Wiktor Szymborski History enchanted in seals What stories does a seal hide? What is its symbolism? What information is conveyed by the seal surface? Can one study a historical monument with no reference to the document to which it should be attached? What was the seal made of? Who was responsible for making seals and who could be a disposer of a seal? These are just a handful of questions that can be asked when analysing sigillographic monuments. Sigillography (sphragistics), or the study of seals, one of the auxiliary sciences of history where researchers conduct critical analysis of a historical source, focuses on just such questions. Students and graduates in History alike are obliged to engage in a course devoted to such sciences as diplomatics, the study of documents; heraldry, the study of arms imagery; paleography, the study of old writing and writing techniques; epigraphy, the study of writing engraved in hard material like stone or iron; chronology, the study of old ways of measuring time; historical geography; numismatics; legal archaeology; vexillology, or the study of flags; and phaleristics, the study of distinctions. These sciences make the background and point of reference for today’s meeting which offers the history of various sphragistic monuments, secrets of a certain woodcut, reading old Latin, and even an epigraphic puzzle hidden in a monument which has been specially adapted for the purpose. The objects to be presented today have been analysed during a course in Auxiliary Sciences of History delivered at the Jagiellonian University’s Institute of History. There are few other scientific fields of knowledge based as much on cognition by sight as the canon of auxiliary sciences of history is: colours and shapes played a very important role in past centuries. How to presents such monuments to persons who are unable to see them? That persistent thought filled me with fear or even dread when in early October a blind student appeared in one of the ASH course groups I teach. How to make sure he can read old seals, whose state sometimes leaves much to be desired and whose size does not really help understand their meaning? How to show the history of old Latin writing? Paleography has for centuries been a difficult field for first-year students, not only due to their unfamiliarity with Latin. The key obstacle is to make the eye used to the shape of old-time letters. Luckily, some of the barriers were overcome thanks to either special tactile-graphic adaptations of the monuments or the courtesy shown by a number of institutions. The doors of the Jagiellonian University Archive were open for us, the students could not just see medieval parchment but, importantly, touch it, feel its texture. Thanks to the experience, the academic discussions concerning such issues as the palimpsest or the superiority of Italian parchment as compared with German were easier to follow. During our trip to the Museum of the cloister of Carmelite monks of Piasek they could appreciate paleographic and diplomatic monuments or learn how old reliquaries looked like and what structure they had. A lesson in epigraphics, or rather encouraging the students to solve a unique textual puzzle, took place under the arcades of the Dominican cloister in Krakow, a home to an intriguing monument which I am going to recommend to see later on. Finding monuments that should be adapted for the purposes of the course was an interesting yet demanding adventure. Seemingly simple things turned out highly problematic. Take phaleristics, or a study of old orders. With some help from the students we managed to collect replicas of historical orders like Virtuti Militari for the purposes of the course. That part seemed to be easiest to do, but far from it. A significant percentage of the monuments turned out too small. Their size made correct reading difficult or even impossible. Such problems were avoided during discussions on the fascinating world of medieval seals. The monuments were shown in a convex version and, importantly, considerably enlarged, thanks to which while executing the adaptations the maker was able to show a number of important details which were key to better understanding. Becoming familiar with old seals is not just inhaling dust from the past but primarily an excursion in a - hardly tangible now - world of symbols, old writing, and the history of events that were sometimes tragic and brutal, and sometime funny. Those small objects attached to documents hide true layers of old histories and secrets. One just needs to analyse them carefully to discover how grateful a source of information they are indeed. For centuries, seals have had and still have the function of a sign of recognition and ownership. In the Middle Ages, the ability to read and write was a privilege of the elites, a seal attached to the document was as if a signature of its issuer. In the absence of one’s own, people turned to family members or Church dignitaries asking them to authenticate the document with their seal (a phenomenon known as carentia sigilli). Throughout the centuries, the seal has not lost its nearly magical role, a fact that can be verified by anyone who crosses Poland’s eastern border wishing to, for instance, make use of archives and libraries yet holding no letters authenticated with a university seal, particularly a round one. That is difficult. Could a seal exist on its own? If so, then why, if it was