Manufacturing a Past for the Present National Cultivation of Culture

Home , Antal Csengery, Ferenc Kazinczy

Edited by

Joep Leerssen

Editorial Board

John Breuilly, Ina Ferris, Patrick J. Geary, John Neubauer, Tom Shippey, Anne-Marie Thiesse

volume 7

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ncc Manufacturing a Past for the Present

Forgery and Authenticity in Medievalist Texts and Objects in Nineteenth-Century Europe

Edited by

János M. Bak, Patrick J. Geary and Gábor Klaniczay

LEIDEN | BOSTON Cover illustration: Baublys. Photograph, early twentieth century. © Lithuanian National Museum (ATV 15339) with the kind permission of the museum.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Manufacturing a past for the present : forgery and authenticity in medievalist texts and objects in nineteenth- century Europe / edited by János M. Bak, Patrick J. Geary and Gábor Klaniczay. pages cm. — (National cultivation of culture ; volume 7) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-27680-2 (hardback : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-90-04-27681-9 (e-book) 1. Literary forgeries and mystifications—History. 2. Forgery of manuscripts—History. 3. Forgery of antiquities—History. 4. Forgery—History. 5. Medievalism—Europe—History—19th century. I. Bak, János M., editor. II. Geary, Patrick J., 1948- editor. III. Klaniczay, Gábor, editor.

PN171.F6M36 2015 809’.020722—dc23

2014030588

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual ‘Brill’ typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, ipa, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see www.brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 1876-5645 isbn 978-90-04-27680-2 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-27681-9 (e-book)

Copyright 2015 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change.

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Contents

Acknowledgements vii The Long Shadow of Ossian. Editors' Preface viii List of Figures xxv Notes on Contributors xxviii

part 1 Searching for the Voice of the Nation

1 The Manuscripts of Grünberg and Königinhof: Romantic Lies about the Glorious Past of the Czech Nation 3 Pavlína Rychterová

2 To Authenticate a Manuscript: The Case of Toldy and Hanka, Hermeneutically Reconsidered 31 Péter Dávidházi

3 The Kalevala and the Authenticity Debate 56 Pertti Anttonen

4 János Arany’s Csaba Trilogy and Arnold Ipolyi’s Hungarian Mythology 81 László Szörényi

5 From the Anonymous Gesta to the Flight of Zalán by Vörösmarty 96 János M. Bak

part 2 Inventing a Past

6 Forging the Cuman Law, Forging an Identity 109 Nora Berend

7 Invented Middle Ages in Nineteenth-century Hungary. The Forgeries of Sámuel Literáti Nemes 129 Benedek Láng vi Contents

8 Excellent Scholar—Excellent Forger: The Case of Karl Benedict Hase 144 Igor P. Medvedev

9 On Firkowicz, Forgeries and Forging Jewish Identities 156 Dan D. Y. Shapira

part 3 “Ancient” Objects: Fakes and Fantasies

10 Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 173 János György Szilágyi

11 Agilulf, “The Nonexistent Knight” and the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 224 Cristina La Rocca

12 Imagining the Real: Material Evidence and Participatory Past in Nineteenth-Century Lithuania 267 Giedrė Mickūnaitė

13 Time Stopped. The Open-air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 287 Johan Hegardt

14 The New York Cloisters: A Forgery? 307 Sándor Radnóti

Index of Proper Names 317 Acknowledgements

The present volume is the second volume of the products of a research group (“focus group”) organized in the Collegium Budapest—Institute for Advanced Study in 2008/9 on the theme “Medievalism, archaic origins and regimes of historicity,” convened by the editors of this volume and generously sponsored by the Riksbankens Jubileumsfond, Stockholm. (The first volume Manufacturing the Middle Ages. Entangled History of Medievalism in Nineteenth-Century Europe, was published by Brill in 2013). These volumes are also indebted to the international academic network of Collegium Budapest and the support of its last director, Andrew Sors, and the acquisitions of the multi-annual research focus of this institute, titled “Multiple Antiquities—Multiple Modernities,” centered around the topic of how European humanities have been using and frequently constructing, inventing classical and medieval traditions for foster- ing a set of alternative modernities. These previous focus groups (mentioned in detail in the Introduction) have benefited from the renewed support of the Fritz Thyssen Stiftung and the Getty Foundation. And the most substantial support, the framework of the fellowships and the excellent work conditions in the former city-hall building of Buda were provided by the internationally- sponsored Collegium Budapest, the first institute for advanced study that has been founded in post-communist East-Central Europe in 1992, and existed until 2011. This book is one of the last memorials of that institute. Finally, the authors and editors wish to thank Terrie Bramley and María Mercedes Tuya for their extraordinary editorial assistance in preparing this volume for publication. The Long Shadow of Ossian1 Editors’ Preface

The two concepts in the subtitle of this book would in fact demand two essays on their own. However, in this preface we intend only to highlight some aspects relevant to the matters presented in this volume in an attempt to place the studies into context. We will also mention a few similar contemporary artifacts not discussed here in order to round out the “landscape of forgery” mainly in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century.

Forgery seems to be a straightforward matter: something that pretends to be (or is presented as) what it is not.2 If we stick to this definition, relatively few items would remain for discussion in the context of “alternative antiquities,” a subject discussed in many aspects in workshops held and volumes produced at the Collegium Budapest.3 In the present project we intended to look at a wider circle of texts and objects, all of which are somehow “not quite” what they claim to be. They are of varied character and could be located at different places on an ascending scale from outright forgery to poetic liberty.

Only in some of the cases presented here are texts or objects produced, as it were, from whole cloth, merely based on the creative ideas of its author or authors. Best known among them are the “medieval” manuscripts “discovered” at Königinhof/Králové Dvor and Grünberg/Zelena Hora in early nineteenth- century Bohemia, containing epic and lyric poetry in allegedly Old Czech. Pavlína Rychterová (pp. 3–30) shows the background of the writing and of

1 The copyright for this formulation is held by Dan D.Y. Shapira, see 161, below. 2 The issue in general is discussed with great erudition by János György Szilágyi, below, 173–223. We asked him to permit us to include his essay, even though it is not within the framework of “medievalism,” because of the exemplary character of the theoretical and comparative investigation of the forged Antique vases. See also Umberto Eco, The Limits of Interpretation (Bloomington Indiana University Press, 1990), 69–82, where a number of variants of “fakes” is outlined in greater and more analytical detail than we can do here. 3 Most of the studies in the present volume are products of a research group (“focus group”) organized in Collegium Budapest—Institute for Advanced Study in 2008/9 on the theme “Medievalism, Archaic Origins and Regimes of Historicity,” convened by Patrick J. Geary and Gábor Klaniczay. A few additional articles were written at the request of the editors. Another group of these studies was published recently in a companion volume under the title Manufacturing Middle Ages. Entangled History of Medievalism in Nineteenth-Century Europe, ed. by Patrick J. Geary and Gábor Klaniczay (Leiden: Brill, 2013). The Long Shadow Of Ossian ix the reception of these texts: the emergence of Slavic philology,4 the need for a truly “national” past, and the support by Austro-Bohemian aristocratic circles. Václav Hanka, the discoverer of the manuscripts, a respected student of the leading Slavist, Jozef Dobrovský, was not alone in his times with such a project. Another respected scholar, a highly regarded Byzantinist and editor of important Greek texts, “added” an anonymous letter to his edition of Leo the Deacon’s History describing the siege of Kherson in 988 (?) a.d. and its submission to the rulers of Rus’. The possible motives and circumstances for manufacturing this text, commonly referred to as the Toparcha Gothicus, “discovered” by Karl Benedikt Hase, the authenticity of which remained debated for some 150 years—and beyond—is described here by Igor P. Medvedev (pp. 144–55). There were several other medieval narratives forged in this period, serving different purposes, not all discussed in this volume, but belonging to the same intellectual and political atmosphere. In Poland the Slavic-Sarmatian Chronicle of Przybysław Dyjamentowski (1694–1774) was published around the same time as Hanka’s manuscripts. Its editor pretended that it was written in the early Middle Ages by a certain Prokosz vouching for the name of the Poles well before any other source did and connecting them to ancient peoples, Sarmatians and east Indians.5 Less known are the illustrated “Hungarian chronicles” and ancient Magyar inscriptions in runic, Chinese (!) and other strange characters, sold (and written?) by Sámuel Literáti Nemes, presented here by Benedek Láng (pp. 129–43). Literáti was above all a bookseller, but augmented his acquisitions with objects that he or his accomplices dreamt up—or naively accepted as original. Láng describes the surviving files of Literáti’s productions and their temporary reception including some strange revival of one of the fakes into our own days. The so called Chronicle of Metodi Draginov, published in 1870 on the forceful

4 She wrote on this in detail in the companion volume of this project: “The Czech Linguistic Turn: Origins of Modern Czech philology 1780–1880”, Geary and Klaniczay (eds.), Manu- facturing Middle Ages, 259–278. 5 The so called Prokosz Chronicle, allegedly from the tenth century (with additions from the eleventh), was published by Hipolit Kownacki in 1825 in Warsaw as Kronika polska w wieku X napisana. Z dodatkami z kroniki Kagnimira. Kownacki got the manuscript from Julian Ursyn Niemcewicz, one of the leading intellectuals of the late Polish enlightenment, who in turn got it from Franciszek Morawski, a general and sentimentalist-classicist poet, who bought it somewhere (“at a Jewish bookstall in Lublin”). The forgery was soon unmasked by the founder of Polish historical scholarship, Joachim Lelewel in the Biblioteka polska, 1825–26. See H. Markiewicz “O polskich mistyfikacjach literackich,” [On Polish literary mystifications] Dekada Literacka nr 8/1994; [http://dekadaliteracka.pl/index.php?id=3181 ]—We are grateful for these references to Maciej Janowski. x The Long Shadow Of Ossian mass Islamization of Bulgarians in the Western Rhodope mountains in the seventeenth century was alleged to have been written by an eye witness village priest in order to explain the origin of the Pomaks (Muslim Bulgarians).6 Another fake chronicle of the Székely of (the district of) Csík “emerged” in 1796, attempting to prove that these Transylvanian former border guard communities are descendants of the Huns but in some way also connected to the Scythians, and preceded the Hungarians in the Carpathian Basin.7 This mixture of authentic historical sources with inventions and forgeries was not unique to East-Central Europe. It was an all-European feature during this age. In France a former local politician of Napoleon times, Étienne- Léon de Lamothe-Langon, who forged himself the title of a baron and became an archival historian and a popular romance writer from 1820 on, published, in 1829, a precious collection of historical sources on the history of the Inquisition in France. Among the large quantity of authentic documents, which subsequently became the basis of historical analyses by Jules Michelet and others, he also inserted the earliest medieval testimonies (from the year 1276) on the witches’ Sabbath including colorful descriptions on the accused women’s for- nication with the Devil.8

6 A good short discussion of the issue is written by Maria Todorova, “Conversion to Islam as a trope in Bulgarian historiography, fiction and film” in Eadem, ed., Balkan Identities: Nation and Memory (London: C. Hurst, 2004), 129–157. 7 The Székely Chronicle of Csík, written in poor Latin (some 20 pages in print) was supposed to be a copy of a hundred years old copy of a 1533 original. It begins with the Hun origin of the Székely clans, their alliance with the Magyars of Árpád and then the story of several clans across the centuries, especially of the descendants of a certain Sándor. It has been suggested that it was concocted by a Transylvanian nobleman, Zsigmond Sándor, a young jurist, in order to prove ancient rights of his family to a certain piece of land. Its anachronisms and poor Latin betray its being a modern forgery and this was proved by the academician Lajos Szádecky in his inaugural lecture at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (A csíki székely krónika, [The Székely Chronicle of Csík] Budapest: mta, 1905). It was followed by a heated discussion, raising doubts, among others, about the ability of the assumed author to write such an elaborate fake. There are still people who maintain its originality. On the Scythian issue in general, see Gábor Klaniczay “The Myth of Scythian Origin and the Cult of Attila in the Nineteenth Century,” in Gábor Klaniczay, Michael Werner, & Ottó Gecser (eds.), Multiple Antiquities, Multiple Modernities: Ancient Histories in Nineteenth Century European Cultures (Frankfurt – New York: Campus Verlag, 2011), 185–212. 8 Étienne-Léon de Lamothe-Langon, Histoire de l’Inquisition en France, (Paris, 1829), ii, 614– 15, iii, 235–40; on his literary career, which included a number of other forgeries and fake memoirs ascribed to various court-ladies of Napoleon, leading to the production of a fake The Long Shadow Of Ossian xi

The prime example of allegedly ancient poetry that became an inspiration for many compilers and forgers was, of course, Macpherson’s Ossian. In all likelihood most or all of the great “collection” of pre-Christian Bulgarian (or Macedonian) folk poetry Veda Slovena was written single-handedly by the village teacher Ivan Gologanov.9 As its title suggests, the poems were supposed to prove the descent of the Slavs of the Balkans from India. A mixed form which contains authentic material that has been restructured and revised by the collector or editor was the “kuruc” (anti-Habsburg rebel) poetry collected by the Hungarian historian, poet, and academician Kálmán Thaly (1839–1909), who then added his own poems, beautifully imitating the historical verses.10 It is open to debate, to what extent the Finnish Kalevala belongs here or to a less invasive category of “stylizing,” and editing. Pertti Anttonen (pp. 58–80) discusses the close to the 180 year old debate about the

Mémoires de Napoléon in 1838, and also one of Louis xviii, see Richard Switzer, Étienne- Léon de Lamothe-Langon et le roman populaire français de 1800 à 1830 (Toulouse: Privat, 1962). 9 Two volumes of poetry allegedly going back to the roots of his people’s ancient Indian origin and including Alexander the Great and many other past heroes into the Slavic- Macedonian Pantheon were published by Stefan Verkovič, “collected” by his Bulgarian- Macedonian colleague. The question of originality is not really solved, inter alia, by doubting the ability of the author to produce such a corpus of elaborate verse all alone. The most recent Bulgarian Encyclopedia calls it a “mystification.” Bi-lingual edition: Le Véda slave: chants populaires des Bulgares de Thrace & de Macedoine de l’époque préhistorique et préchrétienne. 1–2 = Веда словенска: български народни песни отъ предисторично и предхристиянско доба. 1–2 / открилъ въ Тракия и Македония и издалъ Стефанъ И. Верковичъ (Belgrade-St. Petersburg: Državna štamparija, 1874–1881). For a full discussion, see Gane Todorovski, “Za i protiv Veda Slovena,” [For and against Veda Slovena] Godishen zbornik Universitetot do Skopje 19 (1967), 393–444; online http://makedonija.rastko.net/ delo/11724 (accessed 1.11.2011). An English summary of the pro-Veda side is on http://www. omda.bg/engl/history/mistificacia.html (accessed 12.02.2012). 10 Thaly’s volume of poetry, Kuruczvilág [World of the kuruc] was published in 1903 in Budapest and caused a major controversy about the authenticity of some poems and the “forgery” of others. In the most recent history of Hungarian literature, the issue of “philological forgery” and literary value for the reader is radically separated and Thaly’s poetry, either collected or composed, was included in the canon; see Krisztián Benkő “Filológia, ideológia, poétika. 1903 Thaly Kálmán: Kuruczvilág” [Philology, ideology, poetics etc.], in Mihály Szegedi-Maszák (ed.), A magyar irodalom történetei [Histories of Hungarian literature] (Budapest: Gondolat, 2007), ii, 649–662. Actually, this post-modern attitude, disregarding the formal “authenticity,” the core of the debates for more than a century, and concentrating on the poetic value, is now prevailing in the judgment about Kalevala as well. xii The Long Shadow Of Ossian extent of its being an “authentic” collection of folk ballads or an epic poem by the country doctor, philologist and collector, Elias Lönnrot. Stylizing and “editing” is typical for poetry and tales collected by devotees of folk culture, but adjusted to the taste of their assumed audience or to the alleged forms of ancient lore. Unsuitably “vulgar” passages are censored out, but, on the other hand, what did not meet their expectations of being “folksy enough,” jazzed up. From the brothers Grimm through János Kriza to Vuk Karadžič this holds true for the first generations of folklorists and ethnographers. The Hungarian Kriza even asked the help of the leading literary critic of his time, “If the [Transylvanian] Székely savor was added by me too strongly—he wrote—Mr. Gyulai be good enough to pare it down with his critical ability [. . .] and adjust everything as he pleases.”11 One step further away, and leaving the category of “forgery” altogether is, when lacking a badly missed Magyar national heroic epic, János Arany, envious of Kalevala, decides to write a Hungarian one, but in his own name. László Szörényi (pp. 81–95) presents how Arany studied the scholarly handbook on the ancient Magyar mythology of his contemporary, Arnold Ipolyi, underlining and commenting on passages of the monograph to be used for his project of “making up” a missing Hungarian heroic epic. The Latvian Andrejs Pumpurs had the same motives when in 1872–87 he wrote a major epic poem about the ancient Baltic times, Lāčplēsis (the Bear-slayer) based on some unidentified “local legends” of his country and people.12 Then, a forged object may be in parts “original” (pretending that the whole is so), but to a lesser or larger extent tempered and augmented with elements that did not belong to the pristine exemplar. The “Second Cuman Law” (presented as if from 1279) discussed here by Nora Berend (pp. 109–28) contains one paragraph from a genuine charter of that year granting certain rights to the recently settled Cumans in the Hungarian Plain but is expanded with additional legal claims. The forged deed was used in an attempt to recover lost privileges. Berend proves that there was never an “original” to which some of the

11 Quoted by Péter Niedermüller, “Adatok a magyar folklór szövegbázisának megkonstruá- lásához a 19. században” [Data to the construction of the textual basis of Hungarian folklore in the 19th C.], Ethnographia 101 (1990), 96–105; here 104. 12 From the extensive literature on it, see e.g., Stephan Kessler, “Literatur und werdende Nation in Lettland und Litauen: Die Versepen Lāčplēsis (1888) und Witoloraunda (1846),” in Jürgen Joachimsthaler (ed.), National-Texturen—National-Dichtung als literarisches Konzept in Nordosteuropa, 127–80 (Lüneburg: Nordost-Inst., 2009) Nordost-Archiv; N.F. 16.—An English translation of the poem by Arthur Cropley is accessible on http://www .gutenberg.org/ebooks/17445. The Long Shadow Of Ossian xiii late eighteenth-century authors refer. Parts of the Czech manuscripts are based on the twelfth-century Chronica Bohemorum by Cosmas of Prague. Similarly, the Bulgarian Draginov chronicle seems to have been constructed with the help of two other, fairly well documented reports. From the close to 20 thousand lines of the Estonian epic poem Kalevipoeg (Kalev’s Son) by Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald (published in 1867–72) some 3000 are considered as “authentic.”13 The Székely chronicle (and, of course, Literáti’s concoctions, too) contains names and dates from the received historical tradition, meant to prove the ancient pedigree of certain peoples or families (just as medieval gesta did). Something similar is the case of the so-called Sylvester Bull, a fake papal letter allegedly from the eleventh century, but most probably written around 1636 and published in 1644, attempting to legitimize the “apostolic” title and ecclesiastical privileges of the kings of Hungary (at that point, the Habsburg rulers). It contains words and ideas from an early twelfth century legend of St. Stephen the king, tidbits of papal correspondence, and was embedded into a book on church history.14 In contrast, the scrutiny of literary historians established that one third of Kalevala is a verbatim rendering of what Lönnrot collected from folk singers in Karelia, one half is based on their texts, but edited by him, 14 percent is compiled by the editor from fragments of folklore and only 3 percent was written anew by the devoted doctor, by then able to generate verses fitting the rest. An extension of this category would include such “non-forgeries” as the poetic transformation of a genuine thirteenth-century gesta about the mythical origin of the Magyars in Scythia and their systematic conquest of their present country, into a national Pantheon, engendering painted and sculp- tured figures of imaginary heroes for centuries to come. János Bak (pp. 96–108) shows, how the chronicle, first edited in 1746, became the basis of the Grand Narrative of the Hungarian past, mainly by having it made into a major epic poem, the Flight of Zalán, by the young Romantic poet Mihály Vörösmarty (1800–55). Similarly, Väinämöinen, Ilmarinen, and Lemminkäinen would not

13 From the extensive literature on it, see e.g., Cornelius Haselblatt, “Geburt und Pflege des estnischen Epos. Zur Funktionalisierung von Kreuzwalds Kalevipoeg,” in Joachimsthaler, National-Texturen, 103–26. 14 The most recent inquiry into the background of this forgery is by Sándor Bene, “A Szilveszter-bulla nyomában (Pázmány Péter és a Szent István-hagyomány 17. századi fordulópontja)” [Tracing the Sylvester-Bull: Péter Pázmány and the seventeenth-century turning point in the St. Stephen tradition], in László Veszprémy (ed.), Szent István és az államalapítás, 143–62 (Budapest: Osiris, 2002). Also accessible at: http://radaygyujtemeny .hu/bene.htm. xiv The Long Shadow Of Ossian have become the heroes of all the Finns, had Dr. Lönnrot not written them up into one beautiful epic poem. Archaeological and art forgeries also fall on a spectrum from entirely new creations to imitations of authentic ancient artifacts to highly speculative restorations of genuine fragmentary objects. Forgers of antique vases took their figures and scenes from originals, frequently from more than one (thus betraying their forgers), sometimes even using antique pieces freshly painted or re-painted according to the taste of modern collectors. János György Szilágyi (pp. 173–223) examined—with extensive comparative material—six of them, presently in the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts, produced between the 1830s and the 1940s and mostly managed—at least for a while—to trick collectors and keepers of museum collections. This “trick” was attempted also for the rich “find” of gilt objects—swords, helmets, breastplate, and jewelry—allegedly from a Lombard grave that appeared in London in 1930 and referred to as the “Lombard Treasure” discussed here by Cristina La Rocca (pp. 224–66). It is possible that the iron cores of the fake objects in the treasure were indeed of Lombard origin. The inscriptions were copied from the few surviving originals, especially from the Agilulf plate (Lamina di Agilulfo) in the Museo Bergallo in Florence. In another way, most of the old gravestones in the Crimean Jewish cemetery are still in situ, only Avraham Firkowicz (1787–1874), whose forging career is outlined by Dan D.Y. Shapira (pp. 156–72), published their inscriptions which were altered so as to suggest that Karaite Jews arrived there centuries earlier than they did. Firkowicz produced also some archaeological finds of the “Mountain Jews” of the Caucasus and spurious historical texts copied into more or less authentic Biblical manuscripts, allegedly acquired in Derbend, Daghestan in support of the imagined past of this people. Finally (though there may be even more categories), a monument may be “authentic” (more on that notion below), but it is being presented differently from the way it was “found”: adjusted to taste, special purpose, moral or aesthetic demands and so on (just as the folklore texts mentioned above). This is the paradox of Skansen and all open-air ethnographic museums following its example, and of the splendid collection of medieval art in the Cloisters of New York. (Well, in fact this is true for all museums, but that is an issue by itself.)15 Johan Hegardt (pp. 287–306) explores the modes and motives of Artur Hazelius to “make time stand still” by collecting and removing to Stockholm site houses and artifacts from all around the country, and to present an image

15 See for example Ernő Marosi, Gábor Klaniczay & Ottó Gecser (eds.), The Nineteenth- Century Process of “Musealization” in Hungary and Europe, Collegium Budapest Workshop Series 17 (Budapest: Collegium Budapest, 2006). The Long Shadow Of Ossian xv of an allegedly “eternal Sweden.” Sándor Radnóti (pp. 307–16) outlines the history of the Cloisters and explores the ideas concerning the preservation and presentation of art of the past in general and regarding Gothic architecture and art in the metropolitan surroundings of New York in particular. The trunk of a truly ancient oak tree, named Baublys by Dionizas Poška, was transported into his garden, given a mythical history, and transformed into something of a museum of Lithuanian national poetry. Giedrė Mickūnaitė (pp. 267–86) follows up the emergence of this idea, its reluctant acceptance at the outset, and its gradual elaboration into a shrine of sorts.

The purpose of producing and presenting something else than what the final product is purported to be was quite different from case-to-case. Our chapter headings hint at some of these. The studies grouped under “Searching for the voice of the nation” point to examples, in which the main aim was to find—or if not available, then produce—texts that could serve as the rallying points of emerging national consciousness. Those under the heading “Inventing the past” are more cynical projects presenting alleged historical texts and objects for the purposes of the present in order to prove some non-existent ancient rights or traditions. Our third group, “‘Ancient’ objects: Fakes and fantasies” discusses either outright fakes used for misleading the present or such projects that attempt to preserve a long lost time as if it were still alive. In our examples, the most usual motive of forgery, straightforward financial gain, is relatively rare. Besides the masters of the fake antiques, only Dyjamentowski is known to have been a professional forger for pay of charters and genealogies. In the case of the “Lombard Treasure,” it was the dealers, the Durlacher Brothers who expected thousands of pounds sterling for their “find.” La Rocca documents with unedited records, how they tried to obtain a buyer for the fakes.16 Whether Samuel Literáti’s fantastic forgeries were produced mainly for profit or mainly for dreaming up an alternative national past— probably both—is not quite clear. Some of them may have simply not been recognized by the not very learned bookseller. Nor is the motive of the assumed author of the Székely Chronicle clear: to what extent was it meant to prove an ancient history for his Transylvanian fellows and to what extent was it compiled to justify property rights of his family. It is likely that the Sylvester Bull’s forger, or one of his accomplices, expected that the confirmation of his ben- efice would be guaranteed by his concoction. The carefully constructed text of the Toparcha Gothicus by Professor Hase may have on the one hand intended to enhance his, otherwise well established, professional reputation, but on

16 See the Appendix to La Rocca’s article, pp. 267–86, below. xvi The Long Shadow Of Ossian the other, and above all, it was to gain tangible support from his friends at the Russian court. Some of that holds true for Václav Hanka, the “discoverer” of the “Old Czech” manuscripts as well. As a young Slavist he wished to improve his reputation and also enhance the prestige of Old Czech, but at the same time he was eager to please patriotic Czech patrons who could promote his career. In the Lombard case, Reginald Smith of the British Museum, who did not seem to have known that they were fakes, wanted to improve his professional standing by relentlessly promoting the impressive “Lombard gold find”, disregarding the doubts of his German colleague. Foreign—mainly German—critiques of the Czech manuscripts and the Kalevala just gave a boost to their becoming pieces of “national pride”; this may have played a role in the English case as well. Baron de Lamothe Langon seems to be exceptional in this sense, as one cannot discern any interest behind his inserting a couple of fake testimonies in a source edition containing several hundred authentic documents, except for having fun in cheating his readers and the academic posterity. Quite a few of the “heroes” of the stories told below intended to serve some higher good, whatever that might have been. The glory of the nation or the specific rights or origin of a people or group (Czechs, Cumans, Karaites, Pomaks, Székely, Magyars, Finns, Rus’ &c.) stand high on this list.

Authenticity again has many meanings and it is used differently in diverse disciplines (or discourses) and in various times. Basically, it should mean the exact opposite of forgery: an authentic item is what internal and external evidence proves that it is what it pretends to be, comes from the time that its proposed date suggests, and is made by the person or persons who are featured as its makers/authors, and records, presents or commemorates things that happened in reality. However, each of these criteria is problematic. Artifacts of the past (or faraway places) may not fit into the definitions of objects known to us here and now. We may not be able to identify what they were “meant to be.” The dates are also tricky matters. Very often scholars with sophisticated methods cannot unequivocally decide about the “true” date of an object. Texts, for example, are rarely subject to “scientific” dating. Many a date based on style, language, or writing material has been debated for a century or more. “Authors” in the contemporary sense of unique persons (or groups thereof) creating an object that becomes their exclusive intellectual property is a very recent idea and is valid only in a limited part of the world. The vague notion of “collective” or anonymous authorship of things from folk art to monastic annals defies this demand of authenticity, to say nothing of the several frequent “authentic” variants of the same, both in folklore and in learned texts. Finally, most problematic is the reference to “reality,” to past or remote “facts.” This is not the place to discuss, The Long Shadow Of Ossian xvii how “real” or “true”—thus “authentic”—reports, for example, on miracles or visions are. The discussion of the problem of memoria and its relationship to what may have eigentlich transpired would also take us too far from our limited project.17 Moreover, the contents or the criteria of “authenticity” or “originality” changed in the course of time and so did the limits of tolerance for interference (restoration, stylizing, etc.) with a work of art or literature.18 In folklore, for example, the issue of authenticity is even more complicated. In the early nineteenth century Sándor Petőfi and others wrote poetic versions of folksongs, using motives supplied to them by family and friends. They were first received with reservation, but then became integral parts of national literary tradition. When they saw the success of their “folksongs” they asked themselves; why not write folktales, too. And so they did, thus preserving the earliest record of several motives and narrative structures. A couple of generations later, folklorists were able to collect variants based on them “from the mouth of the people” but never accepted the literate poets’ version into the ethnographic canon as authentic.19 The debate around Kalevala ran along two lines: it was fought not only over the question, whether (or how much of) the 22,795 lines were collected from “folk singers’ mouths,” but also, whether it is to be the main basis of the study of Finnish (regional? national?) folklore. Purist folklorists tried, as late as the 1970s, to replace the “unauthentic” Kalevala with an “authentic” collection of folk poetry. Then, there is the confusion of the notion of authenticity and veracity; that is, giving the last of the aforementioned criteria a decisive role. In other words, if the contents are in some way fitting to a postulated or believed “truth,” then the other criteria are subordinated to this or dismissed altogether. Or the other way around. So, for example, it was never in doubt that the Gesta Hungarorum of the notary of King Béla was written in the Middle Ages (whether in the eleventh or early thirteenth century was debated), but it was dismissed as a fable by the learned Karl Schlözer, for it contains incorrect data on Rus’ principalities of the ninth century.20 In contrast, Romanians of Transylvania based their political argument on the words of the anonymous notary serving their

17 See for example Patrick J. Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance. Memory and Oblivion at the End of the First Millennium (Princeton, nj: Princeton University Press, 1994). 18 More on this below in the essay by Sándor Radnóti at pp. 307–15; see also the study by Szilágyi, esp. pp. 218–21. 19 See Judit Gulyás, “Mert ha irunk népdalt, mért ne népmesét?” A népmese az 1840-es évek magyar irodalmában [“Once we write folksongs, why not folktales?” Folktale in the Hungarian literature of the 1840s], (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 2010). 20 See pp. 98–9, below in the study by János M. Bak. xviii The Long Shadow Of Ossian interest in acquiring equal status with other nationalities in the principality. A variant of the connection between “truth” and “text” is when an artifact is intended to complete received tradition not properly documented before. The prime example would be the famous Constantinian Donation, based partly on the established belief in the truth of the legend of Pope Sylvester I and partly on the logic of the emperor’s grant that “should have been” written down in its own time—and the gap had to be filled if not.21 The seventeenth-century forgery of the Bull of Pope Sylvester (this time of the second of that name) is a parallel to this: St. Stephen “deserved” all that the forged bull granted him, from having a cross carried before him to appointing the bishops without papal interference—even if no formal charter survived about this. This motivation was clearly present in the case of the flagship of modern forgeries and concoctions Ossian, or to the more honest attempt of Arany at a “naïve epic.” As we have seen, this applies to a certain extent to Kalevala as well and even more to its Estonian counterpart, the Kalevipoeg, and many of the aforementioned artifacts. The idea of “there had to be such a thing” gives the forged, manipulated, concocted or mystified text a kind of authenticity. Nineteenth-century scholars and authors believed that careful scrutiny and scholarship would offer answers about authenticity. The literary historian Ferenc Toldy was proud of not having written about anything he did not personally inspect and find authentic, yet he was taken by the courteous reception in Prague and vouched gladly for Hanka’s texts that they were what they were told to be. The issue of literary authenticity is discussed in depth by Péter Dávidházi (pp. 31–55) using this example. Several “experts in Germanic art” were impressed by the “Lombard Treasure” after their visit to London and, we may presume, the lavish reception given to them by the art dealers. Some of Literáti’s ancient Hungarian texts were hailed as great discoveries by respectable scholars. The other way around, Arany, studying carefully the work of Ipolyi for his planned epic on the mythical figure of Csaba, combined poetic license with “scientific” data to authenticate his poetic fantasy. Lönnrot started out collecting folk epics after having read Kristfrid Ganander’s Mythologia Fennica and learning about Friedrich August Wolf’s theories on the Homeric epics assuming that they were originally heroic songs and only later came to be written poems. In a vaguely similar way, when, in 1894, a heroic panorama of the “Entry of the Hungarians” was to be painted, the novelist Mór Jókai “divined” the imagery in poetic liberty, but the painters went to the museums in St. Petersburg to

21 This issue regarding medieval forgeries, but not irrelevant to the modern ones either, is elegantly summarized by Horst Fuhrmann “Von der Wahrheit der Fälscher,” in Fälschungen im Mittelalter, vol. 1, 83–100 (Hanover: Hahn 1988), mgh Schriften 33.1. The Long Shadow Of Ossian xix study the actual dress and armor of steppe people in order to “authenticate” the details of an event thousands of years before.22 In the case of forged antiques the relationship between forgers and “authen- ticating” scholars is even more difficult. It can be shown that forgers followed carefully the results of excavations and scholarly debates and adjusted their handiworks to the most recent findings, thus satisfying the market which, in turn, was influenced by both scholarship and other motives of change in taste and fashion. That is what Szilágyi meant by giving the title to his study: “Wisest is Time.”

Medievalism, to which almost all of the studies in this volume belong— and what has been the central theme of the project in which they were produced—is by now accepted shorthand for all those ideas and manifestations that in one way or another attempted to conjure up the pre-modern world of Europe, from romantic writings through the use of medieval elements in architecture to references to the Middle Ages supporting modern notions, such as nationalism.23 In a wider sense, it also includes the use of medieval motifs in film, commerce, computer games and such. Here, we treat medievalism essentially in its literary and monumental aspects: texts and objects that were or are believed to originate in the centuries of European culture between the Fall of Rome and “modernity.” In most of the cases, medieval matters, surrounded by the aura of a heroic past, are being summoned to serve very modern and contemporary concerns. But there was also another side of medievalism: Gothic romance, taking delight in or having fun with “medieval” hor- rors and obscenities, the world of Dracula, ghosts, torture chambers—a path followed by Baron de Lamothe-Langon, and some other contemporaries, such as Polidori, Byron, and Mary Shelley. As discussed above, the variations of “medievalist” and pseudo-antique forgeries, falsifications, manipulations of texts or objects, confabulation, mystifications, products of poetic imagination, and so on are spread over a very wide palette. Some are outright bizarre, some highly puzzling, some aesthetically enjoyable, and some almost ridiculous. Nonetheless, their place in national memory may still be an issue of controversy.

22 See János M. Bak and Anna Bak-Gara, “The Ideology of a ‘Millennial Constitution’ of Hungary,” East European Quarterly 15 (1981), 307–26. Now in János M. Bak, Studying Rulers and their Suibjects. ch. xvii (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2010). 23 For a definition, see Richard Utz: “Medievalism,” in Robert Bjork (ed.), Oxford Dictionary of the Middle Ages, vol. iii, 1118–9 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). See also Umberto Eco, “Dreaming the Middle Ages,” in Travels in Hyperreality, transl. by W. Weaver (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1986), 61–72. xx The Long Shadow Of Ossian

The examples in this volume are taken from the late eighteenth to the early twentieth century mainly from Northern, Central and Eastern Europe. The cultural movements of post-Napoleonic Europe, in Germany, France and elsewhere that are in the background of most of what is discussed below, are outlined in the Introduction of the first volume of this project.24 In a wider sense, the recovery or establishment of national identity in the emerging independent states of Central Europe and the Baltic as well as the secularizing and reform-minded movements of the Jewish Enlightenment (haskalah) belong also to this intellectual background.

Competition among the peoples of Europe, also discussed in the first volume, was an important motive for the construction of an imaginary past: who has a more ancient history or culture. Macpherson’s concern was to present a poetic corpus of the Scots, older and of greater aesthetic value than that of others (English, French, etc.). Ossian’s verses and Kalevala were to match Homer and Virgil. Hanka’s manuscripts were to prove literary qualities of Old Slavic in Czech lands, at least as “good” as German medieval epic poetry. The chalice of the invented leader Rabanban of the Székely (allegedly still in existence, even if “altered,” so the Chronicle of Csík) was brought to them by a Scythian sage from ancient Greece. Samuel Literáti’s runic texts and strange inscriptions were to present proof for an ancient Magyar past, and the Veda Slovena was to be even more ancient than the Iliad. The positive opinion of the alleged ninth- century Greek strategos about the “Barbarians,” who were taken to be old Rus’ in Hase’s forged text, were to compliment the character of the ancestors of the Russians. The gold objects “from the Lombard royal grave” were to prove the superior artistic culture of Germanic ancestors. The “thousand years old” oak trunk Baublys bears the name of an alleged pagan god of the Lithuanians or even of their assumed ancestors, the Heruls, thus pointing to an ancient past, older than the Romans. A variant of this competition may be seen in the attempt at preserving the glorious or idyllic past in Skansen or by transplant- ing the beauties of the Middle Ages into the world of skyscrapers in New York. Competition did not rule out mutual influence and imitation. The collections or mythical constructions in the Baltic lands all depended on Kalevala, and János Arany studied not only Hungarian mythology and folklore, but also Germanic ones and, above all, Firdowsi’s Shah-name as a model for his planned national epic. The Slavic-Sarmatian Chronicle and the Veda Slovena had roots in contemporary learned writings from Friedrich Schlegel to Slavic philologists.25

24 Geary and Klaniczay (eds.), Manufacturing Middle Ages, 1–12. 25 See below in the study by Pavlína Rychterová, pp. 7, 11. The Long Shadow Of Ossian xxi

Wolf’s Prolegomena ad Homerum in the background of Kalevala was already mentioned. Poška’s oak-tree house had its predecessor in Goethe’s Borkenhaus in the Weimar garden and was seen as a reduced sibling of the Temple of Sybil, a Neo-Classicist rotunda established in 1801 by Princess Izabela Czartoryska. A really amusing example of “borrowing” is suggested by Igor Medvedev: he pro- poses that Hase translated words and motives for his “discovered” Byzantine text from his friend Voltaire’s Candide and L’Ingénu. Surely it was the best imaginable of all models, to paraphrase Candide’s words to Pangloss. The manifold borrowings and imitations in the various forgeries or mystifications would need a more detailed study than could be done in the framework of this project.

Supply and demand, customers and sponsors were crucial for the production of various kinds of fakes and mystifications. Besides the general cultural- political climate, the forgeries were often engendered by actual needs. The Second Cuman Law emerged when the population, identified as Cumans, was fighting for its privileges in court and the Csík Székely phantasm may have been produced for a property dispute of the Sándor family. The Cuman’s forgery was in a way successful. Even if not based on the fake law, their autonomy and free status was restored because it suited the interest of the count palatine. The Sylvester Bull was triggered by the desire to ground royal pre- rogative to appoint and transfer bishops in the face of papal opposition in a very concrete dispute between Vienna and Rome. It failed politically, because, ironically, it came to be published only some years after its invention when conditions had changed. These needs—the “market” for the forgeries—had their own history. Szilágyi shows that changes in modern art and contemporary politics were closely reflected in the choice of forgers which was adjusted according to the taste of their clientele.26 The first exhibition of the “Lombard Treasure” in 1930 triggered an interest in the Dark Ages to which the forgers and their sponsors reacted swiftly by producing more and more impressive objects and advertising the find as the burial of one of the best known Lombard rulers: King Agilulf and his Catholic queen Theodelinda. It is very interesting how the fate of this forgery (and of authentic Lombard finds) reflected the divergent attitudes to the “German past” in Hitler’s Reich and Mussolini’s Italy.27 Another important element in the emergence of the different inventions was the aristocratic (or other elite) sponsorship of learning and of the establishment of a national antiquity. Dyjamentowski and Literáti lived on the

26 See the study by János György Szilágyi, below at pp. 173–223 passim. 27 See below in the study by Cristina La Rocca, pp. 224–66. xxii The Long Shadow Of Ossian price of their artifacts bought by noble buyers and the manufacturers of fake antiques on the money of an even wider public of collectors. But Literáti would not have been successful had the rich collector Miklós Jankovich not been his first customer and lifelong sponsor. The original—not very sophisticated— “Lombard” forgers in Italy (?) needed the well-established London-New York art dealers, and the Durlachers’ sponsorship to put their “treasure” on the market. Firkowicz was supported by Crimean Karaite tycoon, Simhah Babowicz, and Professor Hase wished to please (and milk) the Imperial Chancellor Count Nikolai P. Rumiantsev and his other friends in the Russian capital by presenting a “previously unknown” Byzantine text. Haselius’s project for the Skansen was made possible through a land grant by the king of Sweden and was then underwritten by nobles and wealthy burghers. The Cloisters was built with the support of John D. Rockefeller, Václav Hanka and his teacher Dobrovský were valued guests in the palaces of Czech aristocrats and supporters of several projects of “national awakening.”28 This patronage even helped to overcome critical doubts regarding spurious texts when Dobrovský refrained from denouncing the Königinhof ms because it contained a poem praising an ancestor of Count Sternberg, one of his main sponsors.

The fate of the forgeries, “mystifications,” and poetic fantasies was quite varied, too. Dyjamentowski’s chronicle was denounced right away and never obtained wide acceptance in Poland, though Pavol Jozef Šafárik, the great Slovak slavist, was an admirer of Prokosz and the Indian-Slavic connection (also present in the Veda Slovena).29 Literáti’s pieces soon encountered skepticism and even though the National Library bought his pieces (posthumously), librarian Gábor Mezey finally realized that most (or all?) of them were fakes. Hanka’s manuscripts became the supporting pillars of Czech national consciousness and despite critical voices caused the re-writing of the early history of Bohemia, even by a man as learned as František Palacký. It took a few generations, the change of the political climate, and the emergence of new kinds of scholarship before a young sociologist by the name of T.G. Masaryk, supported by Slavist colleagues, was able to put the last nail in the coffin of the forgeries. They had served their purpose in the foundation of Czech national self- identity, but by the end of the century, a new kind of national consciousness,

28 On this see e.g., Miroslav Hroch, Social Preconditions of National Revival in Europe: A comparative analysis of the social composition of patriotic groups among the smaller European nation, transl. by Ben Fowkes (New York: Columbia up, 2000). 29 Mentioned by Jan Jakubec, Dějiny literatury české [History of Czech literature], (Prague: Laichter, 1929). The Long Shadow Of Ossian xxiii supported by new social classes had no need for them anymore. The Sylvester Bull—though its authenticity was questioned by some right away—was finally shown to be a rather crude forgery only a century and a half later.30 The Lombard gold—although right away identified as a plumpe Fälschung31—was unequivocally proven fake only in 1942, and finally neither the British Museum nor the Metropolitan of New York wished to purchase it even when the price was cut to its quarter. (Its later fate is yet unknown.) Baron de Lamothe-Langon’s fictitious witches’ Sabbaths have misled historians for about 150 years, getting wrong the chronology and the reasons for the emergence of the mythology of the diabolic witches’ Sabbath, until Norman Cohn and Richard Kieckhefer, independently from each other, unmasked the forgery in 1975 and 1976.32 This discovery, incidentally, forced the entire field to rethink the whole issue of the witches’ Sabbath, and led to a number of important new monographs and debates around this issue.33 Professor Hase’s text had a similar survival rate. It was only in 1971 that the Ukrainian-American scholar Ihor Ševčenko unequivocally unmasked it—and other fakes by Hase— as forgeries. On the other hand, Kalevala came to be the cornerstone of Finnish national identity and the date of Lönnrot’s Preface to the first edition, 28 February (1835) is now a national holiday. A rock-opera based on Pumpurs’s Lāčplēsis, premiered in 1988, played a role in the emerging oppositional culture during the last years of the Soviet domination of Latvia.34 Folktales—partly collected and in a good part written by scholars and poets—are to our very days part of the basic literary canon, even though, by now, mainly for children and

30 János Karácsonyi, Szent István király oklevelei és a Szilveszter-bulla: Diplomatikai tanul- mány [The charters of King St. Stephen and the Sylvester Bull: A Study in Diplomatics] (Budapest: mta 1891), 178–216. 31 See below in the study by Cristina La Rocca, p. 346. 32 Norman Cohn, Europe’s Inner Demons. An Enquiry inspired by the Great Witch-Hunt (New York: Basic Books, 1975), 126–46; Richard Kieckhefer, European Witch Trials: Their Foundations in Popular and Learned Culture, 1300–1500 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1976). 33 Carlo Ginzburg, Ecstasies. Deciphering the Witches’ Sabbath (New York: Penguin, 1991); Nicole Jacques-Chaquin & Maxime Préaud (eds.), Le sabbat des sorciers xve–xviiie siècles (Grenoble: Jérôme Millon, 1993); L’imaginaire du sabbat. Édition critique des textes les plus anciens (1430 c.–1440 c.), réunis par Martine Ostorero, Agostino Paravicini Bagliani, Kathrin Utz Tremp, en collaboration avec Catherine Chène. Cahiers Lausannois d’histoire médiévale, 26 (Lausanne, 1999). 34 See Guntis Smidchens, “National Heroic Narratives in the Baltics as a Source for Nonviolent Political Action,” Slavic Review 66 (2007), 484–508. xxiv The Long Shadow Of Ossian youth. Skansen and the New York Cloisters remain pilgrimage sites for millions wishing to cherish the objects from the old Swedish or the European medieval past. Finally, Firkowicz’s tombstones and other forgeries contributed much to the historical myth of the Karaites, the ramifications of which are manifold and played a role both in their survival during the Holocaust and the expulsion of the Tatars from the Crimea under Stalin. That there are still some dilettante “historians”, especially in post-Communist Eastern Europe, who not only believe the stories of the forgers of two hundred years ago— such as the Sumeric-Magyar connection in the eleventh-century prayers sold by Literáti35—but add their own to them, is another tale for another night.36

Budapest—Princeton, September 2014

35 See the reference to the book by Veronika Marton in the study by Benedek Láng, below at p. 138. 36 For some of these fantasies about and instrumentalizations of the Middle Ages, see e.g., János M. Bak, Jörg Jarnut, Pierre Monnet & Bernd Schneidmüller (eds.), Gebrauch und Missbrauch des Mittelalters, 19.–21. Jahrhundert/Uses and Abuses of the Middle Ages: 19th– 21st Century/Usages et Mésusages du Moyen Age du xixe au xxie siècle (Munich: Fink, 2009) and the strange manifestations of “medievalism” in the exhibition curated by Gábor Klaniczay, et al.: “Contagious Middle Ages” shown in Budapest and Berkeley, California in 2006 and 2007; see http://w3.osaarchivum.org/files/exhibitions/middleages/ (accessed 15.6.2012). List of Figures

7.1 Image on Johannes Vitéz 135 7.2 The Prayers from the time of king Andrew I 136 7.3 “Pagan writing” from the collection of Literáti 139 7.4 Two pages from the Codex of Rohonc 142 10.1 Attic black-figure amphora with fake decoration. Side A: Herakles and Apollo fight for the Delphic tripod 177 10.2 B side of vase in Figure 10.1: Herakles fights the Amazons 177 10.3 Attic black-figure amphora 178 10.4 Attic black-glazed lekythos 179 10.5 Attic black-glazed lekythos with fake picture 180 10.6 Attic black-figure lekythos. Herakles and Apollo fight for the Delphic tripod 181 10.7 Detail of an Athenian black-figure amphora. Heracles fights the Amazons 183 10.8–9 Ram’s-head rhyton, fake 187 10.10 Greek stag’s-head rhyton 187 10.11–12 Plate with relief decoration, fake 188 10.13 Plate with relief decoration, fake 188 10.14 Gorgon’s head from the bottom of the “Tazza Farnese” (Farnese plate), ancient, of sardonyx 189 10.15–18 Attic white-ground oon with fake drawings. Athletes 197 10.19 Drawing of the external decoration of the red-figure Onesimos kylix 198 10.20–22 Attic white ground oon with fake drawing. Three-figure scene 200 10.23 Tondo of Attic white-ground kylix. Seated woman (Aphrodite?) 203 10.24 Greek marble relief, the so-called Leukothea relief 202 10.25 Athenian red-figure oon 195 10.26–29 Corinthian pyxis, fake 210 10.30–31 Corinthian pyxis lid, fake 210 10.32 Corinthian pyxis with lid, fake 212 10.33 Corinthian pyxis 212 10.34 Fake Corinthian olpe in Corinthianising style 207 10.35 Fake Corinthian olpe in the Etrusco-Corinthian style 207 10.36 Monumental Proto-Corinthian vase, fake 208 xxvi List Of Figures

11.1 Agilulf plate, found in Valdinievole and now kept at the Bargello Museum, Florence 226 11.2 The ‘Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Main plate of the golden collar 227 11.3 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Golden collar and golden cross 227 11.4 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. a. Iron helmet. b. Dagger and sword 228 11.5 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Two saxes 228 11.6 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Belt decorations 229 11.7 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Spur, belt buckle 229 11.8 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Golden saddle 230 11.9 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. a. Theodelinda golden cross and necklace b. Theodelinda buckle and ivory comb c. Purse handle 233 11.10 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. a. Shield; b. Daggers 234 11.11 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Dagger with Agilulf portrait 235 11.12 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Theodolinda dagger 235 11.13 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. a: Golden crown with Agilulf portrait; b: detail 236 11.14 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Horn (detail) 236 11.15 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Golden cross with Agilulf portrait 237 11.16 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Horn with Agilulf portrait 237 11.17 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Buckles with Agilulf (centre) and Theodelinda portrait 238 11.18 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Golden bees 239 12.1 Baublys. Postcard, early twentieth century 284 12.2 The doors of Baublys inscribed with verses 285 12.3 A sketch and description of the cult-figurine from Poška’s collection 286 13.1 An electrically driven service vehicle passes a car parked in front of eighteenth century buildings. One could also hear the sounds from the downtown Stockholm very clearly. Something is obviously out of its timeframe 291 13.2 Gustav I 297 13.3 The Yellow Villa, Skansen, where Hazelius lived between 1892 and 1901 299 List Of Figures xxvii

13.4 Signs at Skansen signifying the difference between the “wild” Sámi people and cultivated central Sweden. Central Skansen is similar to central Sweden in the South-North orientation of the museum 304 13.5 Artur Hazelius’ grave at Skansen 306 Notes on Contributors

Pertti Anttonen is Professor of Cultural Studies at the University of Eastern Finland in Joensuu and Docent at the University of Helsinki, the University of Turku and the University of Jyväskylä. In 2014 he was a visiting professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of California, Berkeley. He earned his PhD in folklore and folklife at the University of Pennsylvania in 1993. He has published on a variety of folklore topics, especially regarding theory and methodology, and specializes in the study of nationalism, politics of history and modernity. His main publication is Tradition through Modernity: Postmodernism and the Nation-State in Folklore Scholarship (2005), which is being translated into Greek and Chinese. His edited and co-edited volumes include Nordic Frontiers: Recent Issues in Modern Traditional Culture in the Nordic Countries (1993), Making Europe in Nordic Contexts (1996) and Folklore, Heritage Politics, and Ethnic Diversity: A Festschrift for Barbro Klein (2000).

János M. Bak is professor emeritus of medieval history at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver and Central European University, Budapest. As a pupil of Percy Ernst Schramm, he studied aspects of rulership and symbology of power. He was also the editor of the five-volume bi-lingual edition of the medieval laws of the kingdom of Hungary and of several narrative sources from Central Europe. Some of his studies were published as Studying Rulers and Their Subjects in the Variorum series in 2010.

Nora Berend is Senior Lecturer at the Faculty of History, University of Cambridge, uk. She is interested in medieval religious minorities, religious and cultural interaction, and the formation of identity. Her work includes At the Gate of Christendom: Jews, Muslims and ‘Pagans’ in Medieval Hungary (c. 1000–c. 1300) (2001); ed. with David Abulafia, Medieval Frontiers: Concepts and Practices (2002); ed., Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy: Central Europe, Scandinavia and Rus’ c. 950–c. 1200 (2007); ed., The Expansion of Central Europe in the Middle Ages (2013); co-authored with Przemysław Urbańczyk and Przemysław Wiszewski, Central Europe in the High Middle Ages, c. 900–c. 1300 (2013).

Péter Dávidházi Member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, is Head of the Department of Nineteenth-Century Literature at the Institute for Literary Studies and Notes On Contributors xxix

Professor of English Literature at Eötvös Loránd University in Budapest. His publications include The Romantic Cult of Shakespeare: Literary Reception in Anthropological Perspective (Macmillan, 1998). His latest book is Menj, vándor: Swift sírfelirata és a hagyományrétegződés (Go, Traveller: Swift’s Epitaph and the Strata of a Tradition) (Pro Pannonia, 2009). His current research focuses on biblical allusions in Shakespeare, metaphors of sacrifice, the prophetic tradition in Hungarian poetry, and the methodological changes of recent literary scholarship. He is editor of the forthcoming book New Publication Cultures in the Humanities: Exploring the Paradigm Shift, an interdisciplinary collection of studies by European scholars, to be published in 2014 by Amsterdam University Press.

Patrick J. Geary is professor of Medieval European History at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. He has published numerous books and essays on medieval social and cultural history including Furta Sacra: Thefts of Relics in the Central Middle Ages (1978); Aristocracy in Provence: The Rhone Basin at the Dawn of the Carolingian Age (1985); Before France and Germany: The Creation and Transformation of the Merovingian World (1988); Phantoms of Remembrance: Memory and Oblivion at the end of the first Millennium (1994); The Myth of Nations: The Medieval Origins of Europe (Princeton, 2002); Women at the Beginning: Origin Myths from the Amazons to the Virgin Mary (2006).

Johan Hegardt is associate professor of archaeology, Uppsala University. He works in the fields of postcolonial studies, gender studies, museology, and heritage studies. He has recently completed a research project on the history of the Museum of National Antiquities, Stockholm. He just started a biographical research project, together with Dr. Anna Källén, on the life and works of Olov Janse and his equally important wife Renée Janse, funded by Riksbankens Jubileumsfond. Hegardt also participates in the research program, directed by Professor Hans Ruin, on “Time, Memory, and Representation,” funded by the same fond and has participated in the EuNaMu project.

Gábor Klaniczay is professor of Medieval Studies at the Central European University, Budapest. His interests are in the historical anthropology of medieval and early modern Christianity (sainthood, miracle beliefs, visions, stigmatics, magic, witchcraft), and comparative history of “medievalism.” His books include The Uses of Supernatural Power (1990); Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses (2002); ed. with Ernő Marosi and Ottó Gecser, The Nineteenth-Century xxx Notes On Contributors

Process of “Musealization” in Hungary and Europe (2006); ed. with Éva Pócs, Witchcraft Mythologies and Persecutions (2008); ed. with Michael Werner and Ottó Gecser, Multiple Antiquities—Multiple Modernities. Ancient Histories in Nineteenth Century European Cultures (2011).

Cristina La Rocca teaches Medieval History and History of the early Middle Ages at the University of Padua. Her research deals with the early medieval period through the written and archaeological sources. In addition to gender history, her work focuses on early medieval burials and the history of the early medieval city. Recently, she has taken part in the project ‘Cassiodorus’ (Italian Institute of Ancient History) on the translation and commentary of Cassiodorus Variæ. She is the author of Pacifico di Verona. Il passato carolingio e la costruzione della memoria urbana (Rome 1995) and—with Stefano Gasparri—Tempi Barbarici (Rome 2012) and the editor of Italy in the Early Middle Ages (Oxford 2001).

Benedek Láng is associate professor at the Budapest University of Technology and Economics. As a historian of science, he is especially interested in the borderline of science and non-science both as a historical and a philosophical problem. Thus far, he has investigated primarily the relations of learned magic and accepted science in the fourteenth to seventeenth centuries. Lately he is more interested in the history of artificial languages and cipher systems. His monograph, Unlocked Books, Manuscripts of Learned Magic in the Medieval Libraries of Central Europe, was published by Penn State University Press in 2008.

Igor Medvedev Byzantinist, is a Corresponding Member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Chief research associate of the Saint Petersburg Institute of History of the ras, and head of the Saint Petersburg Association of Byzantine Studies. Medvedev is the author of more than 300 research papers and eight monographs and critical editions (among them the Nomos Georgikos, 1984). His interests include Byzantine legal heritage, historiography, source studies, archives of Russian and foreign scholars. His main focus is on the history of the world-famous Saint Petersburg school of Byzantine studies, see for example his monograph Петербургское византиноведение. Страницы истории, [Byzantine studies in Saint Petersburg. Historical background] Saint Petersburg: Aletheia, 2006. Notes On Contributors xxxi

Giedrė Mickūnaitė is associate professor at the Department of Art History and Theory of the Vilnius Academy of Arts. Her research inquires into the relation of textual, pictorial, and mental imagery with special emphasis on situations that change the course of image circulation. Currently, she is working on a project under the working title “Maniera Graeca in Europe’s Catholic East” dedicated to the reception of Byzantine and pseudo-Byzantine artworks in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the late fourteenth–early seventeenth centuries.

Sándor Radnóti art-philosopher, critic, is Professor of Philosophy of Art, Institute for Art Theory and Media Studies, Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest. His books include The Fake. Forgery and its Place in Art. (Rowman & Littlefield, Lanham md, 1999), and recently a monograph on J.J. Winckelmann in Hungarian.

Pavlína Rychterová is work group leader at the Institute for Medieval Research, Austrian Academy of Sciences and principal investigator in the erc-starting grant “Origins of the Vernacular Mode”. Her books include two monographs about the late medieval Central European reception of the Visions of Bridget of Sweden (2004, 2009) and a collaborative volume on Charisma: Funktionen und symbolische Representationen (2008). Her research interests include vernacular theological and catechetic literatures in the late Middle Ages, women’s religious experiences and authority, the development and changes of religious-political discourses in medieval Europe and history of modern historiography and literary studies.

Dan D. Y. Shapira is Professor for Ottoman Studies at the Department of Middle Eastern Studies of Bar-Ilan University (Ramat Gan, Israel) and Feldman Professor of the History and Culture of Eastern European Jewry at the same university. His research interests include Ottoman-Turkish and other Turkic languages, Ottoman history, Middle-Persian Studies, Mandaeans, Irano-Judaica, Karaites in Eastern Europe and in the Crimea, and Khazar Studies. He has published widely in these fields.

János György Szilágyi was Director of the Department of Classical Antiquities in the Museum of Fine Arts in Budapest 1951–92 and chief museologist until his retirement. He was long time editor of the Bulletin du Musée Hongrois des Beaux-Arts. One xxxii Notes On Contributors of his major contributions is a complete world-wide catalogue of Etrusco- Corinthian vase painting. Author of a number of books and some 500 articles, he was honored with several prizes and honorary memberships in professional associations.

László Szörényi is a literary historian in the Institute of Literature of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and Professor at Szeged University’s Department of Classical Philology and Neo-Latin Studies. His main interests are Neo-Latin literature in Hungary; epic poetry in the nineteenth-and the novel in twentieth century Hungary. His publications include: Arcades ambo, Saggi sulle relazioni letterarie italo-ungheresi e cultura neo-latina, Editore Rubbettino, Soveria Mannelli (Catanzaro), 354 (1). (“Danubiana, Collana dell’Accademia d’Ungheria”); Fasti Hungariae, Studi sulla filologia neolatina e sulle relazioni italo-ungheresi, con un saggio introduttivo di Amedeo, Quondam, (15–35) Rome, 2008, Created for Harmony, Studies and Essays on King Matthias, Transl. by Judith Pethő-Szirmai and Veronika Kniezsa, Budapest, 2012. part 1 Searching for the Voice of the Nation

⸪

chapter 1 The Manuscripts of Grünberg and Königinhof: Romantic Lies about the Glorious Past of the Czech Nation

Pavlína Rychterová

Na mne rukopisy svou prázdnotou, neurčitostí a nepěkností vždy dělaly dojem slátaniny.

The Manuscripts, empty, vague and devoid of beauty, always left me with the impression of patchwork. T.G. Masaryk (Nová doba, 1899)

The Find

When the discovery of an extant manuscript of purportedly medieval lyric and epic poems written in Czech was announced on 16 September 1817,1 this caused a real sensation in Prague’s social circles interested in Czech and by extension, Slavonic literature and languages. The discovery was welcomed not only by men of letters but also by representatives of the provincial nobi lity and the Czech-speaking bourgeoisie that was rapidly growing stronger in economic terms. The discovery stirred up widespread interest also beyond the borders of the Czech Lands, particularly in Slavonic-speaking regions. Songs and poems depicting heroic and poetic eras of Czech prehistory became very rapidly a medium for a completely new formulation of social identity based on language and nationality. The fact that the texts were recent forgeries

1 An informative study of the Czech manuscript forgeries was published in English by Milan Otáhal, “The Manuscript Controversy in the Czech National Revival,” Cross Currents: A Yearbook of Central European Culture 5 (1986), 247–77. See also Pavlína Rychterová, “Die Anfänge des tschechischen Mittelalters und ihre Rolle beim Aufbau der nationaltsche chischen Identität im 19. Jahrhundert,” in Helmut Reimitz & Bernhard Zeller (eds.), Vergangenheit und Vergegenwärtigung, (Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters) 15 (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2009), 241–52. A sum mary of the research concerning the Manuscripts was published by Mojmír Otruba (ed.), Rukopisy královédvorský and zelenohorský. Dnešní stav poznání (Prague: Academia, 1969).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_002 4 rychterovÁ did not diminish in any way their potential in the given direction and in fact developed it further: No authentic medieval text could offer such wide scope in the development of a brand new system of symbolic articulations of a nation ally defined identity that would have the potential to reach and appeal not only to a narrow circle of academics but in fact to all strata of society. The advent of the national language pseudo-medieval poetry had been stimulated by several key factors. Besides new philosophical ideas rapidly spreading from France and Germany in the era of the Napoleonic wars, a cir cle of scholars existed who in the last third of the eighteenth century insti tuted under the direction of Josef Dobrovský historical, linguistic and literary research into the Slavonic languages. Over several decades they gathered a quantity of data that sufficed not only to understand medieval texts but also to imitate them very well. Another key factor was the patronage and orga nisation commitment of influential representatives of the provincial nobility, seeking at that time new possibilities of articulating their own identity within the Habsburg monarchy. Both were expressions of the multilayered political, cultural and economic transformation of Central and Eastern Europe in con sequence of the Theresian and Josephine reforms in the second half of the eighteenth century. The reformed Josephine school system, the educational efforts of the first generation of philologists and historians and the patronage of aristocratic families controlling the economic and financial resources of the country, all this gave rise in the first decades of the nineteenth century to a new stratum of educated persons who moved within completely different systems of loyalties and ambitions than the preceding generations. The character of the revolutionary changes that society was going through at the time is well illustrated by the careers of two protagonists of the story of the Czech forger ies. They were the founders of Slavonic studies, Josef Dobrovský (1753–1829) and his direct (and for a long time favoured) pupil Václav Hanka (1791–1861), a patriotic intellectual and the spiritual father of the most important Czech literary forgeries. Apart from the patronage of the provincial noble families, church institu tions played a central part in Dobrovský’s career.2 This promising student of

2 On the personality and works of Josef Dobrovský see Milan Machovec, Josef Dobrovský (Prague: Akropolis, 1964, 22004); cf. Hugh LeCaine Agnew, Origins of the Czech National Renascence (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1993) and Edward Keenan, Josef Dobrovský and the origins of the Igor’s Tale (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 2003). Regarding the controversial thesis of E. Keenan on Dobrovský as author of Igor’s Tale see Hugh L. Agnew, “Josef Dobrovský. Enlightened Hyper-Critic or Pre-Romantic Forger?”, Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 6 (2005), 845–55. More details about Dobrovský’s career in Pavlína Rychterová, “The Czech Linguistic Turn: Origins of Modern The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 5 theology and philosophy decided in 1772 to devote his life to scientific research and joined the Jesuit Order, which offered then the best opportunities for the development of his scientific personality. The quality of its educational insti tutions and libraries and the extremely well-ordered international network opened to the young classical philologist immensely attractive possibilities for his future scholarly career. Although the order was abolished a year later, Dobrovský remained anchored in church institutions. Towards the end of the seventies he was rector of the general seminary in Hradisko near Olomouc. After its closure he worked as a private scholar, supported largely by the noble Nostitz family, while staying in touch with his former pupils and colleagues from Hradisko. He found much documentation for his research into the history of Slavonic literatures through their help. It is likely that Dobrovský’s extraordi nary ability to form and maintain a multilevel international network of schol ars had its basis in his experiences and contacts acquired in the Nostitz family salon and in the church institutions that were closed down as a result of the Josephine reforms. His future pupils and those of his colleagues from Jesuit and priest seminaries were no longer future priests but graduates from Theresian and Josephine higher education institutes. For them, therefore, Latin had lost its dominant status in favour of German, which had become the sole official language of the monarchy under Joseph ii. Students whose mother tongue was not German suddenly started their professional careers with a considerable handicap which evidently played a significant part in the formation of stu dents into nationally defined groups.3 Václav Hanka (1791–1861) was a remarkable product of the new educa tional system. He was the youngest and evidently very gifted son of an East Bohemian fairly wealthy farmer. In 1804 he became a gymnasium student in Hradec Králové, whence he moved in 1809 to Prague to prepare through fur ther study at the Faculty of Philosophy of University of Prague his taking the

Czech Philology 1780–1840,” in Manufacturing Middle Ages. Entangled History of Medievalism in Nineteenth-Century Europe, ed. by Patrick Geary and Gábor Klaniczay (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 259–78. 3 The co-author of the Czech literary forgeries, the linguist Josef Jungmann also recalled his troubles with German early on in his studies: A Czech, according to him, unlike a German, must put in much more effort and money to have at least a hope of an administrative career. The teaching of this language in schools is also highly imperfect and in the end, one leav ing the school is “a poor devil, just as he was when he went in, only a little denser.” Josef Jungmann, “Rozmlouvání o jazyku českém ii,” in Hlasatel český (1806), quoted by Josef Hanuš, “Počátky novočeské romantiky,” in Josef Hanuš, Jan Jakubec, Jan Máchal & Jaroslav Vlček (eds.), Literatura česká devatenáctého století I. Od Dobrovského k Jungmannově škole básnické (Prague: Laichter 21911), 625–26. See also Rychterová, “The Czech Linguistic Turn.” 6 rychterovÁ cloth. Once in Prague Hanka quickly established contacts with students from aristocratic families, the members of a circle of lovers of the Czech language and he changed his plans. With help from influential benefactors he wanted to educate himself further for a career in provincial administration. What part in this choice his language handicap could have played cannot be established. He claimed that he knew no German before he went to the gymnasium, which is unlikely because its knowledge was essential for successful graduation from any higher school, but that seems to be part of the self-stylization in his auto biography.4 In his later career Hanka very much invented stories about his pre vious life in the best style of the romantics, presenting himself as a naturally talented patriotic self-taught Slavophile. Not even his contemporaries could be sure whether the stories he told about his childhood and adolescence had any real foundation. He said, for example, that until the age of sixteen he was an illiterate shepherd boy and only began to study for fear of being conscripted, that as a child he learned Slavonic languages from Galician uhlans, Slovak tinkers and Balkan lemon sellers passing through his home town, and that he inherited his love for Czech poetry from his simple peasant mother who loved folk songs and read “Czech books.”5 To what degree can this tendency to mislead people about one’s own past be viewed as significant for the period is not quite clear, although to some extent it certainly can.6 It is a fact that

4 The article written by A. A. Glückselig, “Venceslav Hanka, ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Cultur und National-Literatur Böhmens und der Slaven überhaupt,” in Libussa 11 (1852), 285–369 is in fact Hanka’s autobiography. A more reliable source for Hanka’s biography is probably his correspondence, exploited by Josef Hanuš, “Počátky” (n. 3), 719–85. 5 The poet Vítězslav Hálek depicted Hanka in his obituary as a real Rousseauesque hero: “Hanka, like the majority of benefactors of our nation, was born in a shanty. A man of the people he was and so he remained until his death. Frankness, modesty, unfeigned simplicity, appealing cordiality were at home with him. (. . .) He was born into the peasantry and until he was sixteen he herded his father’s flocks. We can say, then, that he was born in Arcadia, although the Arcadian life did not support education. It was only in the winter that he could visit the parish school and have fun with tinkers staying in his parents’ house and Krajinian lemon sellers, Galician uhlans and Serbian frontier dwellers broadened his language skills, and folk songs inspired his feelings but all this was unconscious. Chance called him to study.” (Vítězslav Hálek, “Váceslav Hanka,” Národní Listy 16 (16 January 1861), 1. 6 Another one to have falsified his past was Josef Jungmann. He described his interest in the Czech language and literature as a sudden “awakening” when he was invited as a university student to stay with relatives in the country. During a family reunion everyone spoke Czech which he did not understand. One of his country cousins laughed at him and he felt ashamed and firmly resolved to master his mother tongue. This memory of Jungmann is contradicted by the information he has given elsewhere that he as a Czech had extraordinary trouble with German at school. This is probable: He had to repeat the first gymnasium form twice (see The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 7 aristocratic salons then opened their doors to men whose origins were not exactly illustrious but who had special knowledge and skills.7 Their success depended on the degree to which they could bring their capabilities to frui tion and turn them into political and economic assets. The self-stylisation as a “noble sauvage” meant for these people an important symbolical capital which could make them exceptional in the society of well-educated noblemen, all of whom had learnt Rousseau’s and Herder’s writings by heart. Václav Hanka demonstrated an extraordinary talent in this respect. It was in all probability part of his preparations for the new career that Hanka went to Vienna to study law in 1813, with support from some provin cial aristocratic patriots. He only stayed at the University of Vienna for just under a year and returned to Prague as the fresh author of a poetry anthology which very rapidly met with general acclaim.8 Before leaving for Vienna his fellow university student, later a distinguished patriotic writer Václav Kliment Klicpera, introduced him to Josef Dobrovský, whose recommendations were of great importance to Hanka in Vienna (he collaborated for a while with Jernej Kopitar who introduced him to the circle of romantics around August Wilhelm Schlegel). After his return the extremely active Hanka soon became Dobrovský’s indispensable pupil and collaborator: He organised his private lec tures and participated in them as assistant, and as time went by he gradually

above, n. 3). Jungmann’s self-styling in the anecdote about his “national awakening” corre sponds very well with Hanka’s self-styling and the romantic Herderian myth of the “simple natural man” as instinctive owners of the “truth.” In this case the “natural unspoilt man” is represented by a country woman who teaches the young student from Prague a moral les son on “real” patriotism. This romantic literary type was brought to perfection by Božena Němcová in her mystifying autobiographic novel Babička [The Grandmother] (Prague: Nákladem Jaroslava Pospíšila, 1855). See Václav Černý, Knížka o Babičce (Prague: Lidová demokracie, 1963). 7 An excellent example of an extraordinary social rise is again Josef Jungmann: This son of a poor shoemaker was only in 1799, in the last year of his law studies, taken off the list of serfs at the Křivoklát estate. In the same year he took up a teaching post at a gymnasium in Litoměřice and a year later, he married the daughter of a well-to-do Litoměřice family of noble origin. See Mojmír Otruba, “Josef Jungmann,” in Vladimír Frost (ed.), Lexikon české literatury, 2/I, H–J (Prague: Academia, 1993), 580–86, here 581. 8 Václav Hanka, Dvanáctero písní (Prague: Cjs. král. normálnj impressj, 1815). The literary scholar Josef Hanuš characterised Hanka’s verses as follows: “Their folksy nature, idyllic naïveté, erotic content and airy form won them considerable popularity, (. . .) many became folk poems. Hanka’s epic poems and several occasional verses from later times (e.g. from 1848) no longer had these qualities and popularity.” See “Hanka Václav”, in Ottův slovník naučný. Illustrovaná encyklopaedie obecných vědomostí 10 (Gens – Hedwigia) (Prague: Otto, 1896), 845–48, here 845. 8 rychterovÁ took them over. He edited Dobrovský’s works and raised funds to publish his writings. He himself contributed with redactions of medieval national literary documents from Dobrovský’s collections,9 Czech translations from Slavonic literature10 and minor historiographic11 and linguistic works, largely compila tions from works of Dobrovský and other authors.12 At the time that Hanka was close to Dobrovský and as a result of his organ isational and literary activities became an increasingly revered member of the society of influential Prague patriots (he was for example a sought-after writer of occasional laudatory poems and odes to noble sponsors), the Czech estate society, in cooperation with the patriotic scientific elite, prepared the foundation of a provincial museum which took place in May 1818. The enter prise had the support of the most highly placed Czech aristocratic families, Counts František and Kašpar Šternberk, Count Franz Klebelsberg, Prince Isidor Lobkovic, Count Hartmann, and the imperial governor in Bohemia, highest burgrave of Prague, Count František Kolovrat-Libštejnský. Donations from these nobles constituted the core of the collections of the new institu tion: they included the library of Count Josef Kolovrat-Krakovský of Březnice, the coin cabinet of Count František Šternberk and the natural science and his tory collections of Counts Josef Vratislav and Franz Hartig. Administration of the museum was entrusted to Counts Šternberk and Josef Dobrovský. Václav Hanka obtained through their patronage a job in the museum as cataloguer of the manuscript collections, which later changed to the respected and well paid post of librarian at the Czech Museum that Hanka held until his death in 1861. Getting an important post in the administration of the museum, then the most important cultural centre in the country, was beyond any doubt helped by Hankas’s spectacular “discovery” of the Manuscript of Königinhof. The cir cumstances of the find bear witness to Hanka’s extraordinary mystification skills. The ambitiousness of the whole enterprise far surpassed the previous

9 Václav Hanka, Starobylá skládanie. Památka 13. a 14. věku z nejvzácnějších rukopisóv, 3 vols. (Prague: Kronberg, 1817–18). 10 Václav Hanka (ed.), Prostonárodní serbská Musa do Čech převedená. Částka I (Prague: Česká Akademie Císaře Františka Josefa, 1817) contained translations of eight Serbian songs from the collection of Vuk Karadžič. A year later Hanka also published a selected translation of Salomon Gessner’s Idylls. 11 Václav Hanka published a historiographical compilation Krátká historie slovanských národů (Prague: Bohumil Háze, 1818); id., Krátké vypsání Rusie and jejího vojska (Prague: České muzeum, 1815) was published by him while Russian armies were passing through Bohemia and Prague. 12 Václav Hanka, Pravopis český podlé Základu Gramatyky Dobrowského (Prague: Bohumil Háze, 1817). The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 9 successful attempt to pass off a literary forgery in public. The Manuscript of the Song of Vyšehrad (1816) contained a sort of a Czech “Minnelied,” dating back approximately to the first half of the thirteenth century:13 Hanka’s intimate friend, writer, journalist and most likely “accomplice” in all the later forgeries of note, Josef Linda, was supposed to discover the parchment in some ancient portfolio he is said to have used as support for his desk at home. This bizarre story suggests that the forgery was not meant quite seriously although it did succeed. In the case of the Manuscript of Königinhof the outstanding organiser Václav Hanka left nothing to chance. Most of the “medieval” Czech poems that constitute the contents of the Manuscript were also drafted by Hanka’s peer, the novelist and poet Josef Linda14 and the translator and specialist in linguistics, Josef Jungmann, who was a generation older.15 None of them ever admitted to their authorship,16 but it follows from the character of the texts of the Manuscript, whose language and style correspond to their other works. The recasting of the poems in the ancient form of the language was evidently a collective effort, too. To do so, the authors used both Dobrovský’s knowledge of medieval Czech (they were all his pupils) and their own studies on Slavonic languages. The texts contain many neologisms, uncommon compounds, Russianisms and other Slavisms that both Hanka and Jungmann liked to employ in their works and especially translations. In addition to Hanka who was probably the only “scribe,” some one else took part in the production of the manuscript, his friend, painter and

13 The text was however a translation of a Russian poem from the collections of Mikhail Chulkov. See Jan Máchal, “Hankovy Ohlasy písní ruských. Příspěvek k dějinám prove nience rk,” Listy filologické 26 (1899), 30–47. 14 For the more details see Lenka Kusáková, “Josef Linda,” in Vladimír Frost (ed.), Lexikon české literatury 2/ii K–L (Prague: Academia, 1993), 1185–87. 15 Jungmann’s translations of canonical works of the world literature of the period pro foundly influenced the modern form of Czech. He introduced a great many neologisms, largely derived from other Slavonic languages, which were used by subsequent genera tions of writers in their works. The pioneering work was the Czech-German dictionary published in 1834–39 (5 volumes). See above, nn. 3, 5, and below, n. 20. See also Rychterová, “The Czech Linguistic Turn,” 311–16. Concerning the thesis of Jungmann’s co-authorship of the Manuscript of Königinhof and the Manuscript of Grünberg see Otruba, “Jungmann” (see above, n. 7). 16 Josef Linda left behind a “literary” confession, as it were: In 1823 he included two poems from The Manuscript of Königinhof in an anthology of his works in which he declared that everything in it was his exclusive property. See František Michálek Bartoš, Rukopisy, (Knihovna Svazu Národního osvobozeni) 116 (Prague: Svaz Národního osvobození, 1936), 31. 10 rychterovÁ restorer of medieval panel paintings František Horčička, who had consider able experience of ancient painting techniques (he restored rare paintings by Master Theodoric of the Chapel of the Holy Cross at Karlstejn Castle). It was he who fashioned the richly decorated pseudo-medieval initials in the manuscript.17 The impression of authenticity was heightened by the concep tion of the manuscript as an accidentally preserved fragment of an originally extensive codex. The “extant” manuscript represents a set of twelve loose parchment leaves with 13 complete and one incomplete poems,18 where the first composition has no beginning and the following text is marked as Chapter 26, Volume Three.19 The Manuscript of Königinhof was therefore a collective effort of several extraordinarily gifted and exceptionally well educated people. The four actors had also in common modest origins and close links to aristocratic provincial elites (Hanka, Linda, and Jungmann worked as tutors and teachers in Czech aristocratic families while Horčička was much in demand as a portrait painter).

17 The Manuscript was highly regarded in its time for its artistic value. Fine initials with original graphic design and colour scheme had no parallel in any other medieval manu scripts and led Czech experts on palaeography and codicology to the theory of a specific writing and painting school in Bohemia in the tenth to the fourteenth century. This idea persisted for a long time because it was backed by a number of Hanka’s minor forger ies: He inscribed in original medieval manuscripts Czech names of fictitious scribes and illuminators. One of the forgeries is in a richly illuminated breviary from the second half of the fourteenth century made at the court of Charles iv. (Prague, Národní knihovna, xiii A 12). The codex was donated in 1826 to the Czech Museum Library and was thus administered by Hanka. Most of the imaginary artists were created by Hanka using a list of Prague traders extant from the fourteenth to the fifteenth century, so the “signatures” in the codices appeared to agree with real persons and artisan families. The forgeries could only be detected by careful palaeographic examination of the entries which was far from easy until the end of the 1860s. There were few experts on palaeography and Hanka as the museum librarian himself decided to whom he would provide the manuscripts for viewing. He carefully picked his visitors and sometimes relied on foreign scholars who knew little about medieval manuscript production of Bohemian origin and upheld the authenticity of the forgeries with their authority. Such might have been the case with his invitation of Ferenc Toldy from Hungary, about whom see the study of Péter Dávidházi in this volume, who has a slightly different view on the authorship of this forgery. 18 The manuscript contains six epic compositions (Oldřich, Beneš Heřmanóv, Jaroslav, Čestmír and Vlaslav, Ludiše and Lubor, Záboj), two lyric-epic (Zbyhoň, Jelen) and six lyric compositions (Kytice, Jahody, Róže, Žezhulice, Opuštěná, Skřivánek). The epic composi tions account for more than four fifths of the text. 19 As he was conceiving the whole work, Hanka probably drew on an authentic codex from the mid-fourteenth century containing a set of Czech prayers and satires in verse, The Manuscript of Hradec Králové. Hanka published the texts of the codex in 1817. See Adolf Patera (ed.), Hradecký rukopis (Prague: Matice česká 1881). The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 11

With the help of the Manuscript they profited from their education in a way that would not have been conceivable a few decades earlier, and for many reasons.20 The increased activity of the Czech philologists was probably due, in part, to a government ordinance from 1816 in support of teaching of the Czech language in secondary schools.21 Though it was revoked five years later, in the period in question it could have offered the circle of less affluent Czech intel lectuals hopes of a future academic career and permanent financial security. Hanka was the only one to have directly profited from the medieval forgery as he was celebrated in Bohemia and beyond its borders as the discoverer of the manuscript and its first publisher (the manuscript inter alia helped Hanka to establish close links to an influential Russian statesman, president of the Russian Academy of Sciences Alexander Shishkov), but others profited from it as well. The discovery of the heroic poems about the Czech and Slavonic prehistory (the language of the manuscript was intentionally composed of elements of Slavonic languages, with frequent Russianisms, Serbianisms and paleo-Slavonisms) legitimised scholarly specialisation in Slavonic literature, which won international fame, that would otherwise have been difficult to come by in the reduced Czech circumstances despite the romantic patriotism of some nobles. The glory that Friedrich Schlegel basked in for his lectures on the Nibelungs in Berlin and his brother August for lectures on Calderón and Shakespeare in Vienna could now be won by young ambitious Slav philologists in Bohemia.22

20 The career advancement of Josef Jungmann is remarkable in this respect. He came from a humble background and like Hanka and Linda he began his studies with the goal of becoming a priest, which he changed during his studies for the prospect of a career in state bureaucracy. He therefore studied law like the other two. In 1799 he got a teaching job at the gymnasium in Litoměřice and after sixteen years and repeated attempts he rose to the Academic Gymnasium in Prague. It was only then that his work in the field of Czech language and literature received official recognition. In 1827 he was elected dean of the philosophic faculty and in 1834 he was appointed head of the gymnasium and later elected rector of Prague University. For his opus magnum, a Czech-German Dictionary, he received in 1840 praise from the emperor. See Otruba, “Jungmann,” (see above, n. 7). See also Rychterová, “The Czech Linguistic Turn,” 311–13. 21 See Hanuš, “Počátky,” 818. 22 Josef Hanuš, Rukopisové Zelenohorský a Kralovodvorský: památka z xix. věku (Světová kni hovna), 993–995 (Prague: J. Otto 1911) 34. The works of the Schlegel brothers were read by Czech writers and linguists in general very attentively, in particular a treatise by Friedrich Schlegel, Sprache und Weisheit der Inder (Heidelberg: Mohr & Zimmer 1808) and prob ably also his brother’s translations from the Bhagavad Gita. Josef Jungmann created in his Historie literatury české aneb Soustavný přehled spisů českých, s krátkou historií národu, osvícení and jazyka (Prague: Písmem A. Straširypky, 1825) a theory of close relations of Indians and Slavs: “One can surmise that the name Vinds (that is “Indians”) was only 12 rychterovÁ

The discovery of the manuscript fragment was staged by Václav Hanka within the circle of his friends and supports in his native region, in Königinhof, where he was in close contact with his former fellow student, the municipal lawyer Jan Sklenčka. He probably introduced Hanka to the society of local dig nitaries whose members became eyewitnesses of the discovery of the manu script in the cellar of the tower of the deanery on 16 September 1817. These people retold the “story of the discovery” and attested with their authority to the authenticity of the manuscripts again and again, over the following decades.23 Hanka received the manuscript from the municipality as a dona tion and immediately set to work to promote it. A day after the “discovery” he announced the event in a letter to Josef Dobrovský,24 who was paying a

given to the Slavs by foreign nations for they were similar to the Indians in language, reli gion and morals.” Likewise, Slav gods were supposed to be a specific form of the Indian pantheon (according to him, the name of the Slav god Perun was originally “Brahma”). See Hanuš, Rukopisové, 32–33. These ideas were shared at the same time by the Polish philologist Ignac Rakowiecki. A direct line leads from their fantasies about Indian Slavs and Slavonic Indians to the forged Slavic-Sarmatian Chronicle of Prokosz writen by Polish writer Przbyslaw Dyjamentowski (first published in 1825) and the famous Slavic Vedas. 23 An interesting testimony dating from 1867 is extant. A citizen of Dvůr Králové, Jan Šafr, at the age of fourteen reportedly was present at the discovery and accompanied Hanka, lawyer Sklenčka, chaplain Pankrác Borč and municipal clerk Tinus to the cellar in ques tion. It is said that no one else could have entered except the sexton who had the keys as there was a very complicated lock, “which not even marauding Prussians had unlocked during the Seven Year War.” This account was understandably to rule out the possibility that Hanka himself or his friends had put the manuscript in the cellar before the “discov ery”: “. . . [Hanka] wanted to look at some old books in a cabinet in the cellar. Mr Borč, who was of a particular size, reached inside and took one hymn-book and pulled it down with difficulty because of its size. Some parchment sheets suddenly fell down, covered with dust, to my feet, I picked them up and handed them to Mr Borč, who said that it was probably some Latin prayers and handed them to Hanka. He also said in the cellar that it was some hymns and to take a close look, they all went upstairs to the organ loft. The dossier was carried by Mr Hanka and as he examined it with a joyful face, he said ‘Now I know what shall be’.” (Padesátiletá slavnost objevení Rukopisu Kralodvorského, odbývaná ve dvoře Králové on 28., 29. and 30. září 1867 (Prague: Gregr, 1867), 31–32. 24 The surprising detailed knowledge of the manuscript in this express letter to Dobrovský caused the distinguished philologist Alois Šembera to begin to doubt the authenticity of the Manuscript of Königinhof. In his analyses dating from 1879–80 under the telling titles Libušin soud, domnělá nejstarší památka řeči české, jest podvržen (Vienna: Im Selbstverlag, 1879) and Kdo sepsal Kralodvorský rukopis roku 1817? (Vienna: Im Selbstverlag, 1880) he raised a storm of controversy over the manuscript that a circle of historians and linguists gathered around Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk ended a decade later. (See below, n. 73) The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 13 visit to Count František of Šternberk. The Count would also surely be pleased, wrote Hanka, since the discovery contained a beautiful poem about his famous ancestor, Jaroslav of Šternberk.25 The time and the place could not have been more auspicious. Dobrovský, excited about the marvellous discovery and driven by the desire to please his noble sponsor, presented and celebrated the Мanuscript in the second edition of Geschichte der tschechischen Sprache und Literatur (1818), recommended it to Joseph Georg Meinert for rapid publica tion in the influential Wiener Jahrbücher für die Literatur26 and personally sent Hanka’s first edition27 to Alexander Shishkov, who published the text together with his own translation two years later. Accompanied thus by Dobrovský’s, Meinert’s and Shishkov’s recommendation, the Мanuscript was received with out any problem by most of the European scientific community. Nevertheless, the poems of the Manuscript of Königinhof gave only a second- hand account of Slavonic and Czech prehistory for it harked back to the thirteenth century, although some of them suggested in different ways a much older origin. They clearly belonged to the genres of the medieval love song (Minnesang) and heroic epic modelled on the early medieval Song of the Nibelungs or Song of Roland.28 The epic poems were directly inspired by the Tale of Igor’s Campaign,29 while the lyric texts were borrowed by Hanka from

25 The count was really flattered. When he thanked Hanka a year later for a copy of the first edition of the Manuscript of Königinhof sent to him, he wrote, “Dear Sir, . . . the book must be even more precious to me as it contains a worthy remembrance of our indomitable forebear Jaroslav, couched in the most beautiful ancient Czech.” See Bartoš, Rukopisy, 35–6. 26 Count Šternberk received a bibliophile edition of the manuscript text with Meinert’s German translation. Meinert’s laudatory text presenting the publication in Wiener Jahrbücher der Literatur was likewise intended as homage to the noble patron. 27 Václav Hanka (ed.), Rukopis Králodworský. Sebránj lyricko-epických Národnjch Zpěwů, wěrně w půwodnjm starém gazyku, též w obnoweném pro snadněgšj wyrozuměnj, s připogenjm německého přeloženj. Starobylých skládánj djl zwláštnj.—Die Königinhofer Handschrift. Eine Sammlung lyrisch-epischer Nationalgesänge, trans. Václav Svoboda (Prague: Haase, 1819). Although the edition bears the imprint date 1819 it was already on the market in 1818. 28 Philologist Julius Fejfalik, Über die Königinhofer Handschrift (Vienna: Gerold, 1860), believed that the epics of the Manuscript of Königinhof were written by Hanka and his followers in German. This hypothesis has not been confirmed, however. See also ibid., Über König Wenzel von Böhmen als deutschen Liederdichter und über Unechtheit der alt- böhmischen Píseň milostná krále Václava I. (Vienna: K.K. Hof- und Staatsdruckerei, 1858). 29 The Tale of Igor’s Campaign was published by Hanka in Roman type with his own Czech translation and a German translation in December, 1820. Václav Hanka, Igor Svatoslavič. Hrdinský zpěv o tažení proti Polovcům (Prague: Haase, 1821) 14 rychterovÁ the collections of Russian songs by Mikhail Chulkov which he owned.30 It was in the first place evidence of the ancient nature of general Slavonic literature and “culture.” The texts of the Manuscript could be used as direct “political” argument on the level of Slav mutuality and as legitimacy of Russian cultural and political protectionism directed at the Slavonic regions of Central Eastern and Southern Europe.31 The strong anti-German character of most of the epic texts,32 reflecting at least to some degree real animosity, especially marked within the class whose financial security and career advancement depended on the state authorities, provided at least some material for the formulation of a nationally defined political programme inside the monarchy. The texts contain occasional blistering anti-German attacks that would in other than “historical” texts fall victim to censorship.33 Although it was possible to distil from the texts information about the character of the political and legal sys tem of the medieval Czech “state,” it was not unambiguous. Nonetheless, only proof of the ancientness of the Czech state could give the Czech aristocratic

30 See above, n. 13. 31 Some representants of Russian politico-cultural elites really perceived the Manuscript of Königinhof in this way. See Hanuš, “Počátky,” 761–70. 32 The poem Čestmír deals with an episode from a mythical period in Czech history, a battle in which the title hero decides a battle between mythical Přemyslid Prince Neklan and just as mythical “alien” Prince Vnislav in favour of the Czech prince (Cosmas’ story has its model in Virgil’s Aeneid). The epics Jaroslav and Oldřich depict later events, namely plundering in Moravia during the Mongol invasion after the battle of Liegnitz in 1241 and occupation of Prague by the troops of Boleslaus the Brave in 1004. Both events were cho sen by the authors from medieval Czech chronicles. The epics Záboj, Slavoj and Beneš Heřmanóv have no support in any medieval texts. The first two narrate the victory of two singers who are also knights over an unidentified “alien” king who had invaded their land. Beneš Heřmanóv recounts the victory of the title hero over unidentified Saxon invaders. See Jaroslav Kašpar (ed.), “Rukopisy královédvorský and Zelenohorský—paleografický přepis,” in Otruba, Rukopisy, 279–314. 33 The narrations of the heroic fights of Czech counts and princes against German raid ers seemed authentic because they corresponded very well, at first sight, to the Czech chronicle in verse by a certain Dalimil from the first decades of the fourteenth century. Dalimil’s “anti-German” chronicle is regarded by present-day historiography as an expres sion of Czech “proto-nationalism,” unique in Europe at the time. Dalimil’s chronicle belongs however much more to the medieval genre of the chanson de geste than to the historiographic genre, and “Germans” in its narrative play more or less the same role as in the chanson de geste “Saracens.” They have evidently little or nothing in common with the German-speaking inhabitants of the Kingdom of Bohemia at that time. The subtle problem of genre classification of Dalimil’s narration is still waiting for a sound analysis, however. The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 15 community an argument meeting their current political demands. This task was fulfilled in every direction by the other manuscript forgery, the Judgment of Libuše, a.k.a. the Manuscript of Grünberg.34 It was a manuscript fragment again, much shorter this time (four parch ment leaves), containing a poetic composition depicting the rule of Princess Libuše in a dispute between two brothers (noblemen) over an inheritance. The manuscript was sent anonymously in November 1818 to the most distinguished addressee, Bohemian governor Count František Kolovrat-Libštejnský, for the nascent Czech Museum. With its language and physical form it harked back to a time before the Byzantine mission, i.e. the eighth and the ninth century. Authors of the text were evidently those of the Manuscript of Königinhof: Inter alia, in both manuscripts there are very similar stylistic sources of inspiration (The Tale of Igor’s Campaign, Milton’s Paradise Lost and Chateaubriand’s Atala, both in translation by Josef Jungmann) and the text is cast in decasyllabic verse typical of Serb poetry. In medieval Czech poetry it is not documented, but at the time when the content of the manuscript was produced Hanka pub lished a selection of Czech translations from the collections of Vuk Stefanovič Karadžič, proceeding in the same way as with the Manuscript of Grünberg.35 The story of the “Judgment of Libuše” was taken by the authors from Johann Gottfried Herder’s epic Die Fürstentafel, with some striking innovations in rela tion to Herder’s text and the medieval chronicles from which Herder adopted the story. The anecdote about the mythic prophetess Libuše, the end of her “female rule” and her marriage to the ploughman Přemysl, founder of the princely and royal dynasty of the Přemyslids, was told for the first time in the early decades of the twelfth century by Cosmas in his Chronica Bohemorum.36 All major medieval chroniclers living in Bohemia retold variations on Cosmas’s playful story (Libuše is depicted in Cosmas as a chaste priestess, and at the same time as an idle, sensuous woman with a secret love relationship). Václav Hájek of Libočany, a chronicler writing in Czech in the middle of the sixteenth century, rendered the most detailed version with imaginary exact dates of the

34 The alleged provenance of the (Grünberg) Μanuscript was only known from 1859. Until then it was only entitled the Judgment of Libuše, Bartoš, Rukopisy, 37. 35 Vuk Stefanovic Karadzic, Mala prostonarodna slavenoserbska pjesnarica (Vienna: J. Schnierer, 1814). Hanka’s translation in Jan Máchal (ed.), Hankovy Písně and Prostonárodní srbská múza, do Čech převedená (Prague: Česká akademie, 1918). 36 A nameless prophetess is mentioned in the so-called Kristián’s Legend originating prob ably in the first decades of the eleventh century. See the controversial thesis of Dušan Třeštík, Mýty starých Čechů (7.–10. století). Tři studie ke “Starým pověstem českým” (Prague: Lidové Noviny, 2003), 99–167. 16 rychterovÁ events. This was exploited by Herder as well as by the authors of the Manuscript of Grünberg.37 They retold the subversive and ribald story of Cosmas in a form in which it turned into a mythical pillar of Czech statehood. Libuše passed judgment on the brothers in dispute at the castle of her fore bears, “golden” Vyšehrad, not in her own seat (which Cosmas named Libín), sitting on a “gold” throne dressed in a dignified white robe (in Cosmas she is sprawled sensuously in a nest of pillows). By her side stand two “famed” priest esses, “educated in the art of prophecy,” one holding in her hands “tablets with the written laws” of the land (and nation), and the other the “sword of jus tice” as symbol of government. The scene is complemented by a “fire of truth” blazing in the middle of the hall with “holy” water underneath. Members of the curia who fill the hall are characterised by their place of origin. They are largely localised according to names of rivers and mountain ranges constitut ing the borders of the Czech late medieval state. As single regions controlled by “noblemen,” together they represent the territory of the Czech state approxi mately within the borders of the fourteenth and fifteenth century. All those present comment on the object of the dispute which is at the same time the principal message of the text. One of the brothers demands that the inheri tance be divided according to the “German” birthright. This demand is rejected unanimously by all. The brothers have to manage the property together, as “it is written in our law.”38 The resistance to “foreign” laws is clearly expressed by Prince Ratibor: “It is wrong to go for the truth to Germany; we have our own truth and holy laws which our ancestors brought with them [to the country].”39

