experience in the Swedish mainland Let us now return to that able Dominican, Peter Gothensis of Dacia. After his top education in Cologne and Paris he returned to Sweden in 1271 becoming a reader at the house of Skänninge; in the autumn of 1278 he was promoted to prior in the House of Västerås. There he left his one surviving imprint in a Swedish source, as he confirmed with his seal a charter issued in March 13, 1279 as has already been mentioned. The letter he was witnessing was issued by his confessant Sir Birger Philipsson together with his wife Lady Ulfhild Magnusdotter at their estate Idö outside of Västerås, in which Sir Birger donated much land to a nearby Cistercian nunnery. We have already seen that Peter still used his Skänninge seal at that date. All this looks like a perfectly ordinary day at work for a 13th century Dominican, but in fact he had put his foot deep into political mud, which previous research by and large has neglected. The thing is, that Sir Birger was second in command of the last rebellion of the so-called true Folkungar – an aristocratic league who fought against the modernization policy of Magnus Ladulås in the years 1278–80.16 In the abovementioned letter, Sir Birger explains his reason for the donation to be fear of God’s disgrace after having been excommunicated by prelates ecclesie for having married a relative of the 4th degree. However at that time such marriages were seen as fairly harmless offences, from which local bishops often provided dispensation, a fact that turns this particular ban into an act of psychological warfare. To be the confessor of a rebellion chieftain, whom the church had furthermore excommunicated, would put any friar in a sensitive position – to say it mildly. It suggests that Peter had been involved up to his neck in the troubles of his confessant: as spiritual guide, theological consultant, and probably as a go-between and negotiator in practical matters. As to the degree of his involvement we know no details. But his following activities suggest that he feared the worst: only a couple of weeks after his visit to Idö, Peter resigned from the newly obtained priory and left the country – all with the blessings of his provincial prior. He stayed on Gotland for a while, before going to Cologne and Stommeln. After this he returned, not to Västerås, but to Visby, resuming his former position as a reader. Indeed it looks as if he was fleeing from the country, and accepting a degradation to be able to stay at a place where the king’s influence was limited. It is well known that King Magnus favoured the Franciscans, and the Dominicans may have felt obliged to appease him in the moment when it became obvious that he was to remain in power. Peter’s degradation might be seen as a disciplinary gesture for the benefit of the king. But Peter tells us that the journey was decided in consultation with the provincial prior. Not a word is said about any political dangers, instead three other reasons for going away are mentioned: his health problem, a need to see his confessant daughter Christina, and more officious to acquire Cologne relics (which he did, bringing back a skull from a Theban legionary and rather many of the 11 000 virgins). 16
E.g. Lönnroth, Erik, Från svensk medeltid, Stockholm 1959 pp. 13–29; Yrwing, Hugo, Maktkampen mellan Valdemar och Magnus Birgersson 1275–1281, Lund 1952.
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In what way he might have been incriminated in the king’s eyes we do not know, but there is of course a chance that he had broken the rules connected with the excommunication somehow. One of many interesting aspects of Peter is that the Aachen manuscript reveals psychological details, which in most other cases have been lost through the passing of centuries. As to his escape-like journey in 1279 it says that he suffered from a heart problem that had made him despair for his life; he had been unable to walk half a mile – we probably talk here about half a German mile, some three kilometres – without needing to rest two or three times, but as soon as he was out of King Magnus’ reach, walking through Germany, he was miraculously cured. This sounds like a description of deep stress, cured by getting away from the source of danger. Another time when he had had a personal encounter with King Magnus, probably in 1281, a letter to Kristina states that he had been unable to write it personally, because he had felt unwell. Hence it will seem that Peter looked on the king as his personal daemon.17 As Peter’s transference to Visby was sanctioned by the Dominican provincial chapter, conferring in Oslo in August 1280, King Magnus at the same time, with a sudden exercise of Roman Law had the rebel leaders executed in Stockholm – Peter’s confessant, Sir Birger, among them. As a friar, Peter would not have run the same risk normally, but depending on what he would have been accused of, one couldn’t be all that sure. On Gotland he would be out of the king’s direct reach anyway; however it is worthy of note that in 1285 King Magnus found himself strong enough to forbid Gotlanders to help or house laymen having fled from the mainland after committing crimen maiestatis, which sounds like a direct comment on what had happened six years before. Possibly others had travelled to Gotland with Peter. That we will never know, but the possibility suggests that his involvement in the uprising might have been deep indeed.
Peter of Dacia and the revolutionary situation on Gotland What was it like to return to his ‘natal province’ in 1280? In order to understand his position, we must establish that he was a native Gotlander, a Gute, born around 1235. Previous research suggests that he was the son of a countryside commoner, but my hunch is that his father would have been a priest. This feeling is founded on the fact that he mentions his two brothers sometimes, but never a single word about his parents. From an obsolete paragraph in one of the extant copies of the Guta law and other circumstances, we can deduce that during Gotland’s first Christian centuries, priests had often been sons of priests, and it seems that they often belonged to substantial commoner clans, and that parochial churches often were handed over from father to son.18 But in 1248 the keeping of priest’s wives or concubines had been banned in Sweden by cardinal William of Sabina, and it was repeated specially for Gotland by the bishop of Linköping 17 18
Here the text follows my forthcoming book (as in note 7). Gotlandslagen, ed. C. J Schlyter, Lund 1852, Samling af Sweriges gamla lagar, VII, ch. 6; for the social standing of priests, cf. Lindström, G, Anteckningar om Gotlands medeltid, II, Stockholm 1895 pp. 403–43; Yrwing, Hugo, Gotland under äldre medeltid. Studier i baltisk–hanseatisk historia. Lund 1940 pp. 79–108.
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in 1255, at about the time when Peter must have entered the Dominican house in Visby. He may well have been intended to inherit one of the Gotland parishes when the blow fell, and he had to find a new livelihood. When Peter returned to Gotland in 1280 the commoners still exercised full political control of their island. We are entitled to discern an elite, defined by its members’ wealth and habits, among whom the holders of office – the aldermen (seniores) – were recruited, but social distinctions were not formalized, except for one dimension – that of true Gutar versus non-Gutnic folks. After his home-coming he wrote to Kristina about the consolation of living among omni cognatorum et amicorum.19 This sounds rather typical for a Gotland homecomer. A large kin and a wide circle of friends had come forward to greet him upon arrival, providing many happy reunions. The little snapshot allows us to see yet another Gotland dimension to his biography, that the genuine Gutar probably were proud of having him on one of the international positions in the great city of Visby. owever fate saw to that the same very summer when Peter returned to ‘his H land’ as he calls Gotland, the first evident sign of discord in the old trade alliance between the Gutar and the Germans presented itself. A messenger from Lübeck must have arrived just about the same time as himself with a suggestion that must have been intensely discussed among the City’s German residents; the result of which followed in September 1280, as ‘bailiff, councillors and the community of Germans in the city of Visby’ entered a 10 years alliance with Lübeck to protect German merchants suffering injustice or damage, all over the Baltic Rim, and if necessary revenge them.20 By doing this, for the first time Germans of Gotland had consciously demonstrated irreverence vis-à-vis their Gutnic countrymen. By defining themselves as Germans to a higher degree than Gotlanders, they had opened the gates for an “ethnification” of the island’s social order. Surely they had been under pressure from the rising star of Lübeck to do this, since that city was establishing similar associations with Hamburg and the so-called Vendic cities, whereby it more and more emerged as the leader of German trading cities. In 1282, Riga too, joined the association. Hence Peter’s return to Gotland occurred just as a trial of strength between New and Old organizational forms began to accelerate towards a show-down on the island – the civil war between city and land that broke out in 1288. ut there was no immediate clash, since in the same year, on October 26, B 1280, ‘councillors and community of both Germans and Gotlanders in the city of Visby’ issued a mutual statement about a matter concerning the entire German commercial system, namely the removal of its Netherland staple from Brügge to Ardenburg. Here everything breeds peace and quiet as far as Visby goes, both tongues speak with one voice. But at the same time the secret of their cooperation’s nature is revealed. The charter in question has its seals 19 20
Paulson 1896 (as in note 6) pp. 246–48; Asztalos 1991 (as in note 7) p. 351. Sveriges traktater med främmande magter jemte dit andra hörande handlingar (ST). Ed. O.S. Rydberg. Stockholm 1877: 1: 135; Yrwing 1940 (as in note 18) p. 319ff.
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preserved. We can see that the Germans actually were represented by their guild of Theutonicorum in Gotlandia manencium (Germans living on Gotland), whereas councillors and burghers of the Gutnic tongue were represented by the seal of the land with its cross-bearing ram, claiming: Gutenses signo, Christus signatur in agno … ‘I signify the Gutar, Chist is signified by the lamb’. 21 Neither of these parties can be formally connected to an existing city. Some scholars have deduced from this that the Gutar of Visby had assumed leadership of the ‘land’ Gotland22, which would make the further development towards the civil war hard to understand. A more plausible alternative would be that the councillor rule was so newly instigated that neither of the parties had had time to modernize their seals, but urban terminology regarding Visby had vacillated all through the 13th century, which makes it even more plausible that it is a mere hoax – the aldermen of the Gutnalting were prepared to pose as urban councillors in a context where country dwellers no longer were internationally accepted. This fairly remarkable conclusion makes it necessary to penetrate deeper into the problem of Visby’s legal status. From 1225 Visby had often been described as an agglomeration of Germans on Gotland, however an urbanised area without an urban constitution – yet with a right for every German, regardless of where he dwelled, to enter the interparocial parish of St. Mary. So that super parish of St. Mary formed a guild-like association functioning as a quasi-burghership, in which the so-called Kerspelherren were internally looked upon as Visby’s German councillors – and sometimes they were addressed as such in correspondence with other German cities. The Germans were always mentioned before the Gutar in privileges and letters up until the mid-1280s, which suggests they were considered to be the leading mercantile group. Whether Gutar living in Visby had begun something similar is not known, but as long as Visby wasn’t formally broken out of the Gotland community, there was no practical need for it. Hence the variable terminology reflected an extraordinary situation.23 Now we must turn to a charter issued in 1286 by the leadership of Gotland, intitulated as ‘the aldermen of Gotland’s land with the whole community, not only councillors and other citizens of the Gutar, but also of the Germans in Visby’. Its content is dramatic; a ship from Riga had slipped away from a check of its load which should have been made in the city harbour. The bailiff of Visby and some councillors had rowed out to the ship and told it to turn into the harbour; the shippers had promised, yet they turned towards the sea and disappeared.24 This incident has been seen as a sign that Visby was losing its standing in Baltic seafaring, but it is also worthy of note that the intitulatio of the letter points out that a new constitutional order had suddenly been established on Gotland. For the first 21 22 23 24
Urkundenbuch der Stadt Lübeck (LübUB). Lübeck 1843ff, 1: 406. For the seals, cf Siltberg, Tryggve, Gotlands landskapssigill och äldre judiciella sigil, in: Landsarkivet i Visby 1905–2005, Visby 2005 pp. 284-98, 330–36. E.g. Yrwing 1940 (as in note 18) p. 301–03; 333. Frensdorff, Ferdinand, Das Stadtrecht von Wisby, in: Hansische Geschichtsblätter (HGBll) 22, München & Leipzig 1916 pp. 1–85; cf. Yrwing 1940 (as in note 18) pp. 350–59. LübUB (as in note 21) I: 497.
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time the aldermen (or seniores) launched themselves as masters of the island, whereupon in a legal sense, they presented Visby as a quasi-autonomous doublecity under their rule; in which for the first time the Gutnic councillors and citizens were mentioned before their German opposites. ere Gotland actually presents itself as that commoners’ republic which is H discussed in literature, but another way of describing the situation is to recognize that the aldermen had assumed a princely position vis-à-vis Visby – providing the urban autarky the Germans wished for, at the same time reducing their status to that of a non-Gutnic folk. Hence the situation was revolutionary at both ends. The aldermen had transformed themselves into a collective Landesherr, just as the burghers of Visby definitely planned to dissociate themselves from them. That means that the constitutional order on Gotland was quickly reaching European normality, and the positions must have reminded Visby’s new Dominican prior of his Cologne experience almost 20 years before – around 1286 Peter had again been promoted to lead a Dominican friary. In his last known letter to Christina – written during the summer or autumn of 1288 – Peter of Dacia conveys a rather sad and resigned feeling to his once so beloved bride in Christ. In later years, he writes, she hadn’t reported any attacks by the Devil, nor any remarkable rescues from them, the likes of them he had experienced when they were together, which he tended to regard as miracles. Furthermore she shouldn’t expect to get many more letters from him, since he was ill, suffering from violent fourth-day ague-fits and his long-nourished plan to have her move to Sweden were definitely enshrined: De transito uestro ad nos, heu! Quia extra spem positus sum secundum modum, quia guerra maxima in terra nostra fuit hoc anno inter terram ipsam et ciuitatem. ‘Regarding your transition to us, aye! Of this I have no hope at all, since there was a great war between the land itself and the city this year.’ The letter is one of the two existing contemporary records of the Gotlandic civil war. It was obviously over when he wrote it, but it seems as if it had taken all his courage out of him.25 The other contemporary record is the letter of confession and surrender King Magnus made Visby issue in August 9, 1288. A reference to a similar act concerning the countryside freemen exists, but that source has not been preserved. What else do we know? There are a handful of annal notices, written down at various times based on traditions that had been kept in the various religious establishments where they were produced. Two of them have provenance from the Franciscans of Visby, the fullest of these uses words akin to Peters. In 1288 ‘there was magna gwerra on Gotland inter ciues Wisby et bondones terre. They waged war against each other in the month of April the third Saturday after Easter and the townsfolk won. In memory of this event the image of the Holy Virgin is carried through the city.’ The shorter text adds that the battle was fought ante Visby and that it occurred on the day of St. Anicet the
25
Paulson 1896 p. 215 (as in note 6); cf. Gallén 1946 s. 238; Lundén 1965 s. 265f; Asztalos 1991 s. 405 (all as in note 7).
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martyr – April 17.26 However a third annal text claims that they fought in Wisby ad invicem in mense aprili, hence that the clash in or close to Visby ended in a draw, whereas a fourth one claims that many Gotlanders had fallen (occisi sunt multi de Gutensibus).27 Taken together, these pieces of information seem to suggest that at least one more battle had occurred, apart from the incident at Visby in April, which furthermore would be needed to motivate the expression great war, used by Peter and the Franciscan annalist. I n the letter of submission to King Magnus, the citizens of Visby admit to having built the city wall without permission and aliquos strepitus fecimus – to having launched a few attacks against the commoners, which must be interpreted as at least two incidents. The second incident may be referred to in Nicolaus Petreius’s 16th century chronicle, recently brought forward by Sten Körner. Here it is said that the countryside held the city in a siege, whereupon the burghers made a sortie in the middle of the night causing large bloodshed in their camp. The information may be of independent value since Petreius was a priest at Visborg’s castle, where confiscated archives lay in heaps – he says so himself.28 Petreius’s piece can be connected to the claim of some annals that the fighting occurred around Visby, and with the record that many Gotlanders had fallen, but not with the claim that the fight should have ended in a draw. If we can trust his text, it rather suggests that the second attack too was launched nearby Visby. Do we know anything more about the civil war in 1288? It depends on how trustworthy one finds the detailed narrative that Hans Strelow published in his Gotlandic Chronicle of 1633. Körner argues that Strelow too had access to material thereafter disappeared, suggesting yet another Gotlandic annal work – which certainly there must have existed several. But Strelow also has a text about a mediation effort, which cannot have come from an annal; it is an obvious remnant from the peace-negotiations, written on a day to day basis, convincingly mentioning many names, and a lot of coming and going. The text is by no means pure gold, since it contains haphazard conclusions drawn by Strelow or produced by tradition, and there may be reading errors and misunderstandings, but under this web one sees the outline of a meticulous contemporary report, describing a mediation process and the untrustworthy acts of the commoners of the countryside – its tendency is pro-Visby. The story is that the priests of Visby had presented a mediation draft to the chieftains of the countryside, which was discussed in the presence of the abbot, the prior and the guardian, the provost of Visby Mickel Ludfridus, Hendrick, vicar of Holy Trinity, Andreas of Ekeby and others. The abbot of course belonged to the 26 27 28
Asma 23 Chronica Visbycensis 815–1444 (s. 317), Asma 24 Ex cod. Holm. B 99 (s. 326); cf the translation to Swedish in Visbyfranciskanernas bok. Handskriften B 99 i Kungliga biblioteket (edd. Odelman & Melefors) pp. 48f, 56f. Asma 20 Annales 266-1430 (s. 281); Asma 21 Annales 916–1430 s.a. 1287 (s. 297). Diplomatarium Suecanum (DS) 1829ff 970; Annales Suecici medii aevi (ed. Paulsson, Göte), Lund 1974 numeris 19, 20, 21, 23,24 s.a. 1288 in all cases but nr 21 which has 1287; Körner, Sten, Das Jahr 1288 und die Quellen Strelows. Gotlandia Irredenta. Festschrift für Gunnar Svahnström, Sigmaringen 1990; Körner, Sten, Slottsprästen Petreius berättar, Arkiv på Gotland 6/Gotländska studier 8, Visby 2008 pp. 171f, 253.
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rich Cistercian monastery of Roma, the provost was probably settled in the city but governed over a third of the island; and together with the vicar of Ekeby one may say they represented the countryside. The prior of course was our Peter, the guardian his opposite Franciscan number, together with the vicar of a city church, the Drotten, they would have represented the city. So there Peter sat, nowadays old and ill – suffering from some kind of fever according to his last letter to Christina, or alternatively drawing it upon himself by the current stress; he was involved in mediations, just as his idol Albertus Magnus had been in Cologne. Seeing Peter as a member of the city clergy may surprise some, since indices suggest his sympathies were with the countryside, but we must remember that Visby was his home, whereas Cologne and the Rhineland was his second home, and like Albertus he would have pleaded for a compromise, the restoring of the previous climate of German-Gutnic cooperation – unfortunately an impossibility. At last the negotiators thought they had landed an agreement, and waited for the “chieftains” of the countryside to appear with their seal and confirm it; but in reality these were playing for time, and the transaction was postponed for six days, after which they sent message that they had appealed to Sir Odvard Lode of Estonia, who was coming with many knights and vassals to make peace. Odvard was a leading political figure in Danish Estonia, and only recently he had spoken in defence of the old trading system; whereas the Visby burghers very likely had a pre-considered understanding with King Magnus of Sweden.29 But now the country commoners had tricked them. Might it be that the story of a sortie in the middle of the night into the camp of the Gutar followed upon this incident? What we know is that Visby got its independence from the Gutar, and fell into the hands of Magnus, plus evidence of an extreme chill in the mental climate among the Gutar vis-à-vis the city.
United at last For Peter, the outcome must have been catastrophic; he had been a link between city and land that wasn’t asked for any more, and again he had become the subject of King Magnus – his personal daemon. Peter died the following year, and his remains are likely to be hidden in St. Nicolai, the great ruin that once was the church of the Visby Dominicans. There, where his career had begun at an unknown date in the years around 1250, and where he closed it as its leading man in 1289. But the irony of the historical process never fails, and it so happened that in the summer of 1288 Cologne, too, won its definite freedom from its archiepiscopal prince. This occurred at the battle of Worringen some kilometres from Stommeln. It has been called the largest mounted horse battle in the Rhineland.30 As to Peter’s Christina, according to an independent source – the so called Vita 29 30
Hans Nielssøn Strelow,Cronica Guthilandorum etc, Kiøbinghaffn 1633 pp. 144–47; in this section I have been drawing from my forthcoming book (as in note 8). Janssen, Wilhelm & Stehkämper, Hugo 1998: Der Tag bei Worringen, Köln.
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Anonymi prepared in the first half of the 14th century – she took active part in it by praying for the count of Berg, one of the nobles that had sided up with the city, who thereby evasit mortem et non erat captivitatus, ‘avoided being killed, nor was he taken prisoner’.31 After the defeat at Worringen the archbishops were rarely to visit their metropolis, and only after exchanging mutual oaths with the city. Instead they held their court at other places, at Bonn in particular. As monuments over their once so exalted position these ecclesiastical princes left not only an autonomous city, but also the cathedral of Cologne was left a torso only to be finished in 1880, which happened to be precisely the year when Ernest Renan, famous French sociologist of religion published the first modern study of the relationship between Peter of Dacia and Kristina of Stommeln – titled Une idylle monachal.32 All these coincidences should allow us to conclude that Christina and Peter were eternally united – as Christina had once predicted – if by nothing else, at least by the same historical process. Vita anonymi also presents the following about Christina, which may serve as a post script to the present study: post conflictum in Worenc omnis persecutio diaboli cessavit omnino… after the battle of Worringen all persecutions from the Devil came to a complete end. Renan noticed this in his article, as did Peter Nieveler a century later; the latter suggested that the initial phase of the conflict and the way it was to develop quite likely had an impact on sensitive personalities in the neighbourhood, such as Christina, but finds it even so not very likely that military and political events should change her way of living so completely. According to Vita anonymi she suffered from heavy bleedings at that time, may be – he hints to – in connection with the menopause. But then there was the fact that Peter was gone for ever; that to both Renan and Nieveler would have been what decisively changed her life.33 Christina was beatified by the Church of Rome in 1908. Peter has become a revered but somewhat evasive problem to scholars. Visby of today is a small town again embedded in the Gotland community, just as he would have liked it to be, after Sweden officially abolished the town concept in 1971. Cologne has continued to grow, it is a city with Global aspirations, but Stommeln remains a large agricultural village, pretty much as they left it.
31 32 33
Acta Sanctorum Junii 1707 (as in note 5) p. 454; cf. Nieveler 1975 (as in note 6) p. 55, 89. Renan, Ernest, Une idylle monacale aux XIIIe siècle, in: Revue de deux monde, 39, Paris 1880 pp. 275–94. Renan 1880 s. 292; Nieveler 1975 s. 89 (as in note 7).
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The Conception of an Egalitarian Gotlandic Peasant Society Tryggve Siltberg
1.
Pictures of Gotlandic Farmers
1.1. Pictorial Sources What pictures do we have of the former Gotlandic peasant society? The only real picture of a group of farmers is the so-called “large seal picture”, a votive picture in Fårö parish church, an oil painting from 1618.1 The painting was a thanks to God for the rescue of 15 inhabitants of Fårö, following their experience of being cast away on an ice floe while hunting seals on St Matthie’s Day (24th February) 1603. Three drifted to Gotska Sandön (”Gullands Sandøe”), where they were rescued, and the others were rescued in Sweden (”Suergis land”). They returned to Fårö on Annunciation Day in Lent (March 25).
Votive picture, Fårö church 1618.
The painting depicts the 15 men on an ice floe with four slain seals. Each man is armed with a harpoon or spear, although five of them carry rifles, in some cases instead of a spear. The group has no chieftain standing out from the others by way of costume or equipment. The man furthest to the left would seem to be the leader: he is walking away and would appear to be taking the lead. 1
Printed in Bengt G Söderberg et al., Gotland (Malmö 1959, Allhems förlag) p. 129 (colour print and description); Sveriges Kyrkor, Gotland II pp 8, 10 (photo and description); Hilfeling II pp 38ff; J. Linnman, Gotland, 1924, pp 81f.
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The surroundings imply coastline. Öland, the Swedish coast and Gotska Sandön can be seen at the top, while Fårö is to the right. A picture of Visborg slott (castle) can be seen at the bottom of the painting. This is the oldest known depiction of the castle, and is regarded as fairly true-to-life. There is an older Medieval picture of Gotlandic farmers, dating from Stone cross, Guldrupe, c. 1250. Copied by the mid 13th century or earlier, on Marianne Holm 2007 from Säve’s drawing.. a traditional Gotlandic stone cross at Bondarve in Guldrupe. The inscription is in runes and in the ancient Gutnic language. In translation, it reads: “Pray for the soul of Jakob in Annuganänge (?), who was slain by Nikulas.” The local tale was penned in 1826 and related how “one Nils Bondarfve, on his return from the town, murdered his neighbour Jacob Hestings with a thill, because he had felled a tree on Bondarfve’s land; the tree in question is also depicted beside the man with an axe.”2 Note the long skirt-like costume. Hans Strelow relates in his chronicle of 1633: They first wore breeches in Germany in 1380, formerly they wore long skirts, and the same attire came to Gotland the same year, and those who bore them were grossly derided, and disdainfully called ’breechmen’, a word used derogatively for many years. They then wore both hose and breeches, and were later called long hose.3 We can presume that the picture on the Guldrupe cross represents the ordinary Gotlandic daily dress. Gotlanders portrayed on Medieval headstones are probably wearing festive dress. Most of them are portraits of priests, although some are of farmers. A particularly beautiful example is the gravestone dating from the early or mid 14th century in Stenkyrka Parish Church. The Latin inscription reads (translated) “here rests Jakob and his wife Botvid, may they be united in Heaven as they have been united by this gravestone.”Jakob’s costume is reminiscent of figures in Uppsala Cathedral chancel. What is now known as the StenkyrkaJakob’s costume has been reproduced and is worn by participants in the annual Medieval Week in Visby.4 A portrait on a gravestone in Martebo parish church depicts a man wearing a similar attire. This has also been dated to the early or 2 3 4
Printed in Gotlands runinskrifter 1 1962 p. 255 (G 132); Sveriges Kyrkor, Gotland IV p. 376f figs. 412, 413; Hilfeling II p. 139. Strelow 1633 p. 182. Printed in Sveriges Kyrkor, Gotland I:1 pp 42ff; Lindström II 1895 p. 104; H. Hildebrand in Månadsbladet (KVHAA) 1892 p. 88 (reproduction); Läffler 1908 pp 17f, 1924 nr 41 pp 19f (reproduction); Bennett 1966 nr 22 pp 56, 125f; Else Marie Gutarp 1995 p. 78 (reproduction).
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Gravestone, Stenkyrka church, c 1300–1350. From Gutarp 1995.