supposed to be at the “service” of the document it was attached to? This seemingly banal question was important in past centuries. In the times of the Visigoths seals would replace court summons documents. The practice was known later, e.g. a Czech seal survives of Wenceslaus II which had such a function. In Hungary a seal impression delivery could replace a court summons as late as until the mid- 1800s. This examples show clearly that medieval traditions were rooted in the old sphere of culture for centuries. The ruler’s seal guaranteed security which is why pilgrims traversing the area controlled by Lombard kings received a light impression of the royal seal. The great attachment to seals centuries ago is most convincingly confirmed by official forms of the modern area. The more demand there was for a given document, the more efforts were made to facilitate it issuance. One example of a mass-produced certificate was the attestation of confession made at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome; the certificate was very much in demand among the pilgrims. As the Apostolic Penitentiary would not have been fast enough to stamp all such forms, it was decided that instead of attaching the seal, its printed image would be placed next to the text. And so the demand was met, the production costs reduced and the features of the old document, its elevated role and functions retained. Histories of seals are also histories of historiographic myths. One pronounced example is the history of King Casimir Jagiellon’s royal seal. Many researchers kept repeating the theory proposed in the mid-1800s that the seal had gone missing after the 1454 lost battle of Chojnice. The fact was linked to the death of the deputy chancellor of the Treasury Piotr Woda of Szczekociny. In actual fact, it was not the royal seal but that of the deputy chancellor that gone missing. The original majestic seal was found by Piotr Węcowski during his search in the collections of the Archdiocesan Archive in Gniezno. A broken seal is still attached to a document of 1470. It turned out that not only had the stamp of the royal seal not got lost during the battle of Chojnice, but also that at that time the king had not had any majestic seal, as it features the coat of Royal Prussia; researchers consider that the coat was created in circa 1456. The conclusion: the seal did not go missing as it did not exist in 1454. One more common-sense argument remains which contradicts the theory of the seal loss in 1454: who in their right mind would have gone to war with a royal seal? During the great war with the Teutonic Knights, King Władysław Jagiełło would issue documents featuring the information that the royal seal would be attached to them once he returned to the capital town of Krakow. Another example comes from Western Europe: during the crusade, the famous 13th-century crusader and French king Saint Louis IX, was using a special seal and its legend emphasised the fact of being outside of his kingdom. Seals have also been witnesses to events with a tragic ending. History students are familiar with the lot of Bartosz of Lusina, a petty crook and a cutthroat who would have most certainly escaped the attention of researchers as his crimes were unspectacular. Still, he secured his place in history thanks to a theft of a royal seal, which is extensively reported in the register of villains kept by the criminal court of the town council of Krakow (Acta damnatorum seu maleficorum alias smola) of 27 February 1559 that reads as follows: Bartosz of Lusina, son of the Bartosz, confessed voluntarily that on a Monday, when His Majesty had left Krakow, he was walking from Kazimierz to the castle for an hour in the night and so it happened that the priest and deputy chancellor of the Treasury (Filip Padniewski) was on his way to the castle. And he followed the priest all the way to the court and went upstairs with him. There he saw how the priest took off a golden sac, removed a velvet bridle, laid it on the table and put his cap next to those items. And so Bartosz entered the room and hid behind the stove. Then the priest went off to another building and there was no-one in the room. And so Bartosz took that velvet bridle and that golden sac where the royal seal was and two gold chainlets on it and he left with those items. Later we can learn what he did with the priceless bounty captured so easily – And then he took the seal and broke it at the entrance to the stable. The main protagonist was unable to use the unique trophy and appreciated only a gold chainlet. The further list of the crook’s achievements was not as impressive any more and it included such items as a spoon, a silver goblet, a gilded silver goblet and two gold chains. He died in a manner typical of criminals of the modern era except for the fact that those convicting him did “appreciate” the fact that he had stolen the royal seal: That was what he confessed and not something other, and with that he was going to God’s judgement. For his bad deeds he was put on a cart going around the market square. And at each corner he was stamped on the forehead and his chest and the forth impression went on his back. Then he was hanged on the gallows. The history of the seals is also the history of falsifications. As the seals were used to confirm the validity of documents, were their safeguard, it is, regrettably, only natural for humans to attempt to falsify them. The