37 Re Hájek’s chronicle, his sources and his aims, see Václav Flajšhans, “Kněz Václav Hájek z Libočan,” in Idem., (ed.), Václav Hájek z Libočan. Kronika česká podle originálu z roku 1541 I. Úvod. R. 644–904: Doba pohanská (Prague: České Akademie Císaře Františka Josefa, 1918), I–lxii. Hájek took the outline of his work from medieval Bohemian chronicles to which he occasionally refers in the text. He greatly embellished brief descriptions in his models, in part because he could invent great mythical ancestors for various noble patrons. The popularity of Hájek’s chronicle with the early romantics is probably related to the simi larly motivated interest in the past. Hájek’s narratives, not substantiated with sources, were analysed by the learned Piarist Gelasius Dobner in the 1780s, Dobrovský therefore passed over Hájek’s chronicle in the reconstruction of early medieval society in Bohemia. Concerning Hájek, see František Kutnar/Josef Marek, Přehledné dějiny českého and sloven- ského dějepisectví (Prague: Lidové Noviny, 1997), 147–52. 38 The character of the “German birthright” of the Manuscript is of course as imaginary as the character of the “written Slavic law”. See Jaroslav Mezník, “Rukopisy z hlediska historie,” in Otruba, Rukopisy, 147–78, and Vladimír Procházka, “Rukopisy a právní historie,” in ibid., 179–96. 39 Paleographic transcription of the text Manuscript of Grünberg was last published and annotated by Kašpar, “Rukopisy,” 315–22. The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 17

The point of the story is therefore to give evidence of the existence of an advanced pre-Christian Slav social system (written law, a “democratic” ruling structure), much superior to the “German” social system of the Merovingian and Carolingian epoch. In this system the nobles share with the ruler land governance in equal parts and control a “state” of the same size and within the same borders as the Kingdom of Bohemia within the Habsburg monarchy. Just as the Manuscript of Königinhof celebrated mythical ancestors of the influential Šternberk and Wallenstein family (the poems Jaroslav and Beneš Heřmanóv), the Manuscript of Grünberg created a line of descent from the eighth century for other Czech noble families, above all the no less influential Lobkovic: The protagonists of the story, the disputing brothers, come from their family. The Manuscript of Grünberg unlike the texts of the Manuscript of Königinhof, essentially meant the necessity to rewrite early Czech history in its entirety. The texts of the Manuscript of Grünberg “revealed” that the conclusions of Josef Dobrovský about early Slavonic culture were utterly mistaken. In his Geschichte der böhmischen Sprache Dobrovský (correctly) stated that it was impossible to obtain any information about the Slavonic social system and education from the time before the Byzantine mission as it was a society with out written culture.40 The Manuscript of Grünberg gave to the new generation, and in the first place to one of the likely authors Josef Jungmann, a unique opportunity to write the history of the Czech language and literature again, this time a testimony which no longer strove to get to know the past but to interpret the present as a natural consequence of it for the sake of the creation of the future.41

The Controversy

The parchment fragment was sent to Josef Dobrovský for his opinion, and the great picture of the Bohemian and Slavonic prehistory, so much at variance with his own findings, and above all the fantastic language and the lettering in the manuscript, aroused his suspicion. Dobrovský first tried to act behind closed doors and succeeded in preventing the suspicious manuscript from being accepted into the manuscript collections of the Czech Museum, and prevented its publication. Václav Hanka arranged for its publication, however,

40 Josef Dobrovský, Geschichte der böhmischen Sprache, 1791, repr. in Benjamin Jedlička (ed.), Josef Dobrovský, Dějiny české řeči and literatury v redakcích z roku 1791, 1792 and 1818, (Spisy and projevy Josefa Dobrovského) 7 (Prague: Melantrich, 1936), 316. 41 Josef Jungmann, Historie literatury české aneb Soustavný přehled spisů českých, s krátkou historií národu, osvícení and jazyka (Prague: Písmem A. Straširypky, 1825). 18 rychterovÁ with the assistance of Ignac Benedykt Rakowiecki in Warsaw in 1820. Alexander Shishkov used the edition of Rakowiecki for his own publication in Russian.42 Only after obtaining thus permission from abroad, did Josef Jungmann pub lish the text of the Manuscript of Grünberg in Prague. Dobrovský responded with harsh criticism in Archiv für Geschichte, Statistik, Literatur und Kunst43 and in Wiener Jahrbücher der Literatur,44 where he revealed that the model for the Manuscript of Grünberg was the text of the Manuscript of Königinhof and branded Hanka, Linda and Jungmann as the originators of the forgery. Conspicuously Jungmann and Hanka had “correctly” interpreted even those arcane verses in the manuscript whose meaning Dobrovský had not been able to establish. Dobrovský’s analysis, which was very precise, ended for a time the controversy over the authenticity of the Manuscript of Grünberg. Remarkable is the silence of Dobrovský about the Manuscript of Königinhof, the reason for which is not quite clear to scholars to this day.45 Whatever the cause may be, an important factor was certainly Dobrovský’s close link to the Šternberk family; the revelation of fraud would not only have deprived them of a famous

42 Ignac Benedykt Rakowiecki (ed.), Prawda Ruská czyli prawa wielkiego ziecia Jaroslawa Wladymirowicza tudziež traktaty Olgy y Igora w xx. Kiiowskich z cesarzami greckimi y Mscislawa Dawidowicza X. Smolenskiego z Ryga zawarte, których texta, obok z Polskiém tlomaczeniem poprzedza rys historyczny. Zwyczaiów, Obyczaiów, Religiy, Praw y Jezyka dawnych slowianskich y slowiansko-ruskich narodow, 2 vols. (Warszawa: xx. Piiarów 1820– 22). The text of the Manuscript of Grünberg is reproduced in both volumes of the book, and in the second volume it is supplemented by Russian translation. 43 Josef Dobrovský, “Literarischer Betrug,” Archiv für Geschichte, Statistik, Literatur und Kunst 15 (1824), 260: “It is hard to understand how someone could find the courage to present an evidently forged scribble containing the Judgment of Libuše in Czech verse to mislead not the learned world but several gullible ardent patriots who were most pleased to possess ancient memorabilia in their language. And this happens in a century in which we mock the privilege granted by Alexander to the Slavs, we mock the peace treaty recorded in stone between the Marcomanni and Slavs, we are ashamed of Arcani scientiae Czechicae; the prophecy of Libuše, put by Marignola into Latin hexameter, we regard as blatant flat tery; the ancient Polish chronicle of Nakor found around the year 1574 in a walled tomb we declare a fable; Russian Joachim and likewise the Hungarian notary Belas we brand as his torical forgeries, and the false Christian who pretended to be Boleslav’s son we unmasked only recently.” Dobrovský enumerates here the most famous recently exposed forgeries and forgers. 44 Josef Dobrovský, “Prawda Ruská,” Jahrbücher der Literatur 27 (1824), 88–119. The analysis of the Manuscript of Grünberg, on 95 and 99–114. 45 Very extravagant ideas were pronounced by E. Keenan. See above, n. 2. The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 19 forebear but would generally have called the public significance of the family into question.46 It was only after Dobrovský’s death in 1829 that the Manuscript of Grünberg became the springboard for all future considerations of the early Bohemian Middle Ages and a celebrated monument and cornerstone of national pride.47 František Palacký built on it his conception of the Slavonic origins of Czech history,48 on which he began to work at the request of the Czech nobility that financed his ambitious work. It seems as if the circle was closed: The new intel lectual elites of the first and second decade of the nineteenth century sought the support of the provincial nobility and offered in exchange a radiant tale about the origins of this nobility. Ten years later the tale had become the cor nerstone of a history, written by a scholar and thus a real part of the past of the nobility. But the whole bargain only marks a transitory stage in the develop ment of the role of medieval history in Czech society. The precipitated social differentiation and formation of the bourgeois political elites which first made their voice heard in the revolution in 1848, brought the forged manuscripts to a new public and new interpretations. At length the manuscripts became part of a completely new Czech national myth, the story of “national rena scence.” They were called the “palladium of the nation” and their authors took up in this narrative the lofty positions of “fathers of the nation.”49 It must also be stressed that the new generation of Czech-speaking cultural and political elites spent their childhood in a world in which the manuscripts were atop the highest pedestal of national self-identification, especially within the system of higher education:50 For gymnasium students living in an era obsessed with

46 See the sober and credible judgment in Bartoš, Rukopisy, 44. 47 See Christopher P. Storck, Kulturnation und Nationalkunst. Strategien und Mechanismen tschechischer Nationalbildung von 1860 bis 1914 (Köln: Wissenschaft und Politik, 2001), 97–100. 48 See Rychterová, “Die Anfänge” (see above, n. 1). 49 As part of the myth of the “national renascence” the forged epics represented an impor tant building block for the reference horizon of national self-realisation. As such they influenced the nascent literary and historic sciences and nationally defined art, on all social levels and discourses. See Vladimír Macura, Znamení zrodu. České obrození jako kul- turní typ (Prague: Českosl. Spisovatel, 1983); ibid., Český sen (Prague: nln, 1998). 50 At the time of the most acrid polemics over the authenticity of the Manuscripts in the mid-1880s, the Professor of Aesthetics at Prague University Otakar Hostinský described the importance of the Manuscripts in the teaching of literature at Czech gymnasiums and the attitude of university professors twenty years earlier. See Bartoš, Rukopisy, 10–11: “At the gymnasium they taught us that both Manuscripts were memorabilia not only genuine, elevated above any doubt, but also poetically perfect, and we soon got accustomed to 20 rychterovÁ romantic versification, identification with their Czech nature meant identifi cation with the Manuscripts.51 If we look from this angle at the history of the manuscript controversy as it occurred in the second half of the nineteenth century, its fierceness and implacability will be much easier to understand.52 Twenty years after Hanka’s spectacular discovery in Königinhof his aims and those of his co-authors and their unwitting “sponsors” played no significant part. The significance of the forged texts no longer consisted in their offering a spectrum of options for a renewed formulation of its own identity to the Czech nobility and unique legitimacy to the new intellectual elite, independent of the church but all the more dependent on the Austrian structures of the state apparatus. Only then the manuscript forgeries became what they have been to this day in the collec tive memory of the Czech nation: a “service for the young nation.” The transformation of the significance and perception of the manuscript forgeries was to a large extent the effort of František Palacký and his histo riographic work Geschichte von Böhmen. The first part of the book, leading up to 1197, was published in Prague in 1836 in German. The author dedicated it with gratitude to his noble patrons. As he worked on part two Palacký set up a modern professional historiographic workshop—with two assistants financed from the same source he began to publish sourced editions in the series Archiv český and collected the old charters for the Czech Codex Diplomaticus53 (many of his editions are still valid today). During his sojourn

viewing them as we viewed Homer. (. . .) Likewise, at the university we continued in that direction. (. . .) All the time it was presumed that the dispute over the authenticity of the Manuscripts was settled so perfectly that there was no need to go back to it. (. . .) Is it a sur prise that we believed so firmly in the authenticity of the Manuscripts as the fundamental national and patriotic dogma?” 51 “For the Manuscript of Königinhof we would have done anything in the world,” as the poet Svatopluk Čech recalled his student years filled with “cultural” rivalry with German students at Prague Piaristic gymnasium: “And it was to us a real palladion, our greatest pride and most potent weapon against the German comrades, whenever they bragged about the spiritual superiority of their nation over ours. In many other matters we had to concede, at least in spirit, with pain, the soundness of their reasoning, but there was one weapon that always helped us escape from the predicament: the precious ‘Manuscripts.’” Cited according to: Pavel Kosatík, “Sen o rukopisech ii,” Týden 31 (2003), 70–71. 52 Complete bibliography for the manuscript controversy was produced by Miroslav Laiske, “Bibliografie rkz,” in Otruba, Rukopisy, 323–408. 53 The first volume of Codex Diplomaticus was only published by Gustav Friedrich at the beginning of the twentieth century on the basis of Palacký’s collection. Gustav Friedrich (ed.), Codex diplomaticus et epistolaris regni Bohemiae 805–1197 (Prague: Sumptibus Comitiorum Regni Bohemiae 1904–7). The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 21 in France in 1844–45 Palacký moved toward liberalism, which could increas ingly provide opportunities in practical politics. Much influenced by the ideas of the French liberal politician, historian and political thinker François Guizot,54 he formulated a theory of three principles of the civil society: state centralisation, public opinion and nationality. The continued existence of feu dal estates was, according to Palacký, no longer possible in Bohemia, and rep resentatives of the aristocracy had to decide which of the profiling principles of the present they would follow.55 At the same time he started to work on a Czech version of the first and second volume of his history which he entitled emblematically “History of the Czech Nation in Bohemia and Moravia.” The first volume of the “national history” came out in 1848, presaging symboli cally a new phase of Czech national self-realisation, which was then becom ing increasingly removed from the Manuscripts and the context of the time of their production.56 It is an irony of fate that it was Palacký, the co-author and for a long time the principal pragmatic politician and philosopher of a specific Czech liberalism, who hampered the exclusion of the Manuscripts of Königinhof and Grünberg from the history of the early Czech state and nation for several decades. Several times in the Manuscript controversy in which the first critics were chiefly for eign scholars,57 it was precisely and solely Palacký who repeatedly (until his death in 1876) took the defence of the suspicious epics, putting on the scales all his vast scholarly and political authority.58 The reason was not only the fact

54 Concerning his person, see inter alia the study by Laurent Thiers, “Guizot et les institutions de mémoire,” in Pierre Nora (ed.), Les Lieux de mémoire ii. La Nation (Paris: Gallimard, 1986), 569–92. Concerning the influence Guizot had over Palacký see Josef Válka, “Palacký a francouzská liberální historiografie,” Sbírka prací Filosofické fakulty Brněnské univerzity C 33 (1986), 101–09. 55 Jiří Štajf, “Konceptualizace českých dějin Františka Palackého”, Český časopis historický 89 (1991), 172. 56 For the issue of nationalism in Central and Eastern Europe see Miroslav Hroch, Das Europa der Nationen. Die moderne Nationsbildung im europäischen Vergleich (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 2005). 57 There was a remarkable polemic between Palacký and the German historian Max Büdinger on the pages of Historische Zeitschrift. See Max Büdinger, “Die Königinhofer Handschrift und ihre Schwestern,” Historische Zeitschrift 1 (1859), 127–52 and 575–76; František Palacký, “Die altböhmischen Handschriften und ihre Kritik,” Historische Zeitschrift 2 (1859), 87–111; Max Büdinger, Die Königinhofer Handschrift und ihr Neuester Vertheidiger (Vienna: Gerold, 1859); id., “Entgegnung auf den Aufsatz des Herrn Palacký,” Historische Zeitschrift 2 (1859), 112–17. 58 The first dispute over the Manuscripts in which Palacký played first fiddle began as early as 1829 when Palacký published in Wiener Jahrbücher der Literatur his historical and 22 rychterovÁ that Palacký used the Manuscript of Grünberg as a central source of his inter pretation of the early medieval history of Bohemia, but that it also seemed to be confirmed by a number of similar ‘medieval relics’. The forgeries produced in the 1820s to the 1840s in the workshop of Václav Hanka made criticism of the two Manuscripts very difficult. They were all cre ated in support of their authenticity and it was therefore necessary to expose each one separately. The first of the “supportive” forgeries was at the same time the last literary falsification from Hanka’s group. The so-called Love Song of King Václav ii was discovered in 1819 in Prague’s University Library by the scribe J.W. Zimmerman. At the time, the library employed for a short time Josef Linda who most likely directed Zimmerman to the “discovery.” The poem was on a loose parchment sheet and its character dated it to the end of the thirteenth century. Hanka determined that the author was King Václav ii (1278–1305). This Přemyslid ruler was a famous patron of German Minnesang and roman tic historians believed that he was himself a poet. Václav Hanka expressed in the foreword to the first edition of the Manuscript of Königinhof his conviction that Václav ii wrote poems in Czech and his German guests translated them into German. Zimmerman’s discovery bore out his words. Not only similar lan guage linked the Love Song with the Manuscript of Königinhof. On the reverse of the parchment sheet there was a fragment of one of the lyric poems from the Manuscript. Dobrovský exposed it again as a forgery and as a result, Hanka could only publish the text in 1829.59

aesthetic analysis of both forgeries. The subsequent polemic with Kopitar and the phi lologist Jiří Palkovič resulted in a plan for an annotated edition of both manuscripts, in which the Slavic scholar Pavel Josef Šafařík participated in addition to Palacký. The work continued until 1840 when the Manuscript of Grünberg was published. Publication of the Manuscript of Königinhof never took place. The reason may have been differing opinions of the two publishers on its authenticity. Šafařík is also said to have bitterly regretted at the end of the fifties his part in the defence of the Manuscripts. See Bartoš, Rukopisy, 46–7. For details of Palacký in the controversy over the Manuscripts ibid., 46–85. 59 Conclusive proof that the Love Song was bogus was only put forward in 1857 by Julius Fejfalik who determined the sources: Erroneous editions of German medieval poetry from 1794 and 1803. Subsequent chemical test of the parchment and ink proved the forg ery beyond any doubt. Julius Fejfalik immediately afterwards hotly contested the authen ticity of the Manuscript of Königinhof. See Julius Fejfalik, “Über das sogenannte Minnelied Wenzel ii, mit besonderer Beziehung auf das im böhmischen Museum befindliche böh mische Manuskript und Nachweis von dessen Unechtheit,” Abhandlungen der Königlichen Böhmischen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften 10 (1856), 38; Idem, “Über König Wenzel von Böhmen als deutscher Liederdichter und über die Unechtheit der altböhmischen Píseň milostná Krále Václava ii. Zwei literar-historische Studien,” Sitzungsberichte der The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 23

All of Hanka’s subsequent forgeries were merely philological and were mainly proofs of the idiosyncratic medieval Czech typified by the Manuscripts of Königinhof and Grünberg. The most important of the series of sometimes minute falsifications in different medieval manuscripts possessed by the Czech Museum, was a fragment of the Gospel of John. The loose parchment sheet with Latin text dating back to the tenth century was said to have been “discovered” by Hanka on the lifted pastedown of a book from the sixteenth century. He inserted between the lines of the authentic Latin text a Czech translation dating back to the same period. As in the case of the Love Song the forgery was exposed by Dobrovský who again prevented its publication. The Gospel was only published after his death in 1829. The text was to prove a connection between Czech Christian literature and Slavonic and Orthodox Russian literature.60 Hanka’s subsequent fake, the so-called Glosses in the dictionary Mater verborum, was very difficult to expose too,61 because it was an “addendum” to an authentic medieval manuscript again, in a dictionary from the thirteenth century transmitted under the title Mater verborum. It was a copy of a popu lar medieval encyclopaedia from the end of the ninth century, the so-called

philosophisch-historischen Classe der kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften 29/12 (1857–1858), 315–30. 60 The authenticity of the Gospel of John was questioned by the philologists Alois Šembera and Antonín Vašek in their studies from the end of the 1870s. Their strong opponent was paradoxically the philologist Jan Gebauer, whose detailed linguistic analysis of the Manuscript of Königinhof and the Manuscript of Grünberg and refusal of the two frag ments as forgeries six years later definitely settled the protracted controversy. See Alois V. Šembera, Libušin soud, domnělá nejstarší památka řeči české, jest podvržen. Též zlomek evangelium sv. Jana (Vienna: Im Selbstverlag, 1879), Antonín Vašek, Filologický důkaz, že Rukopis kralodvorský a zelenohorský, též zlomek Evangelia sv. Jana jsou podvržená díla Václava Hanky (Brno: Im Selbstverlag 1879); Jan Gebauer, Staročeský zlomek Evangelia sva- tojanského a filologická svědectví o jeho původu (Prague: Nákl. Matice České, 1881). 61 Josef Hanuš, Padělky první romantické družiny české, (Literatura česká devatenáctého století) 1 (Praha: Laichter, 1911), 868, calls Hanka’s glosses in Mater verborum a “masterly forgery” and probably rightly so. The very choice of the words reveals a far-reaching con ceptual intent: frequent paleoslavisms are again to prove the connexion between the Czech environment and Church Slavonic and even Russian-Orthodox culture and to establish a myth of an early “Czech orthodoxy”. Hanka directed the “origin” of his glosses to the Sázava monastery ( founded in the eleventh century), where the Slavonic rite was practised for a time after foundation. See Hanuš, ibid. Many of Hanka’s glosses contain fictitious names of pagan Slav gods and a number of expressions from high culture. The anti-German prickle of hostility is also important (e.g., a gloss translating the Czech word “Němec” [German] as barbarus, tardus, truculentus). 24 rychterovÁ

Vocabularius Salomonis or Glossae a Salomone collectae. The copy of the Vocabularius got to the library of the Czech Museum as part of the manuscript collection donated to the museum when it was founded by Count Kolovrat- Březnický. The manuscript was frequently used in the Middle Ages as it con tains a great many German and Czech glosses written by different scribes (readers) from different periods. Around one thousand Czech words (transla tions and interpretations of the Latin entries) were added to the manuscript by Václav Hanka. They were mostly words proper to the literary forgeries of his group from the end of the second decade of the nineteenth century. Hanka was present at the “discovery” of the Czech glosses in the dictionary and published a report on them in a new journal of the museum in 1827.62 Only in 1877 were most of the forged glosses exposed by the philologist Adolf Patera.63 Glosses in the dictionary Mater verborum were added by Hanka in the same year with his own “discovery” of the Czech glosses and Czech translation of Psalm 104 and 109 in the so-called Museum psalm book dating back to the twelfth century.64 Probably the last of Hanka’s forgeries65 was the so-called Prophecy of Libuše whose discovery he reported in 1849. Czech and Latin versions of the same text were on parchment strips in two manuscripts of the Czech Museum. After Pavel Josef Šafařík declared the discovery a falsification, the parchments were lost in the library, to be rediscovered in the 1870s in the estate of Josef

62 Václav Hanka, “Mater verborum. Nejstarší slovník s českými glosami,” Časopis společnosti vlastenského Musea v Čechách 1 (1827), 69–71. It is typical of Hanka’ mystification strategy that he let the “precious” glosses be discovered by one of his foreign guests, a philologist and Kopitar’s friend, Eberhard Graff. 63 Adolf Patera, “České glossy a miniatury v Mater verborum. Rukopis xiii. Století v biblio téce Musea království Českého,” Časopis Musea království Českého 51 (1877), 120–30; 130– 49; Adolf Baumann, “České glossy a miniatury v Mater verborum. Rukopis xiii. Století v bibliotéce Musea království Českého: Část umělecká”, ib., 372–90, 488–513. 64 Václav Hanka, “Srovnání dvou nejstarších přeložení žalmu 109,” Časopis Společnosti vlasteneckého museum v Čechách 1 (1827), 108–9. The falsifications were again found by Adolf Patera, “Staročeské glosy v latinském žaltáři musejním xii století,” Časopis Musea království Českého 53 (1879), 308–417 and 481–537. 65 In the fifties Hanka paid increased attention to the coin collections of the Czech Museum (in his time he was probably the leading specialist in old coins). It is from this time that forged gold coins probably come, purportedly from the period when the Great Moravian princes Rostislav and Mojmír ruled, bearing the Slavonic inscription “Pegnaze” [money]. These artefacts however got to the Czech Museum in a roundabout way: Hanka sold them to his Russian patrons and friends from whom Count Nostic obtained several in the sev enties. He donated them to the Czech Museum. See Josef Smolík, Zlaté mince s domnělým opisem ‘pegnaze’, (Rozpravy České Akademie věd a umění) 35 (Prague: České Akademie Císaře Františka Josefa, 1906). The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 25

Alexander Dundr. He worked at the time of the “discovery” as assistant librar ian in the museum and is therefore regarded as Hanka’s co-author. The exposition of the main literary and philological forgeries of the Hanka circle was made more difficult for František Palacký by the so-called Boček’s forgeries. They were “editions” of nonexistent medieval charters which Moravian provincial archivist Antonín Boček66 included in the first five vol umes of his pioneering edition Codex diplomaticus et epistolaris Moraviae.67 Boček’s forgeries were very much in line with the Judgment of Libuše (e.g. fictitious documents related to some Moravian churches said to have been personally consecrated by Saint Constantine), as well as some poems in the Manuscript of Königinhof (e.g. fictitious documents telling of the destruction of the Moravian monastery Doubravník near Brno during the Tartar invasion in 1241 substantiated the authenticity of the story of the heroic epic Jaroslav).68 There were many forgers and forgeries in Bohemia and Moravia in the first half of the nineteenth century. Semiologist Vladimír Macura even character ised all Czech literary culture in the early nineteenth century as “divorced from reality”: “[Literary] culture relinquishing as a programme real Czech back ground and creating an illusory picture of Czech society by means of cultural creations that speak of it, necessarily had to be a falsification in essence. . . . If a firm dividing line is lost in a culture between reality and illusion, if a culture is built almost out of touch with ordinariness, it naturally gives scope to a wide playing and mystification activity. (. . . .) They are all common mystification

66 Antonín Boček (1802–1847) gained extensive experience of historic documents as official of the province of Moravia and Silesia when he worked as administrator of the archives of 59 closed Moravia monasteries. He obtained the post as protégé of the aristocratic family Mitrovic for whom he worked as tutor. From 1830 he held the post of professor of Czech language and literature at the University of Olomouc; in 1837 he was appointed by Emperor Ferdinand I Moravian provincial historian, from 1839 until his death he worked as the estates provincial archivist. The apparent reason for his falsification activities was to create for Moravia as glorious a history as Bohemia could boast of with the forged Manuscripts. Concerning Boček and his place in modern Moravian history see Vladimír Cisár (ed.), Život a dílo Prof. Antonína Bočka (Bystřice nad Pernštejnem: Městské muzeum, 2007). 67 Boček’s work continues up to the material from the year 1306, the last part of the fifth volume of the Codex which was published in 1850 by his colleague Josef Chytil. 68 Boček’s falsifications were analysed by Jindřich Šebánek, “Moderní padělky v moravském diplomatáři Bočkově do in 1306,” Časopis Moravského musea 60 (1936), 27–8 and 455–99. The exact extent of Boček’s falsification activity is still unknown. The research is ham pered by the fact that support for a number of findings about medieval history of Moravia can be found only in Boček’s edition as the originals of the edited documents are not always available. 26 rychterovÁ games, but in the Czech national revival culture of the first half of the nine teenth century they succeed so well because this very culture is for long time a game, based on mystification, pretending to be normal, complete, to have a standard social background.”69 František Palacký published Gospel of John and Glosses in the dictionary Mater verborum in his annotated edition of the Manuscript of Grünberg. Although he never published the planned edition and the commentary on the Manuscript of Königinhof,70 it seems that his trust in the two forgeries depended more on the Königinhof texts than the Judgment of Libuše in the Manuscript of Grünberg. Apart from Hanka’s other falsifications and Boček’s spurious documents that supported the authenticity of the manuscript lan guage and the events described in the poems, the scholarly self-confidence of František Palacký as a historian also played its part. When he systematically processed medieval written memorabilia he came across several sources that testified to the events and persons known from the Manuscript of Königinhof. On these sources he built his defences: According to him no one could have the knowledge in Bohemia in the early nineteenth century enabling him to write the texts surviving in it. Palacký’s scholarly authority was followed by his colleagues and pupils (in addition to Pavel Josef Šafařík, leading figures of the subsequent generation of Czech historians Václav Vladivoj Tomek, Josef Jireček, Hermenegild Jireček and Vincenc Brandl). This may well be the reason why at the time when the manuscript controversy culminated, in the second half of the 1880s (ten years after Palacký’s death), a group of scholars gathered around the sociologist and philosopher Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk did not consider historiography a sci ence that could decide the dispute over the authenticity of the forged texts. Masaryk, in his qualification of sciences that could determine whether the Manuscript of Grünberg was genuine, placed history in third place, together with aesthetics. According to him, most important was philology, followed by chemistry and palaeography, scientific disciplines that he considered “exact”.71 Masaryk’s considerations illustrate well the new dynamic in the differentiation of social sciences in Bohemia at the time, made possible by the foundation of the Czech-speaking branch of the University of Prague in 1882.

69 Vladimír Macura, “Die Handschriften oder Mystifizierung auf Tschechisch,” in Walter Koschmal, Marek Nekula, Joachim Rogall (ed.), Deutsche und Tschechen. Geschichte— Kultur—Politik (München: Beck, 2001), 637–44. 70 See above, n. 58. 71 Mezník, “Rukopisy,” 147–8. The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 27

A new scientific elite began to form very rapidly in the range of action of the Czech university under Masaryk’s direction and chose the Manuscripts as a means for the reformulation of their own identity and a critical review of what were then rather dusty nationalist and liberal self-identifications defined after 1848. These people managed to introduce the redefined “exact” scientific methodology in public discourse and to present it through the manuscript controversy as a means to understand the world and as a source of political authority.72 The new positivist research method that was beginning to domi nate social sciences made this self-representation credible. The scholars in the Masaryk group would probably refuse to be regarded as artists which was all too natural for František Palacký and his generation. The versifying politi cian and half-private political poet and scholar (always backed by some noble patron) began to be substituted as a symbol of authority by a professional “exact” scientist, financially secured by the state and leaning on a more or less independent international university community. In the eyes of such a profes sional the alleged “beauty” of the poems in the Manuscripts of Königinhof and Grünberg which had so much enchanted not only intellectuals and aesthetes of Hanka’s and Jungmann’s circles, but also two or three subsequent generations, could not play any part. Masaryk’s designation of the Manuscripts as “empty patchwork”73 indicates just how far political, artistic and scientific discourse of his time had departed from the social discourse in which the Manuscripts were produced and in which they unfolded the greatest identification potential. The divorce between the social sciences and the myth of the Manuscripts took place under the direction of sociology,74 but philology had the upper hand,

72 The Manuscript controversy initiated by Masaryk had a very important political impact. The two most important political parties in the province (the Czech National Party aka “Old Czech Party” and the National Liberal Party, a.k.a. “Young Czech Party”) fiercely defended the authenticity of the Manuscripts against Masaryk’s group of scholars for four years. But just before the election into the “Reichsrat” 1891, the more flexible “Young Czech Party” changed sides and propagandistically brandished the more traditional “Old Czech Party” as unqualified to lead the nation. The “Young Czechs” won the election and Masaryk became a member of parliament. It was the beginning of his remarkable politi cal career, which would end thirty years later in the chair of the President of the newly- established Czechoslovak Republic. 73 Cited in the motto of this article (see above, p. 3). 74 T.G. Masaryk, “List redaktora Athenaea . . .”, Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 164–68; id., “Všeobecná pravidla, dle nichž veřejná kritika literární má posuzovati zkoumání Rukopisů K. i Z.,” Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 188–92; id., “Některé pochybnosti palaeografické apod,” Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 200–1; id., “O lyrických básních Rkho,” Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 202–5; id., “Příloha první—Příloha třetí,” Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 215–22; id., 28 rychterovÁ to wit the leading authority in research into medieval Czech, the linguist Jan Gebauer.75 During the many years of his research into medieval Czech manu scripts that resulted in a monumental dictionary and grammar of medieval Czech,76 Gebauer assembled a huge body of evidence concerning the nature of medieval Czech. In the mid-1890s he reached a level of understanding of medieval Czech enabling him to reassess the language of the Manuscripts of Königinhof and Grünberg. He analysed phonetic and morphological forms of the language of the two principal forgeries to reach the conclusion that many of them not only were out of line with the language of the period to which they purported to belong, but that some had to be neologisms created artificially by a person with only limited knowledge of medieval Czech.77 After much inner struggle he reluctantly concluded that both manuscripts had to be nec essarily modern forgeries78 although until the early eighties he had been one of the most vocal defenders of the authenticity of most forgeries from the Hanka circle.79 A spectacular public conversio made Gebauer a symbolic figure in the manuscript controversy, and a personification of the new understanding of scientific honesty and pride. Thus he stood by the side of Dobrovský who had the halo of the first martyr in the struggle for scientific truth (the opinion that attacks of defenders of the Manuscript of Grünberg in the twenties “helped Dobrovský to his grave” was widespread in the victorious group of critics in the eighties). This fiction of Dobrovský and Gebauer associating the enlighten

“Příspěvky k aesthetickému rozboru Rkho a Rzho,” Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 275–98; id., “Shody Jahod a Zbyhoně s písněmi ruskými známými před r. 1817,” Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 346; id., “Náčrt sociologického rozboru rzho a rkho,” Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 406–22. 75 Jan Gebauer, “Potřeba dalších zkoušek Rukopisu královédvorského a zelenohorského,” Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 152–64; id., Poučení o padělaných rukopisech Královédvorském a Zelenohorském (Prague: Bursík & Kohout, 1888). 76 For Gebauer and his work see Theodor Sylaba, Jan Gebauer (Prague: Vyšehrad, 1986). 77 Detailed analysis of the linguistic issues and history of the philological polemic over the Manuscripts of Königinhof and Grünberg was carried out by Miroslav Komárek, “Jazykovědná problematika rkz,” in Otruba, Rukopisy, 197–256. 78 Participants in the polemic over the authenticity of the Manuscripts perceived it very often as a fateful battle “for the truth”: Alois Vojtěch Šembera put in the heading of his seminal work rejecting the authenticity of the Manuscript of Königinhof as a motto a quo tation from one of the works of the medieval reformer Jan Hus who was burnt at the stake: “What does life matter to me? On the truth that you, Lord, believed in with your blood, victory of the light for which I have always fought, depends everything.” 79 As late as 1881 he defended the authenticity of the Fragment of Gospel of John. See above, 23, n. 60. The Königinhof Manuscripts, Hanka, and Palacký 29 ment pioneer of scientific thinking with the modern concept of science also sanctified philology as the “mother” of social sciences for a long time.80 Gebauer’s philological arguments were supplemented with historiographic findings by a young professor of history at Prague University, pioneer of posi tivism in Czech historiography, Jaroslav Goll. In his analysis he concentrated on arguments with which František Palacký had defended with success the authenticity of the Manuscripts for thirty years.81 Goll and his followers how ever succeeded in identifying the modern models for the poems, especially for Jaroslav, the most important text of the Manuscript of Königinhof, defended most strongly by Palacký.82 The poem begins with a brief celebration of the locality of Hostýn near Olomouc, where the Virgin is said to work miracles. It is followed by an explanation of why [in 1241] the Tartars invaded Europe: It was apparently because the Germans robbed and killed the daughter of a Tartar khan travelling in Europe to learn about foreign customs. The narration of the Tartar invasion has many dramatic detours and the decisive battle on “Hostýn” hill is won for the Czech troops by the young hero Jaroslav [of Šternberk]. The Virgin Mary rushes to help him and she “throws bolts of lightning at the Tartar tents”, the intruders take to their heels and “delivered from murderers is the Moravian land.” František Palacký discovered and published in 1842 the so- called Younger legend of Saint Hedwig (written in German), extant in a man uscript from the fifteenth century. In it he found the story of the assault on the khan’s daughter which was in line with the narration in the Manuscript of Königinhof. He was convinced that before his discovery of the manuscript the story was unknown and he deduced from this that the Jaroslav poem must be an authentic medieval text. The story could nevertheless be found in many documents from the sixteenth and seventeenth century. Almost without exception, it is a Catholic or rather Jesuit production of popular religious litera ture written in Latin, Czech and German. The forgers borrowed the whole story

80 The Czech Academy of Sciences was established in 1891, in the year of the political and scientific victory of Masaryk’s group. It consisted of four classes, juristic-philosophic, nat ural sciences, art and philology. Philology had its own class: something unthinkable today. 81 Jaroslav Goll, Historický rozbor básní Rukopisu králodvorského: Oldřicha, Beneše Heřma nova a Jaroslava (Prague: Náklad. Spisovatelovým, 1886); id., “Historický rozbor básní rk: Oldřicha, Beneše H. a Jaroslava,” Athenaeum 3 (1885–86), 422–6; id., “Dodatek k his torickému rozboru ‘Jaroslava’,” Athenaeum 4 (1886–87), 40–42; id., “Ještě jeden dodatek k historickému rozboru ‘Oldřicha’,” Athenaeum 4 (1886–87), 103–7. Goll’s methodical proce dures and findings were supplemented and corrected by his followers at the end of the 1930s, a time when Czech fascists were beginning to defend the Manuscripts. 82 Just like Dobrovský, Palacký cultivated his close relations with the Šternberk family. For a time he maintained the family archive. 30 rychterovÁ from popular chronicles and one of the many versions of the baroque legend of the Virgin’s apparition on Hostýn hill. František Palacký, who was born into a Protestant family and was brought up in the Hungarian part of the monarchy (he began his studies in an Lutheran gymnasium in Bratislava) did not know this literature, however, and scoffed at it with the self-confidence of a critical historian.83 Goll’s influence in the historian community was considerable at the time the Manuscripts were exposed. Over the next twenty years he brought up a number of historians who produced, especially in the first half of the twenti eth century, seminal works dealing with the medieval history of Bohemia and Moravia and took control of the scientific and social discourse on the past and the statehood of the Czech nation. In this the Manuscripts had no place and Goll’s pupils considered the issue settled. Literary scientists of the same gen eration and pupils of Gebauer, in particular Josef Jakubec and Josef Hanuš, began to successfully analyse the literary forgeries produced by the Hanka group in the context of the literature of the early nineteenth century. Although none of them in their work went beyond the teleological conception of the nation as the driving force of history that Palacký had held, they set a direction which the perception of the manuscripts was to follow in the future. Although the manuscript controversy was revived several times with some variations, it took place and still takes place outside the realm of the social sciences and public discourse in general. The manuscripts are not memorabilia of the medi eval glory of the Czech state and nation any more in contemporary Czech society, but their identification potential is not quite exhausted. The story of the “manuscript controversy” essentially conveys the same or very similar val ues as Hanka’s, Linda’s and Jungmann’s epics: one must fight for the “truth”, regardless of the enemy numbers, and lay down one’s life in the fight, where the hero’s reward will be honour and glory for ever. Heroic narratives have an irresistible magic; they are immortal.

83 Detailed analysis of the poem Jaroslav in Mezník, “Rukopisy,” 167–76. chapter 2 To Authenticate a Manuscript: The Case of Toldy and Hanka, Hermeneutically Reconsidered

Péter Dávidházi

In the 1851 preface to his first literary history, Ferenc Toldy, traditionally considered the father of Hungarian literary historiography,1 insisted on the reliability of his work. “I nonetheless can assure my readers,” he writes, “that I drew directly on original sources, not only in questions of essential importance, but in things of lesser significance as well, avoiding second-hand work, and in general, whenever I was able—and I was often able—I never asserted any claims without self-sight [önlátomás] and self-scrutiny [önvizsgálat].” He furthermore offered explicit justification for his adherence to this methodological principle: “I have learned from long experience how very necessary doubt is, even when dealing with recognized authorities, lest, alongside truths, we spread errors.”2 In this context the word “önlátomás,” rendered here as self-sight, means seeing for oneself, with one’s own eyes, and the word “önvizsgálat,” rendered here as self-scrutiny, means examining or scrutinizing something oneself. In other words both bear a meaning which today we would express with the technical term autopsia, of Greek origin (a combination of αυτοζ ‘self’+ οπ- ‘see’, ‘look’, as in αυτοπτηζ, meaning ‘witness’): the inspection of a text or work of art, the verification of its authenticity, and the ascertainment of its authorship and the date of its composition. Toldy emphasized his personal consultation of sources primarily in order to distinguish his work from earlier literary histories, which were essentially compilations.3 His insistence on this distinction is interesting from our perspective, however, because it unavoidably reveals a presumption

1 Pál Gyulai “Toldy Ferencz,” in Idem., Emlékbeszédek [Commemorative speeches], 2 vols. (Budapest: Franklin, 1902), i, 85–113, here 88, 112–3. 2 Ferenc Toldy, A magyar nemzeti irodalom története [The History of Hungarian national literature], 2 vols. (Pest: Emich, 1851), i, p. vii. 3 For an example of such a work see György Alajos Szerdahely, Poesis Dramatica ad Aestheticam seu Doctrinam Boni Gustus Conformata (Buda: Typis Universitatis, 1784), 43, 62, 68, 93, 128–9, 179. Cf. Béla Jánosi, Szerdahely György aesthetikája [The aesthetics of György Szerdahely] (Budapest: Akadémiai, 1914), 51–2; Péter Dávidházi, The Romantic Cult of Shakespeare: Literary Reception in Anthropological Perspective (London/New York: Macmillan-St Martin’s, 1998), 129–30.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_003 32 dÁvidhÁzi of the accessibility of knowledge in a kind of original purity, without media- tion or interposition. Toldy “assures” his readers an autopsy, as it were, a literary history based on his scrutiny of original sources, and while he doesn’t clearly elucidate what this actually guarantees, he does imply that his method in and of itself is substantiation for the assertions he makes in his book. He does not clarify whether his methodology, i.e., the almost exclusive avoidance of secondary sources, is simply a necessary precondition of reliability, or necessary and sufficient, but the clear implication is that it is through direct consultation of original sources that one can hope to obtain pure, undistorted knowledge. In principle one could treat the manuscript much as a physician today would treat a corpse in the course of an autopsy, which in order to establish the identity and cause of death of the person who has passed away may well extend beyond mere observation. In Toldy’s case, however, “self-sight” (or first-hand scrutiny of the sources) plays a role of primary importance because it was important to him that in the course of the examination the object in question remains untouched. Since the notion of seeing for oneself replaces the reading of the sources with their mere observation, and since the metaphor of seeing implies all absence of transformative work or even any form of contact, the direct observation of the source presents itself as a process that will leave no trace. In other words it does not constitute interpretation, but merely a retrospective philological gesture based on the hope shared by Toldy’s contemporary, August Böckh, who believed in the possibility of preserving the past untouched. In Böckh’s view the goal of philology lay in the undistorted recognition (“wiederzuerkennen,” “das Erkennen des Erkannten”) of the artifacts of the human mind, their complete reconstruction (“die Nachconstruction der Constructionen des menschlichen Geistes in ihrer Gesammtheit”), and the accurate reproduction (“richtige Reproduction”) and reconstitution (“reine Wiederherstellung”) of the cultural heritage (“des Überlieferten”). At most he considered the work of recognition and reestablishment an active process, but he regarded it as necessary, in order to recover a genuine image of the past that did not tamper with the artifact under examination (to avoid false- hoods, falsifications, and misunderstandings and restore unity out of scattered fragments), to understand such an object according to its own nature (“in seiner eigenen Natur”), from itself and for its own sake (“aus sich selbst und um seiner selbst willen”).4 Indeed, he even went so far as to define this as the goal of hermeneutics, one of the branches of philology. This classical philological approach remained blind to the necessarily interpretive and transforma-

4 August Böckh, Encyklopädie und Methodologie der philologischen Wissenschaften, Ernst Bratuschek (ed.) (Leipzig: Teubner, 1877), 1–33, 77, 170. to authenticate a manuscript 33 tive hermeneutic work of reading or even mere physical observation, which became one of the focal questions of philosophy towards the end of the 19th century and throughout much of the 20th.5 Advocates of this method were therefore unable to sense the disconcerting implications it bore for the study of the artifacts of the past.

Looming Shadows: The Latent Contradictions Inherent in the Notion of “Self-Sight”

The first contradiction in Toldy’s statement is immediately apparent. A literary historian who was compelled, in a work intended as a sort of textbook, to forego all references in footnotes, all mention of the sources of the new information his book allegedly brought to light, and any direct citation of earlier works, sought merely with this assertion to reassure his readers of his use of original sources, while at the same time he contended that one should never accept something as truth merely on the basis of a second-hand assertion. A less immediately obvious though no less significant contradiction lies in the fact that however emphatic Toldy may have been in his insistence on the indis- pensableness of “self-sight” and “self-scrutiny,” and however categorical the self-assured declaration may seem according to which he “never” asserted any claims without having examined the sources himself, one nonetheless notices an admission of practical obstacles implicit in his use of the phrases “in general,” “whenever I was able,” and “I was often able.” Toldy thus concedes that he was not always able to meet his own precondition, and his work therefore does contain claims, the subjects of which he had not seen with his own eyes. All we know of these claims is that they allegedly constitute only a small fraction of his various assertions, and the reader has the impression that their significance is a question of quantity, in other words, problems that arise only rarely can be disregarded. Toldy does not concern himself with the theoretical implications of their lack of authoritativeness (at least according to his methodology). However, since the words “in general,” “whenever,” and “often” (all of which are given without any further explanation) suggest that Toldy gave at least a quick glance (a first and last glance) at the unsubstantiated contentions (or rather second-hand contentions) before sweeping them under the rug, it would be

5 See Friedrich Nietzsche, Jenseits von Gut und Böse: Vorspiel einer Philosophie der Zukunft, in Idem., Werke in drei Bänden, 3 vols, Karl Schlechta (ed.) (München: Carl Hanser Verlag, 1960), ii, 650; Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophische Untersuchungen / Philosophical Investigations, transl. G.E.M. Anscombe (Oxford Blackwell, 1997), 193–214. 34 dÁvidhÁzi interesting to know (though we never will) how aware he was of the eventual consequences of the problems he made every effort to dismiss. After all, one could consider the notion of seeing for oneself an ideal, in other words more of a goal towards which one should strive than a precondition one could meet. But even the most matter-of-fact positivist approach must give some consideration to the disconcerting question of the degree of tolerance: how many unexamined sources does it take before the conscientious historian begins to feel a bit uncomfortable? If Toldy was perhaps left a bit uneasy by the problems latent in the principle of “self-sight,” in his works of literary history he never abandoned his insistence on its importance. Whether one reads his prefaces, his relevant polemical articles, or his reviews, his notes make it apparent that however much the impos- sibility of the attainment of this methodological ideal may have troubled him, he was always able to stifle whatever doubts or worries he may have had. When towards the end of 1854 he wrote the preface to the first volume of A magyar költészet kézikönyve [A Handbook of Hungarian poetry], he insisted that the textological editorship of the poems was beyond reproach (allegedly the texts of the poems were reproduced “according to the best reading, checked against original editions, and given faithfully in every way”). Furthermore, in his comments regarding the biographical sketches of the authors whose works were included in the collection he wrote with the self-assurance of someone who had personally checked the credibility of the information they contained, knew them to be completely reliable, and was methodologically entirely satisfied with the findings of his work. “The biographical sketches are based without exception on examination of original sources, even where, as is the case in all of my historical works, space did not allow for references. I never make an assertion without having researched it to the last trace. My presentation contains much that is new and diverges from common knowledge and views precisely for this reason, and because I often used not everyday sources, sometimes even manuscripts, as the citations demonstrate, which if they at times extend to cover things inessential I include in part in order to allow the more attentive reader, who may wish to inquire himself, to verify them, and in part to induce others to adopt a similar approach.” Toldy was undoubtedly justified in referring to his ambitious work and the research on which it rested with pride, and he was also justified in his lament concerning “how many false- hoods and bits of nonsense are spread among us because of lack of attentive study and the repeated blind copying of superficially, hastily ventured data.” He was furthermore quite warranted in beginning his philological credo with an insistence on the importance of verification (“‘To doubt’ is the first condition of credibility”), but it is characteristic that he was not disconcerted in the to authenticate a manuscript 35 slightest by the admission, half a paragraph further down, that he had not been able to examine each book in question for himself: “A bibliography is given for the authors discussed in the individual entries that is complete, indeed more complete and more faithful than others thus far, and with the exception of one or two spots rests on my ‘self-sight.’”6 It is clearly evident, on the basis of this, that Toldy was himself aware, to some extent, of the contradictions of his methodology. While on the one hand he was at least in principle convinced of the attainability of the positivist idea of exhaustiveness, and he confidently claimed to have examined all the sources on which his work was based “without exception,” he nonetheless conscientiously and openly admitted that his bibliographical notes contained propositions that he had had to borrow from other sources without being able to confirm them himself. However, he clearly considered this little more than a trifling necessity of life that did not warrant any rethinking of the theoretical premises of the precondition of “self-sight.” A decade later, when writing the preface to A magyar nemzeti irodalom története a legrégibb időktől a jelenkorig rövid előadásban (1865) [A brief history of Hungarian national literature from ancient times to the present], he was even less perturbed, in his adoption of the same methodological principle, by theoretical scruples. In his eagerness to stave off any suspicion that his work was a mere compilation, he explained clearly and without demur why he considered it the first scholarly history of Hungarian literature: “[the book] presents the life of our literature, which dates back almost one-thousand years, exclusively on the basis of a thorough study of the sources and the literature itself; alas I was rarely able to rely, in the critical literature, on the judgments of others; I can however take full responsibility for the facts, individually and in total: for I make no claims without having confirmed their veracity for myself, and all that is extant and accessible, I have seen, and indeed know well.”7 His use of the word “exclusively” makes this passage seem more self-assured and less troubled by doubts than the previously cited examples, as if he had failed to realize that according to his own admission, of the existing sources, he had only seen those that had been accessible. The logic of his sentence unambiguously suggests that in his view, whatever was not accessible must not be of any great significance, for he was unable to

6 Ferenc Toldy, A magyar költészet kézikönyve a mohácsi vésztől a legújabb időig, [A Handbook of Hungarian poetry from the defeat at Mohács to recent times], 2 vols. (Pest: Heckenast, 1855–7), i, viii–ix. 7 Ferenc Toldy, A magyar nemzeti irodalom története a legrégibb időktől a jelenkorig rövid előadásban, [A brief history of Hungarian national literature from ancient times to the present], 2 vols. (Pest: Emich, 2nd ed., 1868), vol. i, 3. 36 dÁvidhÁzi observe such works himself, so in the spirit of his fundamental methodological principle he made no assertions concerning them whatsoever. Yet a single example suffices to cast light on the uncertain foundations of this methodology. In his earlier national literary history Toldy brooded over a question concerning Janus Pannonius’s heroic verse extolling the war- time exploits of King Mátyás: “we cannot know whether [the verse], which Pannonius was encouraged to write by Kristóf Fodor, was the same text as the ‘Hungarian Annals’ that Zsámboky saw, as [the latter] were stolen by envious hands.”8 Thus the literary historian makes a claim concerning the Annales, which were not accessible for his consultation, based solely on an earlier mention, contending that whether they were the same text as the Mátyás epic or not, they in any event existed, though according to his own methodology at most he would have been able to phrase this merely as a hypothesis. It is characteristic of the philological dubiousness of the case that the existence of the Annales is itself the subject of debate today, and indeed the debate is based on the same texts that were available to Toldy. A decisive analysis by Klára Pajorin threw into question the reliability of the traditional view (which was based on the preface to Zsámboky’s 1659 edition of the works of Janus Pannonius), and revealed a series of violations of the principle of “self-sight.” According to her, the work in question was first mentioned in the preface and accompanying poem to the 1522 publication of Janus’ panegyric to the poet Marcello. However, Adrianus Wolphardus and Georgius Thabiasius, the authors of the preface and accompanying poem, presumably emboldened by some of the lines of the Guarino panegyric (primarily 675–678), concluded that Janus Pannonius had not simply undertaken preparations to write such a work, but had also begun and had intended to complete it. Decades later, Zsámboky had based his ideas on these rather uncertain foundations, but his view had won general consensus, though he never actually claimed to have seen or read the work himself in Vienna, but had only asserted that others had seen and read it. In other words to this day we cannot name a single individual who actually read the work or even claimed to have read it.9 The debate may eventually be resolved by future generations of scholars of old Hungarian literature (if new, decisive information should come to light), but whatever the case, Toldy’s willingness to adopt a standpoint clearly demonstrates the extent to which it is in fact impossible to avoid venturing assertions that rely on intermediary texts,

8 Ibid., ii, p. 52. 9 See Klára Pajorin, “Janus Annalesának legendája” [The Legend of Janus’s Annales], Humanista műveltség Pannóniában [Humanist Culture in Pannonia], István Bartók, László Jankovits, & Gábor Kecskeméti (eds.) (Pécs: Művészetek Háza—Pécs University, 2000), 73–8. to authenticate a manuscript 37 however sincerely one may aspire to adhere to the notion of “self-sight,” and the eventual dangers this blunder may create in the unavoidable interpretation of these texts. In the end, Toldy either misunderstood or inadvertently misinterpreted Zsámboky (given his excellent command of Latin, the latter seems more likely). In his 1569 preface Zsámboky had not claimed to have seen the Annales patriae himself, but rather had merely stated that there were many who knew (multi norunt) of their earlier publication in a single volume and their epi- cal verse form. He had also written of how wonderful it would be if the work, which had allegedly been seen and read by others in Vienna (annales [. . .] ali- quando Viennae conspecti et lecti) would turn up somewhere.10 Thus, Toldy either had to accept or cast into doubt the existence of the work on the basis of mediated (several times) information that he could hardly confirm with his own eyes, though had he adhered to his own methodological principles he would not have had sufficient grounds to do either, certainly not the former. Yet he mentions the work without any qualification or reservation. The fusion of the borrowed statements and Toldy’s own assertion indicates that, according to the grammar of the sentence, the contention concerning the theft of the work by envious hands could even be interpreted as an original claim by Toldy, though here too he simply echoes Zsámboky’s argument, which charac- teristically sought to explain and excuse lacunae11 in the alleged continuity of literary history. Janus Pannonius’ finest works were either lost (interciderunt) or, more probably (as Zsámboly implies), because of ill-will and envy never saw the light of day (vel potius, ab odio, et invidia ne lucem aspiciant).12 (Thus Zsámboky relied on no substantial evidence when he chose envy as the more likely of the two explanations, and Toldy interwove this conclusion into his grand narrative without mention of the other possibility. Indeed Toldy made it unclear whether Janus Pannonius himself was the object of envy or Hungarian literature, thereby rhetorically reinforcing the heroic ethos of a literary tradition that has had to struggle with the vicissitudes of a cruel fate.) This example suffices to show that from time to time, even in the work of a literary historian

10 According to Csapodi, the questionable sentence (“Utinam quidem Annales eius ali- quando Viennae conspecti et lecti prodeant, carceresque perfringant”) suggests that Zsámboky himself saw and read the work by Janus Pannonius, which later vanished. Csaba Csapodi, “Janus Pannonius elveszett ‘Annales patriae’-ja”, Irodalomtörténeti Közlemények, lxxxix, 4–5 (1985), 472–9, here 472. 11 At the Hermeneutika és filológia [Hermeneutics and Philology] conference in May, 2002, Géza Orlovszky called my attention to the question of the evolution and the topoi of the rhetoric of lacunae in literary history. 12 Iani Pannonii quae uspiam reperiri adhuc potuerunt, omnia, Ioannes Sambucus (ed.) (Vienna: Stainhofer, 1569), ij(r), iij(v). 38 dÁvidhÁzi who has scrupulously striven to adhere to the principle of “seeing for oneself,” one nonetheless comes across assertions of others that have been passed on as history without notice or confirmation. This does not in any way detract from the importance in contemporary scholarship of the principle of “autopsy” as an ideal, or its usefulness to subsequent inquiry, but it does detract somewhat from the theoretical circumspectness of its application. It also indicates something of a step backwards in comparison with the theoretical sensitivity to questions of historiographical methodologies demonstrated decades earlier. In 1821 Wilhelm von Humboldt, for instance, began a presentation at the Prussian Academy of Sciences with the complex question of why it is so difficult to compose an image of the past consisting of nothing other than statements that can be factually confirmed.13 But perhaps it was necessary for these hermeneutical sensitivities to dull (or be dulled) a bit, at least temporarily, in order for the study of history to take the due steps towards the transformation into a branch of the human sciences. Given his longing to play the role of the founder of a scholarly discipline, Toldy could not openly acknowledge the precarious foundations of a methodology he himself had proclaimed modern and reliable. He had to exude certainty. He was blind to the necessity of interpretation to any act of philological inquiry and the unavoidable uncertainty of its conclusions specifically because he considered the question of authoritativeness decisive from the perspective of the prestige of the discipline. He sought to give a reassuring answer (reassuring to himself as much as to his reader). He feared that scholarship would stand or fall on the basis of complete authoritativeness. His various methodological principles all had one thing in common, namely that they were intended to guarantee reliability. This is why he explicitly cautions that one must rely exclusively on original sources even in questions of no great significance, and why he insists that one must not accept the conclusions of even the most esteemed authors without confirming them oneself. He does not believe that statements based on consultation of original sources are necessarily correct, indeed he considers the actual physical confirmation of the objective foundations of a statement merely a necessary, but not sufficient condition of authoritativeness, but his assertions concerning his methodology nonetheless seem strikingly self-assured. His statement of 1855 is characteristic: “my historical works [. . .] are based without exception on examination of original sources. I never make an assertion without having researched it to the

13 Wilhelm von Humboldt, “Ueber die Aufgabe des Geschichtschreibers,” in Wilhem von Humboldts Gesammelte Schriften, 17 vols., Albert Leitzmann (ed.) (Berlin: Königlich Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften, B. Behr, 1903–36), iv, 35–6. to authenticate a manuscript 39 last trace.”14 And in 1865 he made a similar claim: “I make no claims without having confirmed their veracity for myself, and [. . .] all that is extant and accessible, I have seen, and indeed know well.”15 This is the voice of the great scholar who is proud to think himself master of the situation. Toldy always wrote his literary histories in the belief that his philological approach, which rested on thorough, in principle exhaustive research into every question, would offer reliable knowledge of the object in its entirety. In 1871, in the preface to the third edition of his 1865 literary history, he responded to instructors who had considered many of the details of his text superfluous, that their criticisms would not induce him to maim (he used the word “meg csonkítás”, ‘mutilation’) history because it represented “an organic whole that we can only understand if we know its constitution in its entirety.” Indeed he went so far as to claim that “the precise, independent, and proper treatment of the individual branches assumes knowledge of the entire tree.”16 His contemporary, the great poet and critic János Arany, sought to demonstrate, through analyses of individual works, the inscrutable complexity of the intertwining roots of the tree (“one can never say enough, and the more closely one follows the details, the more they branch off, like the roots of a tree, the base of which consists of only three or four boughs, but if one wants to follow each branch to its end, one finds thousands upon thousands of smaller branches, and then innumerable fibers out of which one cannot find one’s way”).17 Arany used the analogy of the tree to demonstrate the detailed nature of his work of cognition and assessment, thereby also emphasizing the uncertainty of the venture, just as Nietzsche would soon choose the observation of a tree as an illustration of the inadequacy of thorough or approximate reading: we cannot visually discern the forms and colors of the branches and leaves with any precision, so we replace them with a rough image deriving as much from fantasy as from observation.18 In contrast, Toldy confidently used the metaphor of the tree to characterize the whole of the national literature to be learned (thereby also implying all that can be learned of this literature). He never doubted that one could eventually study all of the material exhaustively and thereby

14 Toldy, A magyar költészet kézikönyve . . ., i, viii. 15 Toldy, A magyar nemzeti irodalom, 2nd ed., vol. i, 3. 16 Toldy, A magyar nemzeti irodalom, 7th ed. (Pest: Athenaeum, 1872–3), vol. i, 9. 17 János Arany, “Költemények Szász Károlytól” [Poems by Károly Szász], in Arany János összes művei [The collected works of János Arany], Dezső Keresztury (ed.), vol. xi, Prózai művek [Prose works], 1860–1882, Béla G. Németh (ed.) (Budapest: Akadémiai, 1968), 186– 216, here 205. 18 Nietzsche, Jenseits von Gut und Böse, as above, 650. 40 dÁvidhÁzi formulate correct assertions concerning questions of detail. Assuming the existence of an object that can be discerned in its entirety (utterly dominated) and the epistemological possibility of an assertion that can be substantiated beyond interrogation, Toldy created a tradition of literary historiography the latent complexities of which are still palpable in many of the methodological assumptions of his successors, including the faith in the possibility of establishing facts before embarking on interpretation, the assumption of the complete submission of the language of analysis and interpretation to the author, and the notion of an “absolute” perspective from which the material under examination can be scrutinized in its entirety.19 However, looking back, the contradictions inherent in the principles he passed on are discernible in his work as well, and the narrow limits of the relative validity of his endeavors emerge clearly on the basis of a closer examination of one or two of his more notable blunders.

The Historical Significance of a Meeting: Toldy, Hanka, and the Dvůr Králové Manuscript

Toldy’s firm precept, according to which he makes no assertions without having himself ascertained their veracity on the basis of original sources, seems self-assured, indeed almost triumphant, as if it were entirely superfluous to consider what the exclusion of assertions not founded on consultation of original sources would actually warrant or what conclusions the first-hand scrutiny of literary sources would justify. In other words he fails to ponder the possibility that the notion of the authentic, original source might itself be something of a mirage, in spite of the fact that he had an experience in his youth that clearly indicated how unreliable an allegedly original source may be. In August 1829, in the course of his travels through Europe, Toldy was shown the zealously guarded old Czech manuscripts by Václav Hanka, the librarian of the Czech Museum in Prague. He immediately wrote an article that was published in 1830 in the sixth volume of Tudományos Gyűjtemény [Scholarly Corpus] (pp. 117–124) under the title Ó-cseh literatúra, úti naplómból [Old Czech Literature, from my travel diary]. He failed to realize, however, that what he had seen was but a fragment of the famous Dvůr Králové manuscript (named after the town Königinhof an der Elbe, or Dvůr Králové nad Labem in Czech), in other words a

19 See Róbert Milbacher, “Szilágyi Márton: Kármán József és Pajor Gáspár Urániája” [Márton Szilágyi: József Kármán’s and Gáspár Pajor’s periodical Uránia], Budapesti Könyvszemle, 13, 2 (2001), 180–4. to authenticate a manuscript 41 forgery.20 The identification of forgeries constituted one of the basic elements of the study of philology and an essential precondition of the dependability of its conclusions, so even according to the standards of the time Toldy’s blunder represented an illustrative counter-example to the theoretical foundations of his methodological principles. The meeting between Toldy and Hanka is a subject of some interest both because of what seemed at the time to be the historical and scholarly parallels between their careers and the significant differences between the two that have become apparent today. Toldy himself felt that Hanka’s work represented something of a realization of the role he had envisioned for himself. He referred to him in his accounts of his travels to Prague as a colleague and at times imagined himself occupying a similar place in the study of Hungarian literary history. Toldy, who introduced Hanka to his readers as “the meritorious researcher and scholar of old Czech literature,” was filled with characteristic longing when he saw his Czech colleague’s treasure trove (“half envying and half wishing that there would be among us someone so fortunate as to discover such glorious national remnants”) and when he referred to Hanka in a long footnote as an example for himself and his compatriots, who he felt should search for old Hungarian manuscripts with similar ardor for the national cause.21 (As Toldy confessed decades later, the two even worked together on the publication of some sensitive texts. Having accepted Toldy’s offer of assistance, Hanka secretly gave him a Latin song forbidden among the Czechs about the martyrdom of Jan Hus, with the reservation that he only publish it as the finding of his own research, which indeed Toldy did in Tudományos Gyűjtemény.)22 As Toldy’s career began to unfold, the similarities between their roles became increasingly evident. In 1872 one of the translators of the Dvůr Králové manuscript described Hanka as “the Czech’s Toldy, whose greatest distinction was having accomplished the publication of the critical edition of the precious literary monuments of the golden age of Czech literature.”23 Toldy was aware of the comparison, for it was made by members of the Kisfaludy

20 See Ferenc Toldy’s letter to Ferenc Kazinczy, December 8, 1829, Kazinczy Ferenc, Levelezése [The correspondence of Ferenc Kazinczy], vols. 21, János Váczy (ed.) (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia, 1890–1911), xxi, 157. 21 Ferenc Toldy, “Ócseh literatúra” [Old Czech literature], in Ferenc Toldy, Kritikai berke, Első kötet [His critical grove, First volume], 1826–1836 (Budapest: Ráth Mór, 1874), 274–83, here 274, 278. 22 Ibid., 281–3. 23 Lajos Szeberényi, “A königinhofi kézirat (Králodvorský rukopis)” [The Dvůr Králové manuscript], Kisfaludy-Társaság Évkönyve, Új folyam viii (1873), 94. 42 dÁvidhÁzi

Társaság [the Kisfaludy Society] and figured in its annals, and he had no objection to it, for even in 1874, a year before his death, he still remembered Hanka with great esteem. In later years, following the revelations concerning the forgeries, the differences between the two of course became apparent, but this merely serves to remind one of the one-time perceived similarity of their roles. In the 1920s, János Horváth, the great literary scholar of the first half of the twentieth century, considered Toldy distinctive as a literary historian precisely because of his scrupulous respect for sources. Indeed in his view Toldy’s conscientious insistence on faithful use of sources constituted an important barrier to his national zeal. His patriotic sentiments “motivated him to bring facts to light, not to hush them up or invent them.”24 The mention of the invention of facts is presumably a reference to Kálmán Thaly, whose alleged discovery of Kuruc ballads had been exposed a decade earlier (Horváth himself had contributed an article to the debate), but it might well also refer to Hanka, who in a 1936 essay Horváth named “the Czech Kálmán Thaly” on the basis of his literary forgeries.25 The distinction drawn by Horváth is revealing because by now the roles of the work of the two literary historians, Toldy and Hanka, in the symbolic construction of the nation, whether as founders of national literary histories or narrators of myths of origin, have emerged clearly, independently of the differences in the philological credibility of their works or even the entire question of veracity.26 When they met in 1829 Toldy was not as esteemed a scholar as Hanka, who was fourteen years his senior and well-known throughout Europe. It was a good two decades before he wrote his first literary history, though he had already published his Handbuch der ungrischen Poesie, the introductory essay of which can be considered his first cultural myth of origin (though written in German, it was intended to represent Hungarian national culture). When they met he even gave Hanka an excerpt from this work (which had been published independently as well) entitled Blumenlese aus ungrischen Dichtern. Conscious of the mandate with which he had been charged by his

24 János Horváth, A magyar irodalom fejlődéstörténete [A History of the evolution of Hungarian literature] (Budapest: Akadémiai, 1976), 335. 25 Oszkár Sárkány, “Magyarok Prágában (1773–1849)” [Hungarians in Prague (1773–1849)], Oszkár Sárkány, Válogatott tanulmányai [Selected essays], László Sziklay (ed.) (Budapest: Akadémiai, 1974), 86. 26 See Ute Raßloff, “Gründungsmythen in der tschechischen Literatur”; and Péter Dávidházi, “Abstammungsmythen in der ungarischen Literaturgeschichtsschreibung” in Geschichtliche Mythen in den Literaturen und Kulturen Ostmittel- und Südosteuropas, Eva Behring, Ludwig Richter & Wolfgang F. Schwarz (eds.) (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1999), 233–60 and 347–56. to authenticate a manuscript 43 national brethren, he pursued his inquiries into the antiquities of Czech literature as a representative of Hungarian literature and scholarship. One can hardly blame Toldy for having failed to doubt the authenticity of the Czech manuscripts. Even native speaker philologists are rarely able to expose such forgeries quickly and decisively. Edmond Malone’s razor sharp critical analysis of the Shakespeare forgeries of W.H. Ireland is an exception from this point of view, in that Malone destroyed any vestige of authenticity in a single blow.27 The recognition of a forgery may be more difficult psychologically if its (apparent) authenticity is bound to national interests. The example of David Hume, who feverishly inquired into the authenticity of the epics of Ossian as (allegedly) translated by James Macpherson and eventually rejected them as forgeries, constitutes something of an exceptional case of how a reader moved by national sentiment can nonetheless maintain some level of scholarly detachment. Himself a Scot, he was eager to see Scottish literature enriched with rare treasures of a lost age, but he was nonetheless able to consider the question of the authenticity of the texts with sufficient objectivity and resist the temptations of self-delusion.28 From this perspective, it is hardly surprising that, despite the doubts that surfaced from time to time, it was not until 1866 that the texts allegedly discovered in 1817 and published in Czech and German in 1819 were proven to be forgeries created in collaboration by Václav Hanka, Václav Alois Svoboda and Josef Linda, a conclusion that was finally persuasively corroborated by numerous scholars in the 1890s (and as late as 1927 by Gustav Friedrich, who still thought it worthwhile to offer a detailed study based on paleographic methods discrediting the manuscript), though to this day there are those who cannot accept the sobering outcome of the debate.29 In all probability national interests played a part in the decision of Josef Dobrovský, perhaps the most important figure of the Czech national revival, to ignore his doubts and praise the merits of the manuscript (described by Josef Jungmann in 1822 as an invaluable national treasure) in the second, 1818 edition of Geschichte der Boehmischen Sprache und aeltern Literatur. Dobrovský extolled the beauty of the poetry and acquainted his readers, without the

27 Edmond Malone, An Inquiry into the Authenticity of Certain Miscellaneous Papers and Legal Instruments, Published Dec. 24, 1795 and Attributed to Shakspeare, Queen Elizabeth, and Henry, Earl of Southampton (New York: Augustus M. Kelley Publishers, 1970, reprint of the London 1796 edition); see Dávidházi, The Romantic Cult of Shakespeare, 57, 69–70, 215. 28 The relevant letters of Hume and an essay on the subject can be found in J.H. Burton, The Life and Correspondence of David Hume, 2 vols. (Edinburgh: William Tait, 1846), i, 462–80. See also Sándor Radnóti, Hamisítás [Forgery] (Budapest: Magvető, 1995), 227–9. 29 See Raßloff, “Gründungsmythen,” 242. For a slightly different view on the authorship of this forgery, see the study by Pavlína Rychterová in this volume. 44 dÁvidhÁzi slightest indication of doubt, with word forms found in the allegedly ancient text, but nowhere else.30 (Dobrovský was, however, sufficiently enraged by the more transparent forgery, the Zelená Hora [Grünberg] manuscript, to write an article going against the general exhilaration caused by its alleged discovery and pillorying such irresponsible ventures.) It is true, of course, that outside of the Czech territories authors like Jakob Grimm accepted the Dvůr Králové manuscript as authentic, though obviously he was not influenced by any sentiments of national pride, and in 1827 Goethe enthusiastically praised the significance of the invaluable find, and the motifs in the collection inspired him to write Das Sträußchen.31 But their stances on this question cannot be compared with those of the committed adherents of the national awakening. František Palacký, when he found himself unable to reconcile some of the references in the text with the historical period of their alleged composition, nonetheless insisted, in 1858, that he would continue to believe in the authenticity of the manuscripts even if Hanka himself were to acknowledge them as forgeries. When the debate flared up again in 1886, Palacký’s disciple and biographer, historian Josef Kalousek, rejected the ever more weighty evidence of forgery out of nothing but transparent national bias. In the course of the dispute he defended an increasingly untenable view without giving so much as an inch,32 like one who cannot permit himself to consider any other possible conclusion. It is hardly surprising, furthermore, that the Czechs were able to deceive Toldy. It was some time before the literary world in Hungary began to become suspicious of the Czech texts. In 1836, Ferenc Pulszky, one of the many Hungarians who went to the museum in Prague to learn about its treasured holdings, listened unsuspectingly to Hanka’s captivating accounts,33 and in 1838 László Szalay was equally unsuspecting in his praise of the manuscripts. According to Szalay, the verses allegedly discovered by Hanka “offered new sus- tenance to the awoken nation.” He considered them valuable both as works of

30 Joseph Dobrovský, Geschichte der Boehmischen Sprache und aeltern Literatur, Ganz umgearbeitete Ausgabe (Prague: Gottlieb Haase, 1818), 385–90. 31 Goethe, “Böhmische Poesie,” in Goethe, Kunsttheoretische Schriften und Übersetzungen: Schriften zur Literatur, ii, Aufsätze zur Weltliteratur: Maximen und Reflexionen (Berlin/ Weimar: Aufbau-Verlag, 1972), 334–5, 848–9. See Raßloff, “Gründungsmythen . . .”, 246–7. 32 See Raßloff, Ibid., 248; Emil Niederhauser, A történetírás története Kelet-Európában [The history of history writing in Eastern Europe] (Budapest: História—mta Történettudományi Intézete, 1995), 133. 33 Ferenc Pulszky, “Úti vázolatok” [Travel Sketches], Budapesti Árvízkönyv [Budapest Flood Book], vol. 1 (Pest, 1839), 75–9; and (under the title Úti vázlatok 1836-ból [Travel Sketches from 1836]) Ferenc Pulszky, Kisebb dolgozatai [Shorter Essays], Antal Lábán (ed.), introduction by Henrik Marczali (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia, 1914) 9–10. to authenticate a manuscript 45 enthralling beauty and as historical documents. In Szalay’s words, “they merit not only the attention of the poet, but also of the historian who proceeds from a higher vantage point.”34 Later Szende Riedl, who in 1854 was named professor in the Hungarian department at the Prague university and who spoke both German and Czech, translated the collection of texts, which had already been published in a dozen foreign languages, into Hungarian. In 1857 a short review was printed in Magyar Nyelvészet [Hungarian Philology] recommend- ing the translation, which had been completed under the personal guidance of Hanka himself and published at Riedl’s expense in Prague in 1856,35 to poets and philologists alike.36 In the same year Antal Csengery gave a copy to János Arany,37 who was unable to read the ornamented facsimile of the Czech text on the inside cover facing the title page, but who read the Hungarian text start to finish and indeed, much as Toldy had done a decade earlier, heaved sighs of nostalgia and envy. (In 1829 Toldy wrote, “I envied the literary antiquities of the Czechs from the 10th and 12th centuries, held in the Prague museum [. . .] It’s true that the Czech nation always had more poetic souls than ours.”38 In 1857 Arany expressed a similar lament: “I have just read the translation of the Czech verses by Riedl, the professor in Prague. They are remnants of forceful folk poetry of yore. But we have nothing!”)39 The Czech manuscripts even inspired Arany to write his essay Naiv eposzunk [Our Naive Epic], which originally was intended as an introduction to a (never completed) longer writing

34 László Szalay, “Úti naplomból 1838–1839, I.” [From my travel diary, 1838–1839, I.], Athenaeum, iii, no. 6 (1839), 85–6. 35 Originally Riedl had intended to do a free adaptation, but “on the advice of the scholarly discoverer” he changed his plans and attempted a translation that was faithful to form. Cf. A királyudvari kézirat, költemények a csehek őskorából, [The Dvůr Králové Manuscript, poems from early Czech history], transl. by Szende Riedl, published by Venczel Hanka] (Prague: Haase Gottlib, 1856, on the outer cover: 1857), 5. See also Dr. Andor Sas, Riedl Szende hídverési kisérlete a cseh és a magyar szellemiség között a Bach-korszak Prágájában (1854–1860) [Szende Riedl’s bridge-building attempt in Prague between Czech and Hungarian intellectuals in the Bach era (1854–1860)] (Bratislava: Slovenská Grafia, 1937) 8–32, 51–61. 36 [Anonymous], “A’ királyudvari kézirat: Költemények a’ csehek őskorából” [The Dvůr Králové manuscript, poems from early Czech history], Magyar Nyelvészet, 1857, 80. 37 The dedication in the book reads “To János Arany, Antal Csengery, April. 16, 1857.” See János Arany’s letter to Mihály Tompa, April 19, 1857, János Arany, Levelezése író-barátaival [His correspondence with his literary friends], 2 vols. (Budapest: Ráth Mór, 1888–9), i, 415. 38 See Ferenc Toldy’s letter to Ferenc Kazinczy, 1829, December 8, Kazinczy Ferenc, Levelezése . . ., vol. xxi, 157. 39 See János Arany’s letter to Mihály Tompa, April 19, 1857, János Arany, Levelezése író- barátaival, vol. i, 416. 46 dÁvidhÁzi on the Dvůr Králové manuscript.40 In his treatise entitled A balladáról [On the ballad], which offers a survey of the changes in the relationship between narrative and lyrical poetry in Europe, Ágost Greguss confidently contends that, “the literary monument of the Czechs discovered in Königinhof [. . .] contains epic fragments.”41 The treatise was awarded a prize in 1864 by the Kisfaludy- Társaság, and this was followed by the publication of a second, revised and expanded edition, which was published again in 1866, four years after Greguss’ death, without any changes and with the author’s implicit confirmation of the authenticity of the manuscript (his reference to the “epic fragments”). In the meantime, in 1872 Lajos Szeberényi, a new Hungarian translator of the Dvůr Králové manuscript, informed the Kisfaludy-Társaság of the reassuring conclusions of research into the authenticity of the texts.42 In his 1882 monograph on the history of the epic, Károly Szász mentioned the unresolved question of the genuineness of the manuscript, but he did so only at the bottom of the page in a footnote concerning secondary literature, while treating the collection as authentic in the main text. “Even today,” he wrote, “the question (or doubt) as to whether or not the whole manuscript is a forgery cannot be considered resolved.”43 By this time Toldy had died, and more than a half-century had passed since his visit to Prague.

The Hermeneutics of Preformed Observation: The Misleading Circumstances Surrounding Toldy’s Examination of the Manuscript

It is not surprising that Toldy was one among the many who was taken in, but rather that, as seems likely on the basis of his accounts, he was deceived in spite of having adhered faithfully to his fundamental principle of “self-sight.” To this day his blunder is an instructive example of the epistemological problems lurking in wait to undermine the positivist principle of empirical verification. While the notion of first-hand, physical examination, which is decisive

40 See János Arany’s letter to Antal Csengery, December 1, 1857, János Arany, Levelezése író- barátaival, vol. ii, 48. 41 Ágost Greguss, A balladáról és egyéb tanulmányok [On the ballad, and other essays] (Budapest: Franklin, 1886), 105. 42 Szeberényi, “A königinhofi kézirat,” 85, 87–9, 93. See István Fried, “Die Rezeption der Königinhofer Handschrift im 19. Jahrhundert in Ungarn,” Studia Slavica Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae, xiv, (1968), 141–56. 43 Károly Szász, A világirodalom nagy eposzai, [The great epics of world literature] 2 vols. (Budapest: Révai, n.d. [1930]), vol. ii, 16. to authenticate a manuscript 47 according to positivist conceptions of scholarship, was intended to enable Toldy to speak with authority about the qualities of the object under scrutiny before having undertaken any analysis, qualities that according to the pre- cepts of this methodology are essential and originary to the object (in other words in principle they are independent of and do not require any preliminary interpretation or ascertainment), his article nonetheless makes clear that he was prepared and inclined to interpret what Hanka showed him as something, and under the influence of a long series of antecedent events (in some cases planned, in some cases incidental) the positivist gesture of physical confirmation was limited to the confirmation of specific (misguided) interpretive presuppositions. Immediately after his arrival in Prague, one day before he first laid eyes on the manuscript, Toldy saw the new 1829 edition of the text published with a German translation in Weber’s bookstore. The scholarly cer- tification included on the title page next to Hanka’s name may have strengthened his faith: “Verdeutscht und mit einer historisch-kritischen Einleitung versehen von W.A. Swoboda, k. k. Humanitaets-Professor” [Translated into German and accompanied by a critical-historical introduction by W.A. Swoboda, Kaiserlich und königlich Professor of the Humanities]. The next day in the museum Hanka told him of the success of the 1819 (the first) publication abroad (“Goethe and de la Motte Fouqué sounded their praises; Siskow translated them into Russian and Brodzinsky into Polish, Bowring, he said, was working on an English translation in London”), at which Toldy recalled that he had learned of the upcoming publication of the English translation “from Mr. Bowring [. . . .] himself.”44 The mention of the highly esteemed Goethe clearly impressed him (and offered indirect support for the authenticity of the manuscripts), for Toldy had been preparing to visit the renowned writer, a meeting that was to be one of the most inspiring moments of his travels. He knew well that in the eyes of his writer friends at home nothing would constitute a greater triumph for Hungarian literature than to win the attention of the German master. (In March 1830, in the course of a text introducing the monthly periodical of the Czech museum, Goethe extolled the literary and cultural merits of the Dvůr Králové manuscript in the pages of the Berlin Jahrbücher für wissenschaftliche Kritik,45 so Toldy, who after his visit to Prague spent time in Weimar and Berlin, may well have learned of the favorable reaction of the respected German author from this source as well. It seems in any

44 Toldy, “Ócseh literatúra,” 281. 45 Goethe, “Monatschrift der ‘Gesellschaft des Vaterländischen Museums in Böhmen’” in Goethe, Kunsttheoretische Schriften und Übersetzungen: Schriften zur Literatur, ii, Aufsätze zur Weltliteratur: Maximen und Reflexionen (Berlin – Weimar: Aufbau-Verlag, 1972), 456. 48 dÁvidhÁzi event unlikely that he was unaware of Goethe’s praise for the manuscript, as in early 1830 he reported to his compatriots that he had been chosen to serve in the esteemed company of Geothe, Hegel, and other renowned authors as a member of the Berlin Societät für wissenschaftliche Kritik, so he too was able to contribute to its prestigious annals.)46 Furthermore, Toldy may well have already read the study accompanying Svoboda’s German translation, which retells the story of how Hanka had heard of the old arrows lying in the church tower in Königinhof and had gone into the tower to look for them, only to find the famous manuscripts which have ever since been in the custody of the museum for anyone to see. Hanka himself may only have needed to add a few carefully chosen details in order to complete the tale. As the case of Toldy clearly illustrates, even in the case of a conscientious scholar observation can be misleading for a variety of reasons, depending very much on the circumstances. The Hungarian visitor to the museum (in the company of “a cultured resident of Prague”) was eager to see the treasured holdings on the first afternoon of his visit, but at the time, in Hanka’s absence, he was barely able to persuade a member of the staff to allow him to look at a few books, let alone give him any detailed information. The next day, however, Hanka, having heard of Toldy’s visit, “was restlessly awaiting [them] at the appointed time.” Hanka personally guided them through the library, where he had already carefully prepared the materials he intended to show them. As Toldy later mentioned, he had no idea at the time what he was about to see. He recounted Hanka’s story of the discovery of the manuscripts in Tudományos Gyűjtemény using reported speech, but giving his implicit assent: “He went to see them [the arrows dating from the time of Žižka], and while he was looking at them he happened across a few sheets of parchment the writing on which he thought to recognize as Latin. But in a brighter part of the church he saw that it was Czech, and the contents filled him with fervent excitement. He read the first fragment aloud in the company of the officers of the city and other people of a higher level of culture, and they were all enraptured. The manuscript became the property of the man who had discovered it, and on his return to Prague, he deposited it among the treasures of the national museum, where I had the pleasure of seeing it.”47 Naturally it would have been difficult for Toldy to have failed to come into contact with the tale of the discovery of the

46 See Ferenc Toldy’s letter to Mihály Vörösmarty, February 18, 1830, Mihály Vörösmarty, Összes Művei [The collected works], Károly Horváth & Dezső Tóth (eds.), vols. xvii–xviii, Levelezése, [Correspondence], Frigyes Brisits (ed.) (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1965), vol. i, 262. 47 Toldy, “Ócseh literatúra,” 278. to authenticate a manuscript 49 manuscripts, which Hanka zealously spread by word of mouth and in writing. It figured in Dobrovský’s 1818 literary history48 and soon resurfaced as a citation from Dobrovský’s work at the beginning of Hanka’s 1819 edition.49 It almost always seemed to accompany the many translations into other European languages, and it found its way into the preface to Szende Riedl’s Hungarian edition (1856) and even into the essay accompanying Lajos Szeberényi’s translation (1873).50 As is clear (retrospectively) from Toldy’s account, the story was deliberately structured in order to coincide (as if to offer confirmation) with the physically observable features of the manuscript. “The manuscript was attractively written in [. . .] gothic script and consisted of fourteen sheets, two of which were merely two long slivers that served, as Mr. H[anka] explained, as the wings of arrows.”51 Thus the manuscripts were found among arrows, and the more slender of them served as arrow wings. Every detail Toldy observed seemed to harmonize so clearly and confirm so persuasively the authenticity of the manuscript, even well before the text had actually been deciphered, that the consultation of the text could serve at most to reinforce an image that had already taken form. The impression of authenticity was made even stronger by Hanka’s obliging conduct, which must have been quite disarming following the chilling reception Toldy had been given on the first day of his visit, and which must have seemed like acknowledgment of Toldy’s significance as a member of the scholarly community. As Toldy readily (and boastfully) recounted to Kazinczy, Hanka had spared no pains translating details for a “member of the guild.”52 Later the readers of Tudományos Gyűjtemény could learn of how, at Toldy’s request, Hanka had read aloud the Czech translation of a Latin epi- gram (a gesture Toldy had reciprocated by reading aloud Kazinczy’s Hungarian translation) and then, after he and Toldy had chatted a bit about the possible explanation for the poor Latin of the poem and shared their mutual appreciation of the poetic merits of the Czech and Hungarian translations, had read aloud a few metrical fragments of the Dvůr Králové manuscript as a kind of foretaste.53

48 Dobrovský, Geschichte der Boehmischen Sprache . . ., 385–6. 49 Wenzel Hanka, Die Königinhofer Handschrift: Eine Sammlung lyrisch-epischer Nationalgesänge, aus dem Altbömischen metrisch übersetzt von Wenzel Swoboda von Nawarrow, Wenzel Hanka (Prague: Gottlieb Haase, 1819), 1. 50 Szeberényi, “A königinhofi kézirat,” 83–4. 51 Toldy, “Ócseh literatúra,” 278–9. 52 See Ferenc Toldy’s letter to Ferenc Kazinczy, December 8, 1829, Kazinczy Ferenc, Levelezése . . ., vol. xxi, 157. 53 Toldy, “Ócseh literatúra,” 275, 277. 50 dÁvidhÁzi

Toldy clearly felt that all this gave him the right to form an opinion. Moreover, in his pronouncements concerning the origins of the text, which he had seen and possibly even touched, he himself seemed to believe that his personal experiences and power of discernment enabled him to give his support to views he had adopted from others sources, including Hanka and the German edition of the manuscript. He could not have guessed that the assertions and references he was endorsing were themselves tales concerning the origins of the sources that had deliberately and unscrupulously been contrived to buttress the larger narrative of the discovery. He did not know that in 1824, a few years after he had given his approval of the Dvůr Králové manuscript, Dobrovský, having had enough of the forged Zelena Hora manuscript, published a polemic article in a Viennese periodical in which he explicitly and mercilessly dismissed it as a sham, but also indirectly and implicitly called into question the authenticity of both discoveries.54 Anyone who did not read the acrimonious debate in the press between Dobrovský and Svoboda55 did not find it odd that Hanka’s account still borrowed off the reputation of the renowned philologist to bol- ster the credibility of the manuscript, referring to Dobrovský’s view concerning the reassuringly familiar details of the dating of the manuscripts, indeed with such disarming precision that to this day one can clearly discern the misleading effect this had on the basis of Toldy’s account: “It would be proper for me to mention—as it goes unmentioned in the printed book—that Dobrowský, the Révai among the Czechs, identified the manuscript as dating from 1290–1310, adding that it is certainly not later. I share the view of Swoboda that under Ottokar some devotee of Czech poetry, seeing the ascendancy of a foreign power, collected these songs lest otherwise they be lost.”56 Dobrovský had died on January 6th, 1829, so Hanka had no longer had to fear any new polemical responses from him. As a kind of implicit verification of the merits of his own endeavors, he referred with great fondness to his esteemed former mentor whenever the opportunity arose. All signs suggest that Toldy probably heard of the dating of the manuscript, which figures in Dobrovský’s 1818 literary history, from him. (It is hardly surprising that Dobrovský’s often cited view smoothed

54 Josef Dobrovský, Vorläufige Antwort auf des Herrn W. S. Ausfälle im Archive Nr. 64 vom 28. Mai 1824. First publication, Archiv für Geschichte, Statistik, Literatur und Kunst, April 16, 1824, no. 46, 260, Josef Dobrovský, Literární a prozodická bohemika, K vydání připravil Miroslav Heřman (Prague: Academia, 1974), 154–6. 55 V.A. Svoboda, Libuša als Gesetzgeberin, first publication, Archiv für Geschichte, Statistik, Literatur und Kunst, May 28, 1824, no. 64, 349–356, Dobrovský, Literární a prozodická bohemika, 157–66. 56 Toldy, “Ócseh literatúra,” 279. to authenticate a manuscript 51 the progress of the reception of the Dvůr Králové manuscript in Hungarian lands for some time. At the meetings of the Kisfaludy Társaság on June 26th and November 27th, 1872 Lajos Szeberényi introduced his translation with a reference to Dobrovský and the alleged date of composition, and he cited an excerpt from his literary history affirming the merits of the collection as a treasure more valuable than any of the other medieval texts that had come to light.)57 It is quite clear that Toldy was not familiar with Dobrovský’s article of 1824, in which Dobrovský dismissed the legends surrounding the manuscripts. Toldy referred without the slightest hint of doubt to Libuša ítélete [The Judgment of Libuša], a poem from the Zelena Hora manuscript that he had been able to consult personally thanks to the kind assistance offered by Hanka. He did not know that Dobrovský had already thoroughly shredded the credibility of the verse in an open and trenchant debate with Svoboda, basing his rejection of its authenticity on several principles of philology.58 When reading Toldy’s account one has the impression that he failed at times to grasp that he lacked the necessary expertise to verify or call into question the views with which he was expressing his agreement, and he was therefore doing little more than passing on the claims of others as if they were his own conclusions. It is not immediately obvious, for instance, that he was actually able, on the first day of his visit to Prague, to study the bilingual edition he saw in the bookstore with any degree of thoroughness, not to mention the manuscripts themselves, which he saw the next day in Hanka’s presence. Nor is it clear that he actually would have been able to understand the (allegedly) medieval Czech text well enough to justify the assertion he made urging its translation into Hungarian: “The German translation [. . .] sticks so closely to the wording, and is moreover so faithful in its tone, that it can serve as the basis for further translations.”59 Given that decades later Szende Riedl, on the advice of Hanka, adopted an approach to translation that was faithful to form and attempted under Hanka’s guidance to evoke the tone of the Czech text in his Hungarian rendering, we can assume that Toldy’s contention concerning the German translation also originated with Hanka. Toldy only saw and only was able to write about what Hanka had presented to him as fact. Time and time again the history of the composition of his account reveals that both the manuscript as an object of examination and Toldy himself as an observer were deliberately prepared for the act of observation and the expected (desired) conclusions. In other words the independent assessment of the sources through first-hand consultation,

57 Szeberényi, “A königinhofi kézirat,” 85, 87–9, 93. 58 Dobrovský, Literární a prozodická bohemika, 154–6, 157–66. 59 Toldy, “Ócseh literatúra,” 281. 52 dÁvidhÁzi which was one of the fundamental principles Toldy sought to cultivate in his literary history,60 is itself inevitably a preformed construct.

Epilogue in 1833: Toldy and the Debate Surrounding the Stone Tablets of Prague

The preformed nature of both the observer and the object under observation is (retrospectively at least) quite clear in the case of Toldy’s visit to Prague on the basis of the documents that survive. Toldy, however, was so persuaded of the veracity and certainty of the results of his first-hand examination that a few years later he referred with utter self-assurance, in the course of the debate concerning the so-called stone tablets of Prague, to the necessity of “self-sight” as the most important methodological principle. This debate is of interest today neither because of the inscriptions on the tablets and the assertions made concerning their history, nor because of their relationship to conceptions of scholarship today, but rather because of the assumptions underlying the contentions of the participants concerning the attainability of reliable, unassailable knowledge and the methods on which the acquisition of such knowledge would be founded. This in spite of the fact that the brief text by Mihaly Holéczy that sparked the whole debate was published in the Tudományos Jelentések (Scholarly Announcements) column of the periodical, and as was typical of the column, gave little attention to issues of methodology, apparently considering the soundness of the methods self-evident and hardly in need of interrogation. Holéczy was content to rely on a reference in the book by Sámuel Martini when calling the attention of the readers of the column to the stone tablets allegedly seen by Martini in the Corpus Christi church in Prague in 1618. He cited the Latin text, which summarized the decree of the Council of Basel, engraved in the stone in Czech, Latin, Hungarian, and German, and concluded on the basis of the order of the languages that Hungarian had perhaps been more widespread or in more prominent use than German in the lands of Emperor Sigismund.61 In his response Toldy corrected a date (the decree was issued in 1437, not 1432) and rejected Holéczy’s conclusion (Hungarian could not have been more widespread in the Czech lands of the German Empire), but he also emphasized in the opening sentence the difference between Holéczy’s reliance on a secondary source and his

60 Toldy, A magyar nemzeti irodalom 2nd ed., vol. i, 5. 61 [Mihály] Holéczy, Jelesség [A Fine Artifact], Tudományos Gyűjtemény 17 (1833), vol. 2, 124–5. to authenticate a manuscript 53 personal experiences in Prague: “Holéczy, referring to Sámuel Martini, informs the readers of this periodical of a fine artifact in Prague as if it were a novelty, [though] I already described it in 1830 [. . .] after having seen it myself.”62 In the editorial corrections published together with Toldy’s article, István Horvát expressed his objections to Toldy’s claims, protesting that “Toldy speaks of the Czech Histories as confidently as if he had taught them for many years, or completely exhausted their study.” He reminded his readers of the obligation to offer objective substantiation: “The History is neither a poem, nor simply a reasoned argument: one must delve into it with caution, lest the weak sides of one speaking blindly come to light[.]” He declared that in questions of Czech history “[Toldy’s] hastily [ futtában] gathered knowledge is often flawed.” It was therefore a mistake, in his view, “to bring [this knowledge] forth before having carefully studied the Czech sources.” In contrast, Horvát claims to have done exactly this: “What I am going to say is based directly on these [Czech sources].” As was his habit, Horvát then attempted to lay the foundations of the story of the origins of the Prague tablets by offering a long compilation of citations, and he concluded by throwing into question almost all of Toldy’s contentions. “Accordingly the only detail worth any consideration in Ferentz Schedel’s [Toldy was born Franz Karl Joseph Schedel] Response and Correction is that the two tablets, of uncertain age and authenticity, the tablets about the existence of which the attentive Holéczy raised questions, still exist today.”63 Thus Horvát’s notion of what constituted first-hand and second-hand knowledge differed from that of Toldy. In his view it was important to build directly on the sources, even when they concerned the origins of and inscription on stone tablets that Toldy had seen with his own eyes. At the same time direct observation (Toldy’s oft-mentioned “self-sight”) could prove little more to the observer than the mere existence of the tablets. It could hardly offer evidence of their date or authenticity. The difference of opinion between Toldy and Horvát was brought about by the controversial (and essentially positivistic)64 question of the nature of the object under scrutiny: what should constitute the final, or rather elemen- tal object concerning which physical observation or the assertions made in

62 Ferentz Schedel, “Felelet és Igazítás” [Response and correction], Tudományos Gyűjtemény 17 (1833) vol. 4, 116–7. 63 István Horvát, “Észrevételek e’ Feleletre és Igazitásra” [Observations on this response and correction], Ibid., 117–21. 64 On the later, neo-positivist significance of the problem, see Leszek Kolakowski, Positivist Philosophy: From Hume to the Vienna Circle, translated by Norbert Guterman (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1972), 213–5. 54 dÁvidhÁzi the resulting description could render a direct and reliable account? Holéczy addresses this question in one of his articles in the discussion, but he did not consider the examination of the tablets on site and the study of written descriptions conflicting or opposed methodologies, nor did he rank one as more important or reliable than the other. Rather he emphasized the benefi- cial division of labor. In his view it was unquestionably useful to complement Toldy’s accounts of his experiences with references to Martini’s book, because only on the basis of Martini’s book could one know that the inscription was originally done with gold letters and, “as Hanka could only suspect,” in hexameter. Indeed thanks to Martini a version of the text had been preserved that was more clearly visible and might well have represented a more accurate reading than the possibly flawed copy of the inscription on the worn tablet. Holéczy concluded, on the basis of his reading of Toldy’s account, that the gesture of “self-sight” comprised two different acts, and it was risky to conflate the two. The visitor may indeed have been able to see the two tablets, with their Latin and Czech inscriptions, attached to the wall beside the stairs, but upon reaching the library their texts were read to Toldy by Hanka on the basis “of copies, and perhaps flawed copies.” Indeed it was possible that, “in his haste, Schedel had committed mistakes to paper.” Thus Toldy was deserving of thanks primarily (and simply) because his “credible account” offered evidence that “remains of the tablets have indeed survived into our day.”65 In his response to Holéczy and Horvát, Toldy wanted to ensure that his principle of seeing for oneself was not undermined. Listing the data that “proved beyond doubt” the date of the decree (1437) and citing relevant passages of texts by historians, he referred as a kind of emphatic finale to his own first-hand observations: “I will be so bold [. . .] as to mention my self-sight. [. . .] I saw and touched with my own hands the stone tablets seen and touched by Martini; and the copy, which I also saw, is a perfect facsimile of the original,” for it had not been written on paper, but rather was “a print of the original stone in a paste made specifically to this end.” In order to reassure his readers that he made no mistakes in the process of copying, Toldy resorted to the (always dubious) practice of referring to an esteemed authority, an authority who in this case lost all his credibility with the exposure of the Dvůr Králové manuscript as a forgery: “Whosoever does not trust my reading, take my pronouncement here that I read and made notes on the old artifact with the help of the librarian Hanka. That this distinguished gentleman [. . .] has as much skill as anyone in the reading of writings of other centuries anyone who has become acquainted with Czech literature, even if only hastily, will not doubt for a moment.” Though Toldy’s use of the

65 [Mihály] Holéczy, Igazításra Nyilatkoztatás [Pronouncement to Set Right], Tudományos Gyűjtemény, 17 (1833) vol. 6, 119–20. to authenticate a manuscript 55 word “hastily” [ futtában] is an ironic retort directed at Horvát, he does admit that his knowledge of Czech history is imperfect, but he nonetheless would not have foregone the consultation of sources “had the object, which is not hidden in the slightest obscurity from anyone who wants to see, demanded it.” Thus according to Toldy, in the case of the tablets one merely needs to desire and all wisps of fog and uncertainty will be dispersed. One can sense the deliberate- ness of Toldy’s claim to unassailable certainty in his view that Horvát had had little reason to be shocked by the fact that he, Toldy, though not a professional historian, had nonetheless ventured assertions concerning historical events without begging anyone’s pardon or offering any excuses. Nor should it have troubled him that Toldy had not bothered with qualifications like “I think,” “perhaps,” “it seems,” or “I will be so audacious as to conclude,” but rather had dared to think of what he wrote as true: “I candidly say what I know to be certain, indeed I say it confidently as well, in other words as if I trusted in the truth of my assertion!!”66 Toldy strove, throughout the course of the debate, to disperse all fears and insist on the reliable foundation of his claims, thereby asserting the unassailable soundness of the notion of incontrovertible knowledge as well. He did not reckon with the possibility that an aspect or quality of the object under scrutiny that he claimed, on the basis of first-hand observation, was essential and originary might in fact have been built on earlier interpretations of others and numerous unsubstantiated, even unsubstantiatable elements. As Husserl has observed, our experiences, which we often regard as offering direct, unmedi- ated knowledge, are always mixed with incidental knowledge gleaned elsewhere.67 Not only are we unable to read without preliminary and continuously evolving interpretive assumptions, but, as Wittgenstein has argued, we are even unable to see an object without seeing it as something, often under the influence of external promptings or demands.68 Toldy saw the Dvůr Králové manuscript and the stone tablets of Prague as Hanka had described them to him, and though only the manuscript was later determined to be a forgery, the tablets might have been as well (despite any earlier historical reference supporting their authenticity). Thus in principle Holéczy and Horvát were correct in their view that an examination of the tablets might well establish their physical existence, but it could prove little more.