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mid 14th century. The Latin inscription, in translation, reads: “Here rests Snovald (”Snyovaldus”) with his sons Johan and Olof; may their souls rest in peace.”5 Two named painted portraits of men can be seen on the predella of the altarpiece in Linde parish church. Apparently, two farmers donated the altar piece, which is much older. They have both been named: on the left ”Jon Hesselbin” (Hässelby farm), on the right ”Botel Meorink” (Myrungs farm).6 Hässelby would seem to have been a significant farm. It was inhabited by a judge of one of Gotland’s ‘sixths’ (settingsdomare) by the name of Jon Hässelby in the first half of the 17th century. A self-assured man called Botel Hässelby lived here in the 1540s. He redeemed his life from the Danish sheriff Dumstorp by paying a fine of 100 marks. He had defied the Danish chatelain’s prohibition to hunt hare. Botel Gravestone, Martebo church, c 1300-1350. From Sveriges Kyrkor. Hässelby had boasted to the other farmers that “he wanted to serve hare at his table just like the chatelains” of Visborg.7 1.2. The Egalitarian Peasant Expeditions An ethnological record from 1867, written by Per Arvid Säve, the Gotlandic recorder of folk culture, describes how the inhabitants of Fårö organized joint expeditions. They exploited Gotska Sandön, the most isolated island in the Baltic Sea: The inhabitants of Fårö in bygone days were never partial to field work, they couldn’t find the strength to gather the heavy seaweed and spread it out on the pebbly coastal fields, in order to get a handful of rye, which seldom took them through to Easter. No, these chores were left to the women, while they engaged in fishing, the hunting of hare and seabirds, or even best of all sealing...There (on Gotska Sandön) the men of Fårö in bygone days (although 5 6 7
Printed in Sveriges Kyrkor, Gotland I:1 p. 88ff; Lindström II 1895 p. 96; Bennett 1966 nr 20 p. 54. Printed in Sveriges Kyrkor, Gotland VII:2 pp 60ff fig. 78; Lindström II 1895 p. 91; excerpt from Hilfeling I p. 200. Siltberg 1995 (§ 13).
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some old codgers could still recall them) would find joy in leaving tedious chores back home on the farm with housework, wives and screaming children, to lull in the freedom of hunting, being on their own, and in the company of their lifelong friends; they could indulge in continuous hunting for seal or birds in March, then at Midsummer they bludgeoned the seals on the shore and collected eggs, and finally from Michaelmass to All Souls’ (the end of September to the beginning of November) ... they stayed at their fishing base at Skäludden, where they lived in harmony with their foreman. He divided the entire catch between them, settled disputes and preached the Holy Word...8 Per Arvid Säve also described how boat crews were formed (1880): “But when selecting the crew, little attention was paid to kin or neighbourhood, but courage and competence were of greater significance, since it was important that the comrades could rely on each other; ... but another thing was that the question of whether the man was a rich farmer or poor worker was never raised.9 The boats manned by the Gotlanders on their trading trips were actually quite small. Erik Nylén has estimated a crew of 8–12 men, which would be in accordance with the Gutalagen.10 Small boats were suited to the rivers in the Baltic regions and Russia, and small boats were sufficient to manage the waves of the Baltic Sea. Small boats are easier to manoeuvre by men, who were equal men as described in the model above. It is interesting to make comparisons with the social structure among the Scandinavians who sailed across the Atlantic Sea in large boats. Icelanders and Norsemen were socially organised around chieftains. One should not ignore the connection between social structure, boat size and the wavelength of the sea sailed upon! How did Gotlanders select those who would participate in trade journeys? The selection might have been ad hoc, perhaps there were certain customs and traditions. Above, I have recorded a scene of how the inhabitants of Fårö exploited Gotska Sandön in the 18th century. This selection was strictly geographical. The farms to the east and to the west of the parish of Fårö took it in turns to sail to and utilize Gotska Sandön every other year.11 Let us revert to the painting of 1618, depicting the farmers of Fårö. They are depicted as a hunting team, which is egalitarian and probably with a leader who seems to be ‘primus inter pare’. Worthy of note is also that we can study who took 8 9 10 11
Säve 1867 pp 57f. Säve 1880 p. 50. Nylén 1983 pp 135, 137, 150f. Nylén has calculated one man per metre of the ship’s length. The experimental boat ”Krampmacken” is 8 metres long and has 9 ribs. Gutalagen (36) states that one ”caup scip” (trading ship) has 13 ribs. See map in Siltberg 1998 p. 83. Here I use the border between the catchment areas of the west and east schools on Fårö, which were established in 1846, when the east school was to be built. Fårö K I:2 p. 352, Landsarkivet in Visby). According to information received, this border between school children on Fårö was still in existence in the 20th century (I thank Nils Broström, Visby for this information).
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part in sealing expeditions. We find that they were men from a very small area of Fårö.12 The number of men per farm varies from 1 to 4, and several farms have not participated. The overall impression is that the expedition has been voluntary and egalitarian: those farms that wished to participate were welcome. We must presume, however, that the owner of each farm decided who on his farm would be allowed to participate. The decision process on each farm and within each family has probably varied. Some ethnological sources indicate that the master let the people on the farm take part in decision-making.13 Who led the expeditions? There were certainly ‘foremen’, as described above.14 To the far left of the painting, a man can be seen, who is obviously leading the way. This must be the foreman. His attire is the same as the others’. He is obviously no great chieftain, but a primus inter pares. How were the Gotlandic farmers organised when carrying out various tasks? There are one or two interesting references from about 1545 in the records of the sheriff Dumstorp.15 On two occasions the sheriff arrested a man in the countryside on Gotland, who was regarded as a criminal, to be brought to the castle in Visby and judged. In both cases a band of friends (”fruntschafft”) appeared to their assistance and managed to secure their release by promising to pay a fine. The impression is that it was a farmer accompanied by his friends, rather than a chieftain who had come along with his dependants. Ethnological records testify to a special organisation on Gotland, known as “bidlag”. Nils Lithberg mentioned this organisation for certain parts of Gotland in 1915. In each parish, the farms were grouped into one or several “bidlag” each comprising 10–25 farms. One farmer was given a helping hand by the other farms in the “bidlag” in carrying out chores that he could not manage alone, such as haymaking, laying a new roof, building a new house, and numerous other lighter tasks.16 The “bidlag” was also invited to Christmas and wedding celebrations and funerals. As regards funerals, this system continued way into the 20th century.17 Lithberg believed that the “bidlag” was organised after the 12
13 14
15 16 17
See map in Siltberg 1998 p. 83. The composition of the group matches the geographical map well, but maybe one should not exclude the possibility that there were more members in the group who are not mentioned on the painting. It is possible that some men left the group before the ice floe drifted out to sea and either managed to return to Fårö or drowned. Cf Fröberg 1937. Snöbohm 1897 p. 251. For good leadership in an expedition on ice, it would seem wise to choose a leader, who keeps dry, and does not participate in the most hazardous ventures; at least this is emphasized in the report on the fateful mail-boat voyage between Öland and Gotland in 1830 (Cramér 1872). Siltberg 1995 p. 94. Säve 1938 (1980) pp 85ff, 1941 p. 54. Lithberg 1915 p. 43. In 1996 I heard that a farmer from Gammelgarn went to another farmer’s funeral in 1952 for the simple reason that they had been members of the same ’bidlag’.
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Medieval Period, possibly by the authorities.18 In my opinion, a structure like this was not particularly complicated, and could obviously be organised by the local community, whenever the need arose, for trading journeys, etc. Lithberg also claimed that the “bidlag” organisation might have been upset by kinship, and that “furthermore in the coastal parishes, where the selection of boat crews was greatly influenced by kinship and friendship, even greater alterations occurred.”19 As I have just mentioned, I believe that the Gotlanders’ trading journeys, just like the boat crews, were organised by men who considered themselves as equal men.
2. ”The Same Occurrences, the Same Society!” The traditional conception among scholars that Gotland was an egalitarian peasant society was revised in the final decades of the 20th century. It was then claimed that Gotland had had an aristocracy or some kind of social elite. The new picture was first presented by the legal historian Elsa Sjöholm in the 1970s, and later by a group of Stockholm archaeologists in the 1980s and 1990s. They were joined by the historians Carl-Johan Gardell 1986 and Jens Lerbom in 2003.20 Their views have had a great impact among scholars, even influencing people like the art historian Kersti Markus in 1999. All those concurring with this new interpretation of the history of Gotland shared a common basis for their line of argument, namely social conditions in the rest of Scandinavia. These scholars found the same phenomena and the same artefacts on Gotland as in the rest of Scandinavia. Analogical analysis led to the conclusion that social stratification on Gotland had been similar to the rest of Scandinavia. What they failed to take into consideration were the distinctive features, which will be dealt with below, and which (in my opinion) reveal that Gotland was an exception to the rule.
3. Sjöholm’s Legal Historical Conception of Gotland The legal historian Elsa Sjöholm (1976) wanted to revise the dating of the Gutalag, suggesting a later date. She dismissed the established dating of the 1220s or at least prior to 1285, and claimed that the law had been brought about by a reaction to Magnus Eriksson’s overall introduction of a national law (”landslag”) in c. 135021. She has drawn all Scandinavian Medieval laws over 18
19 20
21
Lithberg was of the opinion that ”bidlagen” might have been organised by the Danish authorities in the late 16th century due to prohibitions of luxury and affluence; the farmers were only allowed to invite a restricted number of guests to a wedding. I would like to point out that at this time there were also Danish enactments organising the farmers in groups for ”mantal” tax purposes (see Bennike Madsen 1978). But we don’t know to what extent Danish and Gotlandic farmers did follow those instructions when collecting the tax. Lithberg 1915 p. 46. Gardell 1986, 1989. Lerbom 2000, 2003, 2004, 2006. My ensuing argumentation on Sjöholm, ”Stockholmsarkeologerna” and Gardell has been discussed at greater length in my licentiate’s dissertation (Siltberg 1993a). My argumentation on Lerbom can be found in greater detail in Siltberg 2006. Sjöholm 1976 pp 171f.
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one comb, and her main theory is that the laws should not be viewed as ancient traditions, but rather as having been strongly influenced by continental models – the Saxon law and the Northern Italian “Lombarda”. She claimed in 1978 that “the whole idea of a ‘family society’ being replaced by a ‘State’ must be rejected” and has continued to argue her views on the Medieval Provincial Laws (1988). Her emphatic conclusions have by no means remained undisputed. Critics have pointed out that the continental influence on the laws is a more unquestioned theory than Sjöholm maintains, that the conception of laws as compromises between different interests and impulses are, after all, reasonable assumptions, that Sjöholm exaggerates the significance of the Lombarda and the Bible, and that she does not take into consideration all the facts about the early Medieval Scandinavian society brought to our knowledge through sources such as the Icelandic sagas.22 The Gotland which should have initiated the Gutalagen in about 1350 had, according to Sjöholm, a special social stratification. She has claimed that Gotland had a ‘nobility’. Sjöholm maintained that the new national laws contributed to the change in inheritance laws, so as to fall in line with the “new situation pertaining to trade policy, which had developed in the Baltic Rim in the mid 13th century. The Gotlandic nobility had succeeded in preserving their privileges in relation to this policy, and the social structure of the island thus resembled the Baltic countries under the former trade league, rather than the Swedish mainland. In this way, the unique position of the island is emphasized.”23 Sjöholm thus talks about a ‘Gotlandic nobility’, which she considers she has found in some formulations in Gutalagen. “GL is based on a land-owning aristocracy, which must be what is meant by the ‘Gotlandic people’. Sjöholm’s explanation is somewhat brief. She claims that the word ”aÞal should denote some kind of social status”. When I analysed the mentioned places in the Gutalagen, I could only draw the conclusion that aÞal meant ‘born in wedlock’ and Gutnic ‘born on Gotland’. As regards the children of priests, Sjöholm has interpreted the stipulations so that ‘Gutnic’ denotes a social rank higher than a ‘farmer’, although the ensuing text indicates that the two ranks would appear to be of equal worth. (In actual fact, other parts of the law make it clear that it is a question of two independent classification systems: one comparing farmer and non-farmer, and the other 1) Gutnic, 2) non-Gutnic and 3) thrall. As an example a farmer could be Gutnic or non-Gutnic.) Sjöholm also saw evidence of aristocracy in the regulation of edgärdsmän (oath-helpers), but even this was a question of Gutnic or nonGutnic. Similarly, the regulation of hedersbot (compensation for loss of honour) means – hardly surprisingly – that thralls are excluded. Sjöholm points out that “there are two types of land-ownership, that belonging to kin and other”. In actual fact, the law was simple and had nothing to do with nobility: wherever there was kin, the land belonged to the kin, or to put it more simply, any existing relatives had an option on the land. 22 23
Fenger 1979, 1981, 1989, Ylikangas 1988, Thomas Lindkvist 1989, 1990. Sjöholm 1976 pp 179f. This and other quotations from Sjöholm 1976 have been translated from German.
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All in all, there is no evidence in Gutalagen for the existence of what Sjöholm called ’Gotlandic nobility’ or ’land-owning aristocracy’. The word ’aÞal’ in Gutalagen means something else than the present Scandinavian word ’adel’ = aristocracy. What can be interpreted in Gutalagen as an exclusive higher class in society is quite obviously nothing other than the peasantry, not some class that was higher than the farming majority. This rhymes well with the traditional characterization of the peasant class on Gotland: on this island the role of aristocracy was played by the farmers themselves!
4. ”The Stockholm Archaeologists’” Conception of Gotland In the 1980s and 1990s a number of archaeologists claimed that pre-Medieval and early Medieval Gotland was distinguished by strong sovereign power and strict social stratification. These archaeologists were not a closely-united group, but in connection with discussions on Gotland, they have been called the ”Stockholm archaeologists”. (They were actually attached to the archaeological institution at the University of Stockholm). The ”Stockholm archaeologists” concurred with24 Peter Sawyer’s (1982) and Brita Malmer’s (1983) theory that Gotland’s Viking Age silver hoards emanated not from trading but from piracy. Influence from the kingdom of the Svear had been considerable. Their main aim was to demonstrate this by providing evidence of different territorial divisions on Gotland. They presented many lines of argument based on territorial models, where artefacts and place names were furnished with certain interpretations, and where different hypotheses about possible territorial organisation were put forward mathematically. Anders Carlsson’s (1983) model is based on three places with the prefix Tuna, which are regarded as the foundation of the well-known division of Gotland into tredingar(thirds) and settingar (sixths).25 Åke Hyenstrand (1989) claims that when Gotland was integrated with the Svea Kingdom in the 11th century, it was divided into 12 ”primary hundreds”, which then formed the base for parish formation: The so-called ’Stenstugu farms’ – farms of stone, not timber – may have had ”some kind of control function”26 during a short period around the mid 12th century. An attempt to designate the Stenstugu farm a territorial–administrative role, similar to the role designated Husaby in Svealand is, in my opinion not too fruitful; the Husabys are known to have been crown estates, they are large and in central locations.27 This is not the case regarding Stenstugu farms. The line of argument regarding the Tuna farms is also highly hypothetical. Ola Kyhlberg (1991b) forwards the idea of a division of Gotland firstly into two halves based on population, each with 6x120 farms, secondly into 6 shipdistricts, each with two place names with the prefix Snäck (one on the west 24 25 26 27
Anders Carlsson 1983 pp 120ff. The same interpretation can be found in Lind 1988 p. 198 re. the 4th century Roman denarii unearthed on Gotland. A. Carlsson 1983 pp 31ff, 123ff. Cf Kyhlberg 1991b p. 52. Hyenstrand 1989 pp 133f. Lindkvist 1988 pp 28ff and the literature referred to there.
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and one on the east coast of Gotland), and thirdly into 8 ”lands”, each with 12 units, i.e. 96 ”parishes”. Parish names with the suffixes –bo and –hem reflect an older ”possibly fiscal” system. In my opinion, the latter source material can in no way confirm the hypotheses of the type forwarded by Kyhlberg; when he talks about ”a division based in ’folklands’ ... still evident in the 1653 cadaster” it is an exaggeration, to say the least.28 Particularly remarkable is that the ”Stockholm archaeologists”, when building their spatial models made no attempt to take into consideration the ascertained variations in the number of farms as pointed out by the human geographer PerGöran Ersson. Ersson indicated 300 deserted farms from the Medieval Period to the 16th century, several of which were later re-established. Furthermore, among the cadaster farms, there are some hundred pairs of farms with common names, such as Stora–Lilla (Greater–Lesser), as well as over 150 pairs of farms and clusters of farms with interspersed fields, meadows etc., thus probably originating from one older farm.29 The variations in the numbers of farms, as indicated by Ersson, prevent me from putting any faith into the spatial models mentioned above, regarding the older territorial division on Gotland. The source material provides no means of verifying these theories with the mathematical precision called for.30 Let us leave royal power and the spatial theories and move on to the artefacts. Åke Hyenstrand and Anders Broberg et al. (1990) emphasise the significance of the Broa–Högbro cemetery at Roma, with graves dating from the Vendel Period and early Viking Age. Several of the graves have but simple contents, although one is the famous horseman’s grave (bridle mounts in the so-called Broa style or Oseberg style, and a prestige sword) as well as four helmets and ten swords.31 Their conclusions are that the cemetery ”might well have been established for a magnate-household of some twenty individuals, where the graves accentuating status are presumed to represent chieftains and those closest to them ... An alternative interpretation would be that the cemetery instead represents two or three households of normal size ... (which is) less likely, considering that the cemetery has yielded both helmets, weapons and horserider equipment.”32 Hyenstrand ascertains that of the Gotlandic Vendel Period grave inventory, 102 swords have been found in 25 places and 12 helmets in 7 places.33 Hyenstrand and Broberg conclude that these grave yields represent a strong social stratification on Gotland. Broberg et al. has written: ”The Later Iron Age and Medieval Gotland can hardly be described as an ’egalitarian’ society. Whether we then choose to call the representatives of this upper social class magnates, chieftains or petty kings, must be of little significance in this 28 29 30 31 32 33
Kyhlberg 1991b pp 56, 64f, 240ff, esp. p. 243. Ersson 1974, 1977, 1985, 1991, 1997. Siltberg 1993a pp 62f. The theories are usually founded on Steffen’s (1943) survey of the cadaster of 1653, which also contains certain inaccuracies (see Siltberg 1990b p. 141f, 145). Hyenstrand 1989 p. 124. Re. the bridle see Klenoder 1984 p 66. Broberg et al. 1990 p. 75. Hyenstrand 1989 p. 81.
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connection. The essential thing is the actual occurrence of an aristocratic class with international contacts and social models”.34 Hyenstrand wrote: ”The weapon graves of the Vendel Period also pertain to a continental and west European chieftain tradition, a breakthrough for some kind of ’internationalism’ on Gotland, cf the grave at Vallstenarum. ... Behind this would seem to lay a series of wellto-do farms, perhaps a type of estate. ... Nevertheless it would be a mistake to consider Gotland as an egalitarian or classless society, an independent peasant republic with farmer–traders on every farm.”35 Anders Carlsson (1988) favours the notion of magnate farms behind Paviken and the other early Medieval rural harbours on Gotland, while the oldest graves in Visby, by being male-dominant, indicate a garrison.36 He regards ”Visby and the other harbours as emerging from a magnate environment with roots way back in time”. In the 11th century ”you might perhaps visualize local Viking chieftains gathering people to ’their’ farms with pertaining church yards or cemeteries, thus emphasising loyalty over belonging to one individual farm”. Johan Rönnby (1990, 1994) speculates on whether the lake fortress Bulverket in Tingstäde in the north of Gotland might have been either a rallying point for the Svear, or defence against them. He imagines a magnate on the farm Velde, which was a relatively large farm, and whose name leads thoughts to power and authority. Anders Carlsson, Åke Hyenstrand, Anders Broberg and Johan Rönnby share a common notion that luxury goods and the means of building large monuments were confined to one single social class. Thus, if these can be found on Gotland, the social ranking of the island must be identical to that on the Swedish mainland. In my opinion, however, a reasonably egalitarian society can produce largely the same artefacts and monuments as a society with pronounced class-distinctions. Rich but reasonably equal individuals can buy prestige goods and ordinary people without magnates can raise monuments. It is difficult to judge the actual significance of a limited number of discovered artefacts. The argument can be put forward: one prestige sword does not make a class of nobility, not even if it was accompanied by a horse with a golden bridle! And can 12 Vendel Period helmets be absolute proof that Gotland had an aristocracy? Presumably, anyone prepared to go to battle, and who could afford it, was able to get hold of a helmet. In my opinion, it would be more appropriate to talk about rich men’s graves and a well-to-do social class, rather than an “aristocratic society”, as long as we have no proof that this type of social class ever existed. What the graves do indicate is that Gotland had a rich man’s class in the Vendel Period. In my opinion, this might well be the same rich class of wellto-do farmers, which we glimpse in the Medieval Period and clearly see in the 17th century and later. It is interesting to compare Gotland with Iceland. There were very few tenants on Gotland, whereas on Iceland 95% of the farmers were 34 35 36
Broberg et al. p. 75. Hyenstrand 1989 pp 131, 134, 13. A. Carlsson 1988 pp 96ff.
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tenants in 1695, and half of the land was owned by 75 people, a powerful social class of so-called ‘soil barons’ (”jord-drotter”) (Gustafsson 1985 pp. 27, 87f, 100). These traits of an unequal agrarian society are totally lacking on Gotland. Certain archaeologists with experience of Gotland viewed the theories of the “Stockholm archaeologists” with scepticism: Lena Thunmark–Nylén 1991, Erik Nylén 1992, Majvor Östergren 1992. It should be mentioned that Thunmark– Nylén had herself (1984) drawn certain empirical, well substantiated – and cautious – conclusions on “social groups” on Viking Age Gotland. She studied the production and use of the pillbox-shaped brooches. The terminology she employed was exemplarily cautious: she described a trendsetting class in the population as ’crème de la crème’.She came to the conclusion that “it was the northern end of the island that would seem to have been host to the crème de la crème, which had set the tone for the rest of the population of Gotland. This was where people started using a new-fangled object before everyone else, and where they abandoned the outmoded object before everyone else.” There is another, very old source in the written history of Gotland that is very similar to the ”Stockholm archaeologists’” concept of a Swedish-dominated Gotland with magnates. The Priest Lars Neogard recorded his Gotland chronicle – Gautau-Minning – in the 1730s, with a view to emphasizing Gotland’s Swedishness as a contrast to older Danish-biased historical writing. Neogard wrote: ”Gotland has undisputably been under Swedish rule from the very beginning, and is part of Götariket, the origin of its settlers ... For it is quite implausible that Gotland should have been a free society in all time prior to the pact made between Avair Strabain and the King of the Svear”.37 The resemblance between Neogard and the ”Stockholm archaeologists” is striking: an independent Gotland would appear to be quite inconceivable, quite simply due to its proximity to Sweden. Neogard’s theory has one obvious flaw, which also can be ascribed to the ”Stockholm archaeologists”: if Sweden had such a strong grip on Gotland, why wasn’t a heavy tax levy established and maintained? Why did the King of the Svear let Gotland slip from his grasp?
5. The Conception of an Aristocracy of Judges according to Gardell The historian Carl Johan Gardell claimed in his doctoral thesis in 1986 that Gotland in about 1620 was characterized by ”the dissolution of an illusory ’homogenous’ peasant class, replaced by a dominant ’oligarchy of judges’ and a dependent peasant class”; the district court judges (‘tingsdomare’) ”appear as a clearly-defined class which by deed if not by name comported themselves as nobles”.38 According to Gardell, the judges exploited their judicial power and their fiscal power to act in the interests their own class. In my opinion, however, this has not been proven. References to this matter only occur in some brief mentions in letters written by Gotland’s governor in about 1620, in the event of acute political 37 38
Lars Neogard, ”Gautau-Minning”, manuscript UUB signum Ihre 181, 3 chapt. § 4–5. Copy in ViLA, Avskriftssaml. vol. 97 pp 82f, cf. 170. Gardell 1986 pp 157, 117.
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strife between the central authorities and rural Gotland. The judges’ wageconditions under Danish rule, prior to 1645, seem to have been on a par with, or even inferior to conditions under Swedish rule. They received emoluments in kind, and probably exemption from cadaster tax, but paid any extra specific taxes, and maybe also shared the farmers’ obligation to carry out certain day work for the state. Whatever the position of the judges was, it quite clearly did not result in any form of manorial organisation. In my opinion, the district court judges were a type of ”primi inter pares” among the farmers. They were normally recruited from the larger farms, although they never adopted any dominating position within the group. I have investigated the question of the Medieval Gotlandic measure ’marklej’, and have demonstrated that it was used to assess farms and land for tax purposes, which underwent continual adjustment up to the mid 17th century. The size of farms can be calculated, both from the recorded ’marklej’ assessments of 1653, and from the usable printed statistics of the rateable value of the farms of 188539 A grouping of the size of the farms in classes according to value (1 class in 1653 = 1 marklej, in 1885 = a rateable value of 1 000 Swedish Crowns) produced the following division as a percentage for 1653 and 1885:40 1653
1885
Class 0–1
2%
21%
Class 2–14
90%
69%
Class 15–29
8%
8%
Class 30–49
0,1%41
1%
–
0,6%
1.763 farms
4.001 farms
i.e. all
nearly all
Class 50 and higher
Thus: The equal size of the farms is palpable in both cases, particularly in 1653, since by 1885 quite a number of farmers had become poorer, and a small number much richer. The district court judges were recruited from the largest farms. In the period 1600–1645, 90% of them came from the top 25% of Gotland’s largest farms.42 Only a small number of the roughly 400 farms in this quarter were involved however, since the number of district court judges never exceeded 20. Thus, not all large farms were judge’s farms by a long sight. 39 40 41 42
BiSOS, Valstatistik 1885. The figures can be found in Siltberg 1993b, cf. 1993a. The division concerns all of Gotland’s 1.763 farmsteads in 1653 and the majority of farmsteads in 1885, namely 4.001, which comprised the majority of the farmsteads with male owners. The figure 0,1% corresponds to no more than 2 farms in 1653, namely Gandarve in Vänge with 30, and Snoder in Sproge with 32 marklej; these were Gotland’s two largest farmsteads. Siltberg 1993a pp 24–26.
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Being a judge was a permanent position, and some farms have been given the epithet ’judge’s farm’. This does not contradict the conception of equality. This continuity in ’municipal’ commissions of trust can exist without exerting significant influence on the social stratification of a community. There is also evidence of a hard core of lay assessors in the Swedish judicial districts (“härader”) during the 16th and 17th centuries.43 The reason why Carl-Johan Gardell sees the district court judges as ’aristocracy’ is evidently that they had ’power’, and at that time those in power were always aristocrats. In my opinion, Gardell uses the same type of analogous reasoning as the ”Stockholm archaeologists” used in their analyses concerning artefacts and structures. Contrary to Gardell, I believe that the district court judges were comparable to the later municipal representatives and civil servants on Gotland and in Sweden: while their influence could lead to respect and certain personal advantages, their tasks were often thankless, unglamorous and subject to criticism. It would seem that their privileges in the 17th century were no greater than what could be considered reasonable pay for the work done.
