Read Prague in Black and Gold: Scenes from the Life of a European City Online
Authors: Peter Demetz
Prague in Black and Gold: Scenes from the Life of a European City (14 page)
BOOK: Prague in Black and Gold: Scenes from the Life of a European City
11.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
The rising political importance of the P
emyslid dynasty in an uncertain age of fierce conflicts between partisans of the empire and those loyal to the papacy, as well as the German presence at the Prague court and in Bohemia’s church hierarchy, attracted many German poets who hoped to make a living in Prague entertaining the elite and proclaiming royal views in didactic stanzas, songs, and epic narratives. Elsewhere, the poetry of high chivalry was beginning slowly to wither away; after the demise of Duke Leopold VI in 1230, the court of Vienna offered little support to the gifted singers who had once found it a splendid haven. By 1240, writers began to flock to Prague, and there—though they were not masters of the first rank, as Walther von der Vogelweide, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Gottfried von Strassburg had been—they sustained a late flowering of chivalric literature. The number of poets who lived at the Prague court to write in the service of the king was smaller than that of itinerant writers who visited at least for a time. The Tyrolean Friedrich von Sonnenburg may have been in Prague in 1250 and then again in 1271, when he joined Otakar’s expedition against Hungary. The Tannhäuser, too, on his far-flung journeys through Europe, may have briefly stayed in Prague, which he described as being located close to the Woltach (Vltava)
River, and Ulrich von dem Türlin in the 1260s dedicated an epic narrative to Otakar, perhaps in the service of the Carinthian estates. Others, including Heinrich der Klausner, Heinrich von Freiberg, and Heinrich von Meissen (called Frauenlob), were probably welcome guests at the court of Otakar’s son Václav II, to whom three fine love poems are ascribed. After Václav II’s death in 1305—a moment nearly coincident with the strong emergence of vernacular Czech writing, including the Czech
Alexandreis
and the chronicle of the so-called Dalimil—Prague ceased to be a gathering place for itinerant German poets, and by the time of Emperor Charles IV of the Luxembourgs in the late fourteenth century, the situation had changed substantially.
emyslid dynasty in an uncertain age of fierce conflicts between partisans of the empire and those loyal to the papacy, as well as the German presence at the Prague court and in Bohemia’s church hierarchy, attracted many German poets who hoped to make a living in Prague entertaining the elite and proclaiming royal views in didactic stanzas, songs, and epic narratives. Elsewhere, the poetry of high chivalry was beginning slowly to wither away; after the demise of Duke Leopold VI in 1230, the court of Vienna offered little support to the gifted singers who had once found it a splendid haven. By 1240, writers began to flock to Prague, and there—though they were not masters of the first rank, as Walther von der Vogelweide, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Gottfried von Strassburg had been—they sustained a late flowering of chivalric literature. The number of poets who lived at the Prague court to write in the service of the king was smaller than that of itinerant writers who visited at least for a time. The Tyrolean Friedrich von Sonnenburg may have been in Prague in 1250 and then again in 1271, when he joined Otakar’s expedition against Hungary. The Tannhäuser, too, on his far-flung journeys through Europe, may have briefly stayed in Prague, which he described as being located close to the Woltach (Vltava)River, and Ulrich von dem Türlin in the 1260s dedicated an epic narrative to Otakar, perhaps in the service of the Carinthian estates. Others, including Heinrich der Klausner, Heinrich von Freiberg, and Heinrich von Meissen (called Frauenlob), were probably welcome guests at the court of Otakar’s son Václav II, to whom three fine love poems are ascribed. After Václav II’s death in 1305—a moment nearly coincident with the strong emergence of vernacular Czech writing, including the Czech
Alexandreis
and the chronicle of the so-called Dalimil—Prague ceased to be a gathering place for itinerant German poets, and by the time of Emperor Charles IV of the Luxembourgs in the late fourteenth century, the situation had changed substantially.
The first important poet writing in German (or, rather, an artful and literary Middle High German, not really spoken by anybody) to take up residence in Prague had been Reinmar von Zweter, of middle-class, not noble, origin. He said himself that he was born in the Rhineland, grew up in Austria, and chose to live in Bohemia
(Bêheim hân ich mir erkorn),
not because of the land but because of the king—yet, he added, both king
and
country were good. Whether he came from Vienna or from serving imperial interests elsewhere seems less clear than that he lived in Prague for four or five years (1237-41). He had put great hopes in King Václav I, praising him as the sun that illuminates the day, but there was trouble from the beginning, and Prague’s Czech nobles and German clerics were possibly less than enchanted by the itinerant artist who used German and earlier had defended the emperor against the pope. He may have been caught between his pro-imperial past and a Bohemian king who was usually of the anti-imperial party except when he was neutral or wavered for reasons of expediency; using an erudite chess image, Reinmar said that he just held on to the king after losing the knights and the rooks. But then, in growing anger, he turned against his false friends at court, accused them of wickedness, double-talk
(hinderrede),
or simple lying, and left for western Germany, where he died in 1260.