66 Ferencz Toldy, Az úgy nevezett prágai táblák ügyében [On the so-called Prague tablets], Kritikai Lapok, iv (1834), 126–53. 67 Edmund Husserl, Erfahrung und Urteil: Untersuchungen zur Genealogie der Logik (Hamburg: Meiner, 1972), 23–45. 68 Wittgenstein, Philosophische Untersuchungen, 193–214. chapter 3 The Kalevala and the Authenticity Debate

Pertti Anttonen

The Kalevala, officially named and recognized as the national epic of Finland, is a book of verse in Finnish that was compiled by medical doctor and folklore collector Elias Lönnrot on the basis of traditional songs of folk poetry that he documented from among illiterate singers in eastern Finland and Russian Karelia between the late 1820s and early 1840s. The book was first published in 1835, but after making new collecting trips and receiving additional materials from his fellow collectors, Lönnrot compiled an extended version that came out in 1849. This is the authorized version of the national epic that contains 22,795 lines divided into 50 cantos. The text runs in trochaic tetrameter with four poetic feet in each line. The meter has been subsequently named the Kalevala meter, which is anachronistically also applied to the type of oral folk poetry that the epic draws on. The terms ‘Kalevala poetry’ and ‘Kalevalaic poetry’ may thus refer to the printed epic as well as traditional Finnish-language folk poetry in general. Ever since its publication, the Kalevala has been debated in terms of how accurate it is as a representation and reflection of oral tradition. The debate has mainly concerned Lönnrot’s editorial role in the compilation of the epic and the extent to which his editorial choices and textual practices have compromised the epic’s authenticity. Upon its publication, the Kalevala was received with great acclaim and celebrated as a discovery and restoration of an ancient folk epic which had over time shattered into pieces and survived as fragments in oral tradition. In accordance with contemporary Romantic views, it was believed that the unified literary form that Lönnrot gave to his collected materials represented the epic in its original shape.1 Later, however, the idea of the Kalevala as a genuine folk epic in both form and content gave way to viewing it as a literary rendition of oral folk poetry, as “Lönnrot’s epic.”2 As such, it

1 Jouko Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research 1828–1918 (Helsinki: Societas Scientiarum Fennica, 1969), 26; Väinö Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala [Lönnrot and the Kalevala] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1979), 88–91, 187. 2 See Lauri Honko, “The Kalevala: The Processual View,” in Religion, Myth, and Folklore in the World’s Epics: The Kalevala and its Predecessors, Lauri Honko (ed.) (Berlin & New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 1990), 181–229.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_004 the kalevala and the authenticity debate 57 came to be seen as fundamentally distinct from its source materials and the oral poetry tradition that it purportedly depicts. Curiously enough, despite being mainly regarded inauthentic as an epic compilation, it still retains an aura of genuineness especially due to its national significance. During the almost 200 years since the first versions of the epic, the question of the Kalevala’s authenticity has basically concerned its justification as an epic entity. Is it what it claims to be? Does it have popular origins? Is it faithful to its sources? Is the plot structure cohesive enough for an epic? Is the plot structure justified with regard to the plot structures in the original folk poems? Does its justification as an epic emerge from some theory concerning the tradition of oral poetry and its literary representation? Does it receive its justification as an epic from being a successful artistic creation that draws relatively faithfully on oral tradition? Or does its justification emerge from being symbolically significant for Finnish nation-making and relevant images of Finnish prehistory, regardless of the question of its textual fidelity to its sources? Lönnrot himself justified his compilation with contemporary theories of epic textualization. As a student at the Royal Academy of Turku in the 1820s he had familiarized himself with F.A. Wolf’s theory on Homeric epics, according to which these had originally been songs and rhapsodies in oral circulation that Homer the singer had compiled into an entity, which in turn had continued to be reproduced in oral circulation by wandering performers and eventually come to be written down. This theory prompted him to try the same with the folk poems that he was collecting in Finland and Russian Karelia. His teacher at the Academy, Reinhold von Becker, gave major encouragement to this enterprise. Lönnrot’s friend J.L. Runeberg, who was to become Finland’s national poet, publicly praised him for both succeeding in the reconstruction of an ancient but fragmented epic and for proving how the Homeric poems had been collected.3 It was the highly influential Runeberg who raised the Kalevala to the status of a national epic even before it was published. Another narrative justification of the epic deals with Lönnrot’s discovery of epic potential in Finnish folk poetry. In the preface to the first edition of the Kalevala, Lönnrot writes that while reading Kristfrid Ganander’s Mythologia Fennica, a dictionary of Finnish mythology in Swedish, published in 1789, he started to think “whether there might not be enough of them about Väinämöinen, Ilmarinen, Lemminkäinen and others of our ancestors worth remembering, to make longer tales about them, as we see that the Greeks, Icelanders and others have done with poems of their ancestors.”4 It is

3 Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala, 88–9. 4 Elias Lönnrot, “Esipuhe” [Preface], in Kalevala taikka vanhoja Karjalan runoja Suomen kansan muinosista ajoista. 1835 julkaistun Kalevalan laitoksen uusi painos [The Kalevala, or old 58 anttonen noteworthy that Lönnrot makes no reference in this narrative to Carl Axel Gottlund, who had publicly made a suggestion for such an epic almost two decades earlier. Instead, Lönnrot writes that this is his own idea and as far as he knows, no one had tried to set the songs in any particular order, or even mentioned such a possibility.5 The Kalevala inspired educated debates on historical vs. mythological interpretations of the epic protagonists and motifs, both in Finland and abroad.6 Many of Lönnrot’s contemporaries considered the Kalevala a reconstruction of an ancient folk epic, but questions were also raised regarding its accuracy and comprehensiveness as a representation of ancient Finnish poetry. Most of this discussion concerned the relationship between the epic contents and its sources and Lönnrot’s organization of the collected texts, especially regarding their narrative cohesion and chronological order. When planning the 1835 edition of the epic, Lönnrot aimed at a justifiable compilation of folk poems that could be regarded as representative of their

Karelian poems about ancient times of the Finnish people. New edition of the 1835 published Kalevala] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1999) 2; Translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 27. 5 Lönnrot, 2.; Gottlund made his suggestion of a heroic and mythological epic that would be comparable to Homer, Ossian and Nibelungenlied in his review of the Swedish translation of Friedrich Rühs’s Finnland und seine Bewohner (originally published in 1809). The review was published in Sweden in Svensk Literatur-Tidning in 1817. Jouko Hautala writes that Lönnrot “forgets the article by Gottlund in Svensk Litteratur-Tidning [Swedish Literary Journal], with which he must certainly have been acquainted” (Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 27). According to Väinö Kaukonen, there is no proof that Lönnrot had read Gottlund’s text, but it is unlikely that he was completely unaware of it (Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala, 16). This is one of the many issues that point to the competitive and quarrelsome relationship between Gottlund and Lönnrot, which has most recently been discussed and debated by the Finnish historian Irma Sulkunen (2004) and the Finnish folklorist Satu Apo (2009). Sulkunen’s treatise of Lönnrot in her history of the Finnish Literature Society (Irma Sulkunen, Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura 1831−1892 [Finnish Literature Society 1831−1892] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2004) is one of the rare occasions in which Lönnrot is not presented as an indisputable national hero. Her approach is heavily criticized in Satu Apo’s “Uusin Lönnrot-myytti ja kansanrunouden editiohistoria” [The newest Lönnrot myth and the edition history of folk poetry], published in Elore 2/2009. 6 See Hautala, 39ff.; Anna-Leena Siikala, “Kalevala myyttisenä historiana” [The Kalevala as mythic history], in Kalevalan kulttuurihistoria [The cultural history of the Kalevala]. Ulla Piela, Seppo Knuuttila, Pekka Laaksonen (eds.) (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2008), 296–329; Anna-Leena Siikala, Mythic Images and Shamanism: A Perspective on Kalevala Poetry, ffc 280 (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 2002). the kalevala and the authenticity debate 59 original forms as well as their order as an epic entity. He wrote in February 1834, when still working on the miniature epics that preceded the first edition of the Kalevala, that he took “special notice of the chronological order of the heroic deeds in the poems.”7 In the printed introduction to the first edition he gave an account of how he had arrived at the idea of making this compilation, expressing also his uncertainty concerning the correctness of his chosen order. “Two things I have taken into consideration in the method of organization: firstly what I have seen the best singers pay attention to in regard to order, and secondly, when this did not help, I consulted the poems themselves as to the basis of the events and put them in order accordingly.”8 Thus, the order selected was not subjective or artistic but ethnographically interpretative. In other words, the authenticity of his enterprise rested on the principle of following singers of oral poetry and their vernacular practices.

A Partially Critical Welcome

Despite Lönnrot’s convictions, the question of the published texts’ proper order was not without disagreement. M.A. Castrén, for example, who published in 1841 a Swedish translation of the 1835 Kalevala, regarded Lönnrot’s epic as equal in significance to Homer, Ossian and the Eddas but he was critical of the order of some of the episodes, the epic’s lack of cohesion and the inconsistencies that he found in the plot. According to Castrén, the Kalevala cannot be considered a proper epic since it is an interpolation of two sets of poems. One of these is epic, dealing with the mythical object of sampo, and the other is lyrical, consisting of wooing songs.9 Despite his criticism, however, Castrén did not argue for the inauthenticity of the Kalevala. On the contrary, he defended its authenticity against “pseudocritics” and “renegades” who, according to Castrén, claimed that Lönnrot has included in the epic some verse lines of his own making.10 Castrén contended that a true patriot can see that not a

7 Translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 24. 8 Translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 27–8. 9 M.A. Castrén, “Finsk Litteratur,” Litteraturblad för allmän medborgerlig bildning [Literary Journal for the General Instruction of the Citizens], Nr. 2, februari 1850, 38; Kaukonen, 99–100; see also Väinö Kaukonen, Elias Lönnrotin Kalevalan toinen painos [The second edition of Elias Lönnrot’s Kalevala] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1956), 433–5. 10 Kaukonen, Elias Lönnrotin, 433. 60 anttonen single line has been added by Lönnrot. Serving as the first professor of Finnish at the University of Helsinki for a short period before his death in 1852, Castrén lectured on Finnish mythology on the basis of the Kalevala, for which he was criticized by later generations of scholars. The most vehement critic of the Kalevala was Carl Axel Gottlund, one of the original Turku Romantics, an avid folklore collector especially in the Finnskogen (Finnforest) area of western Sweden and the person who originally came up with the idea of a Finnish epic. Gottlund saw the Kalevala as Lönnrot’s literary work rather than a folk epic. According to Gottlund, the Kalevala is inauthentic because Lönnrot had made alterations to the recorded texts, had included materials of different nature, age and origin, and had expanded the songs in his attempt to make the Kalevala appear equal to the Iliad and the Odyssey.11 For Gottlund authenticity meant faithful documentation and representation of the singers’ performance without any alterations. According to the Finnish literary historian Pertti Karkama, the disputes between Gottlund and Lönnrot regarding the way in which to publish folk poetry indicate that there was no unanimity over the understanding of what demonstrates original national soul and represents authentic folklife.12 Yet, it appears that Lönnrot’s major fault in Gottlund’s view was that Lönnrot produced a work comparable to the Homeric epics and thus fulfilled the idea which Gottlund himself had suggested—without giving Gottlund any credit for the original suggestion. Gottlund would have wanted to make such an epic himself, but, as he says, “on a different basis.”13 What this “different basis” meant remains unclear. Gottlund’s own publications in folk poetry (Otava in 1828– 1832 and Runola in 1840) were—and continue to be—regarded as inferior to Lönnrot’s works.14 Runola was meant to challenge the position enjoyed by the Kalevala, but Gottlund’s attempt turned out as a failure, especially since in the introduction he denied that the Kalevala had any value whatsoever. It is presumably Gottlund that Castrén referred to as “pseudocritics” and “renegades.”15

11 Carl Axel Gottlund, En fråga i finsk litteratur [A question concerning Finnish literature]. Helsingfors Tidningar [Helsinki News] 1843, nr. 14; Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala, 102–3; Kaukonen, Elias Lönnrotin . . ., 439–43. 12 Pertti Karkama, Kansakunnan asialla. Elias Lönnrot ja ajan aatteet [Promoting the nation. Elias Lönnrot and contemporary ideas] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2001), 26. 13 Kaukonen, Elias Lönnrotin, 443; Idem., Lönnrot ja Kalevala, 104. 14 See Apo. 15 Kaukonen, Elias Lönnrotin, 439. the kalevala and the authenticity debate 61

Gottlund’s criticism against Lönnrot and the Kalevala was exceptional in its severity, but, interestingly enough, one of his major points became of central importance for many later generations of scholars discussing and evaluating the Kalevala’s ethnographic value as a representation of traditional oral poetry. This is the argument about a fundamental difference between the epic and its sources, and therefore about the epic’s authenticity. Jouko Hautala, who wrote the history of Finnish folklore study in the early 1950s and published an English-language edition of his book in 1969, writes that after the publication of the Kalevala, “research work was not initially, not indeed for a long time, directed towards the folk poems themselves, but towards the Kalevala: comments were written and explanations given on Lönnrot’s epic, without seeing any difference between it and its material. The material offered to research by the Kalevala was considered quite sufficient and entirely trustworthy.”16 Hautala’s statement makes it evident that drawing a distinction between the epic and its materials is to be regarded as essentially important, but this came to be understood by scholars only later on. It also shows that Lönnrot’s generation of scholars understood the Kalevala “as representing ancient poetry both fully and faultlessly,” but that Hautala’s own generation of scholars in the twentieth century no longer regards it as entirely trustworthy. In Lönnrot’s own time, the Kalevala’s status as an authentic representation of ancient Finnish history and/or mythology rested to a great extent on the public support of Lönnrot’s educated colleagues, but also on its international fame. When research premises changed from romanticism to evolutionism and positivism, the epic’s ethnographic and historical source value came to be re-evaluated. This meant the drawing of a fundamental distinction between the epic and its sources. Most, if not all, scholars in Finnish folklore studies took a critical stance towards the epic on the grounds that it differed from the original folk poems in both content and length. In fact, this difference became a major issue in the debate concerning the Kalevala’s authenticity and of fundamental importance for the scholarly identity of academic folklore study in Finland. In this regard, a key statement of long-lasting influence was made by Julius Krohn, who in the 1880s came to the conclusion that “the printed Kalevala, although it is put together so skillfully, or in fact, for that very reason, is not at all suitable as a basis for scholarly research.”17 Krohn’s landmark statement indicates his wish to show appreciation to Lönnrot and his epic, while laying the foundation of scholarly folklore research on the study of unaltered

16 Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 26. 17 Translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 71. 62 anttonen documents of oral tradition. Still, Krohn’s adaptation of the evolutionist paradigm to theorize on epic production in traditional oral poetry offered yet another justification for Lönnrot’s epic. Laying the foundation for the internationally prominent historic-geographic method (still called local-historical at the time), Krohn argued that the tradition of oral poetry is characterized by a tendency to develop from smaller cells and then expand and stretch into larger entities while songs travel from one place to another. Were it not for the expansion of modern civilization and foreign influences, Finnish folk poems would have developed into an epic even without the help of a literary compiler.18 Accordingly, even though Krohn laid a great deal of emphasis on his tenet that the epic “is not suitable as a work of reference in folklore research,”19 the Kalevala’s relationship to the tradition of oral poetry is not merely a question of fidelity to its sources. Krohn argued that the epic songs concerning the mythical sampo constitute an ideational center which attracts to itself all other epic songs.20 It is this process that the Kalevala as Lönnrot’s literary rendition represents.21

Where Are the Variants?

Even though, as stated by Hautala, the necessary distinction between the epic and its source materials came to be understood by scholars only later on, the question of the epic’s faithfulness to its sources was already a topic of discussion in Lönnrot’s time. One of the main reasons for this was the international dispute concerning the authenticity of James Macpherson’s publications in English translation of allegedly ancient Scots Gaelic poetry, The Poems of Ossian (1765). Lönnrot had been aware of this dispute since his student days at the Royal Academy of Turku, where the Turku Romantics, following their

18 Julius Krohn, Suomalaisen kirjallisuuden historia. Ensimmäinen osa: Kalevala [History of Finnish literature. First part: the Kalevala] (Helsinki: Weilin & Göös, 1885), 583–4; Jouko Hautala, Suomalainen kansanrunoudentutkimus [Finnish folklore research] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1954), 192. 19 Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 26. 20 Krohn, 8, 582. 21 The same question was discussed a hundred years later by Hans Fromm, who, unlike Krohn, regarded Lönnrot’s role in this as artificial and anachronistic because, according to Fromm, Lönnrot attempted at something that was no longer a natural process in cultural evolution. Hans Fromm, Esseitä Kalevalasta [Essays concerning the Kalevala] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1987), 11–2. the kalevala and the authenticity debate 63 teacher H.G. Porthan, regarded Macpherson’s publications highly and considered their importance equal to the Homerian epics—except for their brevity.22 Some of Lönnrot’s editorial methods were similar to those used by Macpherson, as he created new plots and persons, lengthened or shortened narrative episodes and combined separate songs and their motifs. Still, Lönnrot made an effort not to be seen as another Macpherson, even though, as Kaukonen concluded, he regarded the suspicion against Macpherson as unfounded.23 He was open about his working methods as well as about the alterations that he made when editing his source materials. He saw these as justified in light of the competence that he had developed while listening to folk singers and taking down their oral performances. In his own opinion, what he did in terms of textual editing corresponded to the variation that he encountered in the performances of the folk singers that he had met and talked to. Lönnrot himself was also concerned about the epic’s authenticity. He wrote to Runeberg before the first edition of the epic was finished that questions may arise concerning the genuineness of the poems that he was publishing. He reacted to this potentiality by saying that anyone can follow him in his trips and come to the marketplace in Kajaani, where he worked as medical doctor, and easily observe that these songs are being sung among the people.24 Here again he defends the authenticity of his work with reference to vernacular practices. His textual product, in other words, has popular origins because his original collections have popular equivalents.25 In order to support his standing, Lönnrot included in the 1835 edition a hundred-page appendix with variants to the poems that he had chosen to publish in the epic. In the draft of the introduction, eventually published by Axel Borenius and Julius Krohn decades later, he writes: “What I have incorporated into the main body of the book is historically no more certain than what is placed in the additions. All are sung by single individuals, and I am afraid I have sometimes included in the additions what is original, and

22 Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala, 17. 23 Kaukonen, Elias Lönnrotin, 453. 24 Kaukonen, ibid. 25 He repeated the argument in 1851 in his final statement concerning the Kalevala’s authenticity, in a letter to L.A. Léouzon Le Duc, who had translated the 1835 edition into French. Lönnrot writes here that he has not changed the original poems or concealed the origin of the poems that he has compiled, and this can be confirmed by visiting the ordinary people “in the areas where the poems where noted down, for everything to be found in the Kalevala was already familiar in one or another region, and this familiarity is founded on tradition and is not caused by any printed or written book . . .” (translation from Honko, 224). 64 anttonen incorporated into the main body of the work something which has been added to the poems later.”26 When sorting out additional collections after the first edition was printed, Lönnrot wrote to those who doubted the popular origins of his materials that he will be submitting all of the original documents to the Finnish Literature Society.27 This, however, he did not do until four decades later, in 1874. After the first edition was published, a new interest in folklore collecting emerged. Consequently, new collections became available, containing both previously unknown poems as well as variants to those already known. These gave Lönnrot a reason to compile a new edition of the epic, but he only started to work on it after the 500 copies of the 1835 edition had sold out in 1847. The second edition, published in 1849, was a highly extended version in which Lönnrot expanded and lengthened the old episodes by taking lines and sequences from the new variants and adding both new narrative themes and new materials consisting of lyrical songs, wedding poetry and incantations. In relation to the first edition, the epic now had a conspicuously symmetrical structure. It begins and ends with comments by the narrator, who is Lönnrot himself. In the beginning the main hero enters the scene and in the end he makes his exit. There is a mother-and-son narrative both in the beginning and in the end. Two episodes on women, one in the early part of the epic and the other towards the end, surround the heroic deeds of the male protagonists. In addition to this symmetry, a major opposition characterizes the epic’s structure, since the events are designed to depict a conflict between two different peoples: Kalevala is the home of the main protagonists, while Pohjola (North Country) is the home of their enemies and competitors. The second edition is generally considered more artistic than ethnographic, but more recent research has viewed it as being strongly oriented towards nation-building and social and ethical commentary.28 Hautala concludes

26 Axel Borenius & Julius Krohn, Elias Lönnrot. Kalevalan esityöt iii. Lisiä Vanhaan Kalevalaan [Elias Lönnrot, Work preliminary to the Kalevala iii. Additions to the Old Kalevala] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1895), 331; Translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore . . ., 27. 27 Ibid., 2. 28 See e.g., Karkama, Kansakunnan; Satu Apo, “Kertojan ääni Kalevalassa” [The narrator’s voice in the Kalevala], in Lönnrotin hengessä [In the Spirit of Lönnrot], Pekka Laaksonen & Ulla Piela (eds.), (Kalevalaseuran vuosikirja 81 [The Kalevala Society Yearbook 81]) (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2002), 108−122; Niina Hämäläinen, Yhteinen perhe, jaetut tunteet. Lyyrisen kansanrunon tekstualisoinnin ja artikuloinnin tapoja Kalevalassa [One family, shared emotions. Textualisation methods and articulation of the kalevala and the authenticity debate 65 that because of the drastic changes to the order of individual episodes, “one cannot speak of the second edition, not even of a revised one, but rather of a new epic, built on the basis of the first.”29 Still Hautala contends that “Lönnrot’s Kalevala is the nearest to popular tradition of all the world’s national epics because almost every one of its lines has an equivalent in the folk songs.”30 Indeed, according to Väinö Kaukonen, 33% of the lines in the epic match with the original texts, while Lönnrot changed the orthography, the language and the poetic meter in 50% of the lines. 14% of the lines are composed by Lönnrot using selected elements from the folk poems, and 3% are those which Lönnrot composed himself or which do not seem to have an equivalent in the sources.31 Kaukonen’s statistics prompted the Finnish folklorist Lauri Honko to state that “The Kalevala is a highly authentic folk poetry epic if we take as our criterion the authenticity of the individual line.”32 In a recent guidebook to the Kalevala published by the Finnish Literature Society for international readers, Irma-Riitta Järvinen characterizes Lönnrot’s epic as being “firmly based on folk poetry.”33 When preparing the second edition of the Kalevala, Lönnrot adopted a new way to justify and authenticate his epic making. This is a theory of epic production that Lönnrot learned from his Hegelian friend Robert Tengström. In 1845 Tengström published two essays which deal with the idea of all nations having had a heroic and poetic age in their far-away past and the Kalevala representing such a heroic and poetic era in ancient Finnish history. Tengström’s basic tenet was that only few nations have the capacity to produce an epic poem about their history and such an epic is a product of both Volksgeist and individual artistry. The nation’s narratives circulate over generations among the people until a single poet weaves them together into an epic entity. In this entity, episodes are linked not merely chronologically and biographically but also through their “inner connection.”34 Even though the epic is a product of many singers, the poet-artist is a prerequisite for the artistic end-result. As pointed out by Kaukonen, Tengström’s theoretical viewpoint gave Lönnrot

lyrical folk poetry in the Kalevala] (Turku: University of Turku, Annales Universitatis Turkuensis Ser. C, Tom. 349, 2012). 29 Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 34. 30 Ibid., 26. 31 Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala, 72. 32 Honko, 209. 33 Irma-Riitta Järvinen, Kalevala Guide (Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2010), 11. 34 Kaukonen, Elias Lönnrotin, 436; Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala, 104−7. 66 anttonen license to work independently for an artistic epic work that still has its foundation in folk poetry.35 Even though Lönnrot’s work was received with much praise and acclaim, the question of how the printed epic corresponded to the collected materials continued to be discussed. The debate was partially inspired by the fact that unlike the 1835 Kalevala, the new edition did not contain a variant appendix. Lönnrot defended his editorial choices in an article entitled ‘Anmärkningar till den nya Kalevala upplagan’ (Remarks concerning the new edition of the Kalevala), which was published in first issue of the journal Litteraturblad för allmän medborgerlig bildning (Literary journal for the general instruction of the citizens) in 1849.36 In it, he first responds to those who had felt that the first edition contained too many magical elements that disturbed the smooth flow of narrative. He writes that these elements are part of an ancient worldview that should not be changed. In other words, Lönnrot feels obliged to remain as faithful as possible to his materials, without imposing modern meanings to them.37 This is an argument for the Kalevala’s historical and ethnographic authenticity. Regarding the order of the published texts in the epic, Lönnrot writes in the same article that he has taken some of the critical comments by his colleagues into account and changed the order of some of the episodes. However, he states that he finds it impossible to choose which singer to follow in the organization of the songs since they all perform them in different combinations and not a single order can be established as original.38 This prompts him to claim that he is competent enough to judge which texts go well together and that he has the same right as the singers to arrange the poems in the order he thinks best. “I considered myself a singer, as good as they themselves were.”39 Lönnrot also describes his editorial principles: “Anyone who sets about arranging and combining items belonging to a particular poetic sequence is from time to time forced to add the occasional connecting line, and I do not doubt that such lines can be found in the Homeric poems, too, if we look hard enough. Connecting lines also had from time to time to be added to the

35 Ibid., 181. 36 Lönnrot, Elias, “Anmärkningar till den nya Kalevala upplagan” (Remarks concerning the new edition of the Kalevala), republished in Elias Lönnrot, Valitut teokset 5, Muinaisrunoutta [Selected Works, Ancient Poetry] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1993), 402−8. 37 Ibid., 402. 38 Ibid., 403. 39 Translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 34−5. the kalevala and the authenticity debate 67

Kalevala; mentioning this on every occasion would, however, seem pedan- tic . . .”40 Two decades earlier, in 1829, Lönnrot had made a similar statement in a review of a collection of folk poems by Zachris Topelius the elder, when commenting on the treatment of dialectal words in such collections. Lönnrot writes here that “poems (. . .) must, if possible, be made generally comprehensible; every attempt must be made to present them in such a form that the entire nation can read them, which is not the case if slight differences of dia- lect are adhered to.41 We may conclude from this that for Lönnrot, accuracy in the making of the Kalevala did not mean exact repetition of that which is performed orally, but rather, the representation of the orally uttered in ways that make it readable and comprehensible—and theoretically justified. Before the second edition was published, the Finnish Literature Society had asked Castrén to pre-examine Lönnrot’s manuscript. In his report from 1849 Castrén suggested that the Society should publish poems and poem-cycles collected from individual singers without editing, “just as they have been written down from the mouths of the best singers.”42 His suggestion was echoed in the mid-1850s by d.e.d. Europaeus, another avid collector who not only encouraged new and systematic collections but the publishing of collected materials “in the form in which they really do live in the mouths of the singers”.43 The publication idea grew in significance when international debates on Macpherson had again raised doubts about the Kalevala’s authenticity. The Finnish art historian C.G. Estlander wrote in 1858 an article in the newspaper Helsingfors Tidningar, taking up the case of Ossian and calling for the publication, or at least accessing to the Finnish Literature Society’s library, not only of Lönnrot’s original materials but all of the collections, together with detailed information concerning the places of collecting and persons who sang the collected songs.44 The discussion concerning the publication of “variants” or “additions” to the Kalevala continued in the following decades. As commented by Hautala, at the outset it was not motivated by any skepticism towards Lönnrot’s epic but, on the contrary, was meant “to verify the ‘authenticity’ of the Kalevala through

40 Elias Lönnrot, Valitut . . ., 408; Translation from Honko, 215; see also Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 34. 41 Elias Lönnrot, “Recension” [Review], Helsingfors Tidningar, No. 42 ( June 3, 1829), 2−3; republished in Elias Lönnrot, Valitut, 169−174, esp. 170; Translation from Honko, 210. 42 Hautala Finnish Folklore, 58. 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid., 59. 68 anttonen the publishing of the original material.”45 As authenticity stood for popular origins, scholars in Finland were inclined to disperse any doubts concerning this, while scholars abroad, it was said, had cast doubt on it.46 The discussion eventually led to an extensive publication program that continued for more than a century. The first of these publications was Julius Krohn’s Kalevalan toisinnot (The variants of Kalevala) in 1888, which was followed by Kalevalan esityöt i−iii (Work preliminary to the Kalevala), edited by Axel Borenius and Julius Krohn in 1891−1895. The 33-volume set of Suomen Kansan Vanhat Runot (Ancient poems of the Finnish people) came out in 1908−1948, with the additional 34th volume in 1997.

Of No Scholarly Value

By the time these publications became available, scholarship on folk poetry and mythology had rejected the Kalevala as a trustworthy ethnographic source, because of its many deviations from the original folk poems. Lönnrot’s epic came to be acknowledged mainly as a literary achievement of national significance. Julius Krohn, for example, states in the introduction to his book Suomen suvun pakanallinen jumalanpalvelus (The pagan worship of the Finnish peoples, published posthumously in 1894), that “from an esthetic point of view the Kalevala will always be the cornerstone of our literature, but for scientific investigation is it quite useless, even misleading.”47 Krohn’s view was fully shared by his successor, his son Kaarle Krohn, who in a review of Kalevalan esityöt writes that the Kalevala would not have any scientific value, had Lönnrot not carefully preserved its preliminary works and the original materials that he used for his compilation. The epic’s main value for Kaarle Krohn is in its national significance and in giving folk poetry research a greater general importance than it would have without it.48

45 Ibid., 28. 46 See Hautala, Suomalainen, 198−203; Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 60−2. 47 Julius Krohn, Suomen suvun pakanallinen jumalanpalvelus [The pagan worship of the Finnish peoples] (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1894). Facsimile repub- lication (Helsinki: Salakirjat, 2008), 2; Translation from William A. Wilson, Folklore and Nationalism in Modern Finland (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976), 75. 48 Kaarle Krohn, “Kalevalan esityöt” [Work preliminary to the Kalevala] [A review], Valvoja (1896), 157−179; see also Kaarle Krohn, Kalevalankysymyksiä [Kalevala Questions] i–ii. Journal de la Société Finno-Ougrienne, Nr. 35 (1918). the kalevala and the authenticity debate 69

The argument for the Kalevala’s lack of suitability as a work of ethnographic reference in research, expressed strongly by Hautala in his history of folklore research, rests on the notion that Lönnrot’s epic is not authentic as a compilation because it misrepresents folk poems, those that Lönnrot used as his materials as well as those that he didn’t use but which came to be accessed by researchers later on. In the name of “modern, comparative research” that Lönnrot and his contemporaries could not “have foreseen,”49 Hautala targets his critical gaze at the alterations that Lönnrot made in the compilation process. Lönnrot’s methods now appear as utterly subjective and therefore unschol- arly. Hautala contends that Lönnrot “chose from the variants in his possession (. . .) the longest and those which he considered to be the most beautiful and perfect.”50 “To these he has with a free hand added lines and groups of lines from other variants, even from quite different poems, so that he has seldom followed one written variant for little more than ten successive lines. Thus, sequences have been arrived at that can be taken as having been composed by Lönnrot, using lines of folk songs as his material. Weaving together poems with different subjects and featuring different heroes demanded a leveling down and changing of proper names and composing lines as links. (. . .) Gathering together numerous parallel lines from many variants and connecting lyrical and magical material with poems of an epic nature has led to a certain stylistic departure from the spare, terse and simple mode of expression of the original. This departure appears excessive in scope, even prolix and tautological.”51 Hautala’s standpoint is not that different from the much more critical and condemning tone taken by the American folklorist Alan Dundes in his 1985 article concerning the Kalevala as a case of fakelore. Having been inspired by Eric Hobsbawm’s then-recent initiative into the study of the invention of tradition, the political use of collective history and symbolism,52 Dundes returns to the concept of fakelore that was coined in the 1950s by his teacher Richard Dorson,53 and adapts it to Macpherson’s Ossian, the Kinder- und Hausmärchen by the Grimm brothers and Lönnrot’s Kalevala. Authenticity boils down here to the question of whether the literary representation of oral tradition is what the author or compiler claims it is. Citing Dorson, Dundes defines fakelore as

49 Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 27. 50 Ibid., 26. 51 Ibid., 26–7. 52 See Eric Hobsbawm & Terence Ranger (eds.), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 53 See Richard M. Dorson, “Folklore and Fake Lore,” The American Mercury (March 1950), 335−42. 70 anttonen

“presentation of spurious and synthetic writings under the claim that they are genuine folklore.”54 Like Dorson, Dundes equates fakelore with tailoring, fabrication, adulteration, manipulation and doctoring, and locates it in the combining of different versions and the production of composite texts, in the falsification of informant data, in the rewriting, embellishment and elaboration of oral materials, and in the imposing of literary criteria upon oral materials. Fakelore is constituted by misrepresentation and false claims of authenticity. When dealing with the Kalevala, Dundes draws a picture of Finnish folklore scholars viewing Lönnrot’s epic as useless for scientific purposes, while the general public—“including many intellectuals”55—continues to believe that it is a genuine folk epic. The scholars, in other words, know better, but the general public continues to be misled into thinking that the Kalevala is a true folk epic. The reason for this deception, according to Dundes, is Finnish nationalism. When arguing that the Kalevala “would seem to be a classic case of fakelore,”56 Dundes cites William Wilson’s observation that “In actual fact, not only is the Kalevala a composite epic, so also are the poems in it composite poems; no one song has ever been recited by the people the way it appears in the Kalevala.”57 Dundes also cites Martti Haavio’s remark about Kaarle Krohn teaching him that “the Kalevala frankly and openly speaking, is a clear counterfeit”.58 Dundes concludes that “The forces of romanticism and nationalism were— and are—so powerful in Finland that what the people believed was—and is—more important than what was true.”59 Dundes explains this with a notion that Finland as a country—as does Scotland in the case of Macpherson and Germany in the case of the Grimm brothers—suffers from “a severe case of an inferiority complex,”60 caused by the several centuries-long rule and cultural domination of the Swedes. Dundes may or may not be right in seeing signs of inferiority among Finns, but a Hobsbawmian perspective into the invention of tradition might not have attributed the Kalevala’s political meanings only to the alleged Swedish domination, but also linked them to Finnish cultural colonialism across the eastern border and to Karelia’s temporal оthering

54 Alan Dundes, “Nationalistic Inferiority Complexes and the Fabrication of Fakelore: A Reconsideration of Ossian, the Kinder- und Hausmärchen, the Kalevala, and Paul Bunyan,” Journal of Folklore Research 22 (1) (1985), 5–18, esp. 5, 8. 55 Ibid., 10. 56 Ibid. 57 Ibid., 9–10; Wilson, Folklore and Nationalism, 40. 58 Dundes, “Nationalistic Inferiority Complexes,” 10; quoted by Dundes from Wilson, Folklore and Nationalism, 75. 59 Dundes, “Nationalistic Inferiority Complexes,” 10. 60 Ibid., 11. the kalevala and the authenticity debate 71 into a periphery of modernity in the possession of Finland.61 Be this as it may, Dundes makes a clear error in assuming that “Lönnrot honestly felt that he was only reconstructing or restoring an authentic, ancient Finnish epic.”62 Lönnrot did not make such a claim, as he explicitly emphasized that one would not find an extensive epic among the folk. In 1835 he wrote that he believed that the songs had emerged one by one, and the structure of the Kalevala is his own. The strongly critical approach by Dundes against the Kalevala is reminiscent of the approach taken almost one hundred years earlier by the Swedish scholar of Finno-Ugric languages K.B. Wiklund, who published in 1901 a booklet entitled Om Kalevala, finnarnes nationalepos och forskningarna rörande detsamma (On the Kalevala, the national epic of the Finns, and on research concerning it). Wiklund likened Lönnrot to Macpherson and argued that the Kalevala does not contain authentic folk poetry. He also emphasized that the Kalevala was born on Lönnrot’s writing desk.63 Similar views have been taken by many other foreign scholars.64 Finnish folklorists, however, have tended to express their criticism more discreetly, and in fact, Kaarle Krohn wrote a response to Wiklund defending Lönnrot’s editorial practices and describing them as following faithfully the folk singers’ oral practices.65 This had been Lönnrot’s own defensive argument as well. Still, Finnish folklorists almost throughout the twentieth century embraced a feeling, put in words by Martti Haavio on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of the 1835 Kalevala, that Lönnrot’s epic has overshadowed the ancient tradition of folk poetry.66 As discussed by William Wilson in his seminal work Folklore and Nationalism in Modern Finland (1976), folklore scholars of the

61 See Pertti J. Anttonen, Tradition Through Modernity: Postmodernism and the Nation-State in Folklore Scholarship (Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2005). 62 Dundes, “Nationalistic Inferiority Complexes,” 11. 63 K.B. Wiklund, Om Kalevala, Finnarnes nationalepos och forskningarna rörande detsamma (Stockholm: Norstedt & Sons, 1901); Kaukonen, Elias Lönnrotin . . ., 451; Satu Apo, “Kansanrunouden tutkijat Kalevalan kriitikkoina [Folklorists as Kalevala critics],” in Kalevalan kulttuurihistoria [The cultural history of the Kalevala], Ulla Piela, Seppo Knuuttila, & Pekka Laaksonen (eds.) (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2008), 373. 64 E.g., Vladimir Propp, “Kalevala kansanrunouden valossa” [The Kalevala in light of folk poetry], in Lönnrotin aika [Time for Lönnrot], Pekka Laaksonen (ed.) Kalevalaseuran vuosikirja 64 (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1984), 67−79. 65 Kaarle Krohn, “Zur Kalevalafrage,” Finnisch-Ugrische Forschungen, Band I, Heft 3 (1901), 185−210; see also Apo, “Kansanrunouden tutkijat”, 374. 66 Martti Haavio, Suomalaisen muinaisrunon maailma [The world of Finnish ancient poetry] (Helsinki: Werner Söderström, 1935), 7−8. 72 anttonen first decades of the 20th century yielded to the public demand for nationalistic Kalevala enthusiasm, which presented the epic as genuinely ancient, but in their academic works they stressed its distinction from folk poetry. The Kalevala was in the public eye, but the folklorists wanted to replace it with authentic folk poetry and demarcate the epic as a study object for the literary scholar only. Major folklorists started to produce their own folk poetry editions for public consumption. In 1920 Kaarle Krohn published a collection entitled Muinaisrunoja laulusta—surusta—lemmestä (Ancient poems about song—sorrow—love) that was supposed to present folk poetry in its reconstructed original form. In 1952, Martti Haavio did the same with two antholo- gies, Kirjokansi (The brightcolored lid) and Laulupuu (Song tree). In 1976, Matti Kuusi published an anthology of folk poetry entitled Kansanruno-Kalevala (The folk poem Kalevala), which he hoped would replace Lönnrot’s Kalevala as textbook in elementary schools. Not all scholars in folklore, however, have wanted to do away with Lönnrot’s literary rendition. Väinö Kaukonen, who conducted extensive research on Lönnrot’s use of folk poetry materials in both the Kalevala and the collection of lyrical poetry, the Kanteletar, regarded the Kalevala as an artistic epic poem composed by Lönnrot on the basis of folk poetry.67 Instead of condemning it as inauthentic, he called it Lönnrot’s visionary fantasy of the nation’s heroic age and of folk poetry allegedly born in that age.68 As such, the Kalevala is poetry on poetry, and Lönnrot was a poet rather than a compiler. It was Lauri Honko who in the 1980s started to lift up the Kalevala from the marginal position where it had been driven by folkloristic source criticism and the paradigmatic distinction drawn between the Kalevala and folk poetry. Instead of categorizing the Kalevala as a romantic piece of literature or as ‘fakelore’, Honko defined it as a tradition-oriented epic and challenged scholars to view and study its compilation and textual production comparatively in the context of other epic traditions in the world and international epic research.69 Unlike many generations of folklore scholars before him, Honko was bold

67 Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala, 71. 68 Ibid., 86; also Väinö Kaukonen, “The Kalevala as Epic,” in Religion, Myth, and Folklore in the World’s Epics: The Kalevala and its Predecessors, Lauri Honko (ed.) (Berlin & New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 1990), 157−8. 69 See Lauri Honko (ed.), Religion, Myth as above; also Lauri Honko, Textualizing the Siri Epic, ffc 264 (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 1998); Lauri Honko (ed.), The Kalevala and the World’s Traditional Epics, Studia Fennica Folkloristica 12 (Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2002). the kalevala and the authenticity debate 73 enough to value Lönnrot’s semi-literary epic above its folklore sources and still regard his perspective as folkloristic. Honko justified his turn towards the Kalevala theoretically, not ideologi- cally. He viewed Lönnrot’s work of epic compilation as parallel to the oral production of epic poetry, founding this upon an adaptation of Albert B. Lord’s oral formulaic theory.70 According to Honko, an epic singer does not repeat a fixed text from his or her memory, but instead, composes a given unit in performance with the help of an internalized “prenarrative” or a mental text. This consists of “1) storylines, 2) textual elements, i.e., episodic patterns, images of epic situations, multiforms, etc., and 3) their generic rules of reproduction as well as 4) contextual frames such as remembrances of earlier performances”.71 Epic performances are thus realizations of the singers’ mental texts and as such, represent the range of variation within the epic tradition. Honko postulated that this cognitive process also applies to Lönnrot and his textualization of the different versions of the Kalevala epic. Honko’s theoretical perspective represents yet another approach to justify and authenticate the Kalevala, seeing its literary process as corresponding to the oral processes of performing epic poetry.72 Another major approach introduced more or less recently to the study of the Kalevala concerns its links to the society in which it was published and the intellectual history that explains both its compilation and reception. In his major volume on Lönnrot and his relationship to Romanticism, late 18th- century and early 19th-century Enlightenment and Neo-Humanism as well as 19th-century Nationalism, Pertti Karkama elaborates in detail on how Lönnrot went about to fulfill his aim to produce an epic of national significance for national but not nationalistic interests.73 In the footsteps of both Honko and Karkama, today’s research into the Kalevala is reception-oriented and strongly contextualized in intellectual history and the early modern history of philosophy. Lönnrot’s deviations from his original source materials are no longer

70 See Albert B. Lord, The Singer of Tales (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 1960). 71 Honko, Textualizing, 94; see also Honko, “The Kalevala as Performance,” in Lauri Honko (ed.), The Kalevala and the World’s Traditional Epics, 13−25. 72 Honko’s theoretical approach has not escaped criticism or sarcasm. Thomas DuBois writes: “Some folklorists have a even tried to induct Lönnrot into the category of traditional singer, averring that his work isn’t so very different from what traditional singers did after all. Such a gesture seeks to accord Lönnrot the highest honor a folklorist can con- ceive of: the conferral of authenticity.” (Thomas A. Dubois, “Poem 30: The Pivotal Canto in which Very Little Happens,” Journal of Finnish Studies, vol. 13, no. 2 (Winter 2009), 5−16, esp. 5. 73 Karkama, Kansakunnan. 74 anttonen discussed in terms of authenticity vs. inauthenticity, but are seen as textual practices that need to be explained in the context of both his theoretical and philosophical premises and argumentative goals in the society in which he published his epic.74 Of major importance here is the re-theorizing of the folklore document, which has traditionally rested on the scholarly belief in textual authenticity and intertextual fidelity.75 Questions of textual production and literary representation are now understood to concern just as much the documentation of the so-called original folk poems as Lönnrot’s compilation of the Kalevala. In earlier research, the Kalevala’s authenticity tended to be mainly estimated in terms of textual similarity between the epic and its sources—the epic lacking the fidelity that is allegedly intrinsic in the collected folk poems. ‘From the lips or the mouth of the people’ was a key metaphor for reliability, while literary representation almost equaled to intentional deception. As a consequence, both scholars and the general public have been uneasy about how to catego- rize what Lönnrot has accomplished with the Kalevala, except for acknowledg- ing its national and literary significance.

Authenticity and Modernity

In his introduction to the Kanteletar, the collection of lyrical songs that Lönnrot compiled and published in 1840−1841, Lönnrot takes a rare moment to theorize on the emergence and circulation of vernacular poetry—with views

74 See Jouni Hyvönen, “Kalevala Elias Lönnrotin tieteellisenä projektina” [The Kalevala as Elias Lönnrot’s scientific project], in Kalevalan kulttuurihistoria, Ulla Piela, Seppo Knuuttila, & Pekka Laaksonen (eds.) (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2008) 330−59; Juhana Saarelainen, “Tieto, tietäminen ja tiede historiallisena ilmiönä. Elias Lönnrotin lääketieteellinen väitöskirja ja hänen käsityksensä tiedosta” [Knowledge, knowing and science as a historical phenomenon. The medical dissertation of Elias Lönnrot and his conception of knowledge] in Menneen ja tulevan välillä. 1800-luvun kult- tuurihistorian lukukirja [Between the bygone and the future. A reader in 19th-century cultural history]. Hannu Salmi (ed.) (Turku: K&H, 2011), 53−90; Hämäläinen, Yhteinen perhe . . . 75 Richard Bauman and Charles Briggs use the term “image of intertextual fidelity” to refer to the conventional notion that “texts created through transcription, translation, and editing should bear a direct and intrinsic connection to their sources, such that the former are extensions or synecdoches of the latter” (Richard Bauman & Charles L. Briggs, Voices of Modernity: Language Ideologies and the Politics of Inequality (Cambridge & New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 212−3. the kalevala and the authenticity debate 75 familiar from the works of Herder and the Grimms. Implying the concepts of Naturpoesie and Kunstpoesie, he draws a sharp distinction between folk poetry and art poetry and writes that “the former is born out of thought, the latter is made by thinking, the former has welled forth from the heart’s need, the latter form [from] a decision made by reason: what in folk poetry is expression has changed into work, the voice of a living cuckoo in the woods to the cuckoo-sound in a clock, a natural brook to a dug-out ditch, a natural wood to a planted park.”76 Hautala portrays Lönnrot’s theorizing as an expression of Romanticism and he contextualizes it with the 19th-century discussion on individual vs. collective creation. He writes that “The concept of an impersonal ‘folk’ as the collective composer of poetry, and the negation of the significance or even the existence of individual poets, was characteristic of the period.”77 Here Hautala appears to read Lönnrot through his own research paradigm and theoretical premises, condemning Lönnrot for not subscribing to the twentieth-century positivistic idea that there must have originally been a literate poet behind every Kalevala- metric folk poem that has circulated in oral tradition. When Lönnrot writes that folk poems are not made but make themselves—a postulate reminiscent of Jakob Grimm’s thesis “jedes Epos muss sich selbst dichten”—he is, to be sure, distinguishing the birth of a folk poem from the intentionality of making an art poem. However, instead of arguing for collective composition in which an individual would not play any role, he can be understood to refer to a worldview in which individual compositions are assigned to psychological and cognitive propensities rather than to individual subjectivity.78 This viewpoint is very similar to Lönnrot’s contemporary Robert Tengström’s idea of an undifferentiated national entity “in which the individual had not yet become separate from his people79 and the people had not yet broken up in regard to their civilization or circumstances of life into different classes, but the same spirit existed in everything, and everything was held together by a natural intercourse between souls. It can be said especially of this period of

76 Elias Lönnrot, “Alkulause” [Preface], in Kanteletar taikka Suomen Kansan Vanhoja Lauluja ja Wirsiä, 1. ja 2. Kirja. [Kanteletar or Old Songs and Hymns of the Finnish People, 1st and 2nd Book], republished in Elias Lönnrot Valitut . . ., 319−59, esp. 321; translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 31. 77 Hautala, ibid. 78 See Karkama, Kansakunnan, 202−20. 79 In this sentence, the word ‘people’ is nation in the original Swedish-language text and can also be translated into English as ‘nation.’ 76 anttonen time that poetry sprang from the hearts of the people. One interpreted what thousands felt, and aroused a strong response in all.”80 Both Lönnrot and Tengström can be regarded as being engaged in the Romantic search for authenticity,81 while modernity is only seen to bring mechanical reproduction and rationalist intentionality. From this perspective, the Kalevala appears authentic if it can create among its readers—even today—a sense of a direct access to antiquity and premodernity, a mythical but at the same time potentially historical past of both the poetic tradition and the nation that sees itself as the owner of that poetic tradition as national heritage. As Richard Bauman and Charles Briggs point out about the textual practices of the Grimm brothers and their creation of illusions of fidelity,82 the textual manipulation of the collected songs is a prerequisite in the achievement of a sense of authenticity—and consequently, of textual authority. As such, a textual achievement Lönnrot’s epic is more modern than traditional, while purporting to depict antiquity and pre-modern traditionality. The images of the ancient past created through textual production gain their argumentative value from representing virtues and characteristics assigned to the nation, functioning as ethical incentives for members of the society in which the epic is presented as a symbol of the nation. Instead of an authentic folk epic descending from the nation’s antiquity, the Kalevala is an authentic national epic that imagines this antiquity. In compiling his epic, Lönnrot set out to make a large-scale publication that he expected to carry national significance as a representation of the poetic tradition in its assumed earlier stage. In February 1834, when editing and compar- ing his collected materials for the miniature epics that preceded the Kalevala, he wrote that “a desire to organize and unify them awoke in me, to extract from Finnish mythology something corresponding to the Icelandic Edda.”83 He also saw this as an enterprise that should involve more than just one person,

80 Robert Tengström, “Finska folket, såsom det skildras i Kalevala” [The Finnish people, as it is depicted in the Kalevala], Joukahainen, Andra Häftet (Helsingfors: Wasenius, 1845), 122– 144, esp. 122; translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 52; see also Honko, “The Kalevala: The Processual View,” 206. 81 For authenticity and Romanticism, see Regina Bendix, In Search of Authenticity: The Formation of Folklore Studies (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1997). For authenticity in collective identities, see Alessandro Ferrara, Reflective Authenticity: Rethinking the Project of Modernity (London & New York: Routledge, 1998). For a semiotic approach to four kinds of authenticities in lament performance, see Janina Fenigsen and James Wilce, ‘Authenticities: A Semiotic Exploration’, forthcoming in Recherches sémiotiques / Semiotic Inquiry. 82 Bauman & Briggs, 206–14. 83 Translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 24. the kalevala and the authenticity debate 77

“because our descendants will possibly esteem such a collection as highly as the Gothic nations regard Edda or the Greeks and Romans, if not Homer, at least Hesiod.”84 In addition to foreseeing the national significance of his work, and guaranteeing this significance with his own actions and wordings, Lönnrot intentionally nationalized his epic by manipulating his folklore sources to have their new textual context refer to Finland and the Finns as a nation. In this, he used a number of textual methods and strategies. First, the epic had to be made comprehensible to all Finnish speakers, so that, as Lönnrot himself put it, “the entire nation can read it” (see above). This required the elimination of most of the dialectal and other linguistic differences in the materials. By doing so, Lönnrot, as discussed by Honko, relocated the texts from “a rather narrow zone between Finland and Karelia”85 to Finland and Finnish literature. According to Honko, Lönnrot’s editing principles and his artistic goals made the poetic material homeless, because “it ceased being the product of a particular local culture.”86 To be sure, the songs had not been performed in any place in the same form as they were included in the Kalevala epic. However, one can also argue that instead of becoming homeless thanks to Lönnrot, they became national—rooted in the emerging idea of the Finnish nation. Instead of originating from particular locales, as the folklore sources did, the epic was made to originate from Finland, meaning at the same time any place and all places in the nationally conceptualized geographical and cultural unit.87 We can thus say that Lönnrot intentionally aimed at creating a joint identification between the composite text that he created and its potential readers. Instead of pointing to the poetic traditions of particular locales, regions or individuals as performers, the epic was meant to point to the nation which the reader in Finland was supposed to identify with. This made the reading of the epic a nationalizing experience that may even transcend national and cultural boundaries: regardless of where and in which language the Kalevala is read, one reads the nation of Finland in it. This reading experience continues to authenticate the Kalevala as a Finnish national symbol, regardless of the question of the exact relationship between the epic text and its sources.

84 Translation from Hautala, Finnish Folklore, 25. 85 Honko, “The Kalevala: The Processual View,” 183. 86 Ibid., 211. 87 This is also suggested by DuBois, who writes that “Lönnrot intends his regularized texts to be read as the inherited property of the entire Finnish people rather than as the personal artwork of any one singer,” Thomas A. DuBois, Finnish Folk Poetry and the Kalevala (New York & London: Garland, 1995), 98. 78 anttonen

In other words, Lönnrot relocated the textual universe of folk poetry from local cultures into national culture and thus put folk poetry into a new literary and political context. He justified his textual practices with the notion that the folk poems that he used as his sources had their origin in the culture and heritage of the forefathers of all Finns. The songs had originally belonged to “all Finns” regardless of dialectal or “tribal” differences, and now Lönnrot, by changing the dialectical texts into a standardized poetic vernacular, “returned” them to the claimed original ethnic and national entity. The very end result of his textual compilation symbolized this ethnic entity and its allegedly intrinsic unity. This is another key reason why his epic compilation became a national symbol. At the same time as the Kalevala backgrounded the historical links between its contents and the places in which its sources had been collected, the epic wrapped these places into a common universe of meaning in the national discourse on folk poetry—and later in history by extension, into the political debate about Finland’s ‘natural’ borders. Regardless of whether the folk poems were recorded in Viena Karelia, Aunus or Ingria, which are all in Russia, or in Savo and North Karelia within the Finnish borders, their placing in the national epic served to indicate that these regions belong to the Finnish national unit— linguistically, culturally, and ethnically, in the main, but by extension also politically, regardless of actual political boundaries. This nationalizing move also helped confirm the connection between Helsinki and the “Kalevala song lands” in Viena Karelia across Finland’s eastern border. It supported Helsinki’s position as the center of collecting activity and the site where the collected materials, conceptualized as antique documents and monuments of Finnish national heritage, should be deposited and archived. It is also significant that Lönnrot did not put his name on the cover of the epic that he had compiled. Even though the epic was born on top of his writing desk and he insisted that he could compile seven Kalevalas, all of them different from one another, he at the same time placed his own authorship in the background, behind the collective “Finnish folk.” By playing down his own authorship Lönnrot consciously created an image of the Kalevala’s authenticity—that is, of its popular origins. The criterion for such authenticity was that the texts appear to derive not merely from a collective and anonymous ‘folk’88 but from the collective authorship of the nation. It is highly relevant here that Lönnrot has never been criticized for nationalizing Finnish-language folk poetry—except perhaps in Russian Karelia. The epic has been targeted with criticism over its plot structure, interpolation of

88 Authenticity located in the folk as an anonymous collectivity—see Bendix, 15, 47. the kalevala and the authenticity debate 79 different poetic genres, and deviation from its oral sources, but its status and significance as a Finnish national symbol has hardly ever been questioned. “The position of the Kalevala as a national epic is undisputed,” writes Honko.89 The Finnish folklorist Seppo Knuuttila has recently stated that everything written about the Kalevala, both praise and criticism, has strengthened its position as the national epic.90 Indeed, despite the often voiced allegations of inauthenticity, the Kalevala remains a key representation of the Finnish nation as a symbolic unit. The repeated demands in earlier research for textual fidelity vis-à-vis the epic’s sources seem somewhat misplaced, since Lönnrot’s explicit purpose was to go beyond his sources and suggest a textual form that would combine their presumed original narrative contents, while following the singers of folk poetry and his own instinct in the organization of this textual form. His intention was not to depict the tradition of oral poetry as he encountered it as a folklore collector, but instead, as he stated in the beginning of his introduction to the 1849 Kalevala, to depict “the activities, life, and ancient condition of our forebears.”91 Even if his compilation has no historical or ethnographic validity in the depiction of anyone’s forebears, the epic’s authenticity is a rather complicated matter. In view of Lönnrot’s intentions when compiling and publishing his epic, the Kalevala can be regarded as authentic, since it is what he claimed it to be. He wanted to “make longer tales” about “Väinämöinen, Ilmarinen, Lemminkäinen and others of our ancestors,” in order to accomplish with Finnish folk poems what “the Greeks, Icelanders and others have done with poems of their ancestors.” Despite its shortcomings in historical and ethnographic accuracy, his compilation functions as an elevated folklore symbol that serves the basic function that folklore has in nationalism: to represent national characteristics, distinguish a national group both culturally and symbolically, and legitimate a group’s nationhood.92 As an indisputable achievement in textual production and editorship, the Kalevala is much more powerful as a national symbol

89 Honko, “The Kalevala: The Processual View,” 182. 90 Seppo Knuuttila, “Muita Kalevaloita—kuvitelmia ja kilpailijoita” [Other Kalevalas— fantasies and rivals], in Kalevalan kulttuurihistoria, Ulla Piela, Seppo Knuuttila & Pekka Laaksonen (eds.) (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2008), 382, 387. 91 Translation from Francis Peabody Magoun Jr., The Kalevala, or Poems of the Kaleva District, compiled by Elias Lönnrot (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1963), 374. 92 Timothy Baycroft, “Introduction,” in Timothy Baycroft & David Hopkin (eds.), Folklore and Nationalism in Europe During the Long Nineteenth Century (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2012), 1−10. 80 anttonen than any single archived folk poem or an anthology of these. It creates and maintains images of the nation’s roots, both symbolically and imaginatively, inspires artistic creativity and draws public attention to folk poetry, folk music and academic folklore research whenever it is publicly celebrated. The scholarly demand for textual fidelity between the epic and its sources is a minor issue in this context. chapter 4 János Arany’s Csaba Trilogy and Arnold Ipolyi’s Hungarian Mythology

László Szörényi

In his postscript to the facsimile edition of the draft manuscript of Buda halála [The Death of Buda] by János Arany (1817–82), held in the National Széchényi Library in Budapest, Dezső Keresztury wrote, “as his plan grew, as the materials gathered from his readings proliferated—on which the secondary literature would have filled a small library had the positivist tendency to study sources and the historical evolution of motifs not gone out of fashion—the poet became increasingly troubled.”1 It was only when he saw this vast, confusing and contradictory material that Arany, according to Keresztury, realized that he had to make his own selection from it. As something of a last Mohican or the aging Toldi (I owe the flattering comparison to my esteemed colleague Péter Dávidházi), I intend to adhere in this essay to the now unfashionable school of philology, and by identifying and presenting one of the principal inspirations for The Death of Buda and the unfinished Hun trilogy,2 namely Arnold Ipolyi’s Magyar Mythologia [Hungarian Mythology].3 In my view, one would be remiss to neglect the consideration of this source, considering that the copy of Ipolyi’s book used by Arany (the margins of which are full of his notes) is available in the Manuscript Archives

1 János Arany, Buda halála [Death of Buda], facsimile edition with a postscript by Dezső Keresztury, (Budapest: Helikon, 1988), 138. 2 This was the grand project by which Arany intended to provide the nation with the epic cycle on Attila which, to his great regret, did not survive in historical record. According to his plans, formulated in 1855, the three parts would be the following: I, Attila and Buda; ii, Ríka and Ildikó (the two wives of Attila); iii, Prince Csaba. The first part, rebaptized The Death of Buda, was published in 1863, several fragments survived from the third part, and the second had not begun. 3 Arnold Ipolyi’s Magyar Mythologia [Hungarian Mythology], (Pest, 1854, repr. Budapest: Európa, 1987); Péter Dávidházi, Per passivam resistentiam. Változatok a hatalom és írás témájára [Variants to the theme of power and scripture], (Budapest: Argumentum, 1998), 239–40.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_005 82 szÖrÉnyi of the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences with the shelf mark 517.4 A thorough analysis of these notes would overstep the bounds of this essay, so I will limit myself to discussion of the sections related to Arany’s plans for the Hun epic. They will be published in their entirety as part of the critical edition under the editorship of János H. Korompay, in the volume devoted to marginalia. There is hope for the success of this endeavor for the greater part of the surviving books from Arany’s library—much of which was either scattered or destroyed, i.e., the books held in the Arany János Museum in the Truncated Tower [Csonka Torony] in Nagyszalonta [Salonta in Romanian; the village of Arany’s birth]—are available on microfilm in the library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. Géza Voinovich mentioned this copy of Ipolyi’s book in his three-volume biography of Arany. He clearly had the book in his possession while working on the biography, and it was a stroke of immeasurable good fortune that it had not been destroyed in his apartment during the siege of Budapest along with other books and manuscripts of Arany. He first refers to the book in connection with Arany’s shift away from German legend and myth in his collection of source materials for an epic which he had already made the subject of intense study, towards the Hungarian tradition: “in the details he made use of Priskos’s notes5 and Arnold Ipolyi’s Hungarian Mythology.”6 Indeed in a footnote Voinovich included the list written by Arany on the last page of the book referring to passages, including page numbers, to which he alludes as thematic material for The Death of Buda.7 In another section of his book, in connection with the description of Ármány or Manó, Voinovich again referred to the influence of Ipolyi; however, I did not find not a single jotting by Arany on the two pages (25 and 136) he mentions.8

4 Levelezés ii, 1852–1856 [Correspondence ii, 1852–56], Györgyi Sáfrány (ed.), in Arany János Összes Művei [The complete works of János Arany—hereafter, ajöm] (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1982), xvi, 485, 972, 1168. 5 The reference would be to the report of Priskos Rhetor (fl. 433–68) on his mission to Attila’s court. Modern edition: Pia Corolla, Excerpta et fragmenta (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008). The Greek and Latin historical sources were provided for Arany by Lajos Kovács, an ex-colleague teacher from Geszt. 6 Géza Voinovich, Arany János életrajza 1860–1882 [The biography of János Arany] (Budapest: mta, 1938), vol. iii, 113. 7 Ibid., n. 7. 8 Ibid., 132, n. 40. csaba trilogy and hungarian mythology 83

Voinovich later returned to these notes on Ipolyi in the critical edition of the works of Arany launched under his direction (several volumes of which were published under his editorship). He briefly summarized how, at the promptings of Pál Gyulai, Arany in 1854, came to be in possession of the recently published book, and he commented on the tenor of the remarks by Arany concerning it in his correspondence with Mihály Tompa. Voinovich also included the notes on the front endpaper of the binding.9 He referred again to the two notes mentioned in the biography, which I was unable to find.10 And finally, he cited one of the notes jotted in the margins by Arany on Etele’s dream and the discovery of the sword of God: “compare [egyeztetni] first dream then sword.”11 Alas, Voinovich was imprecise or careless here. The actual note reads, “combine [egyesitni] first dream then sword” (see below). In what follows I offer a brief summary of how Arany came into possession of Ipolyi’s book, followed by a general description of the marginalia in the surviving copy. Finally—and this is my principal goal—I will discuss in detail the notes that touch on Arany’s conception of the Hun epic. Arany first learned about Ipolyi’s book, or at least of its contents, from József Lugossy. On April 5, 1854 the professor at the Reformed College in Debrecen sent Arany his written version of the tale Hadakúta [War Path] so that Arany might transform it, in Lugossy’s words, into a “poetic adaptation.” According to Lugossy’s postscript, he had written down the legend as he had heard it retold by a Székely man some years back while seated by a fire under the open sky, in other words most likely at the time of the 1848 revolution. He also notes that he had selected this tale of the miraculous return of Prince Csaba from a collection of old Hungarian folk legends and sent it not long ago to Ipolyi.12 On September 6, 1854 Pál Gyulai called Arany’s attention to the Hungarian Mythology, which he himself had not yet read, but he encouraged Arany to get

9 ajöm, iv, 224. 10 Ibid., 262. 11 Ibid., 263. 12 József Lugossy’s letter to Arany, ajöm, xvi, 411–3. The editor, Györgyi Sáfrány, mistakenly contends that Lugossy sent the legend to Arany on the occasion of the publication of Ipolyi’s book. In fact, Ipolyi himself got a copy of the text of the legend while his book was still in preparation for publication, as indeed he mentions in the book itself. He therefore still had time to include it in its entirety in the appendix. See: ajöm, xvi, 972. Also see: Ipolyi, Magyar Mythologia, 354, 581. It should be noted here that Arany mentions this version in his marginalia. 84 szÖrÉnyi a copy, as he thought it might be appropriate for “the work on your epic.”13 On September 27, 1854 Arany wrote to Tompa of how, having studied the sources, he was now reading Ipolyi’s book as a further source and inspiration for his epic. He describes it as a good book, but notes that, having fallen ill the previous summer, he made little progress with his work.14 (Tompa’s reply is interesting, because he notes that, having ordered a copy of Ipolyi’s book himself, he is pleased to hear that Arany has a positive opinion of it. He too would like to write something based on it, but he has similar doubts concerning the feasibil- ity of the plan.)15 Thus in the fall of 1854, Arany began studying and making notes on Ipolyi’s Hungarian Mythology. As it is a voluminous work, he very likely needed a considerable amount of time to study it in its entirety, as is suggested by three observations. First, in the surviving copy in the Academy Library, some of the markings are in green, but the majority is in black pencil, and the notes in the margins or at the bottom or top of the page are always written in black. Second, Arany adopted various methods of notation. At the beginning, he numbered some of his markings in the margins. On the first eight pages of his copy he first groups the expositions concerning the etymology of the word ‘God’ in Ipolyi’s text using a system of four numbers, but he later abandons this numbering. Finally, in the index of entries on the half-title page at the back of the book he notes the page numbers of pages on which he made no notes in his reading, and vice versa, on pages in which one finds passages concerning the themes of interest to Arany, one finds marginalia which, however, go unmentioned in the summary at the end. I believe, it is worthwhile to note the numbers of the pages with Arany’s markings or marginalia, as it is of relevance to those interested in Arany’s practice of composition. First, his name appears as owner of the book on the half- title page at the beginning; then he made notes on almost one hundred pages:16 The “analytical” list referring to the subjects of his notes on the half-title page at the back of the book is as follows:

13 Pál Gyulai to Arany. ajöm, xvi, 472–5. See also 994. 14 Arany to Mihály Tompa, ajöm, xvi, 485–7. See also 997. 15 Mihály Tompa to Arany, ajöm, xvi, 489–91. See also 998. 16 Arany’s notes can be found on the following pages: ix, x, xxii, xxxiii, L, 1, 2, 6, 8, 9, 12, 13, 21, 48, 50, 51, 52, 53, 55, 71, 76, 77, 79, 80, 82, 85, 91, 96, 100, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 121, 128, 137, 138, 141, 143, 147, 149, 151, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 160, 162, 168, 177, 184, 206, 215, 216, 217, 219, 221, 223, 225, 226, 256, 265, 274, 275, 277, 280, 281, 301, 303, 311, 323, 324, 327, 332, 354, 370, 371, 372, 373, 374, 375, 378, 379, 380, 447, 449, 450, 453, 493, 494, 498, 503, 504, 511, 568, 581. csaba trilogy and hungarian mythology 85

“Vissza Attila!” [Attila, back!] 75. Etele és Leo [Etele and Leo] 75. Csabaire [Csaba’s herb] 77, 160, 253. Halottak harcza [Battle of the dead] 77. Ciglamező Székelyek [Ciglamező, the Székely] 77. Turul [The mythical bird of prey of Hungarian lore] 72, 78, 80, 87. Csodaszarvas [The mythical hind] 13, 147, 241. Csaba testamentoma [Csaba’s testament] 13, 160. A nőrablás [Abduction of the women] 71. Catalóni remete [The hermit of Catalaunum] 76. Keveháza [A fictional place name] 152. Isten kardja [The sword of God] 154, 503. Csaba mezeje [Csaba’s field] 160. Táltosok tehetsége [The shamans’ talent] 447. Isten personificatiója [The personification of God] 12. Világ fája [The world-tree] 326.

The first among them, “Vissza Attila!” [Attila, back!] refers to page 75 in Ipolyi. The fourth chapter of Hungarian Mythology discusses fairies and spirits (pp. 57–114), where the fairies that “guide and direct the fate of war” are discussed. According to Ipolyi,

in discussing, on the basis of the more certain traces of our historical traditions, the religious notions, more peculiar to our nation, of fairies and women guiding the hand of fate, before speaking of the more general [spirits] we should mention one of the vivid and distinctive such notions of our ancient myths.17

He mentions, as precursors, the Sherusho of the heroic legends of Iranian lore, such as the Shah Nameh,18 the furies of Greek and Roman mythology and the Valkyries of Germanic legend. He then turns to the legend of the Attila the Hun, which kept the myth alive both in its Hungarian version and in tales abroad. As an example of the latter, he cites Stetten’s history of Augsburg,19 according to

17 Ipolyi, Magyar Mythologia, 74. 18 Ipolyi and Arany used the translation by Johann Joseph von Görres, Das Heldenbuch von Iran aus dem Schah Nameh des Firdussi (Berlin: G. Reimer, 1820). 19 Paul von Stetten, d. Ä., Geschichte Der Heil. Röm. Reichs Freyen Stadt Augspurg Aus Bewährten Jahr-Büchern und Tüchtigen Urkunden gezogen, 2 vols. (Frankfurt &c: Metz, 1743–58). 86 szÖrÉnyi which Attila was frightened back by a Runa virgin, who cried out three times, forbidding him to cross the river Lech. Concerning the Hungarian version, Ipolyi refers to the works of Nicolaus Olahus (1493–1568) and Callimachus Experiens (Filippo Buonaccorsi, 1437–96). He includes the Latin text, according to which, as Attila is returning to Pannonia from Italy, a fanatical horse- woman, mulier fanatica, blocks his path at the river Lycus. Arany wrote nothing in particular on this page of the text, but he used Ipolyi’s explanation of the religious-historical context, rewriting somewhat the passages of the first 1853 text in the second version, written in 1855–56. The first version reads:

Mert csudálatosan a hármas szám betelt: Három ízben láttuk megrémülni Etelt: Egyszer, midőn a szűz, Lech folyama partján, Vissza Etel! Zúgá jobb kezét feltartván.20

[For wondrously the three prophecies came to pass: And Etel was thrice affrighted: Once, when the virgin, on the bank of the river Lech, Back Etel! She roared, holding up her right hand.]

The 1855–56 text reads:

Háromszor még azontul, hogy e jóslat kele, Érezte Isten ujját megdöbbent kebele: Egyszer a Lek vizénél, hol ama csoda-nő ‘vissza Etel!’ kiálta,—s nem mert átkelni ő.21

[Three times after the prophecy was made He felt, stunned, the finger of God on his chest: Once, by the waters of the river Lek, where the wondrous woman Cried out, ‘back Etel!’—and he dared not to cross.]

The second entry is “Etele és Leo” [Etele and Leo], also on page 75. Here Ipolyi touches on the episode in which Attila recounts the attack of Rome. Having studied the story as narrated in the chronicles of Simon of Kéza (ca. 1275) and

20 ajöm, iv. 148, lines 237–40. 21 Ibid., 1848. See Voinovich’s note, 222. Ipolyi refers here to page 76 as well, where one finds the story of the “hermit of Catalaunum.” csaba trilogy and hungarian mythology 87

János Thuróczi (1488),22 he comes to the conclusion that the character who figures in the meeting between Pope Saint Leo the Great and the Hun king, dressed in the garb of a priest and threatening Attila with a sword, is not Saint Peter the Apostle, as was usually contended, but rather an angel or spirit bearing a sword in his hand, descended directly from the pagan fairies of war. Arany makes fascinating use of the details of Ipolyi’s interpretation. Whereas in the first version of Csaba királyfi [Prince Csaba] the three events that strike terror and a sense of foreboding into the heart of the prince are the aforementioned admonitions of the virgin on the bank of the river Lech, the appearance of the hermit of Catalaunum, and the fateful battle, in the second, the events are narrated after Attila’s death by the aged Torda, who makes no mention of the hermit, telling instead of the fearful apparition at the meeting with Leo the Great:

Harmadszor, Róma ellen, hogy vitte harc-vasát, Tőbül kivágni készült a világ városát: De kardos ősz, csikorgva, fölötte megjelent, S megtérve a kaputól, Átila visszament.23

[He had taken his battle-ax to Rome three times, Aiming to fell the city of the world at its stump: But the aged man bearing a sword appeared above him, And turning away from the gates, Attila went back.]

The third entry is “Csabaire” [Csaba’s herb] (77, 160, 253). The first reference concerns passages in which Ipolyi claims to have discerned the notion of eternal war inflamed by the Valkyries and referred to in old Nordic legends as hildr in the scene in which Attila’s sons, having done battle, have all fallen, with the exception of Csaba and his fifteen men, all seriously wounded. However, Csaba shoots an arrow and finds a medicinal herb with which he heals himself and his men. Ipolyi adds to this a legend he came across in his travels as a collector of folklore in the village of Esztergom-Csaba (today Piliscsaba), according to which Csaba and his men had been mortally wounded by the Germans, but had come back to life and returned to battle. To this day (so the legend goes) one can still hear the groans of death and the clash of swords in one of the

22 See now: Simonis de Kéza, Gesta Hungarorum &c., László Veszprémy & Frank Schaer (eds. and trans.), (Budapest: ceu Press, 1999), 61–3; and Johannes de Thurocz, Chronica Hungarorum, I. Textus, Elisabeth Galántai, Julius Kristó (eds.) (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1985), 51–2. 23 Ibid., 14, lines 109–12. 88 szÖrÉnyi meadows of the village. Arany marked the six lines concerning “Csaba’s herb,” and in his notes he underlined the name of the Transylvanian battlefield, Csiglád, where according to tradition, Csaba left three thousand of his men, who became the forefathers of the Székely. This is the fifth item in Arany’s list, and the sixth is the Battle of the dead. As is well known, Arany was planning to incorporate the battle of the dead into the ninth and tenth parts of the third section of his second version, as well as the legend of the herb Csaba finds and the story of the ancestors of the Székely. This section, if Arany had finished it, would have been of decisive significance, as it would have linked the story of the Huns and the Hungarians, thus giving a kind of continuity to the traditional lore in the service of which Arany had undertaken the composition of the epic in the first place. Nothing better illustrates the significance of Ipolyi’s work than the fact that in his attempt to create a coherent unity out of the confused jumble of details found in the chronicles, Arany followed the suggestion he found in a note on page 77:

are there not such traditional traces [such as the legend he came across from Piliscsaba concerning the eternal battle—L. Sz.] in the confused passages of our chronicles, in which Csaba, having survived the battle between Attila’s sons, embarks with 15,000 men, leaves some 3,000 on the battlefield of Csiglád (Czyglamezew, Czigladmezei), who then are supposed to be the Székely coming into Transylvania; though [the chronicles] not only then make them await Csaba’s much anticipated return, but leave them dallying until the second appearance of the Hungarians. Neither do the confused parts of the chronicles (see 1. p. poson. 19, bud. 31, Turóc 1, 24) clarify this, nor do the explanations offered so far, such as Podhracky chron. Bud. 32., and Csaba várásáról [Waiting for Csaba], and the other distinctive features (hős [hero], vi) could refer to such a profound traditional foundation.”24

24 Ipolyi, Magyar Mythologia, 77. Note 1. Concerning the abbreviations in Ipolyi’s text: poson. = Chronicon hungarorum Posoniense, e cod. Ms. Chartaceo capituli Posoniensis, Budae, 1852, in other words the Pozsonyi Chronicle; Bud. = Chronicon Budense, Budae, 1838, József Podhradczky (ed.); Turóc. = János Thuróczi, Chronica hungarorom. Ipolyi used Schwandtner’s 1746 edition (Scriptores rerum hungaricarum veteres, Vindobonae 1746, I.); finally “hős vi.” refers to the sixth chapter of Ipolyi’s book itself (140–83), in which there is mention of Csaba primarily on pages 159–161. It is worth noting that Arany underlined the word “Csiglamező” in the text and in his notes he returns to the topic of Csaba under two other headings. For more on the basic outline of the second version of the story of prince Csaba and Arany’s plans for the composition see ajöm, iv, 165–6. csaba trilogy and hungarian mythology 89

One could hazard a guess that Ipolyi’s mention of Csaba’s healing herb caught Arany’s attention in part because he had written a poetic adaptation of a similar legend concerning Saint Ladislas (Szent László füve [Saint Ladislas’s Herb]), and Ipolyi draws a link between Csaba and Saint Ladislas.25 It is worth noting that Arany’s son László, in his poem on the eternally recurring struggle between the Huns and the Germanic tribes (that is, the Hungarians and the Germans),26 picked up the thread of Ipolyi’s ideas. The next item in Arany’s list, “Halottak harcza” [Battle of the Dead], has been discussed in the context of the other entries, as has the entry on Ciglamező and the Székely. The next entry is “Turul” (72, 78, 80, 87), the mythical bird of prey of Hungarian lore. Ipolyi considers the bird a guardian fairy specific to Hungarian lore, “purely national,” in his words. He links the figure of the astur, described by Anonymous in connection with the birth of Álmos,27 to the wondrous dream that preceded Attila’s birth, as well as the wondrously beautiful youth or angel and the Protomartyr Saint Stephen from the legend of the birth of Saint Stephen the king.28 Ipolyi was bold enough to draw a parallel between the figures of Christian legend and the figures of pagan lore. He even went so far as to contend that the figure of the Virgin Mary may be based on some pagan fairy, and he claimed to discern a pagan precursor to a miniature in the Illuminated Chronicle.29 The second site in the text marked by Arany offers a description of the turul on Attila’s flag, drawing a connection between the miraculous bird and a detail from Priskos’ account, according to which the Huns and the tribes related to them left their ancient homeland because of the multitudes of griffons.30 Arany marked this reference to Priskos with a bracket in the margin. One finds a detail taken from Callimachus on page 80, which Arany marked similarly. It tells of a wondrous raven that perched on Attila’s right shoulder when he embarked on the campaign against Italy. Finally, on page 87 Ipolyi again emphasizes that the turul is a guardian spirit and a spirit of war specific

25 Ipolyi, Magyar Mythologia, 160. 26 The title of the poem by László Arany is A hunok harca [The fight of the Huns] (1873). 27 Anonymi Bele Regis notarii Gesta Hungarorum &c. Martyn Rady and László Veszprémy (ed. & trans.), in Anonymus and Master Roger (Budapest: ceu Press, 2010), 12–3. 28 Vita Stephani, cap. 3, Emma Bartoniek (ed.), in Emericus Szentpétery (ed.), ss rer. Hung. &c., (Budapest: Regia Univ., 1939, 2: 404); see now “Hartvic, Life of King Stephen on Hungary,” Nora Berend (trans.), in Thomas Head (ed.), Medieval Hagiography (New York: Garland, 2000), 380–1. 29 Ipolyi, Magyar Mythologia, 72–3, referring to fol. 19 of the Chronicon Pictum (see its facsimile edition, Budapest: Magyar Helikon, 1964), ii, 37. 30 Ipolyi, Magyar Mythologia, 79. 90 szÖrÉnyi to the lore of the Hungarians. In the surviving sketches of the Hun epic Arany made no use of any of this, but the fact that he nonetheless intended the bird to play some role in his composition attests to his interest in the various interpretations of the turul as a symbol. And the bird appears at the beginning of his poem Keveháza. The next entry in Arany’s list is the “Csodaszarvas” (13, 147, 241), or the Miraculous Hind of Hungarian lore. On the first page noted by Arany Ipolyi contends that the miraculous animal is in fact a divine spirit sent by “a deity exclusively national, [our] own, shielding, and protective of those he favors.” The second reference in connection to the story of Hunor and Magor, the mythic ancestors of the Huns and Magyars, concerns passages emphasizing that the two brothers were not simply the ancient fathers of the nation, but rather the founders of a new homeland, and they were guided by the divine animal sent by God. Arany underlined the passages concerning this interpretation, but he was less interested in the exposition preceding it, a list of the archetypes of Greek and Roman mythology, or the notion drawn from Jordanes according to which the bird had been sent by the spirit from whom the founders of the new Hungarian homeland descended. On page 241, Ipolyi methodically examines all of the pagan and Christian legends concerning the relationship between the hind and the two brothers. In this case Arany did not learn of the legend from Ipolyi’s work, nor did he acquire any more detailed information concerning it than he already knew. Rather, he adopted Ipolyi’s view, according to which the legend of the miraculous hind bore a fundamental significance from the perspective of the ancientness of the nation and the founding of the homeland. He chose the story of the hind as the subject of the sixth canto of The Death of Buda because he considered it the most ancient, most sacred myth of the Hungarian people. It was not merely a legend concerning the relationship between the Huns and the Hungarians and the origins of the Hungarian nation, but rather the ancient, archetypal image or foundational myth (aition, to use the Greek term) of the dual rule established at the beginning of Arany’s epic by Buda, who shared power with his younger brother, only to find the bal- ance of power soon tip, leading ultimately to fratricide. It is significant that the story of the miraculous hind is told in the sixth canto, just before the middle of the twelve-canto epic. (One should note that on page 149 Ipolyi analyzes the 108 branches of the clan mentioned in the tale.) Arany’s next entry is “Csaba testamentoma” [Csaba’s testament] (13, 160). On both pages he has underlined the story, taken from the Heltai chronicle with an addition from the chronicle of István Székely.31 According to the chroni-

31 Gáspár Heltai (1510?–1574?), Krónika az magyaroknak dolgairól [Chronicle on the things done by the Hungarians], facsimile Béla Varjas (ed.) (Budapest, 1973); István Székely (after csaba trilogy and hungarian mythology 91 cles, on his deathbed Csaba makes the leaders of his people swear to return to Pannonia. Thus, Arany considered the possibility of expanding his epic to include several generations, on the model, one may conject, of Ferdowsi. In the end he abandoned this idea, however, and in the surviving sketches of the epic he makes no mention of Csaba’s final testament. This would suggest that ultimately he was drawn to the more dramatic plot structure along Virgilian lines, preferring to solve questions of what took place before or after the main events of the story with retrospective scenes (such as the story of the miraculous hind) or prophecies. The next topic that attracted Arany’s interest was “nőrablás,” or the abduction of the women (71). In the passages noted by Arany, Ipolyi gives a thorough analysis of the abduction by Hunor and Magor of the two daughters of Dul (also referred to in some sources as Dula), king of the Alans (hence the notion of the descent of the Hungarians from the Huns and the Alans).32 Viewing— with good reason—the accounts of the Kézai and Buda chronicles as ambiguous and confusing, he comes to the conclusion that the women dancing on the great plain are the female fairies of Hun myths preserved in the legends of Germanic tribes. It seems almost certain that Arany based the characters of the daughters of King Dul, who were learning the fairy arts (but were to become instead the mothers of the nation), on these passages from Ipolyi’s book. The next entry, “Catalóni remete,” or the legend of the hermit of Catalaunum (70, Arany marks the Latin citation in the text), is taken from the Thuróczi chronicle.33 It was interesting to Arany because the chapter on the spirits of war gave him ideas for his adaptation of the three divine admonitions given to Attila. Keveháza refers to page 152. It is understandable that Arany makes note of this passage, which reminded him of the poem he had already written by that time. The theme of “Isten kardja” [The sword of God] (154, 503) is related to one of the most important episodes of the Hun epic. On page 154 one finds a sentence which deserves to be cited in its entirety. The parts of the sentence underlined by Arany are given here in italics:

De a hún mondák másutti nyomai szerint a hatalmat, melylyel [Attila] az egész világot meghódítani indul egyenesen a hadistentől kapja, ki már

1500–after 1560), Chronica ez világnak jeles dolgairól [Chronicle on the noteworthy things of this world] (Cracow, 1559), facsimile edition by Rabán Gerézdy (Budapest, 1960), 188. 32 Ipolyi, Magyar Mythologia, on p. 71 refers to cap. 9 of the Chronicon Budense, which cor- responds to Simon de Kéza, Gesta, cap 5, 17. 33 Johannes de Thurocz, Chronica Hungarorum, 39–40 (cap. 1, 16). 92 szÖrÉnyi

szülő anyja előtt őt karjával körül övedzi (l. f.), vagy mint a más regék tartják, az elveszettnek vélt győzelmes skytha hadisteni-kard fölfedezése által jut hozzá. (1. Prisc. H. got. 3, Jornandes, Kalán, Oláh, st. Jelvek xvi), istenküldött vezérlő állat által feltalálva, majd álmában magától a hadistentől felfegyverezve.34

[But according to traces of Hun legends found elsewhere, [Attila] is given the power with which he sets out to conquer the world directly from the God of war, who even at his birth encircled him with a sword in front of his very mother (see above), or according to other tales he acquires [this power] through the discovery of the sword of the victorious Scythian God of war (1. Prisc. H. got. 3, Jornandes, Kalán, Oláh, st. Jelvek xvi), led by the animal sent by God, and then armed by the God of War himself in his dream.

Arany marked this passage on both sides of the page, writing the following: “combine [egyesítni], first dream then sword.” In other words while considering this jumble of details he composed in his mind one of the most daring and skillful sequences of scenes of the epic, with the help of which he was able to create a psychologically plausible characterization of Attila, using the dream foretelling the impending events, in which God girds him with the miraculous sword that the shepherd boy was to find later. Borrowing from the models of the great classic epics, Arany transforms the fragmentary material discovered by Ipolyi into fine poetry. One recalls that both in Homer and Virgil the hero learns of the fate that awaits him either in dreams or in the transports of a dream-like state. The theme of “Csaba mezeje” [Csaba’s field], marked by Arany on page 60 of Ipolyi’s book, became an integral part of the plan for the epic, while the motif of Csaba’s testament, found on the same page, was dropped, as mentioned above. It is worth citing the passages (in my translation L. Sz.) underlined by Arany, the last three clauses of which he marked separately, suggesting their particular significance (marked here in italics):

34 The abbreviations: Prisc. H. = the previous citation from rhetorician Priskos; Jornandes. = Jordanes De Getarum sive Gothorum origine et rebus gestis, (Lugduni Batavorum, 1595); Kalán = the biography of Attila attributed to the Bishop Calanus of Pécs, in Mathias Bél (ed.), Adparatus ad historiam Hungarie (Posonii, 1735–46), I. cap. 3, 120; Oláh. = Nicolaus Olahus, Attila; Jelvek. = the 16th chapter of Ipolyi’s book, which includes mention of religious and mythological symbols. csaba trilogy and hungarian mythology 93

This is the place to mention the features of other heroes, in particular those preserved in German legends of Attila, all this, however, in greater detail below (xi). The aforementioned legend (tünd. iv.), however, can also indicate the continuous wait for delivery by Csaba and his army: as he fights without end on the anniversary of the battle of Kriemhild in Csaba’s meadow with his men arisen from the dead. But in the indisputable traces of these legends I discern the first manifestation of one of the principal ideas of the later Hungarian national epics—present in all of the ancient religious lore—the bloody act of vengeance which becomes the foundation for all the other conflicts. Csaba’s Székely descendents await his return, but in vain, and hence the proverb [namely ‘you will come back when Csaba returns from Greece’]; the descendents come, however, as epigones, the heroes of the Árpád era, whose armies are led, according to the chronicles, by the idea of recapturing the heritage of Attila and their ancestors.35

This is perhaps the most interesting of the host of revealing notes jotted in the margins by Arany. He finds justification in these passages for the basic idea underlying his epic; or rather he finds the means through which to reconcile his aim of composing an epic along the lines of both Virgil and Ferdowsi, in other words a well-structured narrative that nonetheless stretches over generations. The next passage that in Arany’s estimate merited attention concerned “Táltosok tehetsége,” or the Hungarian shamans’ gift of prophecy (447). His note should not be understood as referring solely to this page, but rather to the entire exposition that follows, which concerns the priestly order of the ancient Hungarians, drawing both on written sources and more or less reliable etymo- logical explanations and elements of folklore. The story based on Priskos and cited on page 453 is of particular significance in the tale of Attila. According to this account, among his sons Attila was particularly fond of Csaba, or Irnak, as he is named in the source, because the soothsayers had prophesied that only he could save the people, which otherwise would perish. Arany underlined this section of the passage. On page 12, referred to in Arany’s list by the entry “Isten personificatiója” [the personification of God], Ipolyi examines sources in which God appears as a hoary, aged, meek man. Arany marks these sites in the text with a plus (+) sign, and on page 13 underlines and marks with a sideways “v” Ipolyi’s

35 Arany made this note on page 160 of Ipolyi’s book. 94 szÖrÉnyi observation that in one of the tales of György Gaal36 an aged, hoary man reveals to the prince, who is being pursued by his stepmother, where the hidden sword lies buried. Ipolyi adds (and Arany underlines his observation), “as in the legend of Attila the Hun, the God of war presents him with the sword, thought to be lost, in his dream, and arms him with it.” Finally, Arany makes note of the idea of the “world tree” (326). In addition to ancient Icelandic myths, Ipolyi makes use of a Hungarian tale he himself came across in his travels as a researcher of folklore in the village of Csécsény (today Čačín in Slovakia). The story tells of a tree in the middle of the courtyard of a king, the roots of which stretched to the underworld, the branches of which reached to the two ends of the earth, and the trunk of which stretched to the sky. He is familiar with similar notions of a “world tree” in Tibetan, Hindu, and Finn lore. Arany incorporated the image of the “world tree” into the speech delivered by God in the eighth canto of The Death of Buda. He even added a note: “World-tree. Not unknown in our folk legends.” In all likelihood Arany is referring to the tale discovered by Ipolyi and sent to him by Antal Zsibrik Szarvaskeddi.37 The fact that God himself knows of the decision of fate, in this case the verdict inscribed in the “world-tree,” but cannot influence it, suggests that Arany subordinated the God of his epic to fate, much like Homer subordi- nates Zeus to the Moirae. Hungarian scholarship has realized the significance—and the merits— from the perspective of historical scholarship, previously underestimated or unjustly dismissed, of Arnold Ipolyi’s Hungarian Mythology, thanks largely to the work of Mihály Hoppál.38 Ipolyi’s influence on the work of novelist Mór Jókai has been recognized for some time, and in my view we have good cause to believe, even before the publication of the relevant volume of the critical edition of Arany’s works, that he played a considerable role in influencing and inspiring Arany as well. We cannot limit our grasp of this inspiration to the naturally indispensable study of Arany’s notes and the individual passages of the text to which they refer. Rather, we must consider the decisive influence exerted on Arany by the Iranian lore passed on by the scholar-bishop and especially the commentary on and numerous citations from the Görres translation of Ferdowsi. As is well known, in the 1850s Arany was very much under the influence of Ferdowsi in his search for the key to the structure of an authentic Hungarian epic. It is perhaps sufficient in this context simply to note that

36 György Gaal, Märchen der Magyaren (Wien, 1822), 111. 37 He was a deputy of the Borsod county on the Diet of 1790, working for the case of the Hungarian language. 38 See Hoppál in the reprint of Ipolyi, Magyar Mythologia, 746. csaba trilogy and hungarian mythology 95

Ipolyi found the nearest relative of the fundamental concept of the Hungarian epic, i.e., the notion of the “scourge of God,” beginning with Attila and stretch- ing all the way to Vérbulcsu or Botond, in Ferdowsi and the Iranian or Turanian epic of the endless battles, spanning centuries. I hope to be able to expand on this question some time in another essay. chapter 5 From the Anonymous Gesta to the Flight of Zalán by Vörösmarty*

János M. Bak

My initial question was: why did the Hungarians, well known for politicizing history and historicizing politics,1 not produce some spectacular forgeries (or confabulations) around 1800 to boost national consciousness.2 There must have been several reasons for this. Maybe among the Hungarians there was more of a continuity of national memory of heroic past and of tragic defeats than elsewhere. While Hungary had become part of the Habsburg monarchy centuries before and rebellions against this failed, the status of the kingdom within the empire was by no means similar to that of nationalities without political rights in need of establishing a national identity, true or false. And, although, for example, the Bohemian aristocracy had a strong voice in Vienna, the Czechs felt themselves overwhelmed by the Germans and seemed in need of a new mythical past of their nation, more so than the Magyars.3 Whatever the case may be, I dare answer my rhetorical question by pointing to the discovery and popularization of the “Deeds of the Hungarians” by an anonymous notary of the medieval royal court, published in the mid-eighteenth century.

* I should like to express my thanks to my fellow fellow Péter Dávidházi for referring me to the exciting contemporary writings (including his own) on Vörösmarty and his age. 1 For the contemporary aspect of this, see my “Die Mediävisierung der Politik im Ungarn des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts,” in Umkämpfte Vergangenheit: Geschichtsbilder, Erinnerung und Vergangenheitspolitik im internationalen Vergleich, Petra Bock & Edgar Wolfrum (eds.), (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1999) (Sammlung Vandenhoeck), 103–13. 2 A few were produced, but none became a central element of national consciousness, comparable, for example, to Hanka’s “discoveries.” The forged documents referred either to matters ecclesiastic (as the so-called “Sylvester Bull;” see above, p. xii) or to a specific minority (see Nora Berend’s study below, pp. 109–28). Another minority, the Transylvanian Székely, was identified with the original Scythians who came before the Magyars to present-day Hungary in a strange text called the Székely Chronicle of Csík that first appeared in 1796 (see above, p. x, n. 7). I felt challenged to say something more about it than nineteenth-century scholars did—namely, that it is not a medieval chronicle, probably compiled for some private reason—but it would need quite some work and such specialized knowledge that I do not have. 3 On the Czech forgeries, see the study of Pavlína Rychterová, above, pp. 3–30.