6. The Conception of a Local Elite of Judges according to Lerbom The historian Jens Lerbom claimed in his doctoral thesis in 2003: ”The district court judges should be regarded as a clearly distinctive local elite”. Contrary to Gardell, he did not claim that they formed an aristocracy, or feudal upper class, or economic upper class. He concurred with my interpretation as regards the size of the Gotlandic farms being assessed using the marklej unit. Lerbom was referring to a cultural elite, using an expression minted by Max Weber. Lerbom’s argument44 is that the district court judges ”were prosperous” (not more than many other farmers, in my opinion) and that they ”had power” (not so great, in my opinion). Lerbom claimed that the district court judges’ ”position became largely hereditary”, which was a gross exaggeration. In two of Gotland’s 20 court districts (”ting”), there have been cyclic recurrences of judge’s farms over a period of time, but there has been no total dominance, and direct father-to-son transfers were rare. Lerbom claims that the district court judges had ”developed a group identity as a group with status”, but his proof is but some ten pairs of farms with related inhabitants in the 17th century where both farms could present a judge. Lerbom also claims that ”the judges and priesthood should perhaps be seen as together forming a cultural elite”, but the proof lies in but 9 cases of priest–judge kinship between 1548 and 1692. The real explanation to the kinship found by Lerbom is not, as he claims, that the judges were a specific group, or that the priests– judges were, but that both priests (however, somewhat diminished after about 1550) and judges were recruited from Gotland’s rather large group of well-to-do 43 44
Claëson 1987 p. 230, Taussi Sjöberg 1990 pp 170f. The following quotations can be found in Lerbom 2003 pp 183f, and similar wording in Lerbom 2000 pp 192ff, and 2004 pp 90f.
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farmers (25% of the island’s agricultural community), albeit without being a very large part of this group. The main part of Lerbom’s dissertation attempts to show that the district court judges had ”developed several features which were regarded as characteristic of high-status groups. They developed singular symbolic features to distinguish themselves from others.” Lerbom’s evidence is his compilation of inscriptions45 on grave-slabs, etc., where two features characterize the district court judges: the use of Latin inscriptions and the use of engraved shields (sometimes empty) for coats of arms (“vapensköldar”). However, when the tableaux and figures are scrutinized, it can be noted that the district court judges by no means enjoyed a monopoly in either case. Of the inscriptions over Gotlandic farmers prior to 1500, 76 are in the local Gutnic language, 50 in Latin and 5 in other languages. Of these, 12 pertain to district court judges: 1 in Gutnic and 11 in Latin. Of the 12 inscriptions over judges, 4 bear shields for coats of arms. An inventory of grave-slabs bearing shields for coats of arms in general has not been carried out, but we know that they exist in at least 6 other parishes.46 It must thus be concluded that the Medieval district court judges did not have a monopoly of Latin inscriptions or coats of arms, nor were they in the majority.47 Even if we disregard the judges’ lack of monopoly, I would question Lerbom’s line of argument. I find it unreasonable to call these users of Latin inscriptions and shields for coats of arms “a clearly distinguished elite”. I doubt that Max Weber would have done so either. In the little written by Weber on elites48 there is no mention of how this should be assessed or which levels would be required to warrant the use of the term ’elite’ when it comes to the impenetrability of the group, exclusivity, numerical strength and constancy. If, in lieu of this lack of fixed criteria, common sense is used, then in my opinion Lerbom’s material is far too negligible and brittle for his conclusion. It would seem to me that these users of Latin and shields for coats of arms were a widespread and heterogeneous band of trend-followers, resembling ’potatoes in a sack’ rather than a distinctive elite. The fact that some district court judges can be found here (12 throughout the entire Medieval Period) cannot possibly be used as a universal rule for the entire group of district court judges. 45 46 47
48
Lerbom 2000 pp 181, 184–188 and 2003 pp 172, 178–182. Cf some additions and corrections in Siltberg 2006 pp 281–283. Pernler 1990. Lerbom (2003 pp. 179–182) also lists a further 7 gravestones over judges, bearing shields for coats of arms from the 16th and 17th centuries. However, conclusions should still not be drawn as long as we totally lack overall statistics and analysis for this period. I believe that we must take into consideration influence in fashion and trends in Denmark from the 16th and 17th centuries. From my personal incomplete notes on Gotlandic gravestones, which I drew up in another connection, I note the following bearing shields for coats of arms: a priest (Klinte church 1593), a priest’s wife (Hejde church 1597), two stonemasons (Öja church 1611/13, 1624) and two harbour-masters (Öja church 1616, Fröjel churchyard 1630). They all seem to be to the memory of people of Danish origins. Weber 1983 pp 212–213, 1987 pp 36, 44–45.
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All in all, I can find no support for Lerbom’s theory that Gotland’s district court judges (’tingsdomare’) were ”a clearly distinguished local elite”, albeit that we must presume that they had a good grasp of that knowledge and those skills needed for their office, just as all types of specialists and officials in any society at any point in time. We can hazard a guess that the district court judges were more practised in using letters of the alphabet than the average Gotlander, who we can presume might have been content with being able to master runes. But there is nothing to say that the district court judges were alone in mastering these skills. And to be in possession of appropriate professional skills is, in common parlance, not the same thing as constituting a ”distinctive elite”.
7.
The Conception of a Chieftain Society according to Markus
That social stratification on Gotland was identical to that in the rest of Scandinavia is a conception accepted among many scholars as an unproblematic matter of fact. One palpable example is the doctoral thesis presented in 2000 by art historian Kersti Markus with the title (translated here) ”From Gotland to Estonia. Ecclesiastic Art and Politics in the 13th century” (1999). Markus’ main argument (page 143) is that the high-quality and valuable stone sculptures on Gotland must presuppose a magnate class. A baptismal font ”could cost a fortune”, and thus, she claims, ”I can see no difference in those who ordered such fonts for their churches in Scania and those who ordered them on Gotland.” Her survey of the Gotlandic churches indicates that ”there has been a Danish-orientated magnate class on Gotland, concentrated to the south end of the island and up to Bro Thing in the northern Third of the island. A further group of chieftains, residing around Roma and towards the northern end of the island, have been in close contact with the Cistercian Order.” Markus does not consider that a farming community would be capable of handling luxury goods. As an example, she states as an obvious fact that ”the owner of the Dune hoard was a person with widespread contacts and a sensitive feeling for the arts, a trait which does not normally develop within a farming community” (page 126). In my opinion, wherever there is art, a feeling for art will develop, but we can leave this question open. As regards international contacts, there can be no doubt that Medieval rural Gotland was well-experienced in that field. I also believe that many are quite aware of the fact that a Medieval Gotlandic well-to-do farmer could both possess wealth and yearn for status. These two prerequisites (if we disregard ”a sensitive feeling of fine arts”) can often suffice to make a man an art collector. All in all, I can see no reason why the Dune hoard cannot have emanated from a Gotlandic well-to-do farmer. I cannot understand why Kersti Markus finds it obvious that it must have been chieftains and magnates who were in operation on Gotland in the 13th century, just because high-quality art and a lot of money are involved. In my opinion, a resolute group of parish members, guided by some enterprising person in a position of trust (perhaps a district court judge) can be just as resourceful as
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any chieftain or magnate. They are quite capable of acquiring money, and of furnishing their church with high-quality works of art. Kersti Markus is of the opinion that if we see a baptismal font in Scania, and a similar one on Gotland, the purchasers must be people from the same social class. The same line of argument has been put forward by the ”Stockholm archaeologists”, but I do not find this well-founded. Luxury goods merely indicate a surplus of money, and money can be found in one province among nobility, in another province among the farmers themselves.
8. Gotland Revealed49 Only by his deeds will the true man be revealed, is a saying with Biblical origins from the Sermon of the Mount, and the same can be said for social structure: the true essence of a society is to be found in the social conditions it engenders. I believe that a study of the 17th and 18th century societies on Gotland will allow us to draw conclusions on, and reveal the Gotland of earlier periods. Gotland exhibits certain features which should be heeded. They all point in one direction, namely that Gotland was a relatively equal society with no aristocratic elite. 1.
Farms of equal size and no manors
There are no indications of manorial organization, and farms were largely of equal size. The equal size of the farms was investigated in 1653 and 1885, and is palpable in both cases, particularly in 1653, since by 1885 quite a number of farmers had become poorer, and a small number much richer. 2.
Impartial Church Location and Small Parishes
The numerous Medieval churches (94) are commonly placed in the centre of the parish so that no cluster of farms is treated unfairly.50 An investigation by SvenOlof Lindquist revealed that no more than 5% of farms were “wrongly” placed in comparison with a strictly mathematical location, if impediments such as wetlands etc., are taken into consideration. There is thus no evidence pointing to any magnate exerting authority to locate the church in his own favour. 3.
Autonomy and Autonomous Law without Royal Power
The Gutalag (Gute Law) is the only Scandinavian provincial law, apart from the early Icelandic laws, which does not mention royal power. Gotland, in my opinion, stands out as a deliberately-formed republican state, similar to the Icelandic state as analysed by the American Professor of history Jesse L. Byock (1999, 2001). The Gutalagen dictates that the law should be written by the island’s own judges. This would warrant the term “peasant republic”. 49 50
I have recently discussed this subject more exhaustivly in my article in Festschrift für Hain Rebas (Siltberg 2008). Sven-Olof Lindquist 2001 pp 74f, cf. 1981.
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4.
An Autonomously Civilized Community with a High Level of Education
The process of civilization is generally thought to develop from royal power (Norbert Elias’ famous theory), but Gotland stands out as an autonomously civilized society, partly based on the Gutalagen, partly due to the high level of education in the Gotlandic community (Siltberg 2002). The law also implies that the islanders were literate and could compose written dowry specifications, genealogical lists and keep farm accounts. The Gotlandic Medieval priests were numerous (94 men) and, as far as we know, native-born Gotlanders; considering that the number of farms at that time was 1 500, many of the farmers must have been closely related to one or more of the priests. 5.
A Thriving Extensive Peasant Non-aristocratic Society
Quite obviously, the farmers on Gotland were very wealthy due to trading in the Viking Age and Medieval Period: in reason, this economy must have formed the material prerequisites for paragraphs 3 and 4 above. Economically, the peasant society of Gotland stands out as extensive, spacious and thriving, having developed in accordance with Chayanov’s classical theory on peasant economy. It does not stand out as created by an upper class eager to create a rural community producing a surplus to confiscate. 6.
An Egalitarian Mentality
There is one older and one more modern piece of evidence to prove an egalitarian mentality on Gotland. The older example is about the slain magnate, the earliest record from 1696 and concerning ‘Takstainarn’ in Lärbro, then a later record about ‘Veigen’ in Grötlingbo. They are about a magnate in the parish who tried to force the priest to be at his beck and call, and as a consequence was murdered by the other farmers of the parish. The point of the legend was to demonstrate that misfortune will strike anyone who tries to make single-handed decisions in the parish. There was no place for chieftains in this peasant society. The first person to bring forth and adroitly elucidate this interpretation of the legend of Takstainar was the author of pure literature Helmer Linderholm in 1968 in a novel which formed part of a trilogy on the Medieval Period on Gotland.51 A modern example of the egalitarian mentality on Gotland is Carl von Rosen’s doctoral thesis with the title (here translated): ”När democracy. Equality and Leadership in a Gotlandic Coastal Community” (Uppsala 2002). He describes the positive forces of a commune in a Gotlandic parish. In my opinion, this is a favourable version of the Jante Law, which I suggest might appropriately be called ”the law of equality”.
9. Conclusion This exposition has thrown light on a number of factors revealing Gotland as an egalitarian peasant society. In my opinion, the above-mentioned revisers have 51
Linderholm 1968 pp 280–290.
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gone too far in their revision of the traditional ’rustic romantic’ conception of Gotland. Gotland was actually a relatively egalitarian society. The picture we started with, the egalitarian presentation of farmers on Fårö on their sealing expedition in 1603 gives a true picture of conditions in the Gotlandic peasant society.
Summary The Conception of an Egalitarian Gotlandic Peasant Society A votive picture in Fårö Parish Church, an oil painting from 1618, depicts 15 farmers on an ice floe on a sealing expedition. One man seems to be the leader: he is walking away and would appear to be taking the lead, although his appearance bears no signs of chieftainship, either in his costume or equipment. This picture corresponds well with the conception of an egalitarian Gotland peasant society we can get from other sources. The Gotlandic recorder of folk traditions Per Arvid Säve described in 1867 how in bygone days the inhabitants of Fårö used to organise hunting and shepherding expeditions to the isolated isle Gotska Sandön, 40 kms north of Fårö. They had a “foreman” who divided all the catch between them, settled any disputes that might have arisen and preached the Holy Word. Thus we have evidence from 1618 and 1867 of how the inhabitants of Fårö organised themselves on an egalitarian basis with a ‘foreman’ who was a ‘primus inter pares’. The traditional theory among scholars that Gotland was an egalitarian peasant society was revised in the final decades of the 20th century, when it was claimed that Gotland had had an aristocracy, or at least some kind of social elite. The new concept was first presented by the legal historian Elsa Sjöholm in the 1970s, followed by a group of archaeologists in Stockholm in the 1980s and 1990s. They were joined by the historians Carl-Johan Gardell in 1986 and Jens Lerbom in 2003. This view won ground among other scholars, including the art historian Kersti Markus in 1999. All those concurring with this new interpretation of the history of Gotland shared a common basis for their line of argument, namely social conditions in the rest of Scandinavia. Analogical analysis led to the conclusion that social stratification on Gotland had been similar to the rest of Scandinavia. They failed to take into consideration certain distinctive features which indicate that Gotland was an exception to the rule: 1. Gotland had farms of equal size and no manors. 2. Gotland had small parishes and impartial church location within the parishes. 3. Gotland had autonomy and an autonomous law which made no mention of royal power (as in the earliest laws of Iceland). Gotland, in my opinion, stands out as a deliberately-formed republican state, similar to the Icelandic state as analysed by the American professor of history Jesse L. Byock (1999, 2001). 4. Gotland was an autonomously civilised community with a high level of education. 5. Economically, the peasant society of Gotland stands out as extensive, spacious and thriving, having developed in accordance with Chayanov’s theory on peasant economy. 6. There is evidence
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to prove an egalitarian mentality on Gotland. An older example (1696) is the legend of the slain magnate (Takstainarn or Vigen), who was murdered by the other farmers in the parish because he tried to make single-handed decisions. A modern example is the doctoral thesis of Carl von Rosen, “När democracy. Equality and Leadership in a Gotlandic Coastal Community” (Uppsala 2002), in which he describes the positive forces of a leaderless community in När parish in the south east of Gotland.
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Literature Bennett, Robert, 1966. De gotländska porträttgravstenarna från 1300och 1400-talen. Katalog och stilanalys. Licentiatavhandling i konsthistoria, Stockholms Universitet 1966-11-18. Manuscript (copy in Gotlands Länsbibliotek and in Avskriftssaml. 233, Landsarkivet i Visby). Bennike Madsen, H., 1978. Det danske skattevæsen. Kategorier og klasser. Skatter på landbobefolkningen 1530–1660. Odense Universitetsforlag. BiSOS (cit). Bidrag till Sveriges Officiella Statistik (BiSOS) avd. R, 1887– 95. Valstatistik 1885. Vol. VII:1-3. Broberg, Anders, et al., 1990. Hallegårde i Halla – Social stratifiering eller bara en tillfällighet? In: Meta Medeltidsarkeologisk tidskrift nr 3 p. 67ff. Byock, Jesse L., 1999. Island i sagatiden. Samfund, magt og fejde. Denmark C. A. Reitzels Forlag. – 2001. Viking Age Iceland. London. Carlsson, Anders, 1983. Djurhuvudformiga spännen och gotländsk vikingatid. Text och katalog. Stockholm Studies in Archeology 5. – 1989. Se Hyenstrand, Å. Claësson, S, 1987. Häradshövdingeämbetet i senmedeltidens och Gustav Vasas Sverige. Skrifter utg. av Institutet för rättshistorisk forskning. Rättshist. bibl. 39. Lund. Lund. Cramér, J. N., 1872. En gotländsk postfärd [år 1830] och en natt på hafvet. Stockholm. Ersson, Per-Göran. 1974. Kolonisation och ödeläggelse på Gotland. Diss. Västerås. – 1977. Hemmansklyvning på Gotland fram till 1600-talet. In: Gotländska studier 5. – 1985. Förteckning över gotländska ödegårdar. Gotländskt Arkiv. – 1991. Gotländska dubbelgårdar – exempel på hemmansklyvning? Gotländska studier 7. – 1997. Dubbelgårdar på Gotland utan gemensamt namn. Förteckning och kommentar. In: Archiv und Geschichte im Ostseeraum, Festschrift für Sten Körner, Studia Septemtrionalia, Veröffentlichungen des Zentrums für Nordische Studien, Kiel. Ed.: Robert Bohn, Hain Rebas and Tryggve Siltberg. P. 273ff. Frankfurt am Main. Fenger, Ole, 1979. [Review of E. Sjöholm 1976]. In: Historisk tidskrift (dansk) p. 112ff. – 1981. Afsluttende bemærkninger [debate with E. Sjöholm]. In: Historisk tidskrift (dansk) p. 222ff.
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– 1989. [Review of E. Sjöholm 1988]. In: Historisk tidskrift (dansk) p. 443ff. Fröberg, Eric, 1937. Till havs med isen [om Käutatavlan i Fårö kyrka]. In: Gotlänningens julnummer. Gardell, Carl Johan, 1986. Handelskompani och bondearistokrati. En studie i den sociala strukturen på Gotland omkring 1620. Diss. Uppsala. – 1989. Genmäle [till Siltberg]. In: Historisk tidskrift 1989:3 p. 387ff. Gotlands runinskrifter 1–2, 1962, 1978. Gustafsson, Harald, 1985. Mellan kung och allmoge – ämbetsmän, beslutsprocess och inflytande på 1700-talets Island. Gutarp, Else Marie, 1995. Hurusom man sig klädde, en bok om medeltida dräkt. Visby. Hilfeling, C. G. G., 1994–95. C. G. G. Hilfelings gotländska resor, I 1797 och 1799, II 1800 och 1801. Utg. av Torsten Gislestam. Visby. Hyenstrand, Åke, 1989. Socknar och stenstugor. Om det tidiga Gotland. Med bidrag av Anders Carlsson. Stockholm Archeological Reports nr 22. Stockholm. Klenoder ur äldre svensk historia, 1984. Ed.: Statens Historiska Museum. Kyhlberg, Ola, 1991a. Verklighet eller dröm? Gotland mellan vikingatid och medeltid. In: Meta Medeltidsarkeologisk tidskrift nr 3 p. 51ff. – 1991b. Gotland mellan arkeologi och historia. Theses and Papers in Archeology 4. Tierp. Lerbom, Jens, 1995. Brottslighet i brytningstid. En studie av rättsväsen och kriminalitet på 1600-talets Gotland. In: Gotländskt Arkiv p. 155ff. – 2000. Proweste, domere oc all almughe – Lokala eliter i ett senmedeltida bondesamhälle. In: Gunnar Dahl & Eva Österberg (red.), Renässansens eliter. Maktmänniskor i Italien och Norden, Lund, p. 159ff. – 2003. Mellan två riken. Integration, politisk kultur och förnationella identiteter på Gotland 1500–1700. Diss. Studia Historica Lundensia. Lund. – 2004. Integration, Interaction and Identities - Cultural Boundaries and Collective Identity in a Mediaeval Peasant Comunity”. In: Jörn Staecker (ed.), The European Frontier. Clashes and Compromises in the Middle Ages, Lund 2004, p. 89–93. – 2006. Genmäle till Tryggve Siltberg. In: Historisk tidskrift 2006:2 p. 291–297. Linderholm, Helmer, 1968. Sankte Olofs yxa. [A novel.] Kristianstad. Lindkvist, Thomas, 1988. Plundring, skatter och den feodala statens framväxt. Organisatoriska tendenser i Sverige under övergången från vikingatid till tidig medeltid. Opuscula Historica Upsaliensia 1. Uppsala. – 1989. [Review of Elsa Sjöholm 1988]. In: Historisk tidskrift p. 413ff.
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– 1990. Svar till Elsa Sjöholm. In: Historisk tidskrift p. 558ff. Lindquist, Sven-Olof, 1981. Sockenbildningen på Gotland – en korologisk studie. In: Gotländskt Arkiv 1981, p. 45–64. – 2001. Kristnandet blir roligare med GIS. In: Plats, Landskap, Karta. En vänatlas till Ulf Sporrong. Stockholm. Lindström, Gustaf, 1892, 1895. Anteckningar om Gotlands medeltid I, II. Stockholm. Linnman, J., 1924. Gotland. Lithberg, Nils, 1915. Det gottländska bidlaget. In: Fataburen p. 41ff. – 1916. Taksteinarsägnen. In: Folkminnen och folktankar, Malmö, p. 79ff. Läffler, L. Fr., 1905. Den gottländska Taksteinar-sägnen (en svensk mytbildning i nyare tid). Den gottländska Taksteinar-sägnen – Ytterligare meddelanden. In: Personhistorisk tidskrift, bihang. Även i: Bidrag till kännedom om de svenska landsmålen XIX 6 1903 och 1908. – 1908. Latinska medeltidsinskrifter på vers från Gotland. ”Tryckt som manuskript för enskild utdelning i K. Vitt. Hist. och Ant. Akad:n d. 4 febr. 1908”. Ingår även i Läffler 1924. – 1924. Versifierade latinska medeltidsinskrifter från Gotland. In: Antikvarisk Tidskrift för Sverige 21:5. Malmer, Brita, 1983. Hur gutarna använde silvret. In: I Jansson m fl (red), Gutar och vikingar, Stockholm, p. 248ff. Markus, Kersti, 1999. Från Gotland till Estland. Kyrkokonst och politik under 1200-talet. Diss. Stockholm. Nylén, Erik, 1983. Gutarnas farkoster. In: I Jansson (red), Gutar och vikingar, p. 120ff. – 1992. Kyhlberg vs Gannholm. Professionell fastländsk mot ”ama törmässig” gotländsk lokalpatriotism. In: Gotlands Tidningar March 30 p. 12–13. Pernler, Sven-Erik, 1990. Sundre-orgelns tio vapensköldar. In: Robert Bohn (Hrsg), Gotlandia Irredenta, Festschrift für Gunnar Svahnström, Sigmaringen 1990, p. 183ff. von Rosen, Carl, 2002. ”När-demokrati. Jämlikhet och ledarskap i en gotländsk strandbygd”. Diss. Uppsala 2002. Rönnby, Johan, 1990. Bulverket – varumagasin, motståndsfäste eller platsen för Gotlands tidigmedeltida femtekolonnare? In: Meta Medeltidsarkeologisk tidskrift nr 3 p. 35ff. – 1994. Bålverket. Om samhällsförändring och motstånd med utgångspunkt från det tidigmedeltida Bulverket i Tingstäde träsk på Gotland. Stockholm. Sawyer, Peter, 1982. Kings and Vikings. London. Swedish translation in 1985: Kungar och vikingar. Norden och Europa 700–1100. Siltberg, Tryggve, 1989. Tingsdomarna på Gotland – aristokrati eller storbönder?. In: Historisk tidskrift 1989:3, p. 375–387.
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– 1990a. Teori och källor om Gotlands sociala struktur på 1600-talet. In: Historisk tidskrift 1990:1 p. 84–87. – 1990b. Gotlands bebyggelse 1614 – gårdar, människor och organisation. In: Gotländskt Arkiv p. 125–152. – 1993a. Marklejet, tingsdomarna och den sociala differentieringen på Gotland fram till 1600-talet. Uppsats för fil. lic.-examen i historia vårterminen 1993, Umeå Universitet. – 1993b. Bondestatistik och bonderepublik på Gotland. En replik till Janken Myrdal. In: Gotländskt Arkiv 1993, p. 131–136. – 1995. Gotlänningarna och den danska överheten på 1540-talet [publicering av översättning av fogden Johannes von Dumstorps svarskrift omkr. 1545]. In: Gotländskt Arkiv 1995 p. 83–108. – 1998. The Gotlandic farms in the late Middle Ages. In: N. Blomkvist (ed.), Culture Clash or Compromise, Acta Visbyensia XI, p. 65–90. – 2002. Bonderepubliken Gotland, skrivkonsten och prästerskapet. In: Från Gutabygd, Årsskrift för den gotländska hembygdsrörelsen, p. 117–136. – 2003. Dräpta stormän och den gotländska ”likhetslagen”. Tankar kring Carl von Rosens doktorsavhandling om När. In: Haimdagar 2003:2. A short version of this article was printed in Gotlands Tidningar March 20, 2003. – 2006. När staten invaderade Gotland. Några synpunkter på Jens Lerboms doktorsavhandling. In: Historisk tidskrift 2006:2 p. 279–290. – 2008. Manslaughter and Equality – The Peasant Republic of Gotland as an Exception to the Rule. In: Michael Engelbrecht, Ulrike Hanssen–Decker & Daniel Höffker (Hrsgb.), Rund um die Meere des Nordens. Festschrift für Hain Rebas. Heide. Pp 305–322. Sjöholm, Elsa, 1976. Gesetze als Quellen mittelalterlicher Geschichte des Nordens. Uppsala. – 1978. Rättshistorisk metod och teoribildning. In: Scandia p. 229ff. – 1981. Replik til Ole Fenger. In: Historisk Tidskrift (dansk) p. 219ff. – 1988. Sveriges medeltidslagar. Europeisk rättstradition i politisk omvandling. Skrifter utg. av Institutet för rättshistorisk forskning. Rättshist. bibl. 41. Lund. – 1990. En marxistisk propagandaseger? (Debatt med T Lindkvist.) In: Historisk Tidskrift p. 259ff. – 1991a. Runinskrifterna som källa till svensk arvsrätt under äldre medeltid (debatt med B Sawyer). In: Scandia p. 121ff. – 1991b. Sveriges medeltidslagar (debatt med H Ylikangas). In: Historisk Tidskrift för Finland p. 136ff.
