Download PDF | Martin Wihoda - Vladislaus Henry_ The Formation of Moravian Identity-Brill Academic Publishers (2015).
379 Pages
A Remote Mirror We should admit straight away that Vladislaus Henry became famous mainly as a brother of the third king of Bohemia, Přemysl Otakar I, which is after all too little to fill an entire book. But not only that. The modest collection of period accounts has been dominated for centuries by a remark of Abbot of Milevsko (Mühlhausen) Gerlach, who in his annals mentioned for 6 December 1197 that Vladislaus Henry, despite general support, left the ducal throne ‘for the sake of peace and out of brotherly love’ (propter bonum pacis, inde propter affectum germanitatis) to his older brother Přemysl, under the condition that they would rule simultaneously, one in Bohemia and the other in Moravia, and that the two of them would have ‘one will and one principality’ (ille in Morauia, iste in Boemia principarentur et esset ambobus, sicut unus spiritus, ita et unus principatus).1
The record, already legendary now, was made during the life of both Přemyslids involved, and although it evidently captured well the arrangement of hereditary Přemyslid possessions in the early 13th century, more attention has been paid to the document from 26 July 1216, in which Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II took into account that the Czech leaders had chosen Přemysl’s son Wenceslas as the new king.2 And since the gathered people were led by no one less than Vladislaus Henry, the margrave received the reputation of an understanding sibling, who always yielded in everything to the interests of the older Přemysl. This is how Vladislaus Henry was dealt with immediately by two influential historians who essentially influenced the interpretation of earlier Czech history. First, the father of Czech historiography, František Palacký, referred to the margrave with magnificent phrases when he acknowledged not only the ‘beauty of his soul’ and the perfect loyalty to his brother and ‘his lord’ but also Vladislaus’ ‘love for the land’ and common political sense;3 similar ideas were found in the work of Václav Novotný, who reached the conclusion that the margrave willingly yielded to the ‘mental superiority’ of his older brother.4
It is thus no wonder that the already slightly moth-eaten idea of Vladislaus’ understanding relationship to Přemysl has been firmly anchored in more recent literature, in particular on the pages of Žemlička’s work.5 The fact that Vladislaus’ share in the administration of public affairs might have had a different, much more self-confident dimension is implied by the tympanum above the entrance to the basilica of the Mariazell monastery in Styria, whose decoration reveals important chapters in the life of the Benedictine community there. The unknown master who undertook the commission shortly before 1438 selected from the monastery’s past the legend of a margrave of Moravia, troubled by the gout, and his wife, who, having been advised to do so by Saint Wenceslas, sought help from the brethren in the monastery.6 Unfortunately, the complementary inscription does not mention who that wretched ruler was supposed to be, but the late medieval tradition connects the miraculous cure with the construction of the church around 1200, which would mean that the pious donor was precisely Vladislaus Henry.7
The story, unknown from anywhere else, entirely avoided medieval scriptoria. There is hardly anything certain about it—only that it was passed on around Mariazell before the middle of the 15th century8 and that the Benedictines commemorated their generous supporter not only by the portal but also by the statue that was made and placed in front of the façade of the church by Balthasar Moll in 1757.9 At that time, however, the margrave was only a feeble memory from the mythical origins of the famous pilgrimage site, which enjoyed the noble title Magna Mater Austriae. The abyss of time hence buried both the name of the first great supporter and his real relationship to Mariazell. Nevertheless, we should not reproach the local fraternity for negligence. Even if they had attempted to consult chronicles and annals, they would not have found more than variously scattered marginal notes and glosses. It might have been of some assistance if Gerlach’s annals known today had not ended in 119810 and if the chroniclers of the 13th century had expressed a more sincere interest in Vladislaus’ life. Regrettably, this did not happen.
The Second Continuation of Cosmas11 and the simultaneous records by Henry of Heimburg are limited to the almost ‘obligatory’ mention that Margrave Vladislaus Henry died in 1222.12 Likewise the author of the compilation written within the walls of the Chapter at St Wenceslas’ in Olomouc was sparing with praise, although the margrave had given the canons a golden cross inlaid with gems and pearls (crucem auream, lapidibus pretiossimis et gemmis diversis intextam).13 A similar memory was offered to readers by the official catalogue of the bishops of Olomouc14 with the necrology.15 Vladislaus and his demise on 12 August 1222 were commemorated in Bohemian monasteries as well.