By relating the ancient origin of the Magyars and describing their wandering and victorious conquest of the Carpathian Basin, it contained sufficient material for a national myth, a fabulous pedigree, heroic deeds, and spectacular victories of the ancestors. It served well as the basis for a poetic formulation of the victorious, romantic past and thus “warm the hearts” of the Magyar readers and listeners, about to ascertain their national self-identity within the multi- national Habsburg Empire. The Gesta Hungarorum (as it came to be called from the incipit) survived in one single copy of 24 folios, 17 by 24 cm. in size, written in Gothic minus- cule dateable (on paleographical and artistic grounds) to the later thirteenth century and—containing several scribal errors—clearly not an autograph. Knowledge of it in the Middle Ages seems to have been limited and its fate through the centuries is not known. Catalogue evidence suggests that it reached the Imperial Library in Vienna some time between 1610 and 1636. The Gesta was first mentioned by the librarian Peter Lambeck in 1666,4 and in 1692, his successor, Daniel Nessel suggested publishing it.5 In 1711, Dávid Czvittinger gave a detailed report of it in his encyclopedic Specimen Hungariae Literatae. It was then first published in 1746 by Johann Georg Schwandtner in his Scriptores rerum Hungaricarum, with a preface by the learned polyhistor, Matthias Bél;6 four reprints followed in the subsequent twenty years. János Letenyei translated it into Hungarian in 1790 and gave the author the name “Anonymus,” which has remained his ever since. The manuscript came to Hungary in the wake of the 1932 Treaty of Venice (in which the treasures of the Hapsburg Empire were distributed among the successor states) and is now in the Széchényi National Library as Clmae 403.7 Other narratives of ancient Hungarian history were not unknown before the appearance of the Gesta. The main medieval tradition was passed on by John Thuróczy’s Chronica, first published in 1488, reproducing the text of a fourteenth-century compilation that, in turn, contained much older parts of

4 Petrus Lambecius, Diarium Sacri Itineris Cellensis, (Vienna: Cosmerovius, 1666), 267. 5 Daniel de Nessel, Sciagraphia sive prima delineatio et brevis notitia magni corporis historici hactenus inediti, quod ex bibliothecae Caesareae Vindobonensis codicibus manuscriptis se pub- licis usibus communicaturum pollicetur (Vienna: Mann, 1692), 29. 6 J.G. Schwandtner, Scriptores Rerum Hungaricarum Veteres, ac Genuini, vol. 1 (Vienna: Kraus, 1746), 1–38. 7 For a summary introduction and an English translation, listing other editions and translations, see Martyn Rady & László Veszprémy (eds. and trans.), “Anonymi Bele Regis notarii Gesta Hungarorum &c.,” in Anonymus and Master Roger (Budapest: ceu Press, 2010). 98 bak an historical narrative.8 Ever since more or less scholarly interest in the early history of the Hungarians emerged, this chronicle narrative was the basis for histories of the ancestors of the Magyars. In the course of the seventeenth century, other Hungarian chronicles as well as foreign sources (German and Byzantine annals and chronicles, the book of Constantine Porphyrogennetos, and others) were adduced and complicated the reconstruction of the received story from Huns through Avars to the “second entry of the Hungarians” to say nothing of the difficulties of matching all this with Biblical prehistory. The discovery of Anonymus, however, changed the emphasis within a generation or two to the “conquest” of the Carpathian Basin and made Árpád, the leader of that campaign, the central figure of the ancestry. Finally, the works of the Jesuit historians György (Georgius) Pray (1723–1801) and István (Stephanus) Katona (1732–1811) gave the Gesta of Anonymus the scholarly seal of authenticity and moved the center of the received narrative to the ninth-century foundation of the kingdom.9 The international debate about the historical value of the Gesta erupted right away with surprising vehemence. While its medieval origin was never seriously challenged, doubts about it aimed at the veracity of its contents. The learned German Slavists, Semler and von Schlözer called the author a liar, a Fabelmann (‘fairy-tale teller’), for he wrote about such Rus’ principalities that did not exist in the ninth century and had many other “mistakes.”10 Within the kingdom, it was first a Slovak priest, Georgius Szklenár who published his doubts in 1784 and 1788. His study was in fact the first seriously critical assessment, based on good philology, but he, too, dismissed the notary as “a liar”, for he did not include the location of Great Moravia.11 On the other hand, the

8 See Johannes de Thurocz, Chronica Hungarorum I. Textus, ediderunt Elisabeth Galántai & Julius Kristó (Budapest: Akadémiai K, 1985) and Commentarii, composuit Elemér Mályusz, adiuvante Julio Kristó, ibid., 1988. Partial English translation: Chronicle of the Hungarians by János Thuróczy. Transl. by Frank Mantello (Bloomington, in: University of Indiana, Institute for Inner Asian Studies, 1991). 9 This process has been investigated in detail in György Szabados, “A krónikától a Gestáig. Az előidő-szemlélet hangsúlyváltásai a 15.–18. században” [From chronicles to the Gesta: Changes in the emphasis in the view of the ancient past in the fifteenth to eighteenth centuries], Irodalomtörténeti Közlemények 102 (1998), 615–41. 10 See, e.g., Johann Salomo Semler, Versuch den Gebrauch der Quellen in der Staats- und Kirchengeschichte der mitlern Zeiten zu erleichtern (Halle: Gebauer, 1761), 27–33; August Ludwig Schlözer, Nestor, Russische Annalen in ihrer Slawonischen Grundsprache (Göttingen: Dieterich, 1805), vol. 3, 107–48. 11 Georgius Szklenár, Vetustissimus magnae Moraviae situs et primus in eam Hungarorum ingressus et incursus (Posonii: Doll et Schwaiger, 1784); the reply came swiftly from István from the anonymous gesta to the flight of zalÁn 99 report of Anonymus was given full credit when it served the interest of national claims. Some Romanians of the Principality of Transylvania (at that time directly under Viennese rule) turned to him for support. In the Supplex libellus valachorum, submitted to the court12 requesting to be one of the “nations” of Transylvania (there were three in the principality’s constitution: Hungarian, Székely and Saxon) they, besides a short reference to the Dacians, argued on the basis of Anonymus’s narrative that, even though Prince Gelou/Gyalu of the “Vlachs” was defeated by the Magyars, his subjects swore an oath of allegiance to the chief Tuhutum/Tétény. Hence, their descendants should be accepted as a legitimate and separate constitutional unit in the principality.13 Thus “authenticity” became an issue not in the precise sense, i.e., whether it is what it pretends to be, that is, a medieval narrative, but whether the author’s statements match the “facts” allegedly known from other—more reliable?— evidence. Therefore, the person of the author—whether a well-informed and reliable witness or not—came to the forefront. Since the author did not clearly identify himself, the major debates—for the last 250 years or so—have focused on him. Anonymity anyhow bothered the savants of the eighteenth-nineteenth century very much,14 but in this case the issue of authenticity—in terms of veracity—underscored the need for identification. The first words of the text contain only oblique hints at the

Katona, Examen vetustissimi Magnae Moraviae situs cum vindiciis anonymi Belae Notarii, etc. Pest: Weigand, 1786, to which Szklenár replied in 1788 and so on. Little could they imagine that the issue would emerge almost two hundred years later (though no more around the Anonymus ) by the publication of Imre Boba’s Moravia’s History Reconsidered: A Reinterpretation of Medieval Sources (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1971)—and is still not settled. 12 Representatio et humillimae preces universae in Transylvania valachicae nationis se pro reqnicolari natione qualis fuit, authoritate regia declarai, seque ad usum omnium iurium civilium, ex quo non lege, non iure sed temporum duntaxat iniuria cum intio praesertium saeculi exclusa est, reponi de genu supplicantis (Martio mdcclxxxxi, Jassy, 1791.) See now Discourses of collective identity in Central and Southeast Europe (1770–1945): texts and com- mentaries, 4 vols., Balázs Trencsényi, et al. (eds.) (Budapest: CEU Press, 2006–8), vol. 1, 276–81 with partial translation. The first two volumes of this collection contain several texts and studies on the general context of the matter at hand. 13 The issue was to have a long history, in different variations, into our own time, including a paid advertisement by the then Romanian government in The Times, 7 April, 1987 confirming the notary’s record about Transylvania, see László Peter (ed.), Historians and the History of Transylvania (Boulder, co: East European Monographs, 1992), 197–201. 14 See the efforts to find an “author” for the Russian Primary Chronicle, discussed in Oleksiy Tolochko, “On ‘Nestor the Chronicler’,” Harvard Ukrainian Studies. 29 (2007), 31–59. 100 bak writer who offers his greetings to a friend, likewise not named: P dictus magister ac quondam bone memorie gloriosissimi Bele regis Hungarie notarius &c. Right away the opening is puzzling: since there is no dot after the P, it was suggested that it is an abbreviation for ‘praedictus’ (aforementioned) and not the author’s initial. This conjecture lived from the first edition until recently, when it was established that in the surviving copy there is nothing on the preceding blank page to which the word may refer. Thereafter, the discussion focused on persons whose name begins with P, but much more attention was paid to the dating of the work and its author. He wrote that he was a magister (or, perhaps merely “called magister” in typical medieval humility formula, or in fact not having earned the degree!?) and “formerly notary of the most glorious King Béla of Hungary of good memory” which left too many questions open. Above all: to which of the kings of Hungary called Béla did he refer? There were four of them. Béla I, one of the exiled sons of the blinded Vazul, a relative of St Stephen, reigned briefly between 1060 and 1063. Béla ii “the Blind”, blinded as a child together with his father Prince Álmos by King Coloman, reigned 1131–41. Béla iii, who returned from Byzantium where he had been for a while heir presumptive to Emperor Manuel, was king of Hungary 1172–96, and finally, Béla iv, Hungary’s ruler during the Mongol invasion and acclaimed “restorer” of the kingdom reigned the longest, 1235–70. It would go beyond the scope of this article to try even briefly to review the discussion about the four Bélas (and the concomitant search for Mr. P). The concern for finding the “oldest” possible King Béla and thus placing the notary closer to the events of the conquest was significant at least for the first century. If he wrote in the eleventh century, then, so the argument ran, he would still have good evidence for the events of the ninth, thus the efforts to make him the notary of the first, or at least, the second Béla.15 Regardless of these learned discussions, the Gesta offered everything that was needed for romantic nationalism. By making the Magyars descend from the Scythians and taking from Justin (via the medieval chronicler Regino of Prüm) the description of the invincible Scythians, Anonymus offered a very respectable origo gentis. (The connection to Gog and Magog as well as to Noah’s son Japhet was probably less interesting for moderns than it had been

15 Today—and for some time now—the consensus is that the reference is to Béla iii and thus the date of writing somewhere between 1200 and 1240. (Details are still eagerly debated.) And, since no clerk with the initial P was ever unequivocally identified, the retired notary remained “Anonymus.” from the anonymous gesta to the flight of zalÁn 101 for the medieval author and his possible readers.) He described the march of the Scythian-Magyars (called Hungarians by others, according to him, first as a nickname!) across the steppe towards “Pannonia” as a series of frequently bloodless victories: the princes of the Rus’ and dukes of “Cumans”: submitted to them merely by hearing that their leader was a scion of the line of Attila the Hun. The insert of Attila into the genealogy of the early princes and later kings was repeated several times in the Gesta and came to be an important element in Hungarian historical myths. Once they crossed the Carpathian Mountains, the Hungarians allegedly moved systematically, in well-planned campaigns across their newly-found homeland. According to the Gesta, the newcomers used several means to acquire the land: claiming inheritance rights via Attila (who they argued, had held the land before the ancestors of the rulers of their times came there); defeating with showers of arrows all opposing forces and nipping any resistance in the bud; and, finally, by symbolic purchasing the land from its “occupiers”. Three major opponents, representing (more or less clearly) three “nations,” Salan and Glad, leaders of Slavs and Bulgarians, and Ménmarót and Gyalu, leaders of Vlachs, lost the decisive battles and their land to the Hungarians. All of their names and alleged territories were derived from place names known to the notary from his own times (The names of the Hungarian heroes and their allies have either similar origins or were transferred from later times—including Anonymus’s own—into the ninth or tenth century.). One of the purposes (or the main aim) of the author, to link the great families of his times to heroes of the “conquest age”—repeatedly asserting that they held the land given to them by Árpád, prince of the conquerors, “to our own days”—was probably of relatively little interest to eighteenth- and nineteenth- century readers. However, the notary’s repeated assurance that all decisions about war and peace were made with the counsel of the “nobles of the prince” who also constructed an oath (sealed with the blood, more paganismo of the great men), guaranteeing the succession of the elected prince (the so-called Árpád dynasty) on the one hand and the participation of the “aristocracy” in affairs of the realm, on the other, was surely music to the ears of the Hungarian noble political nation defending their rights against the “foreign” (Habsburg) dynasty. Which parts of this literary narrative came to be elements of politico- rhetorical discourse, “the voice of the nation,” in subsequent decades (and in fact, centuries) depended on the issues and problems at the time of reception and (obviously) not on the author’s original intentions. Two or three main motives emerged from the Gesta as perennial favorites of political mythology: 102 bak the Attila-heritage, the Hungarian victory and superiority over previous inhabitants, and the “thousand years’ old constitution.” The Attila subject is a matter in itself. The “cult” of the Hun, with positive or negative traits was by the time of the Gesta’s reception several centuries old and has its own history.16 I have to bracket it for now. Likewise, the myth of the “ancient constitution” very much indebted to Anonymus’s story of the blood-contract and an imaginary first parliament at Szer has also been discussed many times. If I am right, it became even more important in the later decades of the faltering Habsburg Empire.17 In the earlier nineteenth century, the warlike or peaceful “conquest” of the homeland under the leadership of heroic ancestors, the relationship between the Magyars and the natives—seen as the predecessors of the different nationalities within the lands of the Holy Crown—was the most popular message from the retired notary. And it was this subject that moved poets and dramatists to produce the images and metaphors for the nation looking for a heroic past. The Vienna court was appropriately alarmed, even if misinformed. In 1814 an imperial agent reported that a manuscript “by Hartwick, notary of King Béla,” was found in Frankfurt am Main and sent to the Hungarian National Museum. It was supposed to support the country’s rights vis-à-vis the crown. King Ferdinand I right away ordered Chancellor Erdődy to have it sent over to the Hofmeister in order to compare it with the manuscript in the Hofbibliothek. However, it was soon found out that the dangerous writing was only the widely known Life of St Stephen by Bishop Hartwich from the early twelfth century. Thus, Anonymus escaped being placed on the Vienna blacklist. As a matter of fact, wrongly so, for, as we shall see, he did supply plenty of material for national—and not necessarily monarchic—sentiments in the kingdom.18 In the 1820s the tales of Anonymus caught the fantasy of poets and writers. Several authors planned to write an epic on Árpád—an “Arpadiad” matching Homer’s Iliad and Vergil’s Aeneid. There were some attempts, and at least one of them, by a certain Sándor Aranyosrákosi Székely, already contained elements that would become important for the future. In 1822, the leading literary almanac of the age, Aurora—with Árpád on its title page—published an essay

16 For a recent summary, see Franz H. Bäuml & Marianna Birnbaum, Attila the man and his image (Budapest: Corvina, 1993), cf. also Martyn Rady, “Recollecting Attila: Some medieval Hungarian images and their antecedents,” Central Europe 1 (2003) 5–17. 17 See János M. Bak & Anna Bak-Gara, “The Ideology of a ‘Millennial Constitution’ of Hungary,” East European Quarterly 15 (1981), 307–26. Now in: János M. Bak, Studying Rulers and their Subjects, ch. xvii (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2010). 18 See Csaba Csapodi, Az Anonymus kérdés története [History of the A.-question] (Budapest: Magvető, 1978), 99. from the anonymous gesta to the flight of zalÁn 103 by the historian István Horvát about “Árpád on the Pannonian Mountain” (cf. ch 50 of the Gesta). Other studies of the age aimed at the reconstruction of the ancient religion of the Magyars.19 This was the milieu in which the young poet Mihály Vörösmarty (1800–1855) decided to write a major epic on the conquest age. In a few years he completed it and it was published in 1823.20 He thus selected one of the defeated enemies of the Magyars, actually the one first mentioned by Anonymus as an opponent of the newly arrived heroes.21 Vörösmarty made him into the main adversary of the heroic Magyars. It would lead us too far from our discussion to explore why the author chose not the hero, the victorious Árpád, but the anti-hero, the defeated leader, for his title. Also, Salanus/Zalán is identified in the Gesta as of Bulgarian origin, supported from Byzantium, two polities not immediately relevant for his age. Nevertheless, the choice was in all likelihood influenced by the growing self-assertion of the Slavs of the kingdom (whose “predecessors” were Zalán’s subjects), especially those who came to be called Slovaks. In 1821, Jan Kollár, minister of the Slovak church in Pest, published an article about “Die Magyarisierung der Slawen in Ungarn,” complaining mainly about the fate of Slavs in the Hungarian Plain. (Incidentally, this was about the same region where Anonymus had placed Salanus’s subjects.) He argued, among others, based on toponyms ( just as the notary!) for the Slavs’ presence in the country earlier than the Magyars, claimed Slavic physiognomic characteristics (à la Lavater) of many Hungarians and denigrated the Magyar language. With Baron Alajos Mednyánszky’s response in the influential journal Tudományos Gyűjtemény [Scientific Collection] (of which Vörösmarty was to become editor) these constituted the first shots in the Slovak-Hungarian cultural and political battle. The same Kollár published soon after (1824) his lyric-epic poem, Slávy dcera [The daughter of Sláva] lamenting the silencing of the Slavic tongue and the subjection of the Slavs—except the great Russians—to foreign yoke.22 The issue of who was where first23 and who had been the winner was “in the air.”

19 E.g., Daniel Cornides, Commentatio de religione vetere Hungarorum (Vienna: Stahel, 1791). 20 Mihál (sic) Vörösmarty, Zalán futása. Hősköltemény (Pest: Heckenast, 1823). 21 The notary had taken this name from the place called Szalánkemén (now Stari Slankamen, Serbia), at the confluence of the rivers Danube and Tisza, and referred to him as a prince of Titel, a settlement in the same region. 22 Excerpts in an English translation can be read in Paul Selver, An Anthology of Czechoslovak Literature (London: Kegan Paul, 1929), 42–6, reprinted in Discourses (as n. 12, above), 2, 205–10. 23 It may be worth noting that the oft-mentioned major opponents of the Magyars in the Gesta, the Vlachs (Vlachi, Blasii) whose “successors” (as mentioned above) had referred to Anonymus in their political efforts remained at that time outside the interest of 104 bak

Vörösmarty’s epic poem, Zalán futása [The Flight of Zalán] in ten cantos, 6683 lines of faultless hexameters is—for a twenty-first-century reader—not easy entertainment.24 A series of gory battle scenes are interwoven with a love story and a fairy tale added for good measure. One may enjoy the very nice lyric passages, finely painted landscapes, truly Homeric epic musters (using much Greek mythology and invented figures) and images of valiance, but one is often lost in the story line and frequently tired of the (Homeric, no doubt) repetitions. My grammar-school literature professor, a famous editor and pro- moter of old and modern Hungarian literature25 may not have been quite wrong with his flippant remark: “We’d rather trade the entire poem for its first forty-four lines.”26 The splendid opening lines convey, indeed, the intentions of the author loaded with traditional exordial topoi, but also with the main political and philosophical ideas of his age. He starts lamenting the waning of the memory of old glory, then proceeds with complaints about the decline of virtue in his times. Self critically, he adds that he, too, spent his youth on frivoli- ties, but that now the heroic past had grasped his mind. Still, doubts arise as to whether his contemporaries would appreciate his efforts—and in fact, the first round of subscriptions was as low as eighty-eight copies—nevertheless he cannot help conjuring up the valiant horsemen in battle with tears in his eyes.27

Hungarian public opinion, as Romanian claims for unification with co-nationals outside the kingdom—in contrast to growing Pan-Slavism—were not yet on the agenda. 24 Not being competent to discuss matters of style and genre, let me send the reader to a few comments available in English: Mihály Szegedi-Maszák, “Vörösmarty and The Romantic Fragment”, Hungarian Studies 15 (2001), 1: 3–10 and D. Marvyn Jones, Five Hungarian Writers (Oxford, 1966), 103–10. I have perused with much profit, among others, the studies in “Ragyognak tettei”. Tanulmányok Vörösmartyról [“His deeds shine forth . . .” Studies on Vörösmarty], Károly Horváth, Sándor Lukácsy & László Szörényi (eds.) (Székesfehérvár: Fejér megye tanácsa, 1975). 25 László Vajthó (1887–1977) is best known for his series (some 63 volumes!) of “discovered” works of old Hungarian literature, which he published in collaboration with his pupils, but he also wrote extensively on Enlightenment authors and nineteenth- as well as twentieth-century poetry. 26 The first twelve in the translation of Watson Kirkconnell were published in In Quest of the Miracle Stag: Hungarian Poetry, Adam Makkai (ed.) (Chicago-Budapest, 1996), 214–5. 27 As a medievalist I always feel myself very much “at home” in these opening lines with all the familiar humility topoi and commonplaces about the causa scribendi. Not much unlike the proem of the Gesta arguing for the need to record the heroic past lest it is left to “bubbling minstrels and the yarn of yokels.” from the anonymous gesta to the flight of zalÁn 105

I am neither qualified, nor willing to analyze the epic in its own worth. Many questions (surely discussed by literary scholars) puzzle the reader. The poet chose to write mostly about Greek and to a lesser extent, Bulgarian, warriors opposing the Magyars, I suppose, because of the rich Classical material he was able to access. The Slavs, in his time collectively referred to as tót (which later meant Slovak), appear rarely, as poor, badly dressed and base minor actors. Anonymus is very well exploited: his seven chieftains all appear on the battlefield and many others mentioned by the notary (a good number of persons with newly invented names); his report on the capture of Kiev by the Magyars is mentioned in almost every canto; the Scythian origin of the victorious conquerors is frequently referred to, and so on. Of the many imaginary speeches, some, such as the exchanges between Árpád’s emissaries and Zalán are verbatim quotes from the Gesta, elegantly rephrased into meter. Even though the epiteton ornans of Árpád as “panther-skinned” was not Vörösmarty’s invention,28 it was the Flight of Zalán that made it universal—down to the mounted figure in bronze on Heroes Square in Budapest (1896). The subject of the Proem, waking up the slumbering nation and recover- ing the “ancient glory” is also a recurrent theme in the epic. Spoken by Árpád, by the shaman (táltos) or by the poet himself, it was surely one of the major messages of the work. The nation was preparing for the diet (noble parliament) about to meet for the first time after many years of what was regarded Habsburg absolutism. The diet of 1825 is seen as the opener of what came to be the Age of Reform (the Hungarian Vormärz), and even if did not fulfill all expectations right away, the “awakening of past glory” and the “national flag” (held high by Bulcsú in more than one passage of the Flight) fitted well into the public opinion of the day.29 Alas, there were no sociologists of reading around in the 1820s who would have investigated how many readers finished the entire poem and what was their reaction to all this. But we know that all those “who counted,” literary

28 See Péter Dávidházi, “A nemzet mint res ficta et picta keletkezéséhez. ‘Párducos Árpád’ és ‘eleink’ útja a költészettől a történetírásig [The origins of the nation as res ficta et picta. The passage of ‘Pantherskinned Árpád’ and ‘our ancestors’ from poetry to historiography], in Vörösmarty és a romantika, József Takács (ed.) (Budapest-Pécs, Művészetek Háza etc., n.d. [Színháztudományi Szemle 33]), 95–110. 29 On this diet and the problems faced at the time, see (from the rich literature) e.g., Jean Béranger & Charles Kecskeméti, Parlement et vie parlementaire en Hongrie 1608–1918 (Paris: H. Champion, 2005), esp. 220–50 and Robert Evans, Austria, Hungary and the Habsburgs. Essays on Central Europe c. 1683–1867 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006) esp. 10–13, 157–9; see also Discourses, in n. 12, above. 106 bak critics, politicians, and scholars—with a modern word, the opinion- makers—read it and were either enthusiastic or critical (mainly for rhetorical- literary reasons), but could not ignore. Vörösmarty’s message, discourse, and imagery came to be the grand narrative of early Hungarian history—and its consequences. The nation found its voice in the Gesta of Anonymus30 mediated by the Flight of Zalán.

30 The epic was not the only carrier of Anonymus’s narrative and heroes. Popular literature, such as “farmers’ almanacs” (Kalendárium) picked up the story as early as 1788 and kept it alive throughout the century, even before it became common fare through elementary school textbooks in the age of general education; see Éva Mikos “Anonymus és a folklore, avagy esettanulmány arról miképpen lett az ismeretlen mester műve mindenkié a 19. században,” [A. and folklore: a case study about the unknown master’s work having become common knowledge in the nineteenth century], in Folklór és történelem, Ágnes Szemerkényi (ed.) (Budapest: Akadémiai, 2007), 102–11. part 2 Inventing a Past

⸪

chapter 6 Forging the Cuman Law, Forging an Identity

Nora Berend

Hungarian history is not particularly rich in forgeries, but one intriguing case concerns the Cumans, a population that in its origin was an immigrant group, but became absorbed into the country and eventually created a new identity. Royal legislation on the status of the Cumans in the kingdom of Hungary started after their mid-thirteenth century immigration.1 The Cumans (des- ignated also as Quman, Quibčāq, Kipchak, Valben, Polovci), a Turkic nomad people, rose to prominence on the steppes before being defeated several times by the Mongols in the period between the 1220s and 1239. As a consequence of these defeats, some of the Cumans sought refuge in Hungary, where they were admitted. The hostility of the local population culminated in the mas- sacre of the Cuman leader and his entourage at the onset of the Mongol invasion of Hungary (1241), when the Cumans were seen as the vanguard of the Mongols. Although the Cumans then left the kingdom, King Béla iv (1235–70) recalled them after the end of the Mongol invasion, because Cuman warriors provided much-needed military support for the king. Questions about their conversion and settlement remained, and ecclesiastical pressure on Hungary’s kings increased to ensure full Cuman conversion and integration. Due to such pressure, in the presence of a papal legate, the so-called Cuman law of 1279 was promulgated. According to traditional historiography, two separate texts were produced in 1279 regulating the legal status of the Cumans. Both were issued by King Ladislas iv (1272–90); the second was dated several weeks after the first.2 The two texts differ in content and the relationship between them is a source of

1 I am grateful to the late Iván Borsa and to Patrick Zutshi for advice in the early stages of my research. I analyse the background and the immigration of the Cumans more fully in Nora Berend, At the Gate of Christendom: Jews, Muslims and ‘Pagans’ in Medieval Hungary, c. 1000– c. 1300 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 68–72. 2 Imre Szentpétery and Iván Borsa, Az Árpád-házi királyok okleveleinek kritikai jegyzéke. Regesta regum stirpis Arpadianae critico-diplomatica. 3 vols. (Budapest: mta, 1923–61), [henceforth ra], nos. 2962, 3000; Henrik Marczali, A magyar történet kútfőinek kézikönyve. Enchiridion fontium historiae Hungarorum (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1901), 175–83, dated 23 June and 10 August, respectively.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_007 110 berend controversy. At the end of the first charter the king promises to hold a general congregation and issue its decrees, together with the text of the first charter, under a golden bull. The second text, therefore, has been taken to be the result of this promise. Had the king simply reissued the text under a golden bull, however, the two texts would have been identical. In fact, Hungarian kings several times issued the same charter twice, first under a wax seal then under a golden bull.3 This, however, did not mean that the contents of the charter changed. Thus, King Ladislas’s promise to promulgate the Cuman law (or the legate’s dictate) under a golden bull would not have led to textual differences (apart from those in some formulas associated with using a golden bull) between the two. Yet significant textual discrepancies occur concerning the obligations and status of the Cumans. Therefore, the reason for the disparity between the two texts has been explained in various ways. According to some scholars there were two Cuman laws, both governing the life of the Cumans in Hungary.4 Others think that after the promulgation of the first law the king and the Cumans managed to convince the legate, Bishop Philip of Fermo, to relax some of his demands, and so the second law, superseding the first, was issued.5 According to another group of scholars, however, the first text was a simple agreement, either at the legate’s dictate or as a draft for the law. Then, at the general congregation the final or only law was promulgated, which also included new assurances about Cuman status in the kingdom; therefore, the second text is the only Cuman law.6

3 E.g., ra, nos. 500, 902; Lajos Thallóczy & Samu Barabás (eds.) A Frangepán család oklevéltára 1135–1527. Codex diplomaticus comitum de Frangepanibus 1135–1527, 2 vols. (Budapest: mta, 1910–13), vol. 1, nos. 30, 54. 4 Marczali, A magyar történet kútfőinek kézikönyve, 174–5; András Pálóczi Horváth, Pechenegs, Cumans, Iasians: Steppe Peoples in Medieval Hungary (Budapest: Corvina, 1989), 79; János Botka, “A jogállás és a katonai szolgálat kapcsolata a kunok és a jászok török hódítás előtti történetében” [The relationship between legal status and military service in the pre-Ottoman history of the Cumans and As], Zounok: A Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok megyei levéltár évkönyve 11 (1996), 65–75, esp. 69–70. 5 István Gyárfás, A jász-kúnok története [A history of the As-Cumans], 4 vols. (Kecskemét, 1870–85, reprint Budapest: A Jászkunságért Alapítvány, 1992), vol. 2, 331, 337; Gyula Pauler, A magyar nemzet története az Árpád-házi királyok alatt [A history of the Hungarian nation under the Arpadian kings] 2nd ed. (Budapest, 1899, reprint Szeged: Állami Könyvterjesztő Vállalat, 1985), vol. 2, 353–7; György Györffy, “A magyarországi kun társadalom a xiii–xiv. században” [The Cuman population of Hungary in the thirteenth-fourteenth centuries], in György Györffy, A magyarság keleti elemei (Budapest: Gondolat Kiadó, 1990), 275–304, esp. 281–4. 6 Erzsébet S. Kiss, “A királyi generális kongregáció kialakulásának történetéhez” [Towards the history of the beginnings of the royal general congregation], Acta Universitatis Szegediensis forging the cuman law, forging an identity 111

None of these historians paid close attention to the manuscripts, although other scholars already raised serious doubts about the second Cuman law, based on the study of the manuscripts. The authenticity of the second text was first seriously questioned by Miklós Kring in 1932, who saw it as suspect.7 Iván Borsa called the second text a much later, interpolated and reworked version.8 I have argued that the so-called second Cuman law is a forgery.9 Some scholars, however, continued to claim—without detailed arguments or supporting evidence—that the second text represents a genuine medieval document.10 This latter view was most recently upheld, but also elaborated by Péter Langó.11 He rejected the reasons for questioning the authenticity of the second text, pointing out some sections that would correspond to medieval conditions. This, however, does not contradict the conclusion that the eighteenth-century composition includes authentic medieval texts.12 He also questions the earlier consensus that the text would grant nobility to all the Cumans. While it is true that in some sentences, domini et nobiles de Comanis (or Comanorum) appear separately, attesting medieval realities of a hierarchical society, other sections contain tanquam nobiles regni nostri referring to all the Cumans living in the

de Attila József nominatae, Acta Historica 39 (1971), 35–6, based on unpublished studies by Mária Frick. I was unable to consult a copy of the latter, because Frick’s manuscript has disappeared from the library of the University of Szeged. Jenő Szűcs, Az utolsó Árpádok [The last Arpadians] (Budapest: mta Történettudományi Intézet, 1993), 303. 7 Miklós Kring, “Kun és jász társadalomelemek a középkorban” [Cuman and As populations in the Middle Ages], Századok 66 (1932), 35–63, 169–88, esp. 38–40. Already earlier, scholars knew that no proof of its authenticity existed; the presumption was in its favour simply because renowned historians copied and accepted it: József Kele, A jász-kunság megváltása [The redemption of the As-Cumans] (Budapest: Grill, 1903), 195. 8 ra, no. 3000. 9 Berend, At the Gate of Christendom, 89–92; more detailed arguments in Nora Berend, “Az 1279-i ‘kun törvények’ szövege és keletkezési körülményei” [The text and origin of the ‘Cuman laws’ of 1279], in A Jászkunság kutatása 2000, Erzsébet Molnár Bánkiné, et al. (eds.) ( Jászberény—Kiskunfélegyháza: A Jász Múzeumért Alapítvány, 2002), 147–53. 10 Györffy, “A magyarországi kun társadalom,” 282, n. 72; S. Kiss, “A királyi generális kon- gregáció,” 36, n. 184; László Selmeczi, A jászok eredete és középkori műveltsége [The origin and medieval culture of the As] ( Jászberény: Jász Múzeumért Kulturális Alapítvány, 2005), 70, n. 223. 11 Péter Langó, “Kun László kun törvényei: Megjegyzések a kunok jogállásáról a középkori magyar források tükrében [Ladislas the Cuman’s Cuman laws: remarks on the legal status of the Cumans in the light of medieval Hungarian sources],” in Jászok és kunok a magyarok között. Ünnepi kötet Bánkiné Molnár Erzsébet tiszteletére, Edit Bathó & Zoltán Ujváry (eds.) ( Jászberény: Jász Múzeumért Alapítvány, 2006), 60–77. 12 Berend, “Az 1279–i ‘kun törvények’ szövege,” 151. 112 berend areas that the king allegedly gave to them, and iidem nobiles et Comani equali prerogativa libertatis gratulentur, explicitly equating noble and Cuman status. An implicit equation between the status of the two groups also appears when the king promises not to ask for hospitality from the lords, nobles and people of the Cumans, in the same way that he does not ask hospitality from nobles. The text therefore does claim nobility for all the Cumans in some of its sections, those that do not appear in the ‘first Cuman law.’ Finally, Langó hypothesizes that an original medieval document existed, which was lost after it had been copied in the eighteenth century. This is singularly unconvincing: if the text had survived long enough to be copied in the eighteenth century, why is such a loss not alluded to anywhere when the text was already regarded as a fundamental cornerstone of Cuman status in Hungary, and charged with significance for Cuman identity? More significantly, as I hope to show, the claims that some eighteenth-century copyists saw an original are demonstrably untrue, and there is no trace of the text’s existence prior to the mid-eighteenth century. It is natural that many people wish to dismiss arguments that destroy the authenticity of a text that has so long served as a fundamental source for medieval Hungarian history; all the more so both because the source-base for the Hungarian Middle Ages is so meagre, and because there exists a community today for whom this text holds a central place in their history. Yet the evidence shows that the first text is the only authentic version, whereas the second text is an eighteenth-century forgery. It incorporates much of the first, authentic text, and probably also other medieval texts. Where there is no corroborating medieval evidence, however, one cannot assume that the second text gives reliable information on thirteenth- century conditions. Whereas there are only eighteenth-century manuscripts of the ‘second Cuman law’,13 the text of the so-called ‘first Cuman law’ survives in the Vatican Archives in an authentic transcription made in 1339.14 The ‘first Cuman law’ cannot be called a draft or preliminary text; an examination of the document in 1339 proves this beyond any doubt. The history of the transcription of the 1279 charter is explained in this document. Pope Benedict xii sent Johannes de Amelio to search out and copy documents relating to ecclesiastical affairs from among the documents then kept at Assisi. He had the selected documents transcribed verbatim, and the subscription of public notaries attested

13 Budapest, Országos Széchényi Könyvtár [henceforth Széchényi Library] Quart. Lat. 1280, f. 59r–64v; Magyar Országos Levéltár [henceforth mol] dl 56727; mol I.7.18, 408–13; mol I.7.46, 94–101; mol I. 7. 52, 509–13; mol I. 7. 54, 427–36, and other later copies. 14 asv aa Arm. I-xviii-595. forging the cuman law, forging an identity 113 to the faithfulness of the copies. Johannes chose documents that were privileges given to the Church by various rulers, or that touched on other important ecclesiastical affairs. Clearly, he selected the most authoritative version to copy, that is, had there been a copy under a golden bull he would have chosen that. In 1339, then, there was no other copy of the Cuman law available to Johannes; if King Ladislas ever issued such a charter, he did not send it to the pope. That we cannot suspect an accidental oversight is confirmed by the fact that there is also no mention of such a document in the inventory of 1339, which lists all the documents under a golden bull that existed at that point in the papal archives.15 Therefore, clearly no ‘second Cuman law’ or version under a golden bull existed in the papal archives at the time. Johannes described the charter of King Ladislas as letters patent (litterae patentes), with a white wax seal suspended on red silk thread. The front of the seal bore the image of King Ladislas, seated on a royal throne, holding an orb surmounted by a double cross in his left hand. The back of the seal had a shield with a double cross in it. This is clearly the king’s sigillum duplex. By the second half of the thirteenth century, the Hungarian royal chancery consistently used the suspended sigillum duplex for charters of privileges, whereas charters of a temporary character were sealed with the sigillum simplex.16 There is no question about the nature of this charter then: it was not a draft and however it originated (whether the papal legate forced Ladislas to accept the specific articles or not), it was a valid royal document. That is, Jenő Szűcs’s hypothesis (recently reiterated by László Selmeczi) that the ‘first Cuman law’ was simply the legate’s dictate, not a binding agreement, which was then refor- mulated in a binding form (the ‘second Cuman law’ being the only Cuman law) is untenable.17 On the contrary, the form, part of its content, and manuscript history of the ‘second Cuman law’ point to its being a later forgery. Kring already demonstrated how the text does not conform to the requirements of a charter of privileges issued under a golden bull: the invocation and list of dignitaries for

15 Pietro Selle, Le Bolle d’Oro dell’Archivio Vaticano (Città del Vaticano: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1934), 3–7; pace Gyárfás who speculated that the version under a golden bull will one day be found in the Vatican: A jász-kúnok története, vol. 2, 443. 16 Imre Szentpétery, “iv. László király pecsétváltoztatásai” [Variation of King Ladislas iv’s seals], Levéltári Közlemények 1 (1923), 310–20; Bernát L. Kumorovitz, A magyar pecséthasználat története a középkorban [The history of Hungarian sealing practice in the Middle Ages] (Budapest: Magyar Nemzeti Múzeum, 1993), 53–4. 17 Szűcs, Az utolsó Árpádok, 303 (he did not investigate this question in detail, but simply worked from the edited texts); Selmeczi, A jászok eredete, 70, n. 223. 114 berend example, are missing.18 The eschatocol is also problematic, as instead of the supposed golden bull, the text refers to a sigillum duplex, exactly as the first text had done.19 That Nicholas, the vice-chancellor who provides the subscrip- tio is an authentic contemporary figure proves nothing, because he fills the same function in the text of the ‘first’ Cuman law, therefore the formula of the second text could be a result of later copying.20 In terms of its content, some of the text simply copies the ‘first’ thirteenth- century Cuman law. These sections include the demands that Cumans con- vert, settle, and conform to Christian customs. Other elements have parallels in independent, authentic medieval texts that include information of a similar nature to some of the articles of the ‘second Cuman law’ that is missing from the first text. Notably, there is a papal letter of Nicholas iii from 1279 that mentions how the king and the Cumans convinced the papal legate to allow the Cumans to retain their costume and hair-style, which was already known in Hungary by the time the ‘second Cuman law’ appeared.21 Copies of many such medieval documents were made and collected at the time in Hungary.22 Was there a pre-eighteenth century version of the ‘second Cuman law’ that already incorporated these passages or did an eighteenth-century forger draw from these sources? Further research is needed to determine that. That the ‘second Cuman law’ is in Latin does not in itself exclude its being an eighteenth- century forgery. During the eighteenth century Latin was still used as an official language, and those involved in politics and law had an excellent knowledge of Latin. Indeed, almost the entire manuscript book of about a hundred pages which records negotiations surrounding the redemption (see below)

18 Kring, “Kun és jász társadalomelemek,” 39. 19 János M. Bak, György Bónis, James Ross Sweeney (eds.), tr., The Laws of the Medieval Kingdom of Hungary, 1000–1301 (Bakersfield, ca: Charles Schlacks Jr, 1989), 135, n. 21 points this out. 20 Langó “Kun László,” 67 offers Nicholas as one of the proofs of the authenticity of the ‘second Cuman law’. 21 asv Reg. Vat. 39, anno ii, cur. no. 7, f. 218r–220, Augustinus Theiner, Vetera Monumenta Historica Hungariam Sacram Illustrantia, vol. 1 (Rome, 1859), 341–4; the letter, which lists Ladislas iv’s promises, was known around the time when the ‘second Cuman law’ appeared, based on Odericus Raynaldus’s continuation of the Annales ecclesiastici (Rome, 1646–77); it is used e.g., Sámuel Timon, Epitome Chronologica rerum Hungaricarum (Kassa, 1736), 39; György Pray, Annales Regum Hungariae (Vienna, 1763), 345–8. 22 Péter Gunst, A magyar történetírás története [A history of Hungarian historiography] 2nd ed. (Debrecen: Csokonai Kiadó, 2000), 143–64; Domokos Kosáry, Művelődés a xviii. századi Magyarországon [Culture in eighteenth-century Hungary] (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1980), 145–8, 574–9. forging the cuman law, forging an identity 115 and which includes the ‘second Cuman law’ was written in Latin, including all the petitions to the court. Parts of the text not only have no confirmation in authentic medieval documents, but in fact contradict what we know about medieval Cuman status. The two key areas for which the so-called second Cuman law is the only source are the noble status of the Cumans, and the royal grant to them of their settlements in the area called Kunság. Both issues were key points for the inhabitants of the eighteenth century, although the assertions in the ‘second Cuman law’ concerning these two points are not forgeries in the same way. That the Cumans did indeed settle in the Kunság (Lesser and Greater Cumania in the Hungarian Plain) in the thirteenth century is well attested by written as well as archaeological evidence. This, however, is not the same as the assertion of the forged document that the king gave this territory to the Cumans as the land where they should settle. Indeed, relying on the ‘second Cuman law’, modern scholars had trouble explaining the occurrence of Cuman property outside these areas which are attested by toponyms and archaeological evidence.23 In terms of the noble status of all Cumans, this contradicts everything else we know about medieval Cuman status and is clearly the invention of the forger. In order to understand the context for the appearance of the second text, we need to delve into the history of the Cumans posterior to 1279.24 In what follows, I shall highlight major changes affecting the Cuman population and trace the emergence of a specific legal status claimed by them: this is the background against which the forged Cuman law appeared in the eighteenth century. After their thirteenth-century settlement in the Hungarian kingdom, the Cumans started to be considered together with an Alan population called

23 Gábor Hatházi, “A perkátai kun szállástemető (előzetes beszámoló az 1986–8. évi fel- tárásokról)” [The Cuman cemetery of Perkáta: preliminary report on the excavations of 1986–8], A Móra Ferenc Múzeum Évkönyve 1984–85/2 (Szeged, 1991), 651–74, esp. 655. 24 The following summary is based on Gyárfás, A jász-kúnok története; Erzsébet Molnár Bánkiné, A Jászkun kerület igazgatása 1745–1876 [The government of the As-Cuman district 1745–1876] (Szolnok: Jász- Nagykun- Szolnok Megyei Múzeum, 1995); idem, Redemptusok: Gazdaság és életmód Kiskunfélegyházán a redempció első évszázadában [The redeemed: economy and way of life in Kiskunfélegyháza during the first century of redemption] (Debrecen: dup, 2000), 17–25; Gábor Bagi, A jászkun kerület társadalma a redempciótól a polgári forradalomig 1745–1848 [The As-Cuman district’s society from the redemption to the bourgeois revolution 1745–1848] (Szolnok: Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok Megyei Múzeum, 1995); Kele, A jász-kunság megváltása; József Kiss, A Pesti Invalidus Ház jászkunsági földesurasága 1731–1745 [The lordship of the Invalids of Pest over As-Cumania 1731–1745] (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1992). 116 berend the As ( jász) as As-Cumans (jász-kunok). The settlement of the As in Hungary is shrouded in uncertainty and scholarly controversy.25 They may have entered together with the Cumans, but they are documented in the written sources (by then as settled in the kingdom) only from 1318. The As-Cumans came to be associated to particular areas within the realm. They were directly under the power of the king, who appointed his representative, the highest official of the realm, the count palatine (comes palatinus), as their judge. They owed military service to the king and paid taxes (census) to the count palatine, but were not taxed by any private lord. During the fourteenth century their social structure changed with the emergence of the so-called szálláskapitányok, captains of the settlements, forming the elite, whose power over the rest of the population came to resemble increasingly that of lords over their peasants. The military element of their obligations decreased in significance in parallel, and came to be routinely redeemed through the payment of taxes. During the fifteenth century, ‘seats’ (sedes) emerged, that were autonomous juridical-administrative units under the captains of the sedes. In the sixteenth century both county and royal authorities exacted taxes. During the same period, a large part of these areas fell under Ottoman rule. During the Ottoman period and due to the wars, there was a great decrease of the population, through emigration and death. Yet both the Ottoman and the Hungarian administration ensured a legal homogeneity to these populations. Three districts were formed, Cumania Minor (Lesser Cumania), Cumania Maior (Greater Cumania) and the areas of the As, centering on ( Jász)berény. The As and Cumania Maior became part of Heves county, Cumania Minor of Pest county, while the sedes system fell into disuse. By the seventeenth century, the usual way to refer to these populations was to call them As, greater Cumans and lesser Cumans (nagykun, kiskun), after the names of the territorial units. During the same century, the laws provided for the appointment of a common royal official over them, who eventually came to be called As-Cuman ( jászkun) or palatine (nádori) chief captain. From the 1620s, the legal status of the As and Cumans were increasingly treated as a common one by the royal administration. The name given to this population became As-Cumans ( jászkunok). Hungarian formulations about the identity of these populations therefore kept changing over time, in line with administrative and other developments. The count palatine as chief judge of the Cumans since the late thirteenth century had a vested interest in their status. It was Count Palatine Pál Esterházy who initiated (in 1682) the exemption of Cuman villages from county taxation.

25 A voluminous literature exists on the As; a recent overview with a good bibliography is Selmeczi, A jászok eredete. forging the cuman law, forging an identity 117

This became the basis for their secession from the counties (Heves and Pest) to form an independent political unit. After 1696 these three areas were merged into one unit, the Jászkun Kerület (As-Cuman district) which formed one administrative and tax district. After defeating the Ottomans, Leopold I in 1702 sold the As-Cuman district to the Teutonic Order for 500,000 Rhenish Florins, basing this act on the ruler’s right to sell land acquired through military conquest. The inhabitants were treated as serfs and became the subjects of the Order. This was the last step in the consolidation of the As-Cuman area as one unified territory. The inhabitants themselves refused to accept their change of status and sided with Ferenc ii. Rákóczi in his anti-Habsburg fight in 1703, who in return recognized As-Cuman privileges. With the defeat of Rákóczi, in 1710 the Habsburg army occupied the district. The Teutonic Order exercized its lordship through collecting revenues, rather than through the individual subjugation of the inhabitants; in this way, the As-Cumans retained their pre- existing system of administrative self-government, and their own official, the As-Cuman captain ( jászkun kapitány) who now acted on behalf of the Order. The Hungarian Estates condemned the sale, and the diet in 1715 decreed that the As-Cuman district had to be redeemed by the Hungarians. The Estates were fighting against the sale of the As-Cuman territory based on the traditional notion that crown lands were inalienable.26 References to As-Cuman rights only appeared in a second phase of the struggle. In 1731, the capital of the House of Invalids (Invalidus Ház) of Pest, an institution founded for the care of disabled soldiers, was used to buy the lands back from the Teutonic Order. The House of Invalids became the landlord of the district. The inhabitants, supported by Count Palatine János Pálffy, started to fight for the recognition of their free status. On 6 May 1745, Empress Maria Theresa authorized the redemption of the As-Cuman district. The inhabitants agreed to repay not just the original purchase price, but also the amount that was invested by their landlords in the area since the early eighteenth century. The twenty-five settlements of the district also promised to provide 1000 mounted warriors for the royal army, with a further 1000 in case of the ruler calling on the military assistance of the entire nobility (‘noble insurrection’), and to pay a yearly military tax and other costs associated with self-government. In exchange, the inhabitants became the owners of their land, received individual freedom, and their settlements received privileges. Their districts formed an autonomous area as part of inalienable royal lands. They were exempt from customs duties and taxes to lords (only paying census to the count palatine). The highest judge of

26 mol microfilm 747, Haus- Hof- und Staatsarchiv Wien, Hungarica. Allgemeine Akten 1728 und 1729 Januar–Juni, fasc. 220, f. 1. 118 berend the district remained the count palatine. The basis for gaining and retaining this privileged status was the possession of landed property. Those who sold their land also sold their rights. We can follow the spread of the idea of As-Cuman noble status before any reference was made to an alleged privilege on that subject by Ladislas iv. The idea of As-Cuman nobility first appeared (with the claim that it was based on unspecified old royal privileges) before the appearance of the ‘second Cuman law’. It seems therefore that the claim emerged before a text was ‘found’ to substantiate it. Some counts palatine already mentioned such ideas concerning the kiskuns in the seventeenth century.27 Before the sale of the territory, the alispán of Pest county, Ferenc Sőtér, argued in a Memorandum against depriving the district of its privileges, claiming that in their own districts, the As-Cumans are regarded as nobles and they participate in the noble military insurrection. He did not, however, use Ladislas iv’s privileges, only later ones. This Memorandum was considered by the committee on new acquisitions (in charge of the areas regained from the Ottomans in the war) which concluded that the land of the As-Cumans was royal property.28 In 1741, the judge and council of the city of Jászberény sent a letter to János Jeszenák, thanking him for his intercession with the count palatine. Among other things, they claimed that from ancient times, according to the privileges of Hungarian kings, they always participated in the royal army under the king together with the nobles. If the royal towns and the privileged Hajdú towns (also on the Hungarian Plain) are reputed to be among the nobles in the army, the As should not have a lesser status.29 They referred to territorial autonomy and personal freedoms that were granted to them by King Béla iv’s letter of privileges in the thirteenth century (the king under whose reign the Cumans had settled in the kingdom).30 The idea of Cuman nobility also crops up in a petition of the As-Cuman district in 1764 (Instantia Jazygum et Cumanorum), although the privileges attached to the petition do not include the ‘second Cuman law’, but start with fourteenth-

27 Langó cites cases from published work “Kun László,” 60. 28 János Illéssy, “A Jász-kunság eladása a német lovagrendnek” [The sale of As-Cumania to the Teutonic Order], Századok 39 (1905), 22–39, 138–57. 29 mol P1391, 32. csomó, El. vii. § 1, f. 129–131v: “a mi eleink mindenkoron occasione Generalis Regni Insurrectionis Magnásokkal és Nemesekkel szoktanak Felséges Koronázott Királlyok mellett magok fejekben és nem más senki az eö fejekben hadakozni, Ha az Hajdú városok inter Nobiles reputáltatnak a Királyi Városokkal edgyütt, a mi sorsunkat sem lehetne Országunk Törvényei, és Privilegiumink értelme szerént utólsóbbnak lenni.” 30 Kele, A jász-kunság megváltása, 116–17. No such letter of privilege exists. forging the cuman law, forging an identity 119 century royal and palatine documents. However, the petition claims that their captains and judges always called the Cumans nobles (nobiles).31 The ‘second Cuman law’ surfaced during the period of negotiations for redemption. Its manuscript tradition shows it is a forgery. It is important to emphasize that not only does an original not exist; but all previous references to copies made from an alleged original in the eighteenth century, when investigated, prove to be false. According to the traditional view, Mátyás Bél (Beel) (1684–1749) first discovered the text, and both he and later György (Georgius) Pray supposedly saw and made copies from an original document.32 Bél purportedly copied it in the 1730s, when he was compiling material for his Notitia Hungariae Novae. It has been presumed that he saw the text while he was collecting documents in the As-Cuman territories, or perhaps in the imperial or other major archives. The ‘second Cuman law’ is indeed included in the description of the ‘Districtus Cumanorum et Jazygum, seu Philistaeorum’ as it survives in nineteenth-century manuscripts. However, the textual history of Mátyás Bél’s Notitia is very complex, and that of the ‘Districtus Cumanorum et Jazygum’—which supposedly formed part of it—even more so. Only the descriptions of some counties were published during the author’s lifetime. Other parts, including the description of the As-Cuman district only survive in manuscript copies. László Szelestei and Gergely Tóth demonstrated that Bél used work sent by a variety of local collaborators to compile descriptions of various counties; he did not travel around the country himself. Bél did not go to the As-Cuman district to gather material there; according to Tóth, it was one of his collaborators, János Matolai, who was in the area in July–August 1730.33

31 ‘. . . ipsorum Capitaneos et Iudices Comites ipsos vero Cumanos Egregios et Nobiles com- pellaverint’: mol R 316 Miscellanea 4. cs. Jászkun kerület, f. 3v. 32 Most recently reiterated by Langó, “Kun László,” 62–3. 33 It was assumed by many, for example Bálint Illyés and Rudolf Szőts, tr. and intro., “Bél Mátyás: a kunok és jászok avagy filiszteusok kerületei” [Matthias Bél: the districts of the Cumans and As or Philistei], in Bács-Kiskun megye múltjából, Tibor Iványosi-Szabó (ed.), (Kecskemét: Bács-Kiskun megyei levéltár, 1975), 7–52, esp. 8. But see László N. Szelestei “Bél Mátyás, a tudományszervező (18. századi tudós-világ, iv)” [Mathias Bél, the scientific organizer (The scholarly world of the eighteenth century iv)],” in Az Országos Széchényi Könyvtár évkönyve (1984/85) [1993], 267–281; Gergely Tóth, Bél Mátyás “Notitia Hungariae Novae . . .” című művének keletkezéstörténete és kéziratainak ismertetése [The history of the writing of Mathias Bél’s ‘Notitia Hungariae Novae . . .’ and the description of the manuscripts], PhD dissertation, Budapest, Eötvös Loránd Tudományegyetem Bölcsészettudományi Kar, 2007, vol. 1, 74, 82, vol. 2, 118–21, see http://doktori.btk.elte.hu/ hist/tothgergely/diss.pdf. 120 berend

Whatever description Matolai himself produced in 1730 has not survived, however, only two early nineteenth-century copies (one of which is likely a copy of the other).34 Gergely Tóth demonstrated that Bél himself did not use this material at all, unlike most of the other texts sent by his collaborators; he did not rework it or send it to be checked by the relevant counties or the imperial court. Indeed it is curious and may be worth further investigation why Bél did not even mention this work when giving an account of his progress in 1732, even though he was anxious to prove how far he had advanced with the Notitia.35 Tóth suggests that the earliest surviving (early-nineteenth century) copy may be a copy of Matolai’s original text, because it is disorganized, not carefully polished and some of the information is included twice. Marginal notations may have been added later.36 It is, however, possible that material was added to Matolai’s manuscript; thus the ‘second Cuman law’ may have become part of the text although it was not in the original. Had Matolai discovered a so far unknown text in 1730, why did Bél not use it in his Adparatus in 1735, in which he published documents discovered in the process of preparing the Notitia?37 It is also unlikely that the text would have disappeared again, to resurface in 1745; why did the numerous petitions that included As-Cuman privileges not refer to this text until 1745 if it was known in the district? And how could an original medieval document have survived until 1730 in the As-Cuman district alone, to disappear completely between 1730 and 1745? It is certain that Bél himself did not find or copy the ‘second Cuman law’ and did not see its original. It is unclear exactly when the copy of the ‘second Cuman law’ came to be included in the description of the As-Cuman district. There is no evidence that the ‘second Cuman law’ existed in the Bél collection before 1745. A copy was made of the text of the ‘second Cuman law’ probably from the Bél collection in 1762, when Adam F. Kollár (on whom more below) bought

34 The two early nineteenth-century copies are Esztergom, Főszékesegyházi Könyvtár, Battyhány gyűjtemény, Cat. X. Tit. I. (p. 6 includes the ‘second Cuman law’, with a later marginal notation giving Pray as a reference); and Budapest, Széchényi Library Fol. Lat. 3370 (which also includes the Libellus of 1790). 35 Tóth, Bél Mátyás, vol. 1, 157–62, vol. 2, 118: here he suggests that Bél could not use the manuscript because he would have had to separate the information it contained, to insert it separately into the material on the counties; and that Bél ‘forgot’ about the text and did not include it in the plan concerning the publication of the Notitia. But given the problematic appearance of the ‘second Cuman law’, it may be that the history of the description of the As-Cuman district merits further research. 36 Tóth, Bél Mátyás, vol. 2, 118–20. 37 M. Bél, Adparatus ad Historiam Hungariae (Pozsony, 1735). forging the cuman law, forging an identity 121 part of the collection (primarily copies of documents).38 This collection, however, included various texts added to Mátyás Bél’s personal work. Kollár then copied and had copied various texts from the Bél collection, and these copies, together with some original manuscripts by Bél, now exist in a manuscript volume marked by Kollár as ‘from the collection of Matthias Bél’. However, as Szelestei has shown, the text of the ‘second Cuman law’ which is included in that volume is not by Bél.39 Thorough research on the Kollár copies may unravel more details about this text. It seems that two more copies were made of the Bél collection’s ‘second Cuman law’ at the end of the eighteenth century.40 It is certain that the text of the second Cuman law was not added to the ‘Bél collection’ by Bél himself in 1730. The text was probably in the collection by 1762, although even that is not certain. Further philological investigation of all the copies associated with the Bél collection may bring new results. Comparison with another work of Mátyás Bél, the Compendium Hungariae geographicum ad exemplar Notitiae Hungariae Novae historico-geographicae, shows how material was added subsequently and again demonstrates that Bél did not know the ‘second Cuman law’: in its first edition of 1753 it does not contain any sections on the As-Cuman regions. In its second edition of 1767, sections on Greater and Lesser Cumania and the As territory were added, although there is no mention of the second Cuman law at all. What is clear, however, is that the As-Cuman material was written later than the original work. Pray published the ‘second Cuman law’ in his Dissertationes historico- criticae in 1774, with the mention that it was ‘from the original.’41 Many subsequent editions refer to his edition as being from an original, authentic text.42

38 mol I. 7. 46 (M. Belii Diplomatarium Hungaricum), 94–101, without any indication of where it was copied from. The volume subsequently became part of the Staatsarchiv in Vienna, and was then among the material given to Hungary now in the National Archives. mol I. 7. 5, 1 (also from the Kollár collection) specifically signals that the text of the second Cuman law was copied from what is now I.7.46, 94–101 and from the Jeszenák collection. On the sale of the Bél collection and Kollár’s copies: László N. Szelestei, Bél Mátyás kéziratos hagyatékának katalógusa [Catalogue of Mathias Bél’s manuscript heritage] (Budapest: mta, 1984), 9–14. 39 Szelestei, Bél Mátyás kéziratos hagyatékának, 170–2, no. 618. 40 Esztergom, Főszékesegyházi Könyvtár, Cat. V, Adm. xvii, 1–2, Szelestei, Bél Mátyás kézira- tos hagyatékának, 64, no. 134. 41 György Pray, Dissertationes historico-criticae in Annales veteres Hunnorum, Avarum et Hungarorum (Vienna, 1774), 117. 42 E.g., Franz Karl Alter, Philologisch-Kritische Miscellaneen (Vienna: Trattner, 1799), 181; István Katona, Historia critica regum Hungariae stirpis Arpadianae, vol. 6 (Buda, 1782), 122 berend

In his manuscript, however, Pray wrote that F. Subich, secretary to Prince Albert, gave him a transcript (copia) of the document.43 In other words, the printed edition’s ‘original’ was a simple eighteenth-century text. It is very likely that the ‘original’ Subich copied was either an (eighteenth-century) copy sent by the As-Cumans in the process of negotiations for redemption (see below), or another one of the copies by then in circulation. Subsequent editions refer back to early editions or to eighteenth-century manuscripts. That is, from the beginning, there is no data about any authentic witness to a thirteenth-century document on which the eighteenth-century copy would be based. Moreover, research in the Archives of Vienna, which supposedly would have held the original, although renewed by several scholars, yielded no results as to any medieval copy of the Cuman law having ever been there.44 There never was any ‘original’ in Vienna: the only ‘manuscripts’ of the second Cuman law catalogued in the imperial archives are the eighteenth-century copies in the Kollár collection which are now in the National Archives in Hungary.45 No medieval charter, or even medieval copies, exist; nor any text or authentic account of such a text prior to the mid-eighteenth century. This is also apparent from the fact that several times, when charters of As and Cuman privileges by previous Hungarian kings were presented to the ruler for confirmation in the seventeenth and earlier eighteenth centuries, the earliest privileges included were usually from King Sigismund in the early fifteenth century (1407). Sometimes the list started with even later fifteenth-century texts, and occasionally it included Charles I’s privileges to the As from 1323.46 The second Cuman law cannot be found in these collections at all. When Count Palatine Pál Esterházy protested against the sale of As-Cuman territories in 1702, he referred to their oldest privileges in 1485.47 Interestingly, although in the second half of the eighteenth century, many copies of the forged Cuman

796–804; Péter Horváth, Commentatio de Initiis, ac Maioribus Jazygum et Cumanorum eorumque constitutionibus (Pest, 1801), 72. 43 Budapest, Egyetemi Könyvtár, Coll. Pray. t. xvi, 56. 44 Fruitless search in the Viennese archives is already mentioned by Gyárfás, A jász-kúnok története, vol. 2, 443. 45 I am grateful to István Fazekas for information on the records of the Haus- Hof- und Staatsarchiv. 46 Kiskunhalas, Bács-Kiskun Megyei Önkormányzati Levéltár Kiskunhalasi részlege, xv.29 Kiskunfélegyházi és kiskunhalasi oklevelek gyűjteménye, confirmation of 1698; V.201.A Protocollum, vol. 1, [p. 22; this manuscript book has no page numbering]; István Györffy, “A Nagykun városok levéltárai I” [The archives of Greater Cuman towns I], Levéltári Közlemények 3 (1926), 192–205, esp. 197. See also Illéssy, “A Jász-kunság eladása”. 47 Budapest, Széchényi Library, Fol. Lat. 3370, f. 24. forging the cuman law, forging an identity 123 law were in circulation, the text was not accepted as authentic in law. One can find copies in the document collections of several scholars and of those interested in current political affairs having to do with the territory of Cumania. Yet when the count palatine transcribed privileges of the As and Cumans as late as 1802, the ‘second Cuman law’ was not among these: most probably because all the other transcribed privileges were originals or authentic copies.48 Exactly when and where did the text of the second Cuman law emerge? As far as I have been able to determine, references to the text appeared in March 1745, at a rather late stage of the negotiations with the imperial court. Copies of documents prepared in 1744 in the As-Cuman district as part of the negotiations for redemption, now in the archives in Kiskunhalas and Szolnok, do not include the copies of texts that were sent as proofs during this period, but another contemporary list of the attached privileges starts with those of Charles I.49 The documentation itself does not refer to any privileges by Ladislas iv before March 1745. Instead, several times Béla iv is mentioned as the source of privileges without giving concrete details of a text; when there are references to specific documents granting privileges, these are from the fifteenth century and later.50

48 Jenő Pintér, Jászberény r.t. város levéltárában lévő kiváltságlevelek és oklevelek gyűjteménye [The collection of privileges and charters in the archives of the city of Jászberény] ( Jász berény: Balázs Ferenc nyomda, n. d.), 100, 134, 150. 49 Kiskunhalas V.201.A. (Protocollum) vol. 1, [61–3] refers to attached privileges but does not list them and does not give copies of the texts themselves. The same is true of Jász- Nagykun Szolnok megyei Levéltár, Szolnok, D Capsa, iii. Fasc. 2, no. 42. Similarly, reference to ancient privileges occurs in materials submitted on 28 February to Maria Theresa by András Horváth, János Nánássy, and István Varró without enumerating what these were: Jász-Nagykun Szolnok megyei Levéltár, Szolnok, Hivatalos Tudósítások, 1. csomó, 18. sz; D Capsa, iii, Fasc. 2, no. 45; Budapest, mol N11 (Archivum palatini comitis Joannis Pálffy 1741–1754), Ladula 24, fasc, 1, nr. 5, A. According to material from the collection of archbishop József Batthány (d. 1799), the privileges submitted in February 1745 started with those of Charles I and did not include Ladislas iv’s text: Esztergom, Főszékesegyházi Könyvtár, Batthány gyűjtemény, Cat V. Adm. xvii. 13. (On the collection itself: Margit Beke, Az Esztergomi Főszékesegyházi Könyvtár Batthány-gyűjteményének katalógusa [Catalogue of the Batthány collection in the library of Esztergom cathedral]), (Budapest: Országos Széchényi Könyvtár, 1991). 50 Kiskunhalas V.201.A. (Protocollum) vol. 1, 5 Oct., 1744 [16], mentions privileges from 1485 in the first place; [34] mentions a privilege of Ladislas I (1077–95) to Cumans fighting with him against Solomon (this is a complete invention); and adds that from Béla iv until 1702 kings of Hungary conserved Cuman and As liberties and immunities. These are simple references without the inclusion of texts. [41] Cumans can litigate in their own name, as granted to them by Béla iv. 124 berend

The ‘second Cuman law’ crops up for the first time on 25 March 1745 as part of the documentation offered to the Consilium Regium Locumtenentiale (Helytartótanács) for the negotiations concerning redemption.51 The whole text is not included here, just a summary of what its salient points are for the representatives of the As-Cumans. Significantly, the text does not name the exact location of the alleged simple copy it is supposedly based on, but only refers to a copia in an unspecified royal archive, omitting its name. Further on, after the summary, the text says that the original no longer exists. If this indeed is the first mention of the text, then the authors of the document seem to have gone to great lengths to obscure its provenance. The summary of the text focuses on the following points: the king assigned lands to the Cumans between the rivers Danube and Tisza, Maros and Körös, and Temes and Maros; the military obligations of noble Cumans are the same as those of the nobility; the royal grant of various types of lands to the Cumans; cases of bloodshed between Cumans can only be judged by their own judge (these all match the ‘second Cuman law’). Reference to King Béla iv granting them specific lands (as included in the ‘second Cuman law’) and to the privileges of Ladislas iv then became part of the accepted history of the Cumans.52 By the time the ‘second Cuman law’ appeared, the first one was well-known, and there even seems to be proof that not only was it available (it already appeared in print in the seventeenth century, and was also printed in a work specifically on Hungary in 1718 and many times after that),53 but was known to those involved in the negotiations for redemption. According to Gyárfás, a simple eighteenth-century copy of the ‘first Cuman law’ was received on behalf of the district of Cumania Minor by János Nánássy, one of the representatives of the As-Cumans on 25 February 1745, in Vienna, in the presence of other representatives, István Varró and Pál Dósa, from judges of the district of Cumania Minor (Endre Baky and Gergely Szabó) who were in Vienna to arrange for the confirmation of certain documents.54 The text of the ‘second Cuman law’ does not seem to have circulated widely immediately because many early works do not include it.55 But it was certainly

51 Ibid., 63–4; [65–66] for summary of points. 52 Already in the extract of the opinion of the Helytartótanács ibid. [77]. 53 It was included in Odericus Raynaldus’s continuation of the Annales ecclesiastici (Rome, 1646–77), which was widely used by scholars in Hungary; Michael Bonbardus, Topographia Magni Regni Hungariae (Vienna, 1718), 314–7; Timon, Epitome (1736), 39. 54 Gyárfás, A jász-kúnok története, vol. 2, 435. 55 E.g., Josephus Innocentius Desericius [Desericzky], De Initiis ac majoribus Hungarorum commentaria, Bk 2, t. 1 (Buda, 1748) and Bk 3, t. 2 (Buda, 1753), Sámuel Timon, Epitome forging the cuman law, forging an identity 125 widely in circulation, copied by many already in the 1760s. One copyist, Károly Koppi, notes that the transcript was made on 1 July 1765 from the copy of the text in the As-Cuman archives of Jászberény.56 János Jeszenák (d. 1776), a lawyer and a scholar of law who directed the legal affairs of many noble families, and was involved in some of the correspondence surrounding the redemption, had a copy.57 Jeszenák’s copy was further copied by Adam F. Kollár.58 Kollár (1718–1783), a historian and scholar of constitutional law was among the key transmitters of the text. Briefly a member of the Jesuit Order (1737–1748), he studied at the University of Vienna (1740–43, 44–48), and worked in the Viennese court library from 1748, finally becoming its director. He copied and had copied by others a large selection of documents, including charters from various archives. His collection came to include several copies of the ‘second Cuman law’. Kollár’s collection after his death was bought by Joseph ii and was incorporated in the Staatsarchiv,59 including the eighteenth-century copies of the ‘second Cuman law’. The collection was then given to the National Archives of Hungary in Budapest.60 Kollár also met István Varró, a notary, who

Chronologica rerum Hungaricarum, 2nd ed. (Kolozsvár, 1764) make no mention of the ‘second Cuman law’, whereas Timon used the ‘first Cuman law’ here (81) and also in his Imago Antiquae Hungariae (Vienna, 1754), vol. 2, Additamentum, 28. Pray himself did not know the ‘second Cuman law’ when his Annales regum Hungariae was published in 1763, as that book does not include the text. 56 Károly Koppi, Miscellanea Diplomatica Hungariae et Transsylvaniae, Széchényi Library, Budapest, Fol. Lat. 2301, f. 37r-39r, the copyist’s note is on f. 39r. 57 Copy of ‘second Cuman law’: mol dl 56727. On the Jeszenák collection: Magyar Országos Levéltár P. Szekció Kisebb családi és személyi fondok [Hungarian National Archives, P. Section, Smaller family and personal fonds] vol. 3., compiled by István Bakács, Levéltári leltárak 53. (Budapest: Magyar Országos Levéltár, 1971), 243–62. mol P1391, Jeszenák csa- lád lajstromozott iratai, 32. csomó contains some of the letters. Cf. Kele, A jász-kunság megváltása, 112. 58 mol I. 7. 54, 427–36 (new 439–48). 59 György Gyurikovits, “Keresztényi Kollár Ádámnak, a’ Bétsi Császári Könyv-tár Felvigyázójának ’s cs. kir. udvari Tanátsosnak élete, tudós munkáji, ’s kéziratok Gyűjteménye” [The life, scholarly works and manuscript collection of Adam Kollár, guardian at the Viennese imperial library and counsellor at the imperial court], Tudományos Gyűjtemény 7 (1823), no. 10, 3–26 esp. 20–21; Szelestei, Bél Mátyás kéziratos hagyatékának, 9–14; Tóth, Bél Mátyás, vol. 1, 14–5. 60 The series is now mol I. 7. This contains several eighteenth-century copies of the ‘second Cuman law’. mol I. 7. 54, 427–36 (new 439–48) copied from the Jeszenák collection; I. 7. 52, 509–13 (new 515–19), copied by Sámuel Székely, without designating where or from what source he made the copy; I. 7. 46, 94–101 (‘from the Bél collection’, discussed above) copied in 1762 in Pozsony (Bratislava); I. 7. 18, 408–13, communicated by D. Cornides. 126 berend was active in the 1730–40s in representing As-Cuman affairs. Varró dictated to Kollár the Cuman Lord’s Prayer (Pater noster), which was then turned into the cornerstone of Cuman identity taught in school.61 A detailed philological analysis begun by Alter (who compared three copies) of all the eighteenth- century copies may elucidate further the textual history of the ‘second Cuman law’.62 (For example, there are two different manuscript traditions in terms of dating; there are textual variations and corrections as well). Further research may also uncover exactly where the text appeared.63 The text was already used in order to have Cuman privileges confirmed in 1790, when it was included in the printed leaflet of the Supplex Libellus Jazygum et Cumanorum.64 By then it was used as proof of As-Cuman noble status and

mol I. 7. 24 (Diplomatarium Hungariae t. vii, Diplomata et Acta Publica ex mss Caesareis) does not list any originals in the imperial archives: 218 refers to two paper copies of the second Cuman law as conserved in the Hist(oria) Prof(ana) cccxxx, fol. 42. These are the same copies that Alter Philologisch-Kritische Miscellaneen used (see 180); they are from the Kollár collection. mol I. 7. 24, 363 gives a summary of charters pertaining to Hungarian matters conserved in the ‘secretiori Archivo Augustae domus’, which does not list the ‘second Cuman law’ at all, although it contains other charters by Ladislas iv. mol I. 4, also containing documents returned from the Viennese Staatsarchiv, does not include any mention of the ‘second Cuman law’. Cf. Gábor Pajkossy, Bécsi levéltárakból kiszolgáltatott iratok [Documents returned from Viennese archives], Levéltári leltárak 77 (Budapest: Magyar Országos Levéltár, 1979). 61 Aurél Szakál (ed.), Jászkun Redemptio: Emlékkönyv a jászkun redemptio 250. évfordulójára [As-Cuman redemption: commemorative volume for the 250th anniversary of the As-Cuman redemption] (Kiskunhalas: Önkormányzat and Thorma J. Múzeum, 1995), 9; István Mándoky Kongur, “Kun szövegemlékeink elemzése: A kun miatyánk’ [Analysis of Cuman texts: the Cuman Lord’s Prayer], in István Mándoky Kongur, A kun nyelv magyarországi emlékei (Karcag: Karcag város önkormányzata, 1993), 34–69 (also proves that the prayer was composed after the reformation). On Varró also Alter, Philologisch- Kritische Miscellaneen, 180. According to Lajos Fekete, A jászkunok története [The history of the As-Cumans] (Debrecen, 1861), 9 it was János Nánássy, another of the representatives of the Cumans at the negotiations for redemption who made its teaching compul- sory in the settlement where he lived. 62 Alter, Philologisch-Kritische Miscellaneen, made a detailed philological comparison between Pray’s text and the two copies then in Vienna. 63 One eighteenth-century copy (Acta misc. Heim. no. 9; Vera Zimányi, A Herceg Batthány család levéltára, repertórium [The archives of the Prince Batthány family, a repertory], Levéltári leltárak 16 (Budapest: Levéltárak Országos Központja, 1969), 39 is in a private collection, and despite several attempts I have not been given access to it. 64 One example is conserved in Budapest, Széchényi Library, Fol. Lat. 3370; the ‘second Cuman law’ is on 9–12 of the booklet ( Jászberény, 2 September, 1790), within the existing manuscript in which the leaflet was included, f. 30–31v. forging the cuman law, forging an identity 127 privileges; the leaflet includes the text as the first in a series of proof-texts, and explicitly claims the noble status of all Cumans based on this text.65 The need for this confirmation of privileges arose out of the danger to the municipal autonomy of the As-Cuman district. In 1785, Joseph ii attached the district to Pest county, and then, in 1787, amalgamated it with Pest-Pilis-Solt county. Thus, it became a subdivision of the county ( járás), and the As-Cumans were worried that they would lose the freedom they had just managed to gain. This printed pamphlet was widely distributed. It was written by Péter Horváth, the notary of the As-Cuman district, a scholar and director of the grammar school (gymnasium) of Jászberény. In 1790, it was submitted to the king and the Estates, and the earlier status-quo was restored. In 1799, the count palatine issued the As-Cuman statutes ( Jászkun statutum) in thirteen points.66 These included that the district had privileges as one universitas; that the As-Cumans belonged to the nobility; that they sent representatives to the parliament, but participated individually in the noble insurrection. In their internal affairs they had autonomy, electing their own officials, judge and priest. While further research is needed to elucidate the composition of the ‘second Cuman law’ some conclusions are clear. The text we have cannot be the final agreement between King Ladislas iv and the papal legate because then it would have been sent to the pope, whereas it was the ‘first Cuman law’ that was in fact sent to the curia. This ‘first law’ cannot be called a draft or temporary document; it was a binding royal charter, whatever role the papal legate may have played in its formulation. The ‘second Cuman law’ cannot have been the revised version of that first text issued under a golden bull because both the formulas and the text itself explicitly indicate that the seal that was supposedly appended was the sigillum duplex (the same type of seal used for the first text). There is no trace of any manuscript or copy of the text before the mid-eighteenth century, when simple eighteenth-century alleged ‘transcripts’ appeared. Before this, there are no references to this text even when medieval and subsequent Cuman privileges are enumerated. It was not M. Bél who found the original of the text in the 1730s; nor did an original medieval text exist in either the papal archives at the Vatican or the Viennese imperial archives. The ‘second Cuman law’ seems to have first appeared in the As-Cuman territory during a period of intensive interaction between some of the leaders of the As-Cumans fighting for the recognition of ‘ancient privileges’ and the imperial court in 1745. References to an alleged copy (for which, however, no original has ever been attested) were made in an As-Cuman petition to Vienna in

65 Ibid., 1–2 of booklet, f. 26–26v. 66 Bánkiné Molnár, A jászkun kerület igazgatása 1745–1876, 17–23. 128 berend

March 1745. It seems that vague references to privileges granting nobility preceded the ‘finding’ of the text. The interests of the counts palatine (chief judges of the Cumans, who had a financial interest in maintaining their position and the non-subordination of the Cumans to other lords) and the As-Cumans coin- cided in claiming privileges for the population. It is probably this conjunction that led to the creation of the ‘second Cuman law’. The text started to be copied widely in the 1760s and probably one of these copies was ‘the original’ of Pray’s edition of 1774. The ‘second Cuman law’ then came to occupy a crucial position in definitions of Cuman identity. It was created in the process of the As-Cuman redemption and fight for a privileged status, and it helped forge a common identity in the service of political goals. chapter 7 Invented Middle Ages in Nineteenth-century Hungary. The Forgeries of Sámuel Literáti Nemes1

Benedek Láng

Sámuel Literáti Nemes (1794–1842), a well known Hungarian antiquarian, was paradoxically at the same time a peculiar, almost a double personality, and a typical representative of his age. He provided many aristocratic families with old books, among them rare literary relics, which—thanks to him—did not perish in the turmoil of the anti-Habsburg war of independence in 1848–49. Besides a large number of authentic antiquities, however, he also sold a few pseudo- Hungarian “literary monuments,” causing no little puzzlement and unrest in philologist circles.2 This dichotomy of his personality is eloquently expressed by the fact, that in Gábor Kelecsényi’s survey on significant Hungarian book- collectors, in which such important personalities as Johannes Vitéz, Janus Pannonius, King Matthias, Johannes Sambucus and Ferenc Széchényi were each represented by one chapter, Literáti received two. In the first, he is presented as an antiquarian, who collected printed books, manuscripts, paintings, coins, and even bones in order to sell them to Hungarian magnates, but in the second, he was portrayed as a swindler who created forgeries.3

1 While working on this topic, my research was supported by the János Bolyai postdoctoral grant and by the otka K 101544. 2 Ákos Kelecsényi, “Egy magyar régiségkereskedő a 19. században. Literáti Nemes Sámuel (1794–1842),” [A Hungarian 19th century book collector, Sámuel Literáti Nemes], Az Országos Széchényi Könyvtár Évkönyve 1972 [Budapest: oszk, 1975], 307–27; idem, “Literáti Nemes Sámuel útinaplója,” [The travel diary of Sámuel Literáti Nemes] Az Országos Széchényi Könyvtár Évkönyve 1968–69 (Budapest: oszk, 1971), 317–30. 3 Gábor Kelecsényi (identical with Ákos Kelecsényi referred to in the previous footnote), Múltunk neves könyvgyűjtői [Renowned book collectors of our past], (Budapest: Gondolat, 1988), 248–75.

Antiquarian and Forger

With this “double agency” Literáti was a typical person of those decades of the nineteenth century when many literary monuments turned up and enriched Hungarian historiography with the earliest sources of national history, and also, when pseudo-historical forgeries, never existed writings dubious ancient objects and invented myths initiated first enthusiasm, and later disappoint- ment among the historians increasingly sensitive towards linguistic and philological arguments.4 The limits between artistic archaization and forgery were not always clear-cut, as the case of the famous historian Kálmán Thaly (1839– 1909) proves. He not only discovered and published but—to a certain extent— “recreated” documents of the Hungarian past.5 Sámuel was born in Transylvania, where he was active for decades. As a mer- chant, or rather a trafficker, he traveled around small villages in Transylvania, and later he also travelled to Styria, Croatia, and Dalmatia looking for and buying various old objects, among them quite a few precious antiquities, which he then sold or donated to various Hungarian institutions. His first and main customer after the year 1828 was the great collector and bibliophile Miklós Jankovich (1773–1846), whose interest he captured with a letter of an Ottoman pasha, a text written by János Kemény, prince of Transylvania, and a printed book once having belonged to Zsuzsanna Lórántffy, wife of Prince György Rákóczy I.6 In the following fourteen years until his death, he sold Jankovich a large number of early modern Hungarian printed and manuscript documents. An important step in his ascent was the move to Buda in 1835, where he could afford to open an “Old Curiosity Shop”, in which, under a mammoth-skeleton,

4 József Tompa, “Művészi archaizálás és nyelvemlékhamisítás 1772 és 1873 közt,” [Artistic archaization and forging literary monuments in 1772–1873] mta I. Osztályának Közleményei 24 (1967), 97–116. 5 Ágnes R. Várkonyi, Thaly Kálmán és történetírása [Kálmán Thaly and his history writing] (Budapest, Akadémiai Kiadó: 1961); Ágnes R. Várkonyi, “Az elveszett idő: Zrínyi Miklós nádori emlékirata?” [The Time Lost: A Memorandum of Palatine Miklós Zrínyi?], Hadtörténeti Közlemények 113 (2000), 269–328, eadem “Történészvita Zrínyiről 1868-ban” [Historical debates on Zrínyi in 1868], in Jenő Gergely (ed.), Tanulmányok Pölöskei Ferenc köszöntésére [Studies in Honour of Ferenc Pölöskei] (Budapest: elte btk, 2000), 627–40. 6 On Jankovich, see Belitska-Scholtz Hedvig (ed.), Jankovich Miklós, a gyűjtő és mecénás (1772–1846) [Miklós Jankovich, collector and maecenas (1772–1846)], (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1985); Kelecsényi, Múltunk neves könyvgyűjtői, 238–48; Géza Entz, “Jankovich Miklós, a műgyűjtő” [Miklós Jankovich, the collector] Archeológiai Értesítő 52 (1939), 165–186. The Forgeries of Sámuel Literáti Nemes 131 he sold old coins, weapons, paintings, codices, manuscripts, and charters.7 Many of his books were donated to the National Széchényi Library, of which Literáti was considered the third founder (the second having been Jankovich and the first Ferenc Széchényi whose name it bears). In order to avoid paying undeserved tributes to Literáti, it is worth mentioning his forgeries. The first of these was a sheet inscribed in “Chinese characters,” which he sold in 1830 to Jankovich. The last ones were sold by his heirs after his death. Some of these were quickly unmasked, a few of them, however—such as the “wooden book from Túróc,” or the “prayers from the times of King Andrew”—were better written and deceived the scholars for quite a while. These cases engendered some strange scenarios in the mid-nineteenth century. First, in the 1840’s the philologist and linguist János Jerney,8 a customer of Literáti, became enthusiastic about the newly emerged sources;9 this was followed by a two decades long pause full of suspicion that was finally ended by Károly Szabó, who around 1866 claimed that the given sources were results of forgery.10 In some cases (the “King Andrew prayers” and the Codex of Rohonc), he denounced the text without really arguing against its authenticity by simply attributing it to the “workshop of Literáti.” In regard to “the wooden book of Turoc,” however, he provided proper scholarly arguments. He called attention to the strange material of the one page-long “book.” He pointed out that the text contained word forms that had no equivalents at the time of its alleged origin, and he was also suspicious about the ink and the form of the characters, which reminded him more of the eighteenth century than of the fourteenth or fifteenth. Around the same years Gábor Mátray, then director of the Széchényi Library, purchased most of the pieces which were attributed to Literáti and placed them in two thick folders in the Library where they still are (National Széchényi Library, Fol. Hung. 1365 / 1–2). By doing so, he withdrew them from circulation and preserved them for proper philological analysis.

7 Jelenkor 1835, július 11. Quoted in Kelecsényi, “Egy magyar régiségkereskedő,” 320. 8 László Péter, Jerney János [ János Jerney] (Szeged: Jerney János Általános Iskola, 1988). 9 See, for example, János Jerney, Némi világosítások az ismeretlen jellemű rohonczi írott könyvre [Some Explanations for the Rohonc book of unknown character] Tudománytár, new series 8, (1844) 15/1, 25–36. 10 Károly Szabó, “A régi hún-székely írásról,” [On the old Hun-Sekler writing] Budapesti Szemle new series, 2 (1866/6), 106–30. 132 Láng

The Literáti Collection in the National Library

In this uncommon collection, we find altogether 23 pieces. The first folder contains the following items:11

– Theatrum heroi celebrium hungarorum, an 11 page Latin text, with unskillful drawings. Each small page contains a coat of arms and a few lines of Latin text. Apart from the title, the text is barely readable, the coat of arms, however, are fairly visible. – Hungarian Picture Chronicle from 1301, a small format (3 × 20 cm), 72 page long book with obviously non-medieval illustrations, and with very little text. It contains landscape pictures of various Hungarian sites (Buda with the Gellért Hill, churches in Buda and Esztergom, castles in the countryside, towns of Visegrád and Vác, and views of Pest and Óbuda) and pictures of historical figures (Symeon or Sepronianus, praepositus budensis; Archbishop Stephen Váncsa; King Andrew I and his son Salomon; King Béla and his daughter, Saint Margaret; bishop Henry and Archbishop Nicholas Darabos; King Stephen V and his wife Elizabeth “the Cuman”; their son, King Ladislas “the Cuman” and his wife Isabel, many unidentified “heroes”, and other figures that cannot be identified). At the end of the booklet there is a fold-out map with a schematic drawing of the western parts of Hungary. Some texts appearing next to the pictures have no relation to the images. On page 2, next to image of the Buda priest for example, it reads: Deus pater mittendo Spiritum Sanctum super filium—Beata virgo ostendo filium—Magister Jesus ostendo potestatem divinitatis suae, mutando aquam in vinum. Et sic competit tribus festivitatibus hodiernis. Interestingly, Gábor Mátray’s enthusiastic description of the chronicle from 1854 is attached to the Picture Chronicle. At that time, he seems to have been convinced that the codex was authentic, the “old style” and the shabbiness of the pictures convinced him that the booklet was indeed from the turn of the thirteenth to the fourteenth century. In a 43 page handwritten treatise that he presented at a meeting in the Hungarian Academy of Sciences on 10 July 1854, he gave a thorough analysis of the Picture Chronicle, described its content, took serious efforts to identify the subjects of its pictures, and deciphered the hardly legible short texts.

11 National Széchényi Library, Fol. Hung. 1365/1 and 2. On the forgeries of Literáti in general, see Ádám Mikó (ed.), Történelem-Kép: Szemelvények a múlt és művészet kapcsolatából Magyarországon [History-Image: excerpts from the relations of past and art in Hungary] (Budapest: Magyar Nemzeti Galéria: 2000), 450–2. The Forgeries of Sámuel Literáti Nemes 133

– In the same small box that preserves the Picture Chronicle, there is another “Hungarian Chronicle” just as small as the previous one, composed of twenty pages. The only sporadically readable text is written in allegedly old Hungarian. – A small (5 × 10 cm) booklet of 16 folios, picturing important figures, kings, princes and princesses from Hungarian history in icon-like images, and short Latin texts describing the subjects of the pictures. – Another small (6 × 10 cm) booklet of 11 folios with similar structure: simplis- tic pictures on human figures and hardly legible texts sometimes in Latin, sometimes in “old Hungarian”. – A charter, with the remains of a seal pendant written on parchment in which Latin letters and strange characters alternate. It is hard to figure out what this object purports to be because the text is readable neither in Latin nor in German or Hungarian or any other language. The strange characters might indicate that it is a cipher (or a hoax of a cipher), however, enciphered texts never appear in charter form. It can just as well be a pseudo-oriental or a pseudo-Egyptian text. The seal is most likely a later addition. – The Banská Štiavnica codex allegedly from the sixteenth century. It is a 84 pages “codex” in fairly small format: 12 × 18 cm, written by several hands, containing different types of texts, somewhat incoherently: German prayers to God in the beginning and at the end of the book; notes on the gold and silver production of the Upper Hungarian town of Banská Štiavnica (today in Slovakia) from 1589; and a Hungarian historical fragment. Among the objects certainly originating from the Literáti workshop, this one contains the largest quantity of texts. Gábor Mátray’s short description is attached to the codex, where he describes that it was purchased from the lawyer, Ferenc Raitsits, who is “allegedly the son-in-law of the late Nemes Sámuel Literáti.” Mátray argues that the genre of the text on the silver production is a fairly known and widespread one from the sixteenth century, while in the historical fragment there are various small details that make it suspicious. The Hungarian text contains words, expressions, and most of all, family names (Teleki, Esterházy) that must have been written in early modern times, whereas the text seems to try to pretend to be a medieval fragment. – A 13 folio-long booklet (15 × 20 cm) with historical maps and a birds’ eye view of pictures of castles and fortifications—some of them taken from early printed books, some of them drawn on paper or on parchment. One of the printed maps is of North Russian territories, while the castles are Hungarian: Visegrád and Buda. The maps are drawn of Transylvania, Central Europe, and the whole of Eurasia. According to the short texts in the book, the handwritten maps are from the fifteenth century. Mátray’s note from 134 Láng

1865, inscribed in the codex, explicitly states that the book was made by “Literaty.” This note, compared to his previous descriptions, shows the development over a decade of his conviction: from naïve enthusiasm to scholarly critique and skepticism towards everything related to Literáti.

The second folder contains the following items:

– A folio (c. 20 × 28 cm) of pseudo-Chinese writing of four lines. According to a short Hungarian inscription on the front of the text: “This pagan writing was found by my son in the cave of Torocka in 1702.”12 A longer text in Hungarian on the back of the page was written by Jankovich in 1830, who obtained the “pagan writing” from the collection of Literáti. Jankovich identified the leather as a bookbinding material and recognized that the text was written with watercolor. He came to the conclusion that the text was a forgery. – Speculum hungarorum, an allegedly medieval, 12 page paper booklet (18 × 24 cm) with Latin texts on the odd pages and fairly simple drawings of famous Hungarian historical actors on the even ones. Among these, we find King Matthias and personalities related to his life, reign, and afterlife, and his father John Hunyadi, regent of Hungary; Matthias’ Humanist tutor Johannes Vitéz; his predecessor, King Ladislas Posthumus; Matthias’ uncle Michael Szilágyi, and others. The Latin inscriptions name the subject and give a short description. That the booklet was not created by a medieval scribe and illuminator is fairly obvious. Besides the low quality of the pictures and the non-medieval flow of the texts, other details also raise suspicion. The Hungarian humanist, Johannes Vitéz is named as such, even though he was not called Vitéz by his contemporaries, they used rather his titles: Ioannes episcopus Varadiensis, or archiepiscopus Strigoniensis. Only early-modern authors started calling him Vitéz, who preferred using family names for late-medieval personalities.13 – A booklet containing 6 + 3 parchment pages (13 × 32 cm). It contains German texts of 6 folios on Hungarian history, followed by three larger folios: one with a list of the portraits of Hungarian kings from the beginning to the fifteenth century, one with a map of Hungary (“Hungaria in megas distinct”),

12 “Ezt a pogány írást a Torozkai jukban lelte a fiam 1702. esztendőben”. 13 Klára Pajorin, “Vitéz János vezetéknevéről” [On the family name of Johannes Vitéz], in Ritoók Zsigmondné Szalay Ágnes 70. születésnapjára [On the 70th Birthday of Mrs. Zsigmond Ritoók, Ágnes Szalay] (Budapest: Balassi, 2001), 18–9. The Forgeries of Sámuel Literáti Nemes 135

Figure 7.1 Image on Johannes Vitéz (photo: Múlt-kor History Magazine).

and one with a selection of coats of arms. It was identified in 1873 as a piece from the Literáti workshop. – Family charters and one page documents pertaining to the Németh family (one piece, 55cm × 35 cm) and the Nagy family from 1347 (two pieces, one of them illegible: 6 cm × 28 cm and 17 cm × 28 cm). – A charter “Caroli regis,” torn apart (19 cm × 34 cm). – The remains of a charter from the time of Béla iv, dated from 7 August 1266. Almost completely unreadable (7 × 20 cm). – The remains of a charter with Slavic (probably Serbian) text (22 × 32 cm). – A one page unreadable text with a short Hungarian inscription by Literáti on its back: “I got this damned writing in the castle of Cilli”.14 – A twelve page booklet (21 × 30 cm) on various members of the Esterházy family and the incomes of the castle Fraknó. It is allegedly from the seventeenth century (“This thing was written in 1688 in the castle of Fraknó” fol. 7v), however, the pictures on the coat of arms and the quality of the Latin and Hungarian inscriptions suggest that it is from the nineteenth century. A nineteenth-century inscription attached to the booklet (probably by Gábor Mátray) can also be recognized.

14 “Ezen átkozott írást a Cilleji várba kaptam L.N.S. 1839.” 136 Láng

Figure 7.2 The Prayers from the time of king Andrew I (photo: Múlt-kor History Magazine).

– “The Prayers from the time of king Andrew I”: two parchment folios (20.5 × 16 cm, both), with hardly readable Latin and “old Hungarian” texts. Attached to it, we can also find magnified photo reproductions on the two pages. More on this below.

Ancient Prayers and Hungarian Runes

The pseudo antiquities attributed to Literáti are of uneven quality. Many of them—such as the “Hungarian chronicles—are obviously modern products and contain illustrations of the type that is mostly produced in kindergartens. Some parchment charters, however, can mislead a lay reader, even if the trained philologist cannot be long deceived by them. A much better piece is the manuscript of the alleged “Prayers from the time of king Andrew I” (i.e. 1046–60) that Literáti “found in 1842 in Klagenfurt,” (a few months before his death) in the binding of a thirteenth century breviary. This two page long fragment—typical of the type of text that survived in the binding of a book—contains three Latin and more than twenty Hungarian, or seemingly Hungarian, sentences written with black (Hungarian texts) and red ink (for the Latin text) on parchment. The Hungarian part is almost unintelligible for a contemporary Hungarian speaker. Significant imagination is needed if one wishes to decipher it. This The Forgeries of Sámuel Literáti Nemes 137 text made many of the nineteenth-century—and most twentieth-century— philologists suspicious, because it is full of allegedly archaic, but in surviving sources unparalleled word forms and expressions. It also contains words that can be read neither in Hungarian nor in Latin, as we shall see. However, inven- tive supporters of the prayer might read them in Sumerian. To provide a content analysis of the text is not unproblematic, because it depends exactly on our reconstruction (whether we want to read it in Hungarian, in Sumerian, or in neither) and how we can attribute some meaning to it. According to those who believe in its authenticity, however, it contains a prayer to God, praying for the pope, for the Christians, and against the participants of the eleventh century Hungarian pagan uprisings. The authenticity of this allegedly eleventh-century text is of major significance because while the first fragment of a Hungarian sentence (embedded in a Latin text) survived in the foundation charter of Tihany Abbey (1055) indeed from the age of Andrew I, and the first continuous text in Magyar, the so-called “Halotti Beszéd” (Funeral Oration) is known only from the 1190s.15 Finding an earlier relic of Hungarian literature would be a great event in Hungarian philology. Another one of the more professionally forged sources is the “Wooden book from Túróc,” which is not actually in the folders of the Széchényi Library. In contrast to its name, it is in fact not a book, only a piece of birch-bark (cortex) with some “early Hungarian runic script” on it. This object is no longer extant (more precisely: its location is unknown), only copies of it survived. Its alleged runic text—according to its decipherers listing names of Hungarian historical families16—was unmasked as a forgery on philological grounds. It was pointed out that the script was based on the description of runes by Matthias Bél in the eighteenth century17 instead of going back to earlier examples of this kind of script.