easiest way would be to steal a seal stamp which should be carefully guarded, yet it was not always the case, as we learn from the history of Bartosz of Lusina. One could order the making of a steal stamp on the basis of the original seal, then a goldsmith would be handy. Seal falsification carried the penalty by burning at the stake, which was what happened to the falsifiers of the seal of the Duke of Burgundy in 1331. Another artist was spared that tragic fate although he forged a seal attached to a debt security worth 1,200 florins. Instead of being cruelly executed, he was merely branded with hot iron. The man was the famous artist from Nürnberg Veit Stoss. If the making of another steal stamp was so complicated, how could a seal be falsified? To simply remove the seal from the document was virtually impossible. The seal was attached to it on parchment strips or special hemp or silk strings. If a single strip or string had been used, it would have been possible to carefully slide the seal off it and so to avoid it two or three strings/strips were used, crossed in a wax bowl. Any attempt at sliding the seal would have resulted in crushing it away. Trying to falsify the document and the seal attached to it, medieval criminals used heated thin blade. They would carefully cut off the surface layer with a seal image featuring a legend and apply it to a new bowl with wax. In this way a new/old seal was obtained. Instead of a knife, horse hair soaked in turpentine was used. Wax bowls were also cut in half, which was the easiest and fastest method. It was sometimes effective if the seal was one-sided, yet things got complicated when today’s monument had a “contrasigillum”. This means a smaller seal impressed in a wax bowl protecting the proper seal. Researchers of medieval documents quite often come across very simple contrasigilla. It should be remembered that the Middle Ages was a time when people though in very practical terms. Why make an expensive new steal stamp, when each or almost each person has not less than ten of them? In the place of a costly seal, most frequently three fingers were impressed in still soft wax. The simplicity and functionality of such a solution was soon paid attention to. Criminals of old would sometimes attach other people’s seals, they tried as much as they could to make sure that at least the name from the legend match that of the issuer. That method was easiest to detect, particularly when the issuer was a layperson and the attached seal was of a Church dignitary’s. Importantly, seals of clergymen predominantly had a specific shape, pointedly oval, rarely used by lay people. Yet some “mistakes” did happen: a seal of the town of Głogów was found with a diploma allegedly of Henryk III, Duke of Głogów. The document was issued in 1309 while the seal found with it was made after 1490. Not only seals of rulers, towns or institutions were forged. There is a well-known case from Koblenz where in 1537 a woman ordered the execution of her husband’s seal, obviously without his knowledge. We do have information from the Middle Ages that illustrates how the authenticity of seals attached to documents was checked. In the papal chancellery there were instructions in force as to the detailed examination of documents presented, along with their seals. Luckily, an interesting document of Pope Innocent III of 1198 has survived until our times, one concerning the authenticity of a bishop’s seal. The falsification was discovered relatively easily since on the seal image the bishop was wearing a lay head cover rather than a mitre, royal robes rather than pontifical and a sceptre instead of a pastoral staff. To top it off, there was a phrase typical of monarch’s sphragistics, dei gratia or by the grace of God. As for Poland, one could recall a 1457 event when in the Gniezno consistory one party questioned the authenticity of a document issued by King Casimir the Great. By a court’s decision, an “expert” committee was appointed to examine the seal attached to the document. The experts were consistory prosecutors, that is persons who were allowed to look into other files and were knowledgeable as regards royal seals. In old Poland, before analysing documents the courts verified whether the seal attached to them was not broken. Any defects could suggest that it was tampered with intentionally. That was one of the then practised methods to render a provision or legal transaction entered in a diploma null and void. In 1374 in Košice, a royal seal was broken, attached to a document issued by King Louis in 1355 on the occasion of the Privilege of Buda. In order to prevent abuse, seals of rulers who had passed away were broken, the steal stamp damaged and no-one was able to falsify documents issued by the king. One example worth mentioning concerns the oath of Szymon of Staw, a chancellor of the Gniezno archbishop Mikołaj, and Paszek, a court marshal. After the archbishop died in 1422, they returned his seals and signet-rings to the hands of the cathedral chapter members and pledged that after the archbishop’s demise the seals had not been used to authenticate any document. The seals were publicly destroyed at the tomb of archbishop Mikołaj Trąba. After the seal owner’s death, the steal stamp was supposed to be destroyed, which was not always the case. It is understandable and obvious that the son often used the father’s seal. Not only did he underlined the continuity of