The third margrave of Moravia was mentioned in Doksany,16 Podlažice17 and in a Bohemian-Silesian necrology of unclear origin.18 Surprisingly enough, the list does not include the Velehrad abbey, founded by Vladislaus, where also his remains were deposited, but the local scriptorium suffered irretrievable losses during the Hussite Wars in the early 15th century. Vladislaus Henry has further become generally known as a recipient of the mysterious privilege ‘Mocran et Mocran’, which belongs to the collection of the golden bulls sealed by Frederick II in Basel on 26 September 1212.19 And despite no agreement having been reached as to what he actually gained,20 the simple fact that he was among the donees elevated him to the company of the Princes of the Holy Roman Empire. Nevertheless, the main power was in the hands of Přemysl, whereas Vladislaus Henry was slowly retreating from the public life.
It may have been his increasing lack of interest in power events, whose origin might be sought in his poor health, that led to there being only seven identified documents claiming the margrave as their issuer, which surprised both Gustav Friedrich21 and, much later, Prokop Zaoral.22 Some of this lack can be attributed to the proverbial ravages of time, but not even the anticipated losses explain everything. For instance, the Olomouc records along with the Doksany necrology capture donations of unusual, one might add almost fairy-tale, size, and since serious reflections are inspired also by the remarkable mentions in charters, the one talking to us across the gulf of time does not seem to be Přemysl’s brother reconciled with everything but a proud ruler who initiated the establishment of the first towns in the Czech lands, supported the penetration of modern legal norms into the rural milieu, became famous as a pious benefactor and founder and gathered at his court a circle of nobles, which gave rise to the land representation in the next decades.
The story of Margrave Vladislaus Henry reminds us that history takes place not only in time but also in space; that beyond the ‘great history’ of states and nations, it is possible to ruminate about the past within land coordinates, where the model and example may be found in German or Austrian historiography. A ‘promised’ place became a town which had been tested by historical transformations and had learnt from them—Vienna, where from the end of the 19th century works were permeated with land values. What is a land and where to seek the roots of land awareness were the questions asked by Alfons Dopsch, who provided guidance to his younger colleague Otto Brunner, the most distinctive and probably the most controversial personality of the landfocused historiography.23 Otto Brunner obtained the degree of associate professor in Vienna in 1929, although he did not publish his main ideas until ten years later, in a comprehensive treatise on medieval constitutional-legal transformations of the German southeast (Austria),24 to which, even before 1939, he added a short journal extract.25
He knew already then that his ideas would be considered with great seriousness, but he hardly could have imagined that his Land and Lordship (Land und Herrschaft) would be issued repeatedly and would be declared one of the decisive works of German-language medieval studies of the 20th century.26 The usual, here moreover slightly disturbing, question is: why? Brunner’s Land and Lordship was first issued at the end of the 1930s, and all three war editions (1939, 1942, 1943) necessarily differ from the fourth (1959), when ‘Southeastern Germany’ became Austria again. Controversial passages with quotations from unsuitable authorities were shortened, the politically loaded vocabulary was replaced by neutral phrases and the praise of the Germanic (racial) continuity at the end disappeared without replacement. Nevertheless, the first version to be considered as classic was the fifth one from 1965, which is now used as the model for all reprints.
The version that has been revised five times offers an exceptional comparative example, revealing that Otto Brunner was close to Austrofascism and that National Socialism was not alien to him either. After all, he was dismissed from his services to the Austrian Republic for his opinions in 1945 and nine years after the war was appointed to another professorship, as a successor of Hermann Aubin in Hamburg. It hence comes as no surprise that the remarkable influence of Brunner’s legacy on the one hand and the long shadows of the war years on the other brought the German-speaking historical community to the modest conclusion that the ‘temporally and politically determined’ scientific interests may under certain conditions provide new theoretical and methodological views.27 The image of the Middle Ages created by Brunner may be compared to a colourful mosaic of particular systems, whose pace was set by dynastic ties as well as the ownership structure of the ruler’s, aristocratic and urban possessions. Brunner’s model addressed only the land—people relationship and entirely avoided the traditional categories of economic, ecclesiastical and cultural history, because, according to him, land systems had been formed through public repetitions of legal acts. He paid considerable attention to social networks, which he reduced, however, to the basic patterns of behaviour in order to be able to derive general conclusions from them.
He understood the ‘land’ (Land) as a value determined by relationships between the ruler and the land, which are reveled in oaths of allegiance and homages or, conversely, feuds and subsequent reconciliation.28 Brunner’s ‘land’ was not a mere space but a body of ‘land-controlling’ and ‘land-cultivating’ people whose internal order, structure and relationship to foreign entities were defined by the land law. The cornerstone of the social culture of the European Middle Ages was to be the power of the lord over the land (Herrschaft), which determined his relationship to things and people (Grundherrschaft). The landlord undertook to protect his subjects, who swore allegiance within the ‘natural law’ which governs mortals. For Otto Brunner, the ‘land’ was not a word but a constitutional term, and since medieval (Latin) Europe knew nothing like absolute control over soil and people, he suggested that the ‘land’ was superior to the ‘state’.29 Otto Brunner focused on the internal genesis of political units in the central Elbe Basin, and since he preferred the ‘period’ terms, he had to rely on the sources of the later Middle Ages, which of course reduced the validity of his observations for earlier periods.