15 See more about the linguistic records of the early Hungarian period: Lóránt Czigány, The Oxford History of Hungarian Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), 9–24; Tibor Klaniczay (ed.), A History of Hungarian Literature (Budapest: Corvina, 1982), 28. For the foundation charter of Tihany Abbey see Győrffy György (ed.) Diplomata Hungariae antiquissima: accedunt epistolae et acta ad historiam Hungariae pertinentia (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1992), I., 145–52. 16 Klára Friedrich, “Hamisítvány-e a Túróci Fakönyv?” [Is the Wooden Book of Túróc a Forgery?] in Friedrich Klára—Szakács Gábor: Kőbe vésték, fába rótták [Engraved in Stone and Wood], (Budapest: Szakács Gábor, 2005), 88–94. 17 Weston Evans, Robert John, Austria, Hungary, and the Habsburgs: Essays on Central Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 139–40. 138 Láng

Amateur historians keep believing in the authenticity of these texts even today. Veronika Marton’s argument is somewhat typical for this kind of reception. In her book titled I. András király korabeli imák (Prayers from the time of Andrew I), the claim that the source is original is augmented by two further interesting ideas. The first is that the first Christian kings of Hungary were “anti-national” (“nemzetellenes”) and they “sold” the country to westerners, and the second is that the Sumerian and the Hungarian languages are close relatives (instead of accepting the mainstream opinion that Magyar belongs to the Finno-Ugrian family).18 This latter idea seems to empower her to decipher words that make no sense in Hungarian as Sumerians. The whole book is—after a historical introduction to eleventh-century Hungary, and a review of the modern reception of the prayers—a word-for-word translation (from old Hungarian or Sumerian to modern Hungarian) and an explanation of the text.19 A recurrent argument and a major point by the author is that—in contrast to the widely held beliefs among linguists—Hungarian as a language is older than any other language of the Central European area, and it contains no borrowings from Slavic languages, just the other way around, Slavic languages took over Hungarian words. A major tool of this kind of linguistic analysis is the similarity of words taken from different languages: two words seemingly similar to each other in their present forms should be seen as historically related words. As far as the whole group of pseudo-historical sources attributed to Literáti is concerned, the question still remains whether they all come indeed from one single origin, whether they were all forged by the antiquarian, or some of them were simply bought and sold by him without arising his suspicion. We should keep in mind that he himself may have been sometimes deceived. Literáti was a diligent autodidact, he knew a great deal about old books, however, he was quite a dilettante historian and linguists. His level of knowledge can be characterized by quoting his views on the origins of the Hungarian word ‘pretty’ (csinos):

I often have ideas that I have never heard from anyone, nor have I read, and yet I believe in them, and there is an example for that: When our

18 The Sumerian-Hungarian connection is a century-old theory among self-appointed linguists. A good summary of the arguments and their criticism can be read in Géza Komoróczy, Sumer és magyar? [Sumerian and Hungarian?] (Budapest: Magvető Kiadó, 1976). 19 Veronika Marton, I. András király korabeli imák: az első magyar nyelvemlék [Prayers from the time of Andrew I] (Győr: Matrona, 2006). The Forgeries of Sámuel Literáti Nemes 139

Figure 7.3 “Pagan writing” from the collection of Literáti (photo: Múlt-kor History Magazine).

ancestors were closer to China, and consequently witnessed the habits of the Chinese, in these times our Scythian Fathers called the Chinese people Csinok. Among our fathers, who were peasants and shepherds, only a few could wear beautiful colored Chinese clothes, and who could afford bearing such clothes, as Chinese wear even today, were called by our ancestors Csinos (to be pronounced as ‘chinosh’, meaning pretty): “Chinese-like”.20

Although linguistics in the early nineteenth century were far from their present day sophistication, such ideas—drawing conclusions on the close relationship of words taken from different languages simply based on their seeming likeness—sounded just as dilettante then as they would sound today.

20 oszk Kézirattár, Fond 16/32, quoted by: Kelecsényi, “Egy magyar régiségkereskedő,” 313: “Gyakran vagynak oly észrevételeim, melyeket se nem hallottam mástól, se nem olvas- tam s azonban még is hiszem, vagyon is egy példa. Valamikor midőn Eleink közelebb lak- tak Chinához, s következésképpen a Chinaiak szokásainak csaknem szemmel látó tanúi voltak, ebbe az időbe t. i. a Chinaiakat Scitha Apáink Csinoknak hívták, Eleink Földművelő s pásztori Emberek lévén csak kevesen az elöljárók közül viselhettek Chinábol kapott szép Coloritu posztokat, s akik ilyeket hordhattak mind a még mái napig is Nyalka Chinaiak, az olyakat eleink Csinos-oknak azaz olyanoknak nevezte mind amilyek a Chinaiak.” 140 Láng

Against this background, it is highly possible that Literáti himself was mistaken and cheated by those who sold him the papers and parchments. I am not convinced that he forged them, or, at least, that he forged all of them. The pseudo-antiquities attributed to Literáti have, however, two common characteristics. First, they are usually relatively short. While they may contain many illustrations only short texts appear in them. Even 42 page folio Banská Štiavnica codex is in fact a short text, as it mostly contains images. Most of the forgeries are only a few pages long. The forger did not work more than a day or two on them. He (or she?) preferred portraits, coat of arms, and maps. Second, each item in the collection claims to be something old, rare, and precious (usually a Hungarian linguistic monument) a self-evident characteristic for pseudo antiques, only mentioned here because it will be referred to in the arguments below.

The Codex of Rohonc

While the “Prayers” and the “Wooden book” with its runic script fit well in the corpus of outright forgeries, does the much contested Codex of Rohonc—that is traditionally classified as one—also belong to Literáti’s forgeries? This codex is a paper book from the sixteenth century, containing unknown character strings and almost 80 biblical illustrations on 450 pages. It was donated to the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences together with the 30,000-volume library of the Hungarian count, Gustav Batthyány in 1838. This library was earlier located at the family residence in the town of Rohonc (today, Rechnitz, Austria), hence the name of the codex.21 Because Literáti was one of the sup- pliers of the Batthyány family, the idea that the codex of Rohonc came from his workshop sounded fairly plausible in the mid-nineteenth century. However, there are strong counter arguments as well. The codex left no trace in the sources related to Literáti’s life (while, the wooden book of Túróc, for

21 On the history of the library of the Batthyány family, see István Monok, Péter Ötvös, and Edina Zvara, Balthasar Batthyány und seine Bibliothek, Bibliotheken in Güssing in 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, Band ii, Burgenländische Forschungen, Sonderband xxvi (Eisenstadt: Burgenländisches Landesarchiv, 2004); István Monok, “Batthyány Boldizsár, a franciás” [Boldizsár Batthyány the Francophile], in Acta Universitatis Szegediensis. Acta Historiae Litterarum Hungaricarum 29 (2006) (Ötvös Péter Festschrift), 185–98; Idem, “A magyarországi főnemesség könyvgyűjtési szokásai a xvi–xvii. században” [Book Collecting Habits of Hungarian Aristocracy in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries], Café Bábel 14, no. 4 (1994), 59–68. The Forgeries of Sámuel Literáti Nemes 141 example, is mentioned in his journey diaries and many of his other forgeries bear his name).22 Furthermore, it is ten times more extensive than Literáti’s largest forgery. As I argue in my article on the codex, it is too long compared to what Literáti liked to forge: why would a forger choose to prepare such a long (almost 450 page long) codex to deceive his contemporaries? A few dozen pages would be more convenient for this purpose; not least, because shorter texts can be deciphered with greater difficulties, or cannot be deciphered at all due to the lack of sufficient information. This is the problem, for example, with the short character strings of the Phaistos disk.23 In contrast to the Literáti forgeries, the Codex of Rohonc was not presented as an “old Hungarian” text. As a matter of fact, it does not seem to be written in any medieval or early modern natural language. There are no spaces between the words, the signs are not “letter like,” and there are too many of them, and it is not clear what purports to be a letter or a word, etc. It was only the members of nineteenth-century Hungarian literary community who saw old Hungarian texts everywhere: many times they were right, sometimes they were mistaken. As I argue in my article, the hoax hypothesis cannot be excluded, but it is more likely that the codex contains a cipher, a shorthand system, or an artificial language popular in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries when the paper of the codex was created. In general, when forgeries are at stake, raising the issue of cui prodest cannot be avoided. Whose interest is it to create a pseudo-historical source? Most of the time, the reason is purely economic. A precious source of early history or an enigmatic book can be sold well on the book market. This is why the infamous Voynich manuscript, with all its scientific illustrations, secret flowers and bathing women is often accused of being a forgery by its discoverer, the

22 Literáti’s journey notes: National Széchényi Library, Fol. Hung., 3006. This five-volume handwritten diary can serve for a systematic verification of whether the pseudo antiquities were distributed by Literáti. A mentioning of the Wooden Book of Túróc can be identified, for example, and many strange writings found by the antiquarian are reproduced on these pages. However, the Codex of Rohonc does not appear in the text. See also Literáti’s letters to Miklós Jankovich: oszk Fond 16/491 (dated letters) and Fond 16/492 (undated letters). His books were donated to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences: mta ms ral 115/184. 23 Benedek Láng, “Why don’t we decipher an outdated cipher system? The Codex of Rohonc,” Cryptologia 34 (2010), 115–44. The codex is kept today in the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences: ms K 114, or mf 1173/ii. The Wikipedia article on the codex provides a fairly reliable overview: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rohonc_Codex. 142 Láng

Figure 7.4 Two pages from the Codex of Rohonc.

Polish antiquarian Wilfrid Voynich.24 Another motivation might be—as in the case of Ossian poetry, the forgeries of Kálmán Thaly and quite a few others— to create a more honorable past than the one reconstructed on the basis of surviving traditional sources. A further, though probably less frequent motivation, might be to play a “practical joke.” In a letter dated from 1777 Antal Kalló, pastor of Gelle (a village in Upper Hungary), mentions an old man called Ketskeméthi, who had a peculiar prayer book with unknown signs in it. Kalló quickly copied the book before it got lost together with its old owner on a following trip. As the scribe described, the book contained various Christian prayers in Hungarian Runic script, written in a “Jewish way” from right to left. The history of this copy followed the usual scenario: many historians believed in its authenticity until Károly Szabó, in 1866, elegantly pointed out that it was a simple forgery.25 The text of the book was nothing else than the Cantionale catholicum by Johannes Caioni ( János Kájoni) published in 1676,26 which was transcribed in a script

24 Quoting only two publications from the vast literature of the manuscript: Mary E. D’Imperio, The Voynich Manuscript—An Elegant Enigma (Aegean Park Press, 1978) and Gerry Kennedy, Rob Churchill, The Voynich Manuscript (London: Orion, 2004). 25 Szabó, “A régi hún-székely írásról.” 26 Johannes Caioni, Cantionale catholicum (Csíksomlyó: Franciscan Press: 1676); see also Erzsébet Muckenhaupt, A csíksomlyói ferences könyvtár kincsei [The Rarities of the Franciscan Library of Csíksomlyó] (Budapest-Kolozsvár, 1999). The Forgeries of Sámuel Literáti Nemes 143 reminiscent of the Runic alphabet. The literary historian drew the conclusion of the strange story that the book was a joke where some priests wished to deceive István Hájos, a Piarist teacher, who did indeed write a whole book on the prayer book of Gelle.27 The similarity of the prayer book of Gelle and that of Rohonc is more than obvious. Both are written with unknown characters from right to left and both contain prayers and religious texts. Should we see the latter source also as a joke, just like the former one? Before we draw hasty conclusions it is worth emphasizing a few differences. The prayer book of Gelle followed by-and-large an alphabet that was known at the time as the Hungarian Runic script, composed of less than thirty characters. It was interesting to the contemporaries because it seemed like an old Hungarian literary monument. In contrast, the Codex of Rohonc looked also quite enigmatic, however, with more than 150 characters in its alphabet, it did not seem to follow a natural language, rather a constructed one, and it did not pretend to be an old historical source at all. To be sure, with this argument we do not wish to follow the agenda of the “deep Hungarian” dilettante historians who stick to the authenticity of pseudo- historical sources. It seems that one of the sources traditionally attributed to Literáti, the Codex of Rohonc, is not a simple forgery, nor is it a result of some practical joke. Those who claimed in the nineteenth century that all of these sources belong together and were results of forging activity were in this case mistaken. I believe that the Codex of Rohonc was never meant to deceive its buyer. It never purported to be something different from what it really was: a long text created to demonstrate the merits and the functioning of an artificial language scheme invented by its scribe. The Codex of Rohonc served intellectual aims. In contrast, the forgeries of Literáti were created for the book market. Their only raison d’être was to sell them thus serving financial aims. Either he forged them with the intention of deceiving his aristocrat purchasers, or he was simply not learned enough to realize that he bought and sold forgeries. His activity can be seen as typical for the nineteenth century when pseudo-historical sources and pseudo-literary monuments emerged in a particularly large concentration. It was a period when historical and linguistic interest in the national past was strong enough, but professionalization in historical research had not yet reached a sufficient level. This period produced such type of actors; it was particularly susceptible to spurious documents—such as the “Prayers” and the Wooden Book—that emerged from Literáti’s workshop. What we see as a forgery, they might have seen as useful complementation of the deficient source material of the national past.

27 Kelecsényi, Múltunk neves könyvgyűjtői, 248–75. chapter 8 Excellent Scholar—Excellent Forger: The Case of Karl Benedict Hase

Igor P. Medvedev

In loving memory of Ihor Ševčenko

One would think that no serious scholar would put his reputation at risk for the sake of a forgery, however exciting it might be . . . It was probably due to this assumption that those starting to question the authenticity of some widely renowned writings were met with such incredulity and almost total resent- ment by the academic community. Unfortunately, a rather vast experience of forgery disclosures is proof of our fellow scholars being only human, including the most prominent ones. Motives of such “criminal” behaviour could be very different—anything from patriotic pathos feeding on the growing interest in the heroic national past (as was the case with James Macpherson and his Ossian cycle of poems that had a powerful reinforcing effect on the forgery trend) to the vain dream of a scholar to create a work of genius—even if anonymous or in the form of some kind of an intellectual game (it turns out that few people manage to resist the urge to present their wishful thinking as something real)—to merely mercantile considerations as was the case with our “hero”. Well, judge for yourselves. As is well known, in 1819, the famous Parisian Hellenist of German origin Karl Benedikt Hase (1780–1864) published the first edition of Leo Diaconos’s Historia commissioned by Russian Chancellor Count Nikolai P. Rumiantsev (1754–1826). The explanatory notes (Notae philologicae et historicae) accompanying the text of this tenth-century Byzantine scholar contain, among other things, a long anonymous letter that, according to Hase, could be regarded as a complement to Leo’s brief description of the seizure of Kherson (Korsun) by the Russians at the time of Vladimir the Great. The letter was supposed to be a first-hand account of the event, found by the editor in one of the handwritten Greek corpora that came to the Royal Library at the time of Napoleon’s contributions but was later—due to the agreements of 1814–1815—returned to an unknown destination along with other manuscripts.1 At any rate, in

1 Leonis Diaconi Caloensis Historia, scriptoresque alii ad res Byzantinas pertinentes, C.B. Hase (ed.) (Paris: Typogr. Regia, 1819, 254–9). As a considerable part of the edition (125 copies out

Hase’s publication the manuscript is already referred to as missing (qui fuit Bibliothecae Regiae). Since then these obscure and enigmatic text fragments, gracefully named “The Fragments of Toparcha Gothicus” by Academician Arist Kunik, have brought forth an entire library of scholarly works dedicated to them (more than 60 titles by 1971!),2 turning into some kind of charade, deciphering of which would allow the authors (among them such well-known names as Academicians Arist Kunik and Vasiliy Vasilievskiy, and among the contemporary ones, Gennady Litavrin, Maria Nistazopoulou, etc.) to demonstrate their intellectual potential, erudition and wit. There have been all kinds of specu- lations: on the unnamed area that was the scene of the events described in the Fragments (some suggested Bulgaria, others Tauris), on the nameless and belligerent barbarians devastating the environs of the Byzantine strategos’ residence (there were assumptions that they could have been Russians or Khazars), on the unnamed powerful ruler from the Northern Danube area— most often identified as one of the Russian princes (Igor, Oleg, Sviatoslav and Vladimir were all suggested), on the local subjects of the Byzantine Toparcha (the actual author of the Fragments) who managed to convince the latter to accept the predominance of the Russian (?) ruler when faced with the threat of a barbarian invasion (the common guess was they were Crimean Goths), and so on. Hase himself suggested that all the events described in the Fragments had taken place in Crimea and specifically at the time of Vladimir’s seizure of Korsun—that is, in 988 a.d. Quite naturally, almost all the authors tended to view these fragments as an important source of information on ancient Slavic and Russian history. They clearly appreciated the favorable image of the (presumably Russian) “barbarians” presented in the Fragments: the author of the Fragments acknowledged their “former justice and lawfulness” that at the moment were being “destroyed” but had earlier been “very highly respected and therefore had given these people the biggest trophies so that cities and peoples had given themselves to them of their own accord” (257.ii.1). Here is

of 400) was lost in a shipwreck during its transport to Saint Petersburg, the text was reprinted in Bonn in the Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae (Bonn, 1828, vol. 11; the text of the Fragments: 496–504). See more about this in Igor Medvedev, “Novye dannye po istorii pervogo izdaniya Lva Diakona” [New data on the history of the first edition of Leo the Deacon], Vizantiysky Vremennik, 61(86) (2002), 5–23. The notes in the text refer to the Parisian edition (254–9; the number of each of the three fragments is denoted in Roman digits and the paragraph number by an Arabic numeral). 2 See a detailed bibliography in the addendum (177–80) to Ihor Ševčenko’s article mentioned in n. 4, below. 146 Medvedev what Vasiliy Vasilievskiy said on the matter: “We agree with Kunik’s remark that such an honorary judgement could not possibly refer to the Petcheneg savages (die wilden Pesnaere of the Nibelungs) as Dmitry Ilovayskiy first suggested. As unconvincing are the arguments for the Khazars being the object of this favorable comment. Nowhere in Byzantine sources can we find a similar comment referring to the Khazars whereas the common opinion about the Russians among the Byzantines of the last quarter of the tenth century happens to be very close to the above mentioned quote.” As proof of this there is a reference to prince Sviatoslav’s speech in Dorostol, reported by Leo Diaconus and containing the following passage: “Gone will be the glory that hitherto has followed the Russian arms, effortlessly conquering neighbouring peoples and subduing entire countries, if we now disgracefully yield to the Romans” (i.e., the Byzantines). “Even this parallelism of phrasing displayed by Leo Diaconos and our author,” concluded Vasilievskiy “makes us inclined to support the popular belief that this passage (of the “Fragments of Toparcha Gothicus”—i.m.) refers to the Russians.”3 This spontaneous process of “historical exegesis” would probably still be going on if it had not been for one researcher who—almost regrettably—put an end to this whole discussion. The American scholar, Ihor Ševčenko, in his report for the xiiith International Congress of Historical Science and in the following articles claimed that the famous Fragments of Toparcha Gothicus were actually nothing more than a fabrication of their first publisher Karl Benedikt Hase.4 To our Byzantinists it was like a bolt from the blue, at first provoking vehement resistance5 which, however, soon started to recede and now

3 Vasiliy Vasilievskiy, “Zapiska grecheskogo toparkha,” [The note of the Greek Toparcha] in Trudy V.G. Vasilievskogo vol. 2 (Saint Petersburg: Russian Imp. Acad. of Sc., 1909), 159. 4 Ihor Ševčenko, “The Date and Author of so-called Fragments of Toparcha Gothicus,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 25 (1971), 115–88 (plates 1–28). See an abridged version of the article (under the same title) in Bulletin d’information et de coordination de l’Association Intern. des études byzantines, Athens, 5 (1971), 71–95. See also Ševčenko’s foreword to the reprint of the 1901 edition: Die Fragmente des Toparcha Gothicus (Anonymus Tauricus) aus dem 10. Jahrhundert, F. Westberg (Leipzig: Zentralantiquariat, 1975). 5 Apart from some rather emotional oral objections at the Congress there was also a published one: Ivan Bozhilov, “Hase’s Anonym and Ihor Ševčenko’s Hypothesis,” Byzantino-Bulgarica, 5 (1978), 245–58. The article was also included as an addendum in the same author’s monograph that was published one year later but had obviously been written before Ševčenko’s publications: Ivan Bozhilov, Anonimăt na Chase: Bălgarija i Vizantija na dolni Dunav v kraja na X vek [Hase’s Anonymous: Bulgaria and Byzantium at the lower Danube at the end of the tenth century] (Sofia: Bulg. Akad. Nauk., 1979), 132–46. The author was faced with a rather difficult dilemma: whether to acknowledge the discovery of the American scholar (making The Case of Karl Benedikt Hase 147 seems to have entirely abated6 as the evidence presented is so convincing that the opponents practically “haven’t a leg to stand on.”7 Ševčenko’s work is akin to that of a clever criminalist who manages to define both the components and the motive of the crime. Here we are going to try to present a summary of Ševčenko’s argumentation. Having spent a considerable amount of time trying to locate the missing manuscript containing the Fragments, the researcher—by a process of elimination—finally ended up with the Heidelberg manuscript Palatinus gr. 356 with contents similar to those of the document Hase had described (letters of St Basil, St Gregory of Naziansus and Falaris), only to discover that it did not contain (and never had) any of the above mentioned fragments.8 All hope

publication of the monograph virtually impossible) or try to refute it. He chose the latter option but was hardly satisfied with his own argumentation. 6 Here I do not take into account those who still—implicitly, and as if nothing had happened (probably out of ignorance), continue to use the Fragments as a source of historical information. See for example Andrei N. Sakharov, “Vostochny pokhod Sviatoslava i Zapiska grecheskogo toparkha,” [The eastern campaign of Sviatoslav and the Note of the Greek Toparcha] Istoriia sssr, 3 (1982), 86–103; Idem, Diplomatiya Svyatoslava [Sviatoslav’s diplomacy] (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnye otnopsheniia, 1985), 112–27; Vladimir P. Kozlov, Kolumby ros siyskikh drevnostey [Columbuses of Russian antiquity], 2nd edition (Moscow: Nauka, 1985), 133; Idem, Rossiyskaia arkheografiia kontsa xvii—pervoy chetverti xix veka [Russian archaeog- raphy from the late seventeenth to the first quarter of the nineteenth century] (Moscow: Nauka, 1999), 224. 7 Aleksandr Kazhdan wrote in his article on “Toparcha Gothicus” in the Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, A.P. Kazhdan (ed.), (New York-Oxford: oup, 1991), 3, 2094–5) that “Ševčenko put forth serious arguments demonstrating that Toparcha Gothicus was a forgery by Hase,” but this conclusion is followed by a rather incomprehensible statement about “the majority of East European scholars” not having accepted his hypothesis. Here, he refers to the above mentioned articles by I. Bozhilov and A. Sakharov, of whom the latter was apparently “out of the loop.” 8 Ihor Ševčenko did not know yet that long before him, in 1927, Vladimir Beneshevich had actually done the same thing, figuring out that it must be Palatinus gr. 356, and getting the same negative result. See Igor Medvedev, “Neozhidanny Beneshevich: zametki po materi- alam arkhiva uchenogo” [The unexpected Beneshevich: notes on the archive of that scholar], Vizantiiskii Vremennik, 55(80) (1994), 27–8. We should also exclude the supposition that the manuscript could have been lost in a shipwreck to Saint Petersburg during transport of Leon Diaconus’ publication copies. See Maria G. Nystazopoulou, “Note sur l’Anonyme de Hase improprement appelé Toparch de Gothie,” Bulletin de la Correspondance Hellénique, 86 (1962), 320. From Hase’s letters to Academician Krug we know quite well about the contents of the lost box: it never contained any manuscript. And why on earth—as Nikolaos M. Panagiōtakēs, (Λέων ὁ Διάκονος, Athens: n. p., 1965, 122) cleverly observes—should Hase have sent a manuscript, that did not even belong to him, as a present to Count Rumiantsev? 148 Medvedev to find the original manuscript (or at least a handwritten copy of it) was now gone but there were still Hase’s papers from the National Library in Paris (Supplement Grec 858) to be examined, first of all the copy of the Fragments in Hase’s own handwriting that had been used for the original typesetting. It was upon careful examination of these documents that Ševčenko came to his sensational conclusion. Comparison of Hase’s autograph (supposedly an apograph of the missing manuscript) with the printed text of the document revealed striking and completely inexplicable discrepancies and variations in the description of the manuscript, its dating, the definition of its contents and size as well as of the last time it had been inspected in the National Library, and the reported number of the fragments (the Latin description at first referred to just one fragment, then the number was changed to two, and when those two had gone to print a third fragment came up). Most important were stylistic discrepancies in the text of the document giving evidence of corrections already made during proofreading, which naturally made Ševčenko wonder: on the basis of what? The description gives a clear indication that at the time, the manuscript was no longer in Paris. This is what an author may do to his own writing, but not what would be expected of the editor of a manuscript text. It is in fact surprising that Hase did not care to destroy such conclusive evidence of his falsification. The apprehension of fraud proved true when the language of the document had been analysed (displaying phraseological parallelisms with Hase’s favorite Greek authors, for example Thucydides) along with the historical and geographical realia appearing in the Fragments: anachronisms and oddities resulting from the author’s poor knowledge of history which Hase himself had confessed in his letters to Academician Philip Krug, being at the same time an excellent philologist proficient in Greek. All of the above made Ševčenko take a closer look at Hase as a person, as far as the latter’s biographical materials allowed. As it turned out even this prominent scholar was only human; engaging in amorous pursuits described in Greek but still quite blatantly in his “clandestine diary”; demonstrating a pro- pensity for “philological games” (his anonym was by no means his only contriv- ance); and a weakness for money and honours. He got plenty of the latter from “the ingenuous Rumiantsev” in return for his services, real ones (like the publication of Leo Diaconus), or potential ones (Rumiantsev also paid in advance for some other publishing projects of Hase’s, for example the first edition of Michael Psellos’ Chronographia,9 the Chronicle of George Hamartolus, etc.) as

9 For more details see Igor Medvedev, “Maloizvestny proekt pervogo izdaniya ‘Khronografii’ Mikhaila Psella” [A little known project of the first edition of the ‘Chronographia’ of Michael Psellus], Vizantiysky Vremennik, 60 (85) (2001), 183–91. The Case of Karl Benedikt Hase 149 well as “mystificatory” contributions—as in this particular case. It probably had to do with Hase’s desire to extract as much as possible from the pockets of messieurs pétropolitains (and possibly having a good laugh at them at the same time); in his letter to E. Miller in 1848 (which Vasilievskiy once found outra- geous) he says he feels sorry for those fellows from Saint Petersburg who seem to be “hung up on this Rus”—ne s’intéressent qu’aux Ρώς.10 To my mind, the picture is quite clear, and I find Ševčenko’s arguments regarding the falsity of the so-called “Fragments of Toparcha Gothicus” convincing.11 However, this does not preclude the need and possibility of further clarification of certain details in this rather unusual adventure. In recent years, while preparing a publication of Hase’s extensive correspondence with Academician Krug and partly with Chancellor Rumiantsev,12 I could not help bearing in mind the story of the Fragments. Of course, I did not expect to stumble upon Hase’s confession of forgery (like “I apologize for playing a hoax on you, dear petropolitans”). The letters are written in a respectful and serious tone that sometimes seems a bit obsequious. Most of them contain detailed information on printing procedures, progress in proofreading, reasons for the overly long-drawn-out publication of Leo Diaconos, and justification of requested financial grants from the count who then immediately made out a check. After the count’s death on 3 January 1826 all work was discontinued, probably due to the lack of “material incentive,” which surely adds another touch to the portrait of our hero. In his letters Hase is also begging for royal awards for both himself and his friends.13 As for the Fragments of Toparcha Gothicus, Hase never mentions them in his correspondence with Krug but certain things therein deserve our attention.

10 Vasilievskiy, “Zapiska” (as n. 3, above), 144, with a reproduction of the whole letter from Journal des savants, 1876 févr., 104 et suiv. 11 I would like to refute one more objection, once expressed by Boris L. Fonkich in a conversation with me: that the idea of forgery is about drawing attention to it, placing it in the spotlight, while the Fragments are almost hidden among other notes in the end of the reference list. Not at all! The text has its own, very important place, picking up and elabo- rating the extremely interesting but—sadly—too laconic story of the fall of Kherson and its seizure by Prince Vladimir Sviatoslavich in Leo Diaconos’ work (τῆς Χερσῶνος ἄλωσιν). 12 K.B. Hase’s letters are preserved in Academician Philip I. Krug’s personal fond in the St Petersburg Branch of the Archive of the Russian Academy of Sciences (Fond 88, reg. 2, folder 21; 92 folios). When quoting from the letters throughout the article we refer to the corresponding folios in the said folder. 13 A detailed description of this is given in my article, “K voprosu o nepodlinnosti tak nazy- vaemoy Zapiski Gotskogo Toparkha” [On the question of falseness of the so-called Note of Toparcha Gothicus], Mir Alexandra Kazhdana (St Petersburg: Aleteiia, 2003), 160–72. 150 Medvedev

Already in his very first letter of 24 September 1814 Hase informs his colleague that in the supplementary volume he was preparing for the Louvres series Corpus Byzantinae Historiae (that he calls Byzantina for short) he is going to include, besides other inedita (Leo Diaconos, Michael Psellos, Nicephorus Gregoras), some anonyma (f 3v). He mentions it again in his letter of 18 October 1814 (f 5). One would think that our text could have already then been included among these anonyma, but it is not very likely. Important here is the very idea of “satu- rating” the publication of the main document with additional unedited and anonymous texts. “I am trying, following Banduri’s example, to squeeze in as much as possible of inedita historica from our manuscripts,” he wrote on 11 July 1817 (f 8). Quite interesting are Hase’s “methodological” reflections concerning his work on the Notes, expressed in several letters, for example in a long letter of 19 October 1817.14 Hase’s correspondence, while not presenting any concrete evidence that would shed some light on our “case,” still bears testimony on the man’s pronounced aptitude for experimenting with Byzantine texts (he would not have dared to do the same with Attic ones!), with Byzantine lexicology, and semasiology.15 Inventing the Fragments of Toparcha Gothicus might be (and to my mind, actually was) one of those experiments. Finally, one more thing. Until very recently I have been wrestling with the question: what could possibly have inspired Hase to create the vivid pictures of this pseudo-historical piece? Did he really make the whole thing up? Quite relevant here is Ihor Ševčenko’s suspicion that the picture of snowstorms and the frozen Dnieper River could reflect Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow in 1812 which was still remembered in Paris in 1818.16 But could there also be a literary source? When reading the Fragments I could not help thinking that I had seen something like this—somewhere else. Suddenly it dawned on me: could our dear Hase have borrowed the stuff from Voltaire (whom he knew very well) and, particularly, the latter’s two “apocryphal” and most scandalous stories: Candide ou l’Optimisme (1759) and L’Ingénu (1767). If we put side-by-side the storyline and the characters of these works and those of the Fragment, we can discover almost all the themes, figures of speech and even verbal borrowings in the latter even if in a transformed and

14 Ibid. 15 This habit of Hase’s was pointed out by Panagiōtakēs (Λέων ὁ Διάκονος, 122), after a detailed study of Hase’s working methods before the publication of Leo Diaconos’s Historia. Still, he did not start to doubt the authenticity of the Fragments. 16 Ševčenko, “Date and Author,” 166. The Case of Karl Benedikt Hase 151 more laconic form. Moreover, the whole idea of some kind of caricature of a conflict between various “barbarians,” “savages,” and “enlightened peoples” (either anonymous or with fictitious names like the Bulgars and the Avars in Candide or the Hurons in L’Ingénu); the scathing irony referring to the innate intelligence and sense of justice of the Barbarians (the Oreillons in Candide; the Hurons in L’Ingénu); their natural right to kill their relatives, “which is also happening all over the world” (Candide, Ch. 16); and playful jesting with the famous words about “this best of all possible worlds” have their echo in the Fragments. Besides these flattering references to the Barbarians (allegedly Russians) with their “former justice and lawfulness” one can also compare the Fragments’ unfathomable phrase about the Barbarians “not being capable of any mercy, not even towards their closest family” (Οὐδε γὰρ τῶν οἰκειοτάτων φειδώ τις εἰσήει αὐτοῖς) (257.ii.1) and another: “And from nowhere one could expect any change for the better” (Ἀνακωχῆς δ᾽οὐδαμόθεν προσδοκωμένης) (256.i.3) which is actually a calque of the antithesis to Pangloss’ assertion we frequently meet in Voltaire’s work (see for example Candide 28): “Well, my dear Pangloss,” said Candide to him, “when you were hanged, dissected, whipped, and tugging at the oar, did you continue to think that everything in this world happens for the best?” The terrible snowstorm and Candide’s overnight stop under the open sky between two furrows in the snow (Ch. 2: “. . . among the Bulgars”) were in Hase’s version transformed into a similar description of a troop’s progress through a blizzard and its later overnight stop in the snow when “at night the shields were our beds; they served splendidly as both our beds and our covers” (256.i.4); Candide’s canoe trip across a nameless river into the land of El Dorado (Ch. 17) reminds one of the crossing of the Dnieper River described in the Fragments (254.i.1). So the travellers’ benevolent reception by the king of this fairyland and the “beautiful spectacle” of their departure when “The King . . . embraced them with the greatest cordiality” (Ch. 18) have their counterpart in the story of how the author of the Fragments visited a powerful (allegedly Russian) ruler who “reigns north of the Danube”. The passage in the Fragments “I went to see him and was received in the best way one could possibly imagine” (256.iii), can be compared with Ch. 18 of Candide: “Candide and Cacambo . . . threw their arms round His Majesty’s neck, who received them in the most gracious manner imaginable.” True, instead of a flock of enormous red sheep “laden with gold, diamonds and other precious stones” the (Russian) ruler from Hase’s version presents the Byzantine commander with a more practical gift: he “willingly returned to me the lordship over Klimata and added a whole satrapy thereunto, and furthermore presented me with bounte- ous gains in his own land” (259.iii). 152 Medvedev

Applause and suavity of the Oreillons who finally untied the captives (Candide and his servant) whom they had been on the verge of eating, mis- taking Candide for a Jesuit (Ch. 16), are echoed by the applause for the author of the Fragments coming from the “savages” (οἱ ἐγχώριοι): “And so we started out followed by the savages bidding us solemn farewell, and all of them were applauding me approvingly, looking at me as if we were intimate friends and wishing me all the best” (255.i.3). The story of the Englishmen opening hostili- ties without declaring war on the French king which “compromised the safety of the province” (Brittany) (L’Ingénu, Ch. 7) could have inspired the following passage of the Fragments: “The Barbarians attacked us without any declaration (ἀκηρυκτί) of war, and they did not establish any contacts with us anymore though I offered them a truce thousands of times” (257.ii.2). Besides, was not the “quasi-Bulgarian” atmosphere of Candide the reason for Hase’s loan of the Greek byword λεία Μυσῶν (257.ii.2) representing the common Byzantine name for the Bulgars? While lexical similarities severally might not be very convincing, taken together they seem to be quite indicative of “borrowing”. I am thinking of the idea of “a homeward journey” (255.i.2) occuring in L’Ingénu (Ch. 1, 3), the word “scouts” (256.i.4) in Candide (Ch. 16); “sleep” and “dreaming” (as in: “We were far from getting any sleep and from dreaming” 256.i.4) compared to Candide (Ch. 11: “Exhausted, I soon drifted into sleep which was more like fainting than resting”); the word “subjects” (257.ii.1) is also found in L’Ingénu (Ch. 8); the stars and especially Saturn (255.i.2) are mentioned in L’Ingénu (Ch. 11), and so on. Another curious parallel: one of the characters in Candide is a castle owner from Westphalia, a baron whom the courtiers “called Monseigneur, laughing at the stories of his adventures” (Ch. 1). Could this have given Hase the idea to play a joke on “Monseigneur” Rumjantsev? Consider the opinion of “the noble Venetian,” Signor Pococurante, about Milton: “That barbarian who writes a tedious commentary in ten books of rumbling verse, on the first chapter of Genesis, that slovenly imitator of the Greeks (italics mine—I.M.) who disfigures the creation...... Neither I nor any other Italian can possibly take pleasure in such melancholy reveries” (Ch. 25). Does not this bring to mind the role of “the imitator of the Byzantines” that Hase himself had assumed? And is not there a similarity between Hase’s plan and the subtitle of L’ingenu: “A true story taken from the manuscripts of Father Quesnel”—this Father Quesnel being a Jansenist theologian to whom Voltaire assigned his story for censorial reasons? What if Hase compared himself to Voltaire, who had even taken liberties with the Russian Empress? … The Case of Karl Benedikt Hase 153

This rather unusual story would probably have remained unresolved if it had not been for the appearance of yet another document, another work of Karl Benedikt Hase that somehow drew a line under this intricate case. In June 1816 Count Rumjantsev sent Hase a personal letter where he asked him about the city of Sur or Surozh in the Byzantine Empire “which time after time is mentioned in our chronicles.” Hase answered with a very long letter of 7 July 1816 in which he tried to validate his identification of the said city (“which is also the Soldaia of the Genoese and therefore the Sudak of today”) as a city “known among the Greeks as Sarat”. In support of this he refers to an unpublished letter of a certain Maxim Catilianus who was once shipwrecked off the rocky coast of Crimea but survived and made it to “a town named Sarat, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea.” Having published this exchange of letters,17 Professor Ihor Ševčenko classified this identification of Surozh as Sudak and Sarat as another figment of Hase’s imagination.18 Ševčenko’s main arguments are the following: First: the “Sarat” mentioned by “the Greeks” (or rather by Constantine Porphyrogenitus in his De administrando imperio) was according to modern scholarship not located in Crimea but in today’s Romania, and was not a town but a river: Seret. Second, and most importantly: not a single one of the preserved manuscripts containing the correspondence of Patriarch Athanasius I (and it was in one of these Hase claimed to have found the letter of Maxim Catilianus) actually contains this text. The conclusion is that either the manuscript containing Catilianus’ letter has disappeared without a trace, or—more likely—never existed. Third: Hase might have borrowed the name Catilianus from Montfaucon’s Palaeographia Graeca (1708), a work he was acquainted with, containing a reference to the Bishop of Kythera, Dionysius Catilianos who died in 1629. Probably, it did not even occur to Ihor Ševčenko that Karl Benedikt Hase could have made a copy of the above-mentioned text and sent it to St Petersburg, though Hase’s letter to Rumiantsev contains a couple of hints to this. Meanwhile, I have managed to find the copy of the manuscript containing the letter (Hase’s autograph) in a somewhat unusual place—among the papers of Alekseiy Olenin (1763–1843), a well-known Russian cultural figure who was connected to Count Rumjantsev and Hase. He took a lively interest in the publication of Leo Diaconos’s Historia prepared in Paris, and in its translation into Russian.19 The manuscript in question is kept in the Manuscript Department

17 Ibid., 180–5 (pl. 13–22). 18 Ibid., 170–1. 19 See about him: Igor Medvedev, “Aleksey Nikolaevich Olenin kak vizantinist” [A.N.O. as Byzantinist], in Otechestvennaya istoriya i istoricheskaya mysl v Rossii xix–xx vv. [Festschrift in honor of the 75 year old A.N. Tsamutali] (St Petersburg: Nestor – Istoriia, 2006), 17–29. 154 Medvedev of the Russian National Library (fond 542, nr 73, fol. 1r-3v) and contains (among other things) two columns of Greek text (en regard) in Hase’s handwriting: the letter of Maxim Catilianos and Hase’s translation of it into Latin. At the top of fol. 1 Hase left a note in his own hand on the origin of the text: “Ex codice additi- cio nr 72” while on the right margin of fol. 3 he has even noted the corresponding folio in the original manuscript as Fol. 275 verso (i.e., the whole text took up fol. 274–275 v. of the original document). It is another matter that the Parisian manuscript nr 72 from the Supplément grec fond of the National Library, which is apparently meant here, contains neither the correspondence of Patriarch Athanasius I of Constantinople nor any letter of Maxim Catilianos.20 In this way, having submitted an exact reference to the origins of the text (unlike the case of the Fragments of Toparcha Gothicus), Hase made a mis- step, actually giving himself away. However, when I was publishing the letter in Vizantiysky Vremennik, I chose not to remove the question mark from the title of my article.21 I thought it was better to let the scientific community decide if we, in this case, were dealing with another forgery of the famous scholar—all the more so because it would be useful to hear the opinion of linguistic experts who might be able to analyze the Greek language of the text. Before the publication of the article I sent a preliminary printout of it to Professor Ševčenko which apparently was the right thing to do: in the very last moment the editorial board received a letter from him containing what he called “an addendum to the article of I.P. Medvedev.” This finally set the record straight. And this is how it all happened: having received a printout of my article, in October 2006, Ševčenko actually went on “a one day trip to Paris” (!) where he managed to locate the manuscript that was the real source of Catilianos’ letter from Hase’s papers. Professor Ševčenko wrote: “To answer the question in short, Catilianus’ letter [. . .] is based on the Oratio Gratiosa by John Eugenikos, a brother of Mark Eugenikos, a well-known participant in the Council of Florence (John’s text was published by Sp. Lambros in 1912). The text is a thanksgiving to Christ for salvation in a storm during a journey from Venice to Constantinople in 1438 when the author narrowly escaped shipwreck. Catilianos’ letter does not just retell this story; it contains a number of passages that are literally borrowed

20 See Catalogue des manuscrits grecs. Supplément grec numéros 1 à 150, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, rédigé par Ch. Astruc, M.-L. Concasty, C. Bellon et al. (Paris: bn, 2003), 172. (In reality cod. 72 contains a printed text of Sophocles’ tragedy Oedipus the King, published by Sébastian Cramoisi in 1634 and accompanied by handwritten notes). 21 Igor Medvedev, “Novonaydenny text pisma Maksima Katilianosa: eshyo odna poddelka Karla Benedikta Hase?” [A newly found text of the letter of Maxim Catilianus: one more forgery of K.B. Hase?],Vizantiysky Vremennik, 66 (91) (2007), 307–22. The Case of Karl Benedikt Hase 155 from John Eugenikos. One of the passages is adjusted in order to satisfy the interests of Count Rumjantsev, Hase’s benefactor. The manuscript Hase used as a source is Parisinus graecus 2075. Oratio Gratiosa was found on its folios 244–282. Marginal notes in Hase’s own hand make it clear that the scholar had been using it; the enigmatic notes fol. 274 verso and fol. 275 verso on the margins of Catilianus’ letter (in Hase’s handwriting) found by I. Medvedev, are direct references to the folios of Parisinus graecus 2075”.22 “Now we can be perfectly sure,” concluded Ihor Ševčenko (supported by the author of this article), “that Karl Benedikt Hase produced at least one forgery to satisfy the historical interest of Count Rumiantsev. This fact also sheds new light on Hase’s modus operandi and may allow us to close the case of the Fragments of Toparcha Gothicus.”23 Sapienti sat.

22 Ihor Ševčenko, ”Prilozhenie k statye Igorya Medvedeva” [Addition to the article of I.M.], Vizantiysky Vremennik, 66 (91) (2007), 322–3. 23 Ibid., 323. chapter 9 On Firkowicz, Forgeries and Forging Jewish Identities

Dan D.Y. Shapira

This paper is a—necessarily short—report on the great project of the publication of forged tombstone inscriptions in a Crimean Jewish-Karaite cemetery, by which (together with other spurious evidence) Avraham Firkowicz (1787– 1874) attempted to establish a myth of the origin of the Karaite Jews. In order to appreciate his efforts it is necessary to briefly sketch the various trends of ideas among Jews and Gentiles on the ancient history of Hebrews as current in the early nineteenth century in Russia and elsewhere. Avraham, son of Shemuel Firkowicz, was to a large degree a medieval character. Born in 1787 in Łuck (Lutsk, Lutzk; Volhynia) in a tiny Turkic-speaking community of Jewish religious dissidents, the Karaites, as a subject of the Polish- Lithuanian Commonwealth, in the epoch of the early Jewish Enlightenment, he lived through the emergence of the Jewish Reform Movement, the heyday of the Wissenschaft des Judenthums, and the emergence of both the specific Russian-Jewish civilization and Yiddish literature. He died in 1874 after an active life up to his last day, only a few years before the Pogroms of 1881–82 which prompted the massive Jewish emigration to America, the emergence of the first Palestinophile (or proto-Zionist) organizations and the important book Autoemancipation by Leon Pinsker, the son of a friend and colleague of his, Śimhah Pinsker. When young Firkowicz began to read his Hebrew Pentateuch, he found himself under Russian rule, following the third partition of Poland in 1795. The Karaites of the nearest community of Halich / Halicz,1 closely connected to those of Łuck, found themselves on the other side of the border, in Austria. So the Russian imperial might, not always benevolent and sometimes capable of arbitrary destruction, was to be for Firkowicz a never forgotten potential threat. As many other local Karaites, Firkowicz spent much of his youth in the countryside, trading with the Gentiles. The Łuck Karaites were a tightly-knit

1 See Mikhail Kizilov, The Karaites of Galicia: an ethno-religious minority among the Ashkenazim, the Turks, and the Slavs, 1772–1945 (Leiden: Brill, 2008).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_010 On Firkowicz, Forgeries and Forging Jewish Identities 157 minority of men of learning with significant ancestors in scholarship, strug- gling for survival. During the Four-Year Sejm (1788–1792) of the Rzeczpospolita, the local Karaites led the way to the split with their Rabbanite Jewish brethren.2 The majority of the Jews of Łuck were Rabbanites (thus knowledge of some Yiddish was widespread among the Karaites); the rest of the city’s inhabitants were Orthodox or Uniate Russians (Ukrainians) and Catholic Poles. Firkowicz began to study by correspondence with prominent Karaites in Halich and the Crimea. He asked for guidance from Rabbanites as well, mostly the maskilim, the men of Haskalah, the belated Jewish equivalent of the Enlightenment.3 The reforms of Jewish life in Austria imposed by Joseph ii brought about a crisis of identity: one of the early maskilim there, Naphtali-Herz (Hartwig) Wessely (1725–1805), argued in his Diḇre Šalom we’Emeth (1784), for the necessity of these reforms from the standpoint of the Talmud. He also stressed the importance of learning both modern languages and Classical Hebrew and emphasized the importance of manual work. In fact, a Jewish agricultural colony was set up in Austrian Galicia in 1782–1785. The Haskalah movement aimed at the return to the classical models of the Bible instead of those of the “Rabbinical” literature.4 The goal was the religious and social emancipation of the Jews, stressing what is common to Jews and Christians, that is, the Bible, and not the Talmud. As such, this movement as a whole considered the Karaites as natural allies and to some degree as models.5 They were seen by the early maskilim as the keepers of the purest Hebrew language,6 and Karaism was regarded—for example by Christians in Protestant countries— as a scripturalist antithesis to the Talmudistic distortions. The maskilim chose

2 Ibid., 33. 3 On Krochmal’s and other maskilim’s keen and sympathetic interest in Karaism, cf. Ismar Schorsch, From Text to Context. The Turn to History in Modern Judaism (Hanover and London: Brandeis University Press, 1994), 349. 4 See S. Schreiner, “Aufklärung als Re-Hebraisierung; Anmerkungen zu Isaak Ber Lewinsohns Haskala-Programm,” Studia Judaica 5,1 (2002), 69–83. 5 Cf. Sh. Feiner, “ ‘Sefarad’ dans les représentations historiques de la ‘Haskala’—entre moder nisme et conservatisme,” Mémoires juives d’Espagne et du Portugal (1996), 239–51; idem., “The Jewish Search for a Usable Past,” American Historical Review 106 (2001), 941–2; on the maskilim’s enchantment with the Medieval Judeo-Spanish civilization see Ismar Schorsch, From Text to Context. The Turn to History in Modern Judaism (Hanover and London: Brandeis University Press, 1994), 71–92. 6 The Karaite literary corpus, at least in Europe, was entirely Hebrew and based (almost) exclusively on the Biblical Hebrew. 158 Shapira their name precisely because it had Karaite overtones.7 There was also some overlap between the Haskalah and the Jewish Reform movement and their common excitement with the Karaites. The cover of the first Reform prayer book published in London in the early nineteenth century identified the Jewish Reformists as “Karaites.” In Germany and Austria, the campaign for and against the Jewish Reform was closely connected to nascent Jewish Studies, and all the proponents of the Wissenschaft des Judenthums showed much interest—and sympathy—with the Karaites and Karaism. One of the reasons behind this maskilic and Reformist interest in Karaism was their search for the original, uncorrupted Judaism, which some of them imagined to find in the history of Karaism. This tendency found its expression in the correspondence between Moredechai (Isaak Markus) Jost (1793–1860) and the Crimean Karaite tycoon, Simhah Babowicz (1788/1790?–1855) in which Firkowicz took part as Babowicz’s secretary. This correspondence was a few years later translated into Crimean Turkic and published in Gözleve.8 Similar contacts were established in the 1830s between Bezalel Stern, a leading Russian maskil close to the authorities and the Crimean Karaites including Firkowicz. Stern was asked by leading European Jewish scholars to collect information on the Karaites in Southern Russia. He was born in Austrian Galicia, and appointed to supervise the famous Odessa Jewish Seminary founded in 1826. Finally, at the Europeanized city of Odessa, Galician Jews, mostly from Brody and Tarnopol, formed an important circle of maskilim, some of whom were also associated with the Reform Movement.9 Firkowicz held the maskilim of Brody and the Scotch missionaries in high esteem even decades later.10 This was the benevolent cultural and social climate which surrounded Firkowicz.

7 Compare Y. Kaplan, “ ‘Karaites’ in early eighteenth-century Amsterdam,” in: D.S. Katz and J.I. Israel (eds.), Sceptics, Millenarians and Jews (Leiden: Brill 1990), 196–236. 8 See B.D. Walfish “Karaite Press and Printing,” A Guide to Karaite Studies: An Introduction to the Literary Sources of Medieval and Modern Karaite Judaism, M. Polliack (ed.) (Leiden: Brill 2003), 925–62; D. Shapira, “The Turkic Languages and Literatures of the Eastern European Karaites,” A Guide to Karaite Studies: An Introduction to the Literary Sources of Medieval and Modern Karaite Judaism, M. Polliack (ed.) (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 657–707. 9 See S. Zipperstein, The Jews of Odessa: A Cultural History, 1794–1881, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1985); see also Israel Bartal, “Eastern European Haskalah and the Karaites: Christian Hebraism and Imperial Politics,” Eastern European Karaites in the Last Generations, D. Shapira & D. Lasker (eds.) (Jerusalem: Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2011), 47–57. 10 See Dan D.Y. Shapira, “The Mejelis ‘Document’ and Tapani Harviainen: On Scholarship, Firkowicz and Forgeries,” Omeljan Pritsak Armağanı / A Tribute to Omeljan Pritsak, Mehmet Alpargu & Yücel Öztürk (eds.) (Sakarya, 2007), 303–93 and 326–7. On Firkowicz, Forgeries and Forging Jewish Identities 159

One should remember that the great majority of Karaite literature available at that time existed in the form of manuscripts only, because the small number of possible buyers made printing commercially unfeasible. Thus both the maskilim interested in the Karaite literature and young Firkowicz were keen to chase after manuscripts. Already in Łuck, Firkowicz copied a number of manuscripts and tried to get some from other communities. One of his local tutors in Łuck became his relative-by-marriage Mordechai Sultanski, one of the most important Karaite scholars of his generation.11 Sultanski was interested in history, Bible criticism, Rabbanite halachah and in apologetics emphasizing the parallels between the Karaite and Christian beliefs, ethics and practices. During the late 1810s and early 1820s Sultanski penned a book with the title Zekher Tsaddîqîm, “Rememberence of the Pious,” a historical work presenting an unusual picture of Karaite history, the “original sources” of which, unknown otherwise, were supposed to have perished in fire. The influence of Sultanski was significant throughout Firkowicz’s career. However, in 1817–18 Firkowicz got into a nasty quarrel with Sultanski and the dispute was arbitrated in Gözleve (Eupatoria), the new Russian seaport in the Crimea that had attracted many Karaites and in Çufut-Qal‘eh, the traditional center of the Crimean Karaites.12 In order to bring this dispute, which became quite ugly (including slander, denunciations to Russian authorities, and gossip about books stolen by Sultanski) to an end, the Crimean Karaite noble, Simhah Babowicz invited Firkowicz to Gözleve, to be the tutor for his children.13 Babowicz became Firkowicz’s life-long patron. Sultanski also migrated to the Crimea a few

11 See Golda Akhiezer, “Mordechai Sultanski: The Outline of Personality and Creativity,” Eastern European Karaites in the Last Generations, Dan Shapira & Daniel Lasker (eds.) (Jerusalem: Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2011), 170–95, and Dan Shapira, “Avraham Firkowicz: The Early Years,” ibid., 141–69. 12 A letter by Firkowicz from Łuck to R. Yosef H̱akham Troki on the attempt by R. Mordekhay Sultanski to declare himself as head of the sages, 5 Elul 1820 (Manuscript Section of the Russian National Library in Sankt-Peterburg [henceforth: or rnl] f. 946 op. 1 N 523). See also or rnl f. 986 op. 1 n 7 & 9 (a letter annulling the removal of Firkowicz from teaching in Łuck, 30 May, 1820; a draft of a document of reconciliation between Firkowicz and M. Sultanski, October, 1820). See also A. Kahana, “Two Letters from Abraham Firkovich,” Hebrew Union College Annual iii (1926), 359–70. As Kahana noted (361), “many of the disputes about the trustworthiness of Firkovich’s archaeological discoveries would not have taken place, had these letters been known to the contemporaries of Chwolson and Harkavy. [ . . . ] Our letters would have enabled the scholars to seize up Firkovich with more sureness and directness.” 13 See or rnl f. 946 op. 1 N 491 (Firkowicz to S. Babowicz, Łuck, not later than 1823, a request for assistance in the transfer to the Crimea). 160 Shapira months after Firkowicz and settled in Çufut-Qal‘eh, where he was appointed to the position of the local H̱ akham, a Karaite rabbi. This migration of both rivals was part of the general migration of Karaites from Łuck to the Crimea in the 1820s after a fire in Łuck had undermined the position of the community there. Parallel to these developments in Eastern Europe, at the turn of the nineteenth century, Anglo-Israelism arose, a Christian sect believing in the Israelite origins of the English.14 Anglo-Israelism was going hand-in-hand with conver- sionist efforts, which were spurred on in 1809 by the foundation of the London Society for Promoting Christianity among the Jews. They received further impetus with the establishment, in 1826, of the Philo-Judaean Society. Many of the missionaries working among Jews of the Orient and of Eastern Europe were Jews converted in England. The Anglo-Israelite ideas were also propagated by Dr. Moses Margoliouth (1819–1871), a Polish Jew who became an Anglican minister near London, in his History of the Jews in Great Britain (1846), who claimed the authenticity of some forged Hebrew inscriptions from England and Spain of allegedly high antiquity. In 1822, Scottish missionaries were given a free hand to work in Southern Russia, and, under the patronage of the Czar Alexander i, two societies were established in Russia: The Russian Biblical Society and The Society of Israeli Christians. Both were headed by Prince Golitsyn, whose wife was deeply under the influence of the mystic Barbara-Juliana Kruedener, who was close to Csar Alexander i, convinced him to create the Holy Alliance, and was a strong believer in the origins of all the Russians and Europeans from the Israelite Lost Tribes.15 The Golitsyns owned an estate in Qarasubazar (now Belogorsk) in the Crimea, the ancestral town of Babowicz, and Firkowicz first met Kruedener there, probably in 1825. In the mid-1820s, Southern Russia and

14 Sharon Turner, whose History of the Anglo-Saxons, first published in 1805, was essential in early Anglo-Israelist propaganda. The movement was formally set after Brothers had published his Correct Account of the Invasion of England by the Saxons, Showing the English Nation to be Descendants of the Ten Lost Tribes (1822), and in 1845, J. Wilson gave the movement its present form, with his Our Israelitish Origin. Cf. A.H. Godbey, The Lost Tribes. A Myth—Suggestions Towards Rewriting Hebrew History, (Duke University Press, Durham, n.c. 1930), rep. by the Ktav Publishing House, Inc., New York, 1974. 15 Cf. e.g., Madame de Krüdener 1764–1824, Préface de Jean Gaulmier (Paris 1994); Baronessa Krjudener. Neizdannye avtobiografičeskie teksty, Je.P. Grečanaja (ed.) (ogi, Moscow, 1998). Kruedener, herself, was deeply influenced by the German mysticist, H. Jung-Stilling, who claimed that all the Europeans are, in fact, of Israelite origin, and that the Messiah should be looked for in Russia. His commentary on Apocalypse, translated into Russian, Pobednaja povest’ xristianskoj very, was published in 1815 and made a great impact on the growing of Judaizing Russian sects (cf. A. Lvov, “Delo o karaimskix molitvennikax,” .(ii (Moscow, 2004), 48–72, esp. 72, n. 39 ,הקבלות Paralleli On Firkowicz, Forgeries and Forging Jewish Identities 161 the Crimea were becoming, for just a couple of years, a Mecca for English and Scottish missionaries, most of whom were believers in Anglo-Israelism, i.e., in a connection between the Samaritan Exile, the transfer of the Jews to Scythia (Southern Russia and the Crimea), and their association with the Goths, later to become British. The title of a book by one of these missionaries, full of valuable information, including some on the Karaites and their texts, speaks for itself: E. Henderson, Biblical Researches and Travels in Russia, London, 1826.16 Some of their views were shared by Firkowicz, who in a text, written by him in Russian,17 “recognized” remnants of Slavic words in Hebrew texts allegedly found “in the Khazar city of Mangup,” as evidence of the common ancestry of Jews and the inhabitants of Southern Russia (Ukraine). This short text is interesting for it reveals Firkowicz’s interest in Sarmatism, which was characteristic of Polish Szlachta’s ideas, and argued for non-Slavic origins of the population of what had been Poland.18 He also stated that the present inhabitants of Southern Russia have more in common physically with the Semites than with the Japhetides, so the Malorossians (Ukrainians) should be Semitic. The long shadow of Ossian and James Macpherson has reached Russia, too. While Potiomkin was ruling Novorossija, including the Crimea, Cossacks found near Taman a stone with a Old Russian inscription indicating that the site was that of the much searched for T’mutorokan’ of the Russian Primary Chronicle. The inscription, called “the T’mutorokan’ Stone,” mentioned the name of a Russian prince, Gleb, known from the Chronicle. Immediately the T’mutorokan’ Stone became a suspicious object, and it was not quoted in the corpus of Old Russian paleography or language.19 A Khazar Torah Scroll was said to be found in the Crimea by Potiomkin and sent to Kazan’ for investigation. Needless to

16 Henderson noted that Karaite Rabbis were acquainted with the Talmud and the New Testament, and he saw a copy of the New Testament on the shelf of the Karaite Rabbi of Łuck circa 1821, and the Rabbi was acquainted with its contents (Henderson, 320, 330); was it A. Firkowicz or M. Sultanski? Henderson and Patterson were actively distribut- ing New Testaments among the Rabbanites and Karaites of Łuck in the 1820s. According to their reports, the Karaites were receiving it especially enthusiastically (cf. M. Kizilov, Karaites through the Travelers’ Eyes. Ethnic History, Traditional Culture and Everyday Life of the Crimean Karaites According to Descriptions of the Travelers (al-Qirqisani Center, New York, 2003), 70, 243, n. 820. 17 See Vernadsky Ukrainian National Library, Jewish mss opi 1210. 18 Cf. also Dan D.Y. Shapira, “Polish Sarmatism, Turkism, and ‘Jewish szlachta’: Some Reflections on a Cultural Context of the Polish-Lithuanian Karaites,” Kara Deniz Araştırmaları 20 (2009), 29–43. 19 On the Tʹmutorokanʹ Stone, see N. Dylevskij, Sopostavitelno jezikoznanie (Sofia, 1993); cf. S. Franklin, Writing, Society and Culture in Early Rus, c. 950–1300 (Cambridge: Cambridge 162 Shapira say, it was not Khazar; it was written apparently in the Rabbanite Qrımčaq community of Qarasubazar in the late seventeenth century.20 Similar and more fantastic forgeries were typical for the age. The Khazars, who had played an important role in the early history of Eastern Europe, drew more and more attention of Gentile scholars in the mid-eighteenth century, a subject close to our inquiry, but which cannot be discussed here in detail. In the fall of 1839, Firkowicz began his excavations, unearthing hidden parts of the tombstone inscriptions on the site of the Çufut-Qal‘eh Jewish cemetery, in walking distance from Bâkhçe-Sarây, the former capital of the Crimean Tatar Khans of the Girây dynasty. Fascinating discoveries began to appear, many of them immediately recognized as forgeries by European Jewish scholars.21 The next year Firkowicz went to the Caucasus and there he encountered the Iranian-speaking “Mountain Jews,” whom he described in a way similar to the ways in which valiant members of the Lost Tribes were imagined by medieval Jewish travelers and adventurers. This is how the myth of the “Mountain Jews” as a “militant Israel” was born. Following Firkowicz’s descriptions in search of an alternative to the Jewish misery and deprivation, Jews of Eastern Europe became fascinated with the strong and arm-bearing Mountain Jews sport- ing exotic Biblical names and ignorant of the Talmud, exactly as some of the maskilim and Reformists wanted Jews to become. (Actually, this myth is still alive: Ariel Sharon was said to be especially pleased when called behind his back a kavkazi, Israeli Hebrew for a “Mountain Jew”). In 1841, at Derbend in Daghestan, Firkowicz acquired a huge leather Torah scroll, very heavy, written in a Persian post-Mongol hand (now ms Evr i a 1 of the Russian National Library, Saint Petersburg). Now we can guess why this

University Press, 2002), 75. See Brian Boeck, “Stone of Contention: Medieval Tmutarakan’ as a Measure of Soviet Archeology in the 1950s and 1960s,” Ruthenica 4 (2005), 32–46. 20 For details, see Shimon Yakerson, “Potyomkin’s Torah Scroll: Evidence for a Khazar Provenance of the Crimean Jewry or the Story of a Historical Confusion?”, Eastern European Karaites in the Last Generations, Dan Shapira & Daniel Lasker (eds.) (Jerusalem: Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2011), 130–40. 21 See Dan Shapira, “Yitshaq Sangari, Sangarit, Bezalel Stern, and Avraham Firkowicz: Notes on Two Forged Inscriptions,” Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi 12 (2002–2003), 223–260; a Russian version in Materialy po Arxeologii, Istorii i Etnografii Tavrii 10 (Simferopol, 2003), 535–55; “Jicxak Sangari, Sangarit, Becalel’ Štern i Avraam Firkovič: istorija dvux poddel’nyx nadpisej / Yitshaq Sangari, Sangarit, Bezalel Stern and Avraham Firkowicz: Moscow, 2003), 363–88) 3–2 ,הקבלות The History of Two Forged Inscriptions,” Paralleli [a slightly different Russian version]; see also “Indeed Ancestral Tombs?—Historical Data and their Modification in the Tombstone Inscriptions of Abraham Firkowicz,” Pe’amim 98–99 (Winter-Spring, 2004), 261–318. On Firkowicz, Forgeries and Forging Jewish Identities 163

Torah scroll was sold to Firkowicz: I have recently found documents from the Avraham Harkavy Archive now in the George Vernadsky Ukrainian National Library in Kiev, according to which the so-called Derbend Scroll was brought from Iran in the early nineteenth century by an Iranian Jew named Dimašqi (of Damascus), who tried to sell it there, but the scroll was found pâsūl (improper in terms of halacha).22 On the last folio of ms Evr i a 1 is the so-called Derbend Document. The text of the marginal inscription at the end of Deuteronomy looks old, authentic, and quite clear. The hand is not Persian (and it should not be, according to the logic of the contents). The end of the marginal note is smirched and one cannot decipher it without recourse to the printed copy based on the reading of Firkowicz. The contents of this “document,” apparently written by Firkowicz himself, are sensational: they tell about Hebrews of Judea who came to the help of their Israeli brethren in Samaria, and were taken with them into Assyrian captivity. There they learned the Median language (the author of the “document” thought that this “Median” was a kind of Azeri), then Cambyses gave them the Crimea as a gift and they taught the local folks their “Median”. This is why the Crimean Tatars speak what they speak. Then the Khazars appear on the scene in this “document”: Prince Wolodimir the Saint asks the Karaite prince David of the Crimea to send him rabbis (this motif is apparently taken from the Russian Primary Chronicle, with a wrong date as it was usual in the 1840s),23 and so on. This concoction became one of the cornerstones of Firkowicz’s theories, together with the tombstone inscriptions from the Crimea, where Firkowicz “found” graves of the people mentioned in this text and forged colophons and marginalia, supposedly written by the people buried in Çufut-Qal‘eh and Mangup, on pretty old Biblical manuscripts he actually collected in various places in the 1840s.24

22 Cf. D. Vasyutinski and D.D.Y. Shapira, “A Report on the Personal Archive of A. Harkavy,” Ginzei Qedem [Hebrew; forthcoming]. The quotation is from a thick notebook written by Firkowicz himself, at an unknown date. The notebook was read thoroughly by Harkavy, as is evident from his handwritten notes, and compared to the text of the printed Introduction of Aḇney Zikkaron published by Firkowicz at Wilna in 1872. 23 The chronology of the earlier part of the Russian Primary Chronicle (see Nora Kershaw Chadwick, The Beginnings of Russian History: An Enquiry into Sources, Cambridge University Press, 1946; Samuel Hazzard Cross and Olgerd Sherbowitz-Wentzor (trs.), The Russian Primary Chronicle: Laurentian Text, (Cambridge, ma: Medieval Academy of America, 1953) is all wrong; this fact was established by scholars as late as the early twentieth century. 24 On Firkowicz, see The Tombstones of the Cemetery of the Karaite Jews in Çufut-Qal‘eh (the Crimea). Report of the Ben-Zvi Institute Expedition. A Collection of Studies, Dan D.Y. Shapira 164 Shapira

It was thirty years after he had begun to study tombstone inscriptions that Firkowicz published his book, Abnei Zikkaron (“The Stones of Rememberance”),25 in Wilna (Vilnius), in 1872. There are 564 inscriptions from the Çufut-Qal‘eh cemetery. Of those published some four hundred still exist in the area of the cemetery; dozens have been lost since then, and a few never existed and were created by Firkowicz “on paper” only.26 In quite a few of the cases, he created “doubles” of the same inscription publishing them twice and ascribing them to different dates, with gaps of hundreds of years. Among those published, some 160—about a third of all of them—have a date formed from a Hebrew Biblical verse (chronogram); almost all of these existing tombstones were published by Firkowicz. These inscriptions are characterized by the fact that counting the date depends on the purely arbitrary choice of the word whose letters are to be counted. Hebrew letters are used when appearing as the first letter in the date, stands for ,ה / also as digits; h ;stands for 300 ,ש / stands for 400; š ,ת / stands for 4000; t ,ד / while d ,5000 means 5000 השלג / for 100. For instance, hšlg ,ק / stands for 200, and q ,ר / r ה / h) + 300 (š) + 30 (l) + 3 (g), that is, 5333. However, the Hebrew letters h) are sometimes very similar in writing, and, in many cases, Firkowicz ת / and t changed h to t, gaining thus 600 more years than the real date was: t cannot count for thousands, unlike h; if h is not the first digit of the date, the

(ed.) (Ben-Zevi Institute, Jerusalem 2008), 1–81, and D. Shapira, Avraham Firkowicz in Istanbul (1830–1832): Paving the Way for Turkic Nationalism, (Ankara: KaraM Publishing Co, 2003); on Firkowicz in the Caucasus see D. Shapira, “Kak nabljudatel’ transformiruet nabljudaemyj objekt: A. Firkovič na Kavkaze v 1840 g. i v 1849–1850 gg. i ego vlijanie na gorskikh jevreev” [“How an Observer Changes the Observed: Avraham Firkowicz in the Caucasus, 1840–41 and 1849–50, and His Impact on the Mountain Jews”], Judaica Rossica, iv (Moscow, 2006), 8–30; on the “Derbend Document” and its “twin” see D. Shapira, “The Mejelis ‘Document’ and Tapani Harviainen: On Scholarship, Firkowicz and Forgeries,” Omeljan Pritsak Armağanı/A Tribute to Omeljan Pritsak, ed. by Mehmet Alpargu and Yücel Öztürk, (Sakarya 2007), 303–393; a shorter version: idem, “Remarks on Avraham Firkowicz and the Hebrew Mejelis ‘Document’,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae, 59:2 (2006), 131–80; on other documents forged by Firkowicz, see idem., “Nynešneje sos- tojanije pripisok rukopisej Pervoj Kollekcii Firkoviča,” Proceedings of the 11th International Conference on Jewish Studies, Part 1, (Moscow, 2004), 102–30 [Russian: “The Present State of Some Colophons and Marginalia on the Bible Manuscripts in the First Firkowicz Collection,” sefer International Conference, vol. 1, (Moscow, 2004), 102–30]. 25 Even the title is plagiarized from Abnei Zikkaron, Prague, 1841, by Samuel David Luzzatto (1800–1865), in which the tomb inscriptions from the cemetery of Toledo were published. 26 From the period between the years 1607–1698 only 15 inscribed tombstones are missing, while from the period between the years 262–1178 ce, according to Firkowicz, of course, there are 86 missing inscribed tombstones. On Firkowicz, Forgeries and Forging Jewish Identities 165 reader should assume that the thousands are simply implied, while not indi- ,becomes 400+300+30+3 תשלג / being changed to tšlg השלג / cated; hšlg thus 733, and it is up to the reader to decide the millennium. Another example: ht means 5400 (=1639/40 ce), where h stands for the thousands; 1839/40 was the Jewish year of htr / 5600; the changed date tt would be equal to 800, and without the thousand would belong to the former Jewish millennium, year 1039/40 ce. Dates beginning with hq belong to the years after 1339/40; dates beginning with hr belong to the years after 1439/40; dates beginning with hš belong to the years after 1539/40. Among the tomb inscriptions published by Firkowicz and still existing, dated by the usual way of substituting Hebrew letters for dates, 124 have the date beginning in ht (5400 or 400); 33 beginning in tt (800); 2 beginning in hr (5200 or 200); 12 beginning in tr (600); 19 in hš (5300 or 300); 46 beginning in tš (700); 81 beginning in tq (500); one (and, maybe two more) beginning in hq (5100 or 100). In this way, Firkowicz changed the dates of the deaths of many dozens of Crimean Jews from the seventeenth-eighteenth to the seventh to twelfth centuries, which supported his ideas about the Karaite history in the peninsula. In several cases, Firkowicz published inscriptions changing the names of the deceased or parts of the dates, adding or skipping words or even whole lines;27 but only in a couple of cases did Firkowicz (or, his associate[s]) create a completely new inscription.28 Firkowicz created composite connections between the persons whose tomb inscriptions he had changed and forged, supplying them with new biographies, ascribing them books they had never written, and, in many cases, forging on Biblical scrolls their signatures and texts presumably written by them. Was he a forger? Yes, but . . . We would possibly consider him as a writer of fantasy literature working with real objects in times when the

27 This form of forgery is especially attested in the case of the “Yerushalmi Family,” totally invented by Firkowicz, see The Tombstones of the Cemetery of the Karaite Jews in Çufut- Qal‘eh (the Crimea). Report of the Ben-Zvi Institute Expedition. A Collection of Studies, Dan D.Y. Shapira (ed.), Ben-Zvi Institute (Jerusalem, 2008 [Hebrew]), 218–32; D. Shapira, “Indeed Ancestral Tombs?—Historical Data and their Modification in the Tombstone Inscriptions of Abraham Firkowicz,” Pe’amim 98–99 (Winter-Spring 2004), 261–318. 28 D. Shapira, “Yitshaq Sangari, Sangarit, Bezalel Stern, and Avraham Firkowicz: Notes on Two Forged Inscriptions,” Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi 12 (2002–2003), 223–260; a Russian version in Materialy po Arxeologii, Istorii i Etnografii Tavrii 10 (Simferopol, 2003), 535–555; “Jicxak Sangari, Sangarit, Becalel' Štern i Avraam Firkovič: istorija dvux poddel'nyx nadpisej / Yitshaq Sangari, Sangarit, Bezalel Stern and Avraham Firkowicz: The History of -Moscow 2003); 363–88 [a slightly differ) 3–2 ,הקבלות Two Forged Inscriptions,” Paralleli ent Russian version]. 166 Shapira modern secular Hebrew literature did not even exist, let alone have any kind of genres. A Jewish Tolkien with a chisel before there was any modern Jewish literature at all—what a role! The new “separatist” version of the East European Karaite mythology as con- strued by Firkowicz (and, partially, by the aforementioned Sultanski and others), maintains that the origins of the East European Karaites are different from those of the rest of the Jews. This myth is based on the text of the “Derbend and Mejelis documents” and on the evidence of the forged tombstone inscriptions from Çufut-Qal‘eh and Mangup. According to this myth, the East European Karaites are an ancient branch of the Jews of Judaea and Israel—not the Lost Tribes!29—who, separated from the rest of Israel in the eighth century bce, had no contacts with the rest of the Jews until 1000 ce.30 Thus, they were not to be blamed for Jesus’ blood and were not morally spoiled by the Talmud and other heresies of the Second Commonwealth period—echoing the old fears of the Karaites living in the Christian realms. Firkowicz was a high-profile public figure in the Russian Empire during the epochs of Kasernen-Aufklärung of Nicholas i (1825–1855) and of the Great Reforms of Alexander ii (1855–1881). He was a Karaite Jew who was faithful to his religious and cultural heritage, who regarded his community as the only remnant of verus Israel and who sought ways of ensuring the survival of his small community in a large and threatening world. It was not that the Karaites, God forbid, were not Jews in his eyes—on the contrary!—but the name of a few thousand true Jews was usurped by millions of Rabbanite heretics and infidels. Finally, he got tired of explaining to the unscrupulous Gentiles the difference and gave up accepting the cruel rules of reality. In the 1860s, when

29 The theory of the Karaite origins in the Lost Tribes goes back to Gustaf Peringer and English millenarians, cf. P.B. Fenton, “The European Discovery of Karaism in the Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries,” Karaite Judaism. A Guide to the Literary Sources of Medieval and Modern Karaite Judaism, M. Polliack (ed.) (Brill: Leiden, 2003), 3–7, esp. 4; M. Kizilov, Karaites through the Travelers’ Eyes. Ethnic History, Traditional Culture and Everyday Life of the Crimean Karaites According to Descriptions of the Travelers, (New York: al-Qirqisani Center: 2003), 70. 30 This is what Firkowicz claimed in his Abney Zikkaron; this contradicts the contents of the “Derbend Document” (until the early seventh century). Previous scholars did not pay attention to this contradiction. On Firkowicz’ own view of the Karaite past, as non- related to the Lost Tribes, see D.D.Y. Shapira, “Indeed Ancestral Tombs?—Historical Data and their Modification in the Tombstone Inscriptions of Abraham Firkowicz,” Pe’amim 98–99 (Winter-Spring 2004), 261–318 [Hebrew]; compare D. Shapira, “From ‘Our Exile’ to Sichem: Abraham Firkowicz visits the Samaritans,” Cathedra 104 (June 2002), 85–94 [Hebrew]. On Firkowicz, Forgeries and Forging Jewish Identities 167 it seemed a matter of a number of years before all the Jews would gain equal rights—which indeed happened only after February 1917—he felt terrified by the possibility that the Karaites would be again placed on the same legal footing as the Rabbanites. He frequently used double talk, like telling the Polish traveler and essayist, Władisław Kondratowicz-Syrokomla (who turned Firkowicz, in his popular booklet Wycieczki po Litwie w promieniach od Wilna [“Travels in Lithuania around Wilna”], Wilno 1857, into a cultural hero), about martial pride of the Lithuanian Karaites, who had allegedly formed the Lithuanian Grand Dukes’ special guard and at the same very time trying to convince the local Russian authorities of the same city of Wilna, that the Karaites were traditionally permitted by the Grand Dukes not to take arms under any circumstances, for their religion prohibits them to do so.31 What was left of Firkowicz’ heritage? Firkowicz has helped, unwillingly, to promote proto-Zionist tendencies among his foes, the Ashkenazic Rabbanite Jews. As already mentioned, the fact that the Autoemancipation, with its appeal to take the Jewish destiny into the Jews’ own hands and to not wait for the Czar’s emancipation, was written in 1882 by Leon Pinsker, the son of Firkowicz’s life-long friend and colleague, Śimhah Pinsker, is of immense importance for understanding modern Jewish history. But there was more: the Crimea (and some adjacent regions) was the only part of the Russian Empire where flavors of European antiquity—Hellenistic cities and graves of kings known from the Roman history books, like Mithridates—and of the Middle Ages—Genoese fortresses and churches, Mediterranean vistas, and Riviera- like resorts and red wines were found. Somewhere Sarmatians, Goths and one Roman Pope were buried. The land kept traces, however deceptive, elaborated by Firkowicz’s works, of Biblical Jewish past, too. This is how the “myth of the Crimea,” also called “the Russian Palestine,” arose. The mystique of the Crimea worked on Russians and Jews alike: the Russians wished to establish their past common with other European nations and touch their Mediterranean cultural origins; the Jews wished to re-communicate the nobler versions of their Biblical past. For the Jews, this myth was ultimately created by Firkowicz. It is not a mere stroke of destiny that the poet in the Hebrew language called by many as “the most non-Jewish,” “neo-pagan” and “pantheist,” Shaul Tschernichowsky (1875–1943), translator of Greek classics (including Homer), Kalevala, Igor’s Lay and the Epic of Gilgamesh into Hebrew, was born in a Jewish agricultural colony of Mikhailiwka in the area of the Crimea. In the 1920s, many Jews were

31 See D.D.Y. Shapira, “Polish Sarmatism, Turkism, and ‘Jewish szlachta’: Some Reflections on a Cultural Context of the Polish-Lithuanian Karaites,” Kara Deniz Araştırmaları 20 (2009), 29–43. 168 Shapira resettled in the Crimea in the agricultural colonies, many of them—like Tel- Hay, Maayan, Mishmar and Khaqlay belonging to the pro-Communist Zionist youth movement He-Halutz (which became legal in 1923), with the proclaimed goal to prepare the Jewish youth for the agricultural colonization of Palestine. The American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (jdc, or joint) set up a branch in the ussr called Agrojoint, which established the Society for Settling Working Jews on the Land, or ozet, which was active mostly in the Crimea between 1925 and 1938. Jurij Larin/Lurje (1882–1932), a native of Simferopol in the Crimea, high-ranking Soviet official and father-in-law of Nikolaj Bukharin, created around 1926 a program of settling Jews in agricultural colonies in the Crimea, with the aim of establishing a Jewish Soviet Socialist Republic stretch- ing from Abkhazia to Kherson. In 1927, some pro-Communist members of the Gedud ha‘Avodah in Palestine, disillusioned of Zionism, left for the ussr led by Menahem-Mendel Elkind (a native of the Crimea; 1897–1938), where they set up an Esperantist communal farm in the Crimea, Via Nova (forcibly disbanded in 1931/32). During the Holocaust, all the Jewish population of the Crimea was anni- hilated, with the exception of the Karaites, who were spared because of a combination of Realpolitik, idiosyncrasies of the Nazi race politics, successful lobbying, and so on. This is a fascinating story with too many important ramifications which cannot be told here. In February 1944, the plan of resettling the Jewish survivors of what was to be called the Holocaust from Belorussia and of establishing a Jewish republic in the Crimea reemerged during the talks between American ambassador William Averell Harriman and Stalin. One of the results of these talks was the total expulsion, on May 18, 1944, of the Crimean Tatars and some other minorities from the Crimea. However, the Karaites, despite the pro-Nazi collaboration of many of them, were spared from exile,32 for they were regarded Jewish enough to be made part of the presumed Jewish republic.33 Nothing came out of this plan, for by June/July 1944 Stalin lost interest in a Jewish Crimea. However, the talks about transferring

32 On the Karaites during the Holocaust see Kiril Feferman, “The Fate of the Karaites in the Crimea during the Holocaust,” Eastern European Karaites in the Last Generations, Dan D.Y. Shapira and Daniel J. Lasker (eds.), Ben-Zvi Institute for the Study of Jewish Communities in the East (Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem) and the Center for the Study of Polish Jewry and its Culture (The Hebrew University of Jerusalem: Jerusalem, 2011), 171–91 [English section]. 10 הקבלות / Compare A. Libin & D.D.Y. Shapira, “Stalin’s Khazar Paradigm,” Paralleli 33 (Moscow 2008), 111–60 [Russian]. On Firkowicz, Forgeries and Forging Jewish Identities 169

Jews to the Crimea brought about an interesting transformation, the Marshall Plan, of which the ussr was not a part. Establishing of the State of Israel put an end to the Jewish romance with the Crimea. In Eastern Europe, however, after Firkowicz had long become history, new modifications of the Karaite myth arose, according to which there is no connection between the Jews and the “Karaim” (=Karaites) whatsoever, and the latter are descendents of the Khazars, Qıpčaqs, the Mongol Keraites, and so on. Firkowicz, according to this de-Judaizing version, was just a fanatical Jewish clerical obscurantist who tried to impose an imagined Hebraic past on the humble shamanistic Turkic Karaim.34 This is the version current nowadays, after the collapse of the Communist Empire in Eastern Europe where sometimes everything goes . . .

34 Cf. D.D.Y. Shapira, “A Jewish Pan-Turkist: Serayah Szapszał’s Qırım Qaray Türkleri,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 58:4 (2005), 349–80.

Part 3 “Ancient” Objects: Fakes and Fantasies

∵

chapter 10 Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries*

János György Szilágyi

σοφώτατον χρόνος, ἀνεύρισκει γὰρ πάντα “Wisest is time, for he brings everything to light” Thales, Diog. Laert. 1.35

Thanks to the work of two great historians of modern art, Hans Tietze and Max Friedländer, the study of art forgeries and fakes has ceased to be a matter of concern only to dealers, connoisseurs, collectors, and antiquarians, and acquired real interest for historians, psychologists and sociologists of art.1 But although it illustrates the importance of the topic and its potential as a field of research, the work of Tietze and Friedländer has not yet inspired anyone to write the history of art forgery itself as a complex cultural phenomenon.2 There were and still are researchers who decline to publish detailed accounts of their work on forgeries for the reason, clearly sound, that any account of

* This article is the English version (translated by Péter Agócs and proofread by Marianna Dági) of Legbölcsebb az idő. Antik vázák hamisítványai (Budapest: Corvina, 1987) (repr. in János György Szilágyi, Szirénzene: ókortudományi tanulmányok, Budapest: Osiris, 2005, 145– 75). Neither the author, nor the editors or the translator or the proofreader disciples could undertake to update the essay with the general literature of the past 25 years, or to bring the bibliography up to date; still, they believe the documentation and the argument are valid without that. [Ed.] 1 Max J. Friedländer, Echt und Unecht (Berlin: Cassirer, 1929), 19–33; Idem, Von Kunst und Kennerschaft (Oxford-Zürich: Cassirer & Oprecht), 1946, 235–43; Hans Tietze, “The Psychology and Aesthetics of Forgery in Art,” Metropolitan Museum Studies 5 (1934), 1–19. 2 Of the older literature, one of the best books is Otto Kurz, Falsi e falsari (Venice: Neri Pozza, 1961), the most readable is Frank Arnau, Kunst der Fälscher, Fälscher der Kunst (Düsseldorf: Econ, 1959). An informative work on ancient art forgery is Eberhard Paul, Die falsche Göttin. Geschichte der Antikenfälschung (Leipzig: Koehler & Amelang, 1962); cf. the revised second edition: Gefälschte Antike: von der Renaissance bis zur Gegenwart, ibid., 1981; see also the brief survey by Domenico Mustilli, s. v. ‘Falsificazione’, in Enciclopedia dell’Arte Antica (Rome: Ist. della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1961), iii, 576–89. For a complete list of the older literature, see Robert G. Reisner, Fakes and Forgeries in the Fine Arts (New York: Special Libraries Assoc., 1950); for the newer literature (including catalogues of the many exhibitions organized on the topic in the last three decades) see the bibliography by Bernd Schälicke in Heinz Althöfer (ed.), Fälschung und Forschung: Ausstellung (Essen: Folkwang Museum, 1976), 203–7.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_011 174 Szilágyi the methods used over time to detect fraud, and the changes those methods have undergone, might give a new and dangerous advantage to the forgers.3 But there is, perhaps, a more serious reason—the difficulty of defining the task of the scholar within the framework of such an endeavor. Any forger (and I use the term in the broadest possible sense, without pejorative emphasis) either directly (if, for example, he defines his work seriously or playfully as a kind of artistic creation) or indirectly (if he fits his work to the tastes and desires of a potential clientèle with intent to deceive) will always see and represent the art of his predecessors through the filter of a ruling canon (or at least an existing tendency) of taste in his own time, whether he believes in that canon or despises it, and whatever his reasons may have been for making the object he makes. His motives may be ironic and critical, or reflect the sacred conviction of a man like James Macpherson that if the songs of Ossian did not exist, they ought to have existed and hence should be invented; or, finally, restricted to a simple desire for profit. This organic (conscious or unconscious) dependence of the forgery on the circumstances and taste of the time when it was made is the primary reason why forgeries made with intent to deceive are successful in their own time (of the six vases discussed in the following pages, five were almost certainly purchased soon after they were made), and equally as certain to be unmasked as fakes in succeeding generations;4 which, growing up naturally in a state of contest with their immediate predecessors, are particularly sensitive to their real or imaginary faults and blindnesses. This explains (in a phenomenon now universally recognized) why art forgeries are categorized within the history of art in the periods to which they belong, rather than those they imitate. The same thing is of course true of literary forgeries. But this is only one part of the picture. Forgery is significant because (as Jorge Luis Borges, leaning not least upon T.S. Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” writes in his essay on Kafka)5 all forms of art, of whatever period, not only seek out but actively create their tradition and their ancestors. This is only to say that new art transforms and enriches with new features the image in our minds of work otherwise far from us in space and time.6

3 Adolf Greifenhagen, review of Eberhard Paul, Die falsche Göttin. Geschichte der Antikenfälschung. Gnomon 36 (1964), 715. 4 Tietze, “Psychology and Aesthetics,” 14; Friedländer, Von Kunst und Kennerschaft, 238. 5 Jorge Luis Borges, “Kafka and his precursors,” in Everything and Nothing, translated by Donald A. Yates (New York: New Directions, 1999); T.S. Eliot, “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” in The Sacred Wood. Essays on Poetry and Criticism (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1921). 6 In regard to ancient art, see Ernst Langlotz, Antike Kunst in heutiger Sicht (Frankfurt: Freies Deutsches Hochstift, 1973), 30–1, 56. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 175

This image in turn can never (and indeed, perhaps, should never) be entirely objective—because such objectivity would involve our attaining a perspective (real or possible) that is entirely divorced from and alien to our own time and culture. This would degrade to triviality our interest in cultures far from us in space and time. In fact, the business of studying or invoking the artworks of a past age, however we do it and for whatever reason (either as predecessors and forerunners of the art of our own time, or as fakes or objects of photographic or other kinds of reproduction),7 because it always naturally involves the “eye” or typical viewpoint of the observer or the whole community in whose name he evokes the work, inevitably means he will project onto the object and its time, or—more correctly—discover in the work and its age, whatever he wishes to find to legitimize and interpret that very point of view. For this reason, a history of forgery (as a kat’exochen act of invented tradition, whether to “good” purposes or “bad”) is not simply a mirror and critique of the forger and his age, but also involves telling the story of our own changing relationship to the originals. As such, it has much to tell about the myriad ways in which the forms of expression and artworks that serve as models to the forger are seen and realized through time. Almost every important forgery or group of forgeries—and this accounts for their peculiar and special share in the history of invented tradition—casts a different light on, and, once recognized, opens new routes to understanding what is open to imitation in a historical period, style, master, or work, and also what is inimitable. This judgment is naturally sustained and circumscribed by the situation of the person who detects the forgery, and the time to which he belongs—which is to say that it will not express the whole truth, but only part of the truth about the forgery and the models upon which it is based. In order to attain the most complete possible understanding of these issues, the historian of forgery must therefore attempt, breaking with the inherently absurd demand for absolute objectivity, to reach a kind of empathic re-creation of the intellectual atmosphere that gave birth to both the original and the forgery. He must approach both the model and its age or style, and that of the fake, with equal sensitivity, even as he remains the citizen of a third time, his own, engaged in trying to understand the implications of his subject for contemporary life. This is why forgery, as a topic of research, is never-ending. To the extent that one refuses to limit the scholar’s task to the mere detection of forgery (a term whose meaning, as we will see, is fraught with great problems), a second task comes increasingly to the fore: namely that of uncovering the intellectual atmosphere in which the forgery came to be, the circumstances of its making, its creative aspects and non-material features and

7 Tietze, “Psychology and Aesthetics,” 10, n. 10. 176 Szilágyi motivations, and together with this (indeed, inseparably from it) to replace the old picture of the model and its artistic and social context assumed in the forgery, and revealed as out of date by the unmasking of the latter, with a new one that speaks directly to us. Finally, if it is necessary, the scholar must attempt to think about the whole phenomenon of art forgery in a new way by placing it in a changed conceptual framework. But this is also the chief attraction of the subject. It is not merely, or even primarily, as a challenge for the expert in the field in which he claims privileges of insight, but rather as a contest played out within our very selves that fakes are interesting. They force us to wrestle with the hold on us of a past exceeded and transcended, and teach us to recognize and separate what is lasting and valuable in the fake from what, since it is tied to the object’s own time and world, has no place in ours. Each such recognition, or move in the game, is a step forward on the path to understanding what it is in art, both of our own world and of older times, that we are able to recognize as relevant to us, as a forerunner of what we say and hear (or wish to say and hear) in the art of our own time. The following pages, using as examples six fake ancient vases in the Classical Antiquities Collection of the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts, aim to give a modest illustration of this infinitely large and constantly increasing field, before wrapping up with a meditation on contemporary aspects of art forgery.

From the Time of Goethe (Palinode)

As Hans Tietze’s well-known obiter dictum states, the magical power of most fakes, and hence their effective lifespan, is broken after about a generation.8 If this applies not only to the actual moment of production but also to the first publication of a work, then it is time to return to the amphora which in 1949 was the subject of my first archaeological paper (Figs. 10.1 and 10.2).9 The vase (22.4 cm in height; inventory number T.684) belongs to a class of amphora (the so-called “Nolan” type) well attested in Attic pottery. It is a particular variant of

8 Kurz, Falsi e falsari (as n. 2 above) 347–8. 9 Bulletin du Musée Hongrois des Beaux-Arts 3 (1949), 1–6; the vase has also been included in several iconographic lists, e.g. Frank Brommer, Vasenlisten zur griechischen Heldensage (Marburg: Elwert, 1956), 7, no. 80 and 22, no. 10 (it was excluded from the third edition after a warning from me); Dietrich von Bothmer, Amazons in Greek Art (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957), 49, 118. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 177

Figure 10.1 Attic black-figure amphora with fake decoration. Side A: Herakles and Apollo fight for the Delphic tripod. Budapest, Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. no. T.684. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus).

Figure 10.2 B side of vase in Figure 10.1: Herakles fights the Amazons. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus). 178 Szilágyi

Figure 10.3 Attic black-figure amphora, Bernisches Historisches Museum, inv. no. 12486. Courtesy of the Bernisches Historisches Museum (photo S. Rebsa).

the shape10 characterized by relatively small size, an echinus mouth (which is there on the Budapest piece as well) and disk-shaped base: examples range in date from about 490 to about 430 bce. The triple handles on the Budapest vase are characteristic of earlier pieces, while the base is more often left unpainted on later examples;11 this distinction, however, is not absolutely binding. Black- glazed examples without any figural or ornamental decoration are quite common (Fig. 10.3).12 The Budapest vase was originally one of these: its figural and

10 On the shape, clearly differentiating the other, more closely or distantly related variants of the Attic amphora, see John D. Beazley, Attic Red-figured Vases in American Museums (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 1918, 37; cf. Idem, Greek Vases in Poland (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1928), 6–7, n. 4 and Idem, The Berlin Painter (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1964), 8; Brian A. Sparkes – Lucy Talcott, Black and Plain Pottery (The Athenian Agora, vol. xii) (Princeton: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1970), 46–7. 11 Beazley, Attic Red-figured Vases as above. 12 Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum [henceforth: cva] Oxford 1 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1927), pl. 48, 23; cva Altenburg 2, pl. 80, 1; cva Norway 1, pl. 51, 3. An example completely identical with the Budapest vase: Ines Jucker, Aus der Antikensammlung des Bernischen Historischen Museums (Bern: Francke, 1970), pl. 33, no. 74 (Fig. 10.1). Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 179 ornamental decoration has proved to be entirely modern. It was made using a very tricky technique used, for the most part, to produce red-figure paintings on black-glazed vases. For the red portions of the design, the black glaze was scraped away in a thin layer until the natural color of the clay was reached. The slight but palpable depression on the surface could then be filled with plaster and overpainted with reddish orange to match the color of the clay (Figs. 10.4 and 10.5).13

Figure 10.4 Attic black-glazed lekythos. Budapest Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. no. 79.1.A. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus).

13 Heinz Luschey, “Fälschungen und Verfälschungen attisch-rotfiguriger Vasen,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 5 (1952) 76–9. There is another red-figure vase in the holdings of the Déri Museum in Debrecen which was made using an Attic lekythos dating from c. 480–460 bce (Fig. 10.5); inv. ii.8, ht. 21.3 cm; Frigyes Déri, A debreceni Déri Múzeum gyűjteményeinek leírása [Description of the collections of the Déri Museum in Debrecen] (Debrecen: Debreczen Szab. Kir. Város és Tiszántúli Ref. Egyházkerület Könyvnyomda-Vállalata, 1922), 62 no. 8. The vase’s original appearance is shown by a lekythos in the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts (inv. 79. 1. A; ht. 19.5 cm) (Fig. 10.4). A black-figure skyphos made with the same technique: Norbert Kunisch, in Fälschung und Forschung (as in n. 2 above), 30–1, no. 23. 180 Szilágyi

Figure 10.5 Attic black-glazed lekythos with fake picture. Debrecen, Déri Múzeum, inv. no. II.8 (photo Tihamér Lukács).