the family by doing that, but he also avoided the expense of making a new steal stamp. How then explain the fact that monarchs used to modify the master seal? After all, the financial argument was not the deciding factor in their case. Henri III de Valois used a seal almost identical to that of Sigismund II Augustus. They were so similar that the French prince left on his the coat of the mother of the last Jagiellonian, the snake of the Sforza Family. Examining a seal one can come across information that goes well beyond the scope of sphragistics. Prior to even seeing a seal in an archive, the researcher is often faced with a major challenge: how to remove the seal from its protective bag without breaking it? Its fine if it has recently been wrapped in special tissue paper by archive staff. It is much worse when it was put into a sac centuries ago, often sewn parchment. If that was done skillfully, the seal remains intact; if it was cut off from the air, it dried up and cracked and the researcher will get a handful of wax pieces instead of a medieval monument. In such a case the very “packaging” can be analysed. Useless for 17th- or 18th-century archivists, the parchment may be invaluable for contemporary researchers. Most frequently, old musical stores were used to protect seals or “waste” paper which might hide true treasures. Currently, thanks to meticulous studies of manuscript bindings, a number of works have been found previously considered lost. The ”post mortem” of a seal can transport one into another world, where symbols were given a special meaning, where nothing was left to chance and where each detail on the seal played a significant role. Which one? This is a difficult question. The symbolic sphere which permeated past centuries is particularly visible when analysing the woodcut showing the Polish Sejm (parliament). At the very centre of the image the king is sitting on a throne, just next to him chancellor Jan Łaski, holding a document with a steal stamp and handing it to the monarch. That small yet telling gesture highlights the seriousness of the image, the monarch’s role in lawmaking, the attribute of the chancellor’s office as well as its importance in the official hierarchy of old Poland. Interestingly, from the second half of the 1500s onwards chancellors assuming their post would deliver a special speech called “thanking for the seal”. The ceremony was led by the great or court marshal, who on the king’s behalf would make a relevant speech known as “handing over of the throne seal” or the “new chancellor’s pronouncement”. Marcin Hlebionek underlines the fact that such speeches were meticulously drafted and featured standard praise of the candidate, his exquisite genealogy and a listing of his contributions made for the good of the Polish Republic. Then it was the chancellor’s turn to answer, i.e. thank for the seal. One chancellor made an elevated speech promising to be a faithful servant of the motherland, care about her interests and - should red ink was missing in the chancellery - to colour it with his own blood. The monuments presented during today’s meeting let us acquire a fuller knowledge of old chivalric culture, the symbolism of authority and unity, or attempts at overcoming feudal fragmentation made by princes in the very late 13th century. Without the seals, our knowledge of the old chivalric culture in medieval Poland would be incomplete. We have got no access to epic poems about knights, no written record of tournament roles, the first mention of a Polish herald called Polanlant coming from the time of Władysław Jagiełło’s rule. Instead of such missing historical monuments we can analyse just seals to learn more about the chivalric culture. The way of presenting rulers, architectonic motifs, battle scenes, references to old tournaments or courtly love shows us the features of the past chivalric culture. Adaptations of the seal of Przemysław II, Duke of Greater Poland and then Poland’s king, are a convincing representation of aspirations towards unity, successful with the coronation of 1295. Each monument presented here hides extraordinary stories and its coming into being crowned a long preparatory period, the most telling example being the magnificent seal of King Przemysł II, carefully analysed by Wojciech Drelicharz. Seals still hold a number of secrets and their careful examination can bring us information which supplements what is known about the past. Analysing sphragistic monuments will make it easier to acquire a fuller knowledge of the old world long gone.

The text of the note concerning the case of Bartosz of Lusina has been lifted from: Księga kryminalna miasta Krakowa z lat 1554-1625 [The Criminal Book of the Town of Krakow, 1554-1625] compiled and published by W. Uruszczak, M. Mikuła, and A. Karabowicz, Krakow 2013, no 40, p. 83, 85.

Dr Wiktor Szymborski is an adjunct professor at the Department of Educational and Cultural History at the JU’s Institute of History. His research interests focus on medieval diplomatics, paleography, religious culture and the history of the Order of Preachers. He actively collaborates with the JU’s Disability Support Service in adapting educational materials for teaching history to students with sight disability. All the exhibits selected by Dr Szymborski were available during the 2015 edition of the “To Touch Culture” event. His descriptions of the exhibits showcased can be found on this site.