The terminology itself was to respect (if possible) the contemporary situation, on which, however, Brunner’s personal friend of similar opinions, Walter Schlesinger, remarked that the diction of resources might not always be understandable and that the necessary explanatory commentary simply could not manage without vocabulary that would have been incomprehensible for a medieval person.30 Brunner’s search for precise set phrases has become proverbial, but one critical reservation spitefully mentioned that a strict proclamation was in absolute disagreement with the content of the main work, in which few pages were enough to cover the historical development and semantic changes of the central term (Land). Nevertheless, the noticeable deficit called for discussion, and when Walter Schlesinger proved that Brunner’s methodological procedures could be applied also for the early Middle Ages, the land and its institutions became an integral part of medieval studies literature.
From there, it is also known that the early and High Middle Ages considered the ‘land’ (terra, fines, regio, dominium, provincia, pars) to be a home, a political community as well as a geographically defined unit, that the given meaning was often determined not by legal quality but by the context, the writer’s education and taste, and that it was not until the end of the 12th century that the undefined land began to shift towards an institutionally perceived value and a legal category.31 Critical medieval studies currently proceed in two basic directions. On the one hand, they have realised that political and social structures may not be separated and that the transformations and development of (land) institutions may provide new insight into social history; on the other hand, they have had to admit that the Middle Ages did not know the ‘state’ in today’s sense (‘status’ and other words derived from it did not enrich the vocabulary until the early Middle Ages) and began to seek more suitable terms.32
And it was precisely here that Otto Brunner entered the discussion when he, by calling for adequate lexis, denied that ‘medieval political wholes’ would have stood at the beginning of the development that gradually necessitated the emergence of modern bureaucracy and state, constitutional and power sovereignty.33 Otto Brunner did not deny in any way that, moving against the flow of time, we would, sooner or later, encounter the reception of Roman law, sophisticated theological concepts or the judiciary independent of the executive power. According to him, however, not even this means that the beginnings of the modern state lie in the Late Roman Empire. After all, new constitutional historiography, which he himself advocated, claimed that ‘the emergence of a state’ could be derived not from Roman law and legal norms but from personal relationships whose form was allegedly captured by old Germanic codes—not the Roman ‘res publica’ but the Germanic ‘hertuom’; not a public-law state but a personal union (Personenverbandsstaat) and a tool of the ruling elite.
Theodor Mayer even demanded that history abandon its outdated liberal view of society and in future work exclusively with a retinue, tribute, protection, honour and oath of allegiance.34 With Brunner’s help, the new constitutional historiography was able to abandon the modern constitutional-law terminology, quite inadequate for the early and High Middle Ages, but the value of the main propositions was reduced by vague expressions. First of all, it was not clear to what that ‘people’ in which German medieval studies saw an authentic picture of the tribal structure of early Germanic peoples referred.35 The idea that barbaric codes of law provide reliable testimony on the natural characteristics of a nation was not accepted without reservation because, as proved by Reinhard Wenskus, in the Middle Ages it was the other way around, i.e., it was the law that determined appurtenance to a tribe or a people (gens). Neither has it been confirmed that the legal architecture of modern states rests on the foundations laid by the Germanic elite.36 Also, the ostensibly correct return to such terms as tribute, oath and promise of allegiance ended in a blind alley. All of them were the essentials of medieval law, which was not without consequences for their historical interpretation, because by their connection to the Middle Ages they transcended the borders between the symbolic dimension of power and social behaviour.
The new constitutional historiography began to be lost in the formal descriptions of stateformation structures, without its leading to the identification of their actual meaning, and historians themselves proved that the seemingly authentic terminology was affected by the author’s view and that its connection to the actual events was often only indirect and partly also confusing.37 It would certainly be possible to replace the ‘states’ of the early Middle Ages with a more suitable (?) term, regnum, to use leges instead of the ‘legal (constitutional) orders’ and to change a ‘political community’ into a gens. How to avoid, however, the inappropriate invasion of Roman usage (given by Latin) into the Germanic or Slavic milieux?