The fact that the black glaze is obviously original diverted attention from another very striking fact: namely that the black-figure painting on the belly is accompanied, in a manner utterly atypical for the original group, by a red-figure palmette ornament on the neck.14 But once doubts had arisen, it became clear during the restorer’s first examination of the vase that only the black parts of the surface are authentic. It became clear, after the first-hand study of a lekythos in Vienna (Fig. 10.6) where the scene of Heracles fighting for the Delphic tripod is shown in the same way as on the A side of the Budapest vase (with Artemis and Athena behind Apollo and Heracles), that we are dealing here not with two closely related variants of the same pictorial subject, but rather that the picture on the Budapest vase was directly copied, and with the greatest possible care, from the Vienna lekythos. Small changes were necessary only because the picture field of the amphora was narrower than the part of the lekythos available for decoration. For this reason, the ring-shaped handle

14 On the class of vases imitated here, whose vase-paintings are by no means stylistically uniform, see: Stephen Bleecker Luce, “The Origin of the Shape of the ‘Nolan’ Amphora,” American Journal of Archaeology 20 (1916), 439–59; Fritz Hoeber, “Die attischen reif schwarzfigurigen Vasen von rotfigurigem Stil,” Monatshefte für Kunstwissenschaft 11 (1918), 42–6; Andreas Rumpf, Chalkidische Vasen (Berlin-Leipzig: de Gruyter, 1927), 120. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 181

Figure 10.6 Attic black-figure lekythos. Herakles and Apollo fight for the Delphic tripod. Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum, inv. no. IV. 198, with the kind permission of the Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien.

on the top edge of the tripod had to be slipped in under Apollo’s arm, while the altar was moved from its original place at the centre of the composition to just in front of Apollo’s feet;15 the disappearance of Athena’s spear, on the other hand, was probably just inattention. The Vienna lekythos is the work of the Gela Painter,16 an artist especially fond of the tripod-theft subject. Several versions of the theme are known from his hand.17 The altar with a fire burning on top is a characteristic motif

15 The picture: Caroline H. Emilie Haspels, Attic Black-figured Lekythoi (Paris: de Boccard, 1936), pl. 24, 1. 16 Haspels, as above, Appendix viii, 16; cf. on the vase Heinrich Heydemann, “Die Phylakendarstellungen auf bemalten Vasen,” Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 1 (1886), 310; and Stephen Bleecker Luce, “Studies of the Exploits of Herakles on Vases: ii. The Theft of the Delphic Tripod,” American Journal of Archaeology 34 (1930), 327, no. 100, with earlier bibliography. 17 Haspels, as above, 84; Dietrich von Bothmer, “The Struggle for the Tripod,” in Festschrift für F. Brommer, Ursula Höckmann & Antje Krug (eds.) (Mainz: von Zabern, 1977), 53. On the painter’s tripod-theft pictures, see Luce, as above American Journal of Archaeology 34 (1930), 313–3; Frank Brommer, Vasenlisten zur griechische Heldensage, 3rd edition 182 Szilágyi of his vase-paintings18 which occurs in several of his depictions of this theme, too.19 The Vienna vase, like most pieces by the Gela Painter with known provenance, came from Sicily or southern Italy. The earliest known trace is a drawing by Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein, a friend of Goethe and painter of his famous portrait, in the unpublished fifth volume of his collection of engravings of ancient vase-paintings, which became generally known after Salomon Reinach published a reproduction.20 In this volume, Tischbein reproduced not the vases of William Hamilton, as in the earlier volumes, but partly his own collection and partly pieces in the possession of Count Franz Anton von Lamberg which also came from South Italian or Sicilian sites. The Lamberg Collection was acquired in 1815 by the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna: according to the catalogue, the lekythos arrived in the Museum at this time, although it may earlier have been the property of Tischbein.21 The Budapest vase was not modeled on Tischbein’s engraving but on the original, since unlike Tischbein, for whom the clarity of the external contours and the clarity of the drawing was everything, the forger carefully tried to indicate the richness of internal detail in the figures and their clothing. The exact source of the Amazon fight scene on the B side is unknown (Fig. 10.2).22 It may be that the composition, like that on the A side, copies an ancient vase now either lost or destroyed, but it may also represent a treatment

(Marburg: Elwert, 1973), 38–46; Idem et al., Denkmälerlisten zur griechischen Heldensage i (Marburg: Elwert, 1971), 37–40. Robert Flacelière and Pierre Devambez, Héracles, images et récits (Paris: de Boccard, 1966), 93–5; Bothmer, “The Struggle for the Tripod,” 51–63. 18 “The painter’s well-known altar”: Jaap M. Hemelrijk, “The Gela Painter in the Allard Pierson Museum,” Bulletin Antieke Beschaving 49 (1974), 136; cf. in his article pl. 12, 47, and 49 (the vase in the last reproduction was attributed by Beazley to the Gela Painter). 19 Bothmer, “The Struggle for the Tripod,” 53. 20 Salomon Reinach, Répertoire des vases peints grecs et étrusques ii2 (Paris: Leroux, 1924), 342, pl. 28; on vol. v of Tischbein’s work, see ibid., 334; and earlier Heydemann, (as n. 16, above) 308–13; on the rest, see esp. 308; see also Wolfgang Sörrensen, Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein. Sein Leben und seine Kunst (Berlin-Stuttgart: Spemann, 1910), 91–2. 21 Cf. Eduard von Sacken – Friedrich Kenner, Sammlung des k.k. Münz- und Antiken- Cabinetes (Wien: Braumüller, 1866), 17 (on the lekythos see 166, no. 102). According to the catalogue, the vase arrived in Vienna from the Lamberg Collection, but it does not figure in Laborde’s reproductions of the collection (Reinach, Répertoire, 164–250), even though the second volume of that set was published in 1824, well after the collection had arrived in Vienna. Because of the vases reproduced in vol. v of Tischbein’s work, pieces not only from the Lamberg collection, but also Tischbein’s own collection ended up in Vienna; it is possible that the catalogue here is mistaken. 22 Bothmer, Amazons in Greek Art (as n. 9, above), 48–51, discusses surviving representations in detail, but the only parallel for Heracles fighting with his club lowered (pl. 39, 4) cannot Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 183

Figure 10.7 Detail of an Athenian black-figure amphora. Heracles fights the Amazons. Napoli, Museo Nazionale, inv. 2750, by permission of the Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici di Napoli e Pompei.

of the subject improvised after known pieces (Fig. 10.7). Free composition based on Greek vase-paintings was a favorite exercise in art education at the beginning of the nineteenth century.23 The model for the ornamental motif on the neck was probably the shoulder-decoration of the Vienna lekythos. The moment when the pictures on the Budapest amphora were made must be sought within two temporal limits. The firmer of these is the terminus ante quem. In 1842 Gábor Fejérváry, the founder of the Fejérváry-Pulszky collection, most of which was auctioned off in Paris in 1868, had a series of watercolors made of objects in his collection by the Viennese painters Joseph Bucher and Wolfgang Böhm, and the amphora was among these.24 Pieces purchased in

have been the model for the picture on the amphora, either with regard to provenance (Athens) nor to its drawing. 23 See now Adolf Griefenhagen, “Zeichnungen nach etruskischen Vasen im Deutschen Archäologischen Institut, Rom,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 85 (1978), 81; Idem, Griechische Vasen auf Bildern des 19. Jahrhunderts. Sitzungsberichte der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch- historische Klasse, Jg. 1978, 4. Abh. (Heidelberg: Winter, 1978), 24. 24 This album, entitled Liber Antiquitatis, is now in the Collection of Classical Antiquity at the Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest; for a reproduction of the watercolor showing the vase, see my article “Une amphore attique au Musée des Beaux-Arts,” in Bulletin du Musée Hongrois des Beaux-Arts 3 (1949), 2. 184 Szilágyi

Naples and Vienna were equally common in the collection, but the amphora was probably acquired by the two collectors in Naples on their joint trip to Italy in 1833. The terminus post quem is clearly the sudden explosion of interest in collecting Greek vases at the end of the eighteenth century, an expression of Goethezeit classicism rooted in the work of Johann Joachim Winckelmann. For artists and collectors at this time, the main interest of the vases was in their subjects: particularly the scenes of classical mythology.25 Tischbein, in reproducing the pictures on his vases, showed a characteristic disregard for the materiality of the objects. His albums, which reproduce the painting but neglect the shape of the vase, reflect the spirit that led the maker of the Budapest vase to transfer an image from a lekythos to an amphora—although the change of shape may as in many later cases have had another motive as well: to make the forgery harder to detect. Whether the maker of the Budapest vase saw the Vienna lekythos when it was still in Italy or when it was already in Vienna cannot be decided from the data we have. It is at least certain, however, that he was well informed about the drawing of the ancient vase-painters and the techniques of the ancient potters, that he was well-trained (perhaps at the Academy in Naples under the directorship of Tischbein) and that he not only knew but understood the value as models of vase-paintings on ancient mythological subjects. With the Budapest amphora (particularly if the Amazon-fight scene is really his own composition), he left us one of the masterpieces of fake ancient art. His translation26 of the archaic formal idiom of the Gela Painter into the language of late-eighteenth and early nineteenth-century Classicism is attested most of all in the slight simplification of facial details, the elimination from the picture field of the ivy branches which disturbed the clarity of the composition, and, finally, a certain weakening of the tension of the original scene. But he lived and worked in contact with real ancient works, and he felt and preserved in his work much more of the spirit of archaic and early Classical Greek art than the pieces made in the Wedgwood workshop under John Flaxman’s direction, or in Sèvres under Jean-Jacques Lagrenée, which, reflecting the taste of a

25 See Kurz, Falsi e falsari (as n. 2 above); R.M. Cook, Greek Painted Pottery (London: Methuen, 19722), 290–1. On Winckelmann, see Nikolaus Himmelmann, Winckelmanns Hermeneutik, Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur Mainz. Abhandlungen der Geistes- und Sozialwissenchaftlichen Klasse, Jg. 1971, Nr. 12 (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1971), 14f. The aim of Hamilton was the same as that of Tischbein: to give models for the education of the next generation of artists; cf. Greifenhagen’s review of E. Paul (as n. 3, above), 714; Cook, Greek Painted Pottery, 290. 26 On art forgery as translation, see Kurz, Falsi e falsari (as n. 2 above), 351, ff. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 185

“secondary Classicism,” took Augustan classicizing art as their model. Our forger’s very boldness in breaking through the wall of this secondary Classicism,27 and his accompanying glance (however narrow in its horizons) at the real Archaic Greek art which lay beyond it, reflects the most important, though unconscious and not widely diffused, discovery this period made about ancient culture.

Naples fin de siècle

The two vases which follow carry us into a very different time and intellectual environment. Nostalgia for the South, which in the final decades of the nineteenth century developed into a boom economy of mass tourism, created a demand for imitation antiquities and replicas as gifts and souvenirs, especially in those circles of the European bourgeoisie whose enthusiasm for Italy’s ancient heritage was often wholly disproportionate to their taste and learning,28 and who were swept along without resistance by the cresting wave of Historicism. This phenomenon, which still exists and now makes itself felt in connection with other zones and cultures of the ancient world, led to the practice (still very much alive) of making (alongside pieces which showed no intent to deceive as replicas or imitations of ancient works, and which were often sold bearing the signature of the modern workshop or master)29

27 “Sein Schaffen, so viel Schönheit in ihm auch war, blieb eine Kunst aus zweiter Hand”; so Georg Treu in his fine and unfairly neglected essay on Thorvaldsen: Hellenische Stimmungen in der Bildhauerei einst und jetzt, (Leipzig: Dieterich, 1910) 22. On the Wedgwood workshop, see Hildegard Westhoff-Krummacher, “Als die Götter auf Tassen und Tellern erschienen,” in Die Archäologie. Graphische Bildnisse aus dem Porträtarchiv Diepenbroick, Katalog (Münster, 1983), 55–65. 28 On forgery as a way of filling the gap between demand and supply, see Tietze, “Psychology and Aesthetics” (as n. 1 above), 4. 29 On Angelo Scappini, the famous master from Tarquinia, see Georg Karo, “Orient und Hellas in archaischer Zeit,” Athenische Mitteilungen 45 (1920), 156; cf. Darrell A. Amyx, “The Case of the Dunadin Painter,” California Studies in Classical Antiquity 1 (1968), 14, n. 3, and Bothmer, “The Case of the Dunadin Painter: New Evidence,” ibid. 3 (1970), 42. Several signed copies or imitations of ancient works made in the nineteenth century in the spirit of historicism, are reproduced in the catalogue of Hermann Jedding and his colleagues: Hohe Kunst zwischen Biedermeier und Jugendstil: Historismus in Hamburg und Norddeutschland (Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe, Hamburg 1977), no. 368–9, 385–6; etc.; and Barbara Mundt, Historismus. Kunsthandwerk und Industrie im Zeitalter der Weltaustellungen, Kataloge des Kunstgewerbemuseums Berlin, 7 (Berlin 1973), nos. 1–34. 186 Szilágyi mechanical reproductions or more or less free-composed imitation antiquities designed to suit the median taste. Donald M. Bailey first called attention to one such Neapolitan workshop active in the last quarter of the nineteenth, and perhaps even the beginning of the twentieth century, whose products, techniques, date and place in the history of modern taste were then discussed in some detail by Eberhard Paul.30 Two pieces in the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts, a ram’s head rhyton (Figs. 10.8 and 10.9) and a plate with relief decoration, originate in this workshop,31 examples of whose various other wares are surely to be found in museums and private collections.32 Both vases are made from the ochre clay typical of the workshop, and are covered in dark grey paint. This paint comes off easily and without trouble from the plate, unlike the artificial rust-coloured patina which sticks tightly to the relief details. The workshop was set up for serial production. The vases were mould-made, which means that multiple, identical or almost identical examples exist of each given type. Apart from the three examples listed by Paul, at least six other examples of the ram’s head rhyton are known, all of which were made from the same pair of moulds—in Budapest, in Catanzaro, in Rouen, in the Milwaukee Art Center, in Haifa, and finally in a private collection in England.33 In the course of publishing the latter, Herbert Hoffman also managed to locate the (equally fake) silver rhyton from which the matrix used for every terracotta example had been made.34 The neck part

30 Donald M. Bailey, “A so-called Greek rhyton from London,” Antiquity 33 (1959), 218–9; Eberhard Paul, “Eine italienische Terracotta-Fälscherwerkstatt,” Klio 49 (1967), 329–47. Paul dates the workshop to the third quarter of the nineteenth century on stylistic grounds alone; this, however, seems unacceptably early. 31 The rhyton was acquired by the Museum in 1965 from a private collection; inv. no.: 65.92.A; length: 18,4 cm. The plate was in the collection of Vince Wartha (d. 1914), an expert on ceramics and Professor at the Budapest Polytechnical University, who probably purchased it in Italy; inv. no.: 50.268; ht.: 2.3 cm.; diam.: 12.9 cm. 32 See e.g., the two-headed plastic vase in the Seattle Art Museum (Cs. 20.20); on the askos group, see Sofia Pavlovna Boriskovskaya, Soobshchenia Gosudarstvennogo Eremitazha 39 (1974), 39–42. 33 Catanzaro, Museo Provinciale: cf. A. Oliver, Erasmus 19 (1967), 732, citing an illustration in the Museum’s Guida Illustrativa (1956), 37; Rouen, Musée des Antiquités 2028 (ht.: 19.7; w.: 11.5 cm.: photo: Centre J. Charbonneaux no. 9820208); Milwaukee: Art Quarterly 29 (1966), 173; English private collection: Herbert Hoffmann, Tarentine Rhyta (Mainz: von Zabern, 1966), 133–4 and pl. 62, 6; Idem., “Attic and Tarentine rhyta: Addendum,” in Studies in honour of Arthur Dale Trendall, Alexander Cambitoglou (ed.) (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 1979), 95. 34 Hoffmann, Tarentine Rhyta, 133 and pl. 62, 5; Idem, in Studies Trendall, (as above), 95. He recognized the original of the silver piece in a clay vase in Naples. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 187

Figures 10.8–10.9 Ram’s-head rhyton, fake. Budapest Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. no. 65.92 A. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus).

Figure 10.10 Greek stag’s-head rhyton. Budapest Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. no. T.664. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus).

of real ancient Greek animal-head terracotta rhyta was turned on the wheel, with moulds used only for the head part (Fig. 10.10); the mentioned pieces are, however, entirely mould-made. Traces of the joints where the two moulds met are visible in two places on the Budapest vase. The plate with relief decoration was also mould-made. It has a vine tendril running round the edge, and in the centre a Gorgoneion surrounded by ten dolphin-figures (Figs. 10.11 and 10.12). The two framing motifs are identical with the ones on a plate in Prague published by Paul,35 who does not, however, mention any examples of the Gorgoneion variant. But a piece in the collection

35 Paul, in Klio (as n. 30 above) 345, Fig. 9. 188 Szilágyi

Figures 10.11–10.12 Plate with relief decoration, fake. Budapest Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. no. 50.268. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus).

Figure 10.13 Plate with relief decoration, fake. Bryn Mawr College, E. Riegel Memorial Museum, inv. no. P-1767, image Courtesy of Bryn Mawr College Art and Artifact Collections.

of the E. Riegel Memorial Museum at Bryn Mawr College (inv. no. P-1767; Fig. 10.13) and a plate in the Museo Nazionale in Syracuse (inv. no. 24298) which is supposed to have come from Selinous, are from the same mould as the Budapest plate, and therefore share its dimensions.36 Of the dolphins, no two

36 I would like to express my deepest gratitude to Prof. Kyle Meredith Phillips for the photograph of the rhyton in the Bryn Mawr College collection. The Syracuse piece was invento- Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 189

Figure 10.14 Gorgon’s head from the bottom of the “Tazza Farnese”, ancient, of sardonyx. Napoli, Museo Nazionale, by permission of Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici di Napoli e Pompei.

are exactly alike: they were not, therefore, stamped separately onto the vase, but rather the whole relief decoration of the plate was made using a single mould. The dolphin-motif is so common in Hellenistic relief-pottery as to be trivial, while the vine tendril round the edge reminds one of the classicizing metal reliefs and their terracotta imitations, of the early Imperial Age.37 The Gorgon’s head with downward-slanting wings on the brow and snakes twisted together under the chin is a late variant of the “Medusa Rondanini” type.38 The soft and free plasticity of the hair, worked out in considerable detail, is closest to the Tazza Farnese Gorgoneion, although the calmer, tamer features of the face are quite different (Fig. 10.14). The agreement of the long locks falling over the left cheek is, however, noteworthy. But the Tazza Farnese, even after the

ried by Paolo Orsi, who wrote in the entry: di fabbrica italiota (campana?), and then prov. Selinunte (sic!); which is to say that he had doubts about both the place of manufacture and the provenance of the piece. 37 See the neck ornament on an amphora from Vicarello, Donald E. Strong, Greek and Roman Gold and Silver Plates (London: Methuen, 1966), pl. 39B. 38 Ernst Buschor, Medusa Rondanini (Stuttgart: Kohhammer, 1958). The winged Gorgoneion appears much earlier: its earliest known appearance being in late sixth-century bce Etruscan art: cf. János György Szilágyi, cva Hongrie 1 (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1981), on pl. 15, 3–4. 190 Szilágyi most recent careful examination of its parallels,39 remains a rather isolated piece in the history of ancient art. If we are prepared to put aside the preju- diced view that springs from excessive emphasis on historical interpretation, it belongs best in the atmosphere of late-Hellenistic, eclectic classicism, but can hardly be dated more closely than between the early first century bce and the mid-first century ce.40 The other close parallels for the Gorgoneion on the Budapest plate belong to a later time, certainly the first half of the Imperial age. All this only nuances, but does not change, the picture of the Neapolitan workshop which has developed in the scholarship since Paul. It catered to a clientele that saw ancient art through the filter of the neo-Baroque, historicist and eclectic taste of the fin-de-siècle, which taste inspired both Art Nouveau and the Jugendstil positively and also negatively, as something to be rejected. This taste had a second flowering between the world wars, and the ongoing market for products of the Naples workshop is not the only witness to its inde- structible survival into the present day. Naples was one of the leading places catering to it, not only in the area of fake antiquities, but also in the way it helped to shape a certain characteristic perspective on the ancient world. A long tradition of fake ancient relief pottery existed there already when the abovementioned workshop was founded,41 and the local style of small terracotta sculpture had its own tradition, alive well into the nineteenth century, of mixing crowded genre scenes with motifs copied from classical art.42

39 F.L. Bastet, “Untersuchungen zur Patierung und Bedeutungen der Tazzen Farnese,” Bulletin Antieke Beschaving 37 (1962), 6–10. “Cales” relief-ware, rather neglected by Bastet, also provides clear models for the hairstyle of the Budapest head: cf. Marie-Odile Jentel, Les gutti et les askoi à reliefs étrusques et apuliens (Leyden: Brill, 1976), 154–5 and 201. 40 Buschor, Medusa, 24 (hybrides Nachbarock); Achille Adriani, Divagazioni intorno ad una coppa paesistica del Museo di Alessandria (Rome: Bretschneider, 1959), 68, n. 110 and 72, n. 170; Bastet, “Untersuchungen,” 1f; Hans Möbius, Alexandria und Rom. Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Abhandlungen. Neue Folge, Heft 59. (Munich: baw, 1964), 31–3; Hans-Peter Bühler, Antike Gefässe aus Edelstein (Mainz: von Zabern, 1973), 41–3 and also Carlo Gasparri, “A proposito di un recente studio di vasi antichi in pietra dura,” Archeologia Classica 27 (1975), 360–1; Dorothy Burr Thompson, “The Tazza Farnese reconsidered,” in Das ptolemäische Ägypten: Akten des internationalen Symposions 27.–29. September 1976 in Berlin, Herwig Maehler and Volker Michael Strocka (eds.) (Mainz: von Zabern, 1978), 113–22. 41 See Adolf Griefenhagen, Beiträge zur antiken Reliefkeramik, Jahrbuch der Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, 3 Ergänzungsheft (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1963), 15–20; Hoffmann, Tarentine Rhyta, 127–31. For a fin-de siècle workshop in Naples making replicas of Classical monumental bronzes, see Adolf Furtwängler, Neuere Fälschungen von Antiken (Berlin- Leipzig: Giesecke & Devrient, 1899), 25. 42 See Marina Picone, Presepi a San Martino (Naples: L’arte tipografica, 1964), Fig. 10.11–12. On this art, see Franco Mancini, in Teodoro Fittipaldi (ed.), Il presepe Cucinello. Mostra di Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 191

It would be an error, therefore, to emphasize only the negative features of this production. No one today would assume that Historicism’s revived classicism reflected a lack of any serious formal inspiration, and the positive side of that movement is there not just in the end it brought to the ascendancy of Biedermeier or the way it prepared the ground for the Secession.43 Its most interesting feature is the way it blurs the clear contours of Classical form. Historismus (which, we should not forget, was but one of several competing stylistic movements at the end of the nineteenth century) was especially sensitive to the relativity of values in the history of art. This was the source of its habit, superficially branded “eclecticism,” of melding the artistic styles of different periods into its own synthetic and synoptic vision. This Historicism was not only the servant of the trivial and uninteresting tastes of the classes mentioned at the start of this essay. At the same time, it brought the rediscovery of Hellenistic art in all its richness and variety, from the monumental friezes of Pergamon to the aesthetic value of the ugly and grotesque, providing a necessary spur to the study of the art of Late Antiquity. It was indeed the main inspiration for the work of Franz Wickhoff and Alois Riegl, who brought to a definitive close the normative phase of aesthetic thought in art-historical writing.

The Rehabilitation of the Line

It would be misleading in the case of the Naples workshop to speak of the general taste of a particular period. Its products presented the buyer, who saw Classical antiquity in the same way, with an ancient art which had never existed, created by projecting different periods of ancient art onto one another in a kind of multiple exposure, and sanctioned in a sense by the copying or imitation of real ancient motifs. In the same period, but in a completely different cultural context, there was a simultaneous upswing in another department of ancient vase forgery: Attic white-ground pottery. Here imitation and forgery accompanied the lucky meeting of a newly rediscovered ancient genre with a contemporary art world hungry for new means of expression. In the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the graphic arts, for decades seen as only

“Pastori” restaurati (Naples, Museo di San Martino, 1966), 26–7. 43 On Historicism as a period in the history of art and a style, see the bibliography in the Hamburg catalogue cited in n. 29 above (509–13), and also the following published debate from 1963: Ludwig Grote (ed.), Historismus und bildende Kunst (Studien zur Kunst des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, Band 1) (Munich: Prestel, 1965). Also Mundt, Historismus. Einführung (as above, n. 29). 192 Szilágyi ancillary to the major art of painting, suddenly took on new importance. So, in painting itself, did the line.44 The early Impressionists were already under the spell of the linearism of oriental and especially Japanese graphic art: here too they found what they were looking for. The contour line, one of the most difficult and sensitive forms of expression available in two-dimensional picture making, here attained a rehabilitation significant to the future of art. Greek white-ground drawings, with their complete neglect of chiaroscuro, their very minimal exploitation of spatial depth, and use of color only to fill out the contours described by the line, gave the new artists what they needed: the very thing that had left Classicism, with its interest in the composition and content of mythological representations, and Romanticism, with its exploration of the symbolism of mythical scenes, utterly cold. The fact that white-ground vases, in their subjects, rarely touched on mythological themes made it easier to appreciate the qualities of the drawing. All this began circa 1870,45 when this group of vases, till then hardly known and almost entirely neglected, suddenly became very interesting indeed. In 1866 Jean de Witte knew of only a few pieces scattered around the large collections. In 1870, Otto Benndorf’s Griechische und sizilische Vasenbilder—for a long time the representative illustrated collection of ancient vases in print—dedicated an entire volume to them. In 1874, Albert Dumont estimated that the known pieces were about 600 in number. In 1883, the first book, Edmond Pottier’s monograph,46 was published, followed by a period of intensive collecting. The vogue for white- ground pottery was fed by a wave of recent finds from Greece, and by a feverish scholarly reception that began at the turn of the century and lasted until the outbreak of the First World War.47 Artistic intuition developed hand-in-hand with scholarly discovery. Artistic and critical appreciation of white-ground vases was—if often only implicitly—primarily a reaction to, and defense of, the drawing of Toulouse-Lautrec and Degas. This of course meant the justification and valorization of both: the art of Toulouse-Lautrec created its own

44 See on this, Hans Tietze, Toulouse-Lautrec (New York: Beechhurst, s.d., c. 1949), 42. 45 Andreas Rumpf, Malerei und Zeichnung. Handbuch der Archäologie. Sechste Lieferung (Munich: Beck, 1953), 8; Cook, Greek Painted Pottery, 299. 46 Étude sur les lécythes blancs attiques à représentations funéraires (Paris: Thorin, 1883). On the earlier history of research, see ibid. 3–4, and Cook, Greek Painted Pottery, 323–4. 47 As markers of the route taken by scholarship, it is sufficient to point to the articles of Robert Carr Bosanquet, “On a Group of Early Attic Lekythoi,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 16 (1896), 164f; “Some Early Funeral Lekythoi,” ibid. 19 (1899), 169f and the book of Alexander Stuart Murray and Arthur Hamilton Smith, White Athenian Vases in the British Museum, (London: British Museum, 1896); the two-volume catalogue of Arthur Fairbanks (1907–1914), and the large monograph of Walter Riezler (1914) which closed this period of research. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 193 tradition, even as white-ground vases proved the relevance of their aesthetic message to contemporary artists. By the end of the 1920s, a second renaissance of Attic white-ground vase painting began, this time for entirely different reasons. Europe was in the grip of a very brief nostalgia for Classical harmony: a program realized in literature first of all by Valéry and Gide, and in the graphic arts perhaps most distinctively in Picasso’s illustrations to Ovid.48 One of the most interesting documents of this renaissance, and the canonical statement of the place of white-ground vase paintings in the authoritative artistic taste of the time, was Christian Zervos’ album entitled L’Art en Grèce, published in 1935, three years after the first volume of his monumental catalogue raisonné of Picasso. The main aim of the book, according to the introduction, was “to educate eye and hand,” and the author saw the most important lesson of Greek art in “the extreme purity of drawing it offers to the eye.” Of the chosen reproductions, whose choice sets out the aesthetic program of the book, full twenty-three are of drawings on white-ground vases, in contrast to two each of the Parthenon statues and red-figure vases. The new direction in artistic interest was mirrored in archaeological scholarship,49 and the artistic and scholarly rediscovery of these pieces was accompanied by a natural and healthy growth in collecting. This, however, attracted the attention of dealers and, thanks to the increasing demand, of forgers. The Campana collection already possessed fake white-ground drawings added to original vases,50 but the great upturn in forgery began (naturally enough, on the basis of what has just been said) in the final third of the nineteenth century,51 and then revived between the world wars. Although the art of the white-ground painters was rather limited in its geographical impact (very

48 A changed attitude to the line already appears in the years which followed Picasso’s 1917 trip to Italy: it is enough to think of the portraits of De Falla and Stravinsky. Cf. Éva Körner, Picasso (Budapest, Képzőművészeti Alap Kiadóvállalata, 19642), 25. On literary programs, see György Rónay ed., A klasszicizmus [The Classicism] (Budapest: Gondolat, 1963), 269– 83 and, in Hungary, the 1925 article of Mihály Babits “Új klasszicizmus felé” [Towards a New Classicism], in Idem, Élet és irodalom (Budapest: Athenaeum, n. d. [c. 1929]), 170–6. 49 First in 1925 Ernst Buschor, then in 1936 Hubert Philippart, and finally in 1938, Beazley published important discussions of white-ground vases. 50 Fondation E. Piot. Monuments et Mémoires 22 (1916), 47–9, pl. iv–V; cf. John D. Beazley, Attic White Lekythoi (London: Milford, 1938), 7, n. 1. 51 Furtwängler, Neuere Fälschungen (as in n. 41 above), 32–6; Rumpf, Chalkidische Vasen (as in n. 14 above), 14; Kurz, Falsi e falsari (as in n. 2 above), 253; Kunish, Fälschung und Forschung (as in n. 2 above), 33–4. 194 Szilágyi few of these vases were found at sites outside Greece),52 this does not at all mean that we must look for the forgers’ workshops first of all in Greece itself: originals made it into every major collection of ancient art in the world. The technique was used above all on lekythoi, mostly before the middle of the fifth century bce; but even later other shapes were also occasionally decorated with white-ground drawing.53 John D. Beazley suggested that, in some cases at least, this was for one particular reason: on alabastra and pyxides, the white ground imitated the effect of vases in alabaster or marble. This was also certainly true of egg-shaped vases or oa, which are also decorated in the white-ground technique. In the archaic and classical periods, the Greeks made egg-shaped grave gifts from limestone, marble, and alabaster.54 These oa or “eggs” were part of the cult of the dead,55 as known contexts prove beyond the shadow of a doubt.56 The terracotta antecedents of the shape

52 See for example Florens Felten, Thanatos- und Kleophonmaler: weissgrundige und rot- figurige Vasenmalerei der Parthenonzeit (Munich: Fink, 1971), 53–9; Donna Carol Kurtz, Athenian White Lekythoi: Patterns and Painters (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), 136–43; John Boardman, The Greeks Overseas: Their Early Colonies and Trade (London: Thames & Hudson, 19803), 229. For a fragment from Babylon see Oscar Deubner, “Die griechischen Scherben von Babylon,” in Friedrich Wetzel, Erich Schmidt and Alfred Mallwitz, Das Babylon der Spätzeit. Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orient- Gesellschaft 62 (Berlin: Mann, 1957), 53–4 and pl. 47, 199. An example was recently recovered from the necropolis of Pella, Macedonia, which is in the collection of the local museum. 53 Beazley, Attic White Lekythoi, 4–5; for an exhaustive treatment, see Joan R. Mertens, Attic White-Ground: Its Development on Shapes Other than Lekythoi (New York: Garland, 1977); Irma Wehgartner, Attisch weissgrundige Keramik: Maltechniken, Werkstätten, Formen, Verwendung (Mainz: von Zabern, 1983). 54 See e.g., Hans Dragendorff and Friedrich Hiller von Gaertringen (eds.), Thera: Untersuchungen, Vermessungen und Ausgrabungen in den Jahren 1895–1902, vol. ii, Theraeische Gräber (Berlin: Reimer, 1901), 119; Photini Zaphiropoulou, “Vases et autres objets de marbre de Rhénée,” in Études déliennes. Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique. Supplément I (Paris, 1973), 612 and Figs. 3–4; or the following pieces in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens: inv. nos. 11377, 11378, and 12808. 55 Martin Presson Nilsson, “Das Ei im Totenkult der Antike,” Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 11 (1908), 530ff (=Opuscula selecta 1 [Lund: K. Gleerup, 1951]), 3–20; cf. Carl W. Blegen, Hazel Palmer, and Rodney S. Young, The North Cemetery (Corinth xiii), (Princeton: The American School of Classical Studies in Athens, 1964), 84 and n. 112; Sparkes-Talcott, Black and Plain Pottery (as n. 10 above), 181; Donna Carol Kurtz and John Boardman, Greek Burial Customs (London: Thames & Hudson, 1971), 77. For an interpretation of representations on vases see Konrad Schauenburg, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 68 (1953), 63ff and n. 138 (with further bibliography). 56 Karl Kübler, “Die Nekropole der Mitte des 6. bis Ende des 5. Jahrhunderts,” Kerameikos, vol. vii, 1 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1976), 197; on other finds in the Kerameikos, see ibid. n. 93; on Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 195

Figure 10.25 Athenian red-figure oon. Athens, National Museum, deposit in the H. Stathatos Collection. With the kind permission of the National Archaeological Museum, Athens (photo Gerasimos Skiadaresis).

already appear in the eighth century bce. Oa are most common in Attic black- figure pottery; in red-figure, however, they are extremely rare57 (Fig. 10.25).

other Attic grave-finds, see Henri Metzger, “Ôon à figures rouges,” in Pierre Amandry (ed.), La Collection Hélène Stathatos, iii, Objets antiques et byzantins (Strasbourg: Université, Institut d‘archéologie, 1963), 160, n. 1. 57 Nilsson, “Das Ei,” 6–8; Humfry G.G. Payne, Necrocorinthia. A study of Corinthian art in the archaic period (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1931), 232 n. 1; Adolf Griefenhagen, Archäologischer Anzeiger 1935, 487–88; Konrad Schauenburg, Jahrbuch der Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 67 (1952), n. 164 (with further bibliography); Metzger, “Ôon à figures rouges,” 160–79. Beazley mentions only these two red-figure examples, Attic Red-figure Vase-painters, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963) 1256–7 and idem, Paralipomena (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1931), 470; Sparkes-Talcott, Black and Plain Pottery, 181, n. 2 mention a further unpublished piece. A few recently-published black-figure examples: Archäologischer Anzeiger 1964, 448 Abb. 34; John D. Beazley, Attic Black-figure Vase-painters, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1956) 658, 140 and Paralipomena 315; cf. the earlier note as well. R. Olmos Romera, Catálogo de los vasos griegos 1: Los lécitos áticos de fondo blanco (Madrid, 1980), 135, published two oa of Athenian provenance formerly with polychrome decoration, which on the evidence of picture and description cannot have been figural. 196 Szilágyi

Some oa have no figural, but only ornamental decoration;58 while others are completely unpainted or with only a white coating.59 Some such examples must have come into the hands of the forger who added the white-ground figural decoration on the two oa in the Museum of Fine Arts, for it is easy to see that these pieces, underneath the white ground on which the decoration is, have a second layer of white coating that adheres more firmly to the clay and must therefore be original. The two pieces were acquired in Greece in the 1930s by András Alföldi, and have been in the Museum since 1949.60 The authenticity of the vases themselves is not in question: they belong to a type of oon with both ends drilled,61 and were made of Attic clay. The fakeness of the drawing is attested by the fact, uninteresting in itself, that no other oa with white-ground drawing have been found to the present day.62 The intentionally fragmentary character of the drawings is itself suspicious, but detailed examination leads further. The figures on the first oon (Figs. 10.15–10.18) are in fact copies of excerpts from the two outside scenes of Onesimos’ kylix in Munich (Fig. 10.19).63 After the discus-thrower and the watching javelin thrower from the leftmost part of side A on the Munich kylix, we find the leftmost athlete of side B and one of the two ionic columns which on the cup localize the scene and mark off the edges of the picture field.64 The remaining surface of the

58 Paris, Louvre ca 611 (top and bottom with rosette of red leaves): Sparkes-Talcott, as above. 181, n. 3. 59 Sparkes-Talcott, as above, 330, no. 1343, pl. 44; Ursula Knigge, Kerameikos ix (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1976), 122, grave 135 (child’s grave from c. 470 bce), no. 8 and pl. 39; Ingrid R. Metzger, “Die Funde aus dem Pirai,” in Eretria vi (Bern: Francke, 1978), 82 ( five examples, last quarter of the fourth century bce). 60 The piece with athlete-scenes: inv. no. 50.332; ht. 7.3 cm.; the other: inv. no. 50.331; ht. 6.8 cm. Both were published by Zoltán Oroszlán, in Zoltán Oroszlán and Aladár Dobro- vits, Antik kiállítás, Vezető [Guide to the Antique Collection] (Budapest, Szépművészeti Múzeum, 1947), 26–7, no. 1 and 8, pl. 7; cf. János György Szilágyi and László Casti- glione, Görög-római kiállítás, Vezető [Guide to the Greco-Roman Exhibition] (Budapest, Szépművészeti Múzeum, 1955), 24. Dr. Vera Sümeghy was the first to call my attention (in a conversation) to the suspicious aspects of the athlete scenes. 61 Metzger, “Ôon à figures rouges,” 160, n. 2. 62 On a fake in the Berlin museum, see Nilsson “Das Ei,” 6, n. 20. 63 Beazley, Attic Red-figure Vase-painters, 322, 28 and Paralipomena, 359. 64 Edward Norman Gardiner, Athletics of the Ancient World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1955 [1930]), 82 and Fig. 45; Julius Jüthner, Die athletischen Leibesübungen der Griechen. Öster- reichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-historische Klasse, Sitzungsbe- richte 249, Band 1 (Wien: Böhlau, 1965), 160. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 197

Figures 10.15–10.18 Attic white-ground oon with fake drawings. Athletes. Budapest Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. no. 50.332. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus). 198 Szilágyi

Figure 10.19 Drawing of the external decoration of the red-figure Onesimos kylix from Daremberg-Saglio, Dictionnaire des Antiquités grecques et romaines II, Paris, Hachette, 1892, pl. 3678.

oon, a little less than a third, is filled by a representation of a discus-holder65 suspended on a wall. This was misunderstood by the decorator of the oon, who drew two strigils under the knot of the bag, connecting them with meaningless diagonal lines. He also forgot the hat, there on the original, of the athlete in front of the pillar.66 For the most part, he made no conscious changes in the figures, but the upper left arm and hand of the athlete in front of the pillar are greatly distorted, and the internal lines on the belly of the javelin-thrower

65 See Lacy D. Caskey and John D. Beazley, Attic Vase Painting in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Vol. I (Boston: Museum of Fine Arts and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1931), 19, pl. 7. 66 On this see Felix Eckstein, “Athletenhauben,” in Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologi- schen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 63 (1956), 90–5. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 199 are pointless. In copying, he simplified numerous details of the original drawing. He thus left out the internal details of the javelin-thrower’s leg-muscles, the ribs of the athlete in front of the column, and the decoration of the ionic capital atop it. That he did not work from the original vase, but rather from a drawing published first in 1878 and reproduced in several places,67 is evident especially from his treatment of the fillet in the hair of the frontally-posed athlete. Several corrections (especially in the contours of the athlete in front of the pillar) and the thick secondary overdrawing visible on several lines, show that the drawing on the oon is a very careful copy done with much concentration on exact reproduction, whose creator had by no means considered the real difficulty of the task he had undertaken. Missing in the copy are just that very security and freedom of hand, the spontaneous freshness of the drawing, the sense of pleasure in the expressive possibilities of the line, which constitute the chief attraction of white-ground drawings. This is not primarily a matter of lack of skill in the artist who decorated the oon: rather, it derives from the fact that he chose to follow a false path. His nervous copyist’s striving to reproduce his model necessarily meant the loss of what was valuable in it: the directness and unfettered boldness of Onesimos’ original drawing.68 The second oon (Figs. 10.20–10.22) illustrates the same problem. There the artist (without doubt the same hand that produced the athlete figures) treated his ancient models with greater freedom. The three-figure scene is clearly inspired by funerary art of the classical period on relief stelai and white ground lekythoi,69 but he could not possibly have found the entire composition on a single ancient object. From this perspective, certain details like the otherwise unattested form of the high-backed chair,70 the decoration (clearly the result of a misunderstanding) on the lower part of

67 Archäologische Zeitung 1878, Taf. 11: apart from the reproductions mentioned in Beazley’s note (Attic Red-figure Vase-painters, 322, 28.), see Charles Daremberg-Edmond Saglio, Dictionnaire des Antiquités grecques et romaines. ii. (Paris: Hachette, 1892) Fig. 3678; Reinach, Répertoire (as n. 20 above), I. 422; Edward Norman Gardiner, “Throwing the Javelin,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 27 (1907), 264, Fig. 12 (details); Gardiner, Athletics, Fig. 121–22 (details). 68 Friedländer, Echt und Unecht (as n. 1 above), 25–6. 69 The connections between the two genres sometimes seem to reflect the work of the same artists: see Semni Papaspyridi Karusu, “Bemalte attische Stele,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 71 (1956), 133–5. Of course, this does not mean that there were any significant differences in the iconography of the two genres, which were fundamentally different in function. 70 The only known parallel for the two cross-struts is on a pyxis in Athens (Beazley, Attic Red- figure Vase-painters, 832, 37; Gisela M.A. Richter, Furniture of the Greeks, Etruscans and Romans (London: Phaidon, 1966), 28 and Fig. 121); the shape of the legs is also unusual for 200 Szilágyi

Figures 10.20–10.22 Attic white ground oon with fake drawings. Three-figure scene. Budapest Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. no. 50.331. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus). Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 201 the seated woman’s chiton, the failure to represent the genitals of the naked figure (who in a scene from the imitated period can only have been male), and the pointless details of the band of textile that hangs behind the seated woman, are all uninteresting. Similar faults can be noticed in the other oon’s imitation of its ancient model. But it is difficult to reach a coherent interpretation of the scene as a whole. All three figures are shown with their hands held in the same way: in a gesture which, according to conventions of representation which stretch back to the archaic period, served to prevent the two hands from covering each other. Only rarely does it seem to have a definite semantic content.71 It is well-motivated, and indeed common, in cases where the figure is holding something in one or both hands.72 This is true of the seated female figure on the second oon, but the gesture is completely unmotivated on the other two empty-handed figures, uniform and stiff, whose hand-gesture was perhaps inspired by scenes of sacrifice. The seated woman holds a box in one hand, a motif not uncommon in funerary art,73 as is the second female figure who stands facing her, but whose hand-gesture, or the object she holds, always expresses a certain connection between her and the seated figure on original reliefs or vase-paintings.74 The nude boy in the middle often appears in vase paintings in similar situations, and is also found on stelai, holding an aryballos or a strigil in his hand, or some other object that alludes to his master’s life in the gymnasium.75 But between two women, especially when the seated one cannot be a goddess and there can be no question of a mythological scene, it is hard to imagine either a nude boy or a nude girl. In those rare cases where a nude boy or clothed girl is shown facing a seated female figure, the presence of the boy or girl is strongly motivated, and she or he has a role in the scene that is clearly expressed in gestures.

this type of chair, and the decorative fringe that hangs down from the seat of the chair is completely pointless. 71 See Gerhard Neumann, Gesten und Gebärden in der griechischen Kunst (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1965), 10 and Fig. 10.1; 10.18–10.19 and Fig. 10.7; etc. 72 See, e.g., Ulrich Hausmann, Griechische Weihreliefs (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1960), Fig. 4 (the sacrificers on the painted wooden tablet from Pitsa) or Fig. 11 ( figures on the relief from Chrysapha), and in several cases on grave stelai or white-ground lekythoi as well. Empty- handed figure: see e.g., Kurtz, Athenian White Lekythoi, (as n. 51 above) Fig. 22, 2. 73 E.g., Hans Diepolder, Die Attischen Grabreliefs des 4. und 5. Jhs. v. Chr. (Darmstadt: Wiss. Buchg., 1965 [1931]), pl. 21; Walter Riezler, Weissgrundige attische Lekythen (Munich: Bruckmann, 1914), pl. 9. 74 For the basic formula of the type, see Riezler, ibid. pl. 10 or the Hegeso stele. 75 See, e.g., on the Budapest stele; see Diepolder, as above, pl. 49, 2. 202 Szilágyi

Figure 10.24 Greek marble relief, the so-called Leukothea relief. Roma, Villa Albani (from E. Berger, Das Basler Arztrelief. Basel, Archäologischer Verlag, 1970, pl. 144).

This is true even of the period of the severe style, whose manner the painter of the oon is clearly imitating76 (Fig. 10.24). It is completely clear, then, that this second drawing, which leaves almost half the surface of the vase undecorated, is just about contemporaneous with the first. It is a careful imitation of the style of the Attic white-ground vase painters circa 470 bce (Fig. 10.23), which, in the lines, preserves the brownish paint that came into fashion about that time, but takes no account of the fact

76 One need only allude to the Ikaria and the so-called Leukothea reliefs: see Nikolaos M. Kontoleon, Aspects de la Grèce préclassique (Paris: Collège de France, 1970), 7–20 (with discussion of the iconographic problem), and 4–6; Ernst Berger, Das Basler Artztrelief: Studien zum griechischen Grab-und Votivrelief um 500 v. Chr. und zur vorhippokratischen Medizin (Basel: Archaeolog. Verlag 1970), 124–8; Hilde Hiller, Ionische Grabreliefs der I. Hälfte des 5. Jh. (Tübingen: Wasmuth, 1975), 134 and pl. 134. Other characteristic examples from a later period: Alexander Conze, Die attischen Grabreliefs I (Berlin: Spemann, 1893), pl. 26–27. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 203

Figure 10.23 Tondo of Attic white-ground kylix. Seated woman (Aphrodite?). Firenze, Museo Archeologico, inv. no. 75409, by permission of Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici della Toscana—Firenze.

that in its formulation of the tongue pattern border that closes off the two scenes at the bottom, and in the distance between the individual tongues it points to the style of a period chronologically rather later.77 Although here too there are mistakes and corrections in the drawing, mainly on the figure in the middle, the second scene is more freely composed after iconographical models of the classical period, and is therefore much more successful as an imitation than the previous, strained attempt to copy a particular ancient original. The lines are more expressive than those of the athlete scene. The question when and where the two drawings were produced is not easy to answer. The place and time of purchase mean relatively little. The fact that the original of the athlete scenes is in the Munich museum is also insignificant if we want to find out where the replica was made, since it is clear that the

77 See e.g., the epinetron in Athens of the Eretria Painter. Paolo Enrico Arias and Max Hirmer, A History of Greek Vase-Painting (London: Thames & Hudson, 1962), Fig. 203, whose Aphrodite-Eros scene may well have inspired the painter of the oa. 204 Szilágyi drawings on the oon were made in imitation of a printed reproduction. Nor do the Attic clay and the fact that the vases themselves are ancient originals mean very much, because these little white-slipped, undecorated vases might easily have been smuggled away from the place where they were found and ended up anywhere. Still, several things suggest that of the two periods in which white- ground vases were especially popular, these two fakes probably belong to the second. The new white coating on which the figures are drawn is much too fragile and flakes away far too easily from the original surface: it could hardly have lasted four or five decades without professional restoration, especially if it passed through a few hands. The forger’s familiarity with Attic art (the tongue-pattern border, for example, which appears almost canonically on the two red-figure decorated examples of the oon shape, both of which appeared in Athens around the beginning of the 1940s at the latest) points to a Greek master, or perhaps one active in Athens. It is thus likely that the two drawings, which testify to how demand for pieces that conformed to the new trends in artistic taste inspired Athenian forgers to produce pieces in every way competitive with their rivals in Italy, were made in the 1930s where they were sold. And it is also possible that a part was played in their creation by the most honest form of forgery: the modern student’s emulation of, and competition with, the artistry of his admired ancient masters.

Monsters on the March

When one considers Corinthian vase painting, it is striking just how late its real artistic quality was grasped. Scholarship, although it too developed relatively slowly, not only preceded the interest of living artists and collectors, but played a major role in creating that interest.78 This, of course, was possible only because the impulse from academe arrived at the right time. The indifference of the nineteenth century79 was mostly due to the scarcity of human figures and (at first glance) what looked like the disturbing monotony of the animal friezes. This indifference, and the fact that for a long time Corinthian vases were not to become part of the living culture and tradition of art, helps to explain the particularly long (almost eighty-year) stretch of time which fell between the first golden age of Corinthian vase-forgeries and earliest scholarly attempts to unmask them.

78 Cook, Greek Painted Pottery (as n. 25 above), 307–9. 79 The scale of which can be judged by flipping through Reinach’s Répertoire, published in 1899 for the first time. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 205

The first wave of pseudo-Corinthian rose and fell, it seems, long before anyone became interested in these vases as art. It can be pinpointed in space and time. The most important workshop was active in Tarquinia, Italy, starting in the 1870s.80 Although by that time these vases were widely accepted by scholars as Corinthian products,81 the Tarquinia workshop copied and faked them as Etruscan pieces found in Etruscan graves. The market for such work is surely to be attributed to contemporary interest in things Etruscan. But it is easy to understand after what has been said above why forgers counting on a more demanding clientèle would try to enliven animal friezes by copying figural scenes of vases from Attic or other Greek workshops. In such cases, the animals were forced down onto the lower part of the vase. Recognition of fakes was without doubt also impaired by the fact that the archaeologists knew, from at least the 1880s, of the existence of Etruscan copies of vases from Greek workshops made more or less contemporaneously with their models:82 the precise history and attribution marks of this production remained for a long time quite unclear. It was therefore common practice to assume that vases whose Corinthianizing decoration was unknown in the Corinthian record were Etruscan imitations rather than modern fakes:83 something that sometimes

80 On what follows, see Amyx and Bothmer California Studies (as n. 29 above). On other 19th-century fakes, see n. 82 below. 81 Cook, Greek Painted Pottery, 307. 82 Amyx, as above, 14–5. 83 E.g., R.J. Hopper, “Addenda to Necrocorinthia,” Annual of the British School at Athens, 44 (1949), 204, on a fake round aryballos in Toronto (“Etruscan, late black-figure type”). Another fake: Jack Leonard Benson, Die Geschichte der korinthischen Vasen (Basel: Schwabe, 1963), pl. 11 (= Sotheby’s 15th July 1980, no. 45, ill.): the “Arlesheimgruppe” (whence their name) was defined by Benson as “an independent movement in Corinthian vase-painting, close to the South Italian style” (ibid. 56); the vase in Paris (Cabinet des Médailles 85) also mentioned here is an original work of the Hercle Painter of Vulci. I could not identify the third mentioned vase in the group: the features of the fake, unfamiliar in Corynth, are explained by the fact that the decoration was made following an Etrusco-Corinthian vase. The vase published by Jean-Paul Thuillier, “Un motif original de l’orientalisant Étrusque,” Mélanges de l’École Française de Rome 86 (1974), 50–53, Figs. 2–6, is clearly an original, but the decoration is modern and imitates the drawing by S. Campanari of a bucchero vase with incised decoration printed in the article as Fig. 1. A recently published amphora in Alain Hus, Les siècles d’or de l’histoire étrusque (675–475 avant J.-C.) (Brussels: Latomus, 1976), Fig. 45b and Idem, Les Étrusques et leur destin (Paris: Picard, 1980), pl. 21 “in the author’s collection” was clearly intended by the forger as Corinthian: the “Etrusco-Corinthian” label being surely inspired by helpless grappling with its hybrid style of drawing. The same is true of Elfriede Paschinger and Erwin M. Ruprechtsberger (eds.), Etrusker. Katalog zur Ausstellung, Linzer Archäologische 206 Szilágyi happens even today. The story of Corinthianizing forgery, and the reception of the fakes themselves, thus forms, especially in its early phase, a chapter of the history of modern Etruscheria.84 The real shift in the way the Corinthian vase-painting tradition was judged came in the 1930s. Although many things in European culture had been in a state of flux and contestation since the end of the First World War, they were acquiring stark contours as a result of the political atmosphere. In the visual arts, it was becoming increasingly clear that styles and movements which pursued traditional forms of expression found themselves, often against their best intentions, subordinated to an authoritarian state power interested (like its conscious supporters and fellow travelers) in suppressing, both for its own anti-humanist reasons and to create a false illusion of security, those artistic and stylistic trends which were determined to look reality honestly in the face. But this atmosphere also meant that artists concerned with laying bare and

Forschungen Band 13/1 (Linz, 1985), 100, Ai 19. Imitation Etrusco-Corinthian is rare: see e.g., a kylix in the collection of University College Cork (inv. no. 1259) which imitates the style of the White Spot Painter (Vulci): Alan W. Johnston, A Catalogue of Greek Vases in Ireland, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, vol. 73, Sect. C. no.9 (Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 1973), 467. I wish to express my deep gratitude to the curators of the collection for the picture of the vase. Corinthianizing fakes are made nowadays in ever- growing numbers in Tuscany and Sicily. The works of one of the painters involved can be seen among the confiscated material in the Uffizio Scavi of Viterbo, while three carefully painted vases by another were recently acquired by a private collector in Hamburg. Recent Italian Corinthianizing fakes are distinguished from the Greek ones by their combined use of Corinthian and Etrusco-Corinthian motifs and elements with which Greek forgers, who know only Corinthian examples, are unfamiliar (Figs. 10.34 and 10.35). In recent years, however, fakes made in a pure Corinthian style have also begun to appear on the Italian market, including two masterful replica of Protocorinthian owl-aryballoi. In general, Corinthian fakes made in awareness of published archaeological research represent a new phase in the history of the genre: the forgers themselves or their advisors sometimes seem to stand at the highest level of contemporary scholarship on ancient techniques, styles and iconography (as, in the past, have in a few cases the makers of other classes of fake antiquities). It is easy to understand, then, how such pieces can deceive even the most expert eye at least temporarily, cf. for example an owl-vase: Ancient Art: the Norbert Schimmel Collection, Oscar White Muscarella, ed. (Mainz: von Zabern, 1974) no. 50 bis and Jiři Frel, The J. Paul Getty Museum Journal 9 (1981), 69, n. 3. One such masterpiece of the “new wave” of Corinthian vase-forgery is the monumental dinos with stand in the John Paul Getty Museum in Malibu (Fig. 10.36). 84 For a fine historical sketch, see Massimo Pallottino, “Il problema delle falsificazioni d’arte etrusca di fronte alla critica,” in Atti dell’ Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, n.s., vol. v (Roma, 1961), 3–11. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 207

Figure 10.34 Fake Corinthian olpe in Corinthianising style: German private collection.

Figure 10.35 Fake Corinthian olpe in the Etrusco-Corinthian style. German market. 208 Szilágyi

Figure 10.36 Monumental Proto-Corinthian vase, fake. Malibu, J. Paul Getty Museum, inv. 79 AK, 186. Unknown artist, Imitation of a proto-Corinthian dinos and stand, 20th c., Terracotta, 26.3 cm. By the kind permission of The J. Paul Getty Museum, Villa Collection, Malibu CA.

unmasking the harsh reality of the times felt an ever-stronger need for new forms of expression, wishing to discover or create symbols accessible as pictorial motifs to everyone and therefore able to express, with all the clarity and power intended by the artist, the viewer’s incoherent, since unexpressed, feelings of protest against impending terror. The best example was again Picasso, who from the end of the twenties developed a systematic language of pictorial symbols based on animals and monsters (horse, bull, Minotaur),85 whose semantic character and role as conveyers of information he himself formulated clearly with respect to the Guernica (1937).86 The need for an invented tradition focused minds, among other things, on the iconography of mediaeval art.87 In 1935, Zervos was mainly interested

85 Körner, Picasso (as n. 48 above), 32–3. 86 Quoted by Alfred H. Barr Jr., Picasso: Fifty Years of his Art (New York: moma, 1946), 202. 87 See Fig. 319–355 in Zervos, La civilisation; and on the entire question see Werner Hofmann, Grundlagen der modernen Kunst: eine Einführung in ihre symbolischen Formen (Stuttgart: Kröner, 1966), mainly 81 f. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 209 in that subject. He did not, therefore, take note of Corinthian vase-painting, although he did include several examples of seventh-century Orientalizing vases from other cities. But the time was now ripe for the animal friezes on the Corinthian vases to acquire a symbolic meaning; or, more exactly, for them to regain a symbolic meaning for the modern viewer who, on seeing the predator quietly stalking a quietly grazing goat or deer and then, at other times, striking at it with its claws, could recognize in the image a statement of the very thing he most feared—seeing in the friezes of monsters, creatures whose very shape dissolved the canons of anthropocentric form, a vision of the deadly uncertainty of human life and its subjection to nameless and incommunicable demonic powers: in short, a visual correlation for the possibility, then vibrating ceaselessly in the very sky above him, of every kind of bloody mayhem. The recognition that it was the Corinthian animal friezes, of all those produced in Greek Orientalizing pottery-workshops, whose character most readily evoked the desired associations, was helped by a new and monumental scholarly treatment. In 1931, Humfry Payne’s Necrocorinthia was published, the first and to this day the most important monograph on Corinthian vase- painting. It contained a very richly illustrated chapter (pp. 61–79) introducing the reader to the biosphere of the Corinthian animal and monster frieze. The book came out at the right time. The rising interest in Corinthian vases among archaeologists and collectors was understandably soon followed by a second wave of forgeries.88 Witness to this is a little pyxis with lid in the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts (Figs. 10.26–10.29).89 The vase and lid (Figs. 10.30, 10.31) were made of different material: the former of yellow and the latter of greenish clay. The fact that the decoration runs over onto the fragmentary parts is suspicious in itself, but there is no need to multiply the details that prove the vase is a fake. Darrell A. Amyx has already produced a detailed study of the forger and his style.90 The

88 The case is not unique: the appearance of Joseph Eckhel’s Doctrina numorum veterum was followed by an increase in the faking of ancient coins; cf. Domenico Mustilli, Enciclopedia dell’Arte Antica, iii Roma (1960), 585, and the publication of drawings by Francesco Inghirami, Giuseppe Micali and others of vase-forgeries (cf. Bothmer, “The Case of the Dunedin painter,” as n. 29 above, 36–9). 89 Inv. no. helyesen: 77.16.1–2.A. Ht. of vase: 5.3 cm; diam.: 6.7 cm; ht. of lid: 2.19 cm; diam.: 4.62 cm. Oroszlán, Antik kiállítás (as n. 60 above), 27, E.6 and pl. 7. 90 “A Forged Corinthian Animal Frieze,” Brooklyn Museum Bulletin 21.2 (1960), 9–13; the name (‘Shoe Lane Painter’) is Amyx’s, after the works of the painter on display in the antique shops of Pandrossos Street in Athens. The longer study by J. Leonard Benson of the painter promised in Amyx’s article did not, to my knowledge, ever appear. His works in recent years have appeared not infrequently in auctions and exhibitions: e.g., Christie’s April 3, 1973, no. 242, 1 (Fig. 10.32 above); Etrusker. Katalog (as n. 83 above), 210 Szilágyi

Figures 10.26–10.29 Corinthian pyxis, fake. Budapest Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. 77.16.1. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus).

Figures 10.30–10.31 Corinthian pyxis lid, fake. Budapest Szépművészeti Múzeum, inv. 77.16.2. Courtesy of the Museum (photo László Mátyus). Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 211 painter, he said, was active from about 1935; his base of operations was Athens. This is confirmed by the Budapest vase, too, which was purchased by its former owner in Athens in the 1930s. Karl Schefold was the first to recognize on the Budapest vase the hand of this very prolific forger,91 from whose hand Amyx in 1964 already knew about forty pieces (Fig. 10.32).92 The vase’s lid, like most pieces from this workshop, is ancient although the painting is modern; but the vase itself is to all appearances contemporaneous with its painted decoration, though the forger managed, with a skill typical of his demonstrated artistry, to imitate a pyxis shape with concave side popular with Corinthian potters in the first half of the sixth century (Fig. 10.33). The animals and fill-motifs are familiar from the forger’s other vases discussed by Amyx; the frieze, like others of its kind, shows the same tendency to arrange the animals in single file rather than in discrete groups, causing a very un-Corinthian reduction of compositional tension.93 Only the owl on the lid and (rather more) the central figure of the vase, a nude male figure with Gorgoneion, depart obviously from the true Corinthian style.94 It would be hard to assume of this painter, who imitated the Corinthian vases with such flair and artistic skill, that he had no knowledge of the Gorgon myth. Rather, one might imagine that it was his very deep knowledge which drew him to create the figure of the male Gorgon. In a chapter of his book, Payne had presented an analysis of the pedimental sculptures from Corfu, one of the most important examples of archaic Corinthian marble sculpture.95 The pedi- ment is organized around the monumental figure of Gorgon in the centre. In his description of Chrysaor, the male figure standing on her right side, he writes (p. 242): “it is, perhaps, to emphasize his connection with Medusa that he is represented frontally; it is certainly for this reason that he is given a gorgon’s eyes and nose, and something like a gorgon’s mouth . . . Chrysaor certainly

117 Ai 19; cf. Warren G. Moon, “A New Middle Corinthian Vase Painter in Madison: The Elvehjem Painter,” American Journal of Archaeology 81 (1977), 385. A Corinthian oinochoe (inv. no. 33 126) in the National Museum in Stockholm is identical in its character to the one published by Amyx: on the belly a strip of the original slip has been rubbed away to accommodate the fake frieze, but was never in fact filled. 91 J. Leonard Benson per litteras (Nov. 22, 1951). 92 Per litteras (Sept. 10, 1964). 93 Amyx, “A Forged Corinthian Animal Frieze,” 9. 94 Amyx (ibid., p. 12) points to the figure’s occurrence on other works of the forger: J. Leonard Benson has informed me of the figure’s repetition on an aryballos in a Swiss private collection (see n. 90 above). 95 Payne, Necrocorinthia (as n. 57 above), 240 f, esp. 242; Gerhart Rodenwaldt, Altdorische Bildwerke in Korfu (Berlin: Mann, 1938), pl. 11. 212 Szilágyi

Figure 10.32 Corinthian pyxis with lid, fake. British market (Christie’s [auction catalogue], April 3, 1973, pl. 11, lot no. 242).

Figure 10.33 Corinthian pyxis. Philadelphia, University Museum. Courtesy of the Penn Museum.

inherited something from Medusa.” The painter certainly knew of Payne’s book and had studied it; and it is not impossible that with this male Gorgon he was trying to bring Chrysaor to life in a visual representation based on Payne’s description.96 Imbued as he was with the spirit of the Corinthian friezes, he

96 Surviving examples of male figures with the heads of Gorgons could not have served as models for this one: cf. Carl Weickert “Zur Technik der griechischen Vasenmalerei,” in Studies Presented to D.M. Robinson, vol. i (St. Louis, 1951), 523; the Phobos interpretation Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 213 added a new figure to their pictorial world. Whatever the case, he came closer in his way to the atmosphere of the vases than Payne, who had limited himself to registering and systematizing the phenomena. Scholarly interpretation of the monster and animal figures of early Greek art began only much later, after the Second World War,97 as the continuing relevance of this artistic world led to the rediscovery of its value as an artistic model98 and simultaneously to greater sensitivity about the practical problems of faking the images themselves.

Meditation

Here, then, is where the historian of ancient art, having done his job with respect to the fakes, lays down his tools with a sense of satisfaction. The museum, the collection, or the art-dealership which owned the objects became poorer by a few pieces they thought were ancient originals; but their credibility and authority were correspondingly increased, for they have avoided leading their visitors or their customers, however unintentionally, by the nose. In recent decades, the most internationally important museum collections have begun to unmask world-famous artworks as forgeries with an almost masochistic glee,99 sometimes even falling into traps of unnecessary suspicion to avoid leaving even a shadow of a doubt hanging over the authenticity of

is not supported by any evidence, and the Etruscan representations of the male Gorgon were also unknown at this time for the forger; see Theodora K. Karagiorga, “Gorgeie kephale,” (Athens: Archaeological Society of Athens, 1970), 57–8, Fig. 6, pl. 7 Fig. b. 97 Most notably in the research of Karl Schefold, “Das Dämonische in der griechischen Kunst,” in epmhneia Festschrift Otto Regenbogen zum 60. Geburtstag am 14. Febr. 1951 dargebracht von Schülern und Freunden (Heidelberg: Winter 1952), 28–39; and in greater detail in his book: Griechische Kunst als religiöses Phänomen (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1959), esp. 29–43. Cf. also (with a rich source-base but rather one-sided interpretation) Pierre Müller, Löwen und Mischwesen in der archaischen griechischen Kunst: eine Untersuchung über ihre Bedeutung (Zürich: Juris, 1978). 98 So Christian Zervos in his new book: La civilisation hellénique I, xie–viiie s., (Paris: Cahiers d’Art, 1969), 45–6, 57–8, 114, Fig. 6 and pl. 17 Fig. 10. 99 A typical example is the case of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s fake Etruscan terracotta warriors: the museum organized a fact-gathering expedition to Italy, and published the findings, together with the results of scientific and technical tests which proved the statues to be fakes, in a separate volume: Dietrich von Bothmer – Joseph V. Noble, An Inquiry into the Forgery of the Etruscan Terracotta Warriors in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Metropolitan Museum Papers, no. 11 (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1961). 214 Szilágyi works in their possession.100 For the connoisseur, the unmasking of a forgery is a triumph of taste; for the scholar (if he is the one responsible) it is not only and perhaps not even primarily, the personal achievement which gives cause for celebration, but the soundness of his methods and those of his discipline. Fakes, when discovered, give confirmation to scholarship and its procedures. Even if he is modest about his own part in the story, the scholar will at least reg- ister this fact and find security in it. He will feel that he has won a skirmish in the long war between the forgers and the detectives, and this in itself is significant even if there is no final victory to be won. This follows from the character of the struggle: each side gives new weapons to the other with each new victory or position gained and fortified. Working in endless and largely unconscious symbiosis, the archaeologists improve the methods of the forgers, and the forgers those of the scholars. In 1899, Furtwängler wrote that ancient black- and red-figure vases could not be convincingly faked because the ancient “glaze” cannot be imitated.101 In 1942, the “secret” of producing the ancient “glaze” was successfully cracked:102 from then on, a criterion of judgment thought self- evident and absolute103 had to be replaced by new more subtle criteria, with more attention than formerly paid to details of pottery-technique, painting style, ornament, and so on. Ludwig Curtius, in possession of new stylistic and iconographic arguments, once proved that every piece on one large plate in the monumental gem monograph of his beloved and respected master Adolf Furtwängler was a fake.104 Two cases, then, from a sea of examples. For the scholar, however, the triumph involved in proving an object inauthentic should not be overestimated: he knows that his discipline, in its growing specialization and alienation from the very objects it studies, has often used the detection of forgeries as a means of masking its failure to say

100 See the Metropolitan Museum’s dramatic unmasking, accompanied by an exhibition, of its early classical Greek bronze horse statue, followed by subsequent rehabilitation: Joseph V. Noble, “The Forgery of our Greek Bronze Horse,” Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 26 (1967–68), 253–6, and, contra, Carl Blümel, “Zur Echtheitsfrage des Antiken Bronzepferdes im Metropolitan Museum in New York,” Archäologischer Anzeiger, 1969, 208–16, cf. Kunisch, Fälschung und Forschung (as in n. 2 above), 20–4. 101 Furtwängler, Neuere Fälschungen (as in n. 42 above), 32. 102 Carl Weickert, “Zur Technik der griechischen Vasenmalerei,” Archäologischer Anzeiger, 1942, 512–28. 103 The amphora discussed in section 1 above proves that fakes were in fact made from vases with the original glaze. 104 Archäologischer Anzeiger, 1944–45, 1–24. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 215 anything of significance about the works themselves.105 He tries not to confuse his narcissistic satisfaction about the excellence of his scholarly methods with the legitimization of his discipline or his own scholarly output, if only for the reason that Time (as he has learned from many examples) is as much a judge of scholarship as it is of forgery. This is evident most of all from those cases when a work thought fake turned out to be authentic: when, for example, a statue once viewed as a Renaissance imitation was recognized as an ancient original;106 or (descending to less sublime spheres) when a terracotta statue, formerly thought a modern fake because of its stylistic and technical peculiarities, was later rehabilitated as a product of an ancient workshop, partly because of new finds and partly thanks to changing taste which enabled people to see the beauty in a rougher and more primitive style.107 So while the historian of art never forgets that it is the detection of forgeries which is his task per definitionem, he is not happy merely to stop there, but rather tries, as a historian, to keep in view the positive historical role of fakes and forgeries, which by their very existence, and by their inevitable exposure, both characterize and, if necessary, unmask the whole hierarchical system of aesthetic value which gave them birth and justified their existence. This is just as true of Hellenophile Etruscans who found it worth their while to make local “fakes” of vases imported en masse from Greece,108 as of the Roman aristocrats who, falling hopelessly and uncomprehendingly in love with Greek art, and in their striving to quell an inner sense of intellectual inferiority, commissioned,

105 “Wenn nichts Positives geboten werden kann, ist die Negation mitunter auch der bil- ligste Weg ‘interessant’ zu sein.” Peter Metz, “Echt oder falsch ? Eine Studie über Grundsätzliches,” in Festschrift für Karl Oettinger, Hans Sedlmayr and Wilhelm Messerer, eds. (Erlangen: Universitätsbund Erlangen-Nürnberg, 1967), 475. 106 John Pope-Hennessy, “Michelangelo’s Cupid. The End of a Chapter,” Burlington Magazine 98 (1956); Idem, Essays on Italian Sculpture (London – New York: Phaidon, 1968), 111–120; other examples: Klaus Fittschen, “Antik oder nicht-antik? Zum Problem der Echtheit römischer Bildnisse,” in Festschrift F. Brommer (as n. 17, above), 97–9 and n. 22. 107 A life-size terracotta head in the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts (inv. no. 50.1323; ht. 42.5 cm) was treated as a fake for decades; but following the excavations of Werner Johannowsky—see Alfonso de Franciscis, in Enciclopedia dell’Arte Antica, vii (Rome, 1966), 638–40, with bibliography—it was proved original. It is the head of a Dioskouros (Castor or Pollux) from a workshop in ancient Teanum or Cales from the first half of the fourth century bce, and has the true Campanian character in the way it re-works Greek motifs in an Italic spirit. 108 The classic example is the red figure kylix in the Musée Rodin in Paris: Nicolas Plaoutine, “An Etruscan Imitation of an Attic Cup,” Journal of Hellenic Studies, 57 (1937), 22–7; for other examples, see Brian B. Shefton, “Attisches Meisterwerk und etruskische Kopie,” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Universität Rostock 17 (1967), 529–36. 216 Szilágyi with all the greed and kitsch vulgarity of nouveaux riches, fakes of classical Greek works. It is also of course true of Renaissance forgers and their wealthy patrons who felt themselves consciously in competition with the sculptors of Antiquity, or the patrons of the Neo-Gothic revival, which again produced a flood of pseudo-medievalia. Once aware of this aspect, the historian tries to hear and understand what, for him, is almost the most important testimo- nial offered by the fake: namely that it denounces clearly and unequivocally whatever in the art of the time, the master, and his public was relevant only to that moment and against that horizon of taste, and therefore evanescent, and emphasizes what is lasting, what life can still get its teeth into—the implicit critique it formulated, not in words but in the language of form, of a master, a period, an artistic movement: what it was that you (in that time) saw, or what you would like to have seen. But our scholar is still dissatisfied with himself, for this broader and more intelligent definition of the job imposed on him by scholarship still keeps him far from what he sees as the real human meaning of his work. Why is this? Surely because he feels that it is not right to reject a line of inquiry which will necessarily carry him far from the main channel of his own discipline: namely, to examine the concepts of forgery and fakes from the perspective of his own time and culture, not forgetting the study of their detection or his own role as a student of fakes, and to ask whether this task of detection—which always naturally presents itself—is not, somehow, especially relevant to an age whose standard of judgment is wrong, and which loves to revel in its own proven powers of fraud and deception.109 It seems, however, that at this point we cannot simply carry on the story begun in the Goethezeit. When asked which parts of the Aegina Aphaia pedi- ments restored by him were authentic and which the restorations, Thorvaldsen replied that he himself no longer knew. This answer, which would doubtless have satisfied Winckelmann,110 is today unthinkable, and not merely because no contemporary restorer of sculpture today has the authoritative artistic reputation of Thorvaldsen. Rather, it is clear from the perspective of this writer, in 1987, that sensitivity to originals and to fakes, and the need to establish the

109 The Hungarian version quotes the following lines from Frigyes Karinthy’s (1887–1938) famous poem Mene Tekel (1927): “e korban, melynek mérlege hamis| s megcsal holnap, mert megcsalt tegnap is” [In this age the scales of which are fake/and cheat you tomorrow as cheated you yesterday]. 110 See Inga Gesche, “Antikenergänzungen im 18. Jahrhundert: Johann Joachim Winkelmann und Bartolomeo Cavaceppi,” in “Antikensammlungen im 18. Jahrhundert,” in Herbert Beck et al. (eds.), Frankfurter Forschungen zur Kunst, vol. 9 (Berlin: Mann, 1981), 335–41. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 217 barrier that separates the two on incontrovertible proof, has in the last fifty years taken neurotic as well as healthy forms. As seen above, forgery as a subject of research, and the entire scholarly discourse which surrounds them, are very much a recent thing. That interest in the question has grown rapidly, and increasingly so, as we approach the present, is illustrated not only by the fright- ening expansion of specialized scholarship in the field, but also by the fact that the world’s major museums have organized about fifteen forgery exhibitions in the past twenty-five years. The usual explanation—a growth of interest in collecting, the art market, and museums—also requires explanation. The question of forgery seems to allow us to grasp a process of ongoing polarization in contemporary culture, and not only in its relationship to art, at a crucial point. That polarity is most visible where we, as a culture, stand in relation to the fundamental traditions of European art history. Clearly in a majority are those who try to compen- sate for the lack of a living relationship to art, whether of their own age or earlier cultures, through historical understanding of the work, or at least by locating it in a historical context. The work of art addresses them primarily through its placement in a historical period, or by its attribution to a circle, school, or (most importantly) a known master. The question of “original or fake” has acquired massively exaggerated and, indeed, distorted significance on this pole of twentieth-century culture, with the hopeless expectation that the circumstances or raw data of a work’s genesis are supposed to tell us what we ought to feel when we look at it. This explains (and indeed presupposes) how it is, when one is asked what artworks are being faked today, that the only proper answer is “everything from Neolithic terracotta idols to contemporary art.” This is an ambiguous thing. It might mean that we, as latecomers, have successfully integrated the whole of human culture into our own culture—and this, on some unconscious level, is surely and necessarily true. But it might also mean—if, as often, it combines with a failure to address or comprehend the artworks of our own times that push the hardest, and with the greatest relevance and élan, toward new artistic forms and messages—that our relationship to the whole cultural tradition is unsettled, equivocal, and indeed perhaps fundamentally dishonest. The subject who lives in Time engages first of all with the works themselves; he accepts that they are mute if they have nothing to say to him, but he is confident that they will have a voice if they do have something to say. To understand this speech is the only living, immutable and unfalsifiable form of the encounter with art. Those who are not capable of it remain in a state of uneasy enslave- ment to the fake, which in their mythology is the embodiment of Evil. They place an increasing and finally futile reliance upon progressively perfected 218 Szilágyi scientific methods of detection111—convinced that on the basis of the testimony of the works themselves, as recently stated by a respected scholar of classical art, “it is no longer possible to distinguish fakes from originals.”112 At this point, the traditional approaches and aims of scholarship on fakes have clearly run aground. The desire to find a reassuring foothold in history has raised strict historical “authenticity” to a criterion of value, and turned it into the foundation of museum culture and artistic enjoyment. The existence of a basic distinction of value between fake and “original”, and the stigmatization of the former, have been defended, often and with many different arguments, by art-world professionals (critics, historians of art, museologists, art dealers and art collectors), all of whom fear for their own authority and the “honor” of the discipline. The basis of the distinction is alternately found in the ethical position of the forger (that is to say: his intention of forgery), or in his psychology as a creative artist (that is to say: his dependence on models), or in the historical or social role played by the fake (it falsifies history and collective taste), or in the monetary value of original as opposed to unoriginal works.113 The absolute nature of the choice in terms of value is questionable, and not only because the frame of mind that defends it will, by a process of natural accretion, inevitably grant original or quasi-original status to almost everything old.114 But this either/or, and all the arguments that justify it, are all vulnerable to attack precisely because they try to define an absolute and objective concept of the fake. It is the very people, either viewers or researchers, for whom the existence and recognizability of the fake was the basis of their whole relationship to art who

111 Metz, in Oettinger Festschrift (as in n. 105 above), 477; cf. the “Auge oder Lampe” dispute between Dietrich von Bothmer and Frank Brommer: Archäologischer Anzeiger, 1963, 439– 50; 1964, 615–27; 1965, 552–3. 112 Jette Christiansen, “Forloren hare,” Meddelelser fra Ny Carlsberg Glyptothek 38 (1982), 52. 113 Tietze, “Psychology and Aesthetics,” (as in n. 1 above), 16; Friedländer, Von Kunst und Kennerschaft (as in n. 1 above), 236; Metz, in Oettinger Festschrift, p. 472; Thomas P.F. Hoving, “The Game of Duplicity,” Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 26 (1967–68) 246; Peter Bloch, “Gefälschte Kunst,” Zeitschrift für Ästhetik und allgemeine Kunstwissenschaft 23 (1978), 72–5; Kunisch, Fälschung und Forschung, (as in n. 2 above), 11, 19–20, and passim. 114 What museum or collection would not consider as a chef d’oeuvre an Etruscan imitation of an Athenian vase-painting (e.g., cva Paris, Petit Palais, pl. 3, 1 and pl. 4, 3–6), a twelfth- century reworking of a Late Antique marble sarcophagus (cf. Madeline Harrison Caviness in Intuition und Kunstwissenschaft, Festschrift für Hans Schwarzenski, ed. by Peter Bloch [Berlin: Mann 1973], 213–38), or a Quattrocento copy of a 12th-century Annunciation (cf. Hoving, as above, 244)? On the situation in the graphic arts where the copy/fake problem is especially intractable, see Erwin Panofsky, Zeitschrift für Bildende Kunst 61 (1927), 236–40. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 219 first lost control of the concept. The author of a recent authoritative survey writes that a history of the fake cannot be written, because with most fakes it is impossible to prove that the forger worked with intent to deceive (the only legally binding proof); and indeed that it is questionable whether such intent can ever, in most cases, really be proven.115 Tietze himself once wrote that “the borderline between a fake and a creative invention is sometimes hard to draw with any clarity.”116 This is because, on the one hand, the existence of forgery and fakes is an undeniable fact, but on the other, the absolute properties and characteristics of a fake (any fake) are not, as it were, exhausted in the mere data of its origin.117 It always contains some element of creativity: it is only a fake in relation to something else. This “something” is what we, in the narrow sense defined above, call “the original”. There is, however, an opposite pole, now already at least a century old, to this obsessive search for plentitude or unity of particular bygone styles—this will to know and understand every artistic form that has ever existed anywhere in the history of art. This is expressed in a drive to settle scores with the artistic styles of the past, to oppose them steadfastly in the interest of progress, finding the key to a radical renewal of the forms and meaning of artistic expression in an ever more steadfast denial of the old, and remaining grounded in the conviction that the historical styles per se represent a tradition of form that art, if it is to live and develop, must learn to deny. This does not in any sense mean contempt for the artistic achievements of past ages; rather it aims simply to emancipate contemporary art from slavish doting on tradition. Creative artistic engagement with the works of the past thus separates itself from the historical understanding of those works. The artist remains free, whenever and however he wishes, to clothe himself seriously or ironically in the artistic forms of any historical period or indeed multiple periods simultaneously; he can consciously place his sense of form in opposition to his historical understanding, bringing particular works and motifs of old ages and other cultures to the fore and using them to all intents and purposes like objets trouvés or ready mades as he articulates his own polyphonic artistic statement (as, for example, Robert Delaunay throughout his career used the Hellenistic group of the ‘Three Graces’ as a symbol for Paris). To such a mindset, faking can seem distinctly

115 Peter Bloch, “Fälschung,” in Reallexikon zur Deutsche Kunstgeschichte 6 (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1973), 1411–2 (s.v.). 116 Tietze, “Psychology,” 1. 117 Cf. Encyclopedia of World Art 5, 333ff, quoted by Klaus Döhmer, Zeitschrift für Ästhetik und allgemeine Kunstwissenschaft 23 (1978), 77. See also Metz, in Oettinger Fschr. 472. 220 Szilágyi fascinating, either as a means to certain artistic ends, or as an adventure; the alternative of ‘original versus fake’ thus loses its traditional raison d’être. Both these attitudes (described necessarily only in reference to their most extreme versions) spring from a common root—the feeling that gigantic forces are consciously trying to render the world we live in incomprehensible. For it is clear that the struggle against the tide of forgeries sweeping towards us from all sides is one of the key motives for the flight to history, and for establishing originality as an absolute criterion of value. We can acquiesce in this if it remains an instinctive reaction or a confession of impotence, but if it expresses passive resignation to a situation perceived as unchangeable, it becomes hateful. For the second approach, the proper opposite of the fake is not hic et nunc the original, but rather the real, or even better the true, which also incorporates the real in itself. Clearly it is just this relation or tension between originality and reality/truthfulness which, more than in any previous period of human history, emerged so powerfully and frighteningly in the mindset of twentieth- century culture, forcing a reassessment of the whole problem of forgery in art: is it possible, one asked, to draw a clear borderline separating on the one side what is original and true from what is fake and false? The twentieth century saw a flowering, a veritable deluge of countless forms of pseudo-art, from the kind of sub-artistic production which obeys the laws of the market to the sort of art that, in obedience to a higher power or its own political or cultural enthusiasms, consciously aims to deceive by maintaining or imitating with painful care the outward features of high art. Let us merely recall two Hungarian art products from the early 1950s, the series of half-naked gypsy girl violinists painted by Mária Szántó for the South American export market and the ‘Female Tram Conductor with Whistle’ of Anni Felekiné Gáspár. The originality of these works, at least on the spectrum which runs from ‘original’ to ‘fake’, cannot be doubted; the question, however, is whether they are more real or true than a devoted and loving copy of some Old Master, prepared at the same time. Although these examples belong only to the lowest rank of artistic production, their exemplary force extends well beyond even the realm of art to encompass vast areas of intellectual, cultural and indeed social life. Accepting responsibility for shaping the future, modern art took up the fight against this kind of pseudo-art, which has often tried to bathe itself vicariously in the sanctifying light of official commendation, in several ways. The aforementioned negation of traditional artistic forms and styles cannot be separated from a more radical re-imagining of the traditional concept and function of art as it is articulated in the Western tradition. This also naturally involved reassessing the concept of the fake118 and rejecting the idea that the originality

118 Döhmer, Zeitschrift für Ästhetik, 88. Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 221 of an artist’s individual achievement or the inimitable uniqueness of the work could be taken as an absolute touchstone of critical judgment. New methods of pictorial reproduction, which helped demonstrate the illusoriness of this old criterion of originality, played an important if ambiguous role in this process.119 Still more important, however, is the erosion of the traditional opposition between the artist and the community that he addresses. The first step in this direction is to recognize that the act of looking (like that of reading or listening) is a creative activity, which in its subjectivity transcends the dichotomy of the fake and the not-fake, since the viewer has the power to grant reality to things the artist (whose intention is hardly in any case decisive when it comes to critical judgment of the work) had thought were fake, and to put the stamp of falsity or untruth on works whose status as originals is guaranteed by law. In one of his stories Borges invokes the memory of one Pierre Menard, a fictional twentieth-century French writer. Menard spent most of his life writing Don Quixote. He did not want to write another Don Quixote, but rather Don Quixote itself. At his death, he had completed the opening thirty-eight chapters of the first part. The result of his untiring heroic labor was a text that agreed with Cervantes’ in every respect. It is, however, clear to the reader with the force of a revelation that the spirit, tone, content and style of the two works is utterly different: to mention only the last, there is a world of difference between Cervantes’ fast-flowing colloquial prose written in the spoken language of his own time, and the archaic, affected style of Menard. The lonely night time vig- ils of the French writer were not, however, wasted. “Menard”—for so the story ends—“(perhaps without wanting to) has enriched, by means of a new technique, the halting and rudimentary art of reading: this new technique is that of the deliberate anachronism and the erroneous attribution. This technique, whose applications are infinite, prompts us to go through the Odyssey as if it were posterior to the Aeneid and the book Le jardin du Centaure of Madame Henri Bachelier as if it were by Madame Henri Bachelier. This technique fills the most placid works with adventure. To attribute the Imitatio Christi to Louis Ferdinand Céline or to James Joyce, is this not a sufficient renovation of its tenuous spiritual indications?” It has often been said that Winckelmann committed his most egregious error of judgement when he concluded that several paintings by Giovanni Battista Casanova, brother of the a memoirist most remembered for other reasons, and the picture “Jupiter and Ganymedes” by his valued friend Rafael Mengs were

119 See on this Walter Benjamin’s famous article “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”, in idem, Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. Ed. Hannah Arendt. Trans. Harry Zohn. (London: Fontana, 1968), 214–8. See also the important remarks of Arnold Hauser in Philosophie der Kunstgeschichte, (München: C. H. Beck, 1958), 366–7. 222 Szilágyi real pieces of ancient painting, reproducing them in the first edition of his Geschichte der Kunst des Altertums.120 Without a doubt, Winckelmann fell into the blissful double trap of the subjective reading. He allowed himself to be deceived not only by a style that fit the Classical norm as it was understood in his own time, but by the subject itself which, with its mythical apotheosis of the beauty of the youthful male body, plucked at the most personal and heart- felt strings of Winckelmann’s attraction to ancient Greek art. There are, however, other ways in modern art to loosen the grip the fake holds over us. There is an increasing tendency to make works of art that cannot be faked, over which the traditional concepts of creator and creation (or artwork) that live on in copyright offices and the art market have no power, and in which the traditional distinction between artist and viewer ceases (and not only on a subjective level) to play a role. One such tendency aims to raise the human being (the artist and his public) or his/her environment to a work of art; another is Concept art, for which the realisation of artistic works in the traditional sense is only a secondary goal, or the Fluxus movement, with its conscious abolishment of the line that divides art from non-art, or Actionism, with its elevation of the never precisely repeatable event into a kind of Gesamtkunstwerk. When confronted, for example, by the ephemeral, melting ice-buildings of the American artist Allan Kaprow, or the German Wolf Vostell’s action piece, a political allegory involving the collision of an automo- bile and a tram, or Tinguely’s famous “Homage to New York,” a self-consuming machine, the traditional concept of the fake is utterly meaningless.121 Any imitation of these works, whatever its intentions or aims, willy-nilly becomes a new ‘original’ work simply by virtue of the achieved imitation. This kind of art as non-art, this anti-art which opposes itself to pseudo-art, is a stage in the struggle to establish a new basis, a new kind of legitimacy for art itself. It opens up the possibility of the fake as fake becoming a means of legitimate artistic expression. The fake is one of the classic possibilities of anti- art—why, then, could one not seize on it in order precisely to demonstrate that we live in an endlessly faked world? This is the starting-point for a tendency in modern art that aims to create pseudo-works, which use pseudo-motifs in a

120 Thomas Pelzel, “Winckelmann, Mengs and Casanova: A Reappraisal of a Famous Eighteenth-Century Forgery,” The Art Bulletin 54 (1972): 301–15, and on what follows esp. p. 307. The painting is now generally attributed to Tischbein. 121 Two pioneering studies: Michael Kirby, Happenings (New York – London: Dutton, 1965) and Allan Kaprow, Assemblages, Environments, Happenings (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1966); a good overview is Adrian Henri, Environments and Happenings (London: Thames and Hudson, 1974). Wisest is Time: Ancient Vase Forgeries 223 pseudo-rhetoric to express pseudo-contents in a pseudo-form: in Hungary, one thinks first of all of Gyula Pauer’s “Pseudo” works and the manifestos that lay out the program behind this project—indictments of the manipulation satu- rating both art and the whole theatre of our lives.122 Thus finally do we ascend, from the demand for ‘originals instead of fakes’, through a meditation on ‘originals or fakes’, transcending even the dialectic of ‘fake and original at the same time,’ to reach a point of view from which the fake is revealed to be an original? This, perhaps, is the perspective which at the present time offers the greatest possibilities, in a world where belief and trust in the reality of things is at an all-time low: to blast the shadowy grey zone between fake and real with a sudden illumination that both pains us and forces us to clarify our concepts, and which shines into the most hidden corners of our individual lives. We cannot shut our eyes to this light. And perhaps this is really the most that art can ever do.

122 “The Pseudo statue is a sculpture that introduces itself as a work of manipulated sculptur- ality, thus proving the existence of manipulated existence. Pseudo denounces itself as a false image, or at least as an object that gives a complex, false appearance” (Gyula Pauer in the first manifesto to the 1970 Pseudo exhibition held at the Attila József Cultural Centre. Published in: Tendenciák 1970–80, 5, ed. by Éva Forgács, Márta Kovalovszky [Budapest, 1980]). The main aim is not however denunciation but rather the search for a way out: “The work of art, which is manipulated, is indeed a work of art! It is art, really art, if it con- fesses that it is pseudo! The life that creates pseudo art can still be saved!” (Gyula Pauer, in the second manifesto published in 1972). In German translation, with illustrations in the document collection ed. by Klaus Groh, Aktuelle Kunst in Osteuropa, (Köln: Oldenburg 1972), at the end of the volume. chapter 11 Agilulf, “The Nonexistent Knight” and the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past1

Cristina La Rocca

E voi lì, messo su così in pulito . . . —disse Carlomagno—che, più la guerra durava, meno rispetto della pulizia nei paladini gli capitava di vedere. – Io sono,—la voce giungeva metallica da dentro l”elmo chiuso, come fosse non una gola ma la stessa lamiera dell”armatura a vibrare, e con un lieve rimbombo d”eco,—Agilulfo Emo Bertrandino dei Guiliverni e degli Altri di Corbentraz e Sura, cavaliere di Selimpia Citeriore e Fez! – Aaah . . . —fece Carlomagno e dal labbro di sotto, sporto avanti, gli uscì anche un piccolo strombettio, come a dire: «Dovessi ricordarmi il nome di tutti, starei fresco!» Ma subito aggrottò le ciglia.—E perché non alzate la celata e non mostrate il vostro viso? – Il cavaliere non fece nessun gesto; la sua destra inguantata d”una fer- rea e ben connessa manopola si serrò più forte all”arcione, mentre l”altro braccio, che reggeva lo scudo, parve scosso come da un brivido. – Dico a voi, ehi, paladino!—insisté Carlomagno.—Com”è che non mostrate la faccia al vostro re? – La voce uscì netta dal barbazzale—Perché io non esisto, sire. Italo Calvino, Il cavaliere inesistente, 1959

1 This paper is an expanded version of an earlier article published with Stefano Gasparri, under the title “Forging an early medieval royal couple. Agilulf, Theodelind and the “Lombard treasure,” in Archaeologie der Identität/Archeology of Identity, Mathias. Mehofer & Walter Pohl (eds.) (Vienna: Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010), 269–287. This research was funded by the national Italian prin 2004–2006 (S. Gasparri, C. La Rocca). I would like to give thanks to Leslie Webster and Barry Ager (the British Museum, London) for their kind assistance and invaluable help; Dafydd Kidd (London) for his useful suggestions. The main sources for this project are the letters from the British Museum Archive and a few later letters preserved in the Durlacher Archive at the Getty Research Institute in Los Angeles, as the Durlachers destroyed their correspondence after the failure of the London branch in 1938—see below, Appendix, pp. 251–266. Transcriptions of the Getty materials were kindly provided by Dr. Edward Schoolmann (ucla). I would like to thank Patrick Geary for having involved Ned in this project.

The “Lombard Treasure”

In May 1930, the Burlington Fine Arts Club of London—one of the most prestigious gentlemen clubs, famous not only for providing a showcase for amateur artists but also for organizing since its foundation in 1866 regular exhibition venues2—organized “The Art of the Dark Ages in Europe,” the first exhibition in Europe fully dedicated to early medieval arts and crafts.3 In 1930 many magazines and newspapers emphasized that the exhibition was a unique occasion to see “the distilled essence of more than half a century of treasure hunting in the graves and mounds of the second half of the first millennium of the present era”4 and there was vivid interest in it, from museums and collectors, for its broad European context, from Scandinavia to Italy.5 Beside early medieval archaeological finds belonging to the most important European Museums (the British Museum, the Hungarian National Museum of Budapest, the National Museum of Ireland, the Museums of Oslo and Bergen, the Völkerkunde Museum of Berlin) and from the most important private collections, a new group of unpublished finds “dug up in Italy”—belonging to the international firm of Durlacher Brothers (London and New York)6—attracted public attention. The group consisted of 11 golden objects exceptionally well preserved, the most striking of which was an iron and golden horse collar, reproducing in

2 The history of the Club, its aims and members were briefly reviewed in 1951, when the Club went into voluntary liquidation: “Editorial. The Burlington Fine Arts Club,” The Burlington Magazine, 589, xciv (April, 1952), 97–9. 3 Burlington Fine Arts Club, Catalogue of an Exhibition of Art in the Dark Ages in Europe, London, 1930. 4 “Art in the Dark Ages at the Burlington Fine Arts Club,” The Connoisseur, 86 (July–December, 1930), 122; Reginald A. Smith, “Art in the Dark Ages,” The Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs, 328, 57 (July, 1930), 3–10. 5 Tancred Borenius, “Art of the Dark Ages in Europe,” Pantheon, 6 (1930), 99–107; Tancred Borenius, “Ein longobardischer Grabfund,” Pantheon, 6 (1930), 326–8; George Eumorfopoulos, “Art of the dark ages in Europe,” Burlington Magazine, 8 (1930) 11–2; “Art in the Dark Ages, a loan exhibition,” The Times, 15 May, 1930, 14. 6 Their art dealership was established in London by Henry and George Durlacher in 1843. In the 1920s, a branch was opened in New York City, which was managed by R. Kirk Askew. Between 1850 and 1938 the London branch of Durlacher Bros maintained a close association with the Victoria & Albert Museum acting as its agent at various auctions. On his retirement in 1938, George Durlacher destroyed the records of the London branch and sold its remaining stock at Christie’s. Askew purchased the New York City branch and continued to trade under the name Durlacher Bros until c. 1969. Cf. Steven Watson, Prepare for Saints. Gertrude Stein, Virgil Thompson, and the Mainstreaming of American Modernism (Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2000), 190–2. 226 La Rocca

Figure 11.1 Agilulf plate, found in Valdinievole and now kept at the Bargello Museum, Florence (Photo F. De Rubeis). the center the iconography of the so-called Lamina di Agilulfo (or Agilulf plate, found at Valdinievole and now kept at the Bargello Museum, Florence) (Fig. 11.1): a gilded copper plate that, as Michael McCormick put it, “preserves the earliest known portrait of a Germanic ruler seated on a throne.”7 In the lamina di Agilulfo and in the golden horse collar showed in London, Agilulf makes the gesture of adlocutio, typical of late Roman imperial iconography; his feet rest on a support and he clasps his sword in his lap; behind him stand two bodyguards, holding lances and shields and wearing helmets. These figures are flanked by two winged Victories, holding horns and standards bearing the inscription victuria in capital letters. The Victories introduce to the king two sets of figures with outstretched hands and bent knee, apparently proceeding from the towers or city-symbols that are on each side of the plate. The only difference between the Lamina di Agilulfo and the “Lombard collar” is the inverted position of the Victories and the set of figures with outstretched hands8 (Fig. 11.2, Fig. 11.3). The other pieces from “The Lombard Treasure” shown in London were an iron and golden helmet and a sword with gold double rings, a spearhead decorated in gold (Fig. 11.4), two axes and a shield decorated in gold (Fig. 11.5), nine squared belt decorations (Fig. 11.6), a golden spur and a belt-buckle with golden eagles and red enamels (Fig. 11.7), a golden cross, and a golden saddle

7 Michael McCormick, Eternal Victory. Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium, and the Early Medieval West (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 289–93. 8 A full bibliography on the Lamina di Agilulfo is in Gasparri, La Rocca, “Forging an early medieval royal couple,” 279–85. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 227

Figure 11.2 The ‘Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Main plate of the golden collar (Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave, London [1930], pl. 1).

Figure 11.3 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Golden collar and golden cross (Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave, London [1930], pl. 2). 228 La Rocca

(a) (b) Figure 11.4 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. a. Iron helmet. b. Dagger and sword (Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave, London [1930], pl. 3).

Figure 11.5 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Two saxes (Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave, London [1930], pl. 4). the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 229

Figure 11.6 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Belt decorations (Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave, London [1930], pl. 5).

Figure 11.7 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Spur, belt buckle (Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave, London [1930], pl. 6). 230 La Rocca

Figure 11.8 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. First Group. Golden saddle (Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave, London [1930], pl. 7).