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Snöbohm, Alfred Theodor, 1897. Gotlands Land och folk. Andra utökade upplagan. Steffen, Richard, 1943. Gotlands adminstrativa, rättsliga och kyrkliga organisation från äldsta tider till år 1645. Lund. Strelow, Hans, 1633. Cronica Guthilandorum. Den Guthilandiske Cronica. Köpenhamn. Facsimil Visby 1978. Sveriges Kyrkor. Konsthistoriskt inventarium. Gotland. 1914ff. Säve, Per Arvid, 1867. Skäl-jagten på Gotland. In: Läsning för Folket årg 33 p. 14–59. – 1880. Havets och fiskarens sagor. Visby. Utgiven 1979 som Gotländska skrifter II. – 1938 (1980). Åkerns sagor. Visby, nytryck 1980. – 1941. Allmogen och hussederna. Visby. Söderberg, Bengt G., et al., 1959. Gotland. Malmö, Allhems förlag. Taussi Sjöberg, Marja, 1990. Staten och tinget under 1600-talet. In: Historisk tidskrift p. 161ff. Thunmark–Nylén, L, 1984. Socialgrupper i vikingatiden. In: Gotländskt Arkiv p. 195ff. – 1991. Bucklan är kastad – Gotlands vikingatid som debattämne. In: Meta Medeltidsarkeologisk tidskrift nr 2 p. 51ff. Weber, Max, 1983. Ekonomi och samhälle. Förståendesociologins grunder. 1. Lund. – 1987. Ekonomi och samhälle. Förståendesociologins grunder. 3. Lund. Ylikangas, Heikki, 1988. [Review of Sjöholm 1988.] In: Historisk tidskrift för Finland p. 660–662. Östergren, Majvor, 1992. Det gotländska alltinget och cistercienserklostret i Roma. In: Gotländskt Arkiv p. 49ff. The quotations in this article have been translated into English, in most cases from Swedish. Translation into English by Kathy Gow Sjöblom.
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Frustration and Revenge? Gotland strikes back – during the long 15th Century, 1390’s–15251 Hain Rebas
1.
Agenda
After having enjoyed increasing prosperity from the time of the Viking Age, the overseas commerce of the Gotlanders and the Visby traders began to decline sometime around the beginning of the 14th century. Navigation and ships improved, trade routes changed. Waves of unrest and pestilence around 1350, followed by the conquest of the Danes in 1361, slowed down business even more. During the following years, the Danish king rigorously contested the Hanseatic supremacy at sea, but was definitively beaten in 1370. Then the lines of royal succession became blurred both in Denmark and Norway, as well as in Sweden. The following rumblings and warring for the Scandinavian thrones, with Mecklenburgers and Hanseats actively involved, further reduced the Gotlandic/Visbyensic positions in Baltic Sea matters. Finally, in 1402, the Gotlanders were compelled to lease out their centuries-old trading station (Faktorei) Gotenhof in Novgorod, i.e. their pivotal point on the lucrative Russian market, mercatura ruthenica, to the newly emergent city of Reval/ Tallinn. Questions to ask: could the subsequent dramatic history, beginning with the arrival of the Vitalian Brethren in the early 1390s to the island, and ending with Lübeck’s sacco di Visby in 1525, be defined as outbursts of Gotland’s frustration and attempts at a come-back, or even revenge? Can we identify a line of continuity, whereby this prolonged 15th century is essentially a continuing story, instead of a rhapsodic chain of single, more or less ad hocevents?2 In short: we know quite well what happened. But how shall we explain it? Can we – by cautiously addressing the thoughts and minds of the 15th century Gotlanders – recognise the striking back of a previous commercial sea power, a former thalassocracy?3
1 2 3
To the memory of a great friend of Gotland then and now, professor Erik Lönnroth, Göteborg, 1910–2002. Cf. H. Yrwing, Gotlands medeltid. Visby 1978. Cf. theoretical and methodological deliberations 30. Sept.–2. Oct. 2005 in HGO Visby, Febr. 4–5 in Schloss Gottorp in Schleswig and culminating so far Oct. 1st 2010, during the 48. Deutscher Historikertage in Humboldt-Universität in Berlin, in the Section „Über die Küsten hinaus: Thalassokratien im Mittelalter“.
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2. Sources, Literature, Aim The sources for the following deliberations are the usual Gotland, German, Scandinavian and Baltic publications for the Baltic Sea area in the Late Middle Ages.4 The basic literature is nowadays well received internationally.5 By reshuffling these familiar decks of cards, this article aims more at creating insights and understanding (Verstehen) for the long lines of history, than of discovering mere bits of facts as supplements for what nevertheless remains insufficient knowledge.
3. The Protagonists Three prominent historical–political “players” in Gotland during the late Middle Ages are the island itself, the town, and the castle. By implication, these represent the seafaring farmers, the Visby burghers, and the captains of Visborg castle. In strict chronological order, this analysis should have begun with the role of the Gotlanders, from time immemorial. Then, at around 1160, the Visby burghers stepped onto the scene, eager and ambitious, even aggressive. Finally, from the beginning of the 15th century, we would have dealt with the captains of the castle. But for reasons of disposition, we will do it the other way around. To establish the historical context, however, let us note the prolonged armed struggles and bloody fighting on and around the island in the 1390s, in 1408, in the beginning and at the end of the 1440s, in the 1480s, at the very beginning of 16th century, and especially in the early 1520s, up to the Visby devastation by the Lübeckians. Clearly, the warring parties wanted to gain power over the town and the island. To what end? To dominate the strategic position in the middle of the Baltic Sea? To gain control of the island’s natural riches (wool, vadmal), and its possible tax and import/export revenues (salt, herring, iron, even arms6)? Pre-emptively to keep enemies away? To some degree these were all considerations. There was also the motivation to pacify the tumultuous 4
5
6
Hansisches Urkundenbuch (HUB), Hanserecesse (HR), Regesta ordinis Sanctae Mariae Theotonicorum (ROSMT), Danish and Swedish Diplomataria, (DD resp SD), Danish and Swedish Scriptores (SRD resp SRS), Sverges Traktater (ST), Styffe (BSH), Lief-, Est- und Curländisches Urkundenbuch (LECUB), Akten und Recesse der Livländischen Ständetage (A&R), contemporary chroniclers, esp. Detmar of Lübeck, the 14th and 15th century Pfund- und Palgeldbücher of Lübeck resp. Danzig. Mainly E. Lagerlöf, G. Svahnström, Gotlands kyrkor. Uddevalla 1973; H. Rebas, Infiltration och handel …Göteborg 1976; H. Yrwing, Gotlands medeltid. Visby 1978; S.O. Lindqvist, Sextio marker silver vart år… In: Gotländskt Arkiv (GA) 1984; T. Siltberg, Gårdar, mark och människor 1413– … In: GA 1986; H. Yrwing, Visby, Hansestad på Gotland. Stockholm 1986; L.J. Larsson, Sören Norby och Östersjöpolitiken. Lund 1986; E. Melefors, Ed., Ivar Axelssons räkenskapsbok … Visby 1991; Kulturführer Gotland. Visby 1993; R. Öhrman, Vägen till Gotlands historia. Specialvolym till GA 1994; E. Melefors, Ed., Sören Norbys räkenskapsbok… Visby 2003; G. Westholm, In: GA 2007; Cf. professional current yearly reviews in Hansische Geschichtsblätter (HGbll): Hansische Umschau: Skandinavien. J. Wienberg, Medieval Gotland – Churches, Chronologies and Crusades. In: The European Frontier. Clashes and Compromises in the Middle Ages. Lund 2009, pp. 285 ff, 293 ff.
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island itself, as will be discussed, but the predominant goal was to rule the surrounding waves and sea. The Vitalian Brethren The upsurging Vitalian Brethren began their mass privateering in the early 1390s. While the Swedish throne was at stake, they acted in the service of the Duke of Mecklenburg, and for some years supported his beleaguered Stockholm with victualia, i.e. vegetables. They soon developed an attractive, self-propelling movement of their own, and expanded widely into the North and Baltic Seas.7 Bergen was captured in 1393; Malmö and Gotland, together with Visby, were taken in 1394, and a foothold was established in Livland. Visby, where the strongly fortified Kruttornet (Powder Tower, still in situ) commanded the port, became one of their main operative bases. In 1395 the Brethren formally switched their allegiance and began to support Queen Margarethe of Denmark. Turning from official privateering to rough piracy, their Gotland wing was led by Sven Sture, a Swedish mercenary of notable stature. He had three fortifications erected on the island, formally on behalf of the queen: Slitehus and Lojsta in Stånga parish, and Hallbros in Västerhejde. The youngest biographer of the Hanseatic League, Stephan Selzer (2010), compares the Brethrens’ holdouts to later more (in-)famous pirates’ nests on the islands of Jamaica and Madagascar.8 In 1396 the Mecklenburgers arrived from across the sea and erected the fortress Landescrone/Vivesholm close to Klinte. But for another two years the rest of the island and Visby remained in the hands of Sven Sture and his swarms of Vitalians. They attacked ships ad hoc at sea and in harbours, wherever they found them. Consequently, they became a public nuisance to all friends of regulated commerce, i.e. the Visby burghers and the organized seafaring farmers’ All-Thing (Gutnalthing). But above all, they irritated the Hanseatic League and its well-organised part-time business partner, the Teutonic Order in Prussia, the war machine par préférence of the whole Baltic Sea region. The involvement of the martial Teutons was to prove fatal for the Vitalians. The Teutonic Order These German knights forced the Vitalians from the island in a first wave of fighting in 1398, had the Vitalian fortresses burned, and remained on the island until 1408. The Teutons were always well fortified, cf. their magnificent citadel Marienburg/Malbork in nowadays Poland. They also laid the foundations for Visborg castle, just south of the Visby town wall. It is mentioned for the first time 7
8
K. Koppmann, Die Vitalienbrüder. In: Hanserecesse I, 4, p. V–XXII; F. Benninghoven, Die Vitalienbrüder als Forschungsproblem. In: Kultur und Politik in Ostseeraum und im Norden 1350–1450. Visbysymposiet 1971. Acta Visbyensia IV. Visby 1973, p. 41–52; H. Yrwing, Art. Vitalianer. In: Kulturhistoriskt lexikon för nordisk medeltid, Bd 20. Viborg 1982, p. 197 f ; M. Mogren, Die Vitalienbrüder und deren Burgenbau im nördlichen Ostseegebiet. In: Die Hanse. Lebenswirklichkeit und Mythos, 1. Hamburg 1989, p. 627–633; G. Rohmann, Der Kaperfahrer Johann Störtebeker aus Danzig. Beobachtungen zur Geschichte der „Vitalienbrüder“. In: HGbll 2007, p. 77–119. S. Selzer, Die mittelalterliche Hanse. WBG Darmstadt 2010, p. 71.
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in 1408: dat buwent, and is well depicted on the “Kutatavla”, a painting from 1618 in Fårösund parish church. Visborg emerged as one of the strongest fortresses in Scandinavia and remained so until Danish forces blew it up in 1679.9 However, after the knights had left the island, swarms of Vitalians returned and re-established themselves, remaining well into the 1420s, once again disrupting Baltic Sea navigation, trade and business. In this context, one might wonder where all the skippers with know-how, crews, soldiers, artisans and all the labourers working for at least a generation on the bases of the Gotland Vitalians came from, if not mainly from the island itself. The Vitalians seem to have had little trouble for decades to recruit groups of willing and competent locals. The Visborg Captains The first captains (hövitsman) of Visborg castle were Jösse Eriksen (mentioned in 1410, and in the early 1430s infamous in Sweden during the Engelbrekt-rebellion), Marquard Steen (1412), and above all Trudgot Has (1420, 1425, 1427, 1437): miles et capitaneus tocius Gotlandie, qui maximum partem castri Wisborg fecit.10 To finance the immense construction, the captain in 1412, on behalf of the interScandinavian king, Erik of Pomerania, levied an enormous tax on the islanders, 1110 silver marks pro year, a 1000 % increase.11 Ex-King Erik of Pomerania, 1438/39–1448. At the end of the 1430s, King Erik of Pomerania was expelled from both his Danish and Swedish kingdoms and withdrew to Visborg, as captain and governor of the island. He immediately started to use the castle as a base to attack old enemies at sea. His energetic and clearly vengeful undertakings against mainly Swedes, Danes and Hanseats are extensively referenced in sources and well known scholarly literature. Like his followers on Visborg, he united or rather suppressed the people in the town and on the island to support his endeavours. The Axelsson (Tott) brothers, 1449–1487. King Erik’s successors on Visborg were the aristocratic brothers Olof, Philip and Ivar Axelsson Tott (1449–1464–1487). In 1451, Olof systematically started to intercept and capture Swedish and other vessels and to ravage the Swedish east coast between Kolmården and Kalmar. His Gotlandic fleet was instrumental in chasing away King Karl Knutsson from Sweden in 1457. Together with another brother, Åke, who resided some distance away, on Varberg castle in northern Halland, and a fourth brother Erik, residing in Viborg castle in Carelia, the Axelsson brotherhood carried out several political and joint naval actions on the coasts of Estland/Livland and in the Neva River estuary.12 One 9 10 11 12
E. Lundberg, Visborgs slott. Stockholm 1950. Knight and captain over all Gotland: Chronologia Svecica ex Cod. Minoritarum Wisbyens. An. 815–1412. In: SRS I:1, p. 39 f. S.-O. Lindqvist, Sextio marker silver vart år. In: GA 1984. H. Rebas, Infiltration och handel: Studier i senmedeltida nordisk baltikumpolitik i tiden omkring 1440–1479. Göteborg 1976, p. 117 ff.
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could also mention Olof’s repeated actions in favour of some bishop-elects in Estland/Livland, as well as his support of the Gotland farmers’ community’s permanent claims against Reval/Tallinn because of Gotenhof (cf. p. 229). Also, the Axelssons’ intensive engagement in the so-called Stamer-, van der Veldeand Wolthusen- conflicts in Livland should be mentioned here, as well as their closing of the Neva River 1462 to the detriment of the Hanseats, and, not to forget, their joint naval attack on Old-Pernau in 1472, and the close military collaboration between Viborg (Erik Axelsson) and Narva in 1476, etc. Clearly, Ivar and Erik used their Visborg and Viborg positions and hinterlands to bear down on Estland/Livland, and also to disturb and eventually to cut in on the lucrative mercatura ruthenica, via the Neva, Novgorod etc. For some years Erik (1457–) and Ivar (1468–) were even in the positions of aspiring to supreme political leadership in the civil war-ridden Scandinavian Union of Kalmar. Their joint ambitions were more than obvious to their contemporaries.13 But in the mid-1480s, it became clear that Ivar, on peripheral Visborg, was going to lose the struggle for power against his young Stockholmian relative Sten Sture s:r, Stewart (riksföreståndare) of Sweden. Ivar Axelsson then suddenly returned his hitherto independently administrated fief, Visborg and Gotland, to the hands of the Danish king. Consistent with his book of accounts, 1485–87, Ivar ordered up three barqueships, i.e. lesser vessels for battle and transports, one Caravelle and probably two other ships. He employed skippers recruited internationally, nine of whom are known by name, and, depending on the season, he employed between 211 and 78 pageants, most of them foreign soldiers. After the self-governing Axelssons, the following captains of Visborg allocated the island’s ordinary resources to the service of the Danish crown. Jens Holgersen Ulfstand, 1487–1509, is mainly known as the builder and owner of spectacular Glimmingehus castle in southern Scania. But he was also the creator of the Danish Royal Navy (1497–) and made it himself to the rank of Danish commander at sea, befaldningsman, later anfører and finally rigsamiral, to encounter the Swedes. Before that he had taxed the peasants into a state of revolt and alternative contacts with Stockhom, with the result that a Royal Danish Commission had to weigh in and arbitrate. Notably, he married into the Axelsson Tott-clan, which certainly boosted his career. In 1501 he sailed out from Gotland, made numerous attacks on both the Lübeckian fleet and the Swedish coast and fleet, and was appointed Danish rigsråd in 1505. In 1508 he again ravaged the Swedish archipelago off Söderköping. Laurens Schinkel, 1509–1517, had once served as a page to Ivar Axelsson on Visborg, and later turned out to be a great Danish admiral like Jens Holgersen. He started his career in 1509 in Visborg by immediately warding off an attack 13
The socalled Sture-Chronicle complained loud and clear: nw giik thz saa i handh / axel släkten bundho hardh bandh / mz giptamaal och annar lundh / och meenthe bliffua fast i longa stundh. Sturekrönikan, v. 2582 f. Ed. G.E. Klemming. Stockholm 1867, 68.
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”Arx Visbuae”. Intarsia by unknown before 1679. Gotlands Fornsal.
Sören Norby. Captain of Visborg. By unknown, Krapperup Castle.
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by the Lübeckian fleet. And then, with the resources of the island supporting him, the importance of which he stressed several times in Copenhagen, he, like his predecessor, went on to play a leading part in subsequent Danish maritime history. Sören Norby, 1517–1525, ends the lineage of energetic Visborg captains. He is perhaps the best known of them all, the one and only condottiere in Scandinavian history. Admiral to King Christian II and Captain of Gotland and General of the Baltic Sea, as he called himself, he was a tough customer for any enemy, not the least the young and aspiring King Gustavus I Wasa of Sweden. Already in 1514, Sören had inherited the Danish flagship, Engelen, from Admiral Jens Holgersen Ulfstand. Then, for a period, Kaiser Karl V of Habsburg himself supported Sören’s Visborg-based political ambitions. Courting Christina Gyllenstierna, the young widow of former Swedish Stewart Sten Sture j:r, Sören in the early 1520s even nourished ambitions to ascend to the Swedish throne. This is at least what King Gustavus I Wasa strongly feared. King Erik of Pomerania, by contemporary unknown.
According to the Visborg perspective, Sören fortified the coasts of Gotland,
Reconstructed model of Visborg Castle.
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sailed out and captured Lübeckian vessels, and subjugated the towns of Sölvesborg in Blekinge and Åhus and Landskrona in Scania. He also beleaguered Helsingborg, from the sea, naturally. Then the Lübeckians succeeded in destroying his fleet at Pukavik. After a while he made a political comeback and caused renewed turbulences at sea. But finally, after attacking inter alia Reval/Tallinn, he lost his adventurous game, incl. Visborg in 1525. In 1526 he was compelled to leave the Baltic theatre of operations. He escaped to Novgorod with 150 followers, made his way to Italy, and fell in battle outside Florence. Lärbro castellum and church at 12th to 13th century.
Sören Norby’s account books for 1523–24 reveal the command of some 750 soldiers, 90 cavalry and 50 lifeguards, drabanter. He personally owned warships and also commanded King Christian II:s Royal Navy. Evert Melefors (2003) gives a detailed account of Sören’s ships: 4 myn herres jakter: Barchen, Sassen, Uglen, then lile redersjakt, then many well-equipped warships like Kravellen, Gripen, Holken, The Greifswald kreyer, 2 Lübeck kreyers, Kaspar, Klenelusen. In 1523 he captured 15 ships. However, according to his biographers Lars J. Larsson (1986) and Evert Melefors (2003), one should not overstate the results of Sören’s privateering. His guns were old-fashioned, they claim, his plans over-reaching, and he did not possess as many captured goods as he bragged and boasted.14 Nevertheless, Sören Norby in his heydays was one of the leading protagonists in the struggle for supremacy in the central Baltic Sea area. Common denominators? Once again: which are the possible denominators behind the almost incessant actions at sea of those adventurous Scandinavian noblemen? How much of their Baltic Sea political reasoning was family-related or personal, how much political, how much common Gotlandic? 14
Lars J. Larsson, Sören Norby och Östersjöpolitiken. Lund 1986; E. Melefors, ed., Ivar Axelssons räkenskapsbok... Visby 2003.
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To be sure, account books and annals, and other medieval vernacular sources, never mention the state of mind of the actors. But to carry out their intentions, the Vitalians beginning from the 1390s, as well as the whole line of Visborg captains, must permanently have had access to similar revenues and resources, like an abundance of taxes, ever new contingents of skippers, soldiers, artisans of different métiers, lots of sailors, and also land-based support of all sorts. One must also assume, that the captains inherited essential knowledge required in their position, like management, staffing skills, networking etc. from their predecessors, voilà a micro-line of continuation.
Ivar Axelsson Tott. Captain of Visborg Castle 1464–1487. Contemporary oil painting, Gaunø, Sealand.
Yet, the story of these colourful Gotlandic protagonists of the long 15th century is not new. We can read about them in somewhat myopic detail in the oeuvre of the great Hugo Yrwing.15 Lately Gun Westholm centered her broad delineation on the dramatic year of 1361.16 But surely, there must be a line of continuity to be discovered here, all through the long, pulsating 15th century?
4. Preconditions as an Attempt at an Explanation We have noticed a Gotlandic capacity to more or less permanently interfere in Baltic Sea area matters, even as we close in on the epoch of the beginning of Atlantic trade and the founding of nation-states in northern Europe in the late 15th century. That ability presupposes certain combined long-term resources. They are easily divided into long- and medium term geographic, material, demographic, commercial, human, spiritual, traditional, abstract, etc. prerequisites. It is evident that the 15th century protagonists must have leaned on a firm common base, namely on the island itself, with its steady administrative centre 15 16
H. Yrwing, Gotlands medeltid. Visby 1978; Idem, Visby – Hansestad på Gotland. Södertälje 1986. G. Westholm, in GA 2007.
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of the Gutnalthing in Roma,17 on the Hanseatic town of Visby with its diligent merchants and artisans, but above all on the resources of their own fortified castle and the fiefdom of Visborg (1408–). The almost independent captains (hövitsman) were also governors (länsherre) of the island. Surely, personal and family ties contributed, like political connections and networks, in Visby and on the island itself, as in Copenhagen, Stockholm, Lübeck, Danzig/Gdansk, and Reval/Tallinn. For extended periods, the personal tactical/martial skills of the Vitalians and captains (Olof Axelsson, Jens Holgersen, Laurens Schinkel, Sören Norby) mattered decisively. Lost greatness and prosperity According to Sven-Olof Lindquist’s brilliant study (1984) of Gotland’s medieval taxation, the Gotlanders had succeeded in paying extremely low tithes to their Swedish kings throughout the 14th century – until 1412, actually.18 Their taxes were about four time less than in the Mälar Lake region. The result of this combination of low expenditures on one hand, and Gotlandic and Visbyensic centuries-long entrepreneurship, via Reval/Tallinn to Novgorod and to Lübeck, and even as far off as to London and Brügge on the other hand, resulted in a most remarkable accumulation of wealth and personal fortunes on the island and in Visby. The human factor My point, for further discussion, would be to identify the human factors behind the aforementioned protagonist-led dramatic events at sea in the 15th century. Or, in other words, what did then remain of former political greatness in the minds of the Gotlanders, experienced farmers, seamen, traders, sailors, fishermen, hunters, adventurers etc.? Would it be possible to implicate feelings of great loss, humiliation, frustration, anger, maybe even revenge among Gotlanders and Visby burghers after the late 14th century decline; thereby also to maybe insinuate a preparedness for action, in one way or other, to recapture past glory; namely, under the leadership of new strong masters on the Visborg castle? The sea-faring Gotlanders. What did the world look like for the Gotlanders in the 15th century?19 What could they possibly have seen, heard, and experienced? The countryside’s territorial organization around the Gutnalthing still functioned meticuously. Every day, the Gotlanders could admire great churches and monasteries with distinctive exteriors and costly interiors. As they happened to pass Katlunds, Bringes, Stora Hästnäs or the other dozens of stone farmhouses or vicarages, they got a clear vision of the prosperity of the countryside. They 17
18 19
Concerning further relations between castle and land, i.e. captain and farmers, cf. T. Siltberg, Gotlänningarna och den danska överheten på 1500-talet. In: GA 1995, p. 83–108; Idem, Manslaughter and Equality. The peasant Republic of Gotland as an Exception to the Rule. In: Rund um die Meere des Nordens. Festschrift für Hain Rebas. 2008, p. 305 ff. S-O. Lindqvist, Sextio marker silver vart år… In: GA 1984. Cf. the well-written specialist-supported introduction by R. Öhrman, Vägen till Gotlands historia. Specialvolym till GA 1994.
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Visborg Castle. The Kutatavla, 1618, Fårö church.
saw Visby, if not directly as flourishing as in earlier heydays, but still looking very good, with almost a dozen sky-high cathedrals, remarkable two- or threestorey stone-houses, monasteries and nunneries, the city wall, the harbour, the busy marketplaces, all of it constructed on a very tiny piece of territory below the klint. They could meet wealthy foreigners in the streets, and listen to German, Russian20 and other languages. Above all, they could hear stories and personal memories of past glory, remembered and told by old men and women, priests, monks, nuns, and other learned people. As we know from Iceland, which had a similar free farmer society, we must by analogy simply presume, that the traditions of the Gotlandic families were memorized and stored, because it was important to preserve past family or common records. No doubt, the Gotlandic judges, provosts, priests, nuns and monks must have been able to read and write. The Visby Franciscans kept annals throughout the centuries. As the infamous Taksteinar case of 1274 in Lärbro and the 15th century Katlund family position in Grötlingbo show, certain families exercised local power and hegemony, based on wealth, position and tradition. One would immediately expect an oral history tradition here. Some of the families, even long after 1525, continued to practise more limited sea-faring traditions, for instance, sailing to Ösel and Swedish-speaking NW Estonia. On Ösel you can still visit the villages of Kotlandi (local genitive form of Gotland) on the west coast, and Suur- and Väike-Rootsi (Big- and Small-Sweden) southeast 20
N. Blomkvist, St. Lars in Visby – a monument of the 1229 treaty? In: Rund um die Meere des Nordens. Festschrift für Hain Rebas. Heide 2008, pp. 29–38.