By a precise definition, which is clearly impossible? Or by reconsidering the new constitutional historiography? Moreover, the medieval ‘state structures’ were not limited to the retinues of the loyal, tributes or common law. Politically acting communities cannot be imagined without Church administration, which became a keystone between the Late Antique Roman civilisation and the successor ‘states’.38 After all, it is enough to think of Poland to realise that more permanent foundations of state life have been laid by the Church and not by the royal courts.39 Nonetheless, it is not so important whether the early medieval power units are referred to as ‘states’,40 because the fundamental questions are different: namely, how tribes were transformed into political communities and where (and in what) to search for the origins of collective consciousness. We should not forget Otto Brunner, however, who proved that in the Middle Ages the ‘land’ (terra) was a much more stable unit than the ‘state’ (regnum).
That ‘land’ comprised more than a geographically defined area. It was a personal union, a political community which was governed by the land law and had its own symbolism as well as rituals.41 All of this was true in the 13th century, but the long beginnings of land awareness turned the attention of historians to East-Central Europe during the reigns of the Hohenstaufen and even Salian emperors and kings. And despite the fact that Czech medieval studies refused Brunner’s approach as wrong and methodologically clueless in its trusting adherence to the ideological conceptions that feudalism had of itself,42 Ferdinand Seibt, with reference to Walter Schlesinger, brought to notice that Přemyslid Ducal Bohemia had fulfilled Brunner’s attributes of ‘land’ even before most imperial duchies.
He referred to the situation when Bohemian dukes shared their power with the elite, because public matters—ranging from tributes, oaths of allegiance and formulation of law, through land-border defence, all the way to ducal elections—were subject to the consent of Bohemians, which could only be given at a diet (commune colloquium), i.e., a joint meeting of the duke and the ‘great men of the land’ (maiores terrae).43 The political dualism may be observed in Bohemia deep into the 9th century, but it was entirely different in Moravia, which had long been coping with the tragic collapse of the domain ‘shining with gold’, built in the lower Morava Basin by Mojmírid dukes. After 906, political life moved away from the centre, especially to the rather well-protected Olomouc region, where the surviving noble families restored some order at least on a local scale and where also the church organisation was retained.
The Moravians, however, had to come to terms with the protection by the Hungarians. Soon after 955, they came under the supervision of the Bohemians and at the beginning of the millennium let the troops of Bolesław I the Brave enter the land. Sometime after the Peace of Bautzen, around 1029 at the latest, Polish garrisons were forced out by Duke Oldřich, and a substantial part of the land became part of hereditary Přemyslid possessions for good. Yet the Moravians, at that point already a community of Czechs from Moravia, were given the right to vote, and as participants in land diets with this right to vote they were politically included in the community of the Czechs. No change was brought until the 13th century, chiefly its first half, which takes us back, after a short diversion, to Vladislaus Henry. It is indisputable that Vladislaus’ legacy went significantly beyond that single gesture of statesmanship with which he abdicated his throne in Prague in December 1197. This was noticed already by Bertold Bretholz,44 but since his speculations were bluntly rejected45 and Czech literature assumed a condescendingly dismissive attitude towards the margrave, all interest was exhausted in the attempts to determine where he had been buried.
The fairly reliable Olomouc tradition connects the deposition of Vladislaus’ remains with Velehrad; during renovations in 1936–1938, a noteworthy niche was found there that, when read in a certain way, implied a relationship to Vladislaus Henry.46 As was brightly yet timidly pointed out by Jan Bistřický,47 however, it was in fact only wishful thinking that had prevailed over reason and the rules of historical criticism. Vladislaus’ foundation work makes the first decades of the 13th century a remarkable space in which it is possible to observe not only the complicated beginning of a large innovative transformation but also the political framework of reforms and their relationship to the values of the ducal age. The unique character of the period studied is also determined by the method of the execution of the ruling power, because the margrave was somehow involved in everything but did not leave deep traces behind. Although our expedition against the flow of time is slightly complicated by a lack of resources, their imaginative interpretation in a carefully defined period context may connect the considerations on state formation by Lisa Wolverton48 with the general observations formulated by Robert Bartlett49 and developed for the everyday life in the Czech milieu by Jan Klápště.50
The long 13th century may be perceived as the ‘second beginning’ of Central Europe, the contribution of whose values may be compared without fear with Carolingian intervention and Christianisation. These integrated the world of Western Slavs into the Occidental civilisation.51 The complex dialogue between domestic preconditions and the innovations of the European West then gave rise to confident land communities, governed by special laws and having their own rituals and practices. It was precisely the land identity that returned Moravians to the map of Central Europe; the first lines of their happier story began to be written in the years when the land was administered by Vladislaus Henry. Was the proverbial ‘chance’ involved, or did the emancipated margraviate of Moravia, which however retained an exclusive tie to the Bohemian Crown, arise from a prudent management of public affairs?
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