(Fig. 11.8). The whole group appeared as “One of the most Romantic hoards: The gold and enamels are truly amazing, both from the point of view of brilliance and condition”9 and “for completeness, richness of material and severe beauty of workmanship this is indeed a collection to excite rivalry among the museums of the world.”10 In the description of the individual archaeological pieces, an archaeological criterion of comparison was used for dating and contextualizing the cultural milieu of this group. It was stressed that most of the pieces (the sword, the shield and the axes) found striking similarities with the archaeological finds of the Italian Lombard cemeteries of Nocera Umbra and Castel Trosino, dating from the end of the sixth century to the first half of the seventh, both findings discovered at the end of the nineteenth century and published between 1902 and 1918.11 Other objects, however, such as the helmet, the spur and the eagle

9 “Art in the Dark Ages,” 122. 10 “Art in the Dark Ages, a loan exhibition,” 14. 11 Raniero Mengarelli, “La necropoli barbarica di Castel Trosino presso Ascoli Piceno,” in Monumenti Antichi della Reale Accademia dei Lincei, 12 (1902), 145–380; Raniero Mengarelli/ Giulio Gabrielli, La necropoli di Castel Trosino, Giuseppe Gagliardi (ed.), Ascoli Piceno, Giannino e Giuseppe Gagliardi Editori, 1995; Angelo Pasqui, Renato Paribeni, “Necropoli longobarda di Nocera Umbra,” in Monumenti Antichi della Reale Accademia dei Lincei, 25 (1918), 137–352. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 231 belt-buckle—were more generally compared with East European materials dating from the fifth to the tenth centuries. But this striking find, which was exhaustively reproduced in many art magazines, was not sold on this occasion, maybe because its enormous price was 120,000 pounds. Therefore its contents were temporarily locked in the British Museum. In the meantime the Durlacher Brothers printed—with the scientific assistance of Reginald Smith, keeper of the Department of British and Medieval Antiquities of the British Museum—a very smart catalogue with luxurious pictures of each of the golden items, bearing the title Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave.12 We don’t know how many copies were actually printed, but at least 5 copies are preserved in national or university libraries; they were sent all over Europe to potential private and public customers. In its preface, probably written by Smith, it was strongly suggested that “the scene embossed in the collar may inspire some antiquary to identify the original owner of this panoply,” implying that these finds were to be connected with the grave of Agilulf, king of the Lombard at the beginning of the seventh century, whose enterprises and military campaigns were described by the Lombard historian Paul the Deacon in his Historia Langobardorum in the second half of the eighth century.13 Anyway, the main suggestion of the catalogue introduction was that the finds displayed in the catalogue were belongings from a Lombard royal grave and therefore they had an important function in the archaeological dating of other “Germanic” finds in Italy and in Europe. In fact they allowed “to date to a year several works of art that show the Lombards at their best, and have an important bearing on the archaeology of Europe in the Dark Ages.”14 Judging by the International Library Catalogues, at least five copies of this volume were distributed by the Durlachers during the exhibition in London:15 in England (British Museum, Sackler Library, Oxford); in Norway (University Library, Bergen); in Germany (University Library, Passau) and finally in New York (Metropolitan Museum); other copies were sent to the Belgian art

12 [Reginald A. Smith], Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave, London [1930]. The authorship of Reginald Smith is only presumed on the basis of his deep involvement in this affair. Anyway, he is a probable suspect, since in both the Oxford Sackler Library and the Passau Library copies of this catalogue, his name appears in handwriting in pencil on page 1. 13 Pauli, Historia Langobardorum, in mgh, SSrL, G. Waitz, (ed.) (Hannover: Hahn, 1876), iii, 35; iv, 1–41, 113–33. 14 (Smith), Treasure from a Lombard, 1. 15 As shown by a letter of compliments by the Durlacher Brothers, found inside the Catalogue copy at the British Museum, addressed to Dr. Márton Lajos, Nemzeti Museum, Buda Pesth, Austria (15 May, 1930). 232 La Rocca collector Adolphe Stoclet and to the American ambassador in Paris, Robert Woods Bliss.16 But if we look closely at them we get the vivid impression of a book “in construction”. In fact these copies all vary as to the number of finds in the “Lombard Treasure”: the Passau copy bears only eight photos (reproducing the objects displayed in the London Exhibition in 1930); the Bergen copy has sixteen images; and the Oxford one has twenty-three, the same number of items as the copy preserved at the Metropolitan Museum. The increasing number of finds was presented by the Durlachers as the results of a progressing archaeological excavation. As recorded in the letters of the Durlacher Archive at the Getty Research Institute in Los Angeles, the Durlachers wrote to Reginald Smith after the London exhibition, in September 1930, announcing that the site of the “Lombard Treasure” had been dug again and more finds had been discovered. At the same time they promised to reveal the name of the site once the site had been completely excavated.17 The progressive structure of the catalogue shows that between 1930 and 1932 the number of finds of the Agilulf treasure increased progressively (just as if a real dig was going on), but also that the morphology of the Treasure completely changed in the meantime: in fact the “new finds” were all golden and enamelled objects claiming clearly that the grave belonged not just to a generic Lombard chief or king, but precisely to king Agilulf and to his wife Theodelinda, the Lombard queen famous for her correspondence to pope Gregory the Great and for her vivid portrait in early medieval sources.18 Not only was every “new” object very explicitly connected to the iconography of the Lamina di Agilulfo—thus directly to king Agilulf—, but also to all of the finds known from other royal graves in Europe, especially Childeric’s in Tournai, found in the seventeenth century and then stolen during the French Revolution.19 Included in the Treasure were not only several “insignia” of royal military power (another golden shield, another two swords mounted in gold, axes

16 See Appendix, letters # 24, 28. 17 BM., BF, from Alfred Durlacher to Reginald Smith, September 11th, 1930: “We have had more finds, the chief object is another shield boss (. . .) which is in a very delicate state.” See Appendix, letter # 11; n. 13. 18 Gregorii I papae Registrum epistularum, Paulus Ewald (ed.), Ludovicus Hartmann, Berolini 1891–1909 (mgh, Epp, I–ii), I: iv 2, 233–5; iv 4, 236; iv 33, 268–9; ii: ix 67, 87–8; xiv 12, 430–2; Pauli Historia Langobardorum, iii, 30-iv, 41, 109–33. 19 Jean-Jacques Chifflet, Anastasis Childerici I Francorum regis, sive thesaurus sepulchralis, Tornaci Nerviorum effossus et commentario illustratus, (Antwerpen: Plantin, 1655). On the history of this complex, see Patrick Périn, La datation des tombes mérovingiennes: Historique-Méthodes-Applications (Centre de recherches d’histoire et de philologie de la ive section de l’École Pratique des Hautes Études 5, Hautes études médiévales et modernes 39) (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1980), 5–9. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 233 and crowns) (Fig. 11.10 a, b), but, at the same time, some “female” objects appeared (belonging therefore to Theodelinda), such as a golden fibula, an ivory comb, a gold vessel handle, a gold purse handle, a couple of disc- brooches, two golden earrings, a necklace composed of glass-beads and a coin of emperor Justin ii (Fig. 11.9 a, b, c).

(a) (b)

(c) Figure 11.9 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. a. Theodelinda golden cross and necklace b. Theodelinda buckle and ivory comb c. Purse handle (The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 8). 234 La Rocca

(a) (b) Figure 11.10 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. a. Shield; b. Daggers (The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 9).

The 1932 catalogue also had the new title “The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs”. Most interestingly, in the new version of the catalogue a new intro duction was written—this time signed by Reginald Smith—stating definitely that: “the date and origin assigned to the first pieces are now confirmed by inscriptions and what is evidently royal property; and the tombs of king Agilulf of Lombardy and his queen Theodelinda seem to have been discovered, and dis- mantled without adequate supervision.”20 In 1932 new objects were therefore firmly linked to the grave of Agilulf and Theodelinda through the written word. Inscriptions appear on a certain number of power symbols that combined iconography and words from other Agilulfian finds, in particular the Lamina di Agilulfo: a sword handle bore the same image as the Lamina di Agilulfo of Agilulf seated on the throne together with the inscription “+ agilulf gratia dei vir gloriosissimus rex totius italiae,” the same inscription as in the so-called Agilulf votive crown, now lost (Fig. 11.11).21 Another sword bore the inscription “teodelenda reg[ina] gloriosissema+” (Fig. 11.12)— that is, the same inscription as Theodelinda’s Gospel book in Monza—and the

20 Reginald A. Smith, “Introduction,” in The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, (London, 1932). 21 On this crown, see Gasparri, La Rocca, “Forging an early medieval royal couple,” 286–7. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 235

Figure 11.11 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Dagger with Agilulf portrait (The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 10).

Figure 11.12 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Theodolinda dagger (The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 11). 236 La Rocca

(a) (b) Figure 11.13 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. a: Golden crown with Agilulf portrait; b: detail (The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 12).

Figure 11.14 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Horn (detail) The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 13). shape of its handle clearly referred to the swords of the Tetrarchs statue in Venice.22 An iron helmet, decorated in gold and surmounted by a cross, bore the inscription “agilulfus rex + italiae totius gratia + dei + gloriosissimus”, and the words “victuria” and “REX”, each repeated twice (Fig. 11.13 a, b). A glass horn, decorated in gold and red enamel, bore the inscription “+victuria+” four times and the inscription “rex” three times (Fig. 11.14). A golden cross carried the inscription “victuria rex” (Fig. 11.15).

22 Cf. Ross Balzaretti, “Theodelinda, “ ‘Most Glorious queen’: gender and power in Lombard Italy,” The Medieval History Journal, 2, 2 (1999), 183–207. For a discussion of the Tetrarchs swords see Jonathan Bardill, Constantine, Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 68–73, fig. 57, 58. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 237

Figure 11.15 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Golden cross with Agilulf portrait (The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 14).

Figure 11.16 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Horn with Agilulf portrait (The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 13).

The word “victuria”, which appears on the standards of the Lamina di Agilulfo, became a distinctive sign of Agilulf’s identity. The “new finds” used in a very explicit way the royal image and words of the Lamina di Agilulfo, reproducing four times an image of the king seated on the throne (on the crown, on the horn, on the cross, and on the buckle) (Fig. 11.16). The same mechanism was used for queen Theodelinda, who appears with long hair and a crown, on a sword and on two belt buckles (Fig. 11.17). Completing the image of this royal Lombard couple as a truly early medieval European one, other explicit signs of royal power were inserted, such as two 238 La Rocca

Figure 11.17 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Buckles with Agilulf (centre) and Theodelinda portrait (The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 15).

golden crowns (recalling the Visigothic votive crown of Guarrazar)23 and eleven golden bees, directly inspired by the bees discovered in the grave of the Merovingian king Childeric in Tournai (Fig. 11.18). Recalling other early medieval royal finds, these well known objects were showing both the royal status of their owner and the European dimension of the Lombard kingship. At the same time, the cautious introduction of the catalogue’s first edition changed radically, now quoting explicitly the Lamina di Agilulfo in order to provide a reliable source for the collection and stating with certainty the

23 Gisela Ripoll Lopez, “Il tesoro di Guarrazzàr,” in Tesori. Forme di accumulazione della ric- chezza nell’alto medioevo, Sauro Gelichi, Cristina La Rocca (eds.) (Rome: Viella, 2004), 276–97. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 239

Figure 11.18 ‘The Lombard Treasure’. Second Group. Golden bees (The Lombard Treasure from Royal Tombs, London [1932], pl. 16). interpretation that this was the very grave of Agilulf and Theodelinda, although its location remained undisclosed.24 The Durlachers were asking support for their “new finds”, showing repeatedly the artefacts of “The Lombard treasure” to experts on early medieval finds and sending them copies of the new catalogue: in October 1931 the Belgian collector Adolphe Stoclet was thanking the Durlacher Brothers “pour les nouvelles pièces qui sont venues s’ajouter à cet ensemble déjà invraisemblable.”25 On his side, Alfred Mahr, keeper of Irish Antiquities at the Museum of Dublin, was stating that “I always held the opinion that the find is a splendidly authen- ticated early Teutonic treasure and I think I told you that after my last visit, when you showed me the additional treasures, I took the liberty (having obtained your consent) to write a few notes about it in the German Periodical ‘Germania’.”26 Haakon Shetelig, Director of the Museum of Bergen (Norway) thanking George Durlacher for the Catalogue he sent him in October 1931 was also very impressed by the Treasure because “I never forget the impression I had of the originals last year when you so kindly allowed me to examine the objects in your office. The discovery of this royal grave is certainly one of the most prominent events in the history of Teutonic archaeology, of equal importance to the early Lombard history and to the history of art in the dark ages.”27 Despite the efforts of both the Durlachers and Reginald Smith, the “Treasure” never found a customer. In 1938 its price dropped from 120,000 to 32,000 pounds but the Metropolitan Museum of New York finally refused to buy it. After several doubts on its authenticity, already clearly appearing only two

24 Treasure from a Lombard chieftain’s grave, 1 (University of Passau Library copy). 25 Appendix, letter # 25. 26 Appendix, letter # 23. 27 Appendix, letter # 24. 240 La Rocca months after the London exhibition, the inconsistency of the entire group was finally proven by chemical analyses in the 1990s: they showed in fact that the pure gold and the cadmium inclusions of the items of “the Lombard Treasure” were totally incompatible with early medieval artefacts.28

Attitudes to the “Germanic” Past North and South of the Alps

The history of the “Lombard Treasure” is thus an interesting point of departure for at least three strands of research. From one side it demonstrates the growing interest in early medieval objects as defining national identities and collective memories at the beginning of the twentieth century, a subject that recently has been at the core of much archaeological and historical research. This interest in the early medieval material evidence from Germanic graves was a well-known field of national research in Europe from the beginning of the nineteenth century, mainly following the itineraries of migrations of the Germans and their spread all over Europe: philology, legal history, medieval history and, finally, archaeology, were altogether engaged in defining the specific character of their native inhabitants, defining their mutual relationship with the Germans. As Hubert Fehr and Silvye Joye have shown, the degree of appreciation of the early medieval origins of different European nations was directly linked to the politics of the nineteenth century.29 In this perspective, Germany and Italy placed, at this stage, completely different values on their early medieval past. While in German historiography the Völkerwanderung of the fourth and fifth century was seen as spreading the Germanic culture all over Europe, replacing with fresh blood the bureaucratic and senile Roman traditions and civilisation, Italian intellectuals, dealing with the political division of Italy and aiming at finding a lost tradition of unity, were looking to a distant Roman past in which Italy was free not only from German invaders but also from the intrusion of Germanic and foreign elements in customary laws, language, and culture. At the birth of the academic disciplines of medieval history, archaeology, and anthropology, Italian and German scholars developed a similar heuristic method but their aims were completely opposite. The Germans

28 Dafydd Kidd, “Fakes of Early Medieval European jewellery,” in Fake? The art of deception (London: The British Museum, 1990), 173–6, 282, n. 313. 29 Hubert Fehr, Germanen und Romanen im Merowingerreich (Berlin: De Gruyter 2010); Sylvie Joye, “Les notions de Romanité et de Germanité dans les études françaises du xixe siècle consacrées au haut Moyen Âge,” Mélanges de l’École Française de Rome, Moyen Âge, 119/2 (2007), 278–96. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 241 were underlining the particular traits of German culture within the ex-Roman world to show its strength and its power. Italians were instead trying to define how insignificant—or even dangerous—the German influence was, how irrelevant for the real development of the Italian people, and finally how inferior the German cultural background was compared to the Roman one.30 German invaders of Italy were therefore divided into two groups: the good ones, such as the Goths, who showed great respect to Roman laws, vocabulary, and institutions; the bad ones, such as the Lombards, who ignored them.31 At the beginning of the twentieth century, the nationalistic interests, deeply embedded in the ideology of the racial superiority of the Aryans and in the definition of a Teutonic culture, that included not only Germany but also the British Isles and the kingdoms of northern Europe,32 changed essentially the image and the role of the “Teutonic” kings and peoples in the development of civilisation. Having military defeated the late Roman puppet emperors, it was their task to transmit and to develop the positive traits of Roman power and culture. In this later perspective, “The Lombard Treasure”

30 Alberto M. Banti, “Le invasioni barbariche e le origini delle nazioni,” in Immagini della nazione nell’Italia del Risorgimento, Alberto M. Banti & Roberto Bizzocchi (eds.) (Rome: La Terza, 2002), 21–44; Enrico Artifoni, “Le questioni longobarde. Osservazioni su alcuni testi del primo Ottocento storiografico italiano,” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Moyen âge, 119/2, (2007), 297–304; Ian Wood, “ ‘Adelchi’ and ‘Attila’: the barbarians and the Risorgimento,” Papers of the British School at Rome, 76 (2008), 233–55. 31 For instance for France and America, Bonnie Effros, “Memories of the early medieval past grave artefacts in nineteenth-century France and early-twentieth-century America,” in Archaeologies of Remembrance. Death and Memory in Past Societies, Howard Williams (ed.) (New York: Kluwer Plenum Publishers, 2003), 255–80; Bonnie Effros, “Art of the ‘Dark Ages’. Showing Merovingian artefacts in North American public and private collections,” Journal of the History of Collections, 17 (2005), 85–113; Bonnie Effros & Howard Williams (eds.), “Early medieval material culture in the nineteenth- and twentieth- century imagination,” Early Medieval Europe, 16 (2008); for German archaeology, Heinrich Härke, Archaeology, Ideology and Society. The German Experience (Frankfurt & Main, 2002); Hubert Fehr, “Volkstum as paradigm: Germanic people and Gallo-Romans in early medieval archaeology since the 1930s,” in On Barbarian Identity. Critical Approaches to Ethnicity in the early Middle Ages, Andrew Gillett (ed.) (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002) (Studies in the Early Middle Ages 4,) 177–200; Nationalism, politics and the practice of archaeology, Philip L. Kohl & Clare Fawcett (eds.) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Nationalism and Archaeology in Europe, Margarita Diaz-Andreu & Timothy Champion (eds.) (London: ucl Press, 1996). 32 Bryan Ward-Perkins, “Why did the Anglo-Saxons not become more British?” English Historical Review, 115 (2000), 513–33; Howard Williams, “Anglo-Saxonism and Victorian archaeology: William Wylie’s Fairford Graves,” Early Medieval Europe, 16(1) (2008), 49–88. 242 La Rocca shows the insertion of Lombard material evidence into a broader European context with a deep interest in showing its role as a witness to Germanic civilisation in the Mediterranean culture, in a group of finds that included not only references to actual Lombard archaeological finds from Italy, but also to objects originating from the most distant (geographically and chronologically) Eastern Europe and France. In constructing Agilulf’s and Theodelinda’s grave goods, and therefore the characteristics of their symbols of power, the “Lombard Treasure” was to reveal the progressive tendency of defining the specific and individual character of kings and queens through their material belongings. Since the development of anthropology and psychology, both these aspects were thought to be highly important in defining the material presence of important and documented “heroes” of the early medieval past: “Agilulf the wise” was in fact the surname of the Lombard king in Scandinavia. “Agilulf the wise” was the protagonist of literary work, operas, and poetry at the beginning of the twentieth century, showing the success of mediating between the Romans and the Lombards and transmitting Roman values and examples to the “pure Germanic” Lombards.33 This tendency was at the same time satisfying the Italian local tradition of identifying the names of individuals buried and found in archaeological cemeteries, attributing to them the character of local civic ancestors.34 Presenting the “Lombard treasure” as the grave of Agilulf and Theodelinda was a chance to appeal to both a European interest in a “Teutonic” royal couple and an Italian local (specifically Milanese) one, in one of their most famous historical characters.35 But we have to remember that the “Lombard Treasure” was not sold in 1930 and that, despite the considerable expense by the Durlacher brothers to print and distribute an impressive catalogue, where all the special characteristics of the golden finds were highlighted with great emphasis, private collectors and museums were not really interested in purchasing it. The failure of the “Lombard Treasure” seems to show the extreme fragility of Lombard memory, not only outside but even inside Italy. On the one hand the Lombards were too

33 See, for example, Haakon Shetelig, “ ‘From the Court of Agilulf the Wise’: The Royal Treasures of the Lombards”, Kunst und Kultur (1932); Agilulf den vise (Agilulf the wise) was also a play by Norwegian author Hans E. Kinck (1906). 34 Cristina La Rocca, “L’archeologia e i Longobardi in Italia. Orientamenti, metodi, linee di ricerca,” in Il Regno dei Longobardi in Italia. Archeologia, società e istituzioni, Stefano Gasparri (ed.) (Spoleto: cisam, 2004), 173–233. 35 On the Theodelinda tradition during the 19th and 20th centuries, see Piero Majocchi, “The treasure of Theodelinda: ideological claims and political contingencies in the construction of a myth,” in Archaeologie der Identität/Archaeology of Identity, 245–67. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 243 strictly related to Italy and to the Italian Catholic past; on the other, their obvious Heimat (Italy) was not too keen to remember a two-century long “foreign domination” in a political atmosphere dominated by the ambiguous relationship between Italy and Germany before the Second World War. The cultural opposition between Hitler and Mussolini was closely connected to their conflicting ideas about the heritage of Mediterranean and Germanic civilisation and the superiority of the Aryan race.36 While in the nineteenth century the increasing number of Lombard cemeteries discovered all over Italy never engendered any national pride,37 in the completely different political context of the first decades of the twentieth century the Lombards were considered the hazardous witnesses of a German conquest of the past that could possibly lead to very dangerous consequences in the present. It is interesting to note that at the “Dark Ages” exhibition in London the finds coming from Italian museums (and therefore authorized by national authorities) were not the Lombard or the Gothic ones but rather two late antique ivory diptychs from the Museo Cristiano in Brescia and from the same Museo of Bargello of Florence that owned the Lamina di Agilulfo. In the London exhibition Italian authorities wanted therefore to mark the distance and the difference of the roots of Italian past (classified as Roman) and the “Germanic” past of Europe north of the Alps. As the Times significantly reported: “Much of the decoration throughout the exhibition is of the kind that the unlearned would call indiscriminately ‘Celtic’: interlaced strap ornaments and animal forms stylized almost out of recognition. So pronounced is this prevailing not humanistic character that the ivories, with their graceful treatment of the human figure—as in the Love Scenes from Brescia—look like an intrusion from another world.”38 Thus, the role of the Lombards in Italian cultural memory that had been important in many contexts since the late medieval period did not continue

36 See the vivid report on Hitler’s visit in Rome and the explicit conflict between him and Mussolini on the value of Roman antiquities and the supremacy of Roman civilisation in Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli, Hitler e Mussolini 1938: il viaggio del Führer in Italia (Milan: Edizioni e/o, 1995). 37 Cristina La Rocca, “Uno specialismo mancato. Esordi e fallimento dell’archeologia medievale italiana alla fine dell’Ottocento,” Archeologia Medievale 20 (1993) 7–34; Marco Varetto, Protagonisti e metodi della medievistica archeologica nel Piemonte di fine ‘800, tesi di Laurea, Università degli studi di Torino (Torino 1991–1992); Irene Barbiera, “ ‘E ai dì remoti grande pur egli il Forogiulio appare’ Longobardi, storiografi a e miti delle origini a Cividale del Friuli,” Archeologia Medievale 25 (1998), 345–57; Annamaria Pazienza, “I longobardi nella Chiusi di Porsenna, nuove fonti per la necropoli dell’Arcisa,” Archeologia medievale, 33 (2006), 61–78. 38 The Times, 12 May, 1930, 14. 244 La Rocca on a national level in the nineteenth and twentieth century.39 In contrast to other European nations, in Italy—in the historiography of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century—the early medieval period was not perceived as the moment of birth of the present nation; it was instead seen as a dark period of cultural regression, politically dominated by “foreign people.” For all these reasons the attribution of this “treasure” to a Lombard king in 1930 is extremely interesting. The faked Lombard objects are at the same time a sign of the ideological utilization of the Lombard period in Italy structured by the historiography between the second half of the nineteenth and the first decades of the twentieth century, and the sign of interlacement between national and international memory in defining the identity of the early medieval Italian past. These fake archaeological materials were copied from genuine Lombard objects from central Italy (possibly their iron parts are genuine Lombard objects), while their golden decoration was added later.40 A fundamental (local but also international) role in reconstructing this early medieval Italian past was played by the artistic and archaeological patrimony that archaeological research of the nineteenth century continued to emphasise as pure remnants of cultural decline. This was characteristic primarily for the Lombard cemeteries excavated immediately after the unification of Italy in 1871 at Testona (Turin), Cividale (Udine), Castel Trosino (Ascoli Piceno), and Nocera Umbra (Perugia). Recent research shows that these remains were for a long period perceived only as local patrimony: while for Italian history they were material evidence of the “Dark Ages” of the nation, they did become evidence of the excellent past of particular cities.41 Local museums and national research therefore had

39 During the late medieval period, instead, Lombard memory was a very important political tool for the elaboration and legitimization of the Signorie in Lombardy: see Piero Majocchi, Papia urbs regia. Storia e memoria di una capitale altomedievale (Rome: Viella, 2010); Enrico Ravelli, I Longobardi nella tradizione storiografica italiana: il caso di Brescia, tesi di Laurea, Università degli Studi di Milano (Milan 2004–2005). 40 bm., bf September 1930 on analyses undertaken at the British Museum Laboratory on the iron parts of the shield; the golden decoration has been shown to result from a modern chemical process, see Dafydd Kidd, “Fakes of the early medieval European jewellery,” in Fake? The Art of Deception, 173–6. This group of finds has been analysed by Dafydd Kidd, “The Lombard Treasure,” Jewellery Studies, 4 (1990), 37–45. 41 Pierangelo Schiera/Reinhard Elze (eds.), Italia e Germania. Immagini, modelli, miti fra due popoli nell’Ottocento: il Medioevo (Bologna, Il Mulino 1988); Antiquité, Archéologie et Construction nationale au xixe siècle, Roma, Ėcole Française de Rome, 2001); Simona Troilo, “Sul patrimonio storico-artistico e la nazione nel xix secolo,” Storica 8 (2002), 147–78; ead., La patria e la memoria (Milan: Electa, 2004). On local identity after Italian the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 245 conflicting interests and reasons for preserving and exhibiting barbaric objects, alternately interpreting the Lombards as local citizens or as invaders.42 But this local appeal, emphasized as it was in local magazines and monuments, was not enough to transform the Lombards into authentic Italian or European protagonists of history. In a sense the construction of the “Lombard Treasure” by the Durlachers shows how distant and unappealing the Lombards were—even when linked to one of their most famous kings, Agilulf—for the international art market. As mentioned above, despite the efforts of both the Durlachers and Reginald Smith, the “treasure” never found a customer even when the price was radically reduced.43 At the same time it is interesting to study the evolution of this failure, as this very effort proves at least the possibility, at the beginning of the twentieth century, of inserting the Lombard finds into a broader wave of interest, if not by Italian national authorities, then by northern European collectors and museums. It was the chance to create an interest in the Lombards as representatives of Germanic or Teutonic art, and not as representatives of Italian invaders or simply of Italians.44 This opportunity was presented by Italian Lombard finds, discovered since the end of the nineteenth century in northern Italy and capitalized on the increasing local fame of Theodelinda in “her” town of Monza, a fame that crystallized after the Second World War, when a German

unification see Carlotta Sorba, “Il mito dei comuni e le patrie cittadine,” in Almanacco della Repubblica. Storia d’Italia attraverso le tradizioni, le istituzioni e le simbologie repub- blicane, Maurizio Ridolfi (ed.) (Milan: Bruno Mondadori 2003), 119–30; Ilaria Porciani, “Identità locale-identità nazionale: la costruzione di una doppia appartenenza,” in Centralismo e federalismo tra Ottocento e Novecento, Otto Janz, Pierangelo Schiera & Hans Siegriest (eds.) (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1997); Anne-Marie Thiesse, La creazione delle identità nazionali in Europa (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2001). 42 Flora E.S. Kaplan, Museums and the Making of “Ourselves”: The Role of Objects in National Identity (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1994). 43 See the correspondence between Alfred Durlacher and George Eumorfopoulos in 1938: “I am sorry Grancsay [N.T. Director of the Metropolitan Museum of Arts, New York] gave you no idea why they see no chance of their endeavouring to buy the Gold Treasure, I have a strong suspicion someone may have crabbed it. I consulted my friend Reginald Smith who made the Catalogue at the British Museum; he merely said you cannot prevent people telling lies,” see Appendix # 35. 44 Cf. the comments by Michele Tomasi, “Falsi e falsari,” in Il Medioevo al passato e al pre- sente, Enrico Castelnuovo & Giuseppe Sergi (eds.) (Torino: Einaudi, 2004) (Arti e storia del Medioevo, iv), 871–88: 875–6, fig. 11.2. 246 La Rocca archaeological enterprise attempted to discover her “real” grave (maybe in response to the “Lombard Treasure”).45

Reception and Rejection of the Forgery

Although the “Lombard Treasure” was a fake collection,46 its cultural value has been underestimated. To begin with, it is still not clear where these fake objects were produced: in Italy? in England? And who was the mysterious dealer who contacted the Durlachers—if he ever existed.47 Furthermore, it is a puzzling question, why, among all the well known Lombard kings—Alboin and Liutprand, for example—the forger choose the royal couple of Agilulf and Theodelinda. It would also be very interesting to find out the motives for the deep involvement in this entire “business” by the keeper of the British Museum, Reginald Smith. I can propose some ideas, hoping that a convincing solution to all these questions can be proposed examining further documents, especially on the Italian side. The very important researches undertaken by Dafydd Kidd, keeper of the British Museum in the 90s, were in fact basically aimed at identifying the fate of individual items of the “Lombard Treasure” and tracing the various stages of their dissemination all over the world.48 Let me try to summarize what has become known so far. After the London exhibition (spring 1930), where the “Lombard Treasure” was admired by a vast audience of connoisseurs, its inconsistency was shown as early as a few months later, in July 1930. Ernst Zimmermann, the director of the Germanisches Nationalmuseum in Nürnberg did not hesitate to call it “eine plumpe Fälschung” in a letter to the director of the Victoria and Albert Museum, Eric Maclagan. Zimmermann’s letter stressed various coarse mistakes in the shape

45 Various stages in the archaeological discovery of Theodelinda’s grave are illustrated by Gunther Haseloff, “Die Funde aus dem Sarkophag der Königin Theodelinda in Monza,” Germania 30 (1952), 368–77; the local tradition in Piacenza was examined by Emilio Nasalli Rocca, “La tradizione piacentina della tomba di re Ildeprando,” in I settimana del Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto medioevo (Spoleto 1951), 417–26. The list of chronological discoveries of graves of Lombard kings is in Karl Heinrich Krüger, Königsgrabkirchen der Franken, Angelsachsen und Langobarden bis zur Mitte des 8. Jahrhunderts, München, 1971. 46 So certified by Walter von Stokar & Hans Zeiß, “Die gefälschte Adlerfibel von 1936,” Germania, 24 (1942), 266–87. 47 See Appendix, letter # 13. 48 Kidd, “Fakes”, 173–6. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 247 of individual finds, but also the poor quality of the copy of Agilulf’s Lamina di Agilulfo of the Bargello.49 However, the collection had admirers as well: Albert Dresdner, professor of art history in Berlin, presented it as “a new find which was made in the south of the territories occupied by Teutonic races, a find which exceeds in splendour anything that had hitherto been preserved of Germanic civilisation,” being “so thoroughly Germanic that it affords evidence of the pertinacity in which the Lombards adhered to their Germanic character even after embracing Christianity.”50 As mentioned above, the Belgian connoisseur, Adolphe Stoclet, the keeper of Irish antiquities at the Museum of Dublin, Adolf Mahr,51 and Haakon Shetelig, director of the Bergen Museum, showed all their admiration for the finds that the Durlachers had already shown them personally during their visit to London.52 In this context the key figure is certainly Reginald Smith, keeper of the Department of British and Medieval Antiquities and Ethnography at the British Museum, not because he would have been consciously involved in the forgery, but because he strongly believed that the exceptional “Lombard Treasure” would shape his public image and his local reputation as a major European expert of “Teutonic Antiquities.”53 Since 1923, Smith was charged by the British Museum to increase the Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic collections with

49 bm., bf July 10th 1930: from E. Zimmermann to E. MacLagan; July 16th, 1930: from E. MacLagan to E. Zimmermann, where it is asked “I hope I may have your permission to quote your letter if such proposal (of acquisition) is for one of our national collections”; reference to this correspondence also in June 7th 1938 from E. MacLagan to T.D. Kendrick. See Appendix, Letters # 9, 10. 50 gri, da: 1933, March, 23 to T.S. Grancsay from Kirk Askew (Durlacher Brothers, New York): this letter includes the translation in English of Albert Dresdner, Professor in Art History at the Technische Hochschule Berlin, “A Lombard Royal Treasure, formerly in Deutsche Rundschau”, s.d., 1–10. Appendix letter # 28. 51 Mahr (1887–1851) was an Austrian archaeologist active in the Irish Nazi Party: cf. Gerry Mullins, Dublin Nazi No. 1: the life of Adolf Mahr (Dublin: Liberties Press, 2007). 52 See Appendix, letters # 23–5. 53 Smith is in fact the author of the first catalogue of the British Museum dedicated to evaluating the impact of the early medieval European and British past: Reginald A. Smith, A Guide to the Anglo-Saxon and Foreign Teutonic Antiquities in the Department of British and Mediaeval Antiquities (London: bm, 1923). “Teutonic” was in fact the term chosen since the beginning of the nineteenth century by anthropologist to define a specific race of Northern Europe in opposition to the Mediterranean race. By the end of the nineteenth century this term was used to define the “German” early medieval artifacts of Northern Europe: see the discussion by Hubert Fehr, Germanen und Romanen im Merowingerreich (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010), 110–5, 214–6. 248 La Rocca archaeological finds from both England and the Continent, that were con- ceived as a “special appeal to the English people, as illustrating what is largely the handwork of their own forefathers.”54 Smith’s enthusiasm in his task, showed by a continuous series of acquisitions of objects during his term from 1928 to 1938,55 reached a critical moment in the spring of 1930, when Smith found out that the “Scythian electrum deer” and other objects he had bought from the notorious Hungarian forger László Mautner in January 1930, were not only fakes but even that several copies of the “Scythian deer” were circulating all over Europe.56 In this history, therefore, personal difficulties and cultural history are inter- twined: as Smith’s correspondence with the Durlachers shows, Smith was really convinced of the authenticity of the Lombard collection, thinking that the doubts on its authenticity were merely tools of personal insult against him.57 In fact his bad reputation and difficult relationship with the British Museum staff emerge vividly even from the writings in his memory after his death.58 In 1940, when Smith died, his successor in the Department, Thomas Kendrick, was remembering him as: “In character modest and retiring, and I suspected not a little shy. But beneath an occasional surface brusqueness he concealed a kindness that knew no bounds; and among his close friends there must be many who could reveal a part of the perhaps unsuspected tale of his warmly sympathetic generosity and of his simple, good nature.”59

54 Ormonde M. Dalton, “Preface,” in Smith, A Guide, 2. 55 bm., Book of acquisitions, 1927–1938. 56 bm., Book of correspondence, January 16, 1930; “A radiated brooch offered for £ 30, a circular brooch for £ 60 and an electrum deer for £ 85, total £ 175”; May 5, 1930, “Since the Trustees purchased from you an electrum figure of a deer in the Scythian style, it has come to our knowledge that several similar examples, with the blemish of the flank more or less pronounced, have been noted in circulation, and I write to enquire if you can explain their existence”; July 2, 1930 “Even if you destroyed the two copies you made of the Scythian deer, someone else must have made and circulated others, as there are several in existence, and we are led to doubt the authenticity of the specimen you sold to this Museum for £ 85.” 57 Durlacher Archive, Los Angeles, 1938, March 22. 58 See, for example, the few lines dedicated to him in The History of the British Museum (London: bm., 1996), 275–6; Alec B. Tonnochy, “Four keepers of the department of British and medieval antiquities,” British Museum Quarterly, 18 (1953) 83–8 (I owe this reference to Dr. Leslie Webster—British Museum). 59 Thomas D. Kendrick, “Appreciations,” The Times, January 23, 1940; Thomas D. Kendrick, “In the 20s,” in Prehistoric and Roman Studies commemorating the opening of the Department of Prehistoric and Romano-British Antiquities, G. de G. Sieveking (ed.) (London: The British Museum), 2–5. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 249

From his correspondence it is clear that Smith considered the early medieval exhibition at the Burlington Club a good opportunity to improve his reputation and that he was engaged in it for a year, despite some initial doubts.60 He had known about some pieces of the “Treasure” since May 1929 when Alfred Durlacher had sent a golden sword to him for an expert opinion, and soon he wrote that he had bought it “although I had to give a certain amount for it.”61 After giving his (positive) opinion on the sword, Smith wrote to Alfred Durlacher because “I am interested in know[ing] where they [i.e., the sword and a shield] go as the Burlington Fine Arts Club is having an exhibition of such things in the spring.”62 Interestingly, in the surviving and so far looked at correspondence, there is no mention of the main piece of the “Lombard Treasure,” that is, the golden horse collar with Agilulf seated on the throne. From their side, the Durlachers acted in the paradigmatic way expected of dealers in forgeries.63 First they were very cautious toward Reginald Smith. They had dealt with him well before the London exhibition,64 asking at first for some bibliography on a “gold hilted sword which has been offered to us [which] . . . is one of those objects which are open to doubt.”65 Then they offered the British Museum some objects from the “grave,” stating that “the firm does not desire publicity because these and other relics from the cemetery might occasion difficulties with Italy, especially as the graves discovered may well be those of Agilulf king of the Lombards and his queen Theodelinda.”66

60 bm. July 17, 1929 from Reginald Smith to the Secretary, Burlington Fine Arts Club: “I do not see how anyone can accumulate enough material to provide an exhibition of the high standard usual at Savile Row.” See Appendix, letter # 3. 61 bm. May 3, 1929, Alfred Durlacher sent the sword to Reginald Smith for an expert opinion, writing that “in the case with the sword is a rough map of the district where the tomb is said to be” (this map was not found later); June 7, 1929: Alfred Durlacher bought the sword “although I had to give a certain amount for it,” obviously after having had a positive reply about its authenticity. See Appendix, letters # 1, 2. 62 bm., bf July 23, 1929 from Reginald Smith to Alfred Durlacher; September 27, 1929, positive reply from Alfred Durlacher. See Appendix, letters # 5, 8. 63 As outlined by Anthony Grafton, Forgers and Critics. Creativity and Duplicity in Western Scholarship (Oxford: Princeton University Press, 1993). 64 The correspondence between the Durlacher Firm and Reginald Smith date from at least 1928: cf. bm., January 20, 1928; January 21, 1928; July 20, 1928; December 21, 1928; March 21, 1929. 65 bm., bf, July 19, 1929. See Appendix, letter # 4. 66 Dafydd Kidd thinks that this was the main reason for the British Museum choosing not to buy the Treasure. But in these years Mussolini’s regime was not at all interested in the early medieval Italian past, intent as it was to celebrate the glories of Rome: Daniele Manacorda, “Ostia e l’archeologia fascista,” Archeologia Medievale, 4 (1980), 341–9. It 250 La Rocca

Showing doubts and caution, asking for an expert opinion, and finally acting in a mysterious way, were the classic moves with which forgers convinced their clients of the authenticity and rarity of their pieces. Certainly Smith was unaware of the fact that at that time the Italian government was totally unin- terested in the Germanic past of the Italian nation. Eventually, the later project of classifying and publishing the Germanic material past in Europe, promoted by the Germans, would be seen by the Italian government as a real threat for the political future of the nation. Emphasizing Germanic roots and the spread of their settlement in Italy would have meant providing material evidence for a German re-occupation of native lands.67 But this “Lombard treasure” is also interesting from another perspective, one that concerns the difference in structure between the first group—the pieces exhibited in the London Exhibition—and the second one, modelled on the idea of “Aladdin’s cave” as Otto Kurz has put it.68 The first nucleus of the “Lombard Treasure” was based on philological and chronological criteria, satisfying—through the shared image of a “barbarian chief”—the idea that Italian archaeologists and historians had developed about early medieval Italy and the role of the Lombards in it. On the other hand, the choice of Agilulf as a prestigious king was based on the increasing local fame of queen Theodelinda in Monza and her reputation as a Catholic agent in the Christianization of the pagan Lombards. The later additions, produced between 1930 and 1932, traced in a striking and inaccurate way the ownership of the objects to Agilulf and Theodelinda, copying famous royal objects from all over Europe, showing no care about chronology or cultural contexts. We can then suspect that the original project of the contents of Agilulf’s grave was later increased to try to convince European customers of the royalty of the grave and its link to the Lombard couple. But, as we have seen, even this connection did not help to remove the suspicion and the “Lombard Treasure” did not find its way into the showcases of a major museum.

would be interesting to understand if this strategy was an aggressive strategy or merely a defensive one. 67 On the project, developed in Spain and Italy, see Hubert Fehr, “Hans Zeiß, Joachim Werner und die archäologischen Forschungen zur Merowingerzeit,” in Eine hervorragend nationale Wissenschaft. Deutsche Prähistoriker zwischen 1900 und 1995, Heiko Steuer (ed.) (rga Erg. Bd. 29, Berlin, 2001) 375–415. 68 Otto Kurz, Falsi e falsari (Vicenza: Neri Pozza, 1996), ed. orig. Engl. 1948, 252–4. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 251

Appendix: Documentation

Abbreviations: bm., b[lue] F[older] = British Museum Archive, London, Dept. of Archaeology: gri, da = Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles, Durlacher Archives

1. bm., bf, f Durlacher Bros. G.L. Durlacher A.P. Durlacher 25 West 54th Street New York 142, New Bond Street London, W.1.

Reginald Smith Esq. British Museum 3 May 1929

Dear Mr. Smith, I am sorry I cannot come to see you myself but my brother has suddenly been taken very ill and I am here alone. I send you by bearer a gold hilted sword which has been offered to us which the owner says has never been offered before. It is called 8th century Lombard and is said to have come from a tomb in Italy. In the case with the sword is a rough map of the district where the tomb is said to be, kindly return the map to the bearer. I shall be obliged if you will kindly let me have your opinion on the sword as to me it is one of those objects which are open to doubt. I am, dear Mr. Smith, Yours very truly, Alfred Durlacher (In hand writing:) Received by W. Shaw for Durlacher Bros.

2. bm., bf, g Durlacher Bros. G.L. Durlacher A.P. Durlacher 25 West 54th Street New York 142, New Bond Street London, W.1. 7 June 1929 252 La Rocca

Dear Mr. Smith, I have bought the Lombardic sword although I had to give a certain amount for it. As soon as my brother has seen it, we do not expect him back for at least a fortnight; your department shall have the first refusal. When I telephoned to you the other day and we got cut off it was to ask if you had any drawings or knew anything of Mr. Stoclet’s collection as he has had certain gold objects stolen from him. I sent him a drawing of the sword on the same day and he has replied that it is not the one stolen from him although somewhat similar. Yours very truly, Alfred Durlacher

3. bm., Book of Correspondence The Secretary Burlington Fine Arts Club 17 Savile Row W 1 July, 17th 1929

Dear Sir, The opportunity of learning something about the Dark Ages is too good to miss, and I shall be glad to join your Committee under Mr Eumorfopoulos; but at present do not see how anyone can accumulate enough material to provide an exhibition of the high standard usual at Savile Row. Yours faithfully R(eginald) A(llen) S(mith) Keeper

4. bm., bf, h Durlacher Bros. G.L. Durlacher A.P. Durlacher 25 West 54th Street New York 142, New Bond Street London, W.1. 19 July 1929 the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 253

Dear Mr. Smith, I have now the Swedish work on the ring swords,69 is there any similar work, or one of the same series, which would illustrate our dagger and the boss of the shield. Thanking you in advance Yours very truly, Alfred Durlacher

5. bm., Book of Correspondence Messrs Durlacher Bros. 142 New Bond Street W1 July 23rd 1929

Dear Mr Durlacher, The most accessible publication is Nils Aberg’s DIE GOTEN UND LANGOBARDEN IN ITALIEN, published among other places at Paris (Librairie Ancienne Honoré Champion). A similar dagger is illustrated on p. 96: types of shield-bosses on pp. 94–95. I am interested to know where they go, as the Burlington Fine Arts Club is having an exhibition of such things in the spring. Yours very truly, R(eginald) A(llen) S(mith) Keeper

6. bm., bf, i Durlacher Bros. G.L. Durlacher A.P. Durlacher 25 West 54th Street New York 142, New Bond Street London, W.1. 24 July 1929

Dear Mr. Reginald Smith I am much obliged for your information about the book illustrating the daggers etc. Mr. Eumorfopoulos has already spoken to me about the Burlington Fine Arts Club exhibition, we shall be very pleased to have them exhibited if possible. Yours sincerely, Alfred Durlacher

69 It is certainly B. Salin, 254 La Rocca

7. gri, da, [Box 1—Folder 7] 23 September 1929

Dear Mr. Askew: We have a letter from Venturi (. . .) (p. 4): “We have bought the helmet belonging to the treasure. Mr. George says nothing had better be mentioned about it at present on account of the Italian press which has taken up the matter.” Edith C. Raven

8. bm., bf, j Durlacher Bros. G.L. Durlacher A.P. Durlacher 25 West 54th Street New York 142, New Bond Street London, W.1. 27 September 1929

Dear Mr. Reginald Smith, I am very sorry I missed you yesterday but I am still under orders to come up only four days a week. I shall be delighted to show Dr. Alexander Scott70 the whole of the treasure, I am sure his advice would be invaluable; as I should like to be here myself will you let me know when he can find time to call and I should be very pleased if you would accompany him. I have written to Paris about the Iberian bronzes. Very truly yours, George Durlacher

9. bm., bf, l b Nürnberg, den 10 Juli 193071 Sehr geehter Herr Direktor!72 Da ich in den Kritiken über die Ausstellung im Burlington-Club überall den lan- gobardischer Grabfund rühmen hörte, möchte ich doch nach der Publikation eini-

70 Alexander Scott (1872–1932), British landscape painter. 71 Stamp: Letter dispatched 16 July 1930. 72 E. MacLagan, director of the Victoria and Albert Museum. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 255 ger Stücke im Juli-Heft des Pantheon dringend vor ihm als Fälschung warnen, falls in London die Absicht einer Erwerbung des Stückes bestehen sollte. Der ganze Fund ist meiner Ansicht nach eine plumpe Fälschung. Langobardenhelme der Art hat es nicht gegeben, auch der Sporn ist stilwidrig und die Schnalle ganz unmöglich proportioniert. Beweisend ist aber, das auf dem grossen Halssmuck das Relief eine in fast allen Teilen missverstandene Kopie der Goldplatte in Bargello zu Florenz ist. Diese ist abgebildet im xxiv. Band des Preuß. Jahrbuches 1903 S. 208. Ich glaube, daß schon ein Vergleich mit diesem Stück Sie von der Fälschung überzeugen wird. Mit dem Ausdruck vorzüglichster Hochachtung Ihr sehr ergebener (E.H.) Zimmermann73

10. bm., bf, l c Herrn Dr. E.H. Zimmermann Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Germany 16 July 1930

Dear Dr. Zimmermann, I am very greatly obliged to you for your letter of July 10th. It is quite true that the supposed Lombard gold ornaments have excited a good deal of attention here. I must admit that while they did not at all attract me when I first saw74 them, it had not occurred to me to question their authenticity. But the second time I looked at them I did feel doubtful about the condition of some of the pieces. Since receiving your letter and looking up the reference to the gold plate in the Bargello, I had another look at Messrs. Durlacher’s treasure yesterday afternoon. I am still in no kind of way an expert in work of this period, but I must say that in view of what you have pointed out to me I feel suspicious. So far as I know, no suggestion has been made for the acquisition of the group for one of our National collections. If such a proposal should be made, I hope I may have your permission to quote your letter or make use of the information that you have given me, should I be consulted. It is very kind of you indeed to have warned us. Yours very sincerely, Eric MacLagan

73 Ernst Zimmermann (1886–1971), from 1920 Director of Germanisches Nationalmuseum in Nürnberg (D). 74 In the letter “firstsaw.” 256 La Rocca

11. bm., bf, k Durlacher Bros. G.L. Durlacher A.P. Durlacher 25 West 54th Street New York 142, New Bond Street London, W.1. 11 September 1930

Dear Mr. Smith, We have had more finds, the chief object is another shield boss which is in a very delicate state, so if you could make it convenient to call here to see them, at any time that suits you, I should prefer it, but if necessary I would of course bring them up to you. Yours sincerely, Alfred Durlacher

12. bm., bf, b 7, Chelsea Embakment SW3 London 8. X. 30

Dear Leeds, (. . .) I dont know whether you heard that one or two of the German Museums curators have questioned the authenticity of some of the pieces of the Lombard Treasure chiefly the enamelled pieces. The pieces before being shown were treated at the B(ritish) M(useum) laboratory and hearing this I took the opportunity of going there and questioning Podgham who worked on them. I have found on previous occasions the laboratory people very cautious in expressing definite opinions but Podgham was very emphatic that the enamel was corroded and erased in a way that was quite impossible to produce artificially. He has no doubts whatever of the authenticity. Further he told me that the long sword has fragments of leather from the sheaf corroded on to it in a way which was absolute proof of its genuineness. Since then Durlachers have acquired fresh objects from the same source which you can see by appointment. They are 4 swords, and two small daggers with enamel decoration, an ivory comb with a gold sheath to protect the teeth which have been treated at the Laboratory and Podgham is definite that there can be no doubt on to their authenticity. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 257

There is also an iron boss of the shield with enamel decoration in the centre similar to the gold one shown at the exhibition. This Durlacher is not having treated so as to show it in its original state. I would very much like you to go to Durlachers and see these pieces. With kind regards Yours sincerely G(eorge) Eumorfopoulos75

13. bm., bf. c 7, Chelsea Embakment SW3 14. X. (1930?)

Dear Leeds, (. . .) Thank you very much indeed for all you write and your impressions of that you saw at Durlachers. I appreciate and see all the difficulties and we must await further enlightenment. When I saw Durlacher he showed me a telegram from the intermediary in answer to a query saying that he would disclose the location of the burial ground when it had been completely cleared. Of course not until it is disclosed—if it is ever disclosed—does this mean anything. I think some of the objects amongst the new things must come from a woman’s grave. There are earrings and beads amongst them. Therefore, assuming the genuiness of the find , we have certainly more than one grave. Then there are a number of ordinary undecorated iron arms—quite strongly persuasive—both in this and in the first find. All this I should imagine would point to the fact that we have here objects from an extensive burial ground rather than from an isolated grave. The ivory comb the laboratory assured me was quite unquestionably genuine and as you saw it had a gold sheath for the teeth. You saw that one of the swords had gold repoussé hereto adhering at intervals on the blade—no doubt originally ornaments on the scabbard. Two of them were detached and had under them fragments of corroded leather. The whole thing is certainly mysterious and we can discuss it again on Wednesday. Warmest regards, Yours sincerely G(eorge) Eumorfopoulos

75 George Eumorfopulos (1863–1939), British collector of Chinese, Korean and Near Eastern art. 258 La Rocca

14. bm., Report of donations November 1, 1930

Pair of enameled discs gold ear-ring, necklace of gold and glass beads, “Carolingian” spear-head of iron, all from Lombard graves, early seventh century. Given by Messrs Durlacher Bros., 142 New Bond Street, W1 Reginald A. Smith

Department of British and Mediaeval Antiquities Nov. 1st 1930 Donation 2755 Mr Reginald Smith has the honour to report that Messrs Durlacher Bros. offer as a gift to the Museum some of the minor but still important pieces of jewellery from Lombard graves in Italy dating early in the 7th century. As the firm does not desire publicity in connection with this treasure, it would be advisable to regard the gift as anonymous. Though bought in market overtly, these and other relics from the cemetery (as exhibited in the summer at the Burlington Fine Arts Club) might occasion difficulties with Italy, especially as the graves discovered may well be those of Agilulf King of the Lombards (died 615) and his queen Theodelinda; Mr. Smith therefore recommends that the source of these very welcome jewels should for the present not be revealed but a special letter of thanks be sent to the donors. Reginald A. Smith

15. bm., Book of Correspondence Dr Nandor Fettich Magyar Nemzeti Museum Budapest Hungary December 4th 1930

Dear Dr Fettich, I was very pleased to hear from you (. . .) You will be glad to know that the Lombard treasure is now accepted by all who have seen it as entirely genuine. Yours very truly, R(eginald) A(llen) S(mith) Keeper the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 259

16. bm., Book of Correspondence January 1931

Please deliver to Bearer the gold Lombard crown. Durlacher Bros (received by R.A. Smith 1.1.1931)

17. bm., Book of Correspondence 10 January 1931

Please deliver to Bearer: Fragments of glass Horn, gold and enameled mounts Lombardic. Gold cross Lombardic Small round gold medallion, ∞ 13 beards (4 of them gold) Durlacher Bros.

18. bm., Book of Correspondence 23 January 1931

Please deliver gold m(oun)t(e)d. Iron dagger with inscription to Bearer Obliged Durlacher Bros.

19. bm., Book of Correspondence 3 February 1931

Please deliver to Bearer the packet of paper left with the Lombardic objects last Thursday. Obliged Durlacher Bros.

20. gri, da, [Box 1—Folder 9] 3 April 1931 “Dear Firm: I have your letters of the 20th and the 24th of March, enclosing the second part of the proof of the Treasure catalogue, which I took to Grancsay yesterday. There is no further news, as he has not thought the time quite right from speaking to Mackey and Pfatt, and will not do so until he receives the photograph of the last object.”

From Askew[?] (unsigned carbon-copy) 260 La Rocca

21. bm., Book of Correspondence Mr J.W. Higgins 100, Barber Avenue Worcester Mass. usa July 29th 1931

Dear Sir, I can give you no opinion on the authenticity of the antiquities you mention, but I am confident that Dr. Goldschmidt would think differently of the Lombard treasure if he had handled the objects himself. I am, Yours faithfully, R(eginald) A(llen) S(mith) Keeper

22. bm., bf a Durlacher Bros. G.L. Durlacher A.P. Durlacher 670 Fifth Avenue, New York 142, New Bond Street London, W.1. 21 September 1931

Dear Mr. Leeds, When you are next in London if you could find time to call it would give me pleasure to show you a few additions to the Lombardic Treasure which we have acquired. They have been catalogued at the British Museum and I will ask you to accept the additional catalogue to complete the one you already possess. I should be obliged if you give me a day or two notice before calling as the Treasure is locked away in the strong-room. I am, dear Mr. Leeds, Yours very truly, George Durlacher the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 261

23. gri, da, Experts opinions 1 (Box 29—Folder 4) Dublin 29 Sept. 1931

Dear Mr. Durlacher On returning from my holidays yesterday I found, amongst others, the splendid complete catalogue for which I beg to express my most sincere thanks. It is a great blessing to archaeology that this admirable find has now been published in such a brilliant and adequate manner, and you certainly have added to your merits for museum work in publishing this fine book. You know I always held the opinion that the find is a splendidly authentified early Teutonic treasure and I think I told you that after my last visit, when you showed me the additional treasures, I took the liberty (having obtained your consent) to write a few notes about it in the German Periodical “Germania”. I do not know whether they have yet published it but I think they must have done so. As next year the great International Congress of Prehistory is to be held in London I hope that more people will have an opportunity of seeing this find, if it remain in London. I will write an additional note to the editor of “Germania”, telling him about the completion of the Catalogue Thanking you again for all your kindness and your most appreciated donation I remain, dear Mr. Durlacher Yours very truly (signed) Dr. A. Mahr Keeper of the Irish Antiquities.

24. gri, da, Experts opinions 2 (Box 29—Folder 4) bergens museum norway Bergen 3 October 1931

Messrs Durlacher

Dear Sirs I am extremely grateful for your gift of the splendid catalogue of the Lombard Treasure. I never forget the impression I had of the originals last years when you so kindly allowed me to examine the objects in your office. The discovery of this royal grave is certainly one of the most prominent events in the history of Teutonic archaeology, of equal importance of the early Lombard history and to the history of art in the dark ages. The collection is unique by its riches in precious objects and by its variety of fine goldsmith’s art. Would you object to my giving an illustrated notice of the treasure to the Norwegian review of art “Kunst og Kultur”. In case of your permission it should probably appear in the January number of the revue. 262 La Rocca

With repeated thanks, I am, Yours sincerely (signed) Haakon Shetelig

25. gri, da, Experts opinions 3 (Box 29—Folder 4) Brussels 11 October 1931

Cher Messieurs Durlacher Vous m’avez fait une bien agréable surprise en m’envoyant le catalogue, que vous avez fait publier, de cet admirable trésor lombard que vous avez eu la bonne fortune et l’intelligence d’acquérir en entier. Je vous en remercie bien vivement et de tout cœur: en le feuilletant j’ai été repris de la même émotion et du même éblouissement que m’avaient procuré ces objets uniques lorsque votre amabilité nous avait permis de les admirer l’hiver dernier. Et je constate que depuis lors de nouvelles pièces sont encore venues s’ajouter à cet ensemble déjà invraisemblable: je vous en félicite très chaleureusement. Avec encore tous mes remerciements pour votre si délicate attention, croyez, chers Messieurs Durlacher, à tous mes sentiments les meilleurs et les plus distingués,

(signed) A(dolphe) Stoclet

26. gri, da, [Box 1—Folder 10] 29 January 1932 “Dear Firm: “We have Mr. Peirce’s letter . . . “To answer a question in your previous letter, I have no copy of the catalogue of the Lombard Treasure and never was given one.” [Double vertical lines on the side]

From Askew [?] (unsigned carbon-copy)

27. bm., Book of Correspondence Reginald Allender Smith British Museum 10 February 1932

Dear Sir, Owning to the inclement weather Mr George Durlacher will not be in town for two days. He is sorry he will not be able to call you this afternoon but will do so on his return. In the meantime will you kindly hand the Lombardic objects to the Bearer of this note. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 263

I am, Sir Yours Truly Cecil A.J. Peirce

28. bm., bf Durlacher Bros. 142 Bond Street London Established 1843 670 Fifth Avenue New York May 23, 1933

Stephen Grancsay, Esq., Metropolitan Museum of Art New York, New York Dear Mr. Grancsay, I am sending you herewith a translation of an article which appeared on the Lombard Treasure, which Mr. Durlacher has forwarded to me for you. I sail on Saturday on the Aquitania and shall be in London for June and July. I hope that if you come over we shall see you. With best regards, R. Kirk Askew76

29. pgf, da, [Box 1—folder 10] 3 Feb 1937 Dear Mr. Askew: Your letter of 26th Jan. As regards to Mr. Bliss, if this is Robert Woods Bliss who was American Ambassador in Paris in 1930, he has seen our Gold Treasure when he was over here that year, and Mr. Paff took him a Catalogue and delivered it personally in Paris in May of that year. Edith Raven

76 Kirk Askew (1903–1974) managed the New York branch of the London firm Durlacher Brothers in the 1920s. In 1937 Askew purchased the business which he ran from New York until c. 1969. 264 La Rocca

30. gri, da, [Box 1—folder 10] 9 March 1937 My dear Kirk [Askew] The first purchases of the Gold Treasure were shown in 1930 at the Burlington Fine Arts Club Exhibition “Art of the Dark Ages in Europe”. After it had closed a rumour arose from a German source regarding the authenticity of the exhibit, much to the surprise and annoyance of Reginald Smith, Keeper of Medieval Antiquities at the British Museum, who had compiled the Catalogue, who fought the reports for all he was worth. There was undoubtedly at the time a forger endeavouring to pass off his works, but they were such evident fakes that he had no success; he even tried to sell a few specimens at Sotheby’s but there was not a bid. This may possibly be the origin of the adverse opinion.77 The following winter when the collection was complete Dr. Haakon Shetelig came to London to see it and subsequently published a long interesting article on it in “Kunst Kultur”. Subsequently Dr. Albert Dresdner, Charlottenburg, Berlin, published a long account in “Deustche Rundschau”. I learned later from New York that is was Dr. Goldschmidt who was expressing doubts regarding the authenticity of the Treasure so I wrote to him pointing out that every piece had been cleaned and subjected scientifically to every possible test in the British Museum Laboratory, where not the faintest doubt existed as to their antiquity. One important object on their advice was left untouched which provided indubitably the origin. I also informed Dr. Goldschmidt that Dr. Mahr, himself a German, who is Keeper of the Antiquities in the Museum at Dublin, who had seen the Collection on receiving the Catalogue wrote:—“Even the hyper-experts who expressed doubts must by now have realized how mistaken they were.” I had a very courteous letter in return from Dr. Goldschmidt saying that he had no intention or desires to express publicly his opinion which he still held but for which he declined to give any reason. Lately I have had a letter from Prof. Dr. Humbert Kulm to whom Mr. Grancsay of the Metropolitan Museum had shown the Catalogue, the Doctor was very anxious to acquire a Catalogue and begged me to send him one, but unfortunately the edition is entirely exhausted. He expressed his intention of taking the first opportunity to come over and see it. If after all this that I have told you our friend Paul78 wishes to take further steps I will consider the question of price. Before the general craque? I think you know the

77 Maybe the Hungarian forger László Mautner. 78 Maybe Paul Sachs (1878–1965), Harvard associate director of the Fogg Art Museum. the Forging of the Italian “Germanic” Past 265

Metropolitan had started negotiations, the figure put upon it then is now under present condition I recognize entirely out of the question. yours ever, George [Durlacher]] [typed under signature] On 3 Jan 1933 we sent you a translation of Shetelig’s article, and one to Grancsay, the Fogg Museum also had one at the same time. On 12 May 1933 we sent you two copies of Dr. Dresdner’s article translated, one for the firm and one for Grancsay. It was me who admitted that the four greatest authorities on the particular subject are against the adverse opinion.

31. gri, da, [Box 1—Folder 10] 23 Dec 1937: Letter in which Ms. Edith Raven tells K. Askew about the dissolution of Durlacher in England

32. gri, da, [Box 1—folder 10] 31 Dec 1937 Dear Kirk Your letter of the 22 nd. to hand (3 short paragraphs about liquefying assets in us). Do you think under the circumstances you can get rid of anything even at much lower prices? Would the Metropolitan entertain the Gold Treasures under these conditions? George [Durlacher]

33. gri, da, [Box 1—Folder 10] 11 Jan 1938 Dear George: I have received yesterday your letter of December 31st. (. . .) I shall get in touch with the Metropolitan Museum in regard to the Gold Treasure and with Miss Frick in regard to the catalogues. Askew (unsigned carbon-copy)

[Box 1—Folder 10]

34. gri, da, [Box 1—Folder 10] 4 Feb 1938 (From George Durlacher to Kirk Askew) I am sorry I cannot let you have any records previous to 1927 as all books, papers and documents up to 1931 have been destroyed and shortly all others except those actually in use will disappear. 266 La Rocca

35. gri, da, [Box 1—Folder 9] 22 March 1938 Dear Kirk [Askew] (. . .) I am sorry Grancsay gave you no idea why they see no chance of their endeavour to buy the Gold Treasure. I have a strong suspicion someone may have crabbed it. I consulted my friend Reginald Smith who made the catalogue for the British Museum. He merely said you cannot prevent people telling lies . . . George [Durlacher]

36. bm., bf, l a Victoria & Albert Museum South Kensington, London, S.W.7 The Director and Secretary T.D. Kendrick Esq. British Museum W.C.1. 7 June 1938 Dear Kendrick, I do not know whether your Department is still taking any interest, theoretical or practical, in the “Lombard Treasure” which belonged to Durlacher and which I imagine must have been disposed or by now in one way or another. But it occurs to me that the enclosed letter from Zimmermann,79 which I found in going through a lot of old papers of mine, might conceivably be of interest to you as the stuff falls rather within your domain that ours (. . .). Yours sincerely, Eric Maclagan

37. gri, da, (Box 29—Folder 4) Works on Lombardic objects which we have in London House (Durlacher Brothers)

The Anglo Saxons in England by Niles Aberg Vorgeschichtliche Forschungen, Waldemar Jinters, Berlin 1928 Antikvarisk Tidshrift for Sverige by Sigurd Curman, Stockholm Goten & Langobarden in Italien, by Nils Aberg Praehistorische Zeitschrift, Berlin 1909 Le Nécropole de Vendel, Stockholm 1927 Monumenti Antichi, Vol 24, Milan 1918

79 It is letter n. 9 of this appendix. chapter 12 Imagining the Real: Material Evidence and Participatory Past in Nineteenth-Century Lithuania*

Giedrė Mickūnaitė

Much is learned through sight, reason, and wisdom, But also lots can be perceived by touching. Dionizas Poška

The past does not exist, but is present. The conflict between the irreversibility of time and the reality of the past has been solved through narration; hence, the past can be written, read, and told. However, the conflict becomes even deeper when the question of the adequacy of the narrated and the “real” past is raised. The growing trust in science and belief in its impartial methods provided men of the Enlightenment with alternative tools for verifying the reality of historical narratives and urged them to do so. Comparative philology revised stories of origins. Inquiry into place-names tested settlement theories. Ethnography recorded peasant folklore and presented it as a reservoir of historical memory. Archaeology exposed material relics of the past. All these data were irrevoca- bly connected to the territory in which they were gathered. Combinations of these new facets of the past inspired the construction of alternative and veri- fiable models of history. In contrast to purposive narratives that represented history, words, customs, and objects appeared as participants and thus witnesses of the past. The newly discovered evidence was understood as void of preconceptions, therefore more reliable. The new material was not bound to historical record and this bond had to be established. Speaking for archaeological finds and landscape, interpreting language and folklore lead towards creating participatory, performative, and site-specific models of past. Evidence

* This article is based on the research conducted within the focus group “Medievalism, Archaic Origins and Regimes of Historicity. Alternatives to Antique Tradition in the Nineteenth Century in East-Central, Southeast and Northern Europe,” convened by Prof. Dr. Patrick Geary at the Collegium Budapest in January–March 2009. I am grateful to the members of the focus group, fellows and staff of the Collegium for the ideas and thought-provoking atmosphere.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_013 268 Mickūnaitė that previously lay outside history was arranged to render an adequate picture of bygone times bound to a defined territory and its people. Most importantly, such past came into being and could be experienced not only by indoctrinated reason, but by equally indoctrinated senses. In what follows, I shall present a case study dedicated to a model of the past that was embodied within a garden pavilion, which later earned a reputation as the very first Lithuanian museum. I see this pavilion as an artefact of historical thinking and shall inquire into the motives behind its establishment, its contemporary and later receptions, and attempt to place it within a broader panorama of the quests for the past in the early nineteenth century.

The Pharmacy of Reason

While the Napoleonic wars ranged across Europe, a boyar from Lithuania’s remote countryside Dionizas Poška / Dionyzy Paszkiewicz (1764–1830)1 cut an ancient oak, gauged out its trunk, put on a roof, and turned it into a garden pavilion (Fig. 12.1). Inside the pavilion, Poška placed various archaeological finds, books, and prints and inscribed its walls and doors with verses (Fig. 12.2). Established as a cabinet, the pavilion was not only admired as a witness to the remote past but also mocked as a falsification of history. For Poška, the pavilion was the place where he found inspiration for amateur literary and scholarly activity, received friends and visitors, and enjoyed pastoral love with his wife Uršulė.2 Poška’s poetry written in the Lithuanian language3—in his time fre-

1 Graduate of the Kražiai Gymnasium, Dionizas Poška held the offices of scribe and lawyer at the Land Court of Raseiniai District in 1786–1820. In 1790, Poška bought a manor of Barzdžiai in Samogitia (30 km eastwards of Šilutė and 7 km northwards of Skaudvilė) and settled there. It is unknown how successful a landlord he was, but Poška’s cultural activities started after settling in Barzdžiai. On Poška’s biography and his legacy see Liudvikas Jucevičius, “Poška, Dionizas,” in id., Mokyti žemaičiai [Learned Samogitians], Lituanistinė biblioteka 14 (Vilnius: Vaga, 1975 [prepared for print in 1840]), 116–119; Michał Brensztejn, Dionizy Paszkiewicz, pisarz polsko-litewski na Żmudzi w pierwszej połowie xix wieku [Dionizas Poška, a Polish-Lithuanian writer of the first half of the nineteenth century in Samogitia] (Vilnius: Skład główny w Księgarni Św. Wojciecha, 1934); and Vytautas Vanagas, Dionizas Poška, Senosios literatūros studijos (Vilnius: Pradai, 1994). 2 Around 1782 Poška married Uršulė Sasnauskytė / Urszula Sosnowska (d. 1828); for an overview of their family life see Vanagas, 38–9. 3 The best-known piece by Poška is the 166-line poem “A Peasant of Samogitia and Lithuania,” written between 1815 and 1825, Dionizas Poška, “Mużikas Żiemaycziu yr Lietuwos / Mužikas Žemaičių ir Lietuvos” [A peasant of Samogitia and Lithuania], in id., Raštai [Writings] (Vilnius: Valstybinė grožinės literatūros leidykla, 1959), 10–21. The poem’s genre is quite puz- Imagining the Real 269 quently considered too primitive for higher genres of literature4—has secured for their author a firm place in the history of Lithuanian literature, while the pavilion was recognised as a museum of local lore. In 1815, the description of Poška’s pavilion appeared in the weekly Kuryer Litewski5 earning it a wider renown. However, the most extensive account is Poška’s published in the daily Dziennik Warzawski in 1826.6 Poška tells that in 1811, he observed that the huge oak tree called Baublys was barely alive. Moreover, foxes had dug their burrows in-between the oak’s roots and village youth tried catching them by burning straw that nearly set fire to the “vet- eran.” In March 1812, a memorable event took place at which Bishop Juozapas Arnulfas Giedraitis of Samogitia7 was also present: ten men cut down the oak and divided its trunk into three parts. Seven hundred and a few dozen rings were counted in the stump and after measuring those parts, the rings of which were invisible, it was concluded that the oak was no less than a thousand years old. Logically, the tree was a contemporary of the Heruls, whom Poška considered ancestors of Lithuanians.8 It took yet another day for forty men to roll the bottom part of the oak to Poška’s garden.9 Having made a pavilion inside the gauged-out trunk, Poška placed it under the growing oak trees and established

zling; recently it was termed a satire, Brigita Speičytė, Poetinės kultūros formos. ldk palikimas xix amžiaus Lietuvos literatūroje [Poetic forms of culture. Cultural legacy of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the literature of the nineteenth century], Literatūra 46.1 (Vilnius: Vilnius uni- versiteto leidykla, 2004), 172. 4 On the status and understanding of the Lithuanian language at the end of the 18th and early 19th century see Eugenija Ulčinaitė and Albinas Jovaišas, Lietuvių literatūros istorija. xiii– xviii amžiai [History of Lithuanian literature: the thirteenth–eighteenth centuries] (Vilnius: Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas, 2003), 422–6; and Juozas Girdzijauskas, Lietuvių literatūros istorija. xix amžius [History of Lithuanian literature: the nineteenth century] (Vilnius: Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas, 2001), 133–63. 5 Kuryer Litewski 71 (04-09-1815), 198, front-page column of local news. 6 “O Dębie ‘Baublisie’ w Bordziach Dyon. Paszkiewicza” [About the oak “Baublys” in the Barzdžiai [estate] of Dionizas Poška], Dziennik Warszawski 4 (1826), 37–46, reprinted with parallel translation into Lithuanian in Poška, Raštai, 508–37. 7 pl, Józef Arnulf Giedroyć (1754–1838) in office from 1802. 8 The idea that Lithuanians originated from Heruls was declared in Xawier Bohusz, O początkach narodu i języka litewskiego rozprawa [On the origins of the Lithuanian people and their language] (Warsaw: Druk Gazety Warszawskiej, 1808). 9 The measurements of the pavilion are as follows: circumference at the bottom—9.2 m, at the top 5.9 m, height—2.86 m, diameter inside—ca. 2 m. Recently the age of the oak has been determined to be between 836 and 1437 years, Andrzej Szczepkowski, Robert Tomusiak & Paweł Zarzyński, “The History of Baublys: an Attempt at Evaluating Some Dendrometric Characteristics of the Most Famous Oak Tree in the History of Lithuania,” Baltic Forestry 8.1 (2002), 35–41. 270 Mickūnaitė his cabinet there. The pavilion housed books, pictures, and antiquities. Poška inscribed its walls with verses and called his pavilion Baublys, believing that this name was derived from the pagan Lithuanian bee-god Bubilas, to whom the pagans used to make sacrifices under the ancient oak. Above the entrance, the versified “autobiography” of Baublys was inscribed:

It’s thousand years since I’ve been born in Barzdžiai, Taken from the oak grove, I’ve been placed here My true name is Baublys, once a venerated god, Having lost my fatherhood, I withered and faded. Sheep and goats were burnt for Thunder god in front of me, Today, Dionizas Poška dwells inside me.10

Baublys became instrumental in the flourishing of Poška’s literary and cultural activity. In his account, not without a dose of wit, the boyar speculated that the oak’s spirit might have dictated some of the verses.11 Judging upon Poška’s writings and arrangement of his garden, he viewed trees as meters of time, living connections between past and present. Hence, Baublys served as an imaginary time-machine. Reflections upon the present, sentiment for the past, notes by visitors, copies of letters, brief quotes and citations as well as thoughts about language and history have been recorded in a 232-page notebook under the title “Bee in Baublys,”12 alluding to industriousness, shared endeavour, and to the oak as the former residence of the bee-god. The amateur poet and antiquarian took any scepticism towards the simple appearance of his pavilion and shabbiness of archaeological finds exhibited therein most personally. The account on Baublys tells of some ladies who were disappointed with the pavilion as they did not find any glitter and shine there. In response to such visitors Poška composed a quatrain which named Baublys the “pharmacy of reason.”13

10 Bardziuse kayp użgimiau Iau Tuxtantis metu, Parneszts ysz anżulina ćion Esmi Padietu, Tykras wards mana Baublis, Diewu garbints Buwau, Nuteroies Tiewiste Suwitau, Sudziuwau— Tis manem Perkunasui degie awis, oszkas, o Dabar manie Giwen Dionizas Poszkas— Poška, Raštai, 520, for the text in modern Lithuanian script see ibid., 521. 11 Ibid., 518–9. 12 “Pszcziołka w Baublu” [Bee in Baublys], Library of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Krakow, Manuscript Department, Rps., 184. 13 Wieyski Domek Zabawy, umysłu Apteka, Piewne moze ucieszyc Rozsądnego Człeka— Rozumny i uczony ma Co do widzenia, Imagining the Real 271

Ink Mixed with Gall14

Baublys was not only admired by its owner and mentioned as a curiosity piece, but was also ridiculed as a naïve and pseudo-historical construction. Part of the caricature upon Baublys was derived from Ksawery Bohusz’s15 idea about ancient Lithuanian writings that had been kept in hollowed-out trees and rot- ted there. The mockery came from the members of the Society of Scoundrels,16 who aimed at popular education by means of satire. The most extensive piece on Baublys was published in 1818 under the title “On the Eloquence of Judicial Speech.”17 The satire appeared as an introduction to a major document (never published) found in a tree hollow and preserved by Poška, nicknamed the Custodian Hider and Seeker (Sargas Kawotois ir Uszkotois). The satire begins with an ode to Baublys:

You, which is hundred times nobler than the oaks of Dodona hallowed to Jupiter! The repository of the monuments of the learned Lithuanian antiquity! You, which is a witness to immortal exploits of our ancestors, who raised their flags above the walls of the Capitol that once ruled the entire world! Hail, Baublys! Watching your inside full of honourable remnants of our past greatness, I feel much more sorrow than a faithful Moslem seeing the cradle or the grave of the Great Prophet. . . .

ale w Calku Głupiemu nic do Czynienia—Poška, Raštai, 532. Poška’s note tells that he has borrowed the phrase “pharmacy of reason” from the Greek inscription in the library of his learned neighbour L[eonardas] U[vainis], ibid. 14 This is how Poška described biased criticism, ibid., 272–3. 15 lt, Ksaveras Bogušas (1746–1820) a Catholic priest and an advocate of the Lithuanian language and Herul origins of Lithuanians. His study on the genesis of Lithuanians (Bohusz, O początkach) remained an authoritative treatise on the Lithuanian language until the mid-nineteenth century, regardless of the fact that Bohusz barely knew Lithuanian, see Vincas Maciūnas, “Bohušo veikalas apie lietuvių kalbą” [Bohusz’s treatise on the Lithuanian language], in id., Rinktiniai raštai [Collected writings], Jonas Šlekys (ed.), Senoji Lietuvos literatūra 14 (Vilnius: Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas, 2003), 347–356. 16 pl, Towarzystwo Szubrawców (Society of Scoundrels) was a kind of split from Freemasonry. In 1816–22, the Society published a weekly Wiadomośći Brukowe [Street News], which contained satires on social vices and amateur scholarship, Girdzijauskas, Lietuvių literatūros istorija, xix amžius, 64–5. 17 “Apey iszkalba sudyne mokslas” [On the eloquence of judicial speech], Wiadomośći Brukowe 101 (04-11-1818), 179–81. 272 Mickūnaitė

Here are those shivers that still bear fresh blood of the Romans! Here are those armours and shields that shattered the impotent spears of emasculated men from around the world!18

The satirist under the pseudonym Hider’s Pupil (Usztarytois Mokitinis) explains: “It was here, where I learned that a piece of metal, wood, or marble that is suspected to have been formed by a human hand, tells everything about customs, rites, vices, etc. of the nation whose representative shaped these crumbs.”19 Another pamphlet appeared under the title “The Most Recent Trip to Babylon”; it nicknamed Poška Drink-Beer (Giark-Ałaus) and ridiculed the story of Lithuanian origins and settlement. The satire concludes that Mr. Drink-Beer travelled to Babylon where he found the tower in good shape. The ancestral room on the fifty-sixth floor was well preserved even though the forefather has left for Lithuania to be closer to beer production ages ago. Mr. Drink-Beer found an ancient spoon in the wall of the ancestral room and brought it to Baublys.20 Mr. Hider’s Pupil also published a letter to the editor of the weekly Tygodnik Wileński telling of the huge earrings kept in Baublys and expressing his wish that one day skulls will also be discovered.21 Hints to Baublys and its collection were made by referring to a Bibliotheca Baubliana,22 in which ancient scrolls discovered in hollowed trees were preserved. The same source—the reality of Baublys and items held therein—nourished caricature and admiration of the pavilion.

The Noblest Trunk

The Scoundrels’ mockery was not left without a response; however, its circulation remains uncertain. The “Bee in Baublys” contains a poem “A Defence of Baublys” that Poška received from a certain B.P. and copied down in the notebook.23 The anonymous poet objects to the stupid humour of the Scoundrels

18 Ibid., 179. 19 Ibid., 180. 20 “Naynowsza podróż do Babyłonu” [The most recent trip to Babylon], Wiadomośći Brukowe 125 (26-04-1819), 71. 21 “Ze zwoiów dziupłowych” [From the hollow collections], Tygodnik Wileński 130 (1819), 19–20. 22 Tygodnik Wileński 142 (1819–08–15), 31. 23 “Obrona Baublisa: Na Przeciw Brukowym Wiadomościom w Numerku 100. Roku 1818 umi- eszczonym napisana przez B: P: i pocztą przysłana” [In defence of Baublys: against the Imagining the Real 273 and equals it to crows’ crow. A much longer poem “Baublys: A Samogitian Legend”24 has been preserved in the files of the Philomath Society25 of Vilnius University. The poem composed or recited in Kernavė, the site of a medieval stronghold, tells of the hunt of the Lithuanian ruler Ringaudas/Ryngolt and his son Mindaugas/Mindowe. The latter attacked a bison with a spear, but only wounded the beast and put his life in danger. Ringaudas killed the bison with the knob stick and saved his son’s life. After the hunt, the pagan rituals of gratitude were performed and Ringaudas stabbed the knob stick into the ground. The Thunder god heard the prayers and crashed the stick, which grew into the oak Baublys. This naïve story connects the origins of Baublys with the first historical King of Lithuania, Mindaugas (r. 1250–63)26 and his legendary father. The poem is dedicated to Poška, who, as the anonymous author notes, “made a cabinet of Lithuanian man of letters in the trunk of an ancient oak Baublys.”27 Although, none of the poems written in defense of Baublys were published in Poška’s lifetime they hint at a broader reception of Baublys and a wider circulation of ideas and sentiments associated with this structure.28

Rationality of the Village Ploughman

Baublys and its collections also evoked scholarly response. In 1823, Kajetonas Nezabitauskis29 published a list of the most interesting items kept in Poška’s pavilion.30 Most of the exhibits were archaeological finds. However, it is

publication in the issue 100 of the year 1818 of the Street News written by B.P. and sent by post], in Poška, Raštai, 537. 24 “Baublis. Powieść Żmuydzka” [Baublys. A Samogitian legend], Kernavė, August 24, 1823, published in Aitvarai 2 (1991), 15–21. 25 The Philomath Society was established in 1817 by the students of Vilnius Imperial University. Initially aimed at self-education it soon grew into political opposition to the tsarist rule and therefore was dispersed in 1823. 26 On King Mindaugas see Edvardas Gudavičius, Mindaugas (Vilnius: Žara, 1998). 27 “Baublis. Powieść Żmuydzka,” note a, 16. 28 Poška notes that the poem circulated in handwritten copies, Poška, Raštai, 537. 29 Kajetonas Rokas Nezabitauskis-Zabitis /Kajetan Niezabitowski (1800–1876) student of law at Vilnius University in 1821–24, active member of the Lithuanian national movement, authored a primer of the Lithuanian language published in 1824. 30 Kajetan Niezabitkowski, “Krótki spis niektórych starożytnych zabytków, znajdujących się w zbiorze obywatela prowincyi Żmudzkiey Dionyziego Paszkiewicza pisarza ziem. ptu rosieńskiego” [A short list of some ancient monuments from the collection of the citizen 274 Mickūnaitė unknown whether the list is representative of all of Baublys’ holdings.31 Most likely, the emphasis on archaeology was made because the publication was preceded by Professor Ivan Loboiko’s32 much longer article on “giants’ graves” as the burial mounds were then called. Loboiko described and explained the historical meaning of Samogitian landscape and archaeological finds as well as acknowledged Poška as a source of much of his information.33 The professor visited Baublys and was instrumental in presenting Poška’s collection of antiquities to Count Nikolai Rumiantsev.34 The collection, already packed for shipping, was in Vilnius when the count died; Poška’s last will forced Loboiko to pass it on to the university. Although the information about the Baublys holdings suggests their scholarly value, Poška was explicit about the amateur nature of his pursuits. He presented himself as a voluntary assistant to the learned professors of Vilnius University, eager to place his knowledge at their scholarly use. In addition to his interest in archaeology and geography, Poška relied on his proficiency in the Lithuanian language—a reservoir of historical evidence—as he saw it. With the establishment of Baublys, Poška embarked on his voluntary assistance and produced several treatises on history, mythology, and language. The “Bee in Baublys” includes articles under the following titles “Few Introductory Words to Anyone, Who Is Going to Write the History of Lithuania and Samogitia,” “Thoughts of a Village Ploughman about the History of the Lithuanian and Samogitian Nation and Its Language,” and “On the Ancient Pagan Religious Rites in the Duchies of Lithuania and Samogitia.”35 Passages from these manuscripts appear in Poška’s correspondence and the “Ploughman’s Thoughts”

of the Province of Samogitia Dionizas Poška, scribe at the Raseiniai District Land Court], Dziennik Wileński 2 (1823), 157–61. 31 In the letter to Loboiko, Poška corrects a few descriptions of the items published by Nezabitauskis (Poška, Raštai, 500– 507) and Poška’s last will mentions a numismatic collection to be donated to the Kražiai Gymasium, ibid., 674. 32 Jan Łobojko (1786–1861) professor of the Russian language, literature and history at Vilnius University. In addition to his teaching position, Loboiko showed interest in archaeology and Lithuanian culture. 33 Jan Łoboyko, “Starożytności krajowe. Groby Olbrzymie na Żmudzi i inne zabytki starożytności tego kraju, z rękopismu rossyyskiego” [National antiquities. Giants’ graves in Samogitia and other monuments of this land, after the Russian manuscript], Dziennik Wileński 2 (1823), 145–57. 34 Nikolai Rumiantsev (1754–1826) was famous for his collection of vernacular antiquities and support to ethnography. His collection was moved from St. Petersburg to Moscow, where it provided the foundations for today’s Russian State Library. 35 All these texts are published in Poška, Raštai, 258–417. Imagining the Real 275 have been published in the Dziennik Warszawski and as an offprint in 1829.36 Poška’s texts are indicative of the reception of contemporary scholarly ideas and confidence of the enlightened rural nobility in impartial science. The “Introductory Words” state that previous authors described pagan Lithuanians negatively because they were churchmen; history, states Poška, should be a civil enterprise and free the past from a judgment based on a historian’s creed. As to writing the history of Lithuania, this task exceeds the abilities of a single person; therefore, it should be organized as follows: enlightened professors of Vilnius University should lead the enterprise involving teachers in grammar schools, learned priests, and literati landlords, who can provide local evidence for the total history. Poška demonstrated the benefits of such collaboration by his personal example: his knowledge of the language and the geography provides evidence in support of the Herul origins of Lithuanians and identifies areas inhabited by the “ancestors” since the times of Herodotus. Poška’s argumentation falls within the following scheme: people, name, places, waters, and language keep their meaning. Poška’s enthusiasm for the Heruls confronts the much older legend of the Roman origins of Lithuanians, equally “well-grounded” on linguistic and geographical evidence. The Roman legend appeared in the fourteenth century, when educated chroniclers of the Teutonic Order observed the Baltic pagans and—like modern anthropologists, who know more than those whom they investigate—made the pagan beliefs fit the scheme of the Ancient Roman pantheon. Another “proof” came from parallels in the Latin and Lithuanian languages (and Poška followed them as well). Finally, in the early sixteenth century the story was elaborated so that its main heroes were called after the existing place-names. The legend tells that either during the reign of Nero, or at the invasion of Attila the Hun, a Roman patri- cian Palemonas and his retinue sailed northwards. The noble travelers found a very agreeable and rich country and settled there, leaving their names to the towns they established. Palemonas was the direct ancestor of the Lithuanian grand dukes while principal noble families traced their lineages back to the patricians of his retinue.37 Already in the early eighteenth century, the story

36 Rozmyślania wieśniaka rolnika (Dionizego Paszkiewicza bylego Pisarza P. R.) o narodzie i języku Litwesko-Żmudzkim [Thoughts of the village ploughman (Dionizas Poška, former scribe of the R[aseiniai] D[istrict]) about the Lithuanian-Samogitian nation and language] (Warsaw: W Drukarni M.W.R.i O.P., 1829), reprinted in Poška, Raštai, 615–64. 37 The most extensive version of the Lithuanian Roman descent is included in the so- called Bykhoviets Chronicle from the 1520s, see Polnoe sobranje russkikh letopisei [The full collection of Russian annals], vol. 32, Khroniki: Litovskaya i zhomoitskaya, i Bykhovtsa. Letopisi: Barkulabovskaya, Averki i Pantsyrnogo [Chronicles of Lithuania and Samogitia 276 Mickūnaitė has been proven to be but a legend; however, Poška put it under a reality test and concluded:

It must be remembered that our Palemonas was fed neither by a she- wolf, nor a doe; he was neither a son of the sun, nor brother of the moon, nor governor of stars. He did not fight with dragons, and angels were not supplying food and drinks to him. Neither did they search for nails to fix his crown. He was not blind at first just to miraculously regain his sight later. He did not attempt at getting drowned being desperate of love and neither rats, nor mice attacked him.38

The historicity of Palemonas contrasted with the Herul origins, but Poška found a logical relation between the two. The amateur historian explained that Palemonas was a Herul, who travelled to the Roman Empire, got Romanised there, and then as if a second Aeneas, returned to Lithuania bringing Roman gods and cults with him.39 This new version of ancestry not only solved the conflict between tradition and scholarly achievement, but also showed that Lithuanians (i.e., Heruls) were of no less, but perhaps of even more prestigious descent than the Romans. What is more, the Roman connection remained valid, nourishing Poška’s interest in linguistics and mythology. The comparison between the Lithuanian and the Latin languages revealed parallels in vocabulary and grammar:

Trahite viri Iugu. Deus Dedit Dona dabit Dentes. Iocum Pro Ioco Reddo Tibi. Traukite wiray Iungą. Diewas Dawe Duona Duos Dątys. Iuoka uż Iuoka atidodu Tau.40

Such linguistic pairs were easily transformed into evidence grounding shared origins, myths, and virtues.

and of Bykhoviets. Annals of Barkulabov, Averka and Pantsyrnyi], N.N. Ulashchik (ed.) (Moscow: Nauka, 1975), 15–127. 38 Poška, Raštai, 324–5. 39 Ibid., 318–21. 40 Ibid., 588–9. The parallels noted by Poška and many others were used to demonstrate the archaism of the Lithuanian language in an improvised dialogue between ancient Greek and Latin and modern Lithuanian, for the longevity of these ideas see Thomas Shamis, “Lithuanians,” The Journal of Race Development 9.2 (1918), 158. Imagining the Real 277

As to comparative mythology, the “Bee in Baublys” includes a text under the title “About the Ancient Pagan Religious Rites in the Duchies of Lithuania and Samogitia”41 aimed to be used by someone who will undertake writing the Lithuanian history.42 In addition to providing Lithuanian equivalents to deities of the ancient world and establishing counterparts in the hierarchy of pagan priesthood, Poška refers to evidence from cases at the Raseiniai District Court as well as specifics places where the performance of certain religious rites— the “relics of paganism”—has been recorded. Typically of those interested in Lithuanian paganism, Poška was also concerned with representations of pagan deities. The issue appeared quite puzzling: since the ancient Lithuanian faith was supposed to be modeled after the Roman pattern, it implied the existence of sculpted effigies of gods. However, very few anthropomorphic figures that could be identified as gods or goddesses were known by the nineteenth century. The gap in representations was filled by wrongly attributed sculptures and more frequently with descriptions and drawings of lost “idols.”43 Poška’s heritage is not an exception. His notes contain several stories of lost statuettes. For example, twelve golden idols were found in a pond near Šiauliai. Despite the roughness of execution, every figurine was distinct: some had huge noses, some horns, some combined a snake’s body with a human face, some had their heads joined to the body with a wire, and a few resembled women. The fate of the figurines was unfortunate: Jews bought them for half the price and melted them down.44 A statuette of Lithuanian Venus met an equally regrettable fate. The tin figurine was discovered in Kaunas bricked-up in the wall of a parsonage

41 “O starożytnych obrządkach religijnych poganskich w Xięstwach Litewskim i Żmuydzkim” [About the ancient pagan religious rites in the Duchies of Lithuania and Samogitia], Poška, Raštai, 330–417. For an in-depth analysis on the interest in history and mythology in the 19th century see Małgorzata Litwinnowicz-Droździel, O starożytnościach litewskich. Mitologizacja historii w xix-wiecznym piśmienstwie byłego Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego [On Lithuanian antiquities. The mythologisation of history in the nineteenth-century writings of the former Grand Duchy of Lithuania], Bibioteka Literatury Pogranicza 17 (Krakow: Universitas, 2008). 42 Poška, Raštai, 332–3. 43 The most celebrated “attribution” was of the medieval candlestick considered a statuette of a Thunder god and held in the Vilnius Museum of Antiquities; the statuette was lost during wwii. As to the drawings, the greatest amount of these was published as illustrations of the History of Lithuania by Teodor Narbutt, see Vaida Ščiglienė, “Archeologinių radinių piešiniai ir litografijos / Sketches and Lithographs of Archaeological Finds,” in Baltų menas. Parodos katalogas / Art of the Balts. The Catalogue of Exhibition, Adomas Butrimas (ed.) (Vilnius: Vilnius Academy of Arts Press, 2009), 608–24. 44 Poška, Raštai, 412–3. 278 Mickūnaitė located in a building from before 1400.45 However, the local priest destroyed the statuette and used its tin for polishing pots. In Poška’s opinion, such behaviour shows that Christians cannot properly evaluate pagan heritage46 and he illustrates his statement with an example: At the Jesuit Square in Kaunas a building once housed a temple of the Thunder god and the place of the idol had been visible at Poška’s time. Moreover, a figurine of the Thunder god was discovered bricked-up in its wall.47 Poška notes that either this, or some other figurine of the Thunder god was taken to Warsaw to the Society of the Friends of Learning.48 To Poška’s delight, he also had a pagan figurine in Baublys collection. Its sketch appears in a letter to Loboiko (Fig. 12.3) and the description tells that this is a four-inch horned cult-figure holding a grain sieve in its left hand. The figurine is made of white and pink marble and stands on a marble pedestal. Revised and renewed origin stories, supported with linguistic evidence, and illustrated with Roman-type paganism, were Poška’s contribution to the learned world, so that those who will undertake writing the history of Lithuania, could benefit. However, modest about his scholarly abilities, Poška was much more concerned about making the past known and experienced. As an admirer of the Historical Songs by Julian Ursyn Niemcewicz,49 Poška encouraged composing songs on Lithuanian history.50 In all likelihood, the poem “Gierard Ruda”51 subtitled as an ancient Samogitian historical song is Poška’s personal response to this encouragement. The poem tells of the Teutonic Knights who, after an incursion into Samogitia, perished in an ambush and one of the knights, Gierard Ruda by name, was burnt alive on his horse in sacrifice to the Thunder god. However, the past becomes present not only when it is sung about, but

45 Lithuania converted to Catholicism in 1387. Apparently, for Poška the entire 14th century is pre-Christian. 46 Ibid., 354–5. 47 Poška refers to the so-called House of Thunder, a red-brick Gothic building that still survives today. The house was constructed at the end of the 15th or in the early 16th century and received its name after a story of a figurine of the Thunder god found bricked-up in the wall in 1818 became widespread, see Algė Jankevičienė, “Perkūno namas Aleksoto g. 6” [The house of the Thunder god at 6 Aleksoto St.], in Kauno architektūra [The architecture of Kaunas], Algė Jankevičienė (ed.), et al. (Vilnius: Mokslas, 1991), 64–7. 48 Poška, Raštai, 358–9. 49 Julian Ursyn Niemcewicz, Spiewy historyczne z muzyką i rycynami [Histrical songs with music and engravings] (Warsaw: Drukarnia Nr. 646 przy Nowolipiu, 1816). 50 Poška, Raštai, 256–7. Poška also translated Franciszek Sokoł-Szahin’s historicist poems into Lithuanian, ibid., 66–73. 51 “Gierard Ruda / Gerardas Ruda,” ibid., 32–3. Imagining the Real 279 also when it is encountered by observing a meaningful landscape. In the letter to Loboiko from 1824, Poška recalls his visit to Kernavė and gives the following description of the site: “This is a nest of antiquities, where traces of the past have survived and foundations of great fortresses and other buildings are visible. It seems to me that a curious and learned researcher would identify there foundations of a court, pagan churches and altars and could see huge squares, where knights assembled to elect their dukes and leaders, to take part in military trainings, tournaments, and competitions.”52 In memory of the antiquities of Kernavė, Poška composes a distichon about the ruining force of time and historical remains being blown away by the wind. The letter concludes arguing not only for the need for a thorough description, but also for a picture of Kernavė, which could be an important illustration of the Lithuanian history.53

Baublys: Natural and Real Construct

The allusive potential of a landscape was not a novelty in the nineteenth century and was widely used in garden design. The past could be staged and enliv- ened in a garden with sham Roman ruins, Druidic temples, pastoral huts, and mystic caves. Poška’s garden with Baublys clearly falls within the fashion for historicising landscape and his writings hint at allusions to the universal and the vernacular that the garden was meant to convey. The poem “My Garden”54 composed in 1811 reveals an understanding of the garden and trees that culminated in the erection of Baublys a year later. Poška compares his garden to that of Virgil’s Melibeus and describes his arcadia. For the amateur poet the meaning of the garden lies not only in its pastoral beauty, but in its allusive potential and capacity to be a living storage of memory. The poet spends his leisure hours under an old oak and inscribes its trunk with “precious songs and names of friends.” The maple tree, which Poška planted in the year of his marriage to Uršulė, records the history of his family and household.55 It appears from the poem that initially the garden was to landscape a personal narrative. Such a need might be explained by the fact that Poška lived not on an inherited, but on a purchased estate; hence, the garden had been planted by

52 Ibid., 492. 53 Ibid., 494. 54 Dionizas Poška, “Mana darżelis / Mano darželis” [My garden], ibid., 26–31. 55 In Poška’s words, one will not need to go to the parish centre in Varniai to look for details as these dates are inscribed on the maple tree, ibid., 30–1. 280 Mickūnaitė its earlier owners.56 After allusions to family, friends, and events of Poška’s lifetime were established, it was time to broaden the garden’s memorial potential beyond the lifetime of a human being and transform it into a place where history could be experienced; Baublys assumed this role effectively. Instead of following the universal (at that time, rather European) patterns of a historicized garden, Poška found its own highly vernacular expression of history. Hence, Baublys stands as a significant exception in garden structures: it is both a part of a real ancient oak tree and an imaginary artefact. These two opposites join in one pavilion popular receptions of Baublys; however, for Poška it was a lively connection between past and present. Already contemporaries saw Baublys as a modest counterpart of the Temple of Sybil,57 a Neo-Classicist rotunda established in 1801 by Princess Izabela Czartoryska (1746–1835) in her landscape garden in Puławy.58 The Temple of Sybil, itself a reduced copy of the Roman temple in Tivoli, was inscribed with the motto “From Past to Present” and housed a variety of historic exhibits, many of which were donated by the high aristocracy of the former Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.59 The entire establishment aimed at perpetuating history of the partitioned state and telling about the heroic deeds of its great men. In addition to building the rotunda, Czartoryska authored a treatise on garden- ing, where she emphasised the importance of old trees for creating meaningful landscape.60 Although Poška’s writings contain reference only to Czartoryska’s popular book on history the Pilgrim in Dobromil,61 it is obvious that he knew the Temple of Sybil, popularised by the princess and in the periodical press.