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of Arensburg/Kuressaare. As his account book (1485) explains, Ivar Axelsson hired people from Ösel to serve at Visborg. 21 This medieval Gotlandic farming, seafaring, logging, fishing, hunting and cattlebreeding free population lived off some 1.500 single-family farms spread all over the island. The excavations at Fjäle in Ala reveal modest inland living standards from the 6th to the 14th century. Special meadow (lövängar) harvesting techniques are still practised. Many of the coastal farmers were co-owners of ships of different calibres, fit for the open sea. Before the drying-out of the vast island moors in the19th and 20th centuries, small rivers connected the wet inland with the coastlands, a good example being Paviken. In Estonian, the island has always been called Ojamaa, the land of rivulets. More important, as Dan Carlsson has demonstrated for decades by now, the medieval Gotlanders profited from dozens of well-sheltered natural harbours around the scraggly coastline: Gamle hamn on Fårö, Lickershamn, Snäckgärdsbaden, Gustavsvik, Visby, Gnisvärd, Paviken, Ridanäs at Fröjel, Barshalder, Bandlunde and Boge.22 Beginning from the Viking Age, sea-faring farmers had been able to form networks across the Baltic Sea, especially from Novgorod and beyond, as far as Constantinople and the Caliphate, later also in Lübeck (the Artlenburg treaty 1161), in Riga 1211 and in Reval/Tallinn, which they helped to found and build in the 1220’s, and finally even to London and Brügge. Most islanders were baptized in the 11th century. They formed an egalitarian,23 and well-organised social and judicial body under Gutalagen, or ius gutorum (c.1220), ruled by the aldermen of the Gutnalthing in Roma and later also by the provosts.24 The Gotlanders even possessed an intriguing founding myth, a Book of Genesis of their own, Gutasagan.25 In those days, mainland Swedish big landowners, military/political chieftains and church leaders were living in relatively modest wooden houses. Simultaneous toponymics on Gotland, like Stenstugu, Stenstugards etc, indicate that dozens of these Gotlandic overseas-trading farmers built grandiose stone-houses. In fact, they also used vaulted granaries. Some of those farms still remain in situ, like the impressive Katlunds in Grötlingbo, the Fredarve in Vamlingbo, the Bringes in Norrlanda, the Lauks in Lokrume, the Sojdeby in Fole et alii, and the towninspired Stora Hästnäs close to Visby, just to mention the most spectacular ones.26 Stora Hästnäs, also Vatlings farm in Fole, are still worthy examples of the dwellings of wealthy medieval Gotlandic merchant-farmers. The fact that the living standards of local priests could be as advanced, is evident in the remnants of for instance Lau and Tingstäde vicarages. 21 22 23 24 25 26
E. Melefors, ed., Ivar Axelssons räkenskapsbok... Visby 2003. D. Carlsson, Vikingahamnar på Gotland. In: Gotland –Vikingaön. GA 2004, s. 17–26. As strongly emphasized in the oeuvre of former landsarkivarie Tryggve Siltberg, Gårdar, mark och människor 1413–…. In: GA 1986. N. Myrberg, Room for all? Spaces and places for thing assemblies: the case of the Allthing on Gotland, Sweden. In: Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 2008. Historia Gotlandiae. In: SRS, III:1, p. 9 f. Kulturführer Gotland. Gotlands fornsal, Visby, 1993; Kap. Die Siedlungsstruktur.
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Some 1050 treasures, including 166.100 silver coins from the Viking Age, have been found buried in Gotland.27 The latest and up to now the most spectacular one, Spillings in Othem, was found in 1999 and published in 2008,28 containing 67 kg of pure silver and about 14.300 almost exclusively Arabic coins. Together with other artifacts like the 2.000 penannular brooches for male dress, 1.750 animalhead brooches for female dress, over 10.000 beads, at least 585 spearheads reflect the imaginations on the picture-stone Ihre in Hellvi. These treasures, whatever their origins and reasons for being, represent solid, explicit international wealth.29 Their number will probably increase in years to come. Hundreds of open-air burial mounds, stone cairns, stone circles, labyrinths, massive remnants from the large Iron Age village in Vallhagar, and big, elegant stone ship settings (skeppssättning) from bygone epochs in Gannarve, Gnisvärd and Boge surely inspired the fantasy of the islanders. Also, huge, brightly coloured (even pre-) Viking Age runic and picture stones, like Bro ojkar, and the ones still standing at Stenbro in Sproge and Änge in Buttle, vividly reminded by passersby of bygone days. Even if some of these heavy flat-cut stones were buried into church walls and floors, like in Ardre, no one had yet thought of putting them into a museum, be it as today in Bunge open-air museum, or the Gotlands fornsal in Visby. These monuments belonged to everybody everyday. The gigantic hideout of Torsburgen in Kräklingbo, almost a kilometer in diameter and twice the size of Visby, where according to Gutasagan one third of the island inhabitants once upon a time hid themselves, and several others, like Grogarnshuvud at Östergarn and Herrgårdsklint in Gammelgarn, elicited their own dramatic imagages and memories. A full dozen fortified towers (kastaler) on the coasts, like Kruttornet in Visby, Fröjel, Sundre, Öja, Gammelgarn, Lärbro and many others, together with the fortified church at Bunge, all of them mainly from the end of the 12th century, bear witness to expected attacks from overseas. They also make a strong statement about the fiercely independent state of mind of the islanders. Gotland’s still functioning 92 stone churches – there were even 94 parishes in the Middle Ages – can be found from Bunge in the north to Sundre in the south. According to meticulous Carl von Linné, who toured the island in 1741, the ruins of the Cistercian monastery in Roma (1164) had been turned into the most luxurious cowshed in Sweden.30 When mentioning past properties, it should be noted that the Roma Cistercians for centuries possessed a warehouse of their own in Reval/ Tallinn and several coastal villages east of it, around the Kolk/Kolga manor. In the beginning, the countryside stone churches were built in Romanic, later in Gothic, and in mixed Romanic-Gothic style. Some of them, like Dalhem, Gothem and Lau, were almost cathedral-size. With their rich exterior and interior 27 28 29 30
K. Jonsson, Västerländska vikingatida mynt. In: Gotland – Vikingaön. GA 2008, s. 27–32. G. Rispling, Spännande mynt i Spillingsskatten. In: Gotland – Vikingaön. GA 2008. M. Östergren, Guld- och silverskatter. In: Gotland – Vikingaön. GA 2008. Carl Linnaei Öländska och Gotländska resa…1741. Red. Av Carl-Otto von Sydow. Borås 1991, s. 268.
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decorations, professionally sculptured portals, wall- and glass-paintings, imported German or Dutch altarpieces, and relics, sculptures, equipment like golden hostia and stunning baptismal fonts, these churches impress every modern visitor. The Gotlanders’ East-Germanic language was never a mere “Swedish dialect”. It still is a very special language of its own.31 Even today mainland Swedes have a problem understanding its words, diphthongs and intonation. It remains rich in vocabulary and idiom, and still keeps differences between the northern and southern island dialects. By the way, no Gotlander was named Sven, Björn or Ulv like other Scandinavians. They had names of their own, like Botair, Gairalv, Härryd, Vivil, Hegbjarn, Rodvisl and Austain for the men, and Ailikn, Botaid, Botvi, Bydny, Bödvild, Hailvi, Rodiaud etc., for the women.32 Parallel to other incoming international currencies, the islanders, as recently elaborated in detail by Nanouschka Myrberg (2008), minted their very own moneta Gutorum seu Guthlandie, from 1140 on, another sign of the self-esteem, independence and pride of the islanders.33 Like the coins of Visby, they were used way into the 15th century, even later.34 In a word: we have no problems at all to find embracing factors expressing and boosting a specific Gotlandic identity of the 15th century. S.-O. Lindquist confirms this, addressing “his” Gotlanders throughout the centuries as “people with a strong identity, social networks and a common set of values”.35 This goes for the Irish and the islanders. The Visby burghers The burghers of Visby first co-operated, then competed with the farmers in the overseas trade, finally outsmarting and overrunning them, both in foreign markets and at home. And so Visby popped up as a contemporary 12th–13th century phenomenon akin to Lübeck. Accommodating itself to a continental, urban way of life, Visby was led by a town council, peopled by a local body of international merchants. Visby’s Gründerzeit culminated with the consecration of the German cathedral S:a Maria in 1225.36 The town’s development is closely connected to the German High Middle Ages’ so-called Drang nach Osten, as mittelniederdeutsch-speaking merchants spread all over the Baltic Sea area and beyond. Step by step they organised and established themselves in the expanding Hanseatic League, for centuries dominated by Lübeck. The range and reach of the Hanseats, with a political/military culmination during the decades 31 32 33 34 35 36
D. Hofmann, Gotlands alte Sprache und ihre Zeugnisse. In: Gotland. Tausend Jahre Kultur- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte im Ostseeraum. Sigmaringen 1988, s. 27–40. T. Snaedal, Ingen gute hette Sven. In: Gotland – Vikingaön. GA 2004, s. 33–39. N. Myrberg, Ett eget värde. Gotlands tidigaste myntning, ca 1140–1220. Diss. Stockholm 2008. H. Yrwing, Gotlands medeltid. Visby 1978, p. 214 f; J.-Chr. Schlüter, Zwei gotländische Hauptleute, Ivar Axelsson Tott, Sören Norby und ihre Rechenschaftsbücher. Unpubl. Staatsexamen-thesis, Albert-Ludwig-Universität, Freiburg im Breisgau, ca. 2007, p. 34 f. S.-O. Lindquist, Förord. In: Vägen till Gotlands historia. Specialvolym till GA 1994, p. 7. H. Yrwing, Visby. Hansestad på Gotland. Stockholm 1986.
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after 1370 and a starting slow, gradual stagnation and decline in the 15th century due to inner splits and outside pressures, is a well-known story. In the 13th century until the beginning of the 14th at least, it was almost a condition sine qua non for every skipper setting out from the west for the ports of Reval/ Tallinn or Riga, or even beyond, to bunker in prosperous Visby.37 And vice versa. The town has well preserved its 13th century features up to this day, in its town planning, system of streets, and its variety of grey limestone buildings. As Gun Westholm has shown, in many houses the toilets were flushed with flowing water.38 Towards the end of the 13th century, competition between farmers and burghers led to the construction of the outer city wall, some 3–5 meters high and almost 2,5 km long. The commercial success of the burghers also resulted in a dozen of big, impressive, mostly Gothic cathedrals inside the wall, within just a stone’s throw from each other, making up today’s picturesque veduta of Visby. They all constitute natural components of modern Visby: St Hans, St Per, the Franciscan Sa Katarina (formerly also a nunnery), Sa Maria, St Lars, Drotten, St Clemens, St Olof, Helge And, Sa Gertrud and Dominican St Nikolaus, within city limits, and the St Göran hospital just north of the wall. The walled harbour, a town hall, a spectacular pharmacy and several guild houses complete the picture. One can only speculate about the enormous and incessant input behind this stunning output. In short: for centuries Gotland with Visby remained a vital and extremely wealthy amalgamation of commerce and culture in the middle of the Baltic Sea. Therefore, we should have no difficulty at all imagining how strongly everyday remembrances and homegrown traditions could influence and impress the common Gotlander. Here we are referring to following: the language, the prenames, a founding myth, a political/judicial system with a common law of their own, their Roma All-thing leadership, buried and still accessible fortunes in the form of Arabic silver coins, a line of defence towers along the coastline, functioning currencies of their own, old burial mounds to excite the imagination, almost hundred stunning Roman/Gothic stone churches plus dozens of stone farm buildings all over the island, big and small runic and bright picture stones still in situ at some cross-roads, etc., together with stories told about this legacy. All this must altogether have contributed to the identity, self-esteem and even insular pride of the medieval – NB – independent and free Gotlander; especially if one adds the perceived reality of the riches of urban, continental and international Visby. Certainly, the average Gotlander was hardly in a position to ponder and to reflect on all of this. He probably had other things to do. But on the other hand, he must have had access to many more insights, thoughts, traditions and ideas far beyond the scope of our narrow 21st century imagination. 37 38
H. Rebas, Internatonella medeltida kommunikationer till och genom Baltikum. In: Historisk Tidskrift (Stockholm) 2/1978, p. 156–185. G. Westholm, in GA 2007.
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Since most of the Gotlandic/Visbyensic wealth had been accumulated throughout many generations, without foreign interventions, and relied on shipping, overseas contacts and commerce, we do not hesitate to identify Gotland/Visby as a maybe unconscious, but nevertheless a thalassocracy, at least up to the mid 14th century. Indeed, the image of a stable farmers’ republic with its own thriving Hong-Kong on the west coast of the island does not seem far-fetched at all. It is no coincidence, that the 14th century affluence of the island was almost common knowledge to contemporaries, as substantiated in Lübeck as well as in Central Sweden. The chronicler Detmar of Lübeck describes the phenomenon by stating that on Gotland, the pigs ate out of silver-trays. And the author of the Swedish rhyme-chronicle of the 15th century tells us about the legendary amounts of gold and silver (osägligt Gull ok Sölff) looted from the land in 1361 by king Waldemar IV of Denmark.39 A century later, in mid 16th century, Olaus Petri, an able historian, first describes the bygone wealth of Gotland and then, word by word, repeats the chronicler’s statement about king Waldemar’s abundant booty.40 After that, in a chronological order, in the latter half of the 14th century (cf. p. 229), we recognize the gradual Gotlandic/Visbyensic, even Nordic political decline. However, in the last decade of the century, the Vitalians, the Nordic Union of Kalmar (1397–) and the occupation of the island by the Teutonic Order, 1398–1408, created new parameters in determining the Gotlandic long 15th century: the mighty Visborg castle was erected, which was a veritable turningpoint in the decades to come (cf. the Protagonist chapter, p. 230 f).
5. Conclusions: Frustration and Revenge? Neither before the 1390s nor after 1525 can we note Gotland/Visborg-based large-scale violence at sea. Therefore, we have no problem identifying a line of continuity, a “long 15th century”, as far as Gotland is concerned. Accordingly, we can proceed from the hitherto prevailing notions of ad hoc delineations of the century to a more structured version. It follows actions at sea, which seems to be a more normal and profitable way to study the history of an island. In this long 15th century, the island, and especially Visborg castle, turned out to be a more or less permanent centre for privateering, piracy, maritime expeditions and pure naval warfare in several directions across the Baltic Sea. The captains and governors who ruled over Gotland were Scandinavian top brass, energetic Danish administrators, determined inter-Scandinavian aristocrats and vigorous Danish admirals. Even an inter-Scandinavian ex-king used the castle and island for almost ten years as his headquarters, and as a base for his comeback in politics and revenge at sea. Generally, from the end of the 1430s, the powerful captains of 39 40
Chronicon rhytmicon majus. In: SRS I:1. Upsala 1818, p. 57. Yes, there is definitely a qualitative difference between „chronicler“ and „historian“. Olaus Petri, Swenska Crönekan (thet var i förtijden ett mächta rijkt land, ty det had varit Stapulen i Östra siön ... lät kung Waldemar föra alla rijkedomar tädan af landet, osäjeligt Guld och Sölf...). In: SRS I:2, Upsala 1818, p. 270.
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the castle often championed and spoke out for the other two medieval actors on the island, the community of farmers and the Visby Council. No hostility between the farmers’ and burghers’ societies can be found between the 1390s and 1525.41 The captains commanded and represented the joint forces of Gotland. Starting in the 1390’s, the Vitalians, already had mobilised Gotlandic resources, and probably local contributions too, to build their three fortifications, to man them and to operate their ships as well. The erection of Visborg castle (1408–) cost generations of Gotlandic taxpayers funds. The tax was raised by 1000 % and remained thus almost until the 1470s. The building process itself employed the population as construction workers for decades. The self-sufficient castle captains then used the island tax-levy, its commercial/political networks and regenerating manpower to implement whatever goals and whims they had, at sea and across the sea. Subsequently we can speak of a more or less united Gotland under Visborg leadership, at least from the times of ex-King Erik of Pomerania, 1439–. But did this 15th century Gotland really “strike back”? That notion presupposes feelings of lost greatness, frustration and revenge. Could it be so? Evidently, we will never be able to recapture the memories of past wealth, fortunes and glory in the minds of the 15th century Gotlanders. Even less can we substantiate or prove how the past Gotlandic/Visbyensian ambience could have influenced local moods, attitudes and initiatives. But on the strength of interdisciplinary historical knowledge, backed by common sense and analogical case studies, we have emphatically argued for a more vivid and thorough understanding (Verstehen) of the long lines of Gotlandic medieval history. That has in fact been the main purpose of this article. However, we know well how the wealth of medieval Gotland was accumulated from the Viking age onward. It was enhanced through generations, and boosted century by century. Eventually, it became perceptible, well spread over the island and totally ubiquitous, certainly impressing visitors, and friends and foes alike. Add to this the Visby skyline and town wall, the international wheeling and dealing within town limits, and since all this wealth was based on shipping, on the sea, Gotland/Visby of the high medieval period qualifies by great margin for our modern concept of a thalassocracy, a sea-power, and moreover, a peaceful one. The amassed affluence of Gotland even became common knowledge internationally and should be regarded as a strongly supporting cause for King Waldemar IV to attack and thoroughly loot the land and town in 1361. The memories of this former greatness just could not have died out in a mere three or four generations, since all these splendid edifices remained, day in day out, year after year. Certainly they were described by the older generation, they had to be. One can easily presume stories by the bonfire and candlelight full of vivid nostalgia, especially during the long winters in this traditional society of farmers, but also among learned men and women, in the town, as well as in 41
T. Siltberg, Gotland balancing between the Baltic and Scandinavian Powers. Unpubl, manuscript. Visby, Oct. 2010.
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vicarages, monasteries and nunneries in the countryside. Moreover, e silentio we have to imagine both rural and urban customs, traditions and duties that are long forgotten. The 15th century brought the astonishing Visborg castle together with its forceful captains, leaders at inter-Scandinavian top-levels, who had great plans of their own. In brief, this added a dynamic factor to the politics of the whole Baltic Sea area. Like their Vitalian predecessors, the captains depended on the island and partly also on the town. Conversely, island and town depended on the captains. Robust analogies and multilateral arguments for continuity of mind advocate for the idea that Gotlandic 15th century support for the captains was also founded in nostalgia and by frustration caused by the disparity between lost former greatness and the reduced present, above all among young men. Therefore, when they gathered around the promising captains, feelings and expressions of revenge, of striking back, could be expected. How else could Vitalians and captains alike have recruited so many of their followers, decade after decade? The last of them, Sören Norby, commanded some 900 enlisted men. Of course, we cannot be certain what they thought and felt, but taking into account what we do know, we can well imagine. Two convincing historical parallels are Ireland and Iceland, islands heavy with domestic traditions and pride both of them, where suppressed cultural and political identity erupted in their 20th century quest for national independence. Clearly enough, during the Axelsson-regime in Visborg, especially from the end of the 1450s to the end of the -70’s, we can trace obvious attempts at restoring an independent and more enterprising thalassocracy to the periphery of the Kalmar Union. The plan of the Axelsson brotherhood was to rely on the castles Visborg on Gotland and Viborg/Viipuri in Carelia and jointly to fork in on Estland/Livland, the mercatura ruthenica flow via the Neva and the Gulf of Finland glimmering in the distance. Whereas the Axelssons mainly pursued family or rather clan interests, ex-king Erik, like the Vitalians and Sören Norby in his latter years, acted only on their own behalf, and Jens Holgersen, Laurens Schinkel and Olof Axelsson in his younger years represented the interests of their Danish king. All of them (except for obvious reasons the Vitalians) used strong Visborg as their naval base and Gotland’s economic and human resources as foundations for their actions. The idea that unity and continuity motivated a frustrated and revengeful Gotland to strike back at sea during the long 15th century is definitely possible, if not obvious. The memory of the lost greatness of a former mercantile thalassocracy must, as we can well imagine, have carried along with it enough factual, imaginary and emotional substance to turn up only a few generations later as a contributing factor to the dramatic chain of Vitalian- and Visborg-led events at sea, before the Lübeckians brutally put an end to it all in 1525.
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Multiple visions from a Baltic shoreline – Richard Berghs quest for a school of Swedish painting in Vision, scene from Visby Lars Wängdahl
For a few years around 1890 the small town of Visby on the island of Gotland was a centre for the development of avant-garde painting in Sweden. A group of Swedish artists going on their 40s was about to depart from their, admittedly fairly recently acquired, realist ideals and embark on yet another adventure – the construction of what they perceived of as a true, and yet, avant-garde, Swedish school of art.1 As I have argued elsewhere the change of artistic agendas that this generation of artists performed during the late 1880:s and early 90:s in the end turned out quite successfully. At least in that sense that they managed to convince their contemporaries that they had succeeded in creating for the first time art that was truly Swedish. That success in its turn made it possible for them to dominate the art political agenda of Sweden round 1900.2 Here I would like to turn to another complex of issues surrounding that same generation of artists: In what ways did stays in artist colonies shape their artistic agendas? In brief, it is my hypothesis that the social character of the stays in the artist’s colonies helped to create a new paradigm for images during the last decades of the 19th century. I would like to add to the description of this new paradigm through an analysis of an image that was produced during an attempt of the artist to transfer from realism into a new style, symbolism, albeit still (as I will argue) within that same socially founded paradigm. Richard Bergh’s Vision, Scene from Visby (1894).
The artist’s colony as its own end The new paradigm replaced one that understood images either as representations of known stories, events from history or myth, or else as representations of previously known types (like fishermen/women, peasants, 1
2
For the “national Swedish art” as a consciously stated topic in the correspondence of Bergh and his closest colleagues see Lars Wängdahl, “Känslan av det svenska: Den syntetiska formen och Varbergskolonins nationella landskap”: Nationell hängivenhet och europeisk klarhet: Aspekter på den europeiska identiteten kring sekelskiftet 1900. Stockholm/Stehag 1999. For a broad exposure in English of the phenomenon of nationalism in Swedish art in the late 19th century see Michelle Facos, Nationalism and the Nordic Imagination: Swedish Art of the 1890s. Berkeley and Los Angeles 1998. Wängdahl, Lars, “En natur för män att grubbla i”, Individualitet och modernitet i varbergskolonins landskapsmåleri, Diss. Göteborg 2000.
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vegetables or whatever one had a more or less clear and preconceived idea about and which it was the images job to live up to). The new paradigm was not about things at all. It was more tuned towards the situation surrounding the making of the image. One may say that images became self-sufficient. They did not have to refer to something outside themselves any more. Conventionally this is also how impressionism is being described. However, it’s not just the registering of weather and light that is the issue here. I want to point to how a strong social environment could become, in the first instance a thing worthy of representation in itself, and in the next how it came to license a new understanding of images, seemingly without any content.3 So making pictures based on the specific experience of a particular moment in time and space is a type of picture-making that I would like to argue was made possible by 19th century artist’s colonies. It was through them that artists could discover that pictures do not have to have a pre defined subject in order to be understood. The motif of a painting does not have to have been teased out in literature or history and exist solely as an interpretation. Artist’s colonies could function in that way because they provided such a strong social environment that works of art could begin to be produced exclusively for people who understood that environment. They had been there themselves and that “being there” could begin to emerge as the raison d’être of the painting. One of the most important arguments for this interpretation is the character of the first hand literature from these colonies. Any reader expecting to find resumes (or any trace actually) of the presumably deep discussions held in front of paintings, or accounts of art theory in first hand relations of 19th century art colonies will be disappointed. This literature is all about parties, strange locals and crazy intermezzos.4 Since this is what is being told by those who were there, one has to conclude that that was what was important to them. One could also say: what was important was sharing an experience, one that could be expanded upon and referred back to, and a social realm which was enough all encompassing to become a new, tacit or hidden content of images.5 Related to this process is also the fact that the people working with the discursive side of art making, the critics, came to these same places and became part of the same social environment. That in turn also has to be considered in relation to the fact that the art world as a social arena began to 3 4
5
I have previously been teasing out this line of thinking in a paper I presented at the conference Künstlerkolonien in Mittel- und Osteuropa in Klaipeda in 2005 (“Life in artists’ colonies and change in artistic paradigms around 1900”). The role of sociability in 19th century artist’s colonies has been investigated by Nina Lübbren in Rural Artists’ Colonies in Europe, 1870–1910, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001. Her observations mainly concern written relations from the artist’s colonies and how they may be used as an indication of the importance of social events and life in them. In my Klaipeda paper (se footnote 3 above) I pointed to the many images celebrating exactly that social realm. A striking example is the frequent images with socializing content by the Danish artist Peder Severin Krøier.
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be relatively autonomous, producing its own discursive expertise, i.e., that it followed a path that was parallel to the one that art followed.
Places Another thing is that places came to be exceedingly important for this generation of artists and I would like to propose that it was exactly for the above mentioned reason. Their way of being artists was tied to the experience of belonging to a collective where one mutually understood and reinforced each other’s placedependent way of making images. Around 1890 Visby was visited by several artists. A real artists’ colony was never established though. The artists stayed for months during the summer but returned to their more or less permanent places of living when autumn came. There is however much left to do when it comes to describing how these artists came to stay in Visby. Presently I am very much inclined to regard it as an example of artists following the general currents of tourism. Still, as I stated above, Visby was the centre of much artistic activity at the time. Activity consciously directed at artistic change. What significance did the place itself, the old town of Visby have in this artistic development? It has frequently been assumed that it was the historic remains and the atmosphere provided by them that above all attracted the artists. But even if it may be true that the artists were attracted by the ruins, it doesn’t necessarily follow that the ruins, or medievalism in general, was the artistically productive ingredient in their work. It is true that medieval themes played a certain role in at least a significant part of the pictures that were being produced in Visby during these years, and that this is commonly regarded as an effect of the overwhelming presence of medieval relicts. And so some sort of general hinting at medieval times is present in images like Hanna Pauli’s The princess by the wall, or Richard Bergh’s The knight and the virgin. It has also been noted as a more or less unique exception that medieval remains appears to be totally non existent in the pictures from Visby by Bergh’s long since friend and comrade in arms in their attacks on the academy, Karl Nordström during this same period. At the same time however, one cannot help noticing that whatever ideas about medieval times the artists received from staying in Visby, they were shallow. It may also be said that they were without artistic consequences except for some or other loosely associated thematic content. None of the artists visiting Visby during this time is known to have received any formal inspiration from the medieval sculpture or other art that could be seen, and as far as ideas goes they were hardly more informed than what could be picked up from romantic novels. Ideas about medieval art that inspired parts of contemporary symbolism, i.e. the painting of Paul Gauguin and the cloisonnists, did have some influence during the 1890:s, but with the formal reference to medieval art mostly lost to the followers. The sometimes heard statement that Visby was a Swedish Bruges around 1890 must be regarded as an exaggeration of considerable magnitude.
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I would like to propose that the role Visby itself played in artistic production in Visby in the years around 1890 has to be sought within a general framework of romanticising tourism rather than with reference to a specific place character, and that the place does not come forth in its specificity proper, but through the mediation of the artists presence at the site.