(Bêheim hân ich mir erkorn),
not because of the land but because of the king—yet, he added, both king
and
country were good. Whether he came from Vienna or from serving imperial interests elsewhere seems less clear than that he lived in Prague for four or five years (1237-41). He had put great hopes in King Václav I, praising him as the sun that illuminates the day, but there was trouble from the beginning, and Prague’s Czech nobles and German clerics were possibly less than enchanted by the itinerant artist who used German and earlier had defended the emperor against the pope. He may have been caught between his pro-imperial past and a Bohemian king who was usually of the anti-imperial party except when he was neutral or wavered for reasons of expediency; using an erudite chess image, Reinmar said that he just held on to the king after losing the knights and the rooks. But then, in growing anger, he turned against his false friends at court, accused them of wickedness, double-talk
(hinderrede),
or simple lying, and left for western Germany, where he died in 1260.
Reinmar von Zweter writes as an upright and honest man who feels disturbed by the decay of chivalric norms, defined by the golden measure and by polite circumspection. He condemns the new brutal way of jousting which makes the noble ladies pale of cheek because they fear their knights being in mortal danger, castigates gambling and (whether or not the poem was written in Prague) heavy drinking that makes people deaf and dumb. He does not beg, as itinerant singers do, but rather works with the art of the gentle hint, suggesting that it is essential to knights and kings to have
milte
(munificence)—yet again, stressing balances, Reinmar
believes that true
milte
does not mean wasting what is precious but knowing true value, keeping
and
giving. There is little laughter in his serious, sometimes pedantic admonitions and he became melancholy. In his last elegy, he asks the restless World what reward to expect of her in the hour of death, and he has her respond, “Let go!”
(Ich waene, ez ist niht anders wan “lâ varn”!).
This is his most impressive poem, and it is not surprising that later
Meistersänger
listed him among the twelve great masters of their craft.
milte
(munificence)—yet again, stressing balances, Reinmar
believes that true
milte
does not mean wasting what is precious but knowing true value, keeping
and
giving. There is little laughter in his serious, sometimes pedantic admonitions and he became melancholy. In his last elegy, he asks the restless World what reward to expect of her in the hour of death, and he has her respond, “Let go!”
(Ich waene, ez ist niht anders wan “lâ varn”!).
This is his most impressive poem, and it is not surprising that later
Meistersänger
listed him among the twelve great masters of their craft.
Another master, Sigehêr, may have come from southern Germany, as the Bavarian-Austrian coloring of his idiom suggests, and he was of middle-class origins too, speaking ironically about riding through the forest on a horse when he felt especially happy. He was in Prague by 1252, served Václav I and his son, and probably left Prague again by 1256, later acquiring land at Mezzotedesco in the southern Tyrol. He is a more lively and erudite writer than Reinmar (who had left Prague before Sigehêr arrived); he tested new patterns, including political messages shaped as prayers or sayings of the prophetess Sibylla, and he often wished to appeal to connoisseurs by strings of literary allusions. His praise of King “Watzlab” sparkles with biblical references, and he writes that the king was crowned by Solomon the Wise and King Arthur of the Round Table, paragons of chivalry. Sigehêr rode with King Otakar against the Prussians in 1254—55 and made the young king’s first and rather modest military undertaking into a melodramatic event, as if Christianity itself was at stake: the din of the battle rages, the Prussians advance, and Otakar’s army must fight as valiantly as the crusaders in the
other
Holy Land: “If Otakar does not win, we are all lost!” He compares Otakar to noble Alexander, the famous and just conqueror (as other poets did), and yet he also tells the story of King Belshazzar of Babylon, who does not want to see the writing on the wall and provokes God to punish him for his lawless pride
(unrecht hðhvart).
Scholars still argue as to whether Sigehêr changed his mind about Otakar, whom he once praised so lavishly.
other
Holy Land: “If Otakar does not win, we are all lost!” He compares Otakar to noble Alexander, the famous and just conqueror (as other poets did), and yet he also tells the story of King Belshazzar of Babylon, who does not want to see the writing on the wall and provokes God to punish him for his lawless pride
(unrecht hðhvart).
Scholars still argue as to whether Sigehêr changed his mind about Otakar, whom he once praised so lavishly.