56 Brigita Speičytė, “Kas užsodino Poškos ‘darželį’?” [Who planted Poška’s garden?], Metai 1 (2005). Retrieved on March 7, 2009 via www.tekstai.lt/buvo/metai/200501/speicyte.htm. 57 Michał Baliński & Timoteusz Lipiński, Starożytna Polska pod względem Historycznym, geograficznym i statystycznym [Ancient Poland within the historical, geographical and statistical perspective], vol. 4 (Warsaw: S. Orgelbrand, 1886 [ first edition, 1843–46]), 409. 58 Puławy is a town on the Vistula River in the Lublin Province. For an overview of allusive gardens in Poland and their European context in English see James Stevens Curl, “Arcadia, Poland: Garden of Allusions,” Garden History 23.1 (1995), 91–112. 59 On the architecture and collection of the Temple of Sybil see Z. Żygulski, jun. “Dzieje zbiorów puławskich (Świantynia Sybilli i Dom Gotycki)” [The history of the collection of Puławy (the Temple of Sybil and the Gothic House)], Rozprawy i Sprawozdania Muzeum Narodowego w Krakowe 7 (1962), 5–93. 60 [Izabela Czartoryska], Myśli różne o sposobie zakładania ogrodów przez I. C. [Various thoughts about the ways of establishing gardens by I.C.] (Wrocław: Drukiem Wilhelma Bogumiła Korna, 1805). 61 [Izabela Czartoryska], Pielgrzym w Dobromilu, czyli, dalszy ciąg nauk wiejskich [Pilgrimage in Dobromil or further course of rural learning] (Warszaw: N. Glücksberg, 1821). Imagining the Real 281

On the other hand, Baublys differed from the Temple conceptually. Firstly, it did not present history as a sequence of great deeds as Poška had very few exhibits associated with celebrated men or famous events. In contrast, most of the objects could not be related to any person, but were connected to the country, from the soil of which they were dug. Secondly, the oak trunk had no clear architectural voice, but it spoke through material, round plan, and function. Although alluding to romantic images of proto-gothic architecture, the somewhat bizarre structure Baublys was unique just because very few oaks grow to such a size that a pavilion could be gouged out of a trunk. However, the rarity of the material did not prevent Poška from having a “brother of Baublys,” as he called the smaller pavilion erected in 1822.62 Moreover, the upper part of the Baublys’ trunk that Poška donated to Bishop Giedraitis was never used for a pavilion to the regret of the donor.63 Hence, the structure’s appeal was more personal even though old trees are rather universal conveyers of time. Despite all this, Baublys does have a contemporary architectural and func- tional parallel. In Poška’s lifetime, the most celebrated garden pavilion used as a cabinet was Goethe’s Borkenhaus, a hut built in the garden by the Ilm River at Weimar.64 The Borkenhaus is a rotunda made of a wooden shell covered with a tree bark. Established around 1776, the Borkenhaus served as a hermitage, then a popular structure of garden architecture, and together with artificial ruins of a cloister in its background formed the “gothic” atmosphere of the garden.65 Apparently, Baublys and the Borkenhaus have much in common: both are garden pavilions, both were made of simple local wood and served as places of seclusion and inspiration. Knowing Goethe’s authority across Europe, it is easy to see Baublys as a copy of the poet’s hut in Weimar. Therefore, it is surprising to learn that neither Poška, nor his contemporaries viewed Baublys in this light. What is more, Poška’s writings contain no reference to Goethe and I have found no mention of the Weimar garden in periodicals that Poška read.66 Hence, the

62 Poška noted that the smaller oak is not worth the attention of a viewer or reader, Poška, Raštai, 508–9. 63 Ibid., 514–7. 64 I am grateful to Prof. Dr. Hedwig Röckelein for drawing my attention to Goethe’s Borkenhaus. For a thorough discussion on Goethe and the Weimar gardens see Susanne Müllet-Wolff, Ein Landschaftsgarten im Ilmtal. Die Geschichte des herzoglichen Parks in Weimar (Cologne: Böhlau, 2007). 65 Ibid., 56–7 and 144–7. 66 Poška’s reading list was compiled from the references to periodicals as they appear in the collection of his writings, Poška, Raštai. For German readers descriptions and images 282 Mickūnaitė two pavilions, to which Goethe’s Urform was a common denominator,67 had no relation at the time they were established. Posterity saw Goethe’s Borkenhaus as a secluded cabinet, the place of solitude and poetic inspiration, while Baublys lost this association to poetry with Poška’s death and became known as the first Lithuanian museum. Poška has never called Baublys a museum and has never attempted to make a systematic documentation of his collection.68 The satire of Scoundrels69 was first to identify Baublys as a museum and this identification became attached to the pavilion since the later nineteenth century.70 The truthfulness of the archaeological finds and the structure of Baublys offered the condensed feeling of the real past and mightily triggered the imagination. In his last will Poška donated the remains of his collection to the Kražiai Gymnasium and added that if the executors of the will found it necessary, his books and the Baublys might also be transferred to the gymnasium for public use.71 While the items from the collection cannot be identified today, the two garden pavilions have survived and their emptied trunks continue to be filled with meanings. The simple and easy-to-comprehend shape of Baublys inspired arm-chair visitors and became an embodiment of history, both a metonymy and a metaphor of the distant past. The rise of national movement saw Baublys as a self-authenti- cating structure that was soon turned into an object of secular and vernacular devotion.

of the Borkenhaus were published in Ideenmagazin für Liebhaber von Gärten 3.27 (1800), Müllet-Wolff, 219 and plate 71, p. xlii. 67 For an overview of the cultural history of hut see Joseph Rykwert, On Adam’s House in Paradise: The Idea of a Primitive Hut in Architectural History (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1972). 68 Scholars do not agree whether Poška indeed considered Baublys as a museum: Žygintas Būčys argues that Baublys was just a garden pavilion never intended to any systematic collection and display of objects. Moreover, Poška was quite careless about document- ing his holdings even if compared with other collectors of his time, Žygintas Bučys, “Mitas apie Baublį: nuo rinkinio iki muziejaus” [The myth of Baublys: from a collection to a museum], Kultūros istorijos tyrinėjimai 4 (1998), 174–98. Nastazija Keršytė argues that Poška did not called Baublys a museum out of modesty, but clearly understood Baublys as such, Nastazija Keršytė, “Baublio muziejus” [The Baublys museum], in id., Lietuvos muziejai iki 1940 metų [Museums in Lithuania before 1940) (Vilnius: Lietuvos Nacionalinis muziejus, 2003), 49–57. 69 “Apey iszkalba sudyne mokslas,” 179. 70 E.g., [Eustachy Tiszkiewicz], Archeologia na Litwie przez E. T. [Archaeology in Lithuania by E.T.], offprint of Rocznik dla Archeologów (1871), 10. 71 Poška, Raštai, 674–5. Imagining the Real 283

And is the great Baublis living found By ages hollowed out, in whose wide round A dozen folk could sup as in a room?72

This question that Adam Mickiewicz posed in the Pan Tadeusz made Baublys a symbol of the country’s history and its shared perception. Native-born and natural, the hollowed oak-trunk was perceived as museum with lost holdings. The empty pavilion offered space for imagery exhibits void of any conflict and fitting individual as well as collective understanding of the country’s past. The reality of Baublys as well as the distant and blurred time to which it referred and was part of, transformed the oak trunk into an imagined reservoir of national history73 and expressed the rustic sentiment.

72 Adam Mickiewicz, Pan Tadeusz, transl. Kenneth R. Mackenzie (New York: Hippocreme Books, 1992), 152. 73 It is not by accident that the periodical Auszra, the tribune of Lithuanian national movement and a cradle of philological nationalism, translated accounts on Poška and Baublys and published them in one of the first issues, Auszra 1–3 (1884), 11–8. Retrieved on March 10, 2009 via www.epaveldas.lt/vbspi/biRecord.do?biExemplarId=22955. For an overview of Lithuanian national movement in the later 19th century, see Tomas Balkelis, The Making of Modern Lithuania (London & New York: Routledge, 2009). 284 Mickūnaitė

figure 12.1 Baublys. Postcard, early twentieth century. Lithuanian National Museum. (ATV 15339) Imagining the Real 285

figure 12.2 The doors of Baublys inscribed with verses. After Dionizas Poška, Raštai (Vilnius: Valstybinė grožinės literatūros leidykla, 1959), plate after p. 528. 286 Mickūnaitė

figure 12.3 A sketch and description of the cult-figurine from Poška’s collection. After Dionizas Poška, Raštai (Vilnius: Valstybinė grožinės literatūros leidykla, 1959), plate after p. 506. chapter 13 Time Stopped. The Open-air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius*

Johan Hegardt

Skansen affects everything which is noble in mankind, and awakes that which is slumbering to new life (Ludwig Passarge, 1898)

Introduction

Skansen, the assemblage of old houses and other artifacts on a small rocky elevation on Djurgården close to the city of Stockholm opened on October 11, 1891. This open-air museum is not locked in the past but keeps moving into the present over its 120 years of history. Skansen is also an icon for the Swedish summerhouse culture, a special Swedish tradition emphasizing Swedes’ relationship to nature. There is a close connection between tourism, the museum, and the development of Sweden. Travelling to the exotic and “authentic” past became significant in the course of the ever growing urbanization and modernization of Sweden from the late nineteenth century onwards.1 It may not be an overstatement that Skansen is one of the most significant expressions of Swedishness. It is a miniature not so much of Sweden, but more of the idea of Sweden, the dream-society and its history. The museum has been described in poems and essays as an illusion, a work of imagination, or a wonderful

* I am grateful to professors Patrick Geary and Gábor Klaniczay for letting me be a part of the focus group Medievalism, Archaic Origins and Regimes of Historicity Alternatives to Antique Tradition in the Nineteenth Century in East-Central, Southeast and Northern Europe, to the wonderful staff at the Collegium Budapest and the Wallenberg Guesthouse. I am also grateful to my fellow researchers at the Collegium for presenting papers at the seminar Medievalism Focus Group Conference in March 2009 and at the workshop in April 2008. These papers not only gave me perspectives on the historiography of Sweden, but also (and more importantly), gave me profound new insights based on thorough knowledge into the diversity of European historiography and medievalism. 1 This was emphasized by Gösta Berg, Artur Hazelius: mannen och hans verk. (Stockholm: Natur & Kultur, 1933).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_014 288 Hegardt phantasm. Skansen represents the idea of the happy Swedish village, an imagined beauty existing in the past but conserved in the present and secured for the future. In the original plans it was foreseen that the museum would cover all the Nordic countries, including Finland. This never became the case, so a predominant majority of the collection at Skansen is from the present kingdom of Sweden. Skansen is important for us today not merely because it was important for people in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Rather, we ascribe a value to today’s Skansen based on how people in the past valued it and appreciate the history and the narrative connected to it. If Skansen had one clear purpose a hundred years ago, it has at least two purposes today. It conserves the Swedish heritage in a nationalistic and romantic setting to both the time- bound and also to the living conception of Sweden. Instead of becoming mar- ginalized over time, Skansen has thus doubled its significance in the course of time now that Swedes have become aware of the need of preserving their heritage. Sweden did not slowly and smoothly turn into an industrialized society. The process was rather quick, beginning in the middle of the second half of the nineteenth century and peaking at the end of it. By the early twentieth century industrialization led to social unrest and the emergence and growth of the Social-Democratic Party. Their so-called Folkhem (Peoples home) movement was seen in the 1920s and 1930s as in some way kin to the ideas of Hazelius a couple of generations earlier. There are interesting connections between present-day politics, immigration policies, the history of the June 6 National Day of Sweden, Artur Hazelius, and Skansen, shedding light on the complicated history and tradition in Swedish society. However interesting these relationships may be, this is not the place to discuss them. Instead I will focus on the relationship between the founder of the museum Artur Hazelius (1833–1901) and the late ninteenth- century archaeologist, museologist and liberal modernist Oscar Montelius (1843–1921). Even though Montelius became the spokesman of the ideas of Skansen after Hazelius’ death, the difference between these two scholars offers basic insights into the special character of the open-air museum.

Artur Hazelius and Skansen

Djurgården, the location of Skansen, was a royal hunting park during the seventeenth century and is now a royal park open to the public, protected from extensive exploitation, even though there are, besides the museums and amusement parks, some large private villas and even a small shipyard. The The Open-Air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 289 word Skans is Swedish for a minor fortification. In this case, however, the name has its own legend not connected with defense. According to it, the Crown Prince and later King Oscar I (1799–1859) together with his escort, constructed a “fort” from loose stone blocks on top of the hill. The construction was first called “The Skans of Prince Oscar,” its name was later shortened to Skansen. Before the open-air museum was established, parts of the elevation were used as a private amusement site, since it affords a wonderful view of Stockholm. Skansen did not come into Hazelius’ hands at a single stroke. He either bought or was given parts of it between 1891 and 1901. Besides the gift from the king, who owned parts of Skansen, various parts were purchased from private owners.2 Hazelius’ purpose with Skansen was to collect bits and pieces of old Sweden, including flora and fauna, and display them to the public. Despite the nationalistic and patriotic perspective, enthusiasm, hard work, and construction of the Nordic museum Hazelius—according to statements he made on the subject (quoted by Johan Levart)—he never worked out any theory.3 This was of course a very coy statement, intending to imply that the work he did was fundamental and had a higher meaning and purpose than personal achievement or success. He was, according to himself and according to the legend, only a humble servant to the great Swedish nation. Johan Levart, a man of letters in late nineteenth century Stockholm, recorded Hazelius’ personal history. Artur Hazelius earned a doctorate in Nordic languages in 1860 and for some six years worked as a teacher. In 1868 he published a major work on the new Swedish orthography, related to the wider work of coordinating and modernizing the society.4 Levart also recorded that Hazelius’ father was the great patriot, general Johan August Hazelius (1797–1871), adju- tant to King Oskar. Levart quoted Hazelius, who in 1896 wrote thus about his father: “. . . so very genuine, so very, in the best of meanings, typically Swedish (. . .) From him I inherited an intense love of our fatherland, contempt for self- ishness and pettiness, an aversion to the unclear and one-sided, to political parties and bureaucracy, but an intense love of independence, tireless work,

2 Johan Levart, Skansen och Artur Hazelius: en skiss- och minnesbok. (Stockholm: Geber, 1901), 40–2. 3 Levart, Skansen och Artur Hazelius, 9. 4 Sverker Sörlin, “Artur Hazelius och det nationella arvet,” in Nordiska museet under 125 år, Hans Medelius, Bengt Nyström & Elisabet Stavenow-Hidemark (eds.) (Nordiska museets för- lag: Stockholm, 1998), 24–5; Magdalena Hillström, Ansvaret för Kulturarvet: Studier i det kul- turhistoriska museiväsendets formering med särskild inriktning på Nordiska museets etablering 1872–1919. (Linköping University: Linköping, 2006) 166. 290 Hegardt and—if I may—greatness, the honorable, light and beauty.”5 This was the ideal the founder of Skansen and the Nordic Museum wished to follow. When Artur Hazelius died in 1901 the question was who should succeed him. The choice fell on his son Gunnar Hazelius (1874–1905). It is not, however, an easy thing to succeed your father, and even more so when that father is Artur Hazelius and the grandfather the great patriot general Johan August. Gunnar Hazelius soon realized that he was not the man for the job. A few years later he died. The most crucial debate after the death of Artur Hazelius was how the Nordic Museum should be arranged.6 One dispute occurred between Gunnar Hazelius and the archaeologist Bernhard Salin (1861–1931). Hazelius wanted to work in line with his father and did not want a museum with a dull and boring repetition of numbers, something the archaeologist seems to have advocated. Salin had earlier worked at the Museum of National Antiquities and was well aware of Oscar Montelius’ typological archaeology and the scientific structures of the time, which in many ways contradicted the thoughts of Artur Hazelius and his son Gunnar.

The Past in the Present or the Past in the Past The difference between Hazelius and Montelius lies in their different views on chronology. For Montelius, chronology and the method of typology that he developed together with Hans Hildebrand (1842–1913) became the foundation for museums, heritage management and archaeological research. Montelius wanted to illustrate, understand and control the flow of time. Hazelius, on the other hand, used chronology to contextualize the objects at Skansen. For Hazelius, Skansen was to become an enclosure that stopped the flow of time, a perspective he also used in his museum collections that preceded the Nordic Museum on Djurgården. We shall come back to this later. Hazelius and Montelius were able to use chronology differently because chronology is a perfect tool to mix the past with the present when it is necessary or to sever the past from the present. History is not only the chronology of years of reigns, dates of battles and events, and so on, but the sequence of years is still the backbone of history. To be able to understand even the sim- plest historical narrative we must be able to think in time, that is, in chronology. Montelius’ typologically structured displays at the National Museum of

5 Levart, Skansen och Artur Hazelius, 12 [my translation J.H.]. 6 Hans Medelius, “Installationen,” in Nordiska museet under 125 år, Hans Medelius, Bengt Nyström & Elisabet Stavenow-Hidemark (eds.) (Nordiska museets förlag: Stockholm, 1998), 132; Hillström, Ansvaret för kulturarvet, 259–63, 388. The Open-Air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 291

figure 13.1 An electrically driven service vehicle passes a car parked in front of eighteenth century buildings. One could also hear the sounds from the downtown Stockholm very clearly. Something is obviously out of its timeframe. (Photo: Johan Hegardt)

Antiquities or Hazelius’ Skansen are good examples of the flexibility of how the past can be presented. Hazelius used chronology to pin down the objects of his interest. What came before and what may turn up after was of no interest to him. For Montelius, on the other hand, chronology ruled the past, the present and the future. Chronology helped Montelius to establish a narrative based on the structures of time and space, and thereby distance the objects from the present and the future. Instead of doing this, Hazelius wanted to stop time by placing the objects into the present. Skansen is not ordered chronologically, but structured to be able to flow with time: it does not matter what happens in the outside world, Skansen will always be the same and relevant to the present. The former museum director Arne Biörnstad discussed Skansen’s relationship to chronology and pointed out that Skansen differs from an ordinary museum exhibition. It is not possible to order the objects chronologically, he stressed, since each object carries its own chronology. A building at Skansen can be hundreds of years old and rebuilt many times, and the objects inside it may have been passed down through several generations. This disregard of 292 Hegardt chronology creates a special perspective on time and gives the museum its specific character.7 Hazelius, as we shall see later, was aware of this inherent conflict as he rebuilt or reshaped the buildings brought to Skansen according to his own ideas. He did this partly because many buildings were in bad condition, but partly because he wanted the buildings to fit with Skansen’s overall focus on the eighteenth century.

The Context In the late nineteenth century Swedish scholars began to position themselves in the present. It is therefore not coincidental that the Swedish Tourist Association, the Swedish Heritage Association, the Anthropological Society, the Swedish Museum Curators, and many other organizations were established at the time. Furthermore, new university departments were founded.8 The main agenda of these new departments and organizations was to “nationalize” and control all sorts of heritage by bringing it in under the roof of the Swedish nation state. We also find a close relationship between heritage management, the civil service and the state at the end of the century. When Artur Hazelius began his collecting in the 1870s, he positioned himself in this new context and worked with private entrepreneurs, heritage managers, university professionals as well as the king and the nobility. It was his capacity to maneuver in this context that made him successful.9 However, he would never have reached his goals had it not been for his idealistic and patriotic personality and his nationalistic perspective. Hardly anyone turned down someone who was idealistic, patriotic and nationalistic, because such a personality personified the good Swedish citizen. When Hazelius died in 1901 he had not only collected hundreds of thousands of objects, he had also raised millions in Swedish Crowns for his collections and museum projects. He was probably the most successful fund-raiser in Swedish heritage history. People obviously paid to become a part of Hazelius’ world. While the collections of prehistoric finds were growing rapidly at the Museum of National Antiquity due to the agency of Montelius and others, this was not the case with historical objects, and when Hazelius traveled through the northern province of Dalarna in the summer of 1872 he was upset by what he saw. People had begun to dispose of their heritage and traditions. Hazelius decided that he had to save whatever there was to be saved. Later the same year he received a grant from the Swedish Heritage Association for this.

7 Arne Biörnstad, “Skansens hus och gårdar: En byggnadsöversikt,” in Skansens hus och gårdar, Inga Arnö-Berg & Arne Biörnstad (eds.) (Nordiska museet/Skansen: Stockholm, 1980), 37. 8 Sörlin, “Artur Hazelius och det nationella arvet,” 18. 9 Hillström, Ansvaret för Kulturarvet, 39. The Open-Air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 293

The Heritage Association was founded in 1869 as a part of the new general unification strategy. The explicit purpose of the organization was to investigate, explore, and spread the knowledge of Swedish monuments and oral traditions from older times, mainly of ethnographic, cultural historical and art historical interest; to identify national and medieval art, and also to create a new Nordic style of architecture.10 Oscar Montelius became the association’s secretary in 1874. At this time he was working as an assistant at the Museum of National Antiquities, a museum that was placed on the ground floor of the newly opened National Museum (1866). Oscar Montelius was also a strong advocate for a more public approach to archaeology, heritage, and art history. However, there had been for some time a tension between the association and the National Heritage Board, which in a way was the same institution as the Museum of National Antiquities, a tension disliked by Montelius. This tension had its origins in a conflict of interest between the state and the provinces. People in the provinces and the Heritage Association were afraid that the state, through its new institutions (such as the National Museum), would want to acquire archaeological and art historical objects and in doing so would threaten regional claims. The artist and folklore explorer Nils Månsson Mandelgren (1813–1899), who held a strong position in the Swedish Heritage Association, was a central figure in this debate, and he opposed Bror Emil Hildebrand (1806–1884) on several occasions.11 The justification for a strong national museum, however, was not merely a question of power and control, but also a scholarly question with a special history.12 This history concerned the relationship between Christian Jürgensen Thomsen (1788–1865) and Bror Emil Hildebrand. During the second half of the nineteenth century Hildebrand was, until his death in 1884, the dominating man in the Swedish heritage management, advocating the centralization of museum collections and heritage management, something disliked by Mandelgren and others. Hildebrand’s perspective would, however, dominate in the late nineteenth century and partly throughout the twentieth.13

10 Hillström, Ansvar för Kulturarvet, 106–12. 11 Torbjörn Sundquist, “Några meningsmotståndare,” in Bror Emil Hildebrand (Kungl. Myntkabinettet. Stockholm, 2006), 93; Ian Wiséhn, “C.J. Thomsen och B.E. Hildebrand. 1838–1865,” in Christian Jürgensen Thomsen. 1788–29. december—1988, Ulla Lund Hansen (ed.) (Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab: København, 1988), 113–28. 12 Hillström, Ansvar för Kulturarvet, 103–31. 13 Kerstin Arcadius, “Modernitet, identitet och museiman. En bild från det tidiga 1900- talet,” in Skjorta eller själ? Kulturella identiteter i tid och rum, Gunnar Alsmark (ed.) (Studentlitteratur: Lund, 1997), 108–129; Sörlin, “Artur Hazelius och det nationella arvet,” 16–39. 294 Hegardt

Thomsen was the man behind the so-called Three Age System. Hildebrand and Thomsen were close friends, and Hildebrand organized the Historical Museum in Lund on the basis of Thomsen’s system in the 1830s, which he also used in the new national museum in Stockholm. Hildebrand argued that if archaeological remains and heritage should be scientifically studied a central national museum was the best place for this. Actually, Hazelius also argued for the centralization of his collections and for the importance of science. But he also explicitly expressed, as we shall see, a clear patriotic and nationalistic argument for his collections, not found to the same degree in Hildebrand’s arguments. It was in this rather dynamic context that Artur Hazelius began to collect, with help from the Swedish Heritage Association and many others, and he might have been given the grant from the association to shift the focus from Bror Emil Hildebrand to other agents.14 However, it was not until Hazelius received a loan of a larger amount of money in 1872 that he was able to begin to collect more systematically. At the outset, his collection was housed in a very small apartment on Drottninggatan in the central area of Stockholm. In 1873 he moved the collection to new premises in the same area of the city, referring to it as the Scandinavian Ethnographic Collection. This collection was renamed the Nordic Museum in 1880.15 The stone foundation for this new museum at Djurgården, was laid at the beginning of the 1890s. The museum did not open, however, until 1907. By 1898, Hazelius’ collection was enormous, containing more than 100,000 objects, and he had spent a vast amount of money (approximately three mil- lion sek by 1898) and thousands of people had donated objects and money to the museum. Some of the objects, and of course the large buildings, were placed at Skansen. All the other objects would become a part of the Nordic Museum collection in the new building on Djurgården, close to Skansen. Hazelius’ collection was a compromise in the conflict between the Heritage Association and the Museum of National Antiquities. According to Johan Levart, Hazelius’ agenda was rather different from late nineteenth-century museum policies, avowed for example by scholars such as Oscar Montelius. As we have seen, Hazelius did not want a museum with a dull and boring repetition of numbers, mostly used by typologists such as Montelius. Instead he wanted to create a matrix through which the lives and souls of people from the

14 Hillström, Ansvar för Kulturarvet, 40, 96–100. 15 Levart, Skansen och Artur Hazelius, 15; Artur Hazelius, “Ur Nordiska museets historia,” in Meddelanden från Nordiska museet 1898, Artur Hazelius (ed.) (Norstedt & Söner: Stockholm, 1990), 271–314. The Open-Air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 295 past would resurface as a result of the objects displayed, regardless of whether they were displayed at Skansen or in the Nordic Museum.16 For Hazelius, things in themselves had no meaning and he regarded objects displayed without an “authentic” social context as dull and boring. Instead, Hazelius brought different historical objects into the present and displayed them on the same table, so to speak. By doing so, Hazelius differed in his approach from most contemporary scholars, both Swedish and international, who mostly used the ethnological and ethnographical objects to illuminate a social-cultural development over time. Hazelius did not follow this tradition. Instead, he believed in the “authentic,” and he viewed copies almost as forgeries. What he wanted, as he himself said, was to “framställa folklifvet i lefvande dager” 17 (“present folk life in its living brilliance”). The travel writer Ludwig Passarge (1825–1912) described this experience at Skansen: “When I was in Stockholm last July—he wrote—the Oktorp farm-house of Halland, built around a square yard, was just being erected, and they were thatching the four connected roofs. When I asked my friendly guide, one of the lady amanuenses of the museum, where the original was, she answered: ‘O, this is just the original. The man over there, who is overseeing the work, is the former owner of the house and is seeing to it that everything is put in its proper place.’ ” Passarge underlined that “Dr. Hazelius is never content with imitations (. . .) for he has the faculty of snatching from their original places and removing to Skansen the very objects themselves.”18 As far as I know there were never any forgeries nor copies at Skansen, at least not during Hazelius’ time and he never discussed nor mentioned such problems in his writings. However, Gösta Berg mentioned a letter in which Hazelius argued that a well-done copy or newly done parts were better than an old and rotten original. Yet all the objects must be authentic, he argued. Berg also pointed out that Hazelius used architects to get the best impression from the buildings brought to Skansen. This meant that parts could be removed from a building or rebuilt if they did not fit the picture.19 That Hazelius had to work like this is rather obvious. The more interesting question is how Hazelius could be sure that he bought “authentic” objects and that he was never duped? First of all, Hazelius surrounded himself with almost all of the scholars and other professionals that could be found not only in Stockholm, but in all of Sweden.

16 Levart, Skansen och Artur Hazelius, 15. 17 Hazelius, Ur Nordiska museets historia, 299. 18 Ludwig Passarge, The Northern Museum and Skansen, trans. D.O. Bell. (Stockholm, 1898), 13–4. 19 Berg, Artur Hazelius, 105. 296 Hegardt

He was also supported by different societies, the king and many famous and wealthy people. He had an extraordinary ability to talk with people, farmers or nobility.20 This was a part of his very fruitful strategy, and the famous professor of Swedish literature Fredrik Böök (1883–1961) emphasized Hazelius’ capacity to engage people from the whole country in his project. Almost every- body collected for him and sent him objects.21 What he created in the minds of thousands of people was a patriotic miniature of Sweden. No one would ever dare attempt to trick such a person or project, because you would not only go against your country and the establishment, but also, as a matter of fact, you might well make a fool of yourself. Even though scholars such as Thomsen, father and son Hildebrand, and Montelius who also had the objects in front of them in the same way as Hazelius, used chronology to “throw” the objects back into the past. In doing so, they were able to distance themselves from the objects and the social-cultural context in which the objects had once existed. Hazelius did have a more “poetic” approach to the past, based on his love for his fosterland, an approach that he used as a political tool in uniting the Swedes in the present. Levart quoted Hazelius “The Nordic museum shall be a home for memories, mostly of the life of the Swedish people, but also of other peoples, who are kinsmen with the Swedes. It shall embrace all classes, and not only the rural folk, such as the middle classes and higher social order. Its purpose shall be not only to serve scholarship, but also to awaken and promote the love of the people for their homeland, thereby also nursing the memory of Swedish men and women who have encouraged culture and honor.”22 This was the intellectual foundation on which not only Skansen was built, but also the Nordic Museum. Fredrik Svanberg, in an essay on museums and the practice of collecting, stresses that the Nordic Museum today displays the folklore without any dates or chronological difference, although there is a clear distance in time separating the different objects. Svanberg concludes that the folklore is displayed implicitly as something timeless and connected with a vision or an idea of Swedes as an eternal people.23 This was exactly what Hazelius had in mind. The timeless character of the museum can also be seen when one enters the museum. The plan, though never fully carried out, was that a monumental

20 Berg, Artur Hazelius, 116. 21 Fredrik Böök, Artur Hazelius: En levnadsteckning (Stockholm: P.A. Norstedt & Söner, 1923), 321. 22 Levart, Skansen och Artur Hazelius, 16 [my translation—J.H.]. 23 Fredrik Svanberg, Museer och samlande. (The Museum of National Antiquities: Stockholm, 2009), 61. The Open-Air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 297

figure 13.2 Gustav i. (Photo: Johan Hegardt) sculpture of Gustav i Vasa, flanked by Charles xi and his son Charles xii (all three heroes in Swedish history), should be visible in the entrance hall. Gustav i still stands there alone.

Time is the Enemy On the first page in Ludwig Passarge’s book the author emphasizes that “In the history of human civilization perhaps no event has been more important than the discovery of Pompeii.”24 While Pompeii was seen as the most important of all traces of lost civilizations, Passarge stressed that the world was filled with similar important traces of past civilizations, and he warned that all these remains and traces could have been lost if it had not been for the research that had been done. However, the “greatest enemy to everything is time, which only recognizes perpetual progress.” After pointing this out, he raised the question as to whether or not it would be possible to preserve a cultural picture of our time, and, “could not an artificial Pompeii be conjured up?” This was, of course, what Artur Hazelius had done. He had created a “living” Pompeii for the cultural life of the Scandinavian people. However, Passarge emphasized,

24 Passarge, The Northern Museum and Skansen. 298 Hegardt it is impossible to present past life itself. Instead, one had to present an image for the present. “Anything more than this is beyond human ability,” Passarge wrote, and Hazelius set out with “nothing but a strong will and an unstoppable enthusiasm; and what he succeeded in accomplishing in a few years exceeded human expectation.”25 According to Passarge, Artur Hazelius had halted the destructiveness of time and created a living space in which Swedes could go on living in a frozen zone in the process of destructive time, in a sort of Swedish Pompeii. What Hazelius did was to create the illusion of a past existing in the present, in contrast to, for example, the method adopted by an archaeologist such as Montelius. Montelius’ illusionary trick was to make the viewer believe that what he or she saw in the present existed in the past, and thus the viewer traveled step-by-step back in time. These two perspectives underline that the “past” is a movable thing. In January 2010, I visited this frozen space. It was a very windy day and a snowstorm was on its way. Skansen was empty except for a few tourists and some staff. It was cold and the ground was covered with snow. I began my day with a lunch of black-pudding and uncooked lingonberry, a typical Swedish dish. Skansen covers an area of more than 300,000 m2. Today the main entrance is to the south. The “province” of Scandia is southeast and the Sámi people northwest from the main entrance. In the center there are ponds and shops, but also the “province” of Dalarna, the province where Hazelius began his work as a collector and where Gustav i—Sweden’s founding father—staged his uprising against the Danes. Although Skansen exhibits objects spanning from rune stones of Viking time to buildings from the 1950s, there is no chronology. Skansen is only spa- tially structured. As I walked through Skansen it became clear to me that I was walking in Hazelius’ world, a world that he loved and thought would be lost during his lifetime. By creating Skansen, he not only stopped time for everyone else, but also for himself. Behind the fences, he was able to take long walks in a world that had been frozen, as he wanted it to be forever. Hazelius lived in his own creation, in his own life. Unlike Montelius, who professed himself to be a liberal26 and wanted to live in the future, but had to put up with the present, Hazelius wanted to freeze the present, or even more clearly freeze parts of the present and protect them from the future. Whereas Montelius dis- tanced the past from the present and longed for the future, Hazelius wanted to live constantly in a past articulated in the present. Skansen, in the mind of

25 Passarge, The Northern Museum and Skansen, 4–6. 26 Oscar Montelius, “Autografier och porträtt,” Aftonbladet 20.5.1897. The Open-Air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 299

figure 13.3 The Yellow Villa, Skansen, where Hazelius lived between 1892 and 1901. (Photo: Johan Hegardt)

Hazelius, is the remains of the eighteenth century still existing in the nineteenth. It is this eternal world that Hazelius conserves at Skansen, for his own well-being and for the wellbeing of all other Swedes. In his work on Hazelius, Fredrik Böök discerned a similarity between the poet Viktor Rydberg’s “tomte” (Santa Claus or brownie) and Artur Hazelius. In Rydberg’s poem the “tomte” is the guardian of traditions and the house over which he is keeping watch is Swedish culture. When Hazelius walked through Skansen he was doing a similar job.27 Although Hazelius is not walking the paths at Skansen anymore, the museum is still watching over Swedish culture.

Hazelius and Montelius Depict Skansen Artur Hazelius’ illuminated work Bilder från Skansen28 (Images from Skansen) begins with a poem by Frithiof Holmgren entitled “Upp till Skansen!” (Go to

27 Nils Erik Baehrendtz, “Artur Hazelius och Skansen,” in Boken om Skansen, Nils Erik Baehrendtz (ed.) (Bokförlaget Bra Böcker: Höganäs, 1980), 12–3; see also Magdalena Hillström, Ansvaret för Kuturarvet, 36. 28 Artur Hazelius, Bilder från Skansen: Skildringar af Svensk natur och Svenskt folklif. (Stockholm: Plansch-och Litteratur-aktiebolaget, 1899(?)). Published as booklets or in parts 1896–1899. 300 Hegardt

Skansen!), which could be read, I think, as an implicit reference to the refrain of the Swedish version of the Internationale: “Upp till kamp emot kvalen” (This is the final struggle). With this paraphrase Holmgren and Hazelius may have intended to offer a kind of alternative to the radical social and political message of the socialists of the late nineteenth century. Sverker Sörlin has pointed this out and has used Benedict Anderson’s concept of “Official Nationalism” to characterize it. A nationalism based on the people was considered dangerous, thus a state-governed nationalism was to be designed.29 However, in the beginning of the twentieth century Skansen did arrange a “Citizen-day” on May 1, and later the Social Democratic party would also enter the scene at Skansen and the open-air museum would become the all-national arena. If my interpretation is correct, a political perspective was expressed in Holmgren’s poem, together with two other central themes. The first theme was happiness and freedom and the second one was fosterland. With happiness, songs, dances and of course history, Skansen became a place where Swedes could stand happily united against threats from both without and within the society, such as revolutionary movements. Happiness and joy are still today central themes at Skansen.30 Hazelius’ book was also a manifesto on the Swedes’ benevolence, and the texts, describing mostly different buildings at Skansen, it expressed a feeling of well-being in the past and in the present. The people who had once used the buildings on display are described as morally upright and high-spirited. According to Hazelius, Skansen was supposed to be a museum for Swedish history and the country’s flora and fauna, yet many strange things were also exhibited at the museum and described in Hazelius’ book. On page 49 there is a description of a “Karoliner” camp. The “Karoliner” was the golden age of Swedish heroism, led by King Charles xii. Readers may have been aware that Voltaire once described Charles xii as a comic figure. Yet he held a central position in the narratives of Swedish history and is described in the book in the following words (my translation): “. . . we can feel a breeze from the past (. . .) and dream ourselves back to the glorious days of Charles xii, when his reputation traveled East and West and gave his name a glory, that could not be eliminated by blood and misery (. . .) Yes, if we, when danger and hardship threatens our dear fatherland could achieve the same glorious reputation among a future generation as the old ‘Karoliner’ have among us . . .”

29 Sörlin, “Artur Hazelius och det nationella arvet,” 36. 30 Skansens vision och uppdrag, http://www.skansen.se/pages/?id=381 (accessed April 7, 2010). The Open-Air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 301

Skansen was, and still is, not only an open-air museum for a material heritage, but also that for intangible heritage. Hazelius was very fond of traditional dances, songs and customs, but he also “introduced” or made nationwide known provincial traditions and customs. Festivals have always been important at Skansen. Today there is a tv-produced “Allsång på Skansen” (Sing-along at Skansen) with famous Swedish pop-musicians and New Year celebrations, as well as other festivals, such as National Day celebrations. Many of the festivals at Skansen were Hazelius’ improvisations. He used different traditional Swedish festivals as part of the nationalistic spirit that he wanted Skansen to express. In June 1893 several days of festivals were arranged with this intent. The story goes that it rained every day except June 6, and it was consequently on this day that most visitors attended the festivals. Hazelius wrote in 1893 that “as a festival for our fosterländska memories, June 6, the Day of Gustav i, has been introduced at Skansen, and has been celebrated and will be celebrated as the Swedish National Day from now on”.31 The following year Oscar Montelius attended the celebrations and gave a long speech in Gustav i’s memory. He emphasized that Gustav i gave Sweden and Swedes their political freedom back by breaking the feudal union with Denmark. After this it became important, he stressed, to free the Swedes from the religious ties to remote southern countries, i.e., the Roman Catholic Church, and through the Reformation Gustav i had given the Swedes their spiritual freedom. Lastly, he had to give them back their economic freedom by blocking the influence of the Hansa cities over the Swedish economy. Montelius underlined that by the end of his life Gustav i had turned a poor and exploited country into a rich, strong and free power that ruled the Baltic.32 This perspective or vision expressed by Montelius has been ever since what Skansen represents. However, as a liberal, Montelius also emphasized the constitutional rights of freedom of speech, freedom of press, and the right to free assembly. What Montelius said had an enormous effect and his speeches were quoted in many different newspapers. Although it might sound a bit far-fetched, Montelius’ vocabulary could be understood as both postcolonial and nationalistic.33 Gustav i has been one of the main historical figures in Swedish historical writing since the second

31 Stefan Bohman, “Skansen som nationell arena,” in Nordiska museet under 125 år, Hans Medelius, Bengt Nyström & Elisabet Stavenow-Hidemark (eds.), (Nordiska museets för- lag: Stockholm, 1998), 366 [my translation—J.H.]. 32 Montelius, “Autografier och porträtt,” 1897. 33 John McLeod, Beginning postcolonialism, (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2000). 302 Hegardt half of the eighteenth century. The point of departure has been that Sweden was oppressed during the Middle Ages by foreign powers before Gustav I Vasa entered the scene. It may seem strange that the liberal Montelius built his speech on Gustav i and chose him as his hero. In fact, his speech was very similar to late twentieth- century postcolonial rhetoric, with the clear purpose of defining the history of the nation based on a liberating founding father, for the present and the future, regardless of the four hundred years distance. The point was to set a symbol for the nation and rally around it. Of course, Sweden was never a colony strictu sensu.34 Yet, what were the Danes, the Hansa and the Roman Catholic Church doing in Sweden? Although there was hardly any capitalism in the mid-sixteenth century, the Hansa did try to monopolize the Baltic market, the Roman Catholic Church claimed universal authority, and the Danes had imperial desires. As a consequence, Moterlius argued, the Swedes were oppressed until the liberation by Gustav i. Even though many Swedes became second-class people, the situation was hardly comparable with modern colonialism. Nevertheless, the rhetoric and the nationalistic perspectives put forward by Montelius and others are strong reminders of more recent postcolonial rhetoric and postcolonial nationalism. In such rhetoric time it is not important, how devoted Montelius had been to chronology. What he did was the famous “U-curve” of nationalistic rhetoric.35 When Montelius held his speech in June 1894, Skansen was just newly opened, and the Nordic Museum not yet built. However, when the museum was finished the enormous sculpture of Gustav i was placed in the entrance hall. As already noted, Gustav i should have been flanked by Charles xi and his son Charles xii, the king who lost most of the empire and died in Norway in 1719, but who nonetheless remains a hero and is honored at Skansen. Together the three kings were to represent Swedish history.

Conclusion Montelius’ typological exhibition at the Museum of National Antiquities has been out of fashion for decades. Hazelius’ Skansen, on the other hand, is still very much the same as it was in the late nineteenth century, and it is more popular than ever.

34 McLeod, Beginning postcolonialism, 7. 35 Peter Aronsson, Representing community: National museums negotiating differences and community in Nordic countries. Scandinavian Museums and Cultural Diversity, (New York: Berghahn Books, 2008). The Open-Air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 303

However, the open-air museum has nothing to offer to anyone who cannot associate with the nationalistic and patriotic narratives expressed at Skansen. The explicit nationalistic pose of the late nineteenth century has not been replaced with anything else. It is there in the buildings, in the memory of Artur Hazelius, and for the joy of Swedes and tourists. It is still there in the celebration of June 6. For anyone besides the tourist and the Swedes—such as immigrants and minorities (except the domestic reindeer breeding Sámi people, also known as the Lapps)—the nationalistic pose and narrative, explicit or not, says nothing; to them Skansen has nothing to offer. Artur Hazelius was buried on June 4, 1901. Johan Levart wrote that some hundred thousand people followed Hazelius to his final resting place. The first speaker at the funeral was Oscar Montelius. In his speech, Montelius underlined the relationship between modern society and history. He mentioned a young scientist who was upset over the loss of information when modern society destroyed American Indian cultures before anyone had a chance to document them. This had not happened in Sweden because of Hazelius, Montelius concluded.36 It may be upsetting to us today that Montelius was not concerned with the loss of American Indian cultures or the violence done to these peoples, but more troubled by the fact that no one had had time to document and collect the material and intangible remains of the destroyed cultures. However, his view differed from ours, because he and his contemporaries believed in a cultural-evolutionary process that followed the laws of nature and Darwin’s theory of natural selection. There was nothing to be done, except to collect and document as much as possible, which was why the Sámi people—contemporary with American Indians—had a place at Skansen during the late nineteenth century. Primary for the Skansen-project was the collection and exhibition of parts of old Sweden that many thought would disappear or be forgotten in the near future. Every part of Sweden, or at least most parts, should be represented by a building or some other structure. This meant that the Sámi people from the northern parts of the country had their place at Skansen. Putting the culture of a people on display was not an unusual practice in the nineteenth century, and one finds examples of this in most world exhibitions held over the course of the century. The idea of the authentic went hand-in-hand with the exotic and exoticism. As noted, Skansen was and still is organized with buildings from the southern parts of Sweden in its southern part and buildings from the north in the

36 Levart, Skansen och Artur Hazelius, 44. 304 Hegardt

figuer 13.4 Signs at Skansen signifying the difference between the “wild” Sámi people and cultivated central Sweden. Central Skansen is similar to central Sweden in the South-North orientation of the museum. (Photo: Johan Hegardt)

northern parts. In the most remote northern corner Hazelius placed the Sámi and their reindeer. Today they are still there, separated from the “wilderness”— the area with the wild animals—by a small creek that the visitors can cross on a footbridge from “civilization.” They are on their own on a remote and cliffy part of the Skansen elevation. The reason the Sámi people used to have a place at Skansen was not only because they belonged to Sweden, but because they would probably disappear in the processes of modernization. Today, however, the Sámi regard Skansen as the documentation of their indigenous background, and they are thereby able to construct a double historical significance. To begin with, they were on the edge of extinction due to the expansion of the Swedish state, which also was the first perspective presented at Skansen during Hazelius’ days. Now, however, they exist in the present as an indigenous people. What they display at Skansen today is not a primitive people of the past, but an indigenous people with a serious culture and legal claims on Swedish society, claims based on history. The Open-Air Museum Skansen of Artur Hazelius 305

This is a huge difference from before, but questionable because reality does not entirely resemble the display at Skansen, yet nothing at Skansen depicts reality. Although the Sámi economy is based on domestic reindeer breeding, the methods used today draw on modern techniques, none of which are represented at Skansen. This is not, however, the place to discuss indigenous problems. But the Sámi exhibition at Skansen must be valued as complex and problematic. Montelius also underlined the difference between his own archaeological collections at the National Museum and Hazelius’ collections. Unlike Skansen, the archaeological collections were based on very old objects, and it was impossible, he pointed out, to learn much from them about the people’s social and religious lives. Hazelius’ collection, on the other hand, had much more to tell, since it was based on memories from the most recent centuries. The collection was important because Sweden was becoming a modern European state, with a modern culture that would erase whatever traces of the past there remained. Without Hazelius, Montelius stressed, this memory would have been lost, because in our modern times old traditions, so different from the present, were extinguished with a speed never seen before. Montelius also emphasized that although Hazelius was the founding father of the Nordic Museum, it was not for this that he would be remembered, but for Skansen. The open-air museum was the most brilliant of his creations because it presented the whole context, and this is why it has become so popular among the people.37 Artur Hazelius was buried in one of Skansen’s most beautiful places, and Levart ends his book with the following sentence: “Here rests the man who saved our memories.” Hazelius was the man who saved our memories from the destruction of time. This is of course an idealistic, romantic and nostal- gic perspective, and this is probably why so many Swedes found and still find Skansen so attractive. Yet, whose memories did Hazelius save? Skansen is only a “memory bank” for those who can associate with the metaphysical idea of “Swedishness” and its history, documented, collected and spared the ravages of time. For tourists, however, Skansen is nothing more than a curiosity and a wonderful anachronism. Skansen was and still is a nationalistic “poem” and a dangerous mirage, a physical expression of Swedishness and Sweden’s struggle to become a modern nation-state after “colonialism.” As long as Skansen is allowed to present itself as a museum of itself and the nation, it will continue to represent everything

37 Levart, Skansen och Artur Hazelius, 91. 306 Hegardt

figuer 13.5 Artur Hazelius’ grave at Skansen. The sign in front of the monument reads: “Traveler! Stop for a minute at Artur Hazelius’ grave with reverence and thankfulness to his great memory.” In the background a farmstead from the province of Scandia. (Photo: Johan Hegardt)

that is not “cosmopolitan,”38 and, because of this, Skansen will never be able to represent the “true” and “authentic” plurality of memories in yesterday’s or today’s Swedish society. The crucial thing to be done with Skansen today is to rethink its history and position, not only in order to situate it in a globalized present, but also to establish a critical history that can be presented at Skansen.

38 Carol A. Breckenridge, Sheldon Pollock, Homi K. Bhabha & Dipesh Chakrabarty, (eds.) Cosmopolitanism (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2002); Kwame Anthony Appiah, Cosmopolitanism: Ethics in a World of Strangers (New York & London: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006); Lynn Meskell (ed.) Cosmopolitan Archaeologies (Durham & London: Duke University Press, 2009); Robert J. Holton, Cosmopolitanism: New Thinking and new Directions (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009). chapter 14 The New York Cloisters: A Forgery?

Sándor Radnóti

Amerika, du hast es besser Als unser Kontinent, das alte, Hast keine verfallene Schlösser Und keine Basalte. Dich stört nicht im Innern In lebendiger Zeit, Unnützes Erinnern Und vergeblicher Streit.

Benutzt die Gegenwart mit Glück! Und wenn nun eure Kinder dichten, Bewahre sie ein gut Geschick Vor Ritter-, Räuber- und Gespenstergeschichten. (Goethe: Den Vereinigten Staaten)

Museums, as relatively recent cultural phenomena, can be said to establish new contexts for the works of art, the context of museal presentation. An exception is modern “museal art”: objects that were produced with the intention (or hope) to be sooner or later displayed in a museum. Whether representative art is identical with the museal one is, however, questionable, since, say, the mid-nineteenth century. In museal keeping there is always and necessarily an element of conserving and conservatism. The champions of the new rebel against it—only to have their own works become objects of such kind of conservation later. Those refused, rise up against those accepted in the salons and exhibitions—forerunners or experiments of the museum—and establish their counter-salons. And so on and so forth. Similarly, one may ask whether displaying a work of art is not the very opposite of placing or integrating it into life; and if so, whether this is right or reprehensible. In contrast to “museal art” of which the museum is the ideal context and function, for the majority of older works the museum is not their primary and original place. The museum itself is the prime example of the necessary change and transformation of the original intent and function. Actually, it is a series of

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��5 | doi ��.��63/9789004276819_015 308 Radnóti examples in which different types of objects of art interact in a historical and natural manner with the different historical character of museums. Museums have their own history. Concepts and styles of collection and presentation are varied. Nor is the building and the location irrelevant. The Museo Nazionale del Bargello is also taking its objects out of their original context, but it is surely different when the works of the Tuscan Trecento and Quattrocento are displayed in a palace of the old town of Florence and when a medieval altar retable is hung in a contemporary building of a modern city. Even if the altar remains in its original site in the surviving old church, it is subject to a kind of musealization by the aesthetic, scholarly, historical, and touristic approach to it. Having always been intrigued by this issue, I should like to explore one of its most peculiar examples, the Cloisters in New York City. This ensemble of medieval monastic architecture is located on the northwest corner of the island of Manhattan, the center of the tri-city metropolis, on top of a hill in Fort Tryon Park, high above the Hudson River, in a place where there were no Middle Ages. It is sneered at by Europeans, as is the capital of American “modernity” where history is present only in the shabbiness of nineteenth-century façades, something very different from European cities. Coming by bus from Broadway, having left Columbia University behind, one rides through a rather run-down neighborhood. Then, after the George Washington Bridge, the scene is again different; the bus climbs up amidst well- kept middle-class houses before reaching the Neogothic building of Charles Collens (1873–1956), built for the museum in 1934–8, on the behest of John D. Rockefeller Jr. (1874–1961).1 The remnants of four French monasteries, Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa, Saint- Guilhem-le-Désert, Bonnefont-en-Comminges and Trie were here reconstructed and spolia from several Romanesque and Gothic churches, chapels and monasteries built into the walls. Moreover, a nice collection of sculptures, gravestones, carpets, paintings, books and liturgical vessels is exhibited in the rooms. Old stones were included into the modern building and since its exte- rior follows its contents, the museum structure itself is an ensemble of medieval styles. The idea, and indeed the core (the material from the four monasteries) of the museum comes from the artist George Grey Barnard (1863–1938). This master of monumental sculptures, once called “the response of Iowa to Michelangelo”

1 See William H. Forsyth, “Five Crucial People in the Building of the Cloisters,” in Elisabeth C. Parker (ed.), The Cloisters. Studies in Honor of the Fiftieth Anniversary (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1992), 51–62. The New York Cloisters: A Forgery? 309

(!),2 was a devotee of the Middle Ages. He acquired his collection in 1906–7 and in 1911 had the “great Gothic plan” ready. The first Cloisters, near the present one, was opened on 14 December 1914. It was a “very personal museum, the ‘Gothic dream’ of a sculptor,”3 a romantic vision of the Middle Ages, with the hope that it would become “a poem for those Americans who will never see Europe.”4 The origins of the Cloisters resemble, in a certain sense, the history of the collection of the Elgin Marbles and their transport to the British Museum. Both raise the still unsolved dilemma, whether it is permissible to move works of art from their original site. The negative reply is connected to the idea of preserving the original context and intention, or at least to the claim that the place of origin preserves the context and the intent better than any other. The two arguments presented in the case of both the Cloisters and the marbles (with a hundred years’ difference) are still valid. According to the one, objects should be removed from a place where they are not appreciated and/or are exposed to danger, even if that is their original site. The insecure political conditions in Ottoman-ruled Athens, the ammunition depot on the Acropolis, and the lack of interest in preservation argued for buying up and removing the treasures of the Parthenon. True, the unity of the artistic complex of the Parthenon was destroyed by taking parts away from it. In the case of the stones of the Cloister such unity did not exist any more. The remnants of the cloisters in southern France were found as porticos of a bathhouse or were spread into the gardens of the region. Barnard managed to buy up, often one by one, forty-eight columns, fifty-six vaults, and so on.5 The second argument is that works of art should be where they are appreciated and may have a significant cultural impact. Lord Elgin hoped to strengthen the Classical taste in England by taking the marble to London. In fact the impact was even larger and embraced all of Europe, even though Lord Byron opposed the project from the outset. The idea of returning the marble to Athens has emerged frequently in the uk—and then in the independent Greek state—ever since. Barnard’s aim was to make medieval culture known to Americans; the professional as well as public success of his museum proved

2 Colin Simpson, The Artful Partners. Secret Association of Bernard Berenson and Joseph Duveen. (New York: Macmillan, 1986), 142. 3 Harold E. Dickson, “The Origin of ‘The Cloisters’,” The Art Quarterly, 27 (1965), 253. 4 Ibid., 259. 5 See ibid., 258–9. 310 Radnóti him right. Just as with the Elgin Marbles, he, too also thought to present a model to contemporary art.6 Although France never asked for the return of the cloisters, the case of Saint- Michel-de-Cuxa motivated the tightening of the monument preservation law in 1913. Responding to attacks in the press, Barnard emphasized that he did not remove art objects, but ruins. And even though the mayor and community of Prades—to which Saint-Michel belonged—expressed their willingness to sell the finds to the American, Barnard, in order to placate the protesters, donated some of the fragments to the French people. The first romantic and amateurish design of the Cloisters was changed in 1938 to a second, professional presentation by the curator James J. Rorimer (1905–1966), later director of the Metropolitan Museum. The main step in the professionalization was the avoidance of major reconstruction and the clear distinction made between original pieces and modern additions. Yet, the Neo- Gothic and Neo-Romanesque character of the building and the construction of a homogeneous cloister from cloisters of different places and ages made this difficult. This attempt at reconstructing the ensemble by conjuring up the original contexts still characterizes the museum. This makes the Cloisters, besides being one of the important museums of the world, a theoretical problem. The Cloisters is, as we can read in the guidebook, “not the copy of one medieval construction, but an ensemble of halls and gardens that suggests rather than repeats the European original.”7 Among the buildings built into the museum, only the chapter house of the abbey of Pontaut was more or less untouched: it was taken apart at its original site and put together in New York. Everything else was not rebuilt but incorporated into the modern structure, which, however, in its historicizing style, also conjures up the Middle Ages. The treasury of Cloisters contains objects that would have been in medieval treasuries: chalices, ivory portable altars, ciboria, ecclesiastical goldsmith- work, prayer books, and so on. The arrangement of the single halls is also historicizing. “The room with the mysterious and marvelous set of wall hangings with the capture of the unicorn, with its huge fireplace and great windows from a late Gothic house in Cluny, conjures up the hall of a castle.”8 In the room of the most important painting of the museum, the Annunciation triptych of Robert Campin, the

6 See Mahouri Sharp Young, “George Grey Barnard and the Cloisters,” Apollo (1977), November, 338. 7 Bonnie Young, A Walk through the Cloisters (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1993), 5. 8 Ibid., 68. The New York Cloisters: A Forgery? 311 so-called Mérode altar (ca. 1425), objects are displayed that simulate the environment of the picture. The splendid Spanish beamed ceiling, the finely carved tall chair, the candelabra on the table and on the wall, the majolica pitcher, and the chained bronze vessel are all carefully selected pieces from the fifteenth century to be as similar to the objects in the room of the Madonna as possible. Even those things that cannot be recognized in the painting suggest the wider context of the picture: the copper chandelier reminds one of the candelabra of the Arnolfini couple (by Jan van Eyck, 1434). And although the mousetrap from the workshop of St Joseph has no parallel, the allegedly only surviving medieval birdcage from the fourteenth century is a nice replacement. The Campin-room exemplifies the illusionist attempt of the presentation. It wants to make us feel that we entered the space of the image. There is a candle in the candelabra, white lilies in the vase. This illusionism, not only in terms of architecture and internal arrangement, characterizes the entire museum. Nature and landscape are also included. The hilltop and the river hint at medieval choices of location. My dilemma is virtually summarized in an older guidebook: “The site of the Cloisters . . . brings to mind the situations of mediaeval buildings at Mont-Saint-Michel, Basel, and Saint-Bernard-de-Comminges.”9 In the gardens of the museum, monastic gardens were reconstructed. Next to the ruins of the abbey of Bonnefont a herbal and a floral garden was planted based on texts and images from the Middle Ages—including the plants visible on the Unicorn-tapestry. Obviously, this particular form of preservation represented by the Cloisters is the product of American culture. Not because the historicizing eclectic style would not have been dominant—at least in architecture—in Europe as well, nor because the inclusion of existing remnants, the completion of unfinished buildings or the combination of original and “neo-” would not have been a widespread trend. But because in Europe they were based on a specific cultural consciousness implying that we are stewards of our own heritage, there, where it emerged and lived its historical life. The Neo-Gothic church in New York, the French Renaissance of Biltmore Castle in North Carolina, the romantic- medieval castle of the Smithsonian Institution, the Pantheon of Nashville, Tennesse, stand on a soil where these traditions are not primary, but imported by generations of immigrants, transporting their European memories hundreds of years after their origin. What Goethe wrote in the iv Römische Elegie “Froh empfind’ ich mich nun aus klassischem Boden begeistert, / Vor- und Mitwelt spricht lauter und

9 James J. Rorimer, The Cloisters. The Building and the Collection of Medieval Art in Fort Tryon Park, 3rd ed. (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1963), 7–8. 312 Radnóti reizender mir” reflects the feeling engendered by the spiritus loci. We can rarely feel the same among the American copies and remakes of antiquity. Maybe sometimes, in front of Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello or his noble neo-classicist buildings of the University of Virginia at Charlottesville—because aesthetic experience is never “clean” and we do not separate these buildings from the classical personality of their designer. At any rate the imitated, inspired, (forged?) buildings or those removed from their original site and rebuilt in the New World belong in a continuum of the culture of America. Surely, in the case of architecture, the original location is a stronger part of the context than that of a painting. There is something in common in the spirit of the Cloisters and the Pantheon of Nashville, even if they stand at opposite ends of the scale. With all this, I do not wish to resurrect the myth of an America “without history” that became commonplace ever since Goethe’s lines. Still, historical memory reflected in behavior—such as America’s Puritanism—was in fact not supported by historical objects. Jefferson’s buildings do not differ much from the splendid Neoclassical architecture of Bath in England. To transplant the structures of Antiquity or the Middle Ages into the New World is somewhat more problematic. It is, of course, a question, whether the “Americanist” relation to European tradition, the response of Iowa, Tennessee or New York, is not the paradigm of modernity’s relation to the context of old works of art in general. The most radical reply to this was that of Martin Heidegger, according to whom the world of the objects of the past has hopelessly fallen apart, the works of art in collections and even in situ are present only as objects and not in their artistic essence. If so, the philosophical reflexion belongs also to this, which cannot but restore while conserving, just as Heidegger did with the reconstruction of—as is well known, objectively false—Van Gogh’s “peasant” shoes and the poetic reconstruction of the “Greek” temple in The Origin of the Work of Art.10 Since I hold that the greatest marvel and the essential character of works of art is that they are able to create ever new worlds and integrate into new ones even after the demise of their original world, I regard Heidegger’s position as dangerous. It is open both to a hyperradical conservative application separating the past from the present and to one that breaks with the past in a destructive modernist way. Reconstruction is an inevitable part of the reception of every work of art. The cathartic recognition of the “truth” of a work is only another possible side of the aesthetic experience. It is that peak-experience which emerges from the

10 See Martin Heidegger, “The Origin of the Work of Art,” in Idem, The Art of Art History, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 284 sqq. The New York Cloisters: A Forgery? 313 continuous communication with art and, therefore, cannot replace it. An old work of art that was made in a world different from ours may demand a greater mental reconstruction, but then we have a whole series of reconstruction- traditions—interpretations—that transmitted to a certain extent their truths as well. Every old work of art needs some objective reconstruction (restoration). The style and the generally accepted extent of restoration are closely connected to the mental reconstruction. Between these two stands that not really reified but still object-bound mental “restoration” which can be observed on the tolerance threshold of the aesthetical reception of ancient works of art. Rilke’s Archaischer Torso Apollos testifies that the tolerance of the fragment can even offer an aesthetico- philosophico-emotional impact. Panofsky wrote: “When abandoning ourselves to the impression of the weathered sculptures of Chartres, we cannot help enjoying their lovely mellowness and patina as an aesthetic value”11— although the creators of the sculptures did not count on their ageing or even tried to prevent it. We tolerate the considerable deterioration of Leonardo’s Last Supper, while in turn, the flawless state, the vivid colors, and the smell of fresh oil of a restored old painting may be rather repellent and limits the aesthetic enjoyment. Our limits of tolerance to the technical reconstruction—the restoring and completing interference with works of art—varied in the course of time, but there always were limits. Historical and natural time makes the perfectly authentic original from the very moment of its creation (which is in itself an imaginary and ideal moment) an ideal and unreal phenomenon. As to the natural reference, Umberto Eco is right when he says that “since any material is subject to physical and chemical alteration from the very moment of its production, every object should be seen as an instant forgery of itself. To avoid such paranoiac attitude, our culture has elaborated flexible criteria for decid- ing about the physical integrity of an object.”12 Similar flexible criteria refer to the historical integrity of an object and a work of art. This flexibility is enhanced by two historical insights. The one refers to the historical change of the limits of tolerance. Following the Renaissance, in the first three centuries of interest in Antiquity, the principle of horror fragmenti reigned; a torso was—with few exceptions—regarded as repulsive and everything was restored and completed. Only the impact of the Elgin Marbles and

11 Erwin Panofsky “History of Art as a Humanistic Discipline,” in Meaning in the Visual Arts (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1970), 38. 12 Umberto Eco, The Limits of Interpretation (Bloomington, in: Indiana University Press, 1991), 245. 314 Radnóti

Canova’s decision not to restore them changed this view in regard of sculpture, while in architecture completion remained the practice for another century. It is more difficult to judge the historical weight of contemporary changes of taste, but the permissive attitude of the last few decades toward stylistic mixes, the so-called postmodern eclecticism is obvious. The other is based on the experience that tolerance for even major (nay, falsifying) restorations is growing, once the restoration itself acquires a certain antiquity. However much the Baroque or Renaissance additions to an Antique sculpture may change the original intent and although the majority of the work of art may be post- antique, it still might evoke a significant artistic impression. The inevitable dissolution of the original context is a common feature of historical art. Reconstruction can never aim at restoring the initial intent (and world), but, where the chain of tradition is unbroken, keeping a connection may set a norm. Thus the question may be posed, whether the Cloisters can be regarded as “original” within these pragmatic and by no means radical or paranoid limits of tolerance. Much can be said against its originality. One concerns the difference between buildings and movable works of art. That paintings wander from the hand of one owner to another is by no means a rarity. This belongs to the historical fate of the pictures and thus no one can be upset that a good part of the best European art is kept in American museums. But buildings do not wander. There is a legend that some American millionaire wanted to buy the Abbey of Ják, the chef d’oeuvre of Hungarian Romanesque architecture, take it apart and build it up, stone-by-stone in the usa. The main objection to this was that it contradicts the principle of the immovability of buildings and their necessary relations to their environment. The Cloisters is not an exact parallel, for its buildings already did not exist as one piece, not even in parts. But then, the issue is: is it possible to construct a prototype of “medieval architecture” or of “the” medieval monastery? Moreover: does the attempt at the historicizing restoration of the context not miss its purpose and suggest rather the impos- sibility of such a project? Contemplating all these critical arguments, one cannot avoid wondering whether there isn’t some petty pedantry at work. Mental reservation is, of course, in place vis-à-vis the general impression of the Cloisters as a museum complex, and only the naïve visitor will be captured by the spirit of the place in its immediacy. As a whole it is surely not original. But this does not mean that it is a forgery. It is a stylized frame of the splendid works of art on display. The framework, the museal arrangement as a surrounding for the pieces of art, has its own stylistic history, clearly different from those of the art within it. The objects can be admired in themselves and within the frame, and their The New York Cloisters: A Forgery? 315 image will remain with us as a combination of the two. In our imaginary museum, we may pair the Mérode retable with an altarpiece from the same master seen in the sacristy of a French church where St Joseph is peeling an apple for the children; the capitals of the cloisters of Cuxa may appear in our mind next to those of another Benedictine abbey in Monreale—but they will also be recalled in the moving surrounding of the Cloisters, reminding one of that strange and harmonious potpourri which is—what else?—New York’s response to the Middle Ages.

Index of Proper Names

Abkhazia 168 Batthyány, Gustav 140 Aeneas 276 Bauman, Richard 74 n. 75, 76 Agilulf, King of the Lombards xiv, xxi, 224, Becker, Reinhold von 57 226, 231–232, 234, 237, 239, 242, 245–247, Bél (Beel), Mátyás 97, 119–121, 127, 137 249–250 Béla I, King of Hungary 100 Akhiezer, Golda 159 n. 11 Béla II, King of Hungary 100 Alexander I, Tsar 160 Béla III, King of Hungary xvi, 100 Alexander II, Tsar 166 Béla IV, King of Hungary 100, 109, 118, Alföldi, András 196 123–124, 135 Allsång på Skansen 301 Benedict XII, Pope 112 Álmos 89, 100 Benndorf, Otto 192 Amyx, Darrel A. 209, 211 Berend, Nora xi, 109 Anderson, Benedict 300 Berg, Gösta 295 Andrew I, King of Hungary 131–132, 136–138 Bergen 225, 231–232, 239, 247, 261 Anonymus (P dictus magister) xvii, 97–103, Berlin 11, 47–48, 225, 247, 264, 266 105–106 Biltmore Castle, NC 311 Anttonen, Pertti xi, 56 Biörnstad, Arne 291 Arany, János xii, xviii, xx, 39, 45, 81–84, Boček, Antonín 25–26 86–94 Böckh, August 32 Arany, László 89 Bohemia vii, 8, 10 n. 17, 11, 14 n. 33, 15, Aranyosrákosi Székely, Sándor 102 16 n. 37, 17, 21–22, 25–26, 30 Árpád, Prince of the Hungarians 93, 98, Böhm, W. 183 101–103, 105 Bohusz, Ksawery 271 n. 15 Askew, R. Kirk 225 n. 6, 254, 259, 262–266 Bonnefont-en-Comminges, monastery 308 Assisi 112 Böök, Fredrik 296, 299 Athanasius I, Patriarch 153–154 Borenius, Axel 63, 68 Athens 183 n. 22, 195, 199 n. 70, 202 n. 77, Borges, Jorge Luis 174, 221 204, 209 n. 90, 211, 309 Borsa, Iván 111 Attila the Hun 85, 94, 101, 275 Botond 95 Aunus 78 Bowring, John 47 Austria 140, 156–158 Brandl, Vincenc 26 Bratislava 30 Babowicz, Śimhah xxii, 158–160 Brescia 243 Babylon 272 Briggs, Charles 74 n. 75, 76 Bailey, Don M. 185 Brno 25 Bak, János xiii, 96 Brody 158 Baky, Endre 124 Brodzińsky, Kazimierz 47 Baltic, region xx, 275, 301–302 Buchner, J. 183 Banduri, Anselmo 150 Buda 130, 132–133 Banská Štiavnica 133, 140 Buda/Bleda, Hun king 87 Barnard, George Grey 308–310 Budapest xiv, 81–82, 105, 125, 176, 178, 180, Barzdžiai, village 270 182–184, 186–188, 190, 209, 211, 225, 258 Basil, St 147 Bukharin, Nikolaj 168 Basel 311 Bulcsú, chieftain of the Magyars 105 Bath 312 Bulgaria 145 318 index of proper names

Byron, George Gordon, 6th Baron Byron Daghestan 162 xix, 309 Dalarna 292, 298 Dalmatia 130 Čačín (Csécsény) 94 Damascus 163 Caioni, Johannes (János Kájoni) 142 Danube River 103 n. 21, 124, 145, 151 Calderón 11 Darabos, Nicholas, Archbishop 132 Callimachus Experiens (Filippo David, Prince 163 Buonaccorsi) 86 Dávidházi, Péter 31, 81 Campin, Robert 310 Degas, Edgar 192 Canova, Antonio 314 Denmark 301 Castel Trosino (Ascoli Piceno) (I) 230, 244 Derbend 162–163, 166 Castrén, M.A. 59–60, 67 Dimašqi 163 Catilianos, Dionysios 153 Djurgården 287–288, 290, 294 Catilianos, Maxim 154 Dnieper River 150–151 Caucasus xiv, 162 Dobrovský, Jozef ix, xxii, 4–5, 7–9, 12–13, Central Europe xx, 4, 133, 138 16 n. 37, 17–19, 22–23, 28, 43–44, 49–51 Charles I, King of Hungary 122–123 Dorostol 146 Charles XI, King of Sweden 297, 302 Dorson, Richard 69–70 Charles XII, King of Sweden 297, 300, 302 Dósa, Pál 124 Charlotteville, VA 312 Doubravník 25 Chartres 313 Dresdner, Albert 247, 264–265 Chateaubriand 15 Drottninggatan 294 Childeric, Merovingian king 232, 238 Dublin 239, 247, 261, 264 Chulkov, Mikhail 9 n. 13, 14 Dul, Dula legendary king of the Alans 91 Chwolson, Daniel 159 n. 12 Dumont, P. 192 Cilli, castle 135 Dundes, Alan 69–71 Cividale (Udine) 244 Dundr, Josef Alexander 25 Cluny 310 Durlacher Brothers, firm xv, xxii, 225, 231, Cohn, Norman xxiii 239, 242, 263, 266 Collens, Charles 308 Durlacher, George 225 n. 6, 239, 254, 257, Contantine Porphyrogennetos, Byznatine 260, 262, 265–266 emperor 98 Durlacher, Henry 225 n. 6 Corfu, 211 Dvůr Králové (Königinhof) 12 n. 23, 20, Cosmas of Prague xiii, 15–16 40–41, 44, 46–47, 49–51, 54–55 Crimea xiv, xxiv, 145, 153, 157, 159–161, 163, Dyjamentowski, Przybysław ix, xv, xxi–xxii, 167–169 11 n. 22 Croatia 130 Csaba, Prince of the Huns xviii, 81, 83, 85, Eco, Umberto 313 87–93 Elgin, 7th Earl of, Thomas Bruce 309–310, Csapodi, Csaba 37 n. 10 313 Csengery, Antal 45 Eliot, T.S. 174 Csiglád, Csiglamező 88 Elizabeth “the Cuman,” Queen of Hungary Csík, district x 132 Çufut-Qal‘eh 159–160, 162–164, 166 Elkind, Menahem-Mendel 168 Curtius, Ludwig 214 Erdődy, János 102 Czartoryska, Izabela, Princess xxi, 280 Esterházy family 133, 135 Czvittinger, David 97 Estlander, C.G. 67 index of proper names 319

Eszterházy, Pál, Count Palatine of Hungary Goldschmidt, dr. 260, 264 122 Golitsyn[s], family 160 Etele. See Attila Goll, Jaroslav 29–30 Eumorfopoulos, George 252–253, 257 Gologanov, Ivan x Europaeus, D.E.D. 67 Görres, Johann Josef von 94 Eyck, Jan van 311 Gottlund, Carl Axel 58, 60–61 Gözleve / Jevpatorija / Eupatoria 158–159 Fehr, Hubert 240 Grancsay, Stephen 259, 263–266 Fejérváry, Gábor 183 Greater Cumania (Cumania maior) 115–116, Ferdinand I Habsburg, King and Emperor 121 102 Grečanaja, Je.P. 160 n. 15 Ferdowsi xx, 91, 93–95 Greece 93, 192–194, 196, 215 Fettich, Nándor 258 Gregory of Naziansus, St 147 Finland 56–58, 61, 68, 70–71, 77–78, 288 Gregory the Great, Pope 232 Finnskogen (Finnforest) 60 Greguss, Ágost 46 Firdowsi’ xx Grimm, Brothers xii, 69–70, 76 Firkowicz / Firkovich / Firkovič, Avraham Grimm, Jakob 44, 75 xiii, 156–167, 169 Grünberg/Zelena Hora 3, 9, 15–19, 21–23, Firkowicz, Shemuel 156 26–28, 44, 50–51 Flaxman John 184 Guarino, Veronese 36 Florence 154, 226, 243, 308 Guarrazar 238 Fodor, Kristóf 36 Guizot, François 21 Fort Tryon Park, New York, NY 308 Gustav I, King of Sweden 297–298, 301–302 Fouqué, Baron, Friedrich Heinrich Karl Gustav Vasa, King of Sweden 297, 302 de la Motte 47 Gyárfás, István 113 n. 15, 122 n. 44, 124 Fraknó, castle 135 Gyulai, Pál xii, 83 France x, xx, 4, 21, 242, 309–310 Friedländer, Max J. 173 Haavio, Martti 70–72 Friedrich, Gustav 20 n. 53, 43 Hájek, Václav, of Libočany 15, 16 n. 37 Furtwängler, Adolf 214 Hájos, István 143 Halich / Halicz 156–157 Gaal, György 94 Hamburg 206 n. 83 Galicia 157–158 Hamilton, William 182 Ganander, Kristfrid xix, 57 Hanka, Václav [Wenzel] viii, xvi–xvii, xx, Gebauer, Jan 23 n. 60, 28–30 xxii, 4–13, 15, 17–18, 20–28, 30–31, 40–45, Gellért Hill 132 47–51, 54–55, 96 n. 2 Gelou/Gyalu, duke (?) 99, 101 Hansa 301–302 George Hamartolos 148 Hanuš, Josef 7 n. 8, 30 Germany xx, 4, 16, 70, 158, 231, 240–241, 243, Harkavy, Avraham (Albert) 163 255 Harriman, William Averell 168 Gide, André 193 Hartig, Franz, Count 8 Giedraitis, Juozapas Arnulfas / Giedroyć, Józef Hartig, Josef Vratislav, Count 8 Arnulf, bishop 269, 281 Hartmann, Count 8 Glad, duke (?) 101 Hartwick, Bishop 102 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von xxi, 44, Harviainen, Tapani 158 n. 10, 163 n. 24 47–48, 176, 182, 281–282, 307, 311–312 Hase, Karl Benedikt ix, xiv–xv, xxi–xxii, Gog and Magog 100 144–150, 152–155 320 index of proper names

Hautala, Jouko 58 n. 5, 61–62, 64–65, 67, Ilmarinen 57, 79 69, 75 Ilovaiskiy, Dmitri 146 Hazelius, Artur xiv, 288–292, 294–305 India xi Hazelius, Gunnar 290 Ingria 78 Hazelius, Johan August 289 Iowa 308, 312 Heckenast, Gusztáv 35 n. 6, 103 n. 20 Ipolyi, Arnold 81–95 Hegardt, Johan xiv, 287 Iran 163 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 48 Ireland, W. H. 43 Heidegger, Martin 312 Helsinki 78 Ják, Abbey of 314 Henderson, E. 161 Jakubec, Josef 30 Henry, Bishop 132 Jankovich, Miklós xxii, 130–131, 134 Herder, Johann Gottfried 7, 15–16, 75 Jankovits, László 36 n. 9 Heřman, Miroslav 50 n. 54 Janus Pannonius 36–37, 129 Herodotus 275 Japhet 100 Hesiod 77 Järvinen, Irma-Riitta 65 Heves, County 116–117 Jászberény 118, 125, 127 Higgins, John Woodman 260 Jefferson, Thomas 312 Hildebrand, Bror Emil 293–294, 296 Jerney, János 131 Hildebrand, Hans 290, 296 Jeszenák, János 118, 125 Hitler, Adolf xxi, 243 Jewish Soviet Socialist Republic 168 Hobsbawm, Eric 69 Jireček, Hermenegild 26 Hoffman, Hermann 186 Jireček, Josef 26 Holéczy, Mihály 53–55 Johannes de Amelio 112 Holmgren, Frithiof 299–300 John Eugenikos 154–155 Homer xx, 57, 59, 77, 92, 94, 167 Jókai, Mór (Maurus) xvii, 94 Honko, Lauri 65, 72–73, 77, 79 Jordanes 90 Hoppál, Mihály 94 Joseph II, Emperor 5, 125, 127, 157 Horčička, František 10 Jost, Moredechai (Isaak Markus) 158 Horvát, István 53–55, 103 Joye, Silvye 240 Horváth, János 42 Jungmann, Josef 5 n. 3, 6 n. 6, 7 n. 7, 9–10, Hostýn, a hill 29–30 11 nn. 20, 22, 15, 17–18, 27, 30, 43 Hradec Králové. See Königinhof Jung-Stilling, H. 160 n. 15 Hradisko 5 Justin 100, 233 Hudson, River 308 Humboldt, Wilhelm von 38 Kafka, Franz 174 Hume, David 43 Kahana, Avraham 159 n. 12 Hungary xiii, 44, 96–97, 100, 109–110, 112, 114, Kajaani 63 116, 122, 124–125, 129, 132, 134 Kalevala song lands 78 Hunor, legendary ancestor of the Huns Kalló, Antal 142 90–91 Kalousek, Josef 44 Hunyadi, John/János, Regent of Hungary Karadžič, Vuk Stefanovič xii, 8 n. 10, 15 134 Karelia 56–57, 70, 77–78 Hus, Jan 28 n. 78, 41 Karkama, Pertti 60, 73 Husserl, Edmund 55 Karlstejn Castle 10 Karoliner 300 Igor, Prince of Rus’ 145 Katona, István 98 Ilm River 281 Kaukonen, Väinö 58 n. 5, 63, 65, 72 index of proper names 321

Kaunas 277–278 Lambeck, Peter 97 Kazan’ 161 Lamberg, Count Franz Anton von 182 Kazinczy, Ferenc 49 Lambros, Spyridon P. 154 Kelecsényi, Gábor 129 Lamothe-Langon, Étienne-Léon de, Kemény, János, Prince of Transylvania 130 “Baron” x, xvi, xix, xxiii Kendrick, Thomas 248, 266 Láng, Benedek ix, 129 Keresztury, Dezső 81 Langó, Péter 111–112 Kernavė 273, 279 Larin (Lurje), Jurij 168 Khaqlay 168 La Rocca, Maria Cristina xiv–xv, 224 Kherson (Korsun) ix, 144, 149 n. 11, 168 Latvia xxiii Kidd, Dafydd 246, 249 n. 66 Lech River 86–87 Kieckhefer, Richard xxiii Leeds, Edward Thurlow 256–257, 260 Kiev 105, 163 Leitzmann, Albert 38 n. 13 Kiskunhalas 123 Lemminkäinen 57, 79 Klebelsberg, Franz, Count 8 Leo the Deacon/Leon Diakonos ix, 144 n. 1 Klicpera, Václav Kliment 7 Leo I the Great, Pope 87 Knuuttila, Seppo 79 Leonardo da Vinci 313 Kollár, Adam F. 120–122, 125–126 Leopold I Habsburg, King of Hungary, Kollár, Jan 103 Emperor 117 Kolovrat-Krakovský of Březnice, Josef, Lesser Cumania (Cumania minor) 115–116, Count 8 121 Kolovrat-Libštejnský, František, Count 8, 15 Letenyei, János 97 Königinhof/Dvůr Králové viii, 12, 20, 40, Levart, Johan 289, 294, 296, 303, 305 46, 48 Libuše, Princess 15–16 Kopitar, Jernej 7, 21 n. 58, 24 n. 62 Linda, Josef 9–10, 11 n. 20, 18, 22, 43 Koppi, Károly 125 Litavrin, Gennadii 145 Korompay, János H. 82 Literáti Nemes, Sámuel ix, xv, xviii, xxi, 129, Körös (Kriş), River 124 131, 133, 135, 140–141, 143 Kražiai 268 n. 1, 274 n. 31, 282 Lithuania 167, 267, 272–278 Kreutzwald, Friedrich Reinhold xiii Lobkovic, Isidor, Prince 8, 17 Kriemhild 93 Lobkovic, counts of 8 Kring, Miklós 111, 113 Loboiko, Ivan / Łobojko, Jan 274, 278–279 Kriza, János xi London xiv, xxii, 47, 158, 160–161, 225–226, Krohn, Julius 61–63, 68 231–232, 240, 243, 246–247, 249–256, Krohn, Kaarle 68, 70–72 260–261, 263–264, 266, 309 Kruedener, Barbara-Juliana 160 Lönnrot, Elias x, xiii, xvii, xxii, 56–79 Krug, Philip 148–149 Lórántffy, Zsuzsanna, wife of Prince György Kulm, Humbert 264 Rákóczy I 130 Kunik, Arist 145–146 Lord, Albert B. 73 Kúnság 115 Los Angeles, CA 232, 251 Kurz, Otto 173 n. 2, 250 Łuck / Lutsk / Lutzk 156–157, 159–160, Kuusi, Matti 72 161 n. 16 Lugossy, József 83 Ladislas I, King of Hungary, Saint 89 Ladislas IV “the Cuman”, King of Hungary Maayan 168 109–110, 113, 118, 123–124, 127, 132 MacLagan, Eric 246, 255, 266 Ladislas V Posthumus, King of Hungary Macpherson, James x, xx, 43, 62–63, 67, 134 69–71, 144, 161, 174 322 index of proper names

Macura, Vladimír 25 Mont Saint-Michel 311 Magor, legendary ancestor of the Magyars Monza 234, 245, 250 90–91 Moravia 14 n. 32, 25, 30, 98 Mahr, Alfred 239, 247, 261, 264 Munich 196, 203 Majocchi, Piero 242 n. 35, 244 n. 39 Mussolini, Benito, xxi, 243, 249 n. 66 Malone, Edmond 43 Mandelgren, Nils Månsson 293 Nagy family 135 Mangup 161, 163, 166 Nánássy, János 123 n. 49, 124, 126 n. 61 Marcello, Jacopo Antonio 36 Naples 183–185, 186 n. 34, 190–191 Margaret of Hungary, Saint 132 Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor 144, 150 Margoliouth, Moses 160 Nashville, TN 311–312 Maria Theresa, Empress, Queen of Németh family 135 Hungary 117, 123 n. 49 Nero 275 Mark Eugenikos 154 Nessel, Daniel 97 Maros (Mureş) River 124 New York, NY xv, xx, xxii, xxiv, 225, 231, Martini, Sámuel 52–54 239, 251–254, 256, 260, 263–264, 307–308, Marton, Veronika 138 310–312, 315 Masaryk, Tomáš Garrigue xxii, 3, 12 n. 24, Nicephoros Gregoras 150 26–27, 29 n. 80 Nicholas I, Tsar 166 Matolai, János 119–120 Nicholas III, Pope 114 Mátray, Gábor 131–133, 135 Nicholas, Vice-Chancellor 114 Matthias/Mátyás I Corvinus, King of Niemcewicz, Julian Ursyn 278 Hungary 36, 129, 134 Nietzsche, Friedrich 39 Mautner, László 248 Niezabitowski, Kajetan 273 n. 29 McCormick, Michael 226 Nistazopoulou, Maria 145 Mediterranean 167, 242–243, 247 n. 53 Noah 100 Mednyánszky, Alajos, Baron 103 Nocera Umbra 230, 244 Medvedev, Igor P. ix, 144, 154–155 North Karelia 78 Meinert, Joseph Georg 13 Nostitz, Count 5 Mejelis 166 Nürnberg 246, 254–255 Ménmarót, Duke (?) 101 Metodi Draginov ix, xiii Óbuda 132 Mezey, Gábor xxii Odessa 158 Michelangelo Buonarroti 308 Oktorp farm-house of Halland 295 Michelet, Jules x Olahus, Nicolaus 86 Mickiewicz, Adam 283 Oleg, Princess of Rus’ 145 Mickūnaitė, Giedrė xv, 267 Olenin, Aleksei 153 Mikhailiwka 167 Olomouc 5, 29 Miller, Eduard 149 Onesimos 196, 199 Milton, John 15, 152 Oscar I, King of Sweden 289 Mindaugas/Mindowe, King of Ossian vii, xi, xx, 43, 58 n. 5, 59, 67, 69, 142, Lithuania 273 144, 161, 174 Mishmar 168 Ottokar, King of Bohemia 50 Mithridates, King of Pontus 167 Ovid 193 Monreale, Italy 315 Oxford 231–232 Montelius, Oscar 288, 290–294, 296, 298, 301–303, 305 Pajorin, Klára 36 Montfaucon, Bernard de 153 Palacký, František xxii, 19–22, 25–27, 29–30, Monticello, Charlottesville, VA 312 44 index of proper names 323

Palemonas, legendary ancestor of Lithuanian Pulszky, Ferenc 44, 183 nobility 275–276 Pumpurs, Andrejs xii, xxiii Palestine 168 Pusztaszer (Szer) 102 Pálffy, János, Count Palatine of Hungary 117 Pannonia 86, 91, 101 Qarasubazar / Belogorsk 160, 162 Pannonius, Janus 36–37, 129 Panofsky, Erwin 313 Radnóti, Sándor xv, 307 Passarge, Ludwig 287, 295, 297–298 Raitsits, Ferenc 133 Passau 231–232 Rákóczi, Ferenc II, Prince of Hungary 117 Patera, Adolf 24 Rakowiecki, Benedykt 18 Paul the Deacon 231 Raseiniai 277 Paul, E. 186–187, 190 Ratibor, Prince 16 Payne, Humphry 209, 211–213 Raven, Edith C. 254, 263, 265 Pécs 92 n. 34 Regino of Prüm 100 Peirce, Cecil A.J. 262–263 Reinach, Salomon 182 Pergamon 191 Révai, Leó 50 Peringer, Gustaf 166 n. 29 Rhodope Mountains x Pest, county 103, 116–118, 127, 132 Riedl, Szende 45, 49, 51 Pest, town 103, 116–118, 127, 132 Riegl, Alois 191 Pest-Pilis-Solt, county 127 Rilke, Karl Maria von 313 Petőfi, Sándor xvii Ringaudas/Ryngolt, legendary Lithuanian Philip of Fermo, Bishop, papal legate 110 ruler 273 Picasso, Pablo 193, 206 Riviera 167 Piliscsaba 87–88 Rockefeller , John D. Jr. xxii, 308 Pinsker, Leon 156, 167 Rohonc (today: Rechnitz, Austria) 131, Pinsker, Śimhah 156, 167 140–141, 143 Podhracky, József 88 Rome 86–87 Pohjola (North Country) 64 Rorimer, James J. 310 Poland 156, 161 Rousseau, Jean Jacques 7 Polidori, John William xix Rumiantsev, Nikolai P., Count xxii, 144, Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth 156, 148–149, 153, 155, 274 280 Runeberg, J.L. 57, 63 Pompeii 297–298 Rus’ 98, 101, 149 Pontaut, abbey 310 Russian Empire 166–167 Porthan, H.G. 63 Russian Karelia 56–57, 78 Poška, Dionizas / Paszkiewicz, Dionyzy Rychterová, Pavlína viii, 3 xv, xxi, 267–282, 283 n. 73 Rydberg, Viktor 299 Potiomkin 161 Pottier, Edmond 192 Sachs, Paul 264 n. 78 Prades, village 310 Šafárik, Pavol Jozef xxii Prague 3, 5–8, 18, 20, 22, 40–41, 44–48, St. Peter 87 51–53, 55, 187 Saint Petersburg 144 n. 1, 147 n. 8, 149, 162 Pray, György (Georgius) 98, 119, 121–122, Saint Stephen the Protomartyr 89 124 n. 55 Saint-Bernard-de-Comminges, monsatery Přemysl, Prince of Bohemia 15 311 Priskos Rhetor 82 Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, monastery 308 Prokosz ix, xxii Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa, monastery 308, 310 Psellos, Michael 148, 150 Salan, Prince (?) 101 Puławy 280 Salin, Bernhard 290 324 index of proper names

Salonta (Nagyszalonta) 82 Stephen V, King of Hungary 132 Sambucus, Johannes 129 Stern / Štern, Bezalel 158 Samogitia, region of Lithuania 269, 274, Šternberk, František, Count xxiii, 8, 13 277–278 Šternberk, Jaroslav von 8, 13, 29 Sasnauskytė, Uršulė / Sosnowska, Urszula Šternberk, Kašpar, Count 8 268 n. 2 Stetten, Paul von 85 Savo 78 Stockholm xv, 266, 287, 289, 294–295 Scandia 298 Stoclet, Adolphe 232, 239, 247, 252, 262 Schedel, Franz Karl Joseph, or Ferentz. Styria 130 See Toldy, Ferenc Subich, F. 122 Schefold, Karl 211 Sudak (Sur, Surozh, Sarat), city 153 Schlegel, August Wilhelm 7 Sultanski, Mordechai 159, 166 Schlegel, Friedrich xx, 11 Sviatoslav, Prince of Rus’ 145–146 Schlözer, August Ludwig von 98 Svoboda, Václav Alois [Wenzel Swoboda von Schlözer, Karl xvii Nawarrow] 43, 48, 50–51 Schwandtner, Johann Georg 97 Sweden 60, 287–289, 295–296, 298, Scythia xiii, 161 301–305 Selinous 187 Sylvester I, Pope xviii Selmeczi, László 113 Sylvester II, Pope xviii Semler, Johann Salomo 98 Symeon or Sepronianus, praepositus Seret River 153 budensis 132 Ševčenko, Ihor Ivanovich xxiii, 144, 146–150, Syracuse 187 153–155 Syrokomla, Władisław (Kondratowicz- Shakespeare, William 11, 43 Syrokomla) 167 Shapira, Dan D.Y. xiv, 156 Szabó, Gergely 124 Sharon, Ariel 162 Szabó, Károly 131, 142 Shelley, Mary xix Szalay, László 44–45 Sherusho 85 Szász, Károly 46 Shetelig, Haakon 239, 247, 262, 264–265 Szeberényi, Lajos 46, 49, 51 Shishkov, Alexander 11, 13, 18 Székely, István 90 Šiauliai 277 Szelestei, László 119, 121 Sigismund, King of Hungary and Emperor Szilágyi, János György xiv, xix, xxi, 173 52, 122 Szilágyi, Michael 134 Simon of Kéza 86 Szklenár, Georgius 98 Siskow, Alexander Semenovich 47 Szörényi, László xii, 81 Skansen xx, xxiii, 287–292, 294–296, Szűcs, Jenő 113 298–306 Sklenčka, Jan 12 Taman 161 Smith, Reginald Allen xvi, 231–232, 234, Tarnopol 158 239, 245–254, 256, 258–259, 262, 264, Tarquinia 204–205 266 Tauris 145 Solomon, King of Hungary 123 n. 50 Tel-Hay 168 Sörlin, Sverker 300 Temes (Timiş), River 124 Sőtér, Ferenc 118 Tengström, Robert 65, 75–76 Stalin xxiv, 168 Testona 244 Stephen I, King of Hungary, Saint xxiii, 89, Thabasius, Georgius 36 100, 102 Thales 173 index of proper names 325

Thaly, Kálmán xi, 42, 130, 142 Viena Karelia 78 Theodelinda, Queen of the Lombards Vienna 7, 11, 36–37, 96–97, 102, 122, 124, 127, xx, 232–234, 237, 239, 242, 245–246, 180–184 249–250, 258 Vilnius 164, 274 Thomsen, Christian Jürgensen 293–294, 296 Virgil xx, 92–93, 279 Thorvaldsen, Bertel 216 Visegrád 132–133 Thuróczi, János (Johannes) 87, 91 Vitéz, Johannes of Zredna, Archbishop 129, Tietze, Hans 173, 176, 219 134 Tihany, Abbey 137 Vladimir (Wolodimir), Prince of Rus’, Saint Tischbein, Johann Heinrich Wilhelm 182, 145 184 Voinovich, Géza 82–83 Tisza River 103 n. 21, 124 Voltaire xxi, 150–152, 300 Tivoli 280 Vörösmarty, Mihály xiii, 96, 103–106 T’mutorokan’ 161 Voynich, Wilfrid 141–142 Toldy, Ferenc 31–55 Vyšehrad Castle 16 Tolkien 166 Tomek, Václav Vladivoj 26 Wallenstein, Count of 17 Tompa, Mihály 83–84 Warsaw, city 18, 278 Topelius, Zachris the elder 67 Washington Bridge 308 Torocka, cave 134 Weber (bookseller in Prague) 47 Tóth, Gergely 119–120 Weimar 47, 281 Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de 192 Wessely, Naphtali-Herz (Hartwig) 157 Tournai 232, 238 Wickhoff, Franz 191 Transylvania x, xv, xvii, 88, 99, 130, 133 Wiklund, K.B. 71 Trie, monastery 308 Wilna / Wilno. See Vilnius Tschernichowsky, Shaul 167 Wilson, William 70–71 Tuhutum/Tétény, chieftain 99 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim 184, 216, Turku 57, 60, 62 221–222 Túróc 131, 137, 140 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 55 Wolf, Friedrich August xvii, xxi, 57 Ukraine 161 Wolphardus, Adrianus 36 USSR 168–169 Woods Bliss, Robert 232, 263

Vác 132 Yosef Ḥakham Troki 159 n. 12 Václav II, King of Bohemia 22 Väinämöinen 57, 79 Zelená Hora. See Grünberg 44, 50–51 Van Gogh, Vincent 312 Zervos Christian 193, 208 Váncsa, Stephen, Archbishop 132 Zeus 94 Varró, István 124–126 Zimmerman, J.W. 22, 255 Vasilievskiy, Vasiliy 145–146, 149 Zimmermann, Ernst 246, 266 Vérbulcsu, Hungarian chieftain 95 Žižka, Jan 48 Vergil 102 Zsámboky, János (Sambucus, Ioannes) Vernadsky, George 163 36–37 Via Nova 168 Zsibrik Szarvaskeddi, Antal 94