Konstnärsförbundet and a symbolist or a new national art As mentioned, this was a transitional period in Swedish art. Bergh and his fellows were striving to establish themselves and their organisation as the leaders of art in Sweden. At the time of the making of the painting however, this had not yet happened, and the artist himself – Richard Bergh (1858–1919) was still more of an enfant terrible than the founding father he was proposing to, and in just a couple of years was to become. Berghs father Edvard Bergh (1828–1880) had taught landscape painting as a professor at the Academy of fine arts. He had belonged to the same group and generation of artists that for a long period commanded art politics in Sweden. Still, Bergh the younger had turned out as one of the most prolific critics of the state of affairs in Swedish art politics and had been among the initiators of Konstnärsförbundet (The Swedish Artists Association, 1886–1920), a secessionist group launching a series of attacks on the Swedish artistic establishment from the middle of the 1880s (i.e. the Academy of fine arts and the National museum of arts). When the first leading figure of the organization Ernst Josephson (1851–1906) became mentally ill in 1888 Bergh assumed his position as the organisation’s leading ideologist. At the same time a shift in artistic ideals was taking place in France. Realistic or naturalistic art was no longer the latest trend as symbolism was becoming increasingly discussed. This process is sometimes actually dated to the very same year that Konstnärsförbundet was formed as an organization. 1886, the year that neo-impressionism was launched in Paris, conventionally marks the beginning of an avant-garde logic within the socio-cultural field of high art. From then on it became increasingly clear not just that the old idealistic ideology that “art” was a static – a simple and eternal compound of the good, the true and the beautiful was out dated. Even the recently new, realistic, naturalistic or just plain plein-air ideology that had made the new organizations first exhibitions fairly successful with the wider public was beginning to feel uncomfortably dated for some of its members. Especially Karl Nordström, one of Bergh’s old friends from the years in the academy’s school pointed out for Bergh in a series of letters from 1887 and onwards that it was imperative that their organisation would regroup and come out as an avant garde group with the invention of a truly Swedish art as its agenda.6 Some of the force in Nordström’s argumentation may have come from the fact that the board of the association had become populated by a number of architects. In Nordströms view they were too willing to compromise with the 6
Wängdahl 2000, pp 67–69.
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academy. He feared that any form of cooperation with the academy would lead to the defeat of their association. Eventually Bergh and Nordström would emerge as the two leaders of Konstnärsförbundet, and Konstnärsförbundet as the leader in artistic affaires in Sweden in the years around 1900. The path leading to success would comprise a radical restructuring of the organisation in 1891 – when a major part of its members left for another, newly founded association, Svenska konstnärernas förening. These events were described already by Sixten Strömbom in 1965. In my thesis I differed from Strömbom in not only regarding this as purely organizational matters – but rather as what was giving the artistic impetus to Bergh and Nordström during these years. They had to find some substance to their elite claims and this was an important driving force in their investigations of the new symbolist art. 7 But symbolism also turned out to be a touchy issue. It is pretty safe to say that Bergh regarded his painting as a symbolist painting at some of the time during which he was working with it. But he also stopped using the word during that same period. In fact most Swedish artists appears to have hesitated to describe their own art with the term. When Bergh finally did in 1893, he stopped doing it after only about one year.8 The concept of “symbolism” is actually never touched upon in an essay that Berghs published describing his ambitions with the painting in 1894 when he first put it on show.9 Instead he said he had sought to expound a sense of exaltation and adventure. My simple and innocent purpose was to present the viewer with a wide and glowing landscape view, a view which concurrently would offer him lines of greatness and colours in full tone and lift his spirits from everyday life and sober reality to an air of fairytale and adventure.10 In my interpretation the hesitant use of the word “symbolism” has to do with the identity that Bergh and his friends were trying to carve out for themselves and their organisation. As an aspiring alternative to the state institutions they could not come forward if they were perceived as esoteric, decadent or their work as of a private nature. They had to aspire to representativeness, both in terms of being earnest and reliable and in that they were actually the guardians of great and familiar cultural values. It was among other things in this context that the claim to inventing a new Swedish art was so useful. The process of inventing a new national Swedish art would also entail a mythical two year withdrawal to Varberg, a small town on the Swedish west coast. There Bergh, and above all Nordström and Nils Kreuger, another member of Konstnärsförbundet and long time friend of theirs – would produce 7 8 9 10
Strömbom 1965, pp 38–41; Wängdahl 2000. Wängdahl 2000, 94–98. Bergh, Richard, ”En intervju med mig själv” / Ord & bild, 1894. Bergh 1894.
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landscape paintings that came to be successfully proclaimed as the first items of a truly Swedish art. In fact, for a long period this small group’s stay in Varberg came to be labelled “the Varberg School” – a term art historians originally used for different local and regional “schools” of classical painting – above all Italian renaissance art.11 The painting Vision was conceived in 1893, i.e. during the end of this transitional period, and when it was completed in 1894 when Bergh actually belonged to the small colony in Varberg, although he took a leave from it in the summer of 1894.
The painting Richard Bergh’s Vision, Scene from Visby is a strange painting, hard to make out because of the many conflicting tendencies that its maker put into it. What is immediately striking for a beholder with firsthand experience of the site is, despite the ostensibly unrealistic golden ships in the right hand top side, not how symbolistic the image is. On the contrary it is quite obvious that the starting point for the entire composition is the sites specific natural drama: the visually unusual experience of a town that is so markedly placed below the horizon and in this way dominated by the unbroken sea and its completely open coast. The choice of viewpoint thus gives maximum attention to the grandest natural features of the place. There are many places in Visby that are so elevated in the terrain that when the sea is seen from them, all or almost all features within the view will be below the horizon. Precisely this experience – which makes the presence of the sea so overwhelming in Visby – has been replicated within the painting. Even the fleet of golden vessels is meticulously placed so that nowhere they cross over the horizon. The choice of viewpoint thus in an abstract manner reflects the experience of someone visiting not just or primarily the actual site, but the city as such. In real life the sea – which dominates the picture with its unbroken horizon – becomes the overriding feature as well. In that way the painting comes close to what may be termed an authentic experience of the particular spot from where the view was taken. This does not mean that the image is realistic, or that it may be regarded as naturalistic. The colours are brighter and clearer than they would have been in one of the artists paintings six or seven years earlier. Still it is clear that much of Berghs handling of light refers back to his realist idiom rather than it points forward to something else. Take for example the glow of sunlight on the two towers: on the one hand it is not very probable as a true rendition of topographical peculiarities of the site itself as the angle of the sun seems to be too steep (indicating too high a position in relation to the time of day) and the colour of the walls is far too warm to be a true depiction of Gotlandic sandstone. On the other hand, this reliance on the sun light effect in itself bespeaks of the artists continued attachment to plein-air standards in a more abstract way – a joy taken in finding and representing purely visual effects within the motif that is 11
Wängdahl 2000.
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Richard Bergh, Vision. Scene from Visby. © Foto Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.
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peculiar to plein-air painters. So while the effect of course has been exaggerated it nevertheless is still fundamentally visual. I have to admit that I had trouble seeing the reference to the site myself before I had been to Visby. As I said though: this does not reinforce an understanding of Bergh’s picture as withdrawn from experience. On the contrary it points directly to its reliance upon it and on being in the place. It’s just that it’s not so much about seeing as about being. What all of this fundamentally discloses is Bergh’s continued dependence on specific situations when making his paintings. Even when he, as mostly, tried to revert the theme into something general, a feeling of underlying specificity regarding time and place often lingers on. It was typical for Bergh and his generational comrades to base their images on what appeared to be real and specific, lived moments. Something I propose was made possible as a picture making habit through life in the artists’ colonies. But with Bergh there was also a tendency to aspire to transcend beyond the specificity and propose to take on a general meaning or consequence. Some of his paintings have something construed and over worked about them. In others he managed to give a sense of a reality comprising something more than the apparent. That was the case with some naturalistic paintings like Séance finished (Avslutad seans, 1884 (a painter playing his violin after finishing his work for the day, the model listening while dressing)) and Hypnotic séance (Hypnotisk seans, 1887), both of them worked through (and never the less construed) pictures intended for the Paris Salon. It is however even more so with some his later images, like his best known painting Nordic summer evening (Nordisk sommarkväll, 1899-1900), which maybe should be regarded as the solution to the problems he was working on already in Vision, Scene from Visby. A man and a woman standing on a veranda from which the beholder is seeing the image as well, placed on either side of the image, and looking out over an evening lit summer landscape. The tranquil mood of the image extends far beyond what is seen and in to the myth of national sentiment based on nature’s way of forming a habitus. Vision, Scene from Visby does not come near to any such uncomplicated naturalness. Instead there is a combination of movement and stiffness, contrasting light and shade, more or less realistic rendering together with fanciful colouring and a strange mix of materials that adds up to something more outlandish. In one instance Bergh himself identified the ships as Valdemar Atterdags fleet carrying the treasures of Gotland.12 Such a historically specific reading may be misleading but it also hints at what kind of adventure he may have had in mind. Maybe even a bit too bluntly so.
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Richard Bergh to Pontus Fürstenberg, undated letter in Fürstenbergs archive, Göteborgs Universitetsbibliotek. Göteborg.
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Das deutsche Konsulat in Visby im zweiten Weltkrieg. Ein Archivbericht Michael F. Scholz
Während des zweiten Weltkrieges unterhielt Deutschland in Schweden mehr als 30 Konsulate, darunter auch in Visby. Hier hatte Konsul Carl Emil Ekman das Amt im September 1901 bereits von seinem Vater übernommen. Ekman war einer der meist geachteten und einflussreichsten Männer der Insel Gotland.1 Als deutscher Konsul stand er in allen Zeiten loyal zu dem Land, das er zu vertreten hatte. Dies geschah durchaus im Interesse und mit dem Wissen der schwedischen Regierung. Ein Nazi war er deshalb nicht.2 Die Aufgaben der deutschen Konsulate während des Krieges waren vielfältig und sind für die historische Forschung durchaus von Interesse.3 Über die konkrete Tätigkeit des deutschen Konsulats bzw. Konsuls in Visby, wie auch der anderen Konsulate auf Gotland, wissen wir bedauerlich wenig. Das Bild, das wir uns machen können, hängt dabei wesentlich von den Quellen bzw. dem Archivzugang ab. Ekmans Privatnachlass befindet sich in Familienbesitz und ist noch ungeordnet. Das Archiv des Konsulats Visby, das zum Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes gehört, stand nach 1945 unter britischer Verwaltung. Ein damals aufgestelltes Verzeichnis gibt über eine zu dieser Zeit noch umfangreiche Hinterlassenschaft des Konsulats Auskunft. Doch um 1948 erlebte der Bestand einen bedauerlichen Schwund. Heute sind im Politischen Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes in Berlin nur noch wenige Seiten vorhanden. Doch mit Hilfe der ebenfalls nicht umfangreichen Sammlung zum Konsulat Visby im Gesandtschaftsarchiv Stockholm soll hier der Versuch unternommen werden, die Arbeit des Konsulats während des zweiten Weltkrieges zu beleuchten.
I.
Zur Überlieferungsgeschichte der deutschen diplomatischen Akten nach 1945
Zunächst einige Bemerkungen zur Überlieferungsgeschichte der deutschen diplomatischen Akten. Zum Kriegsende 1945 setzten die Alliierten alles daran, die deutschen Akten im In- und Ausland sicher zu stellen. Dabei warf der 1 2 3
Zu Ekman vgl. Carl E. Ekman. Sextio år, Stockholm 1928; Pelle Sollermann, Gotlandskungen. Berättelser från 1930-talets Gotland, 1977, S. 47–98. So auch Pelle Sollermann, langjähriger Chefredakteur der sozialdemokratischen Zeitung Gotlands Folkblad, in: Ders., En landsortsredaktörs berättelser, 1997, S. 109. Dagegen Mickael Lundgren, Konsuln och nazismen, in: Haimdagar Nr. 2/1998, S. 13. Vgl. zum deutschen Konsulat in Luleå Siv Rehn, Tyska konsulatet i Luleå under Andra världskriget, in: Stadsarkivets årsbok / Luleå kommun 2003, S. 67–102, 2002.
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kalte Krieg seinen Schatten voraus – von einer Zusammenarbeit aller vier Siegermächte in dieser Frage konnte kaum die Rede sein. Jedoch vereinbarten amerikanische und britische Stellen, bei der Sicherung der deutschen Archivalien „gemeinschaftlich“ zu arbeiten.4 In Stockholm suchten der britische und der amerikanische Gesandte noch vor der deutschen Kapitulation Kabinettssekretär Erik Boheman im Außenministerium auf, um über das Schicksal der deutschen Gesandtschaft in der schwedischen Hauptstadt Klarheit zu verlangen. Dies galt aktuell auch dem Zugriff auf die anderen deutschen diplomatischen Archive in Schweden. Nach der deutschen Kapitulation nahm die schwedische Sicherheitspolizei in den Räumlichkeiten der deutschen Vertretung eine Hausdurchsuchung vor und versiegelte anschließend die Gebäude.5 Eine alliierte Kontrollkommission wurde zur Kontrolle der Abwicklung deutschen Eigentums sowie der deutschen Archive in Stockholm gebildet. Sie nahm ihren Sitz im Gebäude der ehemaligen deutschen Gesandtschaft. Am 26. Juni hatte das schwedische Außenministerium alle ehemaligen deutschen Konsuln im Lande aufgefordert, ihre Archive zu ordnen und nach Stockholm zu schicken. Konsul Ekman in Visby versicherte daraufhin am 29. d. M., dass er mit diesen Arbeiten, soweit es sein Tagesgeschäft zuließe, umgehend beginnen werde. Er gab aber zu bedenken, dass dies nicht so schnell gelingen werde, da es sich um einen großen Bestand handelte, der auf das Jahr 1879 zurückginge, das Jahr in dem sein Vater das Konsulat übernommen habe. Zu den nach Stockholm zu schickenden Archivalien wollte er auch alle Rundschreiben zu den verschiedensten Themen sowie die Papiere zur Handelsschifffahrt zählen, nicht jedoch gebundene Bücher (Instruktionen), Flaggen, Siegel und Schilder.6 Die wichtigsten deutschen Akten wurden von den Alliierten zunächst nach Deutschland verbracht, unter anderem um den Anklägern in den Kriegsverbrecherprozessen zur Verfügung zu stehen. Später wurden große Teile der deutschen Beuteakten außer Landes geschafft, nach London bzw. in verschiedene Städte der USA. Was, wann, wohin ging, ist heute kaum mehr nachvollziehbar. Ein großer Teil des Archivs der deutschen Gesandtschaft in Stockholm verblieb jedoch unter britischer Aufsicht im ehemaligen Gesandtschaftsgebäude in der Hovslagargatan 2. In Deutschland waren zum Kriegsende vier Deponien mit über 4000 Tonnen Akten des Auswärtigen Amts im Harz erbeutet worden. Darunter befanden sich auch die Akten der Stockholmer Gesandtschaft von den Anfängen bis 1941, dem 4 5
6
Ausführlich dazu: Robert Wolfe (Hg.), Captures German and Related Records. A National Archives Conference, Ohio 1974.
PM, 2.5.1945; PM angående allierad démarche rörande tyska beskickningen m.m., 12.6.1945; PM angående svaret å samma, 15.6.1945, Reichsarchiv (RA), Stockholm, Utrikesdepartementet/1920 års dossiersystem (UD/1920 års), P 356. Vgl. auch Daniel Roth, Att skilja fåren från getterna. Sverige och „legationstyskarna“ sommaren 1945, in: Robert Bohn, Thomas Wegener Friis & Michael F. Scholz (red.), Østersøområdet fra Anden Verdenskrig til den Kolde Krig, Middelfart, 2007, S. 37–58.
Ekman an UD/Tyska byrån, 29.6.1945, RA, Stockholm, UD/1920 års, P 357.
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Abgabejahr der Akten der Gesandtschaft an das Auswärtige Amt. Um die Akten dem sowjetischen Zugriff zu entziehen, wurden sie nach Marburg verbracht und dort einer ersten Sichtung hinsichtlich ihrer Priorität – nicht zuletzt in Vorbereitung der Kriegsverbrecherprozesse – unterzogen.7 Bald darauf kamen die Akten im Westteil der viergeteilten Stadt Berlin unter die gemeinsame Verwaltung des britischen Foreign Office und des amerikanischen State Department. Hier wurden sie nachrichtendienstlich ausgewertet. Die Regierungen der USA und Großbritanniens kamen noch im Juni 1946 überein, die diplomatischen Akten in einer wissenschaftlichen Publikation selbst zu veröffentlichen und dies nicht den Deutschen zu überlassen, wie nach dem ersten Weltkrieg. Seit April 1947 waren auch die Franzosen zu den Arbeiten an der Aktenpublikation eingeladen. Ein erster Band Documents on German Foreign Policy sollte 1949 erscheinen. Anfang 1948 erhielt Schweden Zugang zu den deutschen Archiven in Westberlin. Von März bis Mitte Juli, als die Berlin-Krise eine Verlagerung der Akten nach England mit sich brachte, konnte eine schwedische Archivdelegation unter Leitung von Åke Kromnow, des späteren Reichsarchivars, das deutsche Material sichten und Kopien bestellen. Doch war eine Veröffentlichung oder wissenschaftliche Nutzung ohne Genehmigung aller „Aktentreuhänder“ nicht gestattet.8 Die schwedische Regierung war daran interessiert, auch Einblick in die Archive der deutschen Vertretungen zu nehmen, die in Stockholm unter britischer Verwaltung verblieben waren. Monatelang bemühte sich das schwedische Außenministerium bei der britischen Botschaft, schwedischen Historikern zumindest für die Geschichte des ersten (!) Weltkriegs Zugang zu gewähren. Zeitgleich mit dem Beginn schwedischer Archivstudien in Westberlin kam schließlich eine positive, doch in der Sache abwiegelnde Antwort. Der Archivbestand der deutschen Gesandtschaft ginge nur bis zum Jahr 1936 zurück, in wenigen Fällen bis 1921. Zudem seien große Teile des Archivs bereits nach Deutschland zu den Sammelpunkten der Westalliierten geschickt worden. Etwas besser sah es mit den Sammlungen der deutschen Vizekonsulate in Schweden aus. Vor allem Visby und Hudiksvall reichten zeitlich weiter zurück. Torsten Gihl, der dem Archiv des schwedischen Aussenministeriums vorstand und gerade an einer offiziellen Darstellung der schwedischen Außenpolitik während des ersten Weltkrieges arbeitete, wurde die Erlaubnis erteilt, diese älteren Materialien durchzugehen. Die britische Seite betonte, dass die Alliierten gegenwärtig noch nicht in der Lage seien, interessierten Schweden Zugang zu neueren Teilen des 7
8
Zum Schicksal der Akten des Auswärtigen Amts vgl. Martin Kröger / Roland Thimme, Das Politische Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts im Zweiten Weltkrieg. Sicherung, Flucht, Verlust, Rückführung, in: Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte (VJZ) 47 (1999), S. 243–264; Roland Thimme, Das Politische Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts. Rückgabeverhandlungen und Aktenedition 1945–1995, in: VJZ 49 (2001), S. 318–362; George O. Kent, The German Foreign Ministry Archives, in: Wolfe (Hg.), Captures German and Related Records, S. 119-130. Immer noch auch Josef Henke, Das Schicksal deutscher zeitgeschichtlicher Quellen in Kriegs- und Nachkriegszeit. Beschlagnahme – Rückführung – Verbleib, in: VJZ 30 (1982), S. 557–620. Siehe Åke Kromnow, De svenska arkivforskningarna i Berlin 1948, in: Meddelanden från svenska riksarkivet för åren 1951–1952, Stockholm, 1954.
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Archivs, d.h. für die Zeit, die vor allem die schwedische Polizei mit Blick auf das Wirken schwedischer Nazis in Schweden interessierte, zu gewähren. Die Genehmigung für Gihl gelte ausschließlich für die Jahre des ersten Weltkriegs. Daraufhin ließ die schwedische Seite wissen, dass die Konsulatsarchive kaum von Interesse sein und Gihl daher auf einen Archivbesuch verzichte.9 In Berlin konnte die schwedische Archivdelegation unter Kromnow auch das dort vorhandene Material aus der Stockholmer Vertretung studieren. Doch war diese Genehmigung für Forscher aus dem neutralen Schweden unter den Archivtreuhändern nicht unumstritten, wie auch die Verweigerung des Zugangs zum in Stockholm verwahrten Archiv zeigte. Da die deutschen Archive gemeinsam von Briten und Amerikanern verwaltet wurden, mussten beide Seiten zum Zugang ihr Einverständnis geben. Während die Briten eine solche Entscheidung vor Ort fällen durften, mussten die Amerikaner das Einverständnis aus Washington einholen. Die britische Botschaft empfahl deshalb, einen offiziellen Antrag auf Zugang zum deutschen Material in Stockholm zu stellen. Wenn die Zeit reif wäre, würden die Alliierten dem schwedischen Außenministerium (Utrikesdepartementet, UD) einen Aktenplan schicken. Die Durchsicht könnte dann vor Ort durch schwedische Repräsentanten geschehen und interessantes Material unter alliierter Aufsicht verfilmt werden.10 Daraufhin, spätestens jedoch 1952, erhielt das schwedische Außenministerium die britische Archivaufstellung über das im ehemaligen Gesandtschaftsgebäude vorhandene Material, darunter auch die Aufstellung des mit 18 Bündeln relativ umfangreichen Archivs des Konsulats in Visby aus den Jahren 1919 bis 1945.11 Mit der Revision des Besatzungsstatuts im März 1951 hatte die Bundesrepublik das Recht zum Aufbau eines eigenen Außenministeriums und zur Aufnahme diplomatischer Beziehungen erhalten. In Stockholm wurde ein Generalskonsulat eröffnet, dass im Juni in eine Gesandtschaft umgewandelt wurde.12 Seit Mai 1951 drängte die junge Bundesrepublik auf Rückgabe der Akten des Auswärtigen Amtes. Doch noch gab es Widerstände bei den Westalliierten. In Stockholm ging man jedoch bereits im November 1951 davon aus, dass die deutschen Archive in absehbarer Zeit nach Bonn abgeben würden. Damit, so die Annahme von Uno Willers, Archivchef im UD von 1950 bis 1952, wären sie der Forschung auf Sicht versperrt. Deshalb drängte er auf eine rasche Fortsetzung der Arbeiten mit 9
10 11
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PM (Bagge, 24/3 1948), Åke Kromnows papper, Auswärtiges Amt II und Forskardelegation till Berlin 1948, Reichsarchiv Stockholm (RA). Das ungeordnete Archiv Åke Kromnows hat mir dankenswerter Weise Ingrid Eriksson Karth vom Reichsarchiv zugänglich gemacht. PM angående f.d. tyska Stockholmsbeskickningens arkiv (R. Bagge), 5/10 1948, ebenda.
General files, belonging to the German Legation, placed in the Commercial room, Hovslagargatan 2, 2nd floor. S. 46: German Consulate at Visby, ebenda. Siehe Anlage. Zur Überlieferungsgeschichte des Gesandtschaftsarchivs, darunter auch zur systematischen Vernichtung der 1942 eingerichteten Geheimregistratur der Politischen Abteilung, siehe Daniel B. Roth, Hitlers Brückenkopf in Schweden. Die deutsche Gesandtschaft in Stockholm 1933–1945, Berlin 2009, S. 24 ff.
Den Status einer Botschaft erhielt die Gesandtschaft am 13.4.1956.
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den deutschen Archiven.13 Dies galt auch für das Stockholmer Material. Diesmal waren die Bemühungen erfolgreich. Anfang 1952 konnte eine Forschergruppe, wiederum unter Åke Kromnow, das deutsche Material in Stockholm durchsehen und teilweise kopieren lassen. Doch im auf den 27. April 1959 datierten Verzeichnis der Kopien, die in das Archiv des UD eingegliedert wurden, fehlt das deutsche Konsulat in Visby. Im Auswärtigen Amt in Bonn war man ebenso optimistisch, was die Aktenrückgabe betraf. In einem Schreiben an alle deutschen Vertretungen im Ausland vom 21. Januar 1952 wurde die Erwartung baldiger Rückgabe der beschlagnahmten Akten ausgedrückt. Aus diesem Anlass wurde darauf hingewiesen, „dass Aktenvernichtungen und Aktenabgaben nur im Benehmen mit dem Politischen Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes vorgenommen werden“ könnten und „vor jeder Aktenvernichtung ein entsprechender Antrag zu stellen“ sei.14 Die Stockholmer Gesandtschaft beklagte sich Anfang Februar 1952 in Bonn, dass die beschlagnahmten Akten der früheren Deutschen Gesandtschaft in Stockholm noch immer nicht zurückerstattet würden. Eine Recherche vor Ort habe ergeben, dass offenbar das gesamte geheime politische Aktenmaterial der ehemaligen Gesandtschaft und der weitaus größere Teil der politischen Akten Mitte April 1945 verbrannt worden war. Die übrigen Akten seien in den Gewahrsam der Feindmächte übergegangen und wohl nach Berlin geschafft und dort mit dem von den Westalliierten erbeuteten AA-Material zusammen ausgewertet worden. Ein Teil des Stockholmer Materials wurde in London vermutet; Reste befänden sich unter Verwaltung der britischen Botschaft im ehemaligen Gesandtschaftsgebäude in Stockholm, wo auch Reste der Bibliothek lagerten. „Gesprächsweise“ habe man im schwedischen Außenministerium erfahren, dass das UD deutsche Akten photokopieren durfte, also gegenwärtig im Besitz von ca. 80 Prozent der vorhandenen Stockholm betreffenden Akten sei. Dieses Material könne von interessierten Stellen mit Genehmigung des schwedischen UD eingesehen werden.15 Erst mit der Veröffentlichung des in Schweden seit Jahren zurückgehaltenen Berichts von Åke Kromnow über die 1948er Studien im Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts in Berlin, veröffentlicht 1954 als Mitteilungen aus dem schwedischen Reichsarchiv, erfuhr man näheres über das Schicksal des AA-Archivs und der Schweden betreffenden Akten. Eine deutsche Übersetzung des Artikels, dem man in der deutschen Gesandtschaft in Stockholm unmittelbar eine „grundsätzliche Bedeutung“ beimaß, ging im April d. J. nach Bonn.16 Das AA wies im Juli 1954 sämtliche diplomatische und berufskonsularische Auslandsvertretungen an, um Rückgabe der Akten der ehemaligen deutschen Auslandsvertretungen vor Ort nachzusuchen. Erst bei Problemen wollte das AA 13 14 15 16
PM Auswärtiges Amt-arkivet (Willers an Kabinettsekretär, 6.11.1951), Åke Kromnows papper, Bd. Auswärtiges Amt II, RA. Schreiben AA an sämtliche Vertretungen, 21.1.52 (Erlass), in: Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes, Berlin (Pol.Arch.AA), B 118 Bd 40: Stockholm Aktenrückgabe. Gesandtschaft Stockholm an AA, Bonn, 9.2.1952, ebenda. Gesandtschaft Stockholm an AA, Bonn, 21.4.1954, ebenda.