The first native Bohemian writer of the German tongue, residing at the Prague court from the early 1270s to the end of the century, was Ulrich von Etzenbach. His literary language uses elements suggesting that he came from the north of the country: he says that he was born in the Land of the Lion (Otakar’s sign), and when the archbishop of Salzburg invited him to join his illustrious court he gracefully declined, adding that he would not leave the lion and, turning to his king, reminded him that now was the time to recognize his true merits and show a “munificent hand.” Ulrich knew a good deal of Latin, which he often parodied, and showed
a respectable knowledge of his literary predecessors and contemporaries, from Homer (he is the first writer in German to mention him) to Wolfram von Eschenbach, whom he follows poetically, and from Reinmar von Zweter to Ulrich von dem Türlin, who may have introduced him to the court “
ze Prâge,”
in the good town. He arrived by 1270 and spent nearly thirty years writing epic narratives in the service of the kings Otakar and Václav II; for a while he was close to the nobleman Boreš of Riesenburk, rich and civilized enough to employ an aging poet who was not averse to writing in favor of a political arrangement based on balances of interest, of king, and of responsible nobility. Etzenbach was of middle-class origin, mocked his own lack of martial courage, and confessed that he favored a good glass of wine and the groaning board, above all juicy roasts and, in true Bohemian fashion, well-prepared gense (geese).
a respectable knowledge of his literary predecessors and contemporaries, from Homer (he is the first writer in German to mention him) to Wolfram von Eschenbach, whom he follows poetically, and from Reinmar von Zweter to Ulrich von dem Türlin, who may have introduced him to the court “
ze Prâge,”
in the good town. He arrived by 1270 and spent nearly thirty years writing epic narratives in the service of the kings Otakar and Václav II; for a while he was close to the nobleman Boreš of Riesenburk, rich and civilized enough to employ an aging poet who was not averse to writing in favor of a political arrangement based on balances of interest, of king, and of responsible nobility. Etzenbach was of middle-class origin, mocked his own lack of martial courage, and confessed that he favored a good glass of wine and the groaning board, above all juicy roasts and, in true Bohemian fashion, well-prepared gense (geese).
Ulrich von Etzenbach’s epic poem (more than 28,000 verses) about the life and death of Alexander anticipates the glory of King Otakar. It combines, as in a coat of many colors, numerous and often divergent narrative traditions, religious, historical, adventurous, and, on occasion, a little salacious, to praise Otakar’s rising power. Ulrich began to write his
Alexander
about 1270, but work seems to have come to a halt when Otakar II died in 1278, and recent scholarship assumes that he continued to write, perhaps with a new accent on plot and adventure, when Václav, Otakar’s son, became king in 1283. Ulrich rededicated the narrative to the new ruler and possibly finished it in the late 1280s, when he began to write another epic in praise of Václav II and his Hapsburg wife. He constantly compares Otakar to Alexander, ascribes Otakar’s silver lion to the standards of Alexander, and, rather unhistorically, describes how Alexander defended his frontiers against the Hungarians. Both Alexander and Otakar show
milte, êre
(honor), and
wirde
(dignity) in the highest perfection; it speaks for Ulrich’s honesty that he remarks that Alexander-Otakar has courage and magnanimity rather than learning—“
von der lernunge
was
er mager”
(“he had a certain dearth of learning”). These serious matters are, fortunately, counteracted by interesting descriptions of feasts and festivals, of encounters with monsters and dwarfs, and of the rituals of courtly love; even heroic Alexander feels enamored by charming Queen Candacis, to whom he writes a love letter
comme il faut.
Alexander
about 1270, but work seems to have come to a halt when Otakar II died in 1278, and recent scholarship assumes that he continued to write, perhaps with a new accent on plot and adventure, when Václav, Otakar’s son, became king in 1283. Ulrich rededicated the narrative to the new ruler and possibly finished it in the late 1280s, when he began to write another epic in praise of Václav II and his Hapsburg wife. He constantly compares Otakar to Alexander, ascribes Otakar’s silver lion to the standards of Alexander, and, rather unhistorically, describes how Alexander defended his frontiers against the Hungarians. Both Alexander and Otakar show
milte, êre
(honor), and
wirde
(dignity) in the highest perfection; it speaks for Ulrich’s honesty that he remarks that Alexander-Otakar has courage and magnanimity rather than learning—“
von der lernunge
was
er mager”
(“he had a certain dearth of learning”). These serious matters are, fortunately, counteracted by interesting descriptions of feasts and festivals, of encounters with monsters and dwarfs, and of the rituals of courtly love; even heroic Alexander feels enamored by charming Queen Candacis, to whom he writes a love letter
comme il faut.