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in Erscheinung treten. Nochmals wurde betont, dass eine Aktenvernichtung nur im Benehmen mit dem Politischen Archiv und nach detailliertem Antrag erfolgen könne.17 In Stockholm führten die Rücksprachen mit dem UD zu keiner restlosen Klärung. Festgestellt werden konnte nur, „dass die wichtigsten Akten seinerzeit von den Alliierten übernommen und nach England verbracht worden“ sein.18 Aus der alliierten Aktenpublikation zur deutschen Außenpolitik konnte man im Bonner Auswärtigen Amt weitere Informationen zum Schicksal des AABestandes entnehmen. So war hier zu lesen, dass die Akten 1948 nach England verbracht worden waren, wo sie verbleiben sollten, „bis in Deutschland gefestigtere Zustände“ herrschten. Auch die Bedeutung der deutschen Archive in Schweden wurde deutlich. Im abgedruckten Verzeichnis war die Mission Stockholm mit 368 Aktenbündeln für die Jahre bis 1941, dem Abgabejahr an das AA, aufgeführt. Daraus war zu schließen, dass sich in Stockholm bei Kriegsende die zwischen 1941 und 1945 entstandenen Akten sowie einige ältere Verwaltungsakten befanden. Da das deutsche Gesandtschaftsarchiv nach Kromnow weiter unter britischer Verwaltung stand, sollte die deutsche Vertretung, so die AA-Anweisung vom 23. Februar 1955, mit den Briten verhandeln und sich dabei auch nach dem Verbleib der Konsulatsarchive Malmö und Göteborg, also der größten deutschen Konsulate in Schweden, erkundigen. Von Visby war dabei keine Rede. Ausdrücklich ließ man die Gesandtschaft in Stockholm wissen: „Das Schicksal der Archive der früheren deutschen Vertretungen in Schweden ist von besonderem Interesse, da es den Bezugsberichten zufolge ganz abweichend von dem sonst üblichen Hergang gewesen zu sein scheint.“19 Noch im Juni 1954 demonstrierten die drei Westalliierten in der Archivfrage Einigkeit. Sie wollten Treuhänder bleiben, bis eine sichere Lage in Deutschland herrschte. Aus den klassifizierten Akten durfte nicht veröffentlicht werden, ohne die anderen Unterzeichner zuvor zu konsultieren. Für den Zeitraum vor 1918 waren die Unterlagen allerdings bereits 1952 freigegeben worden. Erst mit dem Beitritt der Bundesrepublik in die NATO konnte die Aktenfrage gelöst werden. Offiziell kam die Bundesregierung im Frühjahr 1956 mit Großbritannien über die Rückführung der Akten des AA überein. Dabei wurde von der Bundesregierung versichert, „dass sie die zurückgegebenen Akten in archivarisch ordnungsgemäßer Weise aufbewahren und in- und ausländischen Gelehrten jederzeit Einsicht in die Akten gewähren“ werde.20 17 18 19
20
AA an sämtliche diplomatische und berufskonsularische Auslandsvertretungen, 21.7.54. Betr: Behandlung der Archive und Akten der ehemaligen deutschen Auslandsvertretungen, ebenda. Gesandtschaft Stockholm an AA, Bonn, 25.1.55. Betr. Akten der früheren Gesandtschaft in Stockholm, ebenda. AA and Gesandtschaft Stockholm, 23.2.55.Betr. Akten der früheren Gesandtschaft und der Konsulate, ebenda. Akten zur deutschen auswärtigen Politik 1918–1945. Serie D: 1937–1941, Bd I. Von Neurath zu Ribbentrop (September 1937–September 1938), Baden-Baden 1950. Exchange of Letters, Hallstein (14.3.1956). Vgl. auch Astrid M. Eckert, Kampf um die Akten. Die Westalliierten und die Rückgabe von deutschem Archivgut nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg, Stuttgart 2004.
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Die britische Botschaft in Stockholm hatte sich bereits im April 1955 nach von ihr erwirkter Ermächtigung der englischen, amerikanischen und französischen Regierung zur Rückgabe einiger, noch von ihr verwahrter deutscher Archivbestände bereit erklärt. Die Rückgabe sollte umgehend erfolgen und am besten alles direkt nach Bonn überführt werden. Dem stimmte das AA sofort zu. Am 16. Juni 1955 ging ein plombierter Eisenbahnwaggon von Stockholm nach Bonn ab.21 Dort wurden die Akten im August/September d. J. aufgelistet. Die Aktenrückgabe aus England, darunter Teile des Gesandtschaftsarchivs Stockholm, wurde bis 1961 abgeschlossen. Der Bestand Deutsche Gesandtschaft in Stockholm hat im Politischen Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes in Berlin heute einen Umfang von 74,6 lfm und umfasst den Zeitraum 1863–1945. Die Konsulate haben eigene Archive. Hier finden sich unter dem Titel Konsulat Visby ältere Sammlungen für den Zeitraum 1868–1879 sowie Schiffslisten aus dem Zeitraum 1887–1906.22 Über die Aktivitäten während des zweiten Weltkrieges gibt der Band „Schriftwechsel des Konsulats (1 Bündel) 1933–45“ Auskunft.23 In einer ursprünglichen Liste Verzeichnis der Akten des früheren Deutschen Wahlkonsulats in Visby, Zeitraum 1933–45, aufgestellt im Juli 1961, war dieser Band im „Bestand Visby 2“ verzeichnet. Aus der Zeit der Verzeichnung ist zu vermuten, dass es sich um aus England zurückgeführte Akten handelt. Laut Liste umfasste der Bestand zu diesem Zeitpunkt drei Aktenbündel mit konsularischem Schriftwechsel und Schifffahrtsangelegenheiten. Zwei Aktenbände davon wurden kassiert, darunter Allgemeiner Schriftwechsel 1933–1938, Erlasse des Auswärtigen Amtes 1933–1938, Schriftwechsel mit der Gesandtschaft Stockholm 1933–1935, Allgemeiner Schriftwechsel des Konsulats 1940-1945 sowie Schifffahrtsangelegenheiten 1944–1945. Heute besteht die Aktenüberlieferung nur noch aus einem Band mit konsularischem Schriftwechsel aus den Jahren 1940 bis 1945. Zum Verbleib der 18 von britischer Seite 1948 verzeichneten Bündel konnte bisher nichts in Erfahrung gebracht werden. Für das Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts ist das Verschwinden der schriftlichen Überlieferung eines deutschen Wahlkonsulats offenbar „kein ungewöhnlicher Befund“. Von dort wurde erklärt, dass die Unterlagen der ehemaligen Wahlkonsulate für die Geschichte des Auswärtigen Amts „von sehr nachrangiger Bedeutung“ seien. Im Politischen Archiv stehe die Überlieferung der Zentrale im Vordergrund, denn hier bildeten sich “erfahrungsgemäß alle relevanten politischen Gegenstände ab“ und die „Konzentration auf das dauerwertige gegenüber weniger wichtigem Schriftgut“ gehöre zur Realität archivischer Arbeit. Deshalb werde das Politische Archiv nicht aktiv in britischen Archiven nach möglicherweise noch vorhandenen Unterlagen des ehemaligen Wahlkonsulats in Visby suchen.24 21 22 23 24
Fernschreiben Gesandtschaft an AA, 18.4.55; Gesandtschaft an AA Betr: Frage der Verminderung der deutschen Wahlkonsulate in Schweden, 16.6.55, Pol.Arch.AA, Berlin, B 118, Bd 40: Stockholm Aktenrückgabe. Alter Bestand: Abt. I C Konsulate, Schweden 24, Wisby Bd 1 (1868–1879) Signatur 52251; Jahresberichte der deutschen Konsulate, Wisby, Bd 1 (1887–1904) Signatur 53632; Bd. 2 (1904– 1906) Signatur 53633. Gesandtschaft Stockholm. Aktenübersicht, Liste vom August 1955, Pol.Arch.AA, B 118, Bd 498. Auskunft von Dr. Martin Kroeger, Politisches Archiv des AA, 3.7. und 20.11.2008.
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Erfolglos blieb auch eine Anfrage in London. In den National Archives, so war zu erfahren, existiere kein Bestand Deutsches Konsulat in Visby, noch fänden sich Papiere oder eine Korrespondenz dazu. Nur Mikrofilme bzw. Photokopien des Auswärtigen Amtes seien vorhanden. Jedoch ist man sich auch in London der Probleme der Überlieferung bzw. auch der unterschiedlichen Systeme der Verzeichnung der Akten bewusst.25 Erfahrungsgemäß ist eine Vernichtung der 18 Bündel wenig wahrscheinlich. Eine derart umfassende Kassation von deutscher Seite ist angesichts der Vorgaben des Politischen Archivs Anfang der 50er Jahre auszuschließen. Mit Blick auf den Inhalt des Bestandes, wie er im britischen Verzeichnis von 1948 beschrieben ist (siehe Anlage), darf man über mögliche Ursachen des Verschwindens bzw. Nichtauffindens spekulieren. Neben der umfangreichen Korrespondenz des Konsulats handelte es sich um eine bemerkenswerte Dokumentation des Schiffverkehrs im Ostseegebiet während des Krieges. Darunter finden sich Rapporte zu Schiffen, wie Pärnumaa und Jaen Tear, für die ein begründetes sowjetisches Interesse bestand, sowie Listen von Bürgern aus dem Baltikum, Weißrussland und der Ukraine, die in deutschen Diensten gestanden hatten. Die Bedeutung des Materials scheint daher weniger von regionalem als von außenpolitischem Interesse. Mit Blick auf die 1948 beginnende britische (und amerikanische) Rekrutierung bewaffneter Gruppen aus ehemaligen Wehrmachtsangehörigen bzw. Kollaborateuren für einen Einsatz in den von der Sowjetunion besetzten baltischen Staaten, geraten die Namenslisten im Bestand Konsulat Visby in ein ganz anderes Licht.26 Aufgrund der vermuteten Brisanz der Akten scheint das Verschwinden des umfangreichen Bestandes kaum durch Nachlässigkeit bei seiner Verzeichnung eine Erklärung zu finden. Eher dürfte es sich um eine bewusste Unterschlagung der Akten handeln, wobei ein nachrichtendienstliches Interesse von britischer Seite zumindest vermutet werden darf.
II. Aus den deutschen diplomatischen Akten mit dem Betreff Visby Mit dem Betreff „Visby“ sind Gesandtschaftsakten aus dem Zeitraum 1901–1941 im Politischen Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts in Berlin verzeichnet im Band „Akten der Gesandtschaft, Stockholm 428, Visby, Västerås, Ystad“.27 Die große Mehrzahl des Schriftverkehrs der Gesandtschaft mit dem Konsulat bezieht sich auf die Vertretung Konsul Ekmans im Falle seines Urlaubs oder anderer Gründe. Anfang der 20er Jahre nahm sein Bürovorsteher Ivar Ahlqvist, später Ekmans Sohn die Vertretung wahr. Einen weiteren Teil des Bandes machen deutsche Ehrungen und Auszeichnungen zu Ekmans Dienstjubiläen und runden Geburtstagen aus. So wurde ihm aus Anlass seines 70. Geburtstages der Verdienstorden vom Deutschen Adler I. Stufe verliehen. Wenig später folgte für 40jährige 25 26 27
Auskunft von Dr. Edward Hampshire, Principal Records Specialist (Diplomatic and Colonial Records), The National Archives, 30.1.2010; Auskunft Professor Patrick Salmon, Chief Historian, Foreign and Commonwealth Office, 12.5.2010. Vgl. Tom Bower, The Red Web. MI6 and the KGB Master Coup, London 1989. Pol.Arch.AA, Akten der Gesandtschaft Stockholm 428, Betreff: Visby, Västerås, Ystad 1901–1941.
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treue Dienste das goldene Treuedienst-Ehrenzeichen. Dazu finden sich auch schwedische Zeitungsausschnitte in der Akte. Auszeichnungen an schwedische Bürger durch andere Staaten, wie natürlich auch die Tätigkeit als Konsul, bedurften immer der Genehmigung durch das schwedische Außenministerium bzw. die Regierung, die jeweils zuvor erteilt worden war. Einen interessanten Teil der Akte machen die jährlichen „Berichte des Deutschen Konsulats in Visby“ aus, die für 1928, 1934, 1935, 1937 und 1938 vorhanden sind. Sie geben einen Überblick über den Geschäftsumfang und die Amtstätigkeit des Konsulats. Der Konsul berichtet, dass viele Handelsauskünfte betreffs Käufer und Absatzmöglichkeiten deutscher Erzeugnisse erledigt, wie auch Auskünfte in Schiffs- und andere Angelegenheiten erteilt worden sind. Weiterhin gibt er Auskunft über die wirtschaftliche Lage Gotlands sowie über die Entwicklung der Schifffahrt. So war 1934 die Zahl der Visby anlaufenden deutschen Schiffe auf 30 gestiegen, doch dann kontinuierlich zurückgegangen. Immerhin liefen mehrere deutsche Touristendampfer Visby mehrfach an und im Sommer verkehrte vierzehntägig ein Dampfer zwischen Stettin und Visby. Der Fremdenverkehr hatte sich behauptet, doch der Rückgang deutscher Touristen hielt zum Bedauern Ekmans an. Zu Gotlands Handelsbeziehungen erfahren wir, dass die Einfuhr aus Deutschland hauptsächlich aus Kalisalz, Kurzwaren, Maschinen, Kohle und Koks bestand. Mit der allgemeinen wirtschaftlichen Entwicklung bzw. der Sozial- und Arbeitsmarktpolitik der sozialdemokratischen Regierung Schwedens war der Konsul wenig einverstanden. Zwar war 1934 (Bericht vom 10.4.1935) die Arbeitslosigkeit zurückgegangen, doch trotz der Konjunktur immer noch erheblich. Ekmans Kommentar macht seine konservative Einstellung deutlich: „Durch die veränderte Auffassung, die auf diesem Gebiet in den letzten Jahren durch die staatlichen Maßregeln eingetroffen ist, wird die Arbeitslosigkeit wahrscheinlich zu einer dauernden Institution werden, und die Fürsorge, die früher auf dem Einzelnen geruht hat, wird nunmehr die Steuerzahler belästigen.“ Von der Stockholmer Gesandtschaft führte Gesandtschaftsrat Dr. Erich Meynen im August 1935 einen Kontrollbesuch in Visby durch. Die Gesandtschaft wollte sich ein Bild von der Tätigkeit des Konsulats und den Verhältnissen im Konsulatsbezirk machen. Damals wohnten nur vier deutsche Reichsangehörige auf der Insel bzw. hielten sich drei weitere hier vorübergehend auf. Laut Meynen betrug die Zahl der „Deutschstämmigen (schwedische Staatsangehörige)“ 17 Personen. Eine genaue Liste war der Gesandtschaft einige Monate früher zugegangen. Doch dieser Personenkreis – „Landarbeiter, Gerber und ihre Familien“ – war aus Sicht der Gesandtschaft nicht unbedingt interessant. Außerdem gab es, soweit der Gesandtschaft bekannt war, unter ihnen keine NSDAP-Mitglieder. Meynen zog den Schluss, dass man von einer „eigentlichen deutschen Kolonie“ auf Gotland nicht sprechen könne. Zur Geschäftsbzw. Amtstätigkeit des Konsulats stellte er mit Befriedigung fest, dass die vorgeschriebene Meldung der Kapitäne beim Konsulat regelmäßig erfolgte. Fast jährlich würden Schiffe der deutschen Kriegsmarine den Hafen Visby angelaufen. Diese Besuche verliefen immer ohne Komplikationen und zur größten Zufriedenheit bei Besuchern wie Gastgebern. Lobend hieß es im Bericht,
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die Beziehungen des Konsulats zu den örtlichen Zivil- und Militärbehörden seien die denkbar besten. Probleme sah der Berichterstatter einzig bei der Beflaggung des Konsulats. Deutschland sollte – so ein Erlass des Reichspräsidenten vom 12. März 1933 – durch zwei Nationalflaggen symbolisiert werden, durch die alte kaiserliche Flagge mit den Farben schwarz-weiß-rot und zusätzlich durch die Hakenkreuzflagge. Beide Flaggen waren grundsätzlich zusammen zu hissen. Ekman, der als Konsul den deutschen Kaiser mehrmals auf der Insel zu Gast hatte, zog ganz offenbar die alte kaiserliche Flagge der Hakenkreuzflagge vor. Es sei auch nur ein Fahnenmast vorhanden, schob er vor, ein zweiter aus verschiedenen Gründen nicht möglich. Der Gesandtschaftsrat verwies den alten Konsul darauf, dass nach geltenden Bestimmungen die Hakenkreuzflagge den Vorrang habe. Ekman erwies sich auch in diesem Fall loyal und versprach, künftig so zu verfahren. Doch fügte er hinzu, „bei gewissen feierlichen Gelegenheiten außerdem eine schwarz-weiß-rote Flagge an der Hausfront“ anbringen zu wollen. Insgesamt war der Bericht von Meynen voll des Lobes für den Konsul und dessen Arbeit: „Die Vertretung der deutschen konsularischen Interessen auf Gotland könnte wohl nicht in besseren Händen liegen.“28 Als wenige Wochen später in New York Hafenarbeiter die Hakenkreuzflagge heruntergerissen hatten und unbestraft blieben, weil es sich nicht um eine Nationalflagge gehandelt habe, wurde mit dem Reichsflaggengesetz vom 15. September 1935 eine endgültige Regelung bezüglich der Reichsfarben und der Nationalflagge festgesetzt. Die Hakenkreuzflagge wurde zur Reichs- und Nationalflagge sowie zur Handelsflagge erklärt. Ekman quittierte am 7. Dezember 1935 den Empfang der aktuellen Reichsdienstflagge. Aus den allgemeinen Gesandtschaftsakten erfahren wir weiteres über die Wertschätzung der Arbeit des deutschen Konsuls Carl E. Ekman, auch unabhängig von den parteipolitischen Winden in Berlin. Als man Ende 1938 im Auswärtigen Amt die ”nachdrückliche Forderung“ der NSDAP diskutierte, Wahlkonsuln, die Freimaurer sind, abzuwickeln, wurde unter den erlaubten Ausnahmen beispielhaft „Konsul Ekman, Visby“ genannt. Der deutsche Gesandte in Schweden, Prinz von Wied, setzte sich vehement für dessen Verbleiben im Amt ein. An Hand der in der Gesandtschaft vorliegenden Matrikel der schwedischen Freimaurerlogen waren zehn deutsche Wahlkonsuln schwedischer Staatsangehörigkeit als Mitglieder von Freimaurerlogen festgestellt worden, darunter auch Ekman. Nach von Wieds Einschätzung könnte ein Teil der Wahlkonsulate ohne „Gefährdung der Vertretung deutscher Interessen eingezogen werden“. Doch die Konsulate in Uddevalla, Halmstad, Karlskrona, Linköping und Norrköping seien „teils aus wirtschaftlichen, teils nach Ansicht der Herren Wehrmachtsattachés unentbehrlich“. Auf die Beibehaltung des Konsulats in Visby könne ebenfalls nicht verzichtet werden. Konsul Carl Ekman in Visby nehme „wegen seiner langjährigen Verdienste um die deutschen Belange und seines hervorragenden Ansehens auf Gotland eine Sonderstellung ein, die eine 28
Aufzeichnung über den Besuch des Konsulats Visby vom 17.–19. August 1935, Gesandtschaftsrat Dr. Meynen. ebenda.
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Ausnahme gerechtfertigt und sein Ausscheiden untunlich erscheinen lässt, umso mehr, als er mit seinen 70 Jahren ohnehin nicht mehr allzu lange sein Amt beibehalten wird“. Um dieser Einschätzung Gewicht zu verleihen, listete von Wied die deutschen Orden und Auszeichnungen des langjährigen Konsuls auf.29 Ekman blieb Konsul. Doch als 1943 der Gesandte Hans Thomsen, der Nachfolger des Prinzen von Wied, aus Anlass des 75. Geburtstages von Ekman empfahl, dem alten Konsul nicht nur eine gewöhnlich Ehrung zu erweisen, sondern ihm auch die Amtsbezeichnung „Generalkonsul“ beizulegen, wurde im Auswärtigen Amt davon aus „grundsätzlichen Erwägungen“ Abstand genommen. Doch bot Ekmans Jubiläum der Gesandtschaft die Gelegenheit für eine Sondergenehmigung zum Betreten der sonst für Ausländer gesperrten Insel Gotland. Das Glückwunschschreiben des Reichsaußenministers überreichte der Leiter der Konsulatsabteilung der Gesandtschaft, Gesandtschaftsrat Wilhelm von Grolman, Ekman persönlich. Vielleicht noch interessanter als die Gesandtschaftsakten mit dem Betreff „Visby“ ist der Restbestand „Deutsches Konsulat Visby“, der heute 37 Blatt aus dem Zeitraum von Juni 1940 bis Oktober 1944 umfasst. Das Deckblatt ist handschriftlich bezeichnet „Konsulat Visby. Schriftwechsel mit dem AA und der Gesandtschaft in Stockholm 1940–1945“.30 Trotz des geringen Umfangs erlaubt das Material einen Einblick in die Tätigkeit des Konsulats. Das Verantwortungsgebiet des Konsulats umfasste alle gotländischen Häfen, die Geschäftszeit war von 9–17 Uhr, die Telefonanbindung „Visby 20 oder 207, sonst Visby 423“. Laut Telefonkatalog von 1938 handelte es sich um Ekmans Büro in Visby bzw. bei 423 um den Anschluss seines Bürochefs Ivar Ahlqvist. Die Verbindung mit der deutschen Gesandtschaft in Stockholm hielt das Konsulat telegraphisch über die Visby-Telegrafstation und per Briefpost. Im zweiten Weltkrieg war das Konsulat in Visby als Dienststelle zur „Steuerung der Handelsschifffahrt“ eingesetzt. In allen Ankunftshafen saßen zuständige deutsche Vertreter, bei denen die Kapitäne sich an- bzw. abzumelden hatten, wo sie ihre Papiere erhielten bzw. abliefern mussten. Solche Stellen konnten sein: Küstenüberwachungsstellen, Hafenüberwachungsstellen, Hafenkommandanten, Kriegsmarinedienststellen, Seeschifffahrtsbevollmächtigte, Hafenkapitäne sowie auch Deutsche Konsulate bzw. die Gesandtschaft und Geleitscheinausgabestellen. Das deutsche Konsulat in Visby war neben Norrköping, Söderhamn, Hudiksvall und Nyköping eine solche Stelle. Für diese Tätigkeit bestand eine enge Zusammenarbeit mit dem Marineattaché an der Gesandtschaft in Stockholm. Das Konsulat erhielt zur Kenntnisnahme und Auskunftserteilung an die deutsche und neutrale Schifffahrt vertrauliche Anweisungen des Oberkommandos der Kriegsmarine über die Wegeführung in der Ostsee, in den Ostsee29 30
Deutsche Gesandtschaft in Stockholm. Allgemeine Akten. Pers. G 8. Deutsche Konsulate in Schweden. Generalia 1939 (24). Aufzeichnung (vertraulich, 10.2.1939), von Wied an AA, 5.April 1939, beide auch in: RA, UD:s arkiv, AA-kopior. Pol.Arch.AA, Visby 2.
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Eingängen, im Kattegatt und Skagerrak. Solche Schifffahrtsnachrichten dienten der Sicherheit der Schifffahrt und umfassten Hinweise zu Blockaden sowie Minen- und U-Bootwarnungen. Die Kursanweisungen wurden im Heft „Minenfreie Wege“ stets auf den neuesten Stand gebracht. Die deutschen Kapitäne waren angehalten, im Konsulat die militärischen Ausweispapiere (Schiffsabfertigungsscheine, Geburtsscheine) persönlich abzugeben bzw. erhielten sie hier die aktuelle „Wegbeschreibung“ bzw. „Verhaltensmaßnahmen“ sowie die militärischen Schiffsausweispapiere. Das im Politischen Archiv des AA in Berlin bewahrte Material enthält mehrere vertrauliche Schiffsnachrichten, die auch an andere Hafenkonsulate gingen. So heißt es in einer Meldung vom 20. Juni 1940: „Das Befahren der östlichen Teile des finnischen Meerbusens ohne Lotsen ist gefährlich.“ Daneben erhielt das Konsulat Informationen der Deutschen Gesandtschaft in Stockholm. Sie betrafen z.B. die Behandlung deutscher Schiffe in schwedischen Häfen, darunter den Landgang deutscher Besatzungen und Kapitäne. So hatte aufgrund antideutscher Stimmungen und daraus resultierender deutscher Proteste das schwedische Außenministerium in einer Verbalnote vom 27. 7.1940 die geltenden Bestimmungen noch einmal deutlich gemacht. Dabei wurde die Gleichbehandlung aller ausländischen Seeleute besonders betont. Die Stockholmer Gesandtschaft ermahnte nun ihre Konsulate, darunter Visby, die Angelegenheit weiterhin mit besonderer Aufmerksamkeit zu verfolgen und mögliche Beschwerden möglichst vor Ort zu klären. In Spannungszeiten stiegen die Anforderungen an die Dienststellen zur „Steuerung der Handelsschifffahrt“. In Vorbereitung des deutschen Angriffs auf die Sowjetunion war das Konsulat in Visby mit Schreiben der Gesandtschaft vom 14. Juni 1941 angehalten, „von sofort ab bis auf weiteres von dem Ein- und Auslaufen deutscher Schiffe der Gesandtschaft drahtlich zu berichten“. Den deutschen Handelsschiffen waren neue Kursanweisungen mitzuteilen. Daraufhin setzte Konsul Ekman ein Schreiben an die deutschen Kapitäne mit diesen Anweisungen auf. Am 20. Juni wurde das Konsulat von der Konsulatsabteilung der Gesandtschaft bzw. dem Marineattaché am Abend telegrafisch aufgefordert, „jeden der Kapitäne von deutschen Schiffen, welche im dortigen Konsularbezirk im Hafen liegen, wie folgt sofort zu verständigen: Bestimmungshafen geändert, neue Redereiorder folgt. Keinesfalls augenblicklichen Liegehafen verlassen ehe nicht neue Weisungen dort eingetroffen“. Ekman konnte wenig später Vollzug melden. Dringende Informationen für die deutsche Handelsschifffahrt umfassten zumeist Warnungen, bestimmte Gebiete oder Routen zu meiden, die Pflicht, in Geleiten oder mit Lotsen zu fahren oder die Beschränkung der Beladung größerer Schiffe. Ab 1942 häuften sich in kurzen Abständen Meldungen zur U-Boot-Gefahr. Die Ausgabe von Kursanweisungen hörte im Oktober 1944 auf. Der Marineattaché teilte mit Schreiben vom 13. Oktober 1944 mit:
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Nach Aufhören der Schifffahrt zwischen deutschen Häfen und der schwedischen Ostküste ist eine weitere Übersendung von Material zur ‚Steuerung der Handelsschifffahrt’ nicht mehr erforderlich. Die Unterrichtung wird mit dem heutigen Tage eingestellt. Es wird gebeten, das bei der dortigen Ausgabestelle befindliche Material zur ‚Steuerung der Handelsschifffahrt’ mit Ausnahme der Quittungsliste an Marineattaché Stockholm zurück zu senden. Gegebenenfalls erforderliche Kursanweisungen werden in Zukunft von Marineattaché Stockholm auf Anforderung zugestellt ... Für die Mühewaltung bei Bearbeitung der mit der Kursausgabe zusammenhängenden Vorgänge wird verbindlichst gedankt. Nur sechs Wochen später sollte die SS Hansa, ein Passagierschiff von Ekmans Reederei, von einem sowjetischen Torpedo versenkt werden. Nur zwei der 86 Menschen an Bord überlebten die Katastrophe. Für Ekman war es eine schwere Zeit, die er wohl auch kaum noch verstand. In den Gesandtschaftsakten findet sich, datiert auf den 28. Mai 1945, sein letztes dienstliches Schreiben. Es ging an Werner Dankwort, seit Kriegsbeginn zweiter Mann an der Gesandtschaft und seit dem 8. Mai Leiter der „Abwicklungsstelle der Deutschen Gesandtschaft Stockholm“. Ekman berichtete, dass er am 8. Mai vom Kanzlisten der Gesandtschaft, Carl Eichler, nun ebenfalls Mitarbeiter der Abwicklungsstelle, „von der neuen Lage“, erfahren hatte. Daraufhin habe er das Konsulatsschild abgenommen und das Konsulat geschlossen. Erst am 10. Mai sei ihm dies durch das schwedische Außenministerium aufgetragen worden. Zuvor habe er den „Herrn Militärbefehlshaber“ benachrichtigt, und erklärt, ihm leider nicht wie bisher in deutschen Militärsachen behilflich sein zu können. Etwas wehmütig und gegen die Entwicklung rebellierend stellte Ekman gegenüber Dankwort klar, dass er die Exequatur, also die Erlaubnis zur Ausübung der konsularischen Funktionen innerhalb seines Konsularbezirks, durch die schwedische Regierung 1901 erhalten hätte. Bis zu ihrer Rücknahme betrachte er sich deshalb weiter als Konsul und nicht als Konsul a. D. Die im Politischen Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts in Berlin verwahrten Akten zur Arbeit Carl E. Ekmans als deutscher Konsul zeigen, dass er immer loyal zu dem Land gestanden, das er zu vertreten hatte. Genau so sahen es auch seine Zeitgenossen. Niemand, auch nicht die Gesandtschaft, deren Vertreter nach 1945 fast alle im Auswärtigen Dienst der Bundesrepublik Deutschland ihre Karriere fortsetzten, haben ihn als Nazi betrachtet. Man darf den Artikel der Zeitung Stockholms Tidningen aus Anlass von Ekmans 75. Geburtstag wohl als die damals gängige Auffassung zu Ekman und seiner Tätigkeit begreifen: „Visby ist die Stadt der Konsuln, und Carl E. Ekman ist der Konsul der Konsuln. Das deutsche Konsulatsschild hängt wie ein Wappenschild über seinem Tor und hat dort gehangen während des Kaiserreichs, der Republik und der Diktatur. Wilhelm II. war mehrere Male sein Gast, Stresemann ehrte ihn, und er selbst
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zeigt gegenüber dem Land, das er konsularisch vertritt, eine unerschütterliche Loyalität während aller seiner wechselnden Geschicke. Aber zuerst und zuletzt vertritt er doch als Persönlichkeit und mit seinem Temperament seine Stadt, seine Insel und sein Land mit all dem, was ihm an Weitblick, Handlungskraft, praktischer Tüchtigkeit und Geistigkeit eigen ist.“31
31
Stockholms Tidningen 12.9.1943 (Übersetzung der Gesandtschaft).
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Anlage German Consulate at Visby. 18 bundle 1
Incoming letters 1919–1920
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= 1920–1922
3
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= 1922–1925
4
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= 1925–1927
5
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= 1927–1932
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= 1933–1935
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outgoing = 1917–1925
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Miscellaneous papers: 12 Journal on German ships passing Visby 1934–1945 13 Consulate Matrikel, containing about 20 names of German citizens up to 1941 14 Sea Protests and other maritime matters 15 Regulations and forms 16 Ship reports 1937–1943 17 M/S Jaen Tear S Dzintarkrasts S Pärnumaa D Vega & Vertu Contaning interalia names of the crew etcetera i.e. Estonians, Ruthenians etc. who served in the German army or the Organization Todt. 18 Bundle containing miscellaneous letters and regulations 1935–1938 Quelle: General files, belonging to the German Legation, placed in the Commercial room, Hovslagargatan 2, 2nd floor, S. 46 (RA, Stockholm, Åke Kromnows papper: Auswärtiges Amt II).
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Nils Blomkvist’s scholarly production 1. 2.
3.
4. 5. 6. 7.
8.
9. 10. 11.
12. 13. 14. 15.
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17.
Fem uppländska silverskatter. TOR, Uppsala 1971. (Co-author) Eketorp under övergångsperioden vikingatid medeltid, in: Undersökningen av Eketorps borg på södra Öland. Fornvännen 1971:3. Dokumentromanen om Karljohansväldet (Om Karl Johan och svenskarne, av M.J. Crusenstolpe). Författarförlagets tidskrift 1971:5. Historia kring Eketorp, in: Kulturhistorisk forskning på Öland 1969. Ölandsmötet 1970. RAÄ:s rapport 1972 A2. Stockholm. ”Thenne lille, dock mycket nyttige handelsstadh”. En öländsk allmogehamn och dess villkor. TOR 1972–1973. Handelsplätze und Silberschatzfunde auf Öland in der Zeit von 800 bis 1200. Zeitschrift für Archäologie des Mittelalters 1974:2. ”Ty utan allmogen får någon aga...” Karlskrönikans grundvärderingar. Meddelanden från arkivet för folkets historia 1974:3. Medieval Eketorp and Contemporary Turn-over Places on Öland. (Manuscript finished 1974, printed 1979 in the series: Eketorp. Fortification and Settlement on Öland, Sweden.) Stockholm 1979. De äldsta urkunderna om Kalmar. Historisk Tidskrift 1978:2. Kalmars uppkomst och äldsta utveckling. Tiden till 1300-talets mitt. Diss. Uppsala 1978. Kalmars uppkomst och äldsta tid. Reprint of diss. with illustrations, in: Kalmar stads historia 1. Chief editor: I. Hammarström. Kalmar 1979. Diarieföring vid Sveriges lantbruksuniversitet. Uppsala 1981. C.G.Nordins sterbhusförvaltning (HLA). RA-nytt 4/81. Revy över stads- och kommunhistoria 1971–1975 (editor and coauthor). Stockholm 1981. Medeltidens stadsväsende. (Kunskapsöversikt.) Vägledning för upprättande av regionala kulturminnesvårdsprogram. Bilaga 4:1. Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm u.å. (1981). Stadsväsendet vid tidsskiftet 1450/1550. Preindustriella urbaniseringar 1450/1550–1820/1860. (Kunskapsöversikt.) Vägledning för upprättande av regionala kulturminnesvårdsprogram. Bilaga 4:2. Riksantikvarieämbetet, Stockholm u.å. (1981). Enskilda arkiv i landsarkivet i Härnösand rörande Norra Ångermanland. Arkiv i Norrland 3, Härnösand 1982.
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18. Samhällsekonomi och medeltida stadstillväxt. Till frågan om generella förklaringar. Bebyggelsehistorisk tidskrift 3, 1982. 19. De nordiska rikena halkar efter. Tysk organisation tar över. Historiska nyheter 20. Statens historiska museum 1982. 20. Der marktökonomische Durchbruch und der frühe Urbanisierungsprozess. Das Kalmarsundgebiet als peripheres Beispiel. Lübecker Schriften zur Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte 7, 1983. 21. ”Och alla sina byar kalla de för städer”. Arkiv i Norrland 4, Härnösand 1983.(Editor of the volume as well.) 22. Myndighetsområden inom Härnösands landsarkivdistrikt. Arkiv i Norrland 5, Härnösand 1984. (Editor of the volume as well.) 23. Av makt och marknadskrafter? Reflexioner kring det svårfångade stadsbegreppet, in: Städer i utveckling. Tolv studier kring stadsförändringar tillägnade Ingrid Hammarström. Ed. T. Hall. Stockholm 1984. 24. Ett femhundraårigt källflöde. Arkivalier till Medelpads historia i landsarkivet. Arkiv i Norrland 6, Härnösand 1985. (Editor of the volume as well.) 25. Stadsgrundning (The emergence of the city of Härnösand). OKNYTT 1985. 26. Världshandelsepoken vid Kalmarsund. Hikuin 12, 1986. 27. Mäster Adams vision och verkligheten. The Symposium ”Städers uppkomst och liv” (The emergence and life of towns).Arkiv i Norrland 7, Härnösand 1986. 28. Bondelunk och utmarksdynamik. Samhällsutveckling i Medelpad och Ångermanland före 1600. Ångermanland–Medelpad 1986. 29. ”Hwarföre, mine Herrar, han I slagit Ehr til Krigswäsendet?” En personlig historia. Sveriges släktforskarförbund. Årsbok 1988. 30. Kulturmiljökampen behöver lokalhistorisk forskning, in: Vägen till Soltvet och den lokalhistoriska forskningen. Ed. G. Lindberg.Bygd och natur. Årsbok 1989. 31. Miljön med stort K. Kulturmiljövård 1989:1. 32. När Europa kom till Sverige, in: ”Sicken turk”. Om invandrarnas svenska historia. Ed. G. Lindberg. Bygd och natur. Årsbok 1990. 33. Är detta kulturarvet? (with Jan Erik Tomtlund). Kulturmiljövård 1990:3. 34. Människans mönster i naturen – några systemteoretiska prov på Ölands medeltid, in: Mänsklighet genom millennier. En vänbok till Åke Hyenstrand. Stockholm 1989. 35. Kulturmiljö – Historien i landskapet, Stockholm 1990. (Chief editor). 36. Inledning, in: Kulturmiljö – Historien i landskapet, Stockholm 1990.
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37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44.
45. 46.
47.
48.
49.
50. 51.
Att läsa historien i landskapet. Sverige 2000, in: Kulturmiljö – Historien i landskapet, Stockholm 1990. Kulturmiljöns dialekter, in: Kulturmiljö – Historien i landskapet, Stockholm 1990. Europas port till Sverige. Populär Historia 2:92. Review of Göran Dahlbäck: I medeltidens Stockholm. Sthlm 1988. Fornvännen1991:4. Torsåkershypoteserna, in: Medeltid i Ådalen. Ed. L. Grundberg. Styresholmsprojektet 1986–1992, Härnösand 1992. Långhundradalen, in: Långhundraleden – en seglats i tid och rum. Ed: G. Olsson. Uppsala 1993. Var medeltidsstäderna planerade? En synpunkt på våra äldsta städer. Kulturmiljövård 1993:2–3. Stadshistoria och mångvetenskap under tidig medeltid, in: Svea Ordens jubiléumsskrift 1993, utg. med anledning av Ordens 200-åriga verksamhet. Stockholm i oktober 1993. Läsa landskap. Project-leader, chief editor and co-author. Utbildningsradion, Stockholm 1993. Riksintressen – att göra historien synlig, in: Sveriges Nationalatlas, Kulturminnen och kulturmiljövård. One of the Special Editors. Stockholm 1994. Historic Areas of National Interest, in: National Atlas of Sweden, Cultural Heritage and Preservation. One of the Special Editors. Stockholm 1994. Vad berättar en by? Om äldre kulturmiljösystem i odlingslandskapet. Studier till kulturmiljöprogram för Sverige. En introduktion. Project-leader, co-editor with Bengt O.H. Johansson. Riksantikvarieämbetet 1994. Yttervärlden, bygden och mötesplatsen. En kommentar till Styresholmssymposiet 1992, in: En norrlandsbygd möter yttervärlden. Eds: Grundberg, L.& P. Nykvist. Styresholmsprojektets medeltidssymposium på Hola folkhögskola 26–28 juni 1992. Styresholmsprojektets skrifter 3, Härnösand 1994. En uppländsk historia (with Carin Blomkvist), in: Uppland. Ed. B. Tynderfeldt. Utbildningsförlaget Brevskolan, Stockholm 1995. Kulturkonfrontation oder Kompromiss? Der frühe Urbanisierungsprozess und die Ankunft der Hanseaten in Gotland und am Kalmarsund, in: Die Stadt im westlichen Ostseeraum: Vorträge zur Stadtgründung und Stadterweiterung im hohen Mittelalter. Hrsg. Hoffmann, E. & F. Lubowitz. Frankfurt am Main 1995. (Kieler Werkstücke: Beiträgezur schleswig-holsteinischen und skandinavischen Geschichte, Bd.14, 1995).
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52. Landskapet som skola, in: Tema: Kulturmiljövård i skolan. Ed. C. Bergström. Kulturmiljövård 3:1995. 53. När blev Sundsvall stad? Om stadsbildningens förutsättningar, föregångare och slutliga förverkligande, in: Sundsvalls historia I. Kring Sundsvalls tillkomst och tidiga utveckling. Ed. L-G. Tedebrand. Sundsvall 1996. 54. När Europas största rike bildades i Kalmar. Om den stora nordiska unionen för 600 år sen. Nordiska Rådet, København 1996. 55. When the Biggest Kingdom in Europe was Formed in Kalmar. The Great Nordic Union of Six Hundred Years Ago. Copenhagen 1996. 56. Als das grösste Reich Europas in Kalmar gegründet wurde. Über die grosse Nordische Union vor 600 Jahren. Kopenhagen 1996. 57. Kalmar 1397 – staden och tiden som den gav namn åt, in: Margrete I. Nordens frue og husbond. Kalmarunionen 600 år. Essays og Udstillingskatalog. Ed. P. Grinder–Hansen. København 1996. 58. Yet Another Viking Archaetype – the Mediaeval Urbanist, in: The Emergence of Towns. Archaeology and Early Urbanisation in NonRoman – North-West – Europe. Eds: Nilsson, L. & S. Lilja. Studier i stads- och kommunhistoria 14. Stockholm 1996. 59. Kalmar mellan Verdun och Maastricht. Frågor inför Kalmarunionens 600-årsminne. Årsboken Kalmar Län 1997. 60. With Berndt Wictorsson: Bildberättelse om Kalmarunionen i 16 avsnitt. Kalmarunionen 600 år. Bilaga till Barometern-OT 11 februari 1997. Nr 34, 1/2. 61. När hanseaterna kom. Gotländskt arkiv 1997. 62. Mellan gotländska sockenstämmoprotokoll och världshändelser. Review of: Festskrift för Sten Körner. Ed. by R. Bohn, H. Rebas & T. Siltberg. Archiv und Geschichte im Ostseeraum. 1997. 63. Culture Clash or Compromise? The medieval Europeanisation process of the Baltic Rim region (1100–1400 AD). Problems for an international study. Acta Visbyensia XI. (Papers of the XI th Visby Symposium held at Gotland Centre for Baltic Studies, Gotland University College, Visby, October 4th–9th, 1996).Visby 1998. (Editor of the volume). 64. Preface, in: Culture Clash or Compromise? 65. The Medieval Europeanisation process of the Baltic Rim region 1100–1400 AD. Problems for an international study, in: Culture Clash or Compromise? 66. Europeans or Not? Local level strategies on the Baltic Rim 11001400 AD. Transactions of the local level-symposium of the CCC project, Kalmar May 7–10 1998). Co-editor of the volume, withS-O Lindquist. CCC papers 1. Visby & Kalmar 1999.
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67 68 69.
70.
71.
72.
73.
74.
Common People in Common Places, 1. An introduction to the topic, in: Europeans or Not? Common People in Common Places, 2. A plead for comparative micro studies, in: Europeans or Not? Moras medeltidsarv. Samhällsbygge – från stamrevir till storsocken, in: Mora 3. Ur Mora, Sollerö, Venjans och Våmhus socknars historia. Eds: Täpp John-Erik Pettersson & O. Karlsson. Mora 1999. Fale unge och spåren av en 1300-talselit i mellannorrland, in: Kyrkan och Bygden. Utg. med anledning av Sköns kyrkas 150-årsjubileum 1 oktober 2000. Ed. T. Puktörne. Early Medieval People in the Baltic Sea Region: Conflicts and Compromises. Inaugural speech at the conference: Inventing the Pasts. Universität Leipzig, 2000. The Concept of Town and the Dawn of Urban Life East and West of the Baltic. On the emergence of centres, turn-over places, towns and cities, in: Lübeck Style? Novgorod Style? Baltic Rim Central Places as Arenas for Cultural Encounters and Urbanisation 1100–1400 AD. Transactions of the central level symposium of the Culture Clash or Compromise (CCC) project held in Talsi September 18–21 1998. Ed. M. Auns. CCC papers 5. Gotland University College, Centre for Baltic Studies, Visby. Riga 2001. Ostseemacht und Mittelmeererbe. Geschichtsschreibung und Aufbau einer Nation im mittelalterlichen Schweden, in: Beiträge zur Geschichte des Ostseeraumes. Vorträge der ersten und zweiten Konferenz der Ständigen Konferenz der Historiker des Ostseeraumes (SKHO). Hrsg. H. Wernicke. Katzow 1996/ Greifswald 1998. Hamburg 2002. Art. Der Ostsee, in: Hoops – Reallexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde. 2. Aufl. Bd. 22. Berlin & New York 2002.
75. Where have all the Vikings gone..., in: Viking Heritage Magazine 1/ 2002. 76. Frågorna i landskapet. Sökandet efter problemställningar och mångvetenskaplig metod, in: Stora Ådalen. Kulturmiljön och dess glömda förflutna. Eds: Boström, G., Grundberg, L. & T. Puktörne. Arkiv för norrländsk hembygdsforskning XXVII. Härnösand 2005. 77. Lokal makt och centralmakt. Ett arenaperspektiv på svensk medeltid och tidig vasatid, in: Stora Ådalen. Kulturmiljön och dess glömda förflutna. Eds: Boström, G.; Grundberg, L. & T. Puktörne. Arkiv för norrländsk hembygdsforskning XXVII. Härnösand 2005. 78. The Catholic World System, in: The European Frontier. Clashes and compromises in the Middle Ages. Ed. J. Staecker. CCC papers 7. Lund & Visby 2004.
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79. Is the Europeanisation of the Baltic a Conjoncture or a Phenomenon of the longue durée? Or is there something missing in ”Braudel’s History Rythm Machine”?In: Der Ostseeraum und Kontinentaleuropa (1100–1600). Hrsg. Kattinger, D., Olesen, J.E. & H. Wernicke. CCC papers 8. Schwerin 2004. 80. The Discovery of the Baltic. The Reception of a Catholic Worldsystem in the European North (AD 1075–1225). Monography. Leiden & Boston 2005. 81. East Baltic Vikings – with particular consideration to the Curonians, in: Praeities puslapial: archeologija, kultura, visuomené; skiriama archeologo prof. habil. dr. Vlado Zulkaus 60-ties [Festschrift for Vladas Žulkus]. Ed. Vytautas Kazakevicius. Klaipeda 2005. 82. The Artlenburg Privilege 1161 and the Europeanization of the Baltic Rim, in: Sektion 1.3: Geschichte des Ostseeraumes. Kommunikation und Raum. 45. Deutscher Historikertag in Kiel vom 14. bis 17. September 2004. Berichtsband. Hrsg. Reitemeier, A. & G. Fouquet in Zusammenarbeit mit K. Schaer, U. Gerken, N. Petersen & T. Niemsch. Neumünster 2005. 83. With Matthias Hardt: Germanica Slavica and Baltic Rim, in: Sektion 3.4: Mechanismen der regionalen Transformation. Kommunikation und Raum. 45. Deutscher Historikertag in Kiel vom 14. bis 17. September 2004. Berichtsband. Hrsg. Reitemeier, A. & G. Fouquet in Zusammenarbeit mit K. Schaer, U. Gerken, N. Petersen & T. Niemsch. Neumünster 2005. 84. The Problem of Integration in Medieval Times – Culture Clash or Compromise? In: Free movement of persons. An opportunity and a challenge for EU integration in the Baltic region. The role and responsibility of the Churches. Theobalt conference 19–22 May 2005 in Visby. Report Theobalt VI. Visby 2006. 85. Vardag i världsstaden Visby – människor kring en gatstump på 1240-talet, in: Sällskapet DBW, Minnesblad för året 2005. Visby 2006. 86. The Kingdom of Sweden (with Stefan Brink and Thomas Lindkvist), in: Christianisation and State Formation in Europe. Ed. Nora Berend. Cambridge 2007. 87. The Significant Detail. Europeanization at the Base of Society: the Case of the Baltic Rim 1100–1400. Eds: Blomkvist, N. & T. Lindström. CCC papers 9. Visby 2007. 88. Introduction: Europeanization at the Base of Society, in: The Significant Detail. 89. Primary Units as Arenas for Europeanization, in: The Significant Detail. 90. The Significant Detail. Collating and Evaluating, in: The Significant Detail.
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91. Review of: Iben Fonnesberg–Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades 1147–1254. (The Northern World, number 26.) Boston: Brill, 2007, in: American Historical Review, December 2007. 92. St. Lars in Visby – a monument of the 1229 treaty, in: Rund um die Meere des Nordens. Festschrift für Hain Rebas. Hrsg. Engelbrecht, M., Hanssen–Decker, U. & D. Höffker. Heide 2008. 93. The Baltic – from European Sea of Trouble to Global Interface. Forum on Public Policy: A Journal of the Oxford Round Table. Oxford 2007: 3. History. (http://www.forum on publicpolicy.com/ index.htm) 94. Spåren av en svunnen världskonjunktur, in: Spillingsskatten – Gotland i vikingatidens världshandel. Ed. A-M. Pettersson. Visby 2008. 95. Traces of a Global Economic Boom that Came and Went, in: The Spillings Hoard – Gotland’s Role in Viking Age World Trade. Ed. A-M. Pettersson, Visby 2009. 96. Kung Bugislav på spåren? Gråborg och det gåtfulla Kalmarna leiðangr 1123/24, in: Gråborg på Öland. Om en borg, ett kapell och en by. Ed. G. Tegnér. Stockholm 2008. 97. Något om den internationella diskussionen om Visby, in: Spaden och pennan. Ny humanistisk forskning i andan av Erik B Lundberg och Bengt G Söderberg. Eds: Svensson, T., Hederstierna–Jonson, C., Lindkvist, E. et al. Stockholm 2009. 98. Kulturarvets strukturer och tidsdjup, in: Götalandsbanan, delen Linköping – Borås. Genom Götalands hjärta – underlagsrapport landskap. Underlagsrapport 1:5. Juli 2009. Banverket, Göteborg 2009. 99. Early agents of Europeanization: Nicholas and Fulco on the bumpy road to twelfth-century Estonia, in: Sõnasse püütud in honorem Enn Tarvel. Eds: Raudkivi, P. & M. Seppel. Tallinn 2009. 100. Europäisierung des Ostseeraums: ein klarer Fall von change qualitative, in: Die Vielfalt Europas. Identitäten und Räume. Beiträge einer internationalen Konferenz, Leipzig, 6. bis 9. Juni 2007. Hrsg. Eberhard, W. & C. Lübke. Leipzig 2009. 101. The Europeanisation of the Baltic: a clear case of qualitative change, in: The plurality of Europe: identities and spaces. Contributions to an international conference, Leipzig, 6th–9th June, 2007. Eds: Eberhard, W. & C. Lübke. Leipzig 2010. 102. 12th–14th Century European Expansion and its Reception in the Baltic North. Summing up the CCC Project, in: The Reception of Medieval Europe in the Baltic Sea Region. Papers of the XIIth Visby Symposium held at Gotland University, Visby. Ed. J. Staecker. Acta Visbyensia XII. Gotland University Press. Visby 2009.
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103. Peter of Dacia and the Urban Revolution. Forthcoming in: The image of the Baltic. A thousand year’s perspective. Gotland University, October 16–18, 2008. Ed. M. Scholtz. Visby 2010. 104. Gotland and Visby, in: The Oxford Dictionary of the Middle Ages. Editor in Chief: Robert E. Bjork. Oxford 2010. 105. Folkmängd och gårdar på Gotland. Gutabygd 2010. 106. Die Fünfhundertjährige Fehde. Eine Studie über die lokale Gemeinschaft während der Großmachtzeit Dalarnas. Forthcoming in: Festschrift für Jens Olesen. Greifswald.
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Authors Nils Blomkvist, Professor emeritus, Dr., Department of the Humanities and Social Science, Gotland University (Sweden) Robert Bohn, Professor, Dr., Department of history, University of Flensburg (Germany) Karsten Brüggemann, Professor Dr., Institute of History, Tallinn University (Estonia) Andrzej Buko, Professor, Dr., Institute of Archaeology, Warsaw, University (Poland) Eva Eihmane, Dr. hist. (Latvia) Thomas Wegener Friis, Associate Professor, Department of history, University of Southern Denmark Elita Grosmane, Dr. art., Institute of Art History of the Latvian Academy of Art (Latvia) Marius Hansen, B.Phil., University of Southern Denmark Jesper C. M. Henriksen, B.Phil., University of Southern Denmark Frank Jensen, B.Phil., University of Southern Denmark Carina Johansson, Senior lecturer, Dr., Department of the Humanities and Social Science, Gotland University (Sweden) Valda Kļava, Dr., Assoc. Professor, Dr.hist., University of Latvia. Marat V Klimau, Senior researcher, Belarus Institute of History, Minsk (Belarus) Elena Melnikova, Professor, Dr., Institute of World History, Russian Academy of Sciences (Russia) Jens E Olesen, Professor, Dr., Department of history, University of Greifswald (Germany) Hain Rebas, Professor, Dr. a. D. (Göteborg) Michael F. Scholz, Professor, Dr., Department of the Humanities and Social Science, Gotland University (Sweden) Tryggve Siltberg, State archivist, The regional state archive Visby (Sweden) Rune E. H. Smidt, B.Phil., University of Southern Denmark Jesper Thestrup Henriksen, B.Phil., University of Southern Denmark Erik Tängerstad, Lecturer, Department of the Humanities and Social Science, Gotland University (Sweden) Lars Wängdahl, Senior lecturer, Dr., Department of the Humanities and Social Science, Gotland University (Sweden) 279