We are also entertained by a daring story about Candacis, who, acting on a wager, efficiently demonstrates that even a famous scholar (in another version, Aristotle) will pay homage, to say the least, to her charms. She puts on a little chemise (
ein cleinez hemde,
v. 23447), wades through the morning dew (in front of the window of the scholar, who tries to keep
his eyes on his books), and lifts her little nothing away from her knees
(daz hemdel sie ze berge zôch,
v. 23461); the scene ends with the scholar, who stops reading, on all fours and Candacis riding on his back. Elsewhere, Ulrich creates an interpretative problem by lifting, from one of his Latin sources, the almost Faustian story of Alexander trying to explore the heavens and the deep sea: Alexander binds himself to eagles who carry him beyond the clouds, and, to continue his research, constructs a diving bell made of glass, oil, brick, and cotton and submerges himself in the sea, where he watches strange animals fighting each other (he also suffers a severe case of the bends when he comes up). These actions show him to be a man of
unmâze
(lack of measure), and it is difficult to believe that contemporary listeners, especially after Otakar’s death, would not have heard a note of caution, even if Ulrich was more intent on telling an interesting story than in judging his fallen hero morally.
ein cleinez hemde,
v. 23447), wades through the morning dew (in front of the window of the scholar, who tries to keep
his eyes on his books), and lifts her little nothing away from her knees
(daz hemdel sie ze berge zôch,
v. 23461); the scene ends with the scholar, who stops reading, on all fours and Candacis riding on his back. Elsewhere, Ulrich creates an interpretative problem by lifting, from one of his Latin sources, the almost Faustian story of Alexander trying to explore the heavens and the deep sea: Alexander binds himself to eagles who carry him beyond the clouds, and, to continue his research, constructs a diving bell made of glass, oil, brick, and cotton and submerges himself in the sea, where he watches strange animals fighting each other (he also suffers a severe case of the bends when he comes up). These actions show him to be a man of
unmâze
(lack of measure), and it is difficult to believe that contemporary listeners, especially after Otakar’s death, would not have heard a note of caution, even if Ulrich was more intent on telling an interesting story than in judging his fallen hero morally.
After protracted years of anarchy, the long-postponed coronation of Václav II and his wife, Guta (Czech Jitka), announced, on the sunny day of June 2, 1297, the consolidation of Bohemia in the hands of Otakar’s son and his Austrian wife. It was a rare moment of hope for the people in the Prague towns, and Peter von Zittau, a German Cistercian and great territorial patriot, enthusiastically describes in his chronicle the cathedral rites and the public festivities as events that he happily witnessed himself. Two archbishops, those of Mainz and Magdeburg, and seven bishops assisted at the main altar, dukes and princes from all neighboring countries made their ceremonial appearance, and for the elite an elevated wooden banquet hall, richly adorned with tapestries and wall hangings, was erected between the Pet
ín Hill and the river. On the right bank, wine for everybody in the town flowed from special fountains, and so many people thronged through the streets, the chronicler remarks, that Prague seemed smaller and the streets more narrow than ever. There were public dances—alas, the Czechs on one side of the square and the Germans on the other—and musicians performed on lutes, fifes, drums, kithars, and trumpets. Here, a sportive group of men, all naked, ran a race; there, boxing matches were held; one “jumped in the air,” another “walked on his hands,” and another “recited poems.” Of course, there were many thieves in the crowd, the writer admits, but everybody went home “with a happy heart.”
ín Hill and the river. On the right bank, wine for everybody in the town flowed from special fountains, and so many people thronged through the streets, the chronicler remarks, that Prague seemed smaller and the streets more narrow than ever. There were public dances—alas, the Czechs on one side of the square and the Germans on the other—and musicians performed on lutes, fifes, drums, kithars, and trumpets. Here, a sportive group of men, all naked, ran a race; there, boxing matches were held; one “jumped in the air,” another “walked on his hands,” and another “recited poems.” Of course, there were many thieves in the crowd, the writer admits, but everybody went home “with a happy heart.”
BOOK: Prague in Black and Gold: Scenes from the Life of a European City
11.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Other books
Battle Lines (The Survivalist Book 5) by Arthur Bradley
The Healer by Antti Tuomainen
The One a Month Man by Michael Litchfield
The Ex Trials (Falling for Autumn #3) by Heather Topham Wood
Coaster by Bathey, Lorena
A Provençal Mystery by Ann Elwood
Whisper to Me (Borne Vampires Book 1) by Petzler, W.M.
Gordon R. Dickson - Childe Cycle 05 by The Spirit of Dorsai
Syberian Sunrise by S. A. Lusher
From a Town on the Hudson by Yuko